Zeina (26 page)

He smiled to himself, comforted by the thought of the nobility of his mission. The car found its way to her house in the distant slum, which was located at the borderline between the homeland and the land of the homeless, between reason and insanity, between God and Satan. The car went along dusty roads, alleys and pathways that were blocked with rubbish and sewage water. It passed by children playing in the mud with cats and dogs, cemeteries inhabited by the living, and dead people walking with sad, pallid faces. There were the sounds of drumbeats, lutes, tamborines, and finger cymbals clacking in the hands of belly dancers at weddings. The dancers’ soft bodies reeled and turned in dancing costumes that revealed their bellies and thighs. Their voices rose high in song, and colored beads vibrated on their wobbly breasts. Bullets were fired in the air in celebration of the bride and groom. Smoke drifted from censers reproducing the shape of Satan burning. Supplications rose from minarets, calling “God is great! May He keep and preserve us from the evil eye!” Ululations came out of women’s throats sounding like the wailing and howling at funerals.

Children surrounded the black Mercedes, their bottoms bare. One child produced a healthy fountain from his little penis directed at the car. A girl threw a ball of mud at the back window. A flock of children, cats, and dogs ran after the car, shouting and screaming, flinging rubbish at it.

“Where’s Zeina Bint Zeinat’s house, kids?”

This was the voice of Mahmoud the chauffeur, his head sticking out of the window.

The children answered him all in the same breath, “Zeina Bint Zeinat is at the theater. She has a big, big concert. It’s her mother’s birthday and we’re all invited. But who are you? And who’s the man sitting behind you? He looks like a big minister, a big, big thief ...”

The children laughed, chanted and danced, shouting, “This is the idiot, the idiot, the idiot ...”

“Shut up, bastards, sons of bitches. This is his Excellency the Emir ...”

Insults poured out of the driver’s mouth. He cursed their whoring, fornicating mothers and drove his car amid their bodies that were blocking the alley, almost running them over. But they were the offspring of the street and they had been run over time and again. If they were raped and trampled by adults, they would still get up and go. Although their bones and bodies were as hard as steel, their spirits were as ethereal and tender as those of other children, and they laughed and cried almost at anything.

It was the birthday of her mother, Zeinat. Decorations were placed on houses and cemeteries, and lights were placed around the theater. The large hall was filled with men, women and children, all clapping and cheering “Encore, Zeina, encore!”

How many times did they ask for an encore? Countless times, for she didn’t stop singing, dancing and playing music, and they kept clapping and cheering, while she continued to stand on stage and take only brief breaks. All the time her eyes looked ahead at the faces in the auditorium. There were men in elegant suits and women wearing heavy make-up, colors and jewellery. The pupils of her eyes looked as black as the night, surrounded by a blue circle that gleamed in the sunlight. Her eyes had the power to penetrate masks and see beyond the medals and decorations on the chest. No barriers or fears stopped her eyes from getting straight to the heart of things. Perhaps that was the secret of their magnetic power, for they produced an electric current. Her voice was both joyous and sad, and so were her songs. When she talked to people she dissipated their tedium and their deep sorrows. They laughed with her when she cracked sarcastic jokes about things. Her words and music were biting, uncovering phoniness and exposing inconsistencies. Nobody could predict what she might say or do next. But people sought her, nonetheless, because without her the whole universe would fall into silence and darkness, in spite of the glaring lights and blaring sounds.

He saw her sitting with some women and men at the end of the show. Ahmed al-Damhiri took a cautious, hesitant step toward them. He joined the group and sat with them, listening to her, staring at her, looking her straight in the eye. But it was all useless. Zeina Bint Zeinat did not see him. His face was featureless, indistinguishable from the others. Her eyes moved around but never noticed him. It was as if he didn’t exist. He wanted to draw her attention and remembered a statement he had read in a book which said, “Speak so that I may see you.”

He started his talk as usual by saying, “In the name of God ...”

“When somebody speaks in the name of God I feel he means the opposite.”

That was her voice, simple and natural. It came as a response to his statement.

There was absolute silence. Pursing his lips, Ahmed al-Damhiri looked rather embarrassed and a little angry. But God inspired him to continue.

“You’re absolutely right, ma’am. Many people use the name of God in vain, but I can assure you I’m not one of them.”

His personal guard stood not very far from him. He wished to introduce him to those present.

“This is his Excellency the Emir, Ahmed al-Damhiri Pasha.”

“Yes, yes, we all know him. His picture is everywhere.”

Those were the voices of some of the people standing nearby. A young man gave out a choked laugh. A woman mumbled some incomprehensible words and gave a scornful smile. Zeina Bint Zeinat knew who he was, for she had met him a couple of times at the house of her friend Mageeda al-Khartiti. He used to nod in greeting whenever he met her, and she reciprocated likewise. It was a simple, spontaneous nod, as she used with anybody who greeted her. He stared at her tall graceful stature as she walked and did not take his eyes off her. Her body seemed to him to be made of something other than flesh and bone. An overwhelming kind of light emanated from her, blinding him. He kept staring at her back until she disappeared and the lights went out.

Her image came back to him at night, invading his sleep, waking him up mercilessly, rudely. The two large eyes blazed with life, radiating a magical beauty, a beauty that was self-sufficient, marching on its infinite route toward the horizon.

He said to himself, the nature of magical beauty, like the nature of God the Creator, cannot admit of reciprocation or equality with other human beings. This is divine justice for you, Ahmed al-Damhiri, which is based on injustice and inequality!

Before falling asleep, he heard her voice chanting on stage:

He whispered to himself as he tossed in bed sleeplessly, “What arrogance! What insolent pride! It’s almost like Satan’s pride in challenging the authority of God.”

He imagined her bleeding after being shot in the chest. The bullet would tear through the wall of her heart and into her soul, which would go up to heaven to be punished and tortured, for God’s will was uppermost. He felt defeated by her and beseeched God to help him. God couldn’t possibly let him down in front of a female, an arrogant, insolently proud female at that. She committed sins on a daily basis, defied God’s prohibitions and fomented trouble. She banished God from the hearts of men with her dancing, singing and poetry, because she was possessed by the Devil of art. This woman must bleed to death and be tortured in the grave before she received eternal torment. In the grave she would hang from her hair, and in hell she would hang by the neck so that her lower half would burn first. The fire would then move to the upper part of her body until it reached the two eyes with their two pupils that had tormented him day and night.

In the darkness his imagination transported him far away. His body quivered with pleasure when he imagined her in pain. His soul rejoiced to see her blood streaming on the ground, just as the god of the Torah was elated to see the blood flowing from the cut off piece of flesh from the masculine member. His heart exulted in the sight of killing and violence. Ahmed al-Damhiri used to shoot little birds with his sling. As the bird fell bleeding, his eyes sparkled with joy. He ran toward it and held it between his fingers. He severed the head from the body, tore it apart and scattered the pieces in the air. He watched the little soft feathers as they flew into the horizon and disappeared.

Since childhood, his father taught him to be violent in order to make a man of him. His mother, like his father, told him, “You’re a man like your father and grandfather and great-grandfather.”

His mother was intensely proud of him. She thanked God for giving her the gift of a male child, for males were superior to females by one degree, as God in his Glorious Book had pointed out. Men were the maintainers of women, for they spent out of their own property. God preferred men to women because women were deficient in reason and religion. This was His wisdom and His will. Women were born of a crooked rib that could never be straightened. If one tried, it might break. A crooked rib was beyond redemption or repair.

His mother was awarded the Model Mother Prize. The more keenly aware a woman was of her deficiencies, the more pious she became and the closer she got to receiving state awards. The more a man enjoyed the sight of blood, the closer he became to the Torah god whose anger disappeared when he smelled the blood flowing from the piece of flesh cut off with the knife or the razor, even when it belonged to an eight-day-old baby. God’s covenant with the children of Israel was that they should cut off this piece of flesh in return for the Promised Land, the land of Canaan or Palestine. As soon as Moses’ mother saw anger in the eyes of God, she held the knife and spilled blood. The god was never so pleased as when he smelled roasted flesh.

Ahmed al-Damhiri closed his eyes and soared with his imagination, opening his nostrils to the smell of roasting. He was God’s deputy on earth and his heart was filled with faith and acceptance of God’s commandments as they were laid down in his three Holy Books: