After Coffee

The Wolf Slayer-3

The world at large was divided into two: the countryside and the bandar. The bandar was the world of civilisation and luxury. The nearest town would not be considered bandar, nor would the capital of the province, or the provincial cities in general. Those areas were in between, only partially civilised. Cairo would be classified as bandar, and perhaps Alexandria too, since many of its residents were said to be foreigners.

But what was the secret of the spirits’ fascination with donkeys? The question was once put to Shabana.

‘Donkeys are easy to ride. If someone passing by obeys the devil and rides it, then they’re doomed. It’s the same with women. A woman entices you until you ride her and end up in hellfire. Ha ha ha!’

He laughed, and so did his audience. But his words seemed to carry a hint of cunning. Was he also alluding to what had happened to Salama and Zakariya?

***

Sheikh Hamed left the mosque, putting his hand out for his son to grab. He was with Sheikh Sayyid, who was swaying as usual as he walked, listening so as not to miss the sound of any invisible caller. Sheikh Sayyid was surprised when Sheikh Hamed invited him to drink tea at his house. How could that be? Hamed was not known for his generosity. So what did he want? Oh, You who conceals benevolence, rescue us from what we fear. He tried to evade him but failed, since Hamed insisted.

‘Come on man, shame on you. How can you refuse a brother’s invitation?’

Dear God, let it be good news. He sat down reluctantly, and then the reason became clear. All his astonishment disappeared when Hamed - before the tea had even arrived - floated his question. ‘Sheikh Sayyid, I swear, this whole business with Salama is making me very unhappy. Is there any news? Has he turned up yet?’ Sheikh Sayyid lowered his head for a long time, then took out a large thin needle from his turban, with which he started to darn his sandal. He never left his house unarmed. Tucked under his arm was Sheikh al-Bajouri’s book of jurisprudence, and he had a large needle in his turban to mend his sandals, and a smaller one for the jilbab and such - oh, what a multitude of repairs! So the reason had become apparent: Sheikh Sayyid wanted to lure him into talking about his son, but he didn’t want to broach that unstoppable evil. At first, he pretended he hadn’t heard the question, until he was inspired, after one or two stitches, to distract Hamed from his goal.

‘So here we are, with Ramadan at our door,’ he said. ‘What will you do?’

‘Yes, you have touched on the wound now,’ Hamed replied. ‘What will I do in Ramadan? God only knows.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘God bless the good old days. They’re over, Sheikh Sayyid. In the old days, as you know, Hajj Zaki - may God improve his lot - would invite me to celebrate the righteous month with him in the seera. At sunset, with the sounding of the maghreb call to prayer, the food would be served to break the fast. And what about the abundance: the poultry, the lamb, the stuffed vegetables and the fatta. Abundance followed by more abundance. And another feast would be prepared for the pre-dawn meal to prepare for fasting. Yes. Those were the days…’

‘And between breaking the fast and the pre-dawn meal there would be stories, tales and poetry,’ Sayyid said.

‘Exactly,’ Hamed replied. ‘Stories, tales and poetry. I would recite a few pages of the Quran between the maghreb prayer and the early morning meal. And between one reading and another, we would tell stories and recite poetry. But as you can see, Zaki - may God help and support him - cannot arrange all of that anymore, not since his brother took his share of the land and separated from him. But what can I do? The fathers of the children I teach at the Quran school only give me a kilo of wheat or corn each. It’s like pulling teeth. They want the kids to learn for free. I swear to God, have you ever seen anything as catastrophic as this?’

Sayyid was starting to enjoy the game, so he continued.

‘By the way, I once heard you tell the story of the woman who married the caliph Muawiya ibn Abu Sufyan. Would you remind me again how the story goes?’

It pleased Hamed that his friend had asked him to recount one of the stories that were dear to his heart, and which he had told countless times at Ramadan night gatherings, so he cleared his throat.

‘Do you mean Maysun bint Bahdal?’ he replied. ‘What a woman, Sheikh Sayyid! She was a beauty and the caliph Muawiya - may God be pleased with him - married her and installed her in a palace where she had everything she needed and more, but she longed for her old life in the desert. Can you believe how that respectable woman acted.... Then one day, the caliph walked in on her singing:

A rickety tent that the wind howls through

is dearer to me than a towering palace.

To wear a coarse abaya and a joyful soul

is dearer to me than some fine, sheer silk.

Nibbling crumbs of our homemade bread

is dearer to me than gorging a loaf.

The whistling of the wind along the mountain paths

is dearer to me than a tambourine’s beat.

A dog who growls at a visitor in the night

is dearer to me than a friendly cat.

A kind-hearted thin man from my family

is dearer to me than some broad foreigner.

The rough life I lead as a desert Bedouin

is dearer to me than this opulent one.

Instead, all I want is my homeland,

that place of honour is enough for me.

So he pronounced her divorced, three times for confirmation, and sent her back to her family. Honestly, have you ever seen anything as marvellous, or more admirable behaviour than that of the prince of the believers, Muawiya, the companion of the prophet of God?’

‘God bless you.’ Sayyid said. ‘There you have the moral in front of you, so you should heed it. Tell me, how can you recite this poem that advises self-restraint and moderation and, at the same time, mourn the days of poultry and stuffed vegetables? Would it not be more fitting for you, Hamed, to be content with whatever blessings God has given you, no matter how modest?’

Hamed paled. It took him a few moments to recover from the shock.

‘Thank God for everything, but the little that is left is not enough to survive on. You don’t realise. I swear to God Almighty, Sheikh Sayyid, even the mice at home are starving. Even the mice cannot find any food to eat. So what do they do? Human beings are the only things left for them. Last night, as I was sleeping, one of them - may God thwart his plans - was about to munch on my toe. I woke and found the bastard biting it. And I will not lie to you, I have no appetite for stories and poems. Ramadan is on its way and there will be nothing left but fasting during the day and hunger at night. But what can we say? Complaining to anyone but God is humiliating and one must…’

Hamed suddenly stopped when he realised how the conversation had strayed and that he hadn’t reached his original goal.

‘By the way, what is the latest news?’ he asked. ‘Has Salama still not appeared?’

‘You’re asking me about what has appeared and what hasn’t appeared, so I will tell you what has appeared,’ Sheikh Sayyid said. ‘I was standing outside the mosque last night when I saw a light shining from the direction of the village of the Salehis. A torch directed towards us. And I knew that ‘The Enemy’ was waiting for us. Ibrahim Abu Zaid, that spawn of the devil, was aiming his torch at us, and danger was looming. I sought refuge in God from the accursed Satan and went into the mosque. While I was focused on the prayer, the accursed one put out his hand and poked me in the right side of my body.’

‘But the devil lurks in the latrines and doesn’t go near the prayer area,’ Hamed said. ‘What news is there of Salama?’

‘That’s true, but he has long arms, and he stretched his hand from the latrines to hurt me. Do you not see that even though Ibrahim Abu Zaid, that spawn of the devil, lives far away from us, he still reaches us with his torch?’

Sheikh Sayyid returned to the attack. ‘I like the story of the Bedouin girl because she calls for moderation. Unlike the vulgar stories and poems you tell, Hamed.’

Sheikh Hamed was aghast. ‘Me? You slanderer,’ he said, reproachfully. ‘I tell vulgar stories and poems?’

‘I think you talk about the ghazal poets and their poetry of desire much more than is necessary, and a lot of that can corrupt the minds of the youth.’

‘True, but I tell stories about chaste love.’

‘Young people don’t know the difference between what is chaste and what is not. The youth are made of fire. Tell them stories of lovers and love poetry, and they get enflamed. What do you think will happen to the girls if words like these reach them? You are opening up doors for the devil.’

‘That is unfair!’

‘I am not being unjust towards you. What about what happened to my son Salama with the Baharwa girl? Was it not love that allowed the devil to reach them? The story begins with chaste love then ends, as you know, in the cornfield and…’

Uh-oh… now he had gone and put his foot in it by talking about Salama and his scandals. Hamed decided to ignore the charges directed at him and take advantage of the opportunity that had inadvertently presented itself, delving into the subject.

‘May God help you. Has the boy still not appeared?’

His question was never answered because when his friend reached that point in the conversation - the cornfield - he was afflicted by a severe agitation and began turning left and right.

‘I can hear footsteps coming from there.’

He was pointing to the right. There were definitely footsteps, because he had seen the dust shift when he looked over. So ‘The Enemy’ had come. Here he was, crawling under the dirt, slithering like a serpent. Was last night’s harassment not enough for him? He spat on the accursed devil and hurriedly slipped on his sandals and darted off. He left without hearing Hamed’s objection. ‘Wait, man. Be patient. God is with those who are patient. The tea is on its way.’

Hamed was always trying to overtake him, but what a preposterous idea! Hamed had spent several years at the Islamic institute, whereas he had spent thirteen years at al-Azhar University. Thirteen or fourteen years? He didn’t earn a university degree, but he was the authority in jurisprudence for the villagers and the people from neighbouring villages, and he would always refer to the accredited books. What did Sheikh Hamed offer them? He knew nothing about jurisprudence. He didn’t refer to a single one of the imams’ texts, and he would speak of things he didn’t understand. All he had to offer was helping students memorize the Quran at his school (although he and his wife would exploit the pupils and ask them to do household chores, like gathering firewood, sweeping, and feeding the goat), he recited the Quran without perfecting his pronunciation, and told stories and recited poetry that distracted people from religious matters. Because of him, the boys and young men had become susceptible to corruption and were being preyed on by the devil. On the country road, he would spy them watching girls as they headed to the water. Some of them would walk along the road with their sleeves rolled up. He would advise them gently, telling them that when young men revealed their forearms, it created temptation, but none of them would ever heed his advice. And he would yell at the girls on their way to the water, because they wriggled as they walked with the buckets balanced on their heads. But he would get nothing from them but laughter and mockery. What would happen to this village whose elders turned a blind eye to this dreadful behaviour? And the worst of all the young men in the village was his own son, Salama. He had no idea about the meaning of modest dress. He would sometimes see Salama at the canal, turning the screw pump, dressed in his vest and baggy sirwal, which revealed his legs from the knees down. He would climb the palm tree without a long jilbab, and his sirwal would be the only thing covering his private parts. If anyone looked up and saw what they saw, a sin would have occurred. He had been in a panicked state ever since he saw his son watering the plants early one morning a few days ago. There was Salama, standing bare-chested, his feet sunk into the mud. This was during the time girls passed by on their way to fill up their buckets from the canal. What would happen if they were exposed to temptation? The boy never heeded his advice. His mother spoilt him, and he knew that she would always take his side and protect him in the face of any criticism. Then this scandal erupted, the news of which had spread far and wide. The people of the village consulted him on religious matters, but they hardly ever took his advice. Some of them made fun of him if his memory didn’t come to his rescue with an answer to a question, when he would have to appeal for time to refer to the writings of the scholars. They were always in a rush to solve their problems, wanting a one-word answer instead of listening to all the text, commentary, and marginal glosses, as per the fundamental teachings he had studied at al-Azhar. And they didn’t believe him when he tried to warn them about ‘The Enemy’. ‘Who is The Enemy, Sheikh Sayyid?’ they would ask him slyly. They would pretend they didn’t know who the enemy was or that he appeared in two forms, seeing as he resided in the mosque’s well and its bathing area. Although he couldn’t enter the courtyard of the mosque where the prayers were held and where the pulpit was, he had long arms. In his other form, he was personified as Ibrahim Abu Zaid from the village of the Salehis, who shone his torchlight on the village in order to see everything that was happening and to cast his evil over the victim of his choice. He must have had a hand in what happened to his son, Salama. He also told them about what he felt in his side, and what he saw when he left the mosque at night - yes, since he saw the torches locked on them - but they would just laugh. What would be the fate of this village whose people didn’t pay attention to the dangers that surrounded it?