Bensalem Himmich - A Muslim Suicide

A night like no other!

Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I started rereading the things my beloved had said in her two letters. My goal was to use those words as a means of dispelling my doubts and the suspicions that the accursed devil was prompting, to make use of the phrases and images to cast things in an optimistic light. By so doing, I could bolster my arguments by recalling the tangible gifts that I was still holding and cherishing dearly.

I told myself that etiquette and politesse demanded of me-indeed repaying one good deed with another, the initiator being the more favored-that I send the beautiful and noble lady a letter in which I would declare my love and my heart's devotion to her alone.

I composed the basic elements of this letter in my head. First, all the wonderful and gorgeous women in the world would feel toward my beloved a sense of natural love and affinity. Second, my infatuation with her would ensure that, after my own death, my name would never be forgotten since generation after generation would recall my devotion in the eternal, time-honored arcade of love and in the anthologies of great lovers. Third… Third? Eek! I would describe to her the things I am imagining now: a winged horse prancing proud and gleaming white-I don't mean like Buraq, the horse that conveyed Muhammad on his night-journey into the heavens, no, no, heaven forbid that I should indulge in such blasphemy!! No, no, what I mean is a horse with no saddle or bridle, taking me to the roof of my beloved's house. She climbs on behind me, clinging closely, and the horse takes off at a moderate height in accordance with my instructions, thus avoiding both the prying eyes of people on the ground below and the eddies and disturbances of the upper air. With the morning agleam, we now embark on a journey across climes and weather patterns, exchanging fervent greetings with the birds who pass us in flocks and alone. My beloved still clings tightly to me; if she removes her right hand from my waist, it is only to greet the clouds and pluck pearls and wafts, or else in sheer delight to give name to the land or sea beneathit could be the ocean or else the straits.

Then I have an idea. I ask our "pilot" to fly across the straits and take us on a tour of as much of our gravely wounded Spain as possible. I want to give my beloved an overhead view of Murcia, where I was born and spent my youth, as well as my village of Raquta, the River Segura, the spectacular gardens extending all the way to Cartagena and the slopes of the snowy mountains, and the skies above…

I have another idea as well, but my mind will not allow it, the pretext being a fear of catching cold and the changeable weather patterns, not to mention the highly skilled and murderous Christian archers and their carefully aimed arrows. With that in mind I order the horse to take us back safe and sound to our base, although my heart and soul are joining the poet in singing:

As we begin our descent, I change my position so that I am facing my beloved, who has little to say but is much affected and multifaceted. Circumstances bring us gradually closer together in embrace, followed by a plunge into the deep waters of pleasure and passion. We only emerge and take note of our surroundings when the horse neighs twice as a way of indicating that the airborne journey is at an end and we have arrived back safely.

I composed these three elements in my head, then secured them firmly in my heart. I hoped thereby to convert them all into the foundations of a wonderfully structured dream, a dream without parallel, to which, if and when it happened, I proposed to append my letter.

I performed the obligatory prayers and embellished them with some additional intercessions and meditations, before going to bed with an empty stomach but a mind brimming with expectation.

I have no idea how long I slept, but it was interrupted in the morning by the occasional neighing of a horse close to my house. Without bothering about the neighing, I got up in the usual way and started eating my breakfast. I started leafing through my memory, trying to work out what, if anything, I had seen while asleep, but nothing came to me, or else the devil had made me forget. There was nothing, no images or even threads of them, no fragments, not even a single trace.

Very well, I told myself, I will compensate for my loss by composing the letter. However, my mind simply closed down, and the words refused to come; or rather what did come totally lacked the necessary loftiness of purpose for such a noble goal. The entire situation was made that much worse and the neighing outside intensified. I found myself going outside to see what was happening. When I opened the door, I had the surprise of my life: right in front of me was a splendid white stallion, wonderfully caparisoned. As soon as it saw me, it quieted down. Right next to the horse stood a huge black man, the very one I had run into by the door of my beloved's residence. He hurried over to me, gestured a greeting, and handed me a sealed letter. I immediately guessed who it was from and opened it with shaking hands and a palpitating heart:

To my master, `Abd al-Hagq:

"Lord of my heart and soul, gentle overlord of my every move and of every quarter, you who reside in my dreams day and night, you! So did you grace my house with your presence? I have a request to make of you, but in person if you would be so kind."

How could I possibly not accept this request on such a splendid morning! Needless to say, I accepted her request out of love and respect, it being my major priority and aspiration.

I told her servant to wait long enough for me to wash myself, put myself to rights, and dab on some perfume. Within the hour I was fully prepared to respond to the invitation and proceed to her house. As I approached the horse, it started making a big fuss and pawed the ground with its hooves as a sign of welcome and acceptance. I mounted it, happy and proud, while the servant grabbed hold of the bridle and led it on foot. He never looked behind him, neither to left nor right. The entire area around the zawiya was free of residents or passers-by; it almost felt as though they had decided to let me enjoy and relish what was happening to me on my own.

Going down the mountain was easy and untroubled, just like plunging into delights I had never encountered before. The horse proceeded on its way slowly and obediently, while the servant said not a single word, as though he were either dumb, had been told not to speak, or else was praying silently. The path toward the one who had so infatuated me, my own path, was embellished with springtime's gleaming raiment, whose various components were bursting into flower and arraying themselves all around. As I took it all in, my very consciousness was totally overwhelmed with the kind of happiness that is only rivaled by that of a bridegroom on his wedding night.

I dismounted by the door of my beloved's house and was given a warm greeting by a young eunuch, who accompanied me to a hall illuminated by lanterns. There I found the lady of the house looking absolutely radiant. She was waiting for me in the company of two servant-girls, one of whom was holding a tray of dates while the other had a tray with cups of milk on it. As I approached, I gave my hostess a greeting, and she responded with words of welcome. The way she was looking at me was even more fervent than my own glances. She pointed to the dates, and I took one; then to the milk, which we both drank from a single cup, looking at each other all the while. She then took me across the interior garden and through two passageways to a reception room even bigger and more lush than the one I had seen on my first visit with the Meknesi shaykh. She sat me down opposite her, close to a table that had all kinds of food and drink laid out on it.