Bensalem Himmich - A Muslim Suicide

I sat on the floor of the cave, overwhelmed by my own desperation. It was clear that I needed to rid my mind of everything, exclude all extraneous thoughts, and subject my head to a thorough process of cleansing, until I reached a point at which I wasn't thinking about anything at all. That nothingness I was craving resembled a uniform void, with no frame, limit, plot, or narrative.

However, no sooner had I embarked on this project than I was compelled to grab hold of my self once again because the state in which I found myself involved irresolvable contradictions. I was contemplating the process of not thinking about anything, but then I came to realize that my rash, foolhardy plan could only be achieved if I were able to surmount my own feelings and bodily frame, if I were to be substantiated in absolute knowledge and knowledge of the absolute. And that was something that I had as yet neither the ability nor the patience to achieve.

I imagined that a voice was ringing in my ears. "Your only way out," it kept telling me, "is by recovering your lost manuscript. It constitutes the foundation of your sublime aspirations and the very icon of your soul's curative quest."

With that I stood up and decided to return to my residence. I had been waiting patiently for so long that I was afraid I might fall asleep or else something bad might happen once night fell and the animals of the area came out.

ON THURSDAY MORNING I woke up early. My tongue still felt damp from a question that I had been asking myself while asleep: could Juanita, the Christian girl, possibly be the thief?

I had met this particular woman over a year ago, but two months earlier we had parted for reasons that I will disclose below. She was from a Christian family of Visigoth origins, but preferred to live among the Muslim community in Murcia, untroubled and unconcerned. I got to know her in a way that I was to know no other women either before or after.

It had happened through one of those amazing pieces of chance that time only offers very rarely. One morning I was heading for a copyist's shop on my way to the mosque when a svelte woman blocked my path. How gorgeous she was! She asked me the time in a singing, vulnerable voice. Taking my astrolabe out of my bag, I told her it was ten or thereabouts. She sighed, in the process revealing more of her bosom. She gave me a languid and frivolous look and then went on her way, but not before saying, "I was asking you about the final hour, not what time it is now!"

A few days went by, and I kept hoping that I would bump into this woman again, either on my way to the mosque or else in one of the alleyways or squares where I would habitually walk in a surreptitious search among Christian girls for one who resembled the one I was looking for-few though they might well be. When the search had worn me out, I decided to give up and concentrate instead on loftier and more profitable pursuits in the realms of knowledge and food for the heart. Even so I could not stop wondering to myself why this lovely woman had wanted to know about the final hour, almost as though in some way she were looking forward to it and wanted to make it come quicker. When it comes to contemplation on such matters, an irony of this kind is not easily resolved or forgotten.

Toward noon one morning I was returning to my house after a long session with my students in the small mosque. My eyes fell on a woman who looked like an exact copy of the Christian woman I had met earlier, except that there was a slight difference in hairstyle and in the way she walked. My mind entirely out of control, I walked over and asked her if she now knew when the final hour would come. My question alarmed her somewhat, so my next move was to ask her if she knew what time it was now. In reply she told me I could only get what I wanted if I followed her to her house. I nodded in agreement and followed a few yards behind her. I was entirely under the control of my animal instincts, and also motivated by a desire to discover the truth behind a nagging secret. The woman led me through alleys and quarters, some of them crammed with people on foot, others totally empty. Eventually she stopped in front of a house and signaled to me to follow her inside. Lowering my turban over my forehead and praying for a safe outcome, I did as she asked.

We were in a large room. She invited me to sit down on a comfortable couch while she adjusted her dress and attended to the needs of a dog that she treated with great fondness. The dog stared hard at me and barked a little. The entire house was a model of tidiness and elegance. The courtyard was attractively furnished and the floor was strewn with Persian rugs of matching colors and shapes. Alcoves were decorated with lamps that gave off a soft light, and the walls were covered with icons, paintings of the crucifixion of Christ, and saints with heads encircled by brilliant haloes.

The woman seemed anxious to avoid a long wait or else wanted to put my mind at ease, so she started talking at length. I gathered that she had divorced her husband, who was a corrupt drunkard, and had also rejected her debauched and unfaithful lover. At this point in her life her loyal and reliable dog was the only creature that kept her happy. I also understood that in matters of love she wanted to be the one in charge, a chooser rather than a follower; she preferred men who were handsome, reticent, and obedient. The only thing that in any way distracted me from her lengthy statement was the exquisite scents wafting up from the rosewater; maybe she bathed in it.

Once she had returned after perfuming herself and putting on costly jewelry and an expensive translucent dress, she looked even more gorgeous and amazing than she had before. She sat down beside me, obviously enjoying the glass of wine she was holding. She offered me a cup of mare's milk, then invited me to eat whatever I liked from a bowl filled with different kinds of fruit. Once that was done, she proceeded to upbraid me for trying to pick up women by asking them what the time was. Then she tried to make light of it in a way that astonished me.

"When someone like you is already promised eternity, how can you ask about the time?"

I expressed my thanks for her good opinion of me, but, without going into enormous detail to defend myself and my intentions, I proceeded to tell her briefly what had happened to me with the other woman who looked exactly like her. I explained that I had had no other motivation. It was clear that she believed my story, because she relaxed a bit. She swore by Mary and the Son of God that she was not the woman I had spoken about. Mentioning her own name and learning my own, she stated that fate had obviously decided to bring us together. I did not wish to appear rude or discourteous, so I agreed with her. As they say, never look a gift horse in the mouth!

Just then her necklace fell off her neck. I immediately picked it up and accepted her request that I clip it behind her neck once again. As I did so, she told me how scared she was that this necklace and the rest of her jewelry might be stolen by thieves with neither religious beliefs nor any sense of morality. She only wore such things, she told me, when she had time to relax and enjoy herself. She went on to say that this was one such occasion. With that she leaned over in my direction.

"I notice that you've perfumed yourself with incense," she said, "and are wearing essence of musk. So am I right in thinking that, like the Prophet of your own faith, you are partial to the delights of this world and women?"

I nodded in response. With regard to what happened next:

So that is how I came to know Juanita Arbos. Our relationship continued for some time, like the tide's ebb and flow. In that period I came to realize that her attitude toward life-and to her own life as an example-involved a crystalline, almost mechanical purity, whence stemmed her extraordinary concern with her own person and a parallel fear of anything that might muddy the waters or cause complications. The same posture also accounted for her view of illness as an impenetrable divide and process of emaciation. The time would come, she used to say, when her own body and soul would be so afflicted, in which case she would certainly commit hara-kiri. Asked about the meaning of that last phrase, she would make gestures to indicate that she was talking about suicide.