The Seventh Heaven (5 page)

My poor alley. May God be with you! How and when shall you burst these binding fetters?

Evidently, his own absence—that of Raouf—had stirred the alley’s tongues as well as its hearts. The women gathered round his weeping mother.

“This is the third day since he disappeared,” she moaned.

“Umm Raouf, you should tell the police,” they urged.

“I’ve already told ‘Uncle’ Shakir al-Durzi, shaykh of the
hara,”
she said.

The shaykh’s voice came to them scornfully, “Do young people today have no shame?”

“My son has never spent a whole night away from his home,” she said, still weeping.

And here is Rashida returning from her institute, the beauty of her tawny face marred by melancholy. Her
mother said to her, “Take care of yourself—you can’t replace your health when it’s gone.”

Choking back tears, she said, “I know. My heart never lies to me!”

Raouf stared at her with sympathy.
I believe you, Rashida. A loving heart is the most reliable receptor of truth. Yet we will meet again one day. Love is undying, Rashida, not like some people imagine it to be.

And here is the killer, swaggering home from the university. He holds a book in one hand, while he commits murder with the other!
I am never out of your thoughts, yet you have no idea that I’ve been appointed your spiritual mentor. Shall you yield to me today, or persist in your error? Everything calls out to reassure you, Anous. Your father casts his shadow over all. The government and all authority are his loyal subjects—you can get any false testimony you need. Yet my image never leaves you. And why not? Did not people say that our friendship was proverbially close? Though trained in criminality, you didn’t practice it like your father. In the course of your education, you learned, or at least heard, of beautiful things. By committing this travesty, did you dream you would win Rashida’s heart? What was this that you slew and buried in the desert? What you have done has not hurt me more than it has you. I was your eternal companion, as you shall see. Confess, Anous. Admit your crime. Tell the truth and stick with me—and you will have a better part to play in all this.

Here is my tormented mother, blocking your path.

“Master Anous,” she pleaded, “do you have any news of your friend?”

“None at all, by God,” he swore.

“He told me as he went out that he was going to see you.”

“We met for a few minutes,” said Anous, “then he told me he had to do an important errand, and that we would meet tonight at the café.”

“But he hasn’t come back,” the distraught mother said.

“Didn’t I visit you asking about him?”

“That’s true, my dear boy, but I’m about to lose my mind.”

“I’m as upset as you are,” declared Anous.

Believe me, Anous. I see the distress in your soul like a blemish on your face. But you are malignant and cruel. You are from the Opposing Power, Anous—don’t you see the danger in that? We grumble all the way down the Path of Light—so what do you think about while sliding down the Path of Darkness? I am stuck to you. If you don’t taste that roasted chicken, then the fault is yours. If you can’t concentrate on the book you’re reading, that’s your own problem, as well. I will never leave you, nor shall I ever grow tired. You may as well stay up late, for you shall not know sleep before dawn.

When he rose back to the First Heaven, Raouf encountered Abu deep in discussion with Akhenaten.

“Every time I told him to go right, he went left!” the defunct pharaoh fumed.

“You must use your powers as needed,” exhorted Abu.

“We lack the ability to use physical force,” Akhenaten complained.

“Do you want to go up, or do you not?” exploded“The trouble is, you are not used to persuading and
convincing people of your point of view. You only know how to give orders!”

Abu turned to Raouf. “How are things with you?” he asked.

“I’m off to a good start,” the youngster said.

“Wonderful!” said Abu.

“Yet I wonder, doesn’t everyone have their own guide?”

“Naturally,” said Abu.

“Then why does everyone just give up?”

“How wrong you are,” Abu abjured. “You were born in the age of revolutions!”

At that moment, a green bird the size of an apple landed on Abu’s shoulder. It brought its rose-colored beak close to Abu’s ear. Abu seemed to be listening, when the bird suddenly flew off into space until it was hidden behind a white cloud.

Abu looked meaningfully into Raouf’s eyes. “That was the messenger from the Second Heaven,” he explained, “bringing word of the acquittal and right to ascend for one called Sha‘ban al-Minufi.”

“Who’s he?” asked Raouf.

“An Egyptian soldier who was martyred at Morea in the age of Muhammad Ali. He was mentor to a hard-currency smuggler named Marwan al-Ahmadi—and finally succeeded in his campaign to drive him to suicide.”

Sha‘ban al-Minufi approached, wrapped in his vaporous robe. “May you ascend gloriously and with grace to the Second Heaven,” Abu told him.

All the spiritual guides flocked toward them in the shape of white doves until the verdant place was packed, Sha‘ban al-Minufi’s face beaming in their midst. As celestial music
sounded, Abu declaimed, “Rise, O rose of our green city, to carry on your sacred struggle.”

In a pleasing voice, Sha‘ban replied, “Blessings upon whoever renders service to the suffering world.”

At this he began to go up with the lightness of an ephemeral fragrance to the strains of the happy anthem of farewell.

Anous Qadri, the butcher’s son, stood facing the police detective who asked him, “When was the last time you saw Raouf Abd-Rabbuh?”

“The afternoon of the day he disappeared,” said Anous. “He came to see me at my house. No sooner had he showed up than he left to do some business. He promised to meet me that evening at the café.”

“Did he tell you anything about this business he had to do?”

“No,” said Anous.

“Did you ask him about it?” the officer pressed him.

“No, I thought it must be something to do with his family.”

“Some people saw the two of you walking together in the alley after he came to you,” the detective informed him.

Don’t be upset. The best thing is to confess. This is your golden opportunity, if you know what’s good for you.

“I walked with him till he left the gate,” said Anous. “You mean he simply disappeared in the desert outside?”

This is doubletalk, Anous—even worse than doubletalk. Only the truth can save you.

“Yes, he did,” answered Anous.

“What did you do after that?”

“I went to the coffeehouse to wait for him.”

“How long did you stay there?” the detective continued.

“Until midnight, then I went home.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Shakir al-Durzi, shaykh of the
hara,
was sitting next to me the whole time,” said Anous. “Early the next morning, I went to Raouf’s place to ask his mother about him. She told me that he hadn’t come back.”

“What did you do?”

“I asked all our friends and acquaintances in the alley about him.”

“Do you have any personal insight into his prolonged disappearance?” the policeman asked.

“Not at all! It’s truly baffling,” insisted Anous.

Here you are leaving the station, Anous. You prepare in advance every word you speak. You rue the mention of the
gate, and wonder who saw you walking there with me. It’s as though you are contemplating more evil. You repeat the details of your conversations to your father. He is strident—the money, the law, and the witnesses are all in his pocket. I counsel you again to confront your crime with courage and to clear your account. But what’s this? Does Rashida’s image still trace itself in your imagination? This is the very essence of madness. Then you see that the inquiries about you will continue like a flood. The shaykh of the alley has come to the same conclusion. The Unseen warns of unknown surprises. You are thinking of all this, and at the same time you’re obsessed with Rashida, you fool!

Reflecting on this, Raouf remarked to Abu, “Fear of death is the greatest curse to afflict humankind.”

“Was it not created to prevent them from doing wrong?” Abu replied.

Raouf was silent as Abu added, “You were appointed as a guide, not a philosopher—remember that.”

You’re asking yourself, Anous, why did the detective summon you a second time? Things are not turning out as simply as you thought.

Here is the officer questioning you:

“What do you know about Raouf’s private life?”

“Nothing worth mentioning.”

“Really?” the detective challenged him. “What about his love for Rashida, the student in the school of fashion design?”

“Every young man has a relationship like that!” Anous said dismissively.

“Do you have one like it?”

“These are personal things that have no place in an investigation.”

“Is that what you think?” the officer shot back. “Even when you love the same girl yourself?”

“The issue needs clarification,” protested Anous.