Hidden Destinies

“GO GET SALEM FOR ME,” Muhammad instructed Jaballah.

Resting his elbow on the sales counter, Ali said, “Listen, Uncle, don’t pressure him, since then he might turn against us. After all, he’s her rightful husband.”

“Don’t worry. I know how to deal with him.”

“I’m afraid . . .”

“Shush,” Muhammad broke in, waving a small cleaver in his left hand. “You’ll see.”

Shortly thereafter, Salem arrived and Jaballah left. Muhammad set a chair in the shop entrance to indicate that it was closed. Then he brought another chair, turned it around, and sat down facing Salem. His brow furrowed, he spoke to the slave without looking his way.

“So,” Muhammad began tensely, “I hear you’re getting married this Thursday.”

“Yes,” the slave replied, oblivious as to why the master had called for him. “That’s what Master Imuhammad wants.”

“And you—what do you want?”

The slave made no reply.

Muhammad repeated the question.

“Tell me, and don’t be afraid of anything.”

“There isn’t anything I want.”

“And your master’s orders?”

“There’s no questioning them.”

“How about my orders?”

“There’s no questioning them, either.”

“Good. So, then, put your hand on the table.”

“Which hand, Master?”

“The one you need the most.”

At first the slave just gave him a sharp look and didn’t move. Then he placed his left hand on the table without batting an eyelid. Ali’s eyes darted suspiciously back and forth between his uncle and the slave.

The uncle said ominously, “If you lay a hand on Tawida, I’ll cut them both off.”

Then, with lightning speed, he brought the cleaver out from under the table and drew it across the slave’s hand, leaving a slight gash. The slave looked fearfully at his blood on the cleaver, not comprehending his master’s threat. He was still for a moment, leaving his hand where it was.

At last he said, “Yes, sir.”

“And don’t you dare speak to anyone about what happened here today. If you do, you’ll have no one but yourself to blame.”

“Understood, sir,” the slave replied with certainty.

“You can go now.”

Ali turned and pulled the chair away from the shop entrance so that the slave could leave. As he made his exit, he pressed on the wound with his other hand. As Ali lazily straddled the doorway with his arms raised high, he and his uncle exchanged a look of mischievous satisfaction. They laughed out loud at this sly preventive measure.

Then, succumbing to a sudden urge to be contrary, Ali said flippantly, “What you did might work. But who knows? Maybe he’ll find Tawida so irresistible that he’ll decide to try his luck!”

Incensed, Muhammad grabbed the boy by the collar.

“Ali,” he growled menacingly, “don’t make me lose my temper. Otherwise I might go after him and slit his throat. That way I’ll be rid of both him and your speculations!”

“Since you can’t face the people higher up, you pressure people who are under you. Just be careful not to wrong an innocent man.”

Shaken, Muhammad let go of the boy, but made no reply. Then he picked up a small bag that he had prepared ahead of time and left the shop, trampling with his white shoes on the viscous drops of blood that had dripped from the slave’s hand as he made his exit.

The master had left in a rage, but the servant had left content. Some measures serve not their intended purpose, but hidden destinies!