‘Where is your father?’
‘They forced him to kick me out of the house and to not cry for me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have been dishonoured.’
‘And you say it like that, so calmly?’
‘Honourable Qadi: I told you that I am not lying and I swear that on my life.’
‘Why are you dishonoured?’
‘I was raped.’
‘By whom?’
‘By the man who wanted to sell me the dates. His name is Alí Bahr.’
‘And why did he do it?’
‘Ask him. I do not know.’
‘Did you make advances on him?’
‘No. Never! I am a modest woman.’
Silence. The Qadi observed her closely. Finally, she lifted her head and said I know: he wanted to steal a jewel I was wearing.
‘What jewel?’
‘A pendant.’
‘Show it to me.’
‘I cannot. He stole it from me. And then he raped me.’
The kind Qadi, once he had Alí Bahr before him for the second time, waited patiently until they taken the woman out of his presence. When the twins had closed the door, he said in a soft voice what’s this about a stolen pendant, Alí Bahr?
‘Pendant? Me?’
‘You didn’t steal any pendant from Amani?’
‘She’s a liar!’ He lifted his arms: ‘Search my clothes, sir.’
‘So it is a lie.’
‘A filthy lie. She has no jewels in her home, just a skewer to stab he who pauses in the conversation to pray the Zuhr, or perhaps the Asr, I no longer recall exactly which it was.’
‘Where is the skewer?’
Alí Bahr pulled the skewer he carried hidden in his clothes and held it out with extended arms, as if making an offering to the Most High.
‘She stabbed me with this, kind Qadi.’
The Qadi took the skewer, one of those used to impale bits of lamb meat, examined it and, gestured with his head to send Alí Bahr out of the room. He waited, meditating, as the twins brought the murderous Amani before him. He showed her the skewer. ‘Is this yours?’ he said.
‘Yes! How do you have it?’
‘You confess that it is yours?’
‘Yes. I had to defend myself against the man who …’
The Qadi addressed the twins, who were holding up the room’s far walclass="underline" ‘Take away this carrion,’ he said to them, without yelling, tired of having to put up with such malice in the world.
The merchant Azizzadeh Alfalati was warned not to shed a tear because crying for a stoned woman is a sin that offends the Most High. And he was not allowed to show any grief, blessed be the Merciful One. Nor did they let him say goodbye since, like the good man he was, he had disowned her when he found out that she had allowed herself to be raped. Azizzadeh locked himself in his house and no one was able to know whether he was crying or talking to his wife who had died many years earlier.
And finally the first stone, not too small nor too large, accompanied by a roar of rage that enflamed the pain he felt in his belly ever since the murderous stab, hit the left cheek of that whore Amani who was still shouting saying Alí Bahr raped me and robbed me. Father! My father! Lut, don’t hurt me, you and I are … Help! Is there a single compassionate man here? But the stone thrown by her friend Lut landed on her temple and left her half dazed, there in the hole that prevented her from moving her hands and defending herself. And Lut was proud of having as good an aim as Drago Gradnik. The rocks began to rain down, not excessively big nor too tiny, and now they came from the hands of twelve volunteers, and Amani’s face was painted red, like the carmine some whores put on their lips to attract men’s attention and make them lose their good judgement. Alí Bahr hadn’t thrown another stone because Amani had stopped shouting and now stared him down. She had penetrated him, skewered him, run through him with her gaze, like Gertrud, exactly like Gertrud, and the pain in his belly had flared up with intensity. Now, lovely Amani could no longer cry because a rock had smashed her eye. And a larger, more angular stone had hit her mouth and the girl was choking on her own broken teeth, and what hurt the most was that the twelve just men continued to throw stones and if someone missed, even though they were so close, he would stifle a curse and try to be more precise with the next one. And the names of the twelve just men were Ibrahim, Bàqir, Lut, Marwan, Tàhar, Uqba, Idris, Zuhayr, Hunayn, another Tàhar, another Bàqir and Màhir, blessed be the Most High, the Compassionate One, the Merciful One. Azizzadeh, from his house, heard the roars of the twelve volunteers and he knew that three of the boys were from the town and as children had played with his daughter until she began to bleed each month and he had to hide her away, blessed be the Merciful One. And when he heard a general howl he understood that his Amani, after that atrocious suffering, was dead. Then, he kicked out the stool and his whole body fell, held around the neck by a rope used for bundling forrage. His body danced with the convulsions of his choking and, before the howling had faded out, Azizzadeh was already dead, searching for his daughter to bring her before his distant wife. Ill-fated Azizzadeh Alfalati’s lifeless body pissed on a basket of dates, in the corridor of the shop. And a few streets away, Amani, her neck broken by a rock that was too large, I warned you not to use such big ones! You see? She’s dead now. Who was it? And the twelve volunteers pointed at Alí Bahr, who had done it because he could no longer bear the blind gaze of that whore who stared at him with the only eye she had left, as if that were her vengeance: the gift of a stare that he would be unable to shake, not awake nor in dreams. And I still wrote that Alí Bahr, the very next day, showed up at the merchants’ caravan that was planning to head to Alexandria in Egypt to trade with Christian seamen, now that the city had fallen into British hands. Alí Bahr approached the one who looked most resolute and opened his palm before him, making sure there were no witnesses from the town nearby. The other man looked at the pendant, picked it up to have a closer look, Alí Bahr made a prudent gesture, the other man understood it and led him into a corner near a resting camel. Despite the laws, despite the holy words of the Koran, he was interested in the object. The merchant examined the pendant more closely and ran his fingers over the medallion as if he wanted to wipe it clean.
‘It is gold,’ said Alí Bahr. ‘And the chain is, too.’
‘I know. But it is stolen.’
‘What are you saying! Do you wish to offend me?’
‘Take it however you wish.’
He gave the pendant that belonged to lovely Amani back to Alí Bahr, who didn’t want to take it, shaking his head, his arms out at his sides, surely because that gold had already begun to burn his insides. He had to accept the scandalously low price the merchant offered him. When Alí Bahr left, the merchant contemplated the medallion. Christian letters. In Alexandria he’d sell it easily. Satisfied, he ran his fingers over it, as if he wanted to wipe it clean. He thought for a while, moved away from the oil lamp he had lit and said, looking at young Brocia: ‘I know this medallion from somewhere.’
‘Well, it’s … the Madonna of Moena, I think.’
‘Santa Maria dai Ciüf.’ He turned the medallion over so the young man could see the other side: ‘Of Pardàc, you see?’
‘Really?’
‘You can’t read. Are you a Mureda?’
‘Yes, sir,’ lied young Brocia. ‘I need money because I am going to Venice.’
‘You Muredas are a restless bunch.’ Still examining the medallion, he added, ‘You want to be a sailor?’
‘Yes. And go far away. To Africa.’
‘They’re after you, aren’t they?’
The jeweller put the medallion down on the table and looked into his eyes.