The Fall of the Imam (4 page)
I closed my eyes and held my breath, trying to escape back into sleep, but was awoken again as he roared, ‘Say He is God, the One and Only, God the Absolute, the Eternal. He begetteth not, nor was He begotten, and there is none like …’
Nemat Allah huddled close up to me and rested her head against my cheek. Under her breath she whispered again, ‘Did not God beget the Lord Christ?’
Her voice could scarcely be heard, for it was no louder than her breathing, but his deep-set eyes switched over to us quickly and he shouted loudly, ‘Someone spoke. Who is it?’ Now no sound could be heard except the whirl of his stick cutting through the air again and again. Before my eyes I could see the sacrificial lamb tied by one of its forelegs as it tried desperately to free itself, bleating all the time. The children were stealing quick looks at the animal straining furiously at the rope, but their ears carefully followed the sound of Baba’s hoarse voice as he related the story of Abraham. And while they slept God’s voice spoke to the father, ordering him to sacrifice his son, and when the father awoke he seized hold of his son, and laid a knife against his throat.
The children kept huddling closer and closer to one another, as though each of them was trying to hide by slipping into the body of the other. The long stick moved out over their heads, shining like a knife, and came to rest on Fadl Allah’s neck. He was sitting near me, curled up around himself like a child in its mother’s womb. His fingers, blue with cold, sought refuge in my hand, and his bare knee rested on the bench close to mine. He kept pulling at the edge of his long robe made of calico, trying to prevent the icy current of air from reaching under it. His face was pale, almost bloodless, and the wooden bench swayed under him with a squeaky noise like grinding teeth.
I clasped his hand in mine, and in a voice as low as possible asked him, ‘But what wrong did the son commit so as to make his father think of killing him?’
But Baba heard me, for he could hear what we said even before we had time to say it, and he could see what we did even though we did not notice him watching us. He shouted in a loud voice, ‘A father can question his son, but on no account can a son question his father. To obey God is an unbreakable law and without obedience to father and husband there can be no obedience to God.’
He lifted the stick from where it still lay on Fadl Allah’s neck, and pointed in the direction of the lamb tied to a peg. He said, ‘This lamb will be sacrificed on the occasion of the Big Feast. We will eat its meat. Our Lord Abraham obeyed the will of God; Ishmael obeyed the will of his father. And so now it is the animal which is sacrificed.’ With this sentence the lesson on religious catechism came to an end. A moment later, Baba had disappeared from the courtyard. But Fadl Allah remained seated on the bench, unable to move his legs, his head resting on his knees as though he was plunged in deep thought.
The bell rang, summoning the children to bed. I got up from the bench, followed by Fadl Allah. His long robe was wet at the back and clung to his body over his legs. Where he had sat there was a small pool of water which I swept away with the palm of my hand before anyone could notice it. There was a strong smell of urine on my hand. I dried it quickly on my clothes and ran off to the latrines. Through the window I could see the punishment cell at some distance in the middle of the courtyard, behind the dome of the church and the minaret of the mosque. It lay hidden under the shade of a huge tree, surrounded by something like a dark haze so that its walls were almost invisible, bathed in an atmosphere of obscure, almost holy, mystery. Its door was made of yellow-painted wood with a metal doorknob, and on the doorknob were old dried stains like blood.
My eyes were fixed on the doorknob. It did not move, nor did the door open to let Nemat Allah out. I closed my eyes and slept, then woke up after a while. The door was still closed. By my side I found Fadl Allah, and when I looked at him he pulled something out from under his long robe. It was a loaf of bread, and the smell of fresh baking went to my head. I had not eaten since the morning lesson, so we ate, then we lay on a window-sill with our arms around each other. My long robe had a strong smell of urine about it, and Nemat Allah was still locked up in the cell. I said to myself, when I grow up I will kill him.
It seemed he could hear everything we said, for just at that moment he appeared in front of us as though his big body had broken through the layers of the earth to reach its surface. The muscles of his face were contracted, and the tangled hair protruded through his open shirt. Under it the breast muscles were tense, and the two dark nipples stood out almost erect. He stared at us fixedly as we lay in one another’s arms on the window-sill. I could see his nostrils tremble as though he was following a scent, and their openings grew wider, exposing their dark pits.
My turn had come to be punished. I had been expecting it every day, like a dark fate that hung over my head. I felt his thick fingers close tightly over my arm. I closed my eyes and abandoned myself. He was God, and he could take me wherever he wished. I woke from my sleep to find myself lying in bed. There was a feeling of wetness under my body, and over my thigh was something warm and sticky, like sweat. I moved my hand towards it, wondering what it could be, touched my thigh and then drew it slowly out from under the covers. I held it up in front of my eyes. My fingertips were covered in blood.
As I ran with Marzouk following closely in my wake, the bullet hit me in the back. Before I lost all trace of what had happened, before my mind went black, I made an effort to remember, to record the history of events and retain some sequence of the alphabet. I was fully dressed. They were pointing at my face, which they called my shameful part. I recall how my body rebelled despite the threat of death.
I said, ‘Who told you that?’
‘“I” is God’s word,’ they said.
‘But’, said I, ‘His word is written and you neither read nor write. So who told you that?’
They remained silent for a while. They looked at one another, lifted their eyes to heaven, pointed to the picture which was hanging on the monument to victory. They said, ‘It is our Lord the Imam who has seen God and knows His word.’
So I asked, ‘Where did the Imam see God?’
They said, ‘God visited him while he slept.’
I made an effort to remember before all memory of things was dead. ‘But God also visited me in my sleep,’ I said.
‘God does not visit women nor does He reveal Himself to them.’
‘God visited the Virgin Mary and she was a woman,’ said I.
They looked at me and said, ‘That only happened once in history, and God Almighty is too great to do what He does a second time.’
‘God visited the Prophet Muhammad and revealed Himself to him in a vision several times, and before that He visited Abraham, so why should He not repeat the same thing with the Imam?’ said I.
They were silent for a long time. They looked at one another, lifted their eyes to the picture hanging from above. They said, ‘He has seen God many times, but God has never revealed Himself to us.’
The world was so dark that it seemed as though the sun had been extinguished for all time. She continued to run as fast as she could, trying to get away before she was surrounded. Her dog followed behind her, his paws raising a cloud of dust. The eyes of the Imam fastened their sights on the trail of dust, following close on her tracks, with their dogs bringing up the rear, yapping and barking at their heels without stop. At a certain moment the Chief of Security came to a halt, pulled a pure silk handkerchief from out of his pocket, wiped his eyes, and then carefully polished the lenses of his glasses. Since he had been promoted to his new post he had taken to wearing dark glasses. This way he felt more secure, more satisfied, in a way superior to others. For now when he spied no one could follow his eyes as they lingered slowly on a pair of rounded thighs, or watched a child urinate in the night, or tried to pierce the disguise of the Imam slipping out of a prostitute’s house.
He was the Chief of Security and his sacred duty was to ensure that the Imam was well protected from enemies and friends alike, and that the members of Hizb Allah flourished at all times. He always sat in the front row on the right of the Imam, pressed so close up against him that he would have occupied his seat were it not for the fact that the Imam sat squarely on it. On the left of the Imam was the Great Writer, his fountain pen jutting over the edge of his pocket, his right eye fixed on the Imam in a steady, unwavering gaze, his left eye straying all the time to the balcony reserved for the women of the Imam’s harem. Next to him was the Leader of the Official Opposition, while in the second row behind him sat the Ministers of State, their shoulders touching, their knees pressed tightly together, their right hands held over their left breasts as though they were all seized with the fear of a common foe. The foreign guests stood in silence, a superior far-away look in their eyes, their faces and their shoes shining in the sun, their women huddled together nearby on the balcony reserved for the harem. Here also were gathered the wives of all the important personalities of State, and in their midst was the Official Wife of the Imam, wearing her angel’s face and the Order of Highest Honour, its bright colours flowing over her rounded breast.
The Chief of Security threw one of his sidelong glances at the Official Wife. It lasted long enough for him to catch the passionate looks she was directing at the Great Writer and to notice the flicker in his eyes expressing a message of eternal devotion. The Imam, however, had his eyes fastened on the heavens, for he believed that God was his best support in these times of political upheaval and economic crisis. The Leader of the Official Opposition seemed to be undecided. While his right eye gazed fixedly at the throne on which the Imam was seated, his left eye kept a careful watch on the Chief of Security. Every now and then the two men would exchange a smile, for this was the only thing they exchanged in broad daylight. After dark they spent many a night together drinking toast after toast to loyalty and friendship. They were great friends and bitter enemies, the Chief of Security a member of Hizb Allah, the Leader of the Opposition a member of Hizb al-Shaitan, both parties legalized and blessed by the Imam. They were like rivals united by their common love for the same woman, and by their common and bitter hatred for one another, like stepbrothers with the same mother and two fathers, united by a common hatred and a common love for the same woman.
I was standing in the first row. The air resounded with the acclamations of the crowd, and the guns being fired in celebration of the Big Feast. The Imam had his eyes fixed on the clear blue sky above him, but my eyes kept roving behind my dark glasses, watching every flutter in the crowd, every flicker in a million eyes, seeing intention when movement was still a stillness in disguise, a hand preparing to be raised in defiance, a finger on a trigger, touching lightly just before it tightens. I knew them one by one, knew their faces well, could see them slip between a thousand heads. Whether they were men or women, their features were there in my files. I glimpsed her in the crowd, right at the back, hiding her face behind a pair of shoulders and a head. I knew who she was at once without the slightest hesitation, without a need to think. Her face was thin, her features worn, exactly like her mother, bitching daughter of a bitching mother always moving underground, creeping in the dark, conspiring with outlawed movements and secret parties. A wretched woman possessing nothing but a body to be sold for the price of a meal.
I went to her once, but I was still a youth at the time and she was a young girl, almost a child. Before I could begin the first round she said to me, ‘Show me the colour of your money.’
I said, ‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘You are the type who would live off a woman’s sweat,’ she said.
I was tongue-tied. How had this child been able to see through me so easily? How had the secrets of life been revealed to her? I took out my money and put it in the drawer next to her bed. Then I mounted her once, twice, thrice, any number of times, until she was exhausted and fell asleep. I opened the drawer, took out all the money I found there, put it in my pocket and tiptoed out so as not to awaken her. And year after year I continued to collect money from here and there until I had enough to build a three-storied redbrick house.
Then I married the daughter of a State Minister and became a member of Hizb Allah. I did not catch even a passing glimpse of her before we married. She was a very chaste woman, wore a veil and never showed herself before men. I married her in full accordance with the holy writ of God and His Prophet, and her father warranted for her in all ways. I paid a big dowry to betroth her, and we celebrated our wedding in the presence of all the notables. The Imam attended in person. But on the night of our wedding the bridal sheets remained as white as buffalo milk, with not the slightest drop of virginal blood, and I said to myself, Somebody must have taken her before I did, but God will compensate me for my loss. The honour of the Minister is more important than my honour and should be given precedence. Besides, God is all-merciful and forgiving and I cannot pretend to place myself above Him.
I beat her until she confessed, then I forgave her just as God does with His creatures when they sin. I became her God. She worshipped me, chose to be at my feet like a dog, and now I possessed her completely but she had no hold over me at all. The more I turned away from her, the greater her passion for me grew, but I only desired those women who refused me. Each time I was refused, I remembered how my mother used to say to my father: ‘Thou art my shadow on this earth, when I runneth away from thee thou turneth around at once and followeth me.’ And how the Imam was wont to say that my mind thinks only of those who oppose me without my authorization. Then I noticed his look swing towards the place in which she stood at the back of the crowd, saw her eyes shine defiantly, but when I looked at him his pupils were aflame with desire. I said to myself, this girl and no one else will be your death, for in history many a great king has met his end at the hands of a whoring woman.