He gave you a slap on the back of the neck, proclaiming his sympathy. He then addressed his men sarcastically. “What treatment, you vile creatures!”
—
“I’m at your service, Master, but let me go….”
“Is the bride waiting for you?”
“Yes, boss, and I want my money. As for the galabeya, God will make it up to me.”
Lahlouba grasped his forelock and dragged him along by it. “Sharshara!” he said in a new, frighteningly grave tone.
“Whatever you say, boss.”
“Divorce her!”
“What?”
“I’m telling you, divorce her! Divorce your bride — now!”
“But…”
“She’s beautiful — but life is more beautiful.”
“I made the marriage contract with her this afternoon.”
“You’ll be writing the divorce document tonight — and the sooner the better.”
He let out several groans of despair. Lahlouba kicked him mercilessly, and in seconds he was stripped of his torn clothes. He was thrown to the ground following a blow to the back of the head. Then he was beaten with a cane till he fainted, and his face was thrust into a hollow full of horse urine. “Divorce her!” Lahlouba kept saying.
He wept from the pain and the humiliating subjugation, but he did not protest. In mock sympathy Lahlouba told him, “No one will ask you to pay the sum agreed on in the event of divorce.”
One of Lahlouba’s men shook him violently. “Give praise to your Lord and thank your master.”
The pain and the degradation and the lost bride. And now the perfumes issuing from the spice shop in al-Gawwala take you back to the past even more than has your actual return. The old places where you used to play, and Zeinab’s face that you had loved ever since she was ten years old. Throughout the twenty years, your heart has moved only in rancor, while before that it had known only love and fun.
Soon I shall not grieve for the loss I have suffered in life. When I throw you to the ground at my feet, Lahlouba, and say, “Divorce her,” I shall take back the twenty years lost in hellfire. I shall find consolation for the money I have squandered on this gang of men, the money I had saved up through hard toil, theft, and risking my neck.
When the small tunnelway leading to Shardaha came into close view, he turned to his men and said, “Attack his followers but leave the man himself to me — and don’t hurt anyone else.”
He did not doubt that the news of his raid had preceded him to Shardaha, and that he would soon be standing face to face with Lahlouba. Nothing but a short tunnelway separated him from his objective. Warily he walked ahead of his men, but he met no one inside the tunnel. Then, all at once, they surged forward, raising their sticks, and letting out terrifying screams, but they found the street empty. The people had taken to their houses and shops, and Shardaha’s street stretched away forlornly toward the wasteland that marked it off from the domain of desert.
Sharshara’s companion whispered in his ear, “A ruse! It’s a ruse, I swear by Abu’l-Abbas.”*
“Lahlouba doesn’t use tricks,” said Sharshara in astonishment.
“Lahlouba!” he called out at the top of his voice. “Come out, you coward!”
But no one answered him and no one came out onto the street. He looked ahead of him in baffled expectancy and was met by a waft of chokingly hot dust. He was unloading a cargo of twenty years of anger and hatred. He saw the low arched door of the oil press; it was closed, and he advanced on it warily. He knocked with his stick until he heard a quaking voice imploring, “Safety!”
“Uncle Zahra!” shouted Sharshara triumphantly. “Come out, you’re safe!”
The face of the old man appeared at an aperture in the wall above the door, and he cast a wary glance at Sharshara.
“Don’t be frightened. No one intends you any harm. Don’t you remember me, man?”
The old man looked at him for a long time, then asked helplessly, “May God protect you, who are you?”
“Have you forgotten your apprentice Sharshara?”
The clouded eyes widened, then he cried out, “Sharshara? By the Book of God, it’s Sharshara himself!”
The old man quickly opened the door and hastened toward him, his arms open in outward welcome but inner fear. The two embraced. Sharshara refrained from asking his question till they had finished their greetings. “Where’s Lahlouba?” he then asked. “What’s wrong that he didn’t come to defend his quarter?”
“Lahlouba!” The old man gulped, raising his head from a thin, emaciated neck. “Don’t you know, my son?” he said. “Lahlouba died ages ago.”
Sharshara gave a shout from the depths of his lungs, reeling under an unseen blow. “No!”
“It’s the truth, my son.”
Then in a stronger voice, a voice more terrible than before, “No…. No, you old dodderer!”
Taking a step back in fear, the old man said, “But he’s well and truly dead, long ago.”
Sharshara’s arms slumped to his sides, and his whole frame seemed to collapse.
“It was five years ago or more,” continued the old man.
Ah, why is it that all beings disappear and nothing is left but dust?
“Believe me, he died. He was invited to a banquet at his sister’s house, and he ate some couscous and was poisoned, along with many of his followers. Not one of them survived.”
Ah, he can barely breathe — it is as though the air has been turned into bricks. Sinking down into the depths of the earth, he does not know what remains of himself on its surface.
He stared at Zahra with heavy, lusterless eyes. “Then Lahlouba died?” he muttered.
“And the rest of his followers were scattered. It was easy for the people to drive them out.”
“Not one of them is left?”
“Not one, thanks be to God.”
Suddenly Sharshara shouted in a voice like thunder, “Lahlouba, you coward! Why did you have to go and die?!”
The old man was terrified at the violence in Sharshara’s voice. “Take it easy,” he beseeched, “and say ‘There is no god but God.’ ”
Sharshara was about to turn to his companions with a gesture of resignation, but instead he asked listlessly, “And what do you know about Zeinab?”
In confusion the old man enquired, “Zeinab?”
“Old man, have you forgotten the bride they forced me to divorce on our wedding night?”
“Ah, yes. She sells eggs now in Donkey Lane.”
Sharshara, defeated and broken in spirit, looked at his men, the gang on which he had spent his life’s money. “Wait for me at the mountain,” he said sullenly.
His gaze hardened as he looked in the direction of the men and watched them disappear into the tunnel one by one. Should he catch up with them? When and why should he do so? And should he return by way of Gawwala or via the wasteland? But what about Zeinab? Yes, Zeinab, for whose sake you burned up twenty years of your life. (Was it really for her sake?) You will not come to her over the body of a defeated tyrant as you had planned. He is dead, and there is no point in plundering tombs. How ghastly is a vacuum!
She is there in her shop. She, she herself. Who would have imagined a meeting so shamefaced, ambiguous, and lukewarm! He seated himself on a chair in a small café the size of a prison cell and went on observing the shop crammed with customers. There was a woman, a stranger, of plump proportions and wide experience, her homely features matured with the years. She was swathed in black from head to foot, but her face retained a fair measure of charm. She was bargaining and disputing, humoring and quarreling, like any market woman worth her salt. Here she is if I want her — and without a battle. Also without honor having been satisfied. Gone forever is the chance of standing over Lahlouba and ordering him to divorce her. How ghastly is a vacuum!