For a long time, Askar had been wanting to pass water but he hadn’t the will to. Also, he thought Hilaal might need him for something or other. So instead of saying, “No”, because he was referring to Misra and not to Salaado, he said, “Yes”.
Hilaal was disappointed. Would mentioning code-name “Misra” have lifted Hilaal momentarily out of his depression? Where was Misra anyway? Or how was she? If she were here, who knows, she might have suggested that blood-letting would do Hilaal a lot of good. Askar said, “I hope Misra, too, is all right.”
At the mention of Misra’s name, Hilaal stirred involuntarily. Then, “Yes, where the hell is she?” said Hilaal
Askar rushed to the toilet before he wet himself.
II
He was in a garden which was lush with foliage and plants with memories of their own. And he recognized the tree that had the same birthday as himself, he sat in its shade which was sweet, ate what he could of its ripe fruits. Then, in a revelatory moment such as that which accompanies the unexpected recall of a forgotten name belonging to somebody who had once been one’s most intimate friend, Askar remembered who had planted the tree — Misra. His tongue lay in a mess of blood; his head began to whirl about, giddy, his eyes red like dried blood, a mouthful of which had already turned his mouth bitter — as bitter as guilt! What began as a reunion of rejoicing with a recalled Misra, ended in anomalous bodily behaviour. Where did the mess of blood in his mouth originate? Why this giddiness? Or the cakes of blood which he tasted in his guilt?
Then the scene changed. He was standing at the centre of the garden’s clearing and was giving the appropriate names to the trees and plants just as Adam might have done on the first day of creation. There was no tension in him. No memory of Misra. No bitterness, no taste of blood or guilt in his mouth. If anything, he was happy, He was wrapped in the skin of a goat whose meat he was sure he had eaten. He could not remember the names of the two women who had fed him the goat’s meat. But the skin was mapped with routes which led him back to his past, a map which took him back to his own beginnings, a map showing earth roads, the rivers which rise in the region, a map whose scales followed a logic known only to himself.
And he was being entertained. There was a vulture, gamey, playful, with a vicious look when it displayed its anger, indicating that it wasn’t happy with the fresh alterations in the rules of play, There was a she-dog, one Askar remembered as belonging to a jealous neighbour, and named Bruder. The game consisted of a piece of meat being dropped from a given height. The vulture and the dog would start from the same point, marked on the earth with red chalk; obviously the dog on the ground, the vulture above it. A shot would sound (Askar couldn’t tell where the shot was coming from or who was firing it), the piece of meat would emanate from on high like birds in flight, dropping faeces of fright. Six out of ten, the dog got the meat. The crowd applauded loudly. But what did it all mean? he asked himself.
As if to answer, the Adenese and Uncle Qorrax came into view. The Adenese had a shoe in his mouth and he was biting it hard. There was a heavy man riding his back, and this man gave him a kick in the ribs every time he sensed he was about to let the shoe drop. Walking behind them, as though on a promenade, Uncle Qorrax, who was barefoot. And the sand was hot and it pained him to walk without shoes. Which was why he couldn’t catch up with the Adenese who had a shoe in his mouth. In all probability, he wouldVe accepted the offer of a single shoe if he were given it. After all, his feet were sore and the earth had begun to enter and fill the cuts in his bleeding soles.
Before the procession ended, there appeared — sitting on a throne, majestically, rested-looking, like somebody at the end of all suffering, somebody who can only expect things to improve — Misra. She waved to Askar. He waved back. She alighted. He joined her. She was happy to see him again. They hugged. But her gaze was as distant as the nether heavens. Was she longing to return from whence she came? She was the ruler of this land of games, of maps telling one’s past and future, of vultures fighting a duel against dogs. A man approached. He was an old man and was holding his back, which perhaps pained him. From the small distance separating them, Askar could tell the man was hard of hearing. The man reminded him of another to whom he put a question about time, pointing at his wrist-watch. Obviously, either the man didn’t get the question or he deliberately heard it wrongly. For he began talking about a blood-pressure complaint and said to Askar, “Are you a doctor by any chance?” What did he (Askar) want?
The man spoke toothlessly, saying the same things over and over again. But what on earth was he saying? Apparently, he was Karin’s husband and he recognized Misra and wanted to greet her, and, if others hadn’t said so before him, he wished to thank her on behalf of the community of Kallafo for the good things she had done for young Askar.
And horses neighed in the distance. And dogs barked nervously. And dust stirred. And a horse dropped its rider. And from behind the dust emerged a young girl riding a black horse with white nostrils. And it was night. Then it was day. And ghosts came. And ghosts went. And a host of ghosts replaced one another. At times, said the young girl becoming old, I was one of these ghosts, leaving your doors open, allowing yesterday’s experiences to enter and mingle with today’s, and for the past and the present to encounter in your head — the dreamer. Like the sun’s rays and the season’s dust mixing in a room facing east. Some of the ghosts had large hips and they carried you; some fed you; some told you stories. At times, I knocked on your doors of sleep and woke you up. But now I am dead and you are alive and that’s all I hope to be able to do — knock on your doors of sleep, enter into bed and be with you until your eyes open and the door of sleep is shut.
Misra said, “All that one hopes to remain of one is a memory dwelling in someone’s head. In whose will I reside? Those who brought about my death, or yours?”
“But do these notions, I mean those of death and a memory of me, do these two notions come together in your head like keys come with locks in our thoughts?” he asked.
Alas, no answer. Somebody knocked on his door of sleep — Hilaal.
III
Her body was prepared for burial and Askar was not present. They buried Misra and he was not at the funeral. That night, when he was taken ill suddenly, he resisted being admitted to hospital. Indeed, it came to pass that he and Misra were in the same hospital — he in the men’s ward, she in the sexless ward — the mortuary — but in the very wing he spent the night in, although she was in the basement and he in a private room on the third floor. He was alive and she dead; he, very hot, because of his high temperature, whereas she was in a freezer and therefore ice-cold. He, who had known of her lying in state in the mortuary in the basement, saw her in his dream and she was a queen, on a throne, leading a procession of sorts, an event of a kind. Did Misra see him in her dream? Do the dead dream?
Told about the burial and the funeral, he asked, “Why did you not shake me out of my fever?”
Hilaal said, “We were worried.”
“Worried?” and as he looked up he saw Salaado enter. She, always longer coming, always arrived later, because she had had to find parking-space in the hospital yard, or out of it. She kissed him lightly on the forehead and smelt of smoke, as though she was the MC at a cremation.