Fatima sat on the ground. The room that served as her dwelling and which she shared with her chickens and a goat was immersed in dead silence, a palpable darkness. Were it not for the dim light that came from the wick placed above the oven, reflecting on her brown face, one would have thought the place a deserted grave, for the goat lay in a corner out of reach of the light, while the chickens were perched above a large cage, their feet curled round a palm-leaf stalk, their eyes closed. Fatima sat with her head lowered, frowning, pain drawn in the features of her face, sadness in her eyes, burning rancor in her breast. Her husband had been killed some days ago near the bridge as he returned from the field. She knew who had murdered him but had not turned him in to the police as she herself wanted to avenge him. If she’d had a son she would have waited patiently till he grew up, then incited him against her husband’s murderer so that he would take vengeance for the blood that had been spilled, for it embittered her life to see her husband’s murderer coming and going under her very eyes and she unable to so much as lift a finger.
Fatima continued thinking, her faced overshadowed with loathing. The pupils of her eyes contracted, her jaw stuck out, her lips closed over cruelly. She could not bear to be patient. And why should she be patient? Her husband had been killed and there was no one but herself to seek vengeance for him. She would not find rest, her life would know no peace, till the murderer had received his due and met his end. But what could she, a woman with no son and no money, do? Had she been rich the matter would have presented no difficulties, for a few pounds paid to Sarhan would suffice to have it settled satisfactorily. Fatima clung to the random thought: she had no one but Sarhan, that man who hired himself out for murdering. But what could she pay him when she owned no worldly goods? Wretched and miserable, despair overcame her; she felt restless and got up and took a turn round the room to relieve the burden of sorrow that weighed upon her. Her foot bumped against the goat crouching in its corner, at which an idea flashed to her mind, affording her some comfort. Why should she not sell her goat and give the money to Sarhan for killing her enemy? But would Sarhan agree to do murder for such a paltry price? Seeking solace for herself she began to reason with herself, saying that he would accept, for what had he to lose by killing her husband’s murderer?
Fatima desired sleep, but it eluded her. Her senses were keyed up and her chest heaved with a compelling urge that she was unable to thrust aside. She wanted to go out at once to meet Sarhan and to tell him what she had decided and to hear his acceptance or refusal, for she could no longer wait patiently against the desire that tormented her and allowed her no sleep. She tried to prevent the desire from finding expression, but it was too strong for her and she got up and went to the door. As she was about to open it, it occurred to her to take the goat with her, thinking that perhaps Sarhan would accept it from her this very night and so have her hopes realized. Advancing toward the goat, she dragged it away by its tether, and went out into the blackness of the night.
Nearing Sarhan’s house, Fatima could hear her heartbeats ringing in her ears and felt a slight tremor running through her body. About to knock at the door, she stayed her hand a while, wrestling with turbulent feelings. But the thought of returning home and waiting till morning broke down her hesitancy. She rapped at the door several times. An eternity seemed to pass before it was opened and revealed a man, short, thin; and ugly, with a ruthless gaze.
“What do you want?” he asked gruffly.
The words of her reply stuck in Fatima’s throat. Not knowing how to answer, she pushed the goat toward the man, at which a questioning look took shape on his face.
“What’s this?”
“I have come to ask your help,” replied Fatima. having calmed down slightly.
“What do you want?”
“Mahmoud Abdel Aati has killed my husband by the bridge as he was returning from the fields. They had had a quarrel. With no one to take vengeance, I have come to you. This goat is all I possess. Would you do me the favor of accepting it?”
She bent forward, eagerly waiting for his reply.
“Take your goat and go away,” he said with a frown.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Is it because of my poverty that you refuse?” she said in a voice choked with sobbing. “By God. had I anything else I wouldn’t hesitate to give it to you, for there is nothing in this world that I want except for the death of Mahmoud.”
“Take it and go away.”
He was resolved to refuse her. As he scrutinized her, Sarhan saw misery and poverty and that tears were flowing down her checks. He was stirred by an emotion that was entirely new to him.
“Take your goat, woman, and go away,” he said. “I shall take nothing from you. As for Mahmoud. I shall kill him without payment; I shall kill him for the love of God.”
The night passed and the day came. Mahmoud went off to his work, and the hours of the day passed till the sun inclined to the west. Then Sarhan took up his gun and set out, content and tranquil of heart, with the fervor of a man going on a pilgrimage. A sensation of calm and contentment imbued him. Having reached his hiding place, he waited with the patience of a monk secluded in his cell. As Mahmoud approached, he aimed his gun. fired, and found his target.
Sarhan returned home, happy and content, his mind at peace, his soul at rest, joy written on his face, for this was the first time in his life that he had killed for the love of God.