Season of Migration to the North (19 page)

‘Here are my ships, my darling, sailing towards the shores of
destruction. I leant over and kissed her. I put the blade-edge between her
breasts and she twined her legs round my back: Slowly I pressed down. Slowly.
She opened her eyes. What ecstasy there was in those eyes! She seemed more
beautiful than anything in the whole world. “Darling," she said painfully.
“I thought you would never do this. I almost gave up hope of you.” I pressed
down the dagger with my chest until it had all disappeared between her breasts.
I could feel the hot blood gushing from her chest. I began crushing my chest
against her as she called out imploringly: “Come with me. Come with me. Don’t
let me go alone.” “I love you,” she said to me, and I believed her. “I love
you,” I said to her, and I spoke the truth. We were a torch of flame, the edges
of the bed tongues of Hell-fire. The smell of smoke was in my nostrils as she
said to me “I love you, my darling,” and as I said to her “I love you, my
darling,” and the universe, with its past, present and fixture, was gathered
together into a single point before and after which nothing existed.’ 

I
entered the water as naked as when my mother bore me
. When I first touched
the cold water I felt a shudder go through me, then the shudder was transformed
into a sensation of wakefulness. The river was not in full spate as during the
days of the flooding nor yet was it at its lowest level. I had put out the
candles and locked the door of the room and that of the courtyard without doing
anything. Another fire would not have done any good. I left him talking and
went out. I did not let him complete the story. I thought of going and standing
by her grave. I thought of throwing away the key where nobody could find it.
Then I decided against it. Meaningless acts. Yet I had to do something. My feet
led me to the river bank as the first glimmerings of dawn made their appearance
in the east. I would dispel my rage by swimming. The objects on the two shores
were half visible, appearing and disappearing, veering between light and darkness.
The river was reverberating with its old familiar voice, moving yet having the
appearance of being still. There was no sound except for the reverberation of
the river and the puttering of the water-pump not far away. I began swimming
towards the northern shore. I went on swimming and swimming till the movements
of my body settled down into restful harmony with the forces of the river. I
was no longer thinking as I moved forward through the water. The impact of my
arms as they struck the water, the movement of my legs, the sound of my heavy
breathing, the reverberation of the river and the noise of the pump puttering
on the shore — these were the only noises. I continued swimming and swimming,
resolved to make the northern shore. That was the goal. In front of me the
shore rose and fell, the noises being totally cut off and then blaring forth.
Little by little I came to hear nothing but the reverberation of the river.
Then it was as if I were in a vast echoing hall. The shore rose and fell. The
reverberation of the river faded and overflowed. In front of me I saw things in
a semicircle. Then I veered between seeing and blindness. I was conscious and
not conscious. Was I asleep or awake? Was I alive or dead? Even so, I was still
holding a thin, frail thread: the feeling that the goal was in front of me, not
below me, and that I must move forwards and not downwards. But the thread was
so frail it almost snapped and I reached a point where I felt that the forces
lying in the river-bed were pulling me down to them. A numbness ran through my
legs and arms. The hall expanded and the answering echoes quickened. Now — and
suddenly; with a force that came to me from I know not where — I raised my body
in the water. I heard the reverberation of the river and the puttering of the
water pump. Turning to left and right, I found I was half-way between north and
south. I was unable to continue, unable to return. I turned over on to my back
and stayed there motionless, with difficulty moving my arms and legs as much as
was needed to keep me afloat. I was conscious of the river’s destructive forces
pulling me downwards and of the current pushing me to the southern shore in a
curving angle. I would not be able to keep thus poised for long; sooner or
later the river’s forces would pull me down into its depths. In a state between
life and death I saw formations of sand grouse heading northwards. Were we in
winter or summer? Was it a casual flight or a migration? I felt myself
submitting to the destructive forces of the river, felt my legs dragging the
rest of my body downwards. In an instant — I know not how long or short it was
— the reverberation of the river turned into a piercingly loud roar and at the
very same instant there was a vivid brightness like a flash of lightning. Then,
for an indeterminate period, quiet and darkness reigned, after which I became
aware of the sky moving away and drawing close, the shore rising and falling.
Suddenly I experienced a violent desire for a cigarette. It wasn’t merely a
desire; it was a hunger, a thirst. And this was the instant of waking from the
nightmare. The sky settled into place, as did the bank, and I heard the
puttering of the pump and was aware of the coldness of the water on my body.
Then my mind cleared and my relationship to the river was determined. Though
floating on the water, I was not part of it. I thought that if I died at that
moment, I would have died as I was born — without any volition of mine. All my
life I had not chosen, had not decided. Now I am making a decision. I choose
life. I shall live because there are a few people I want to stay with for the
longest possible time and because I have duties to discharge. It is not my
concern whether or not life has meaning. If I am unable to forgive, then I
shall try to forget. I shall live by force and cunning. I moved my feet and
arms, violently and with difficulty until the upper part of my body was above
water. Like a comic actor shouting on a stage, I screamed with all my remaining
strength, ‘Help! Help!’

^*
According
to pages of 24 and ll4 in Wail S. I-Iassan’s
Tayeb Salib: Ideology and tbe
Craft of Fiction
(Syracuse, New York: Syracuse University Press, 2003), in
Arabic, ‘infidel’ is never used to refer to Christians and jews, who are regarded
as ‘People of the Book’ who worship the same God of the Muslims; rather it
refers to those who worship other gods. The translation may have overlooked
this distinction made in the Qur’an and reinforces the Orientalist
misconception that Islam is inherently hostile to Christians, when in fact a
European Christian would not, in any case, be referred to as an inHdel.
Therefore, ‘Christian’ would be a more fitting term than ‘infidel’ in this
context
.

*
i.e. 1306
of the Hegira, or Moslem Calendar, which starts in 622 CE