“I’m going to get you some Nike sneakers as a gift,” he responded sympathetically, “and some vitamin pills to build up your strength again. Na’ima, come back in. Do you want tea or coffee?”
I indicated that I did not want either of them. She came quietly over with a nice smile.
“This young lady, Na‘ima,” he told me, pointing at her, “knows the language well — a bounty from God in person! — and does not pronounce words oddly. Thus far, Hamuda, you’ve met two secretaries, one of them debauched and fierce, the other modest and malleable. In this young lady I have at last discovered the prize jewel in the necklace — that center wherein lies my own faith and my legal focus. Nothing excessive or negligent, nothing too strong or too weak, neither recklessness nor cowardice. She is no spendthrift, but no miser either. And, Hamuda, something that concerns you a lot, she neither chatters needlessly nor remains silent.”
He now stopped this flow of verbiage and busied himself lighting his pipe. I glanced at the girl and noticed that her eyelids were closed and her lovely smooth cheeks were blushing bright red because she was so embarrassed. Even so, I was able to enjoy looking at her until the pipe-smoking judge decided to resume his salvo of verbiage, projecting sentences in all directions without anyone having the vaguest idea about either the thoughts that were supposed to tie them together or the logic involved.
“Yes indeed,” he said, “I mustn’t forget. This girl and you are both fellow citizens of the Arab country of Morocco. If you asked her now to sing the national anthem, she could do it with a military salute and with unparalleled enthusiasm. She can remember by heart the names of hundreds of dancing and singing stars, both Arab and worldwide. But she’s a believing Muslim, so she never hangs any pictures of them around her neck, or any talismans either. We’re short of time, or else I’d allow her to tell you the life story of one of them. .”
He paused for a moment to refill his pipe.
“Na‘ima has a burning and defiant nationalist sentiment,” he said as he continued smoking. “No sooner do I provoke her by saying something like ‘Egypt is the mother of the world’ than she immediately reacts by saying: ‘And Morocco is its father!’ I never argue with her. Today I’m an Egyptian on the surface, but an Arab nationalist in essence. A while ago, Egypt was indeed ‘the mother of the world,’ but today, well. . oh dear! You’re telling me that a country seething with downtrodden, unemployed layabouts is the mother of the world?! A country that fosters groups such as al-Takfir wa-al-Hijra* and Brotherhood this and that, a state that is in such straits, the mother of the world?! When a country shows no comprehensive growth and cannot present a democratic ideal, how can we term it ‘mother of the world’? No, no, it’s better to say no more. I can no longer enter Egypt safe and sound. I should go back to our sister land, Morocco. Now there’s a country — all praise to the all-powerful Creator! — just a stone’s throw from Europe but with roots firmly in Africa — both steeped in tradition and contemporary in its values, a land that can bring opposites together and reconcile the irreconcilable. Just to give one example, this young woman has two separate degrees, she prays the five daily prayers — even though she may do them all at once or delay them; she fasts during Ramadan, although, in accordance with the demands of her job or her monthly course she may arrange things as required. She does not earn enough to give alms and has never performed the pilgrimage to Mecca because of a lack of means. But, in spite of it all, Na‘ima is not shy in seeking her share of this life on earth. Previously, she’s worked in publicity organizations, danced at weddings and receptions, and embellished her résumé by being crowned beauty queen in. . Remind me again, which city, Na‘ima?”
I suspect that, like me, Na‘ima was about to explode in anger. Even so, she managed to reply.
“Sefrou, Your Excellency,” she told him. “If I remember correctly, it’s in the southeast, in the province of Fez.”
“Ah yes, Sefrou, with an ‘e’ vowel, not an ‘i.’ That right, Miss, Sefrou. But, before you get back to work, allow this fellow countryman to give you a kiss to congratulate you on being chosen as beauty queen. Come on, you lucky man, take what I have allowed you to take: a filial kiss between the man and woman from the same Arab country. They are siblings, a laudable custom, and there’s no divine dictum that forbids it. Stand up and kiss her. You lucky man! But be very careful now, no straying beyond the cheek!”
I stood up to do what I was told, and planted a gentle kiss on the trembling girl’s neck, desperately trying as far as possible to avoid committing the kind of sin that I was powerless to prevent.
“So, is everything okay?” the judge asked as soon as the Moroccan girl had rushed out. During the course of carrying out my duties, I’ve come across men who cry and ejaculate very quickly. Are you one of them? Can I be sure? Or will you recite the Qur’anic verse to me: ‘O you who believe, ask not about things which, if they were made clear to you, would annoy you’ [Sura 5, The Table, v. 101]. Okay, so you’ve understood?”
“From that particular perspective, Judge,” I told him in a vexed tone, “you can be reassured. I haven’t sneaked in here to hear your talk about castration and your attitude toward it, or about Egypt and whether it’s the mother of the world, or about this Moroccan lady and her truly laudable qualities. I’ve come to see you about one thing and one thing only, something where I’ve come to the end of my rope. It concerns the woman known as the female ghoul, or Mama Ghula. The first time that barbaric female subjected me to totally evil and demeaning treatment, but I managed to tolerate it. But the second time the torture was utterly bestial and obscene. Now, Judge, I’m raising a complaint with you and recording it in the light of the fact that I’ve lost my front teeth and my body is covered in welts and bruises. .”
The judge rubbed his bald pate and the back of his neck and took several puffs from his pipe, as though he were disturbed by my torture or found my account tedious. I gave him an inquiring look.
“Do you have an open mind? If so, then it can harbor secrets. I’m going to confide in you my personal attitude toward this female ghoul. It’s just like my attitude toward castration: rejection and disapproval. She should be punished not merely for what she’s done to you but also because, when it comes to monstrous conduct and illicit behavior, she has no peer; when it comes to terror and violence, no one else comes even close. But how can I be blamed when Uncle Sam has written her a blank check? What am I supposed to do? The Yankees have given her a green light — in fact, it’s so green that there’s nothing fresher and greener. And, if you’ve never heard of the Yankees and Uncle Sam, then let me tell you that it’s the Americans. .”
The phone rang. The judge mouthed some short, clipped phrases into it, the majority of which expressed agreement and support.
“Okay,” he resumed, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief, “let pick up where we were, since we’re both of us fond of Na‘ima. You have three choices, and no more. You can either open your heart to Mama Ghula and tell her all the secret information she needs about your cousin, Abu al-Basha’ir; or else you can do the same thing with me here; or you can continue defying Mama Ghula and playing the fool in her presence as you have been doing — this time you can imagine that she’s a cow and circle around her repeating a whole series of threatening phrases like ‘I’m a raging bull, and I’m going to put my horns into the female ghoul. . ’ The first of these three choices is a good one, and the second is even better. Both of them will get you safely to shore. However the third option can have no good consequences. .”