Zeina (31 page)

Zakariah al-Khartiti shook off the voice. He continued standing in the hall, staring at the door, recalling her image after she had left, remembering the first time he saw her. Although many years had passed, the first encounter remained engraved in his mind. That moment stayed like a piece of real time, as though a human life couldn’t be counted with the number of years. He often heard her say, “One brief moment of life may be worth a whole lifetime.” He used to laugh at her. He regarded her as a woman who was ignorant of the measurements of time, a woman who was deficient in reason and in faith, as his father and grandfather used to say, and as he read in the books of history and religion. During their first encounter, he told her, “I’m different from my father and grandfather, in fact from all men, for I don’t believe in male gods.”

But God and Satan had crept into his blood with his mother’s breast milk, and had taken up permanent residence in his mind. There was no universe without gods and devils who, like other males, were obsessed with nothing but women.

He tottered barefoot. He hurried a little to get to the bathroom, for the urge to relieve himself had become more urgent with the years. The smell of his urine was more pungent than before and he moved his nose away from the source of the smell. He used not to feel disgusted at the smell of his own urine or sweat, and nor was he repelled by the sight of wrinkles around his own eyes. But his wife’s wrinkles and her bodily odors repulsed him. He saw her with his eyes wide open but couldn’t see himself at all. His eyes, like those of the gods, saw only worship in people’s eyes, and never directed their gaze toward themselves, because they felt that they were above and beyond all human senses.

Zakariah al-Khartiti sat at the breakfast table in his usual chair, drinking his coffee and reading his column in the paper. The column was still there, though a little shorter than before. His name was written in a smaller font size and his photograph didn’t appear within the usual frame at the top of the column.

The earth shook underneath his feet. The heavens also trembled as though the pillars in the air holding the sky had collapsed, as God said in his Holy Books, “Could the pillars of heaven collapse and fall on earth? Could the dead rise from their graves on Doomsday? Could the living die on streets and in homes? Could the government fall and the throne move from underneath Pharaoh’s buttocks? Could a new ruler and a new god appear, wearing a turban instead of a tie, and carrying the black prayer mark on his forehead and a yellow rosary in his hand? Would he carry the sword in his right hand instead of the gun, and in his left hand God’s Holy Book instead of the constitution? Has Egypt become another Afghanistan ruled by the Taliban?”

Zakariah al-Khartiti jumped out of bed. He rubbed his eyes and saw his column in the paper as long and graceful as it used to be and on the right side of the paper. His photograph was inside the old frame. Everything was in order and the heavens still stood on their pillars in the air.

But the seat in front of him was empty. Where had Bodour gone? She might be in the bathroom or in her study writing her novel. She might have gone to the university, to her friend Safi or to her daughter Mageeda. On the cover of the
Renaissance
magazine he saw the picture of his daughter, Mageeda al-Khartiti, with her head wrapped in a white scarf. Her article stood next to the articles of great writers. It had the title “Women in Islam” by the great writer Mageeda al-Khartiti.

His daughter had become an Islamist writer. A presidential decree awarded her a seat at the elected Higher Journalism Council. It made little difference whether the seat at a higher council was secured by appointment or election. A decree had to ratify both types of seats issued by the one and only authority in the land. The decree was often unwritten, but sometimes it was written in invisible ink, like the death lists, the lists of the righteous destined for paradise, and the lists of infidels and disbelievers who followed in the footsteps of the Devil and Eve and the Serpent. The names on the death list were published in a small font size on the accidents and crimes page. There were forty-four names, including four women and forty men, like Ali Baba and the forty thieves. They were all accused of violating religious and state laws, of making lawful what was prohibited by God, and of prohibiting what was permissible by God. There was little doubt that they deserved death, according to God’s canon and the emir’s.

His eyes fell by chance on the name of Zeina Bint Zeinat below a photograph showing her as a street child, her black hair dishevelled and in wiry spikes. She was holding her lute as though she were embracing Satan, and was singing and dancing with her mouth wide open, revealing her tonsils. Her bare feet walked steadily on the ground and her face was long and pale like the faces of the dead, or of women of dubious character in brothels and whore houses.

He moved his eyes away from her picture, from the large eyes burning with a bluish black flame. He quivered deep inside to see those eyes, but he banished them with his head, hands, arms, and legs. He wanted to gouge those eyes out, to crush that lean body with his own hands, to dig his nails into the flesh until they reached the bones. In his memory was a nightmare that came to him almost in a dream, an accident that happened outside his conscious mind. The pain crept from the belly to the Devilish gland underneath the pubic hair. In his prayers, he beseeched God for forgiveness. During his visit to the Holy Places, he walked around the Kaaba, kissing the black stone with his lips and hurling stones at Satan with his hands. He came back cleansed of his sins like a newborn babe, for God forgave all transgressions except the sin of worshipping other gods. Zakariah was a strong believer, who had faith in the one and only God. He was not an infidel who worshipped other gods like those who believed that Christ was God, or the son of God, or who went to sleep listening to the sound of music and dancing instead of the recitation of the Qur’an.

At the bottom of the accidents and crimes page, a piece of news was published along with the picture of Mohamed Ahmed. His hair was dishevelled like a madman and his cheek was scarred like hardened criminals. His eyes were half closed and he looked unconscious:

Mohamed sat on a small wooden stool in a basement room. He was in his underwear, and the deep cut on his left cheek was bleeding. Around him were men carrying whips that squirmed like snakes. Their eyes were looking in the direction of their boss, who carried the title of investigator, judge, or prince and occupied the position of minister, court deputy, or head. His voice rang high and majestic in contrast with his short, plump body. His soft white hands held a newspaper clipping.

“Your full name?”

“Mohamed Mohamed Ahmed.”

“A Muslim?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe in the one and only God?”

“Yes.”

“Did you write this article?”

“Yes.”

The investigator stared at the face of the young man but did not see the blood on the left cheek. His narrow, sunken eyes were raised to the ceiling, toward God in the sky beyond. His two small pupils trembled within the white eyeballs, and the look in his eyes was cold and hollow. The pupils seemed to be made of glass or plastic. A strong electric light made up of four lamps was directed at the young man sitting on the backless stool. He tried to keep his back straight and his eyes open. He struggled to stay alert by concentrating on the investigator’s face.

The investigation continued throughout the day and part of the night, without any intervals except for a few minutes, when the investigator went to the toilet, drank water, or ate lunch or dinner. The young man did not move from his chair. He had to hold his urine and keep the blood inside the wound while being hammered by one question after another.

“Haven’t you read the religious ruling that music, dancing, and singing are the works of the Devil? How can you defend an illegitimate, fallen woman from the streets in your article?”

“Zeina Bint Zeinat is a great artist. People love her and feel happy to attend her performances to listen to her. Beautiful art comes from God because God is beauty.”

“You know nothing about God, so how can you talk about Him? You’re misleading people. You say that building schools and universities is more important than building mosques and churches. Did you say that?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you misinforming people and leading them away from Islam?”

“Islam is based on reason, and everything that builds the mind and knowledge is part of Islam.”

“Did you say that washing the dead is an old custom that has nothing to do with religion? Did you say that?”

“Yes.”

“Are you against cleanliness, then? Don’t you know that cleanliness is godly and dirtiness is womanly?”

“Cleanliness needs soap and clean, running water. Most of the living have neither soap nor water. How can we wash the dead while the living cannot take baths? The dead body will be eaten by worms and dust, so what is the point of washing it?”

“Are you arguing with me? Don’t you know that your article is controversial and can incite conflicts and tensions?”

“Arguments lead to knowledge and understanding and not to tensions.”

“You’re against the veiling of women and you claim that it is not connected with religion or morality. Aren’t you going against God’s precepts in this way? Don’t you know that a woman’s face is prohibited because a woman’s beauty can lead to temptations and conflicts?”

“Women are not the cause of conflicts. There are other causes, such as religion, injustice, corruption, and lies.”

“This is heresy. How can you say this kind of thing? You deserve to die.”

“But before I die, I want to express my views. We inherit religion from our fathers and grandfathers. Our ethical conduct depends on awareness and conscience, and not on religion. Some priests and sheikhs rape children and embezzle money. There are women and men who believe in no religion, but they have integrity and fight for truth. They would die defending justice and freedom. Music lifts the spirit and revives the conscience. It never causes rifts or wars. Religions cause sectarian tensions and pogroms. There is no connection between justice and religion, for justice can exist in a world without religion. There is also no connection between morality and religion, for there are people who have no religion but act in a perfectly moral manner. Religion in fact has double or triple standards as far as values and ethics are concerned, a standard for men and another for women, a standard for the ruler and another for the subjects, the slaves, the hired hands, and the poor. I’m tired, really tired ... exhausted. I wish you would end my suffering. Hell is here on this earth and not after death. When I die I will be free from your torture and at peace. There’s no hell in death or after it!”

“Do you wish me to record all this heresy in the investigation?”

“Yes.”

“This is another document against you to be added to your article. Are you seeking death?”

“Yes. Death is better than living in a world where a person is killed only because he expresses his opinions in an article, because he loves music, poetry, and beauty, or because he exposes injustice, hypocrisy, and corruption, hiding behind the cloak of God’s name. I know that you will assassinate me either openly or in secret. You’ve put my name on the death list. But who are you to pass a death or a life sentence on people? Who are you exactly? You’re a group of mercenaries, hired by the governments inside and outside, trained for killing in the wilderness of Afghanistan. You receive money and arms, swap women, slave girls, and concubines. You let your beards grow until they cover your faces, but your heads are empty.”

“Shut up!”

“I’ll say all I want before I die. You have no conscience, no morality, and no religion ... You are ... the age of darkness and disintegration ...”

Before he finished his sentence, he was shot in the chest. Seven successive bullets were fired at him. Three of them lodged in his chest, one pierced his heart, and another penetrated his forehead and came out through the back of his head. Splinters of his brain were scattered across the floor. They trampled on the pieces with their heels and the butts of their rifles. They wanted to destroy his mind because their world was built on the elimination of human reason.

The following day, demonstrators marched, shouting his name and carrying his picture on placards and slogans over their heads. Among the demonstrators were men, women, youngsters, children, workers, students, low-ranking government officials, children born on the streets, Mohamed’s colleagues at the opposition paper, obscure men and women artists, Mariam’s music band, men and women thinkers whose names were on the death list, wives, divorced women, deserted lovers, girls raped by elderly men and carrying their little children, peasant women selling watercress and radishes, servants, secretaries, prostitutes, elderly people walking with crutches, lame children and stray limping cats and dogs, meowing and howling and shouting with the people. The cheers rose high and shook the earth and the sky with the slogans: