“Abbas al-Khaligi the governor of the quarter, Sami Shukri the private secretary, Khalil Faris the chief of police—no depravity is to be expected from them in the near future,” said Sakhrabout listlessly.
“Why not?” asked Zarmabaha scornfully.
“They came to their positions following bitter experiences that toppled those who had transgressed.”
“Let us leave the rulers till ruling corrupts them, and look at that active young man Fadil Sanaan.”
“He is a living epitome of work that spoils our intentions and plans,” said Sakhrabout indignantly.
“What a target truly worthy of our skill and our wiles!”
Mirth crept into his voice as he said, “You’re an inexhaustible treasure, Zarmabaha.”
“Let’s think up together some delightful sport that is worthy of us.”
Fadil Sanaan was relaxing on the stairway of the public fountain after a hot summer’s day. He was always missing Aladdin and mourning him with a wounded heart, and he would ask himself angrily, “When will release from suffering come?”
He became aware of a man of radiant appearance and smiling countenance coming toward him and sitting down alongside him. They exchanged a greeting, but the man displayed toward him such attention that it was as though he had come there because of him. Fadil waited for him to give expression to his thoughts. When he did not do so, he said, “You are not, I believe, from our quarter?”
“Your instinct is right,” said the man in a friendly manner, “but I have chosen you to speak to.”
He stared at him with a wariness that he had learned from being pursued by plainclothesmen.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“That’s of no importance. What really matters is that I am a man of destiny and I have a gift for you.”
Fadil frowned, even more wary, and inquired, “Who has sent you? Speak openly, for I do not like riddles.”
“Nor do I,” he said, smiling. “Here is the gift—it makes anything else unnecessary.”
He extracted from the pocket of his gown a cap decorated with colored embellishments, the like of which he had never seen. He fitted it onto his head and in the twinkling of an eye he was invisible. Fadil was amazed and looked around him anxiously.
“Is it a dream?” he asked.
He heard the man’s voice asking with a laugh, “Have you not heard of the cap of invisibility? That’s what this is.”
The man took off the cap and he again assumed concrete form where he had been sitting. Fadil’s heart beat faster.
“Who are you?” he asked nervously.
“The gift is both real and tangible and any question beyond that is unimportant.”
“Do you really intend to give it to me?”
“It is for this reason that I have sought you out rather than anyone else.”
“And why me in particular?”
“And why did Ibrahim the water-carrier find the treasure? But do not squander your treasure as he did his.”
Fadil said to himself that the world was being created anew and that it behoved him to be careful of this present for saving mankind. Quickly his heart was filled with noble aspirations.
“What are you thinking about?” the man asked him.
“About beautiful things that will please you.”
“Tell me what you’ll do with it,” he asked cautiously.
“I shall do with it as my conscience dictates,” he said, his face radiant.
“Do anything except what your conscience dictates,” said the man.
The look in his eyes cooled and he was overcome by a sense of disappointment and disquiet as he inquired, “What did you say?”
“Do anything except what your conscience dictates—this is the condition. You are free in what you accept or refuse, but be careful not to be deceitful, for then you will lose the cap and you might well lose your life as well.”
“Then you are pushing me toward evil, you knave!”
“My condition is clear—don’t do what your conscience dictates to you. You must also not commit any evil.”
“Then what shall I do with it?”
“Between this and that are many things that bring neither profit nor harm. You are free.”
“I have lived an honorable life.”
“Continue it as you will, but in your turban and not with the cap. What, after all, did you reap from it?—poverty and prison from time to time.”
“That is my affair.”
“The time has come for me to go,” said the man, rising to his feet. “What do you say?”
His heart beat anxiously: it was a chance that did not present itself twice. He could not refuse. He said confidently, “An acceptable present and there’s nothing for me to fear from it.”
Right away the next morning Fadil Sanaan went off like the breeze that is present everywhere but which is not seen. The new magical experience took control of him. He tried to be a hidden moving spirit, so happiness made him forget everything, even his daily toil in search of a living. By being hidden he felt that he was rising up and taking charge, that he was reaching equal terms with the hidden powers, that he was in control of the reins of affairs, and that the scope for action stretched out without limit before him. It was a unique period during which he was at rest from his body, from the eyes of men, and from human laws. He pondered that it might all have been made possible for some scoundrel and he thanked the good luck that had singled him out for attention. Because of his great happiness he was not really aware of himself till evening came. Then he remembered that Akraman and Umm Saad were waiting for his limited amount of dirhams so they could prepare supper and buy the ingredients for making the sweetmeats. Worried, he realized that he could not return to his home in the rooming house empty-handed. He passed by a butcher’s shop; the man was calculating his day’s earnings, while his young lad had moved to one side. He decided to take three dirhams, that being the amount of his daily earnings, telling himself that he would return them when things were easier. He found himself entering the shop and taking the money. He came out into the street again feeling down at heart, guilty for the first time in his life of stealing. He looked toward the shop and saw the butcher raining down blows on his young assistant, then driving him out, accusing him of theft.
After supper he thought of cheering himself up by visiting the Café of the Emirs while wearing his cap. It would afford chances for some innocent pranks, though he would have to be careful not to involve himself in any dishonorable action as he had done at the butcher’s shop.
For the first time he saw familiar faces without their being able to see him. His gaze passed scornfully over Hasan al-Attar, Galil the draper, Ugr the barber, Shamloul the hunchback, Master Sahloul, Ibrahim the water-carrier, Suleiman al-Zeini, Abdul Qadir al-Maheeni, Ragab the porter, and Ma’rouf the cobbler. He heard Ugr asking, “What has kept Fadil Sanaan?”
Shamloul the hunchback answered in his high-pitched voice, laughing, “Perhaps some catastrophe has befallen him.”
He determined to punish the buffoon. The waiter came bearing glasses of karkadeh, prepared from the petals of hibiscus flowers, and suddenly the tray was spilt over the hunchback’s head. With the drink all over him, the hunchback jumped up shouting, while the waiter stood there dumbfounded. The men laughed mockingly. The owner of the café gave the waiter a slap and began apologizing to the sultan’s jester. Ingratiating himself in an exaggerated way, the owner himself brought some fresh glasses of karkadeh, which this time were spilt over the head of Suleiman al-Zeini. Wonderment and secret delight took over, with more than one voice calling out, “It must be the hashish!”
Ugr, freed of constraints and forgetting his sorrows, laughed outright, but he was not allowed to enjoy his laughter, for he received a resounding slap on the back of his neck. Turning round angrily, he found Ma’rouf the cobbler behind him and struck him in the face with his fist, and the two of them were soon locked in battle. Darkness fell when a stone struck the lamp. In the gloom blows were exchanged, tempers rose, and they shouted and fought until all were strewn about the street in an ugly state of madness and fear.
Fadil practiced his normal life and hid the cap in his pocket until such time as he should need it. He told himself that he had derived nothing from it up to now except that it had caused him to steal and to commit some meaningless pranks. He was anxious and depressed. He told himself that he could not ignore a rare opportunity like this. He had not had the chance of thinking things over, but what was the advantage of doing so? If it was impossible for him to do good with the cap, then what could he do with it?
He was resting on the stairway of the public fountain after sunset a short distance from a peddler selling watermelons. He saw someone going toward the man to buy one. His limbs trembled when he saw that it was a prison warder well known for torturing his fellow creatures. He saw him making his way with the watermelon toward a nearby alley where it seemed that he was living, so he followed him. When he was sure there were no passersby he put on the cap and vanished from sight. Having forgotten the pledge to himself, he drew out the knife which he used for cutting the sweetmeats. Let him at least find out how the man who had given him the cap would prevent him from doing what he wanted. He came up to the jailer, who was not aware of his presence, and aimed a deadly blow at his neck. The man fell down covered in blood.
The feeling of victory exhilarated him. He could do what he wanted! He did not leave the scene but stayed on to see what would happen. He saw the people gathering in the light of lanterns; he saw the police come and heard the jailer utter the name of the watermelon-seller before breathing his last; he saw the police arresting the innocent vendor. Fadil was shocked and disturbed. What was there between the jailer and the vendor that had made him bring him down? His unease became impossible to bear.
“There is no choice,” he told himself, “but to save this innocent man.”
At this he saw the owner of the cap in front of him, saying, “Be careful that you don’t break the pact.”
“Did you not let me kill the criminal?” said Fadil in panic.
“Not at all,” said the other. “You did not kill the criminal but his twin, who is a good and blameless man.”
From stealing, to committing stupid pranks, to murder. He had fallen into the abyss. When the watermelon-seller was beheaded the following day, he found himself overcome by a state of complete despair. He roved around aimlessly in the lanes like a madman. He hated himself so profoundly that he hated the world itself and his everlasting dreams.
“To confess and to face the penalty, that is all that is left to me,” he whispered to himself.
Then he saw the owner of the cap in front of him, saying, “Beware!”
“May you be accursed!” he shouted angrily.
The other disappeared, saying, “Is this the recompense for someone who has handed you the key to power and pleasure?”
Bitterness enveloped him, mixed with heated madness, and he began to drink, summoning the devils from their hiding-places. He brought to mind thoughts that were heavy with lust, thoughts that tempted him and were driven off by piety. They manifested themselves through radiations of red-hot madness in two shapes: that of Qamar the sister of Hasan al-Attar and that of Qut al-Quloub the wife of Suleiman al-Zeini. He told himself: “Seeing that the wine is lodged in my stomach, why should I fear being drunk? Nothing remains for me but to submit gracefully to the curse, so let me raise myself to the skies, let the devils burst forth from their bottles, and let punishment come crowned with victims.”
“Why Fadil Sanaan?” Qamar al-Attar asked herself. “What a dream!” But she realized that the dream had left behind it signs that could not be denied. She was bewildered and said to herself, “It’s as though he were the Devil.” Terror took hold of her and death appeared before her eyes.
“It’s a nightmare,” said Qut al-Quloub to herself. “But why Fadil Sanaan, whom I had never thought of in that way?”
Yet from a nightmare signs had been left and a state of terror exploded within her. Suleiman al-Zeini discovered that money of his had been stolen. Khalil Faris the chief of police came along. Qut al-Quloub concealed the story of her nightmare, and the thought of death closed in on her.
He kept to his daily life during the daytime and did not fail to show up at the Café of the Emirs. He would often repeat to himself, “God have mercy upon you, Fadil Sanaan—you were a good young man, like Aladdin and better.”
He was met by the madman in his wanderings and as usual he offered him some sweets, but the madman this time did not hold out his hand, and went on his way as though he had not seen him.
He was dismayed and fears hovered around him like flies. The madman had not changed without reason. Perhaps he had sensed the devil that lay behind his skin.
“I should be frightened of the madman,” he muttered to himself.
He saw the owner of the cap smiling at him encouragingly and saying, “You are right, and he is not the only one you should be frightened of.”
He frowned and felt humiliated.
“Let me alone,” he said sharply.
“Kill the madman—that won’t be difficult for you,” he said calmly.
“Don’t suggest things to me—that was not part of the bargain.”
“We must become friends. Thus I also counsel you to kill al-Balkhi, that charlatan of a sheikh.”
“We are not friends and I shall do nothing except by my own free will.”
“I concede that wholly, but you will not regret it. You are suffering by reason of the change of habit, but you will achieve dazzling wisdom and will understand life as it must be for you.”
“You’re making fun of me,” shouted Fadil.
“Not at all. I am urging you to kill your enemies before they kill you.”
“Let me alone,” he said with loathing.
Disturbing events occurred: a strange disease attacked, almost at one and the same time, two distinguished and beautiful women, Qamar al-Attar and Qut al-Quloub the wife of Suleiman al-Zeini. Neither the sincere devotion nor the experience of Abdul Qadir al-Maheeni was of any use in saving them. With their deaths the doctor realized he had a secret worry he did not know how to ignore. Should he keep silent to protect the reputation of his friends? Should he be afraid that his silence might be covering up some crime or criminal? He thought for a long time, then went off to see Khalil Faris the chief of police.
“I shall tell you of my concern in the hope that God may guide us to the right path,” he said. He gave a deep sigh, then went on: “It was not an illness that afflicted the sister of Hasan al-Attar and Qut al-Quloub. It is clear to me that they both died of a poison that slowly killed them!”
“Suicide?” muttered the chief of police with concern. “But why? And why should anyone want to murder them?”
“Before each one died she uttered the name of Fadil Sanaan with terror and abhorrence.”
The man nodded his head with growing interest and the doctor said, “The substance of what I understood was that they had both dreamt that night that he had assaulted them, then it became clear to them that there were certain traces left behind that showed conclusively that the dream had been a reality.”
“This is astounding. Had he drugged them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did the dream occur?”
“In their own beds in their own homes.”
“This is truly astounding. How did he steal into their houses? And how did he drug them so that he could have his way with them? Had he accomplices in both houses?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you broached the subject with Hasan and al-Zeini?”
“I hadn’t the courage to do so.”
“What do you know of Fadil Sanaan?”
“A blameless young man.”
“There was a suspicion, which has not as yet been supported by any evidence, that he is a Kharijite.”
“I know nothing about that.”
“I shall arrest him immediately,” said the chief of police resolutely, “and shall interrogate him closely.”
“I trust that your investigation will be carried out in secret so as to spare the reputations of the two women.”
With a shrug Khalil Faris said, “Uncovering the truth is my primary concern.”
Fadil was arrested and immediately taken off to prison. The governor of the quarter, Abbas al-Khaligi, interested himself in the matter and asked to see Hasan al-Attar and Suleiman al-Zeini and surprised them with the secret that the doctor had been loath to divulge. It was like a violent blow aimed at their heads, death itself being easier to bear. Al-Khaligi then ordered that Fadil Sanaan should be brought from prison so that he himself might question him. Khalil Faris, however, came to him on his own, saying with great embarrassment, “The criminal has escaped—there is no sign of him in the prison.”
The governor stormed and raged and hurled rebuke and accusations at the chief of police.
“His escape is a mystery,” the man said with utter helplessness. “It is as though it were an act of black magic.”
“It’s more like a scandal that will rock the very foundations of confidence.”
The plainclothesmen spread abroad like locusts. Akraman the wife of Fadil Sanaan, Husniya his sister, and Umm Saad his mother were brought in. Their interrogation revealed nothing.
“My husband,” said Akraman weeping, “is the noblest of men and I do not believe a single word said against him.”
Fadil Sanaan realized that he had become as good as dead—after today he could have no life other than under the cap, the life of some accursed spirit wandering in the darkness, a spirit who could move only in the spheres of frivolous pastimes or evil, deprived of repentance or of doing good; he had become a Satan who was damned. As he groaned in his desolation the owner of the cap appeared before him.
“Perhaps you are in need of me?” he asked.
Fadil glared at him balefully and the other said to him in friendly fashion, “There is no limit to your authority and you will not lack for anything.”
“It is a state of nonbeing!” he exclaimed.
“Wipe out old notions and be aware of your great luck,” he said mockingly.
“Loneliness. Loneliness and darkness. Wife, sister, and mother are lost to me, as are my friends.”
“Listen to the advice of someone of experience,” the other said quietly. “It is in your power to enjoy every day with some event that will rock mankind.”
Mysterious events swept over the quarter and made people forget the case and the criminal who had escaped. A man of noble birth was pushed off his mule and fell to the ground. A stone struck the head of Sami Shukri the private secretary, while surrounded by his guard, and split it open. Priceless jewels disappeared from the governor’s house. A fire broke out in the lumber warehouse. Harassment of women in the marketplaces increased. Terror pursued the high and the low, while all the time Fadil Sanaan rushed headlong on his rugged path, intoxicated by despair and madness.
The governor Abbas al-Khaligi met up with Sheikh Abdullah al-Balkhi and with the doctor Abdul Qadir al-Maheeni and the mufti. He said to them, “You are the elite of our quarter and I want to seek guidance from your opinions in what is occurring. What is your diagnosis and what treatment do you suggest?”
“It is no more than a gang of evil persons operating with cunning and resourcefulness,” said the doctor, “and we are in need of increased vigilance where security is concerned.”
He thought for a while and then continued, “We are also in need of revising the distribution of the alms tax and charity.”
“I believe,” said the governor, “that the problem is more serious than you suppose. What is the opinion of Sheikh Abdullah?”
The man answered tersely, “We lack true faith.”
“But the people are believers.”
“Not at all,” he said sadly. “True faith is rarer than the unicorn.”
At this the mufti said in a harsh voice, “There is someone who is practicing black magic against us. I accuse no one but the Shiites and the Kharijites.”
Everyone who was under any sort of suspicion was taken off to the prisons. Many homes were shaken by doubts. For the first time Fadil Sanaan awoke from his state of despair. He was astonished at himself and wondered whether he still had in his heart any room for contemplation and regret. Old memories revived in him, like breezes blowing on a blazing fire, and he began thinking about directing his frivolous action in some new direction. However, the owner of the cap appeared to him with a warning look and inquired, “Are you not yet cured of your old disease?”
Though overcome by rage, he controlled himself humbly and said, “To effect the escape of these men would be the height of frivolity.”
“Remember our agreement.”
“What good is there behind rescuing the enemies of religion?” he inquired sharply.
“They are in your opinion the leaders, and you are merely one of them, so don’t try to play games with me.”
“Let me do what I want,” he said with determination and hope. “Then after that I’ll do what you like.”
The cap was then torn from his head and he assumed corporeal form amid the crush of passersby in Shooting Square. He was scared at the sudden change that had occurred, but before he could recover from his terror the other had replaced the cap on his head, saying, “Stick to our pledge so that I may continue to treat you in the same manner.”
He did not have the good fortune to escape. A feeling of bitterness took hold of him. He wondered how he could save his brothers and comrades. He was choked by the steel grip which enwrapped him. He was both the slave of the cap and its owner, as well as the prisoner of darkness and nothingness. No, he did not have the good fortune to escape and was ashamed to do so. Even despair seemed beyond him: however many stupidities he committed they were unable to pluck out its old tunes from his heart. He yearned to resurrect the old Fadil at any price. Yes, the old Fadil was over and done with, but along the way there was still room for action. From the depths of the darkness there was a gleam of light. For the first time in ages his spirit was refreshed as he charged his willpower with fresh life. His courage burst forth in the shape of mounting aspirations. A wave of challenging scorn raised it above considerations of life and death and he found himself gazing from on top of a peak to horizons of promise; horizons that promised a noble death. Thus would Fadil Sanaan be restored, be it even as a lifeless corpse.
Without hesitation he set off with new resolve toward the governor’s house. The madman passed by him, repeating the words “There is no god but God. He brings to life and makes to die, and He is capable of everything.”
He had reached an extreme of intoxication and recklessness and was not frightened when the owner of the cap appeared to him.
“Keep away from me,” he said, and he seized the cap from his head and threw it into the other’s face with the words “Do what you like.”
“They’ll tear you to pieces.”
“I know my destiny better than you do.”
“You will regret when regret will be of no use.”
“I am stronger than you,” he shouted.
Fadil expected fearfully that he would strike him, but he vanished as though vanquished.
The trial of Fadil Sanaan provoked more speculation than any previous one. His confessions burst upon the city like a storm. As the elite still considered him one of their sons, and because the common folk saw him as one of theirs, minds and hearts were utterly confused.
Punishment Square received a steady flow of men and women of all classes. Whispers of pity mingled with gloating shouts, while the moaning of the rebab mixed with the boisterous revelry of the drunk. When the young man was seen from afar all eyes strained toward him. He approached in the midst of his guards with firm step, a calm face, and humble resignation. In front of the leather execution mat memories surged over him in a single wave of blazing light. The faces of Akraman, al-Balkhi, Gamasa al-Bulti, Abdullah the porter, and the madman came and went before him. Love and adventure, propaganda leaflets and the thousands of meetings held in darkness in underground cellars and out-of-the-way places—all were welded together in his mind. The cap and its owner were dispersed like some stumbling step he had taken. Finally, his tragic triumph was revealed, drawing with it Shabeeb Rama the executioner. He met it in a matter of seconds with extraordinary power and startling speed; he refused with disdain to show distress and faced his destiny with cool self-possession, seeing beyond death a dazzling brilliance. But he also saw one of the signposts of the other world in the form of Master Sahloul the bric-a-brac merchant. As he recovered from his astonishment at seeing him, he asked, “And what brought you, master?”
“I was brought by that which brought you,” he replied.
“You are the Angel of Death!” Fadil exclaimed in even greater surprise.
But Sahloul did not reply.
“I want justice,” Fadil said brusquely.
“God does what He wishes,” said Sahloul quietly.