Daily life was saturated with thoughts of war. Many were upset at the concessions obtained by Aman without having shed a single drop of blood. The manager of the inn said sullenly, “Despite our sacrifice of the wells, Aman may still double-cross us.”
Nerves were strained to the utmost and I was infected by the same feelings as the people around me. I was terrified during the limited hours I spent on my own in the inn, when not sightseeing or with the al-Sabki family. My nerves rebelled and demanded that I find satisfaction in stability. And when Halba declared war and sent its army to Haira my nerves rebelled even more and I began to search around in the violent storm for some safe cave in which to take refuge. People talked of the war, comparing the forces of the two sides and their capabilities, while I strictly confined myself to looking for the means by which to obtain satisfaction in stability. I forgot everything but the objective close at hand, as if I were engaged in a race or being chased. I was encouraged in this by the atmosphere of the family and Samia’s sincere friendship, her admiration for me as a traveler, and her sympathy for my never-ending sorrows. “She is a girl of genuine worth,” I thought, “and there is no life for me without her.”
“I have put my trust in God and have decided to marry,” I said to the imam.
“Have you found Arousa?” he inquired.
“Arousa, in any event, is over and done with,” I said shyly.
“Have you chosen anyone?”
“What I seek lies with you,” I said quietly.
He gave an encouraging smile and asked, “Are you going to marry as someone who is traveling or as someone who stays in one place?”
“I do not think that the dream will vanish,” I said truthfully.
“Everything depends upon what she wants. Why don’t you yourself speak to her?”
“It is better for you to act on my behalf,” I said in embarrassment.
“So be it,” he said affectionately. “I appreciate your situation.”
I received her agreement the following day. I was impatient to proceed and they complied with my wishes. I rented a flat in the same street and we both furnished it together. The marriage contract was concluded in a quiet atmosphere befitting the circumstances of the war, and so we were brought together in the matrimonial home. My heart was gladdened and I recovered my balance. Encouraging news of the fighting came to us, but sadness forced its way into many hearts, and the prices of innumerable goods rose. Sheikh Hamada al-Sabki suggested I should go into partnership in a shop selling works of art and jewelry, and I agreed with enthusiasm. My partners were two Christian brothers, and their shop was located in the square where the inn was. The work required me to stay in the shop with them all day long, so—for the first time in my life—I devoted myself to work with commendable zeal. Samia would spend the same hours at the hospital.
“You must make Halba your permanent residence,” she said to me. “If you wish, complete your journey, but return here.”
“I may think of returning to my homeland,” I said frankly, “as I had planned to write my book, but there is nothing wrong in taking up residence here.”
“In that event,” she said joyfully, “I shall accompany you to your homeland and return with you. As for permanent residence, you will not find such a civilized place as Halba.”
I hesitated a while, then said, “It seems to me that my new work will bring us a good income. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to think about resigning from your work at the hospital?”
“In our land, work, for man and woman alike, is something sacred,” she said with a sweet laugh. “From now on you must think like a man of Halba.”
I gazed tenderly at her. “You are all but a mother, Samia.”
“That’s my affair,” she said gaily.
As summer rolled up the last of its pages, the fact that she was to become a mother became visibly apparent. The breezes of autumn arrived, replete with humidity and the shadows of clouds, and every day I discovered something new from the world of my beloved wife. She had pride without being conceited, she loved to discuss things, she was a true believer, and she was possessed of a strength at which my heart rejoiced.
Perhaps the most extraordinary thing I encountered in my journey was Halba’s type of Islam, in which there blazed the contradiction between outward and inward forms. “The difference between our Islam and yours,” Samia said to me, “is that ours has not closed the door of independent judgment, and Islam without independent judgment means Islam without reason.” What she said reminded me of the lessons of my old master.
However, I was in love with what was feminine in her and with her comeliness, which was so satisfying to my deprived natural impulses. I hungrily pursued that comeliness, heedless of anything else, though her personality was too strong and sincere to be dissolved in the beauty of a ripening woman. I found myself face to face with a brilliant intelligence, an enlightened mind, and exceptional goodness. I was convinced she was superior to me in many things, and this troubled me—I who had not seen woman other than as an object of enjoyment for man. My ardent love for her was commingled with fear and caution. Nevertheless reality demanded that I come to terms with the new situation and meet it halfway, in order to preserve both it and the happiness I had been granted.
“It is a mystery,” I said to myself, “that she should give herself to me with such generosity. I am truly fortunate.”
Disguising my inner fears, I once said to her, “Samia, you are a priceless treasure.”
She told me openly, “And the idea of a traveler who sacrifices security in the cause of truth and goodness intrigues me a great deal, Qindil.”
She brought to mind my slumbering project, wakening me from a sleep of honeyed ease, of love, of fatherhood and a civilized life. As though I were spurring on a person anesthetized to reality, I said, “I shall be the first person to write about the land of Gebel.”
“Perhaps you will find it more remote than the dream,” she said, laughing.
“Then I shall be the first to dispel the dream,” I said resolutely.
Autumn passed and winter came in. Its cold was no more severe than that of my homeland, but the rainfall was heavy and one saw the sun but rarely. The winds would blow strongly and noisily, and the thunder would roar loudly and would engrave itself deep within one’s soul. People talked of the war, which did not want to come to an end. I shared their feelings with sincerity and wished that freedom might gain the victory over the god-king and that my child might be born in the arms of freedom and security. Then one evening Samia joined me at home after work. She was aglow with a joy that brought to life that bloom of hers undermined by pregnancy. “Rejoice—it’s victory!” she exclaimed.
She took off her overcoat, saying, “Haira’s army has surrendered, the god-king has committed suicide, and Haira and Mashriq have become an extension of Halba. Freedom and civilization are now destined for their peoples.”
Joy entered my heart, though some of the fears engendered by experiences of the past made me inquire, “Will they not pay the price of defeat in some manner?”
“The principles of the Authority are clear,” she said enthusiastically. “There is no obstacle in the path of freedom apart from the land of Aman.”
“At any event,” I said innocently, “it did not double-cross you while you were enduring a long war.”
“That’s true,” she said sharply, “but it is an obstacle in the way of freedom.”
The day of the return of the victorious army was a memorable one. All of Halba, men and women, turned out to welcome it and pelt it with flowers, despite the cold weather and the pouring rain. Celebrations of every sort continued for a whole week. I soon noticed, on the way to work, that a strange state of affairs, incompatible with the festivities, was spreading strongly, unhesitatingly. Rumors were flying about as to the number of dead and wounded, rumors that were accompanied by sadness and disquiet. Pamphlets were distributed accusing the state of having sacrificed the sons of the people, n
ot in order to liberate the peoples of Mashriq and Haira, but in the interests of the landowners, industrialists, and merchants; they said that it was a war of convoys of goods, not of principles. Another leaflet I received accused the publishers of the previous ones of being enemies of freedom and the agents of Aman. As a result of this there were noisy demonstrations attacking Aman and challenging the agreement to surrender the water wells. The head of state met with the experts and a unanimous decision was issued nullifying the agreement on the wells and regarding them as jointly owned by Halba and Aman, as they had been before. The people once again began talking about a possible war between Halba and Aman.
Sheikh al-Sabki and his family came to lunch with me, and we sat talking and exchanging views. “If this disturbance,” I protested to the sheikh, “is as a result of a decisive victory, what would things be like if it were the result of a defeat?”
“This is the nature of freedom,” he said, smiling.
“It reminds me of anarchy,” I said frankly.
“It is so for someone who has not had dealings with freedom,” he said, laughing.
“I thought you were a happy people,” I said bitterly. “But you are torn apart by invisible conflicts.”
“The only remedy is yet more freedom.”
“And how do you judge, morally, the nullifying of the agreement on the wells?”
“Yesterday I was visiting the sage Marham al-Halabi,” he said earnestly, “and he told me that the liberation of human beings is more important than such superficialities.”
“Superficialities!” I exclaimed. “One must admit of some moral basis, otherwise the world would be transformed into a jungle.”
“But it was and still is a jungle,” said Samia with a laugh.
“Look, Qindil,” said the imam, “your homeland is the land of Islam, and what do you find there? A tyrannical ruler who rules to please himself, so where is the moral basis? Men of religion who bring religion into subjection to serve the ruler, so where is the moral basis? And a people who think only of the morsel which will fill their stomachs, so where is the moral basis?”
Something seemed to stick in my throat, so I remained silent. Once again I was seized by the memory of my journey. “Will war break out soon?” I asked.
“Only,” said Samia, “if one of the two sides feels that it is stronger or if it is overcome by despair.”
“Maybe you are thinking of the journey?” inquired my mother-in-law.
“First of all,” I answered, smiling, “I must feel assured that Samia is all right.”
At the end of winter Samia had her first child, and instead of preparing myself for traveling I gave myself over to the soft life I led between work and home. I immersed myself in the life of Halba, in love, in a high standard of living, in fatherhood, in friendship, and in the treasures of the sky and the parks, which were endlessly beautiful. I dreamt of nothing more delightful than that this state of affairs should continue.
And with the passage of time I became a father to Mustafa, Hamid, and Hisham. However, I refused to admit defeat and would say to myself in shame, “Oh, my homeland! Oh, land of Gebel!”
I was recording some figures in the accounts book at the shop when I found Arousa in front of me. It was no dream, no illusion, but Arousa, dressed in a short skirt and a shawl embellished with pearls, of the sort worn by high-class women in summer. She was no longer young, no longer going about naked, but was still possessed of a decorously dignified beauty. It was as if she were a miracle come out of nowhere. She was turning over in her hands a coral necklace while I looked at her aghast. She happened to turn to me, and her eyes came into contact with my face and grew wider and wider. She forgot herself, and I myself.
“Arousa!” I called out joyfully.
In a daze she answered, “Qindil!”
We stared at each other till we decided, at one and the same time, to recover from our stupor and return to reality. I went to her and we shook hands, oblivious of the astonishment that had overtaken my partner.
“How are you?” I asked her.
“Not bad, everything’s fine.”
“Are you living here in Halba?”
“Since I left Haira.”
“On your own?” I asked after some hesitation.
“I’m married to a Buddhist. And you?”
“Married and a father.”
“I didn’t have children.”
“I hope you are happy.”
“My husband is a remarkable and pious man and I have embraced his religion.”
“When did you get married?”
“Two years ago.”
“I gave up all hope of finding you.”
“It’s a large city.”
“And how was your life before you married?”
She gave a gesture of displeasure. “It was a time of hardship and torture,” she said.
“It’s unfortunate,” I muttered.
“It was for the best,” she said, smiling. “We shall journey to Aman, and from there to the land of Gebel, then to India.”
“May the blessing of God be with you wherever you may be,” I said warmly.
She stretched out her hand and I clasped it, then she took up what she had bought and left. I found myself required to cast some light on the scene which had been enacted in front of my partner. However, I continued my work and kept my emotions to myself, though I knew for certain that everything had come to an end. I told Samia what had occurred, straightforwardly and with apparent indifference. I was not devoid, though, of a feeling of guilt about the excessive interest that flamed in my breast. It was violently shaken and there welled up in it springs of sadness and nostalgic yearnings. Warm gushings from the past flooded over it till it was submerged. While it was not unlikely that the old love had raised its head, had been resuscitated, the new reality was more weighty, more powerful than to succumb to such winds. Nevertheless the hidden desire to undertake the journey awoke in splendor, springing to the fore and searching out the morrow with firm and unrelenting resolve. Fearing that I would rush off to put it into execution, I invented doubts about it and took a decision to postpone it for a year, though during that year I would pave the way by preparing people to accept it.
And so it happened.
My beloved wife gave me permission, neither enthusiastically nor rapidly. I appointed the sheikh to replace me in the business until I should return, and I allocated such dinars for the journey as would give me a good life. I promised that I would return to Halba immediately after the journey and that I would then accompany my wife and children to the land of Islam, where I would compose the book of my journey and find those of my family who were still alive; after this we would return to Halba.
I bade Mustafa, Hamid, and Hisham a heartfelt farewell, as also my wife, Samia, who was bearing within her a new life.
5
The Land of Aman
The caravan moved off, cleaving the dawn darkness, encountering the first harbingers of summer. Sheikh al-Sabki had spoken about the weather of Aman. “Its winter is killing, its autumn is cruel, its spring is unbearable, so you can imagine what the summer is like!”
As usual, the caravan reminded me of days past, except that I had become a mature man affected by destiny. The light of day shone and revealed a new desert, a desert of many hills, their sides marked off by low valleys in which were scattered plants as prickly as hedgehogs, distinguished by their mellow greenness and furious savagery. After several weeks of travel we reached the area of the wells, of which there were many. They did not, however, justify the alarms of war which were threatening the peace of the two great lands of Halba and Aman. And so we continued on into country that gradually rose higher, until we camped on Eagle Hill.
“We shall move off at midnight,” said the leader of the caravan, “in order to arrive by evening at the walls of Aman.”
We continued our journey in pleasant weather until the great wall appeared before us in the light of torches. We cam
e to a stop in front of the gateway. One of the men holding torches came towards us and called out in a rough voice, “Welcome to Aman, the capital of the land of Aman. Welcome to the land of total justice.” For a minute the man was silent, then he said, “The merchants will go with a guide to the commercial center, while the travelers will go to the travelers’ center.”
I did not go to an inn right away as I had done in Mashriq, Haira, and Halba, but followed the guide to a small, solidly built, and clean official house under the charge of armed guards. I was led to a room lit by torches. In the middle sat an official behind a desk, with guards on either side of him, like two statues. I stood before him and he asked me my name and age and how much money I had with me. He also wanted to know about the history of my journey and its purpose. I kept to the absolute truth and the man said, “I shall regard you as a citizen of Halba since you have taken it as a country in which to work and set up a marital home.”
I made no objection, and he said, “We shall permit you to stay for ten days, which is sufficient time for a traveler.”
“And if I like it here and want to stay on?” I asked.
“In that event submit a request for what you want. We shall then look into it and decide whether to accept it or refuse it.” I lowered my head in agreement, concealing my astonishment. “And we shall appoint someone to be your constant companion,” he went on.
“Will he be proposed to me so that I can accept or refuse him?” I inquired.
“It is the practice which is followed for the good of strangers.” He clapped his hands and there entered the room a short man in his sixties wearing a jacket like a short jubba, a loincloth that reached to the knees, sandals, and a skullcap like a helmet made of cotton or linen.
“Qindil Muhammad al-Innabi,” said the official, moving his head from one of us to the other, “Fluka, your guide and representative of the travelers’ center.”
I left the center with Fluka following me in silence like my shadow, having robbed me of all spirit of adventure and freedom. He lengthened his step and came alongside me and we plunged together into the darkness, finding companionship in the lights from the stars and the flares of the security guards.