As Nahid left in consternation, the judge sat there guffawing and rubbing his stomach.
“My good shaykh of old,” he continued with a chuckle, “may you have been well rewarded, and you tribe of Banu Khafaja, I trust that you received God’s blessings! You’ve improved my mood by giving me a good laugh — may God grant you to laugh on the Day of Gathering and afford you not one, but two paradises from His bounty! But now, Hamuda from Oujda, back to you, and let’s get serious again. You’ve put me in mind of someone who’s stopped talking for months as a kind of fast, and then decides to break the fast with an onion, or, worse yet, with shit. Your report’s badly written; in fact, it’s drivel. I’m an investigator, so why should I be bothered about land and drought, your love for your mother and hatred for her husband — that stuff, and all other kinds of irrelevant padding? Any more, and you’d be telling me about the day you were circumcised or the first time you fucked a woman or a cow. There’s a disjuncture about your discourse, one that’s far removed from that elegance and clarity that I requested of you. You neither accepted nor responded to my call. As a result you’ve lost a golden opportunity to get away from those pedestrian modes of expression that are now so current and to invoke more refined and tasteful concepts and phrases. There are countless possible examples I could cite: things like ‘tomb,’ ‘grave,’ ‘fate,’ ‘perdition,’ ‘gloom,’ ‘darkness,’ ‘commitment of grievous sin,’ ‘to be bad,’ ‘to be scared,’ ‘to go crazy,’ ‘to become level,’. . it’s all a veritable catastrophe, a horrendous crime for us to abandon the contents of our glorious Arabic lexicon, allowing it to be ignored and forgotten, to be ravaged by the savage jaws of ignorance and contempt.”
He paused for a moment to catch his breath.
“How is it possible,” he went on in a blunt tone,” that you got a degree in literature? Is it a fraud? Maybe you filched it or managed to purchase it in these corrupt times when standards have fallen so badly. You’ve been trying to show that you’re innocent of the crime of murdering your mother’s husband and to portray yourself as a peaceful and ethical person. But that’s just one charge against you, and there’s still another one that I’m aware of. In spite of all the suspicions hovering around you, I’m prepared to overlook it, but only on condition that you provide me with the fullest possible account of all the perverted activities of your cousin, al-Husayn al-Masmudi — all his secrets, his movements, and his dangerous secret contacts. Your life preserver rests in your own hands. I want to know everything about the person who uses the street name Abu al-Basha’ir. Forget all about the kindnesses he may have done you in the past. I know all about that already. That’s what’s led my agents to arrest you and place you under supervisory detention. Think things over carefully, then write me an eloquent and relevant report. That’ll save your skin, allow us to be rid of you, and let you have some peace.”
At this point the telephone rang.
“Eat the chocolate,” he told me as he grabbed the phone.
“My respects, Colonel,” he said. “Yes, Sir, the members of the terrorist cell you’re mentioning have all confessed and provided us with extremely useful and detailed information. Yes, that’s right. . there are seven of them. Six of them have signed a document requesting a pardon and announcing their repentance. The seventh had a heart attack in Mama Ghula’s cavern. Yes, she tells me that she tortured him after he’d tortured her by refusing to talk. That’s right, Colonel, one evil deed deserves another; and the one who starts is the worst offender. Yes, Sir, I’m on to it. . I hear and obey. .”
He waved at me to leave, and I did so. As I passed by the secretary, Nahid, I decided to play the fool, so I gave her a knowing wink, my mouth full of chocolate. She shuddered, then rounded on me.
“You’re a nafty man,” she said, “not only that you’re impolite and impiouf!”
“Thankf so much!” I replied, imitating her pronunciation and blowing her a kiss.
With that, I left in high spirits and encountered the guard waiting outside by the door. Two other guards had another prisoner with hands and feet tied who was waiting to appear before the investigating judge. He was undoubtedly one of those dangerous people I’d just heard about. I wondered if the time would come when I too would be one of those if I carried on refusing to cooperate by submitting to their will and serving as one of their agents.
On the way back to my cell I indulged in a sincere desire to get to know the guard better and open a line of communication. So I asked him how he was and what his professional and family situation was like.
“Fine,” was his only response.
When I tried to expand on the conversation, he begged me not to expose him and his salary to any risks. So I said no more.
As he locked my cell door, he told me that tomorrow there was supposed to be a soccer match between two teams of prisoners. He suggested that I get ready and go to sleep early.
I checked my bed and all the corners of the cell to see if there was anyone else, whether alive or dead, in the cell with me. It emerged that this time I was on my own. I noticed that there was still some food left in my bowl. At this point I remembered the treasure trove that I’d stuffed into my pockets that morning, so I hid the bottles of perfume and soap under my pillow, and cleaned my teeth with the brush and toothpaste. I did some exercises to warm me up, all in preparation for falling asleep. However, I was so worked up that my churning brain would not let me sleep until very late; sometimes I would be thinking about Nahid al-Busni — at others, about the nasty and complex personality of the investigating judge. I kept coming up with things that motivated and terrified me in turn, the kind of talk that was intended to crush my ethical self and sense of purpose, whether the method involved hypocrisy or deceit — and all of it accompanied by a generous dose of decadent pseudo-erudition.
9. A Prisoners’ Soccer Game
Our appointment for the soccer game happened next day in the searing midday heat. It took place on a sandy field behind the detention center’s main buildings. According to the announcement made over a speaker hanging in one of the windows, there were to be two teams of prisoners. I noted that the team I was on, which was called the Black Beasts, was entirely barefoot or, like me, wearing rubber sandals. Most of them looked emaciated and weak. By contrast, the other team, called the Red Barbarians, was wearing professional soccer boots; they all looked like very fit rugby players. When I asked one of my teammates standing near me what this utter disparity meant, he looked around and then told me that I would soon understand. For the time being it was better to say nothing.
After we had done some warm-up exercises, a female referee dressed entirely in black summoned us with a whistle blast. It was clear from her appearance that this was indeed Mama Ghula of evil repute. She addressed us all in her beloved French, using the military tone of voice of one who brooks no argument regarding her orders.
“Soccer here,” the translator told us, “is not the game you’re used to seeing. Here, as in everything else, we do things differently and invent our own rules. The game will have only one time period; there’ll be no second half, overtime, or rest period. One period, and that’s it. The goals will be counted, but the victors will be those with the necessary staying power to keep resisting, without giving up or withdrawing. Now put your trust in God that victory will go to the stronger side.”