"You mean your loot," the detective roared, "the existence of which you denied in court!"
"All right, call it what you like. But where has it gone?"
"There wasn't a penny, believe me, friends!"
Ilish protested loudly, "She was in a terrible predicament. I just did my duty."
"Then how have you been able to live in such comfort,"
Said challenged, "and spend so generously on others?"
"Are you God, that you should call me to account?"
"Peace, peace, shame the devil, Said," said one of Ilish's friends.
"I know you inside out, Said," the detective said slowly. "I can read your thoughts better than anyone. You will only destroy yourself.
Just stick to the subject of the girl. That's the best thing for you."
Said looked down to hide his eyes, then smiled and said, in a tone of resignation, "You're quite right, officer."
"I know you inside out. But I'll go along with you. Out of consideration for the company here present.
Bring the girl, someone. Wouldn't it be better to find out first what she thinks?"
"What do you mean, officer?"
"Said, I know you. You don't want the girl. And you can't keep her, because you'll have difficulty enough finding some accommodation for yourself.
But it's only fair and kind to let you see her.
Bring in the girl."
Bring in her mother, you mean. How I wish our eyes could meet, so I might behold one of the secrets of hell! O, for the axe and the sledge hammer!
Ilish went to fetch the girl. At the sound of returning footsteps Said's heart began to beat almost painfully and as he stared at the door, he bit the inside of his lips, anticipation and tenderness stifling all his rage.
After what seemed a thousand years, the girl appeared. She looked surprised. She was wearing a smart white frock and white open slippers that showed henna-dyed toes. She gazed at him, her face dark, her black hair flowing over her forehead, while his soul devoured her. Bewildered, she looked around at all the other faces, then particularly at his, which was staring so intently.
He was unable to take his eyes off her. As she felt herself being pushed towards him, she planted her feet in the carpet and leaned backward away from him. And suddenly he felt crushed by a sense of total loss.
It was as if, in spite of her almond-shaped eyes, her long face, and her slender, aquiline nose, she was not his own daughter. Where were the instinctive ties of blood and soul? were they, too, treacherous, deceptive? And how could he, even so, resist the almost overwhelming desire to hug her to him for ever?
"This is your father, child," said the detective impatiently.
"Shake hands with Daddy," said Ilish, his face impassive.
She's like a mouse. What's she afraid of? Doesn't she know how much I love her?
He stretched out his hand toward her, but instead of being able to say anything he had a fit of choking and had to swallow hard, managing only to smile at her tenderly, invitingly.
"No!" said Sana. She backed away, trying to steal out of the room, but a man standing behind stopped her. "Mummy!" she cried, but the man pushed her gently and then to coax her, "Shake hands with Daddy." Everyone looked on with malicious interest.
Said knew now that prison lashings had not been as cruel as he used to think. "Come to me, Sana," he pleaded, unable to bear her refusal any longer, half-standing and drawing closer to her.
"No!" she shouted.
"I am your Daddy." She raised her eyes to Ilish Sidra in bewilderment, but Said repeated emphatically: "I am your Daddy, come to me." She shrank back even further. He pulled her towards him almost forcibly then she screamed, and as he drew her closer, fought back, crying. He leant forward to kiss her, disregarding his failure and disappointment, but his lips caught only a whirling arm. "I'm your Daddy, don't be afraid. I'm your dad."
The scent on her hair filled his mind with the memory of her mother; he felt his face go hard.
The child struggled and wept more violently, and finally the detective intervened: "Easy, easy, the child does not know you."
Defeated, Said let her run away. "I will take her," he said angrily, sitting bolt upright.
A moment of silence passed, at the end of which Bayaza said, "Calm yourself first."
"She must come back to me."
"Let the judge decide that," the detective said sharply, then turned questioningly to Ilish.
"Yes?"
"It has nothing to do with me. Her mother will never give her up, except in compliance with the law."
"Just as I pointed out at the beginning. There's no more to be said. It's up to a court of law."
Said felt that if once given vent, his rage would be unrestrainable and therefore with supreme effort managed to keep it under control, reminding himself of things he had almost forgotten.
"Yes, the court of law," he said as calmly as he could.
"And as you can see, the girl is being very well looked after," said Bayaza.
"First find yourself an honest means of living," the detective said with an ironic smile.
Able now to control himself, Said said, "Yes, of course. All that's quite correct. No need to be upset. I'll reconsider the whole affair. The best thing would be to forget the past and start looking for a job to provide a suitable home for the child when the time comes."
During the surprised silence that followed this speech, glances were exchanged, some incredulous, some perhaps not. The detective gathered his worry beads into his fist and asked, "Have we finished now?"
"Yes," Said answered. "I only want my books."
"Your books?"
"Yes."
"Most of them have been lost by Sana," Ilish said loudly, "but I'll bring you whatever is left." He disappeared for a few minutes and returned carrying a modest pile of books, which he deposited in the middle of the room.
Said leafed through them, picking up one volume after another. "Yes," he remarked sadly, "most of them have been lost."
"How did you acquire all this learning?" the detective said with a laugh, rising to signal the end of the meeting. "Did you steal reading matter as well?"
They all grinned except Said, who went out carrying his books.
TWO
He looked at the door, open as it always used to be, as he walked up Jabal Road towards it. Here enclosed by ridges of the Muqattam hills, was the Darasa quarter, the scene of so many pleasant memories. The sandy ground was dotted with animals, teeming with children. Said gazed delightedly at the little girls panting from both emotion and exhaustion. Men lolled around him in the shade of the hill, away from the declining sun.
At the threshold of the open door he paused, trying to remember when he'd crossed it last. The simplicity of the house, which could hardly be different from those of Adam's day, was striking.
At the left corner of the big, open courtyard stood a tall palm tree with a crooked top; to the right an entrance corridor led by an open door — in this strange house no door was ever closed — to a single room. His heart beat fast, carrying him back to a distant, gentle time of childhood, dreams, a loving father, and his own innocent yearning. He recalled the men filling the courtyard, swaying with their chanting, God's praise echoing from the depths of their hearts.
"Look and listen, learn and open your heart," his father used to say. Besides a joy like the joy of Paradise that was aroused in him by faith and dreams, there had also been the joy of singing and green tea.
He wondered how Ali al-Junaydi was.
From inside the room he could hear a man concluding his prayers. Said smiled, slipped in carrying his books, and saw the Sheikh sitting cross-legged on the prayer carpet, absorbed in quiet recitation. The old room had hardly changed. The rush mats had been replaced by new ones, thanks to his disciples, but the Sheikh's sleeping mattress still lay close to the western wall, pierced by a window through which the rays of the declining sun were pouring down at Said's feet.