At this point the atmosphere in the room felt like lead or even heavier. The judge fidgeted a bit, then cleared his throat. He told me to take the seat that the young man had occupied, and I did so, muttering a greeting to which he responded. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he took off his spectacles and pored over my file. He was still cursing and swearing at the young man who had been taken out, calling him all sorts of names like “heretic” and “son of a bitch.” Once he had finished reading, he put his spectacles back on. Surprising me with a very ambiguous expression, he asked me if I knew the son of a bitch who had been sitting in the place which I now occupied. I replied that I did not.
“That stubborn prisoner,” he said, gritting his teeth, “is a warrior living in the past, an era long over, the kind of bully who relishes pain and desires nothing more than death and martyrdom. But our very own torturess, our female ghoul, will get to work on him and chop off his illusory sense of victory limb by limb. .”
He stared in my direction, a scary smile on his face. “Hamuda,” he asked me, “don’t you agree with me that this brilliant expression, ‘relishing pain,’ with all its semantic and morphological contradictions, is absolutely marvelous?”
I frowned, not wishing to respond to something that in view of the circumstances seemed utterly inappropriate.
“Never mind!” he went on, clearing his throat. “Forget the question, and let’s go back to you. From your file, Hamuda from Oujda, I deduce that you’re a compliant kind of person, someone who likes company. There are a few small details, some obscure matters, that I’m sure we can clear up with God’s help, relying of course on your total cooperation and a much needed veracity that you’ll freely offer us. As we all know, lies and deceit are anathema; double-crossing and obfuscation are abominations. Confusing reality and fancy simply creates discord. By my very life, foul deeds such as these are the kinds of things that groups of vagrant poets and their camp-followers — fornicators, layabouts, and debauchees all — commit all the time. May God Almighty protect us against them, keep us far removed from their circles and squabbles, and guide us by His light to the clear, unvarnished truth!”
The only thing that brought this outpouring of rhymed discourse and dissimulation to an end was a light tap on the door. The young woman offered her bashful apologies, and he told her to come in.
“What do you want, young lady?” he asked gently, clearing his throat as he did so.
“I’ve looked for her, Sir,” she replied, but I can’t find her anywhere.”
“Who?”
“Umm Qash‘am, Sir.”
“That’s very disturbing,” he replied without changing his tone. “Take a look in the biographical dictionaries and in Ibn Manzur’s dictionary as well.* If you don’t bring her to me, I’m going to deduct a third of your salary.”
At this point I asked permission to speak.
“In Arabic, Judge,” I told him, “Umm Qash‘am is a phrase that was used by people in pre-Islamic times as a synonym for Hell. God alone knows best.”
“Good for you, Hamuda” he replied, “and may God preserve you! As for you, young woman, kiss the head of this man who’s provided you with a little light and taught you something you didn’t know. Just one kiss will do.”
Without moving from my seat I was given a warm kiss on the head by this unfortunate young woman. She asked permission to leave and stumbled her way red-faced toward the door.
The judge stared at me in amazement. “I notice that, when the secretary is here, you keep your eyes lowered and don’t look straight at her!”
“I behave that way,” I replied, “in obedience to the injunctions of our Prophet: ‘He who looks at the beauty of a woman and turns away the first time, God will create a devotion for him, the sweetness of which he will find in his own heart.’”
“Good heavens, Hamuda!” the judge yelled in delight, “you’re genuinely learned and your memory is a priceless gift!”
“Forgive me, Sir,” I replied, “but my attainments are only modest.”
“True enough, modesty is a known trait of the genuinely learned. Come over here, Nahid, and stand in front of me. Take off your headdress and shake your hair to left and right. Isn’t that beautiful?! One female delight on top of another. Look at me, Hamuda. Am I supposed to be able to look away from this woman? I try; oh yes, I keep trying. I cover my eyes with my hands, but I keep seeing her as naked as Eve, and I want to have her even more. By the truth of God who created her and made her so lovely, it’s all over. It reminds me of the chap who once said: ‘Look away, even from female sheep.’ That’s what it reminds me of. .”
“I think it was Abu Yazid al-Bistami* who said that.”
“He must have been really frustrated! Looking away from female animals is one thing, but human females? No way, a thousand times no! What Ibn Sa‘d* has to say in his Tabaqat, based on the Prophet’s own dicta, makes more sense: ‘In your lower world, he has led me to like perfume and women. . ’ Nahid, put your headdress back on and get out of my sight. Leave now!”
“Now, Hamuda,” the judge went on, nervously wiping his face and bald pate with a handkerchief, “let’s go back to what we were talking about. .”
He started ranting and raving, as though talking to himself. “So that son of a bitch has insulted every single member of our august center here, even me! His file is already thick enough, but now he’s gone too far. Mama Ghula will know how to make him suffer. Then the nasty heretic will soon realize what the endgame really is and who it is that deserves to feel the flames of hell licking around them in this world rather than the next, to be flayed by her whips and tied up in chains. You heard for yourself, Hamuda, the way he talked about Umm Qash‘am in referring to all kinds of perfectly decent and upright people. When he’s brought to trial and a verdict is required, you’ll certainly be able to provide your own testimony, once I’ve given you, of course, all the necessary details about the heretic’s case from its very beginnings and the way things have proceeded to their current state.”
It occurred to me at this point that I should decline to testify in any case where the truth could never be known for sure, but I decided not to do so. It also occurred to me that I should congratulate him on the eloquence and clarity of his discourse, making sure that I made no mention of the occasional pedantry and affectation, but there again I decided against it.
The judge took off his spectacles slowly and gestured to me to come closer.
“Hamuda,” he confided to me with his nasal twang to which he added a patina of affection, “the thing that’s made me sympathize with you and not forward your file to a really nasty interviewer is that we share one particular trait in common. Do you know what it is?”
I replied that I did not.
“Both of us, Hamuda,” he went on, “are graduates of colleges from other Arab countries. You have a degree is Islamic law, and so do I; you also have one in literature, as do I. But then the fates have sent us down separate paths, so let’s thank God for giving us this opportunity to cooperate in disclosing the truth and dispelling all falsehood and deceit. All I need to do is to use my eyes to look at people’s faces; I can tell what is in their hearts and the messages conveyed by their eyes. It’s a gift I’ve had ever since my childhood. With the passage of time it has only grown and developed. God has used it to bestow on me examples to be gleaned from life’s hard experiences and the tough, yet revelatory lessons that they can offer. Even so I’ve never believed that this perspicacity of mine is a match for Zarqa’ al-Yamama*—all thanks to God for what he has bestowed on me.”