The Sin

LEANING HIS ELBOW on the counter, Muhammad said to Ali after a pause, “I found them on top of the shipment of gunpowder that we’d stashed under the haystacks.”

As the two men waited for al-Figgi to arrive, Ali looked over the accounts ledger.

“If I were you,” he said, “I’d kill the both of them.”

“Better to choke a dog than to kill it. I’ll use him to get a stranglehold on his father.”

“Good idea. The bastard’s got way too much power over Grandpa, and a tongue smoother than the devil’s.”

As they spoke, Yousef and Ahmed Bin Shatwan—cousins of Ali’s—came wanting to speak in private with their uncle.

A steamship laden with gunpowder, fabrics, glassware, and copper was due to arrive from Malta within fifteen days at the most if the sea was calm, and the cargo would need to be unloaded well out of sight.

“It will be coming in at night,” the men said. “It’ll have to be unloaded quickly, and we’ll need a couple of porters we can trust. We also need to make sure the spies that work for the Jews, the Italians, and the Maltesians are far from port while the new shipment’s being loaded.”

The men finished their business quickly and left.

“Do you remember when we brought Salem here and warned him not to touch Tawida?”

“Yeah.”

“He wasn’t interested in her in the first place, and that’s why the threat didn’t have any effect on him.”

“He duped us to save his own skin, since he didn’t want anybody to know he wasn’t a real man. We’ve got no need for him anymore, the bastard.”

“He’s afraid of being sold. And for good reason. Anyway, I’ve sent for al-Figgi, and we’ll reach an understanding man-to-man.”

“And what if Grandpa finds out?”

“How would he? Like, who would tell him? Al-Figgi will keep quiet about it on his own.”

Ali chuckled and closed the accounts ledger. “Don’t you go crazy now!”

“I’ve never been saner.”

When al-Figgi arrived, he was about to blow his top. He started talking from the shop’s doorway without even bothering to say hello.

“Why did you beat the boy?” he demanded. “What had he done to you?”

Without inviting him in or even looking up at him, Muhammad replied, “Didn’t he tell you himself?”

“You think it makes you a man to go picking on a young kid?”

“Lower your voice, Hajj.”

“It seems you’ve got no shame anymore.”

“You’re the one who’s got no respect for anybody.”

“Some nerve you’ve got, talking this way to somebody who’s old enough to be your father!”

“Bring him a chair, Ali. Let the self-important sheikh sit down so that I can explain things to him. And close the door behind you.”

Without further ado, Muhammad dropped the bomb on al-Figgi.

“For your information, Sheikh,” he said, “your esteemed son Hussein is a faggot. That’s why I beat him. I caught him in the act with one of our slaves in our livestock enclosure. The slave’s inside if you’d like to speak with him yourself.”

Shocked and incredulous, al-Figgi went silent for a few moments. Then he gulped and, in a tone of alarm, said, “That’s ridiculous! What you’re saying can’t be true! You’ve just got a grudge against me. That’s why you’re saying things like this.”

“I do hate you—I can’t deny that. But I’m not using Hussein. I found your son on our property, so I beat him. It’s not as if I’d seen him on the street and assaulted him for no reason.”

As if overcome by a temporary death, al-Figgi froze in place, his eyes bugging out. Then he took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his brow.

“Good God, good God,” he muttered. “Oh Lord, protect me in my time of trial. Oh Lord, protect me in my time of trial! I can hardly believe it. Hussein’s memorized the Qur’an. He prays all his prayers. He’s shy and respectful to everybody. And now this?!

“For a long time I’ve been telling his mother that we should marry him off young to keep him from learning things that might take him off track. But she’s been stubborn about it. She says things like, ‘The boy’s still too young.’ So this is all her fault. It’s her sin.”

“Maybe his mother suspects something and has been waiting for things to become clear to her. Either way, she’s more sensible than you are. At least she comes to her son’s defense and doesn’t want him to be exposed.”

Muhammad and Ali exchanged glances, realizing what a shock this was to the father’s heart. Handing him a glass of water, Ali said gently, “Drink this, Sheikh, and calm yourself.”

Al-Figgi downed the water as though it were medicine. Then he sank to the floor in tears.

“This is a disaster. My boy! God forbid, God forbid! He’s my only son and I’ve been counting on him. I’ll kill him myself and bury my shame.”

Grabbing hold of him together, Muhammad and Ali pleaded, “Don’t do it, Sheikh. Haven’t you seen how people cover up for their children? Keep his secret hidden and let God take care of the rest. What would you gain by exposing him?”

Tripping over his jard as he got up, al-Figgi said, “Let me go. Good God, good God!”

Ali winked at his uncle to let the man be on his way, and not to compound his suffering. He’d already been dealt enough blows to make his heart stop.

However, Muhammad said, “Before you go, Sheikh, I want you to write up a divorce certificate for Salem and Tawida and put your stamp on it. And remember: we’ve still got more to discuss in connection with your son’s desecration of our house.”

Once al-Figgi was gone, Muhammad heaved a sigh of relief. Kissing the divorce certificate, he said, “Tawida is mine, and I won’t share her with anybody. She’s my plant, and no one but I can water her, give her shade, or taste her fruit.”

Looking at him warily, Ali said, “You’re starting to scare me. Why don’t we just close al-Figgi’s account once and for all and be done with it?”

“No,” Muhammad replied, stroking the tip of his mustache. Not yet.”

Several weeks later, al-Figgi came and, in a state of total collapse, prostrated himself servilely before Muhammad.

“Sell me the slave,” he begged. “Hussein’s my only son. Shame on you. Ever since that night, the boy hasn’t eaten or drunk. He’s sick in bed and won’t talk to anybody. His mother’s so upset over him, she’s about to perish. I took him to a Sufi hadra, but it didn’t help. I even took him to the graves of Sidi Abdul Jaleel and Sidi Ruwayfi al-Ansari and that didn’t help either. But if he sees that slave again and they can talk together, maybe he’ll come out of his grief and misery. Sell him to me, God keep you!”

“No.”

Muhammad’s reply was final.

“Cancel all my father’s debts and sign the capital from the Tunisia trade over to him.”

“You’re lording it over me now.”

“I know. But this is an appropriate settlement in view of the sin your son committed against our household.”

Then, ending the conversation with a warning, Muhammad said, “Don’t you dare go to my father behind my back and ask him to sell you the slave.”

The price Salem was fetching that evening was higher than even he could ever have imagined. As the two men negotiated over Salem, he was negotiating a crazy idea of his own. Inspired by the idea, he sneaked over to al-Figgi’s house for the first time—and in broad daylight. He and Hussein hadn’t seen each other for months. He stood at Hussein’s bedside until at last Hussein became aware of a presence next to him. He opened his eyes and saw Salem. Bending down without a word, Salem lifted Hussein onto his back and headed for the sea. When he reached the water’s edge, he waded in deeper and deeper until the water engulfed them and they vanished into the waves.