The detective has called you back for a third session, Anous. Nerves are starting to fray. Your father stares at Shakir al-Durzi with fury, but what can the shaykh really do? Stop in front of your tormentor, the officer, and listen:
“Anous, we’ve received an anonymous letter that accuses you of killing your friend, Raouf.”
“A contemptible charge,” Anous shouted with spurious rage. “Let whoever made it show his face!”
“Be patient,” the officer warned him. “We weigh everything accurately here. Didn’t you and your friend often spend evenings together outside the gate?”
“Sure,” Anous acknowledged.
“Where, then, did you two spend your time in that vast desert?”
“In the Nobles’ Coffeehouse on the plateau.”
“I’ve decided to conduct a face-to-face meeting between you, Anous, and the men in the café.”
Hold on, don’t be distressed. You are stubborn — that’s the truth. You don’t want to respond to my secret whisperings. Be sure that I’m working in your interest, Anous.
The meeting took place. The owner of the coffeehouse and his young helper testified that they hadn’t seen Anous for more than a month. That he was not entirely convinced showed clearly on the detective’s face. He glared at Anous harshly.
“Please get out,” the officer told him.
You’re leaving the station again, a grin of victory on your lips. You have the right to feel that way — for your father has thrown up a defensive line all around you. But will the affair really end there? Your heart is palpitating while you pass your days loitering in front of your victim’s house. Anxiety assails you yet again. Who was the unknown person who sent the letter accusing you? And will there be any more like it? You are a killer, Anous, and your conscience doesn’t want to awake. Just let me visit you tonight in a dream — for so long as you won’t respond to my clandestine appeals, you will find my corpse stretched out next to you on your bed. Ah — here your scream arises, propelled by your nightmare. You awake in terror, your heart heavy with horror. You slither from your bed to moisten your throat with a gulp of water. Yet you find the cadaver with you again as soon as you slip back to sleep. And the dream recurs to you night after night. Your mother urges Shaykh Ashur to examine you. He gives you an amulet to wear over your heart — but my grisly remains will not leave your dreams. Your condition worsens, so you go secretly to see a psychiatrist, with regular visits week after week. He tells you something truly astounding: that you imagine your friend has been murdered — his body represents your own body, due to the emotional bond between you — you are so closely linked that you think that his body is in the place of yours. But why do you picture yourself as the one slain? Your body plays the role of the replacement for another body and another person that, deep down, you’d like to kill. That person is your father. Your father thus is the cause of your dream — all of which reflects an Oedipus complex!
Yet, in reality, you are not courting your mother, nor do you really want to murder your father. Rather, you are in love with Rashida — and you murdered me simply to get me out of the way.
Raouf railed about this clinical error to his spiritual advocate.
“The complaints of incorrect scientific diagnosis are many,” commiserated Abu. “Frustration is mistaken for an illness arising from the consumption of chocolate. Depression caused by loss of faith results in treatment of the sympathetic nerves. Constipation due to the political situation prompts a prescription of laxatives — and so on.”
“What to do then, Abu?”
“Have you yet reached despair?”
“Absolutely not,” insisted Raouf.
“Then put all your strength into your task,” urged Abu.
8
The cause of Raouf Abd-Rabbuh’s disappearance remained undetected, while the incident itself slowly faded from people’s minds. The only ones who still thought of him were his mother and Rashida. Meanwhile, Anous continued to practice his normal way of living absorbed in work and amusing himself. The past pursued him from time to time, both in his waking hours and in sleep, but he tamed and controlled his internal uproar through sedatives, narcotics, and sheer force of will. With the legal side now completely subdued, Anous once again began to fix his thoughts on Rashida — for why else would he have undertaken the most horrific act of his life? He lay in wait to see her every morning as they went to their respective institutes to study. Was her face still set in the pain of remembrance,hasn’t she lost hope yet? Does she never think of her future as a young woman who should seek life, happiness, marriage, and children? Doesn’t she aspire to have the man who could offer her the most in our whole quarter?
His mad gambit in devotedly pursuing her and his un-shakeable desire to totally possess her had only intensified. Once, as she passed the place where he was seated on a tram, he called out to her in greeting — but she ignored him completely.
“We should be helping each other!” he called to her.
She wrinkled her brow in disgust, but he kept talking to her, “We’ve each lost a dear one that we both shared!”
At this she broke her silence, “He wasn’t lost, he was murdered!”
“What?” Anous recoiled.
“Many people believe that,” she said.
“But he didn’t have a single enemy!”
She glared at him with contempt, and said no more.
“She was accusing you of killing him,” Anous told himself. “Do you have any doubt about that? You could erase the crime from your record if you rose up to confront your father — but the time for love has already gone.”
She got off the tram before him. As he followed her movements with longing and resentment, his imagination was seized by uncontrollable visions of lust and violence.
9
“Everyone’s talking about that amazing man who summons the dead,” Rashida’s mother said. “So why don’t you give him a try, since it won’t even cost you a single millieme!”
Raouf’s stricken mother stared at her in confusion, then muttered, “If you’ll go with me.”
“Why not? I’ll get in touch with Rashida’s dearly departed father.”
“Many respectable people believe in the art of contacting the spirits,” interrupted Rashida, who had been following their conversation with interest.
And so, under the strictest secrecy, they made an appointment to try this experiment.
Raouf turned to Abu jubilantly, “This is my chance to expose the culprit!”
“You were assigned as a guide for him — not against him,” rebuked Abu.
“Would you let this opportunity slip out of our hands?”
“You are not a police counselor, Raouf,” Abu cautioned him. “You are a spiritual advisor. Your goal is to save Anous, not deliver him to the hangman.”
“But he’s like a hunk of rock. The winds of wisdom simply bounce right off him,” Raouf rejoined.
“That is a confession of your own incapacity.”
“No, I haven’t given up yet,” Raouf said excitedly. “But what should I do if they call upon my spirit?”
“You are free,” replied Abu. “It would not benefit your freedom to seek guidance from me.”
The séance was convened, attended by Raouf’s mother, along with Rashida and her own mother. They appealed to Raouf beyond the veil of the Unseen — and he entered the darkened chamber.
“Raouf greets you, mother,” he called, in a voice that all present could hear.