When I spoke to him about the great number of policemen, he said, “Security is assured, they are protecting the state.”
I walked round the districts inhabited by the rich, which are beautiful and tranquil; their palaces are museums, and their inhabitants move about in sedan chairs. I also visited the poor quarters, with their huts, ruins, mournful atmosphere, and miserable people. I spoke of this to the owner of the caravan. “They claim that the war was started in order to free the slaves in Mashriq. Why don’t they free the slaves of Haira?”
The man inquired in a whisper, “And what have you to say about our country, the country of divine Revelation?”
“There is no evil I have come across in my journey which has not reminded me of my unhappy country,” I said sorrowfully.
“You should have a look at the palace of the god-king,” the man said as he moved off.
I did not neglect to do this. I found it standing there mighty and lofty in its isolation amidst a space walled in by palm trees and guards. It was like the palace of the ruler in my homeland, yet even finer. The barracks of the guards were alongside it, while the temple of the god-king was on the other side. My gaze was drawn to a field of poles surrounded by an iron fence. When I approached I saw that human heads were fixed to the tops of the poles. I gave a shudder at the ghastly sight. They were exhibiting the heads as a warning to offenders. Approaching a guard, I asked him, “May a stranger know what was the crime of these executed people?”
“Insurrection against the god-king,” he answered gruffly.
Extending my thanks to him, I went off, certain that they were martyrs to justice and liberty, deducing this from what usually occurs in the land of divine Revelation. This is a strange world, replete with madness, and it will be truly a miracle if I find the palliative in the land of Gebel. In the evening I asked Ham, “What sights of Haira should be seen besides those of the capital?”
“Apart from the capital,” the man said confidently, “there is nothing but the countryside, and it has nothing to attract the traveler.”
I devoted myself to noting down the sights, which released me from thinking about Arousa and her children. One evening I spent in a nightclub and was shocked at the uproar of the drunks and the depravity which my pen refrains from recounting. As I passed by the market inn the owner of the caravan said to me, “We are traveling tomorrow at dawn—are you coming with us?”
Glumly I responded, “No, I’m staying a while.”
The thought of Arousa induced me to remain, but I was pained by the frightful loneliness that awaited me. At dawn I woke and imagined the caravan moving off to the singing of the leader. Yet a call like destiny was inviting me to stay on, a hope for happiness which did not want to die out. I had no wish to waste my time in vain, so I actively went around gathering information which was not to be gained by sightseeing. I found that the owner of the inn, unlike the one I had met in Mashriq, had no spare time in which to converse, so I asked him to conduct me to the sage of this land, to see if he would grant me an interview.
“It is possible for me to arrange an interview for you, as has happened with others,” Ham said.
In the afternoon I went to the appointment at the house of the sage Daizing; a beautiful house surrounded by a garden filled with flowers and fruit trees. He greeted me with a pleasant smile and sat me down on a couch alongside him. In his fifties, he was of strong build with distinct features, his white skullcap matching his white cloak. He asked me to say something about myself, so I mentioned my name, my mission, and my homeland.
“Your country is also great,” he said. “Tell me, what has appealed to you about our land?”
Hiding my real thoughts, I said, “Innumerable things—civilization and beauty, power and organization.”
“What do you think of our declaration of war, sacrificing our sons to liberate a foreign land?” he asked proudly.
“This is something we have not heard of before.”
“We present people with a model for an honorable and happy homeland,” he said with conviction. I bowed my head in agreement, and he said, “Perhaps you ask yourself what the secret is in all this? They have conducted you to me because I am the sage of this country. The truth is that I am no more than a pupil. Our Majesty is the sage, and he is the god, and he is the source of all wisdom and good. He sits on the throne, then isolates himself in a wing of the palace, fasting until light radiates from him. Then he knows that the god has alighted upon him and that he has become the adored godhead. Thereupon he exercises his function, seeing everything with the eye of the god, and thus we receive from him everlasting wisdom in everything, after which nothing is demanded of us but to have faith and obey.”
I followed him attentively, as I inwardly asked forgiveness of my Lord.
“It is he who organizes the army, and chooses its commanders to assure it of victory,” he continued. “He appoints the governors from his holy family, and picks leaders for the work on the land and in the factories from amongst the elite. As for the rest of the people, they possess no sanctity and have no talents; they do manual work and we provide them with their daily bread. After them come the animals, and after the animals the plants and inanimate things—a complete and precise system that puts each individual in his place, thus achieving the most perfect justice.”
He was silent for a while as he looked at me, then he said, “We thus possess more than one philosophy. We talk to the elite in terms that will strengthen the power, control, and growth that is in their souls, helping them therein by providing them with educational and medical facilities. As for the others, we strengthen in them the gifts of obedience, compliance, and contentment, leading them to the spiritual treasure that is buried within each one of them and which provides them with patience, application, and peace. With this twofold philosophy happiness for all is assured, each in accordance with his disposition and what has been set aside for him, for we are without exception the happiest people in the whole world.”
Having given thought to what had been said and what had not been said, I asked him, “Who owns the land and the factories?”
“The god, who is the creator and the king.”
“And the elite?”
“They are the owners by proxy, the income being divided equally between them and the god.”
“How is the god’s wealth spent?” I inquired, making a new leap.
He laughed, for the first time, and said, “Is a god to be asked about what he does?”
“Then who spends on the schools and hospitals?”
“The elite, seeing it as an obligation to be discharged by them and their children.” He then demanded proudly, “Isn’t this perfection itself?”
Dissembling, I said, “That is what is usually said of the land of Gebel.”
“The land of Haira is the land of Gebel,” he shouted.
“You are quite right, sage Daizing!” I declared.
He spoke with confidence and conviction. “To live with guidance from the god is man’s highest aspiration in terms of happiness and justice.”
“It is for this reason,” I put in, “that I am astonished by those rebellious people whose heads I saw strung up!”
“Human nature is not free from disorder and evil,” he exclaimed angrily, “but such are a minority in any case.”
At the end of our meeting he offered me an apple and a glass of milk and I returned, with my sad thoughts, to my solitude in the inn. I remembered my master, Sheikh Maghagha al-Gibeili, and asked, “Who is worse, Master, he who claims divinity through ignorance or he who exploits the Quran for his own ends?”
I endured boredom for several days, then news reached me, spread by the autumnal breezes, confirming that Haira’s army had been victorious; it had achieved its aims and the land of Mashriq had become the northern province of Haira. The poor poured into the streets to announce their joy at the victory—as though it were they who would reap its fruits.
“I wonder how you are, Ar
ousa,” I said to myself, greatly troubled. “And my children.”
On the day of the return of the victorious army I got up early and took up my position not far from the inn on the royal route that stretched from the entrance to Haira right up to the king’s palace. The crush on both sides of the route was so extreme that it seemed not a single citizen had stayed at home or at work. Just before noon the sound of drumbeats reached our ears. The procession was led by horsemen bearing on their spears five heads—the heads of the five overlords who had held sway over the cities of Mashriq. Thus I saw for the first time the overlord to whose chamberlain I had gone to bargain for the purchase of Arousa. There followed a long line of prisoners of war, walking naked with fettered hands between ranks of guards. There then came detachments of horse and foot soldiers, to boisterous cheering. It was a day of victory and festivities. Only God knew about the bloody tragedies that it had left behind. A strange human existence that can be summed up in two words: blood and rejoicing.
In the rear of the army amidst guards walked the women captives. My heart beat wildly as I formed the image of Arousa, seeing her as I had seen her the first time—or rather as I had seen her leading her father in the lane which witnessed my birth. My gaze roamed among the downcast faces and naked bodies, and my yearning came true as my eyes fell upon Arousa’s face: Arousa, with her slender body and unhappy, handsome face, approaching dazed, desperate, and wretched. A storming burst of energy broke out in me. I rushed forward, following in the wake of the line of captives, mindless of the bystanders against whom I knocked, or of their protests and their accusations that I was running after the naked bodies of the women. I called to her over and over but my cry was lost in the din of rising voices and I failed to attract her attention. I was even barred from her by the guards, who prevented the crowds from entering the palace square, which was reserved for Haira’s elite. Thus it was that she came to view and then vanished like a meteor, leaving me to madness and despair. And where were the children? Were they now living under the protection of their grandfather? I eased my distress by divulging my secret to Ham, who said, “She may be put up for sale in the slave market.”
“But it was a war of liberation,” I said in disbelief.
“Except for captives of war, who receive special treatment,” he said.
I invoked a blessing on this piece of hypocrisy: it was a peephole of hope in a sky of blackness. I clung even tighter to the idea of remaining on, and began to roam around the slave market every day, my dream of being reunited challenging my despair. Then one evening Ham met me with an encouraging smile. “Tomorrow the captives are being put up for sale.”
I slept badly that night, and when I went to the market I was the first to arrive. When Arousa was put up for sale I entered into the auction with determination. For the first time in her life she was dressed in a robe—it was green—and her beauty revealed itself despite her deep sadness. She was looking into her shattered self and did not see me, nor did she follow what was going on. The only person left in the bidding was, I heard it whispered, the representative of the sage Daizing. She was knocked down to me for thirty dinars, and when she was brought to me she recognized me and fell into my arms sobbing, to the astonishment of all those in the market. There was no opportunity of conversing, so I took her outside. On the way I could not help asking her, “How are the children, Arousa?”
However, because of her nervous state of agitation I forbore from pressing her until we were alone in my room at the inn. There I clasped her to me warmly, then set her on the couch until she was herself again. Then I said, “I grieve at the distress you have suffered.”
“But you saw nothing,” she said in a strange voice.
“Tell me, Arousa, for I am almost mad with despair.”
“About what?” she said, her eyes streaming with tears. “It was ghastly. They rushed into the tent and killed my father for no reason and seized me. Where are the children? I don’t know. Were they killed? Lost? Leave madness to me!”
Battling my fears, I said, “Why should they kill the little ones? They’re somewhere—we’ll find them.”
“They are savages—why should they torture us after defeating our army? But they are savages. It was the night of the full moon and the god was present, seeing and hearing but doing nothing.”
“In any case we are reunited,” I said consolingly, “and my heart tells me that mercy is on the way.”
“There is no mercy,” she exclaimed, “and I shall not see my children again.”
“Arousa,” I said, hopefully, “there is much evil in life, but good abounds too.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You’ll see—we’ll go with the first caravan to Mashriq to search for the children.”
“When does it set out?”
“Within ten days.”
She gazed blankly with deep sadness and my heart overflowed with tenderness like a bubbling spring of water. We amused ourselves during our long empty wait by wandering round the city and seeing the sights, ruminating over our hopes and preparing for our journey. Ham, however, was holding in reserve a surprise for us. Inviting me to his room, he looked at me with a certain embarrassment and said, “I have some unpleasant news.”
“More than I already have?” I asked bitterly.
“The sage Daizing wishes to have possession of your woman.”
I was astonished. “I hope you regard her as my wife,” I replied heatedly.
“He’ll pay you her price.”
“She’s not a commodity.”
“Daizing is a powerful man and close to the god,” he said in the tone of someone giving friendly advice.
Hiding my confusion, I said, “But strangers in your country live in security.”
“My opinion about your position in this matter will not change,” he retorted.
I was at a loss. Should I tell Arousa of the conversation? Should I add yet another sorrow to those she endured? In truth I was worried about disturbing the delight she had in the one dream that remained to her. I asked myself whether Daizing was able, through his influence, to tear Arousa away from me. I recollected the Sultan’s chamberlain who had stolen Halima from me in my homeland. I did not arrive at a firm opinion that set my mind at rest. All the while I was conscious of a danger pursuing me, that my happiness neither was firmly based nor yet had wings. Four days before we were due to depart, a servant asked me to go to see Ham in his room. There I found a police officer, to whom Ham presented me. “You will come with me to meet the chief of the city’s police,” he said.
I demanded the reason and he pretended not to know. I asked that I might inform Arousa, but the officer said, “Ham will do that for you.”
We went to the general police department on the Royal Road and I appeared before the director, who sat on a couch, surrounded by assistants. With a glance that gave me no reassurance, he asked, “You are Qindil Muhammad al-Innabi, the traveler?”
I answered that I was and he said, “You are accused of ridiculing the religion of this land whose hospitality you are enjoying.”
“An accusation without any basis of truth,” I answered vehemently.
“There are witnesses,” he said coldly.
“No one with any conscience can give such evidence,” I exclaimed.
“Don’t defame innocent people,” he said, “and leave that to the judge’s assessment.”
And so I was arrested, and the following morning I was taken to court. The charge was read out and I denied it. Five witnesses came along, at the head of them Ham, and after taking the oath, they all gave the same evidence, as though they had learned it by heart. The court sentenced me to be imprisoned for life, and my belongings were confiscated. Thus it was that Arousa was taken into custody. All this happened between one day and the next. I experienced the taste of bitter despair and realized that what had happened was for real, not a story being recounted. Arousa was lost, the journey was thwarted, the dream of the land of Gebel was di
ssipated, my very existence in this world was nullified.
The prison was on the outskirts of the city in a desert area. It consisted of a vast space under the ground, with narrow apertures in the ceiling, walls of large stones, and a sandy floor. Each prisoner had nothing but a pair of trousers and an animal pelt; the atmosphere choked in a turbid stench in the twilight on which no sun rose. Looking around me aghast, I said to myself, “I shall remain here till the last day of my life!” My companions stared and asked me about my crime. They asked me, and I asked back in turn. I realized that what brought us together were political and doctrinal crimes. I found a certain consolation in that, if someone in my position could find any solace. They were an unusual group of liberals who had been oppressed by the corrupt environment. They heard my story and one of them commented on it with the words “Even foreigners!”
Not one of them had expressed disbelief in the god, this being a crime for which the punishment was decapitation. But they questioned critically some of the anomalous actions pertaining to justice and human freedom. Among them I saw an old man of more than eighty years: he had spent fifty of them in prison, having begun his term in the reign of the previous king. I saw that he had lost his senses and his mind: he did not know where he was or why he had been brought here. His weak body, a body without spirit, spent its days prostrate on his pelt.
“Of us all he is the most deserving of felicitation,” a voice said.
Without hesitation I felt the words to be true.
Our thoughts revolved round man’s position in this world.
“There is no happy country.”
“Suffering is the common human language.”
“We the bewildered stand between ugly reality and the dream that never comes true.”
“But there are countries that are better.”
“Even they do not yet know contentment.”
“And the land of Gebel?”
At the mention of the magic name my heart gave a bound and I remembered with pain my lost objective. “What do you know about it?” I asked.