“Now you deny with your tongue a matter you first thought certain.”
“You’re right. The veil confuses the matter for every eye. Thus even the most perspicacious people cannot affirm categorically that the person seen today is the same man they sat with yesterday. That happens whenever the distinctive signal provided by headgear changes.”
“But wise men cannot perceive the identity of a creature who hasn’t wrapped a veil round his head.”
“That’s most amazing.”
“During raids, combatants deliberately fasten veils to fallen comrades’ faces to distinguish their own fatalities from the enemy’s.”
“That’s most amazing.”
“A son of the desert emerges veiled from his mother’s belly. So how would you expect the veil not to become a member of his body like his hand, shoulder, or arm? How could the veil not become one of his identifying features?”
“Is this why some tribes treat it with veneration akin to their respect for the Spirit World?”
“You said ‘some tribes.’ You really ought to say ‘all tribes.’ I don’t know even one clan that doesn’t worship this rag.”
“Forgive me for this slip of the tongue, because the fact is that the best people of our tribe also venerate it; so much so that a group of them almost erects idols to it and offers blood sacrifices for it.”
“I’m not surprised to hear this from my master’s mouth, because I know in another desert another tribe that inherited from their ancestors a religious festival that honors the veil. During it they slaughter sacrificial animals, warriors race camels, and young women sing the noblest melodies. On this day, each year, there is a contest for the best-looking veil.”
“But … but let’s skip the veil’s story. Tell me why you think a person in charge of public affairs shouldn’t walk in public, defenseless and alone.”
“Because once a person takes charge of something, he becomes sacred and is no longer considered a man.”
“Did you say ‘sacred,’ or has my hearing deceived me?”
“Master, your hearing did not deceive you.”
“How could a man change overnight, after being an unclean chap who has walked among the people?”
“Because he borrows his authority from another realm that we refer to as the Spirit World; because his is a sovereignty that mimics the ultimate sovereignty of the Spirit World.”
“Spirit World?”
“Haven’t you noticed that people in positions of power also disappear from public view, just like the Spirit World’s authority?”
“Amazing! I hadn’t thought of that before.”
“The sovereign must inevitably draw two weapons: one to frighten the inhabitants of the wasteland and one to frighten the denizens of the Spirit World.”
“Why should the Spirit World’s inhabitants be on guard against a miserable puppet inhabiting the wasteland?”
“The sovereign is the only creature at which everyone’s arrow is aimed: those of the desert’s residents and those of heaven’s inhabitants.”
“Amazing!”
“Whenever a man’s rank increases, the number of those who serve, protect, and rally round him increases. Whenever a man’s status grows great, the number of amulets fastened to his neck also multiplies.”
“But why should an influential person fear both visible and invisible beings?”
“Because creatures — both the invisible and the visible — always regard the sacred with worshipers’ supplication. They always cling to someone venerable, whether a man walking on two feet or an enigma beckoning toward the void. The ancient disposition, the mysterious disposition, is what has decreed that man will raise his hand to wreak vengeance on the person or object he desires. The hand destroys only what the person craves. Man slays only the one he has loved.”
“That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard!”
“The trick is to be wary, not to listen in amazement.”
“What are you saying?”
“Hire bodyguards, tonight … not tomorrow.”
“I once knew an important man who took charge of the people’s affairs and lived among them without feeling a need to take steps to guard himself against others.”
“I knew this man too, but confusing a leader who migrates through the desert with his tribe with one who takes charge of a people within the redoubts of the oasis is a grievous error.”
“I won’t deny that some of my peers share your opinion, but. …”
“That’s not all. You must tax the people and set tariffs on caravans in transit.”
“Slow down.”
“I fear it will be rough going for a ruler who doesn’t begin with this small step.”
“Not so fast! Slow down.”
“Take your time choosing assistants. Be on guard against hypocrites’ cunning if you want to avoid mistakes.”
On the horizon, the firebrand was suffocated, leaving behind an evanescent twilight. In the wasteland, the night’s darkness advanced and evolved between the valley’s banks into true gloom.
The wayfarer concluded even more hoarsely than before, “Our master ought to retrace his steps before the gates in the wall are closed, because we have inherited from our ancestors the belief that it’s an ill omen for a bridegroom to spend his first night away from his bride.”
“Did you say ‘bridegroom’?”
“The ruler is also a bridegroom, and his kingdom his bride.”
He thought he heard the wayfarer release a hoarse laugh muffled like the hissing of a snake, before disappearing into the retem thicket, which was enveloped in gloom, without uttering a word of farewell.
3
The oasis.
Snare for the nomad, paradise for the thirsty, treasure for the stray, and homeland for the slave.
The oasis.
It reveals itself in the vast, almighty sea of sand as a disruption. It flirts like a coquette, opening its arms to new arrivals with the seduction of a beautiful woman desiring to be possessed. It tempts with its plentiful shadows, promises the abundant water of a heavenly spring, and presents the fruit of its land lavishly, until the eternal wanderer surrenders and savors the fruit. Then the farmland of the oasis bids him tarry, detains him, and fastens him to it with a thousand pegs. It whispers in his ear, “Relax. Eat and drink. Enjoy yourself, because nomadic life brings only thirst, the unknown, and assorted terrors.”
“Relax,” it whispers to him. “Rely on me, because beyond my borders there is nothing but devastation and loss.”
Clasped to its bosom dwell the faint of heart, those who ignore longing’s song, which they receive from the wasteland’s mouth as a precept they might use to discover another oasis lying beyond the wasteland.
They slumber in the dewy shadows, wallow in the muddy mires, and — instead of singing — cram their mouths full of suspect fruit that ignites in their bellies an inferno called gluttony. As slackness becomes habitual, they forget the song and lose the amulet concealed in it. Thus they cannot find their way to the maxim that prods them to search for the distant oasis lying beyond every other oasis and that warns nomads against the trap of falling into the false snares of oases that appear on the open road.
4
From the direction of the blacksmiths’ market he heard a din of voices, raised in fierce debate. Foreigners’ gibberish mixed with the cries of the rabble, transforming the tumult into a detestable chaos unknown in the tribe even during armed raids. Why did the ancestors curse in their maxims every form of commotion? Why did they muzzle the mouth of anyone unable to keep still? Why did they forbid children to speak in the morning and allow them only a limited number of phrases during the remainder of the day?