From above the door hung the head of Gamasa al-Bulti. Passersby looked at it, stood for a while, then went on—and Gamasa al-Bulti was one of them. They looked out of curiosity, or in pity, or gloatingly. As for him, he looked in stupefaction. He had not yet recovered from his distress on witnessing the eviction of his wife and daughter from their house. They had both passed by him without paying any heed, for he had assumed the form of a slim Ethiopian with crimpy hair and a light beard. His astonishment at his appearance did not cease, neither did his sadness for his family. He would circle round the house and listen to the conflicting comments voiced under the suspended head. The top people, like Karam al-Aseel, the druggist, and the draper would curse him mercilessly, while the common folk would express pity for him.
The new governor Yusuf al-Tahir, his private secretary Buteisha Murgan, and the new chief of police Adnan Shouma, supervised the confiscation of his house. He wondered what had gone to the general exchequer and how much had found its way into their pockets. He stayed close by the suspended head, looking and pondering and listening. He saw Ugr the barber saying to Ibrahim the water-carrier, pointing at the head, “They killed him for the solitary good act he did in his life.”
“Why didn’t his Muslim genie save him?” inquired the water-carrier.
“Don’t delve into what you don’t know,” warned the barber, and Ma’rouf the cobbler confirmed his words.
Gamasa saw Sahloul the bric-a-brac merchant looking at the head with little concern and remembered his extraordinary energy on the day of the execution. When the merchant was on his own, he approached him and asked, “Can you not enlighten a stranger with the story of whose head this was?”
Sahloul glared at him with a look that sent shivers through his body. He felt that it penetrated to his depths, and the man took on for him an even greater mystery. As he made off, Sahloul said, “I know no more about him than others do.”
Gamasa followed him with his eyes until he disappeared, then said to himself, “Perhaps he thinks himself too big to talk to a foreign Ethiopian.”
He recollected his long history as a former policeman knowledgeable about people’s circumstances, and he acknowledged that Sahloul had been the only influential merchant not to have formed a suspect relationship with him or with the governor. But he soon forgot him in the crush of his reflections. Then he saw Ragab the porter joining the group of Ugr, Ibrahim, and Ma’rouf, and he went up to him, impelled by a plan he had already worked out. He greeted him and said, “I’m an émigré Ethiopian and I want to work as a porter.”
Ragab was reminded of his first friend, Sindbad, and said, “Come along with me, for God is a generous provider.”
In spirit and body he hovered around his family. What value would there have been in his life if he had been detached from both his family and his head? He went on following Rasmiya and Akraman until they settled themselves in a room in the residence building where Sanaan’s family were living. Without hesitation, he rented himself a room in the same building and became known as Abdullah the porter. In the clouds of his unrest it pleased him that it had been Umm Saad who had led his family to their new home. It pleased him that Umm Saad had not forgotten the fact that they had been neighbors of old and had not forgotten Rasmiya’s attempt to help her in her adversity. She would join with Rasmiya in making the sweetmeats, which Fadil Sanaan would peddle round to the advantage of both families. He was greatly pleased by that, as well as by having them as neighbors. He enjoyed seeing them and knowing they were well. He would express his love for them and carry out such duties of a husband and a father as he was able to from afar, his situation being known by no one. He expected that Fadil would marry his daughter Akraman, as agreed with Sanaan, just as he dreamed one day of marrying Husniya, Fadil’s sister.
He went on in that strange life, at times feeling he was alive, at others that he was dead.
Indeed, he was both Abdullah the living and Gamasa the dead: a strange experience never before known to man. Working for his daily bread in the company of Ragab, he would remember that he was alive; then, crossing the street under his suspended head, or seeing Rasmiya and Akraman, he would remember that he was dead. Never losing sight of his miraculous escape from death, he resolved to walk along the path of godliness till the end. He would find his pleasure in worship and would take delight in his solitude through remembering God. He would inwardly address his suspended head with the words “May you remain a symbol of the death of a wicked man who long abused his soul,” though his heart would continually be filled with nostalgia for his short-lived persona, that persona that had crowned its life with a sincere repentance, ever stirred by the thought that a man could die when alive or live when dead. Who was there who could believe he was Gamasa al-Bulti in his hidden essence? Was it conceivable that he alone would possess this secret forever? Even Rasmiya and Akraman looked at him as if he were some stranger from foreign parts. He would thus feel before their indifferent gaze a cruel sense of alienation and of tortured injustice. Not once had they become aware of that deep-rooted love that lay behind his furtive glances. They gave back no echo to his feelings of longing. In their eyes the scene of the execution was repeated every morning and evening, and their sorrow at the memory of him cut into his soul as they immersed themselves in the daily worries of life. They would never believe that life had been granted to him by a miracle, nor be able to accept this fact. They had swallowed the agonies of his death and had suffered the grief. They had experienced life without him, and leaving their new situation would be as difficult as it had been to enter it. He would not venture to raze the new structure, would not be able to. He who had died must continue in death as a mercy to those he loves. It was up to him to get used to his death in his new life—let him be Abdullah the porter, not Gamasa al-Bulti. Let his happiness lie in work and worship. Nonetheless, his work often led him to the houses of his former friends and to the mansions of those with influence and positions of power: the world of outward piety and latent corruption. All that brought him back to thinking about himself and the circumstances of people, and it spoiled the serenity of his spiritual peace. He was pursued by crookedness and deviation as though his limbs had been taken by storm and their functions negated. He told himself that just as the stars proceed on their way in splendid order, so too must the concerns of God’s creatures.
“But have I stayed on in life by a miracle in order that I might work as a porter?” he asked himself uneasily.
Shahriyar looked at the specters of the trees that whispered together in the night. The sultan reclined in his seat on the back balcony despite the fact that autumn was retreating before the harbingers of winter. He was more able to bear the cold than to dispute with the flood of his thoughts. Turning toward his vizier Dandan, he inquired, “Do you dislike the dark?”
“I like what Your Majesty likes,” the vizier said loyally.
He was always asking himself whether the sultan had truly changed or whether it was a passing phase. But be patient. In the past he had been decisive, clear, cruel, and insensitive. Now a perplexed look was quick to flash in his eyes.
“The nation is happy and profuse in its thanks,” said Dandan.
“Ali al-Salouli was murdered,” muttered the sultan sharply, “and was quickly followed by Khalil al-Hamadhani.”
“Good and evil are like day and night,” said Dandan with compassion.
“And the genies?”
“When faced with the leather mat of execution a criminal makes up what story he can.”
“But I remember the stories of Shahrzad,” he said quietly.
Dandan’s heart beat fast and he said, “A murderer must meet his punishment.”
“The truth is that I was on the point of contenting myself with imprisoning Gamasa al-Bulti.” Then wrathfully, “But I executed him as a penalty for his insolent way of addressing me.”
Dandan told himself that his master had changed only superficially. However, he said, “The villain in any case received his due.”
“And I got my share of depression,” he said sharply.
“Your Majesty, no doubt it is a transitory indisposition.”
“No, it is one of the conditions of being—and did Shahrzad’s stories tell me of anything apart from death?”
“Death!” said the vizier uneasily.
“Peoples swallowed up by peoples, with a sole determined victor knocking finally at their door: the Destroyer of Pleasures.”
“It is the will of God, may your continuance in life be long!”
“The heart is a place of secrets,” he said in an even voice, “and melancholy is shy. The kings of old were cured at night by wandering round and investigating the circumstances of the people.”
Grasping at the life buoy, Dandan said, “Wandering about and investigating people’s circumstances—what an inspiration!”
He said to himself, “A being without limits to his power: he may show himself to be a flower or he may bring about an earthquake.”
Abdullah the porter continues on his rounds without pause: in the culs-de-sac and winding alleys, in the merchants’ and craftsmen’s quarters, along the boat routes, through the squares for shooting practice, hunting, and executions, and under the huge gates that act as boundaries, with aromas diffused like signposts: the penetrating smell of the druggist’s shop, the narcotic essences, the tickling cloths, the appetizing foods, the stinking hides. Rasmiya and Akraman pass by, and Umm Saad and Husniya. He extends a greeting with a tongue that is hesitant in this world and with a heart that has inhabited the other. In his wanderings he has got to know Fadil Sanaan and has cemented his relationship with him. Among the people are those who keep in touch, such as Hasan the druggist and Nur al-Din, while some avoid him like the Devil.
Abdullah was anxious that the story of the genie should not be spread abroad lest it put an end to the future of Akraman and Husniya, both of whom were well set up for successful marriages. He loved Fadil Sanaan for his seriousness, his piety, and his courage, so he chose the stairway to the public fountain as a place to rest during his day’s work, and there they would meet and chat. Once he said to him, “You’re a pious young man who performs all his prayers, so why do you not safeguard your virtue by marrying?”
“I cannot find the necessary expenses.”
“Not much is needed.”
“I have my self-esteem and pride.”
“There’s Akraman right in front of you,” said Abdullah temptingly.
Their eyes met in a smile that revealed many secrets.
“And you, Uncle Abdullah, are forty or more and are not married,” said Fadil.
“I’m a widower, and I too would like to safeguard my virtue.”
“It seems that you are in no need of a matchmaker.”
“The lady Rasmiya, the mother of Akraman,” he said gently.
Fadil laughed and said, “Let’s wait a little and we’ll present ourselves together.”
“Why wait?”
“So that the memory of Gamasa al-Bulti may be erased.”
His heart contracted: he wanted Rasmiya on the strength of his loyalty and piety. But if he obeyed his desires he would choose none other than Husniya. The day that Rasmiya accepted him he would rejoice with half his heart, while the other half would be in mourning.
Whenever he found himself alone he would ask, “Have I been kept in life by a miracle that I might work as a porter?” He would also wonder, “Why did Singam not desert me at the crucial moment, as Qumqam did with Sanaan al-Gamali?” Filled with perplexity, like a vessel open to the rain, he found his legs had brought him to the house of Sheikh Abdullah al-Balkhi. He kissed his hand and sat down cross-legged in front of him, saying, “I am a stranger.”
“We are all strangers,” the sheikh interrupted him.
“Your name is like a flower that draws to it the wandering bees.”
“Good actions are better than good words.”
“But what are good actions? This is my difficulty.”
“Did you not, on your coming, happen upon a man at his wit’s end?”
“Where, master?”
“Between the stations of worship and of blood?” he said gently.
He trembled in fear and realized that the sheikh could see that which was veiled.
“In the pitch-black night the full moon is not to be found,” he said with a sigh.
“I have known three types of disciples,” said the sheikh.
“In all cases, they are fortunate.”
“People who learn the principles and strive in the world; people who penetrate deeply in learning and assume control of things; and people who persevere in journeying right up to the spiritual station of love—but how few they are!”
Abdullah the porter thought for a while, then said, “But mankind is in need of supervision.”
Without losing his composure, the sheikh said, “Each in proportion to his zeal.”
Abdullah overcame his own hesitancy by saying, “Yet I have had you as my goal, master.” He stumbled in silence as though to collect his thoughts, and the sheikh said, “Do not speak to me of your goal.”
“Why not?”
“Each in proportion to his zeal.” And he lowered his eyelids, withdrawing into himself.
Abdullah waited for him to open them again, but he did not do so. Bending over and kissing his hand, he made his departure.
He told himself that the sheikh was privy to his apprehensions and had brought him back to himself. This he must accept, since he had put his trust in someone. Tomorrow the evildoers will meet their woe by the resolve of a penitent man and the guile of an experienced policeman. He continued in his work, earning serenity and concentration of thought, and from a compassion that spread through his heart his mind provided itself with thoughts that knew no compassion, thoughts as sharp as the blade of a sword. All too quickly life had taken him by surprise with its droll contradictions, gory outcomes, and promised happiness. He refused to retreat because he had refused to take the gift of life without paying the price. Then Husniya would appear before him like a ray of hope gleaming in the sky of another world. In the late afternoon he would take himself off to the stairway of the public fountain, where Fadil Sanaan met with him. It became evident that the young man had leapt over time more quickly than he had reckoned.
“I am going to ask for the hand of Akraman,” said Fadil.
“Were you not thinking it best to wait a while?” Abdullah said in astonishment.
“No, I’ve changed my mind—and I shall ask on your behalf for the hand of the lady Rasmiya.”
Abdullah stayed silent in thought. No doubt she was in need of a man in her ordeal, and she could not hope for someone better than him.
“How lovely for mother and daughter to marry on the same night,” said Fadil joyfully.
Having come to like and trust him, Fadil began to recount to him the stories of Sanaan al-Gamali and Gamasa al-Bulti.
When Fadil had finished his exciting tale, Abdullah commented, “God honors those He wishes to honor and humbles those He wishes to humble.”
“Each in accordance with his zeal,” muttered Fadil Sanaan.
The sentence hit him like the smell of pepper, and he wondered whether Fadil had learned the words from the same source. Preparing the way for a new direction in the conversation, he said, “And part of the perfection of zeal is caution.”
Each of them turned about in his mind his own thoughts for a while, then Abdullah said, “We are on the point of becoming one family, and so I tell you that a porter enters houses that are open only to the elite.”
Fadil guessed that his friend was about to deliver himself of a confidence. He gave him an inquiring look and Abdullah said, “In the houses of Yusuf al-Tahir the governor and Adnan Shouma the chief of police there are sometimes whisperings about the enemies of the state.”
“It’s only to be expected,” said Fadil, feigning indifference.
“No one imagines that I understand the meaning of what is going on or that I am paying any attention to it.”
“You’re an unusual man, Uncle Abdullah, and you continue to astonish me.”
“There is nothing astonishing about the astuteness of a man who has moved about in different places and circumstances.”
“I’m truly happy to be with you,” said Fadil.
Abdullah continued with what he had to say. “They are people obsessed with delusions. The more they go to excesses of criminality, the more they conjure up the specters of Shiites and Kharijites.”
“I know that only too well.”
“So it was that I said that part of the perfection of zeal is caution.”
Fadil gave him a questioning look and asked, “What do you mean?”
“You’re intelligent enough to know.”
“You seem to be warning me.”
“There’s no harm in that.”
“I am nothing but a seller of sweets—is there anything about me to cause you disquiet?”
He gave an enigmatic smile and said, “I like caution as much as I like the Shiites and Kharijites.”
“To which group do you belong?” Fadil asked him eagerly.
“Neither to these nor to those, but I am the enemy of evildoers.” Abdullah found himself before an open invitation, but, as a former policeman, he preferred to proceed in his own fashion.
Abdullah the porter darted out like an arrow into the sky of his perceived holy war. Calling upon his strength of former times, he subdued it on this occasion to his pure and firm will. Immediately, Buteisha Murgan, the private secretary, was felled, murdered. It happened as he was making his way among his guards from the house of government to his own house after midnight, when, from out of the darkness, an arrow struck him, lodging in his heart. He was sprawled across his mule among the lances and lanterns of his guards, who swooped down on the surrounding quarters, arresting every passerby they came across, the loafers and those sleeping about in corners. His house was consumed with grief and the house of government was rocked, with Yusuf al-Tahir going out like a madman at the head of his forces. The news reached the vizier Dandan, who was made sleepless with terror till morning. And with morning the news had spread through the quarter and the whole city.
People were in a state of agitation and rumors were rife. It was a new link in the chain of the violent deaths of al-Salouli and al-Hamadhani, a new confirmation of the mysterious world of genies. Or was it the Shiites or the Kharijites? Or perhaps it was an isolated incident behind which lay concealed a woman’s jealousy or a man’s envy?
The skies opened up with heavy rain, which continued for the whole day so that mud piled up and water covered with scum flowed in the alleys and lanes, spoiling the arrangements for Buteisha’s funeral and burial, and warning of a cruel winter. Abdullah the porter slipped in among the common folk at the Café of the Emirs, his senses alert with concealed attention. The murder became the subject of all conversation, views differing between the declared thoughts of the elite and the whispered exchanges of the common folk. Abdullah spotted Sahloul the bric-a-brac merchant engaged in a long conversation with Karam al-Aseel the millionaire and his heart tightened. He did not forget the penetrating look Sahloul had given him under his suspended head and he remembered seeing him circling around the retinue of the private secretary when he, Abdullah, had been about to shoot the arrow. So how was it that he had not been arrested? How had he vanished from the sight of the guards? Abdullah’s heart contracted with fear. He was surprised that, during the whole of his time as chief of police, the only man in the quarter about whom he had not come to know some secret was Sahloul. He was conversant with the circumstances of all the persons of position, with what was known and what was hidden, except for this man, who was a closed riddle.
The fever heat of those in positions of responsibility did not abate, nor the harsh measures taken by them. As for the rest of the people, they became used to the incident, grew bored with talking about it, then forgot about it. Soon the demands of life took over from the events of history, and Umm Saad, the widow of Sanaan, said to the lady Rasmiya, the widow of Gamasa al-Bulti, “With the blessing of God and His wisdom, my son Fadil would like to marry Akraman.”
Amid general rejoicing agreement was reached. They were all living in the real world and did not let a bygone dream spoil it. Then Umm Saad said, “You too, Lady Rasmiya!” And she made known the wish of Abdullah the porter to marry her. Rasmiya gave a slight laugh of surprise; she was neither pleased with the news, nor did she welcome it.
“Marriage is for Akraman and Husniya, not for us,” she said shyly. Then, after a silence, she continued, “Gamasa has not died, his memory is still alive in me.”
Fadil and Abdullah were both happy, each with the news he had received. Yes, Abdullah was upset at having to bury his emotions, but the Gamasa who was hidden inside him was overjoyed.
The wedding was celebrated in Umm Saad’s room. The two families were in attendance. Abdullah the porter was invited, and he brought as a present for the couple some amber and incense with the money he had earned during the day sweeping the courtyard, which he did with the same ardor he had employed when he embarked upon killing Buteisha Murgan, being intoxicated with the burning fragrance of the family, which had transfused into his limbs a lasting state of drunkenness. His heart boiled with the emotions of being a father and a husband, while at the same time love was humbled under the control of piety and love of God the Merciful. He regained the riches of an old emotion and took delight in being so close, burying his secret in a well that overflowed with sadness.
Husniya volunteered to enliven her brother’s wedding, relying on her mastery of poetry and singing and her fine voice. To handclapping she sang melodiously:
“My eye translates from my tongue for you to know,
disclosing to you what my heart conceals.
When we met and tears were shed
I became dumb and my eye spoke of the worries of my secret love.”
They were all moved. So moved was Abdullah that his heart filled with tears. Rising to put wood on the fire, he heard a knocking at the door. As he opened it there loomed up in the cold darkness three spectral figures.
“We’re foreign merchants,” said one of them. “We heard some beautiful singing and told ourselves that noble people don’t turn away strangers.”
Fadil motioned to the women, who hid themselves behind a screen that bisected the room.
“Enter in peace,” he told the strangers. “It is just a wedding that is restricted to the simple people involved.”
“We want only to enjoy a friendly atmosphere with good people,” said one of the strangers.
“It’s beautifully warm here,” said another.
Fadil brought them a dish of the sweet baseema and another of mushabbik with the words: “We have nothing but this—it’s what we make our living from.”
“We praise God, Who has provided us with these delicious things to eat and has made our evening so enjoyable.”
The leading man leaned over and said something into the ear of one of the others, who left the place in a hurry. Abdullah caught some glances from the leading man and it seemed to him that it was not the first time he had seen him. He tried to remember where and when it had been, but his memory failed him. Then the man came back loaded with fried and grilled fish. People’s appetites were sharpened with the prospect of such delicious food.
“Our dwelling is not worthy of someone of your rank,” said Fadil in thanks.
“A dwelling is known by those who live in it,” said the man courteously, then made the request: “Let us hear some music, for it is this that has given us joy in making your acquaintance.”
So Fadil went behind the screen and before he was seated again the voice of Husniya came to them as she sang:
“Had we known of your coming, we would have spread out
our very hearts, the very blackness of our eyes;
Spread out our cheeks that we might meet
through the exchange of glances.”
Everyone was moved and one of the strangers called out, “Praise be to the Great Creator!”
The leading man asked Fadil, “How did you come to own this slave-girl if you are as poor as you claim?”
“She’s just my sister.”
“She has a trained voice that bespeaks a noble origin.”
Fadil was speechless, and it was Abdullah the porter who said, “He is in fact of noble origin but his path was obstructed by the perfidy of time.”
“What’s the story of that perfidy?”
“There is no one in our city,” answered Abdullah the porter, “who does not know the story of the merchant Sanaan al-Gamali.”
The merchant was silent for a while, then said, “It is one of the extraordinary tales we have heard of your city.”
“But do you believe what is related of the genie?” inquired one of his comrades.
“Why not,” asked Fadil in his turn, “when such catastrophes have been brought down upon us?”
“But the ruler cannot summon genies to give evidence or be interrogated, so how can justice be done?”
“It is for the ruler to dispense justice from the beginning so that genies don’t intrude on our lives.”
The leading man of the strangers asked him, “Do you suffer injustice in your lives?”
The caution he had acquired from his past experience in the police force came to his aid.
“We have a just sultan, praise be to God, though life is not devoid of ordeals.”
The conversation continued for a while till the strangers rose and left.
The three of them plunged silently into the darkness. The second merchant turned toward the first and said, “Hopefully Your Majesty found the entertainment he had wished for?”
“A viewing of the afflictions of the heart,” muttered the other.
Then, after a while, “The company of poets no longer exhilarates me, nor do the antics of Shamloul the hunchback make me laugh.”
“May God keep you in His care, Your Majesty.”
“A short and baffling dream,” he said, addressing himself. “No truth shows itself but it vanishes.”
The other waited for the sultan to throw some light on his words, but he kept silent.
Fadil and Akraman took a room, while a second room did for Rasmiya, Umm Saad, and Husniya. Despite the simplicity of their life, the two newlyweds enjoyed a serene happiness, and Fadil wished for Husniya the same sort of happy outcome as he had had.
He was more successful in forgetting the past than the women were, for he had things to occupy him, while for them the bygone days with their glory and bright lights were not erased from their memory.
He spent time alone with Abdullah the porter exchanging the thoughts of mind and heart. The man was made of sound metal and had a noble soul; his attention was drawn to the worries of mankind, as though he were a man of religion rather than a porter. Had a passerby listened in to the conversation that took place between them, he would have been taken aback and would have thought them to be men of consequence disguised as peddler and porter.
One day Fadil said, “I have opened my heart to you, but you have kept yours closed.”
Abdullah denied this with a movement of his head.
“There’s a secret in your life,” he went on, “and you’re no simple porter.”
“I had a spiritual guide in my native land,” Abdullah said, reassuring him. “There’s no secret about that.”
“That explains it.”
“In any event we both quench our intellectual thirsts from one and the same source.”
“And so I’d like to ask you one favor,” said Fadil boldly.
Abdullah fixed him with an inquiring look and Fadil said significantly, “By reason of your work you come and go in all sorts of houses.”
Abdullah gave a knowing smile and was silent while he waited for him to continue.
“Do you sometimes agree to carry messages?”
“There are people who find meaning to their lives by pursuing troubles,” he said smiling, remembering Akraman affectionately.
“Do you accept?” he asked, ignoring what Abdullah had said.
“As you wish—and more,” he said quietly.
He performed this subsidiary task with complete ease and assurance, for he did not reckon it to be a significant addition to his basic function. His personal worries—Rasmiya and Husniya, and his wavering between life and death—though not erased from the surface of his mind, no longer troubled him, while his general worries had disappeared, as the waves of a river disappear into the open sea. The second person in his program was Yusuf al-Tahir or Adnan Shouma, whichever was easier. But he gave precedence over them to Ibrahim al-Attar the druggist, for an anomalous slight that had not previously occurred to him: Abdullah had once carried for him certain goods; they had quarreled about payment, and the powerful merchant had cursed and insulted him.
The lethal arrow became embedded in Ibrahim al-Attar’s heart as he was returning home after the evening session at the café. Terror erupted in the city and memories of the killings of al-Salouli, Buteisha Murgan, and al-Hamadhani were awakened.
Abdullah and Fadil met up on the steps of the drinking fountain at the height of the trouble. They exchanged alarmed looks while in vain trying to conceal their pleasure.
“What terrible happenings!” muttered Abdullah.
The other intuited his views and said in all innocence, “The assassination was not part of our plan.”
Feigning dismay, Abdullah said, “Perhaps it was an act of personal revenge.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But he was no more corrupt than anyone else.”
“The upper class know that he was putting poison into the medicine of the governor’s enemies.”
Abdullah said to himself that his friend knew as many people’s secrets as he knew himself—maybe more. “If the assassination was not part of our plan, then who was the perpetrator?”
“God knows,” said Fadil irritably. “He kills and we pay the price.”
When he put out the candle and took himself to bed, he felt the strange presence crowding in on him. His heart quaked and he mumbled, “Singam!”
The voice asked him coldly, “What have you done?”
“I do in my own way what I believe is best.”
“It was more a reaction to the insult inflicted on you.”
“All I did was to give him precedence,” he said hotly. “His turn would have come sooner or later.”
“Your account is with Him Who is privy to what is in people’s breasts. Beware, man.”
Singam vanished, and Abdullah did not sleep a wink.
Above the dome of the mosque of the Tenth Imam, in a session replete with tranquillity and the cold of winter, Qumqam and Singam sat enveloped in the cloak of night, while underneath it swarmed the forces of the police, out for revenge, sparks flying from their blood-red eyes. Qumqam whispered scornfully, “O the suffering of mankind!”
“All I did,” said Singam apologetically, “was to save Gamasa al-Bulti’s soul from hellfire.”
“We never once interfered in their lives with things turning out as we wanted.”
“And to connive with them is more than we can bear.”
At that moment there passed below them Sahloul the bric-a-brac merchant. Pointing to him, Qumqam said, “I am happy for him that he lives with them as though he too were a human.”
Sharing his opinion, Singam said, “But he is an angel, the Angel of Death, Azrael’s agent in the quarter. His duty requires of him that he mix with them night and day, and he is permitted to do things that we are not.”
“Let us pray to God to inspire us to do what is right.”
“Amen,” replied Singam.
The activities of Abdullah the porter were obstructed by an incident that troubled him. He had made his way with a large weight of nuts and dried fruit to the house of Adnan Shouma, the chief of police. He had not stopped mulling over the killing of Ibrahim al-Attar the druggist: how much was genuine holy war and how much anger and a desire for revenge? The path of God was clear and it should not be fused with anger or pride, or else the whole structure would collapse from its foundations.
Adnan Shouma’s house lay in Pageants and Festivals Street, a short distance from the house of government. It was a dignified street, on both sides of which were private mansions and large inns; it also had a garden and an open space where slave-girls were sold. As he entered the house he said to himself, “Your turn’s coming soon, Adnan.” Then, about to leave, he was stopped by a slave, who asked him to go and see the master of the house. He went to a reception room, his heart quivering with unease. The man looked at him with his small, round face and cruel, narrow eyes as he fingered his beard, then asked, “Where are you from?”
“Ethiopia,” answered Abdullah humbly.
“I have been told that you have a good reputation and that you don’t miss a single prayer.”
“It is by God’s kindness and His mercy,” he said, having received the first breath of comfort.
“That is why my choice has fallen on you.”
The intended meaning circulated in his head like a strong aroma in a closed room. How many times, when he was chief of police, had he spoken just such words to some man, foreshadowing his recruitment into the organization of spies, the man knowing that to try to slide out of the assignment was tantamount to a sentence of death, that there was no choice but to obey!
“In this way,” said Adnan Shouma, “you gain honor in the service of the sultan and of religion.”
Abdullah pretended to be delighted and proud. He gave him such indications as would reassure him, at which the other said, “Be careful of that which brings the traitor to ruin.”
“It makes me happy to serve in the ranks of God,” he muttered enigmatically.
“Houses are open to you by virtue of your work,” said Adnan, “and all you lack are some directives, which have been set down in secret records since the time of Gamasa al-Bulti.”
He left Adnan Shouma’s house bearing a new load, a load heavier than the one he had brought. On meeting Fadil Sanaan, he let him into his new secret. Fadil thought about the matter for a long time, then said, “You have become two-eyed: one for us and one against us.”
But Abdullah was immersed in his worries.
“Don’t you regard this,” Fadil asked him, “as a gain for us?”
“It is demanded of me that I show my sincere devotion to the work,” Abdullah said gloomily.
Fadil took refuge in his silent thoughts and Abdullah continued, “I wonder if he summoned me because he suspects me.”
“They are men of violence,” responded Fadil, “and they have no need of subterfuge.”
“I agree, but how should I prove my loyalty?”
Fadil thought for a time, then said, “Circumstances sometimes require that we send some of our people abroad. I’ll point one of them out to you, so you can report him—and he’ll slip away at just the right moment, as though by chance.”
“A happy solution, but not one that can be repeated,” said Abdullah, his eyes shining at the prospect.
“It’s truly a way of putting them in a fix, though,” said Fadil, talking to himself.
“So at last you’re thinking as I do.” And he asked himself whether he would be able to go on carrying out his secret plan.
Suddenly his thoughts were dispersed as he saw Sahloul crossing the street in front of them, paying no attention to anything. As usual his heart tightened, and he nudged Fadil.
“What do you know about this man?” he asked.
“Sahloul the bric-a-brac merchant,” said Fadil in a natural tone. “He was one of father’s friends, and perhaps he’s the one merchant who enjoys a blameless record.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“Nothing.”
“Doesn’t his inscrutability arouse your curiosity?”
“His inscrutability? He’s simplicity itself; an active, knowledgeable man who is not concerned with others. What makes you wonder about him?”
After a slight hesitation he said, “He has a penetrating gaze that makes me uneasy.”
“There is no basis for your suspicions—he is a virtuous exception to a corrupt rule.”
Abdullah hoped Fadil was right and that his own suspicions would be proved wrong.
From his previous experience he was certain that he would be placed under surveillance, as happened with all new plainclothesmen. It would be out of the question for him to undertake any new venture unless he removed Adnan Shouma himself from his path with a successful stroke.
And so he slipped into Adnan’s house for a secret meeting and said to him, “Soon much fruit will fall. The quarter is full of infidels, but I think it best that I avoid coming to see you frequently.”
“I shall appoint a go-between for you,” said Adnan Shouma happily.
“That is sufficient for ordinary matters. But for important ones contact should be restricted to yourself.”
“We’ll arrange that later.”
“The best kindness is the one soonest done,” said Abdullah, quoting the proverb.
“I am sometimes to be found outside the wall of the quarter,” said Adnan Shouma after some thought. “I think it is a suitable place.”
His scheming had worked out better than he had hoped.
With the assistance of Fadil Sanaan he forwarded a report about a young, unmarried man who lived on his own in a rooming house in the cul-de-sac of the tanners. When the force of troops swooped down on where he was living, it became apparent that he had left only minutes before to go on a journey. Adnan Shouma was furious and said to Abdullah, “You aroused his suspicion without realizing.”
Abdullah assured him he was more crafty than he imagined, but Adnan sent him away, unhappy with him.
The governor’s residence was rocked to its foundations, as was the quarter and the whole city, by the discovery of Adnan Shouma’s body outside the walls. Shahriyar himself was enraged. Mysterious fears loomed up before the eyes of eminent people, who crept out of their lairs in the darkness. Abdullah learned from his sources that the investigation was concentrating on discovering why the chief of police had gone secretly beyond the quarter’s wall. And Abdullah had been the first to know of his victim’s secret of going to a private house to meet Gulnar and Zahriyar, the two sisters of Yusuf al-Tahir, governor of the quarter. In fact, he had known the way of life of the two women since he had first joined the service and before Yusuf al-Tahir had taken up his appointment. So it was that the chief of police had asked to meet him in a pavilion in the garden of the mansion and had then sent him away. He had not returned, though, to the quarter but had hung about for him in the dark until he left the mansion before dawn, when he had met him with the fatal arrow. Now his sense of security was vanishing and he did not think it unlikely that some of those close to Adnan Shouma, women and men, had known of the secret meeting between him and the man.
He decided to make his escape, if only for a while. He therefore left the whole quarter and took himself off behind the open space by the river, close by the green tongue of land where he used to practice his hobby of fishing, the same spot where he had met Singam. Finding a towering palm tree, he threw himself down beneath it and sank into thought. Night came, the stars twinkled gently and it grew cold. Had he planned things well, he wondered, or had his eagerness to carry out his plan thwarted his objective? When and how would he be given the chance to take action again? How could he avoid his enemies and make contact with his friend Fadil Sanaan?
In the silence of the night there came to him a voice saying, “O Abdullah!”
He looked in the direction of the voice, toward the river, and asked, “Who is calling?”
“Come closer,” said the voice in a tone that diffused a sense of security, calm, and peace.
He approached the river, walking warily, until he saw its dark surface under the light of the stars. He saw too a spectral form, half in the water and half leaning with its arms against the shore.
“Are you in need of help?” he asked.
“It is you who need help, Abdullah.”
“Who are you and what do you know of me?” he asked apprehensively.
“I am Abdullah of the Sea just as you are Abdullah of the Land, and the grip of evil is tightening around your neck.”
“Sir, what keeps you in the water? What sort of living creature are you?”
“I am none but a worshiper in the never-ending kingdom of the water.”
“You mean it’s a kingdom that lives under the water?”
“Yes. In it perfection has been attained and oppositions have vanished, nothing disturbing its serenity but the misery of the people living on the land.”
“Extraordinary are the things I hear but the power of God is without limit,” said Abdullah in wonder.
“Likewise His mercy, so take off your clothes and plunge into the water.”
“Why so, sir? Why ask this of me on a cold night?”
“Do as I say before the fatal grip closes around your throat.”
In no time Abdullah of the Sea had plunged into the water of the river, leaving him to make his choice. Urged on by some crazy inspiration, he took off his clothes and plunged into the river until he had disappeared completely. Then he heard the voice saying to him, “Return safely to the land.”
No sooner did he feel the ground underfoot than his heart settled itself between his ribs and he felt himself to be as one of the predators of the sky, the earth, and the night. He was conscious, too, of a warmth. Then sleep came over him. He slept deeply and peacefully, and it was as if the stars sparkled only that they might watch over him. He woke before daybreak. Looking into his mirror in the first rays of light, he saw before him a new face not known to him before.
“Blessed are wondrous things if of God’s making!” he exclaimed.
It was neither the face of Gamasa al-Bulti nor that of Abdullah. It was a wheat-colored face with a clear complexion, a flowing black beard and thick hair with a parting that fell down to his shoulders, while the look in his eyes sparkled with the language of the stars. Abdullah had been overtaken by death, just as had previously happened to Gamasa al-Bulti. Fadil and Akraman had disappeared, Rasmiya and Husniya too, also Umm Saad. But new voices materialized and adventures that came with sunrise, and a new world that disclosed wondrous things.
He found life pleasant in the open space close to the green tongue of land that stretched out into the river. The date palm was his companion, and fishing in the river provided his food, while the pure air was constantly with him. The people who came for amorous diversion and music earned his displeasure yet gained his forgiveness. As for his heart’s ease, he found it in conversing with Abdullah of the Sea.
People who crossed the river brought with them the news of the city. Among the things he learned was that the governor, Yusuf al-Tahir, had chosen Husam al-Fiqi as his private secretary and Bayumi al-Armal as his chief of police. He learned too that the security forces had stormed the quarter and were looking for Abdullah the porter. They had arrested his friends and had led Ragab the porter and Fadil Sanaan and his wife Akraman off to prison. Thus his feeling of security all too quickly came to an end and his heart became anxious. Once again he goaded himself into action.
He did not go in order to kill but to present himself as a ransom for those he loved. He was not conscious of any feelings of fear or misgivings. His sense of enlightenment took him above his uneasiness. He went straight to Bayumi al-Armal at police headquarters and with calm composure said, “I have come to confess before you that I am the killer of Adnan Shouma.”
The chief of police looked at him closely. “And who are you?” he asked.
“Abdullah of the Land, the fisherman.”
From his appearance the chief of police reckoned him to be mad and ordered him to be put in fetters of iron in case he were dangerous, then asked him, “And why did you kill Adnan Shouma?”
“I am entrusted with the killing of evil people,” he said simply.
“And who entrusted you?”
“Singam, a believing genie, and through his inspiration I killed Khalil al-Hamadhani, Buteisha Murgan, and Ibrahim al-Attar the druggist.”
The man humored him, saying, “The previous chief of police, Gamasa al-Bulti, has already confessed to killing Khalil al-Hamadhani.”
“Originally I was Gamasa al-Bulti,” he exclaimed.
“His head’s hanging at the door of his house.”
“I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“And you insist that the head is yours?”
“There’s no doubt about it, and you’ll believe me when you hear my story.”
“But how and when did you fix yourself up with this new head?”
“Let me ask for Singam to come as a witness.”
“You should be kept locked up forever in a lunatic asylum,” the man bellowed, and he ordered him to be sent straight to the asylum.
“Help, Singam!” he shouted as he was being taken away. “Come to my rescue, Abdullah of the Sea!”
Fadil was tortured for a long time in prison, until the governor found no alternative but to release him, along with the others. At the same time he gave orders to discover the whereabouts of Abdullah the porter.