Who'll look after Sana, though? That thorn again.
She rejected me but I still love her. Should I spare your unfaithful mother for your sake, then? I must find the answer right away.
He was hovering on foot in the pitch-darkness surrounding the house at the crossroads where two lanes met in Imam Way. The car was parked at the top of the road, back towards the Citadel square. Shops were closed, the road was deserted, and no one seemed to be looking for him: at such an hour every creature took shelter, blind and unsuspecting, in his hole. Said could easily have taken further precautions, but he was not going to be diverted from his purpose, even if it meant Sana's having to live alone all her life. For treachery, Mr. Rauf, is an abomination.
He looked up at the windows of the house, his hand clutching the revolver in his pocket.
Treachery is abominable, Ilish, and for the living to enjoy life it is imperative that criminal and vicious elements be eradicated. Keeping close to the wall, he approached the door then entered the house and cautiously climbed the pitch-dark stairs, passing the first floor, then the second to the third. Right. And there was the flat, the door, snugly closed on the most rotten intentions and desires. If he knocked, who would answer? Would it be Nabawiyya? Was the police detective perhaps lurking somewhere? There was hell-fire for them both even if he had to break into the flat. He must act at once. It was not right that Ilish Sidra should stay alive for even one day while Said Mahran was a free man.
You'll get away without a scratch, just as easily as you have scores of times: you can scale an apartment building in seconds, jump unhurt from a third floor window — even fly if you wish!
It seems you must knock on the door. But knocking might arouse suspicion, especially at this hour. Nabawiyya would fill the world with her screams, and bring some cowardly fools. That detective, too. So you'd better break the little glass pane in the door.
He'd had the idea in the car on the way and now he came back to it. He drew his gun and gave the glass one blow through the twisted bars that protected it. As the glass broke and the pieces scattered, it made a noise like a choked-off scream in the silent night. He flattened himself against the wall, next to the door and waited, his heart beating fast and his eyes peering into the darkness of the entrance hall where the gun was pointed. A man's voice, which he could recognize as Ilish Sidra's despite the throbbing noise in his temples, said "Who's there?" and a door to the left opened, giving a faint light by which he could just make out the figure of a man approaching cautiously. Said pressed the trigger and the gun roared like a demon in the night. The man cried out and began to fall, but another bullet struck him even before he hit the floor, where he lay like a sack. A woman shrieked for help — Nabawiyya's voice. "Your turn will come!
There's no escape from me! I'm the devil himself!" he shouted as he turned to escape, leaping down the stairs so recklessly that he reached the bottom in seconds where he paused briefly to listen, then slipped out. Once outside he walked away calmly, keeping close to the wall, leaving behind him the sounds of windows opening and voices questioning and vague cries whose words he could not make out. When he reached the place at the top of the road where he'd parked the car, and had pulled open the door to get in, he spotted a policeman running from the square towards Imam Way. Ducking down, he hid on the floor of the car as the policeman ran on past towards the screaming, remaining still until the footsteps sounded far enough away, then he sat up behind the steering wheel and sped off. At the square he slowed down to a normal speed, the din still haunting his senses and settling at last within his nerves. He felt stunned. Confusion pervaded his whole being and he was only half-aware of what he did as he drove on. A murderer! But there's still Rauf Ilwan, the high-class traitor, really much more important and dangerous than Ilish Sidra.
A murderer! You are now one of those who commit murder; you have a new identity now and a new destiny! You used to take precious goods — now you take worthless lives!
Your turn will come, Nabawiyya. There's no escape from me. I'm the devil himself.
I've granted you life, thanks to Sana, but I've enclosed you in a punishment greater than death; fear of death, the unrelenting terror. As long as I live you'll never enjoy the taste of peace.
He came down Shari Muhammad Ali, in a stupor, without a thought to where he was going. Many people would now have a murderer on their minds. The murderer must hide. He must take care to avoid the rope and the gallows. You must never have the executioner asking what your last wish is, Said! Oh no.
The government must be made to ask you this question, but on some better occasion!
When he returned to full awareness he found he'd covered the last stretch of Sharia al-Gaysh and was speeding towards Abbasiyya.
Alarmed to find himself unexpectedly returning to a place of danger, he doubled his speed and in a few minutes reached Manshiyyat al-Bakri, where he stopped at the first street branching from the main road, quietly abandoned the car, and walked away without looking left or right, slowly, as if exercising his legs. He felt numbness then some sort of pain, as if in reaction to the great nervous effort he had made. Nowhere is safe for you now. Or ever after. And Nur? It would be risky to go to her place tonight, of all nights, what with the investigations and suspicions that are bound to ensue.
Darkness must extend from now on to all eternity.
EIGHT
He pushed the Sheikh's door, met no resistance, entered, closed it behind him, and found himself in the open courtyard where the palm tree towered, as if stretched upward into space as high as the watchful stars. What a superb place for hiding, he thought. The Sheikh's room was open at night, just as it was by day. There it stood, pitch-black, as if waiting for his return, and he walked towards it quietly.
He heard the voice muttering but could only distinguish the word "Allah," "God!" It went on muttering as if the Sheikh were unaware or perhaps reluctant to acknowledge his presence.
Said withdrew into a corner at the left of the room close to his pile of books and flung himself down on the rush mat, still in his suit and shoes and carrying his revolver. He stretched out his legs, supporting his trunk on the palms of his hands, his head falling back in exhaustion. His head felt like a beehive, but there was nothing he could do.
You wish to recall the sound of the bullet and the screams of Nabawiyya, feeling happy again that you did not hear Sana scream. You'd better greet the Sheikh, but your voice is too weak to say, "Peace be upon you!" There's this feeling of helplessness, as if you were drowning. And you thought you were going to sleep like a log as soon as your skin touched the floor!
How the righteous and God-fearing would have shuddered, turned away from him in fright — until recitation of the name of God had made them less particular, less hard of heart. When would this strange man go to sleep? But the strange old man now raised his voice and began to sing: "In my view, passion is nothing but ingratitude unless it issues from my witnesses." And in a voice that seemed to fill the room, he said: "The eyes of their hearts are open, but those in their heads are closed!" Said smiled in spite of himself. So that's why he is not aware of my presence. But then I too am not fully aware of my own self.
The call to the dawn prayers rose above the quiet waves of the night. It reminded him of a night he'd once spent sleepless until the same call to the dawn prayers, excited over some special joy promised for the following day.
On that occasion, he'd got up as soon as he heard the call, happy at release from a night of torment, had looked out of the window at the blue dawn and the smiling sunrise, and had rubbed his hands in anticipation of whatever it was he'd been about to enjoy, something he had since completely forgotten.