Bensalem Himmich - A Muslim Suicide

Her expression made it clear that she was feeling both shy and deeply affected. When I tried to initiate a conversation with her, all she could manage was a few stuttered words of welcome. She clapped her hands, and the young man behind the screen called out, "Abla, bring in the scent, and you, Hafsah, bring in the tray." With that the first maid put some more aromatic wood into the enormous brazier and sprinkled rosewater around, then the second one came in with a tray so I could wash my hands, which I did.

Then I was left alone with the lady of the house.

"I'm not sure I deserve such a lavish and wonderful welcome," I said.

She responded with a few broken phrases, the significance of which-if I read her correctly-was that I fully deserved it. She invited me to eat, and I took a little while informing her that I was normally satisfied with the small amount of food that Sufis normally eat. She now asked me about the holy man from Meknes, and I replied that he was alive and well, but spending the remaining days of his life in prayer and sleep. His one remaining and abiding hope, I told her, was to meet his Lord in a purified state and gain entry to paradise as soon as possible. I added that in his devotions he was constantly praying for her. She let out a loud sigh and lowered her gaze, as though she were either afraid of stuttering again or else waiting for me to initiate further conversation.

For a moment I thought about talking to her about the various components that would make up the letter that I was proposing to send to her once I had actually written it, but I was afraid that that might make her even more emotional, so I decided not to do so.

Then I thought of drawing attention to the letter that she had recently sent to me, which might lead her to explain the request that she had said she wanted to make of me, but I was afraid that that might only distress her and make her even more tongue-tied than she already was.

Dear Lord, what am I supposed to do?

Here's a woman who holds the trump card when it comes to things that delight me and lift me up, things that can transform me and raise me to higher planes. Her initial invitation to me, her wonderful figurative words, her first letter brimming with love and passion, her second letter in which she proclaims her love and urges me to hurry to her, these latest gestures on her part, not to mention one boon after another, all these things inevitably demand of me that I seal and bless them with kisses planted on the mouth of the one who has fostered and provided them.

As I envisioned things, the benefit of such kisses would be twofold, and so would the rewards: in the first place I would be able to establish without any doubt that in this adventure in love my suit had a distinct chance of succeeding; and second-and this was more important by far-I would be able to untie the knot that was restraining my beloved's tongue. Once that was done, the words would flow freely between us, replicating the purest ether or the coursing streams of paradise. With regard to this latter category, I can actually recall a previous occasion, one that I can summarize briefly, following the principle of one thing reminding you of something else:

During my frivolous youth in Murcia one of my love-escapades led me to know a beautiful woman with a stutter that made it impossible for her to communicate with other people and hold conversations. She asked me for a cure, and my response was to recommend that, whenever she felt tense and unable to express herself, she start taking rapid breaths, stop thinking about the words she wanted to use, and instead make use of synonyms, invoke metaphors and images and hand gestures. My suggestion only helped a little. What was far more effective was showing her affection and giving her a kiss every time she found it difficult to speak. The process whereby I used to drink the sweet nectar from her mouth turned out to be the best way of resolving the problem and opening up the paths to conversation.

By now I have forgotten what that particular woman looked like; it's only by chance and on this particular occasion that I have remembered the way I solved the problem. So by analogy should I now be applying the very same cure in the case of this lady Fayha'?

I was still considering the wisdom of this course of action when the lady in question broke her silence by clapping her hands, in response to which two servant-girls appeared. One of them held a bowl as I washed my mouth and hands, and cleared the table, while the second one told her mistress that the private quarters were now ready, as she had requested.

Her mistress and mine-yes, by God, my mistress-now invited me to follow her, and I did so with the greatest pleasure.

The private quarters consisted of a small room, neatly furnished with elegant cushions and wall-hangings. Subdued candlelight illuminated the space. In the middle was a table loaded with drinks of all types and colors. It was a warm and intimate space, and the songs from the birds, both indigenous and migrant, outside in the garden were a perfect accompaniment to it. In the midst of such music Fayha' handed me a glass, and I did likewise to her. We both drank with discreet relish, savoring the attractions of the moment, while from a neighboring room the sounds of the oud wafted to our ears. I asked her who was playing, and she stuttered a reply: "It's Ghaz… zzz… zzz… Ian. Do you like it?"

I nodded that I did. How could I possibly not like such melodies and birdsongs? Not to mention the intoxicating delights of other things as well, and they were legitimate at that! The whole thing was a boon from God on high, a timehonored spiritual treasure.

And here was I, member of a religious community with no monastic traditions! I was indulging in my own share of the world and giving whatever talents I have in return.

In the midst of such delights any kind of reserve is pointless. It is, in fact, inappropriate to keep one's instincts on a leash; it is far more suitable to unleash pent-up emotions and give them a golden opportunity to take the initiative. In that way I could return to my beloved's tongue its normal eloquence. Trusting in the One to whom one can consign such faith, I drew her toward me and embraced her; so close was she that I felt the irresistible urge to kiss her gently on both cheeks. When I felt her relax and ask for more, I turned to her lovely mouth, tasted its sweet nectar, and massaged her tongue for as long as passion and longing allowed me. All of a sudden, the birdsong and lute-playing came to a stop, and silence fell, only interrupted by the pounding of our heartbeats. If I had not been scared of possible evil consequences and transcending the bounds of appropriate behavior, I would almost certainly have plunged ahead and indulged myself in the sweetest pleasure of them all. Instead I decided to see what effect my behavior thus far had had on the lady in question.

"Tell me, my beloved," I said. "In your letter you mentioned something you wanted me to do? Tell me what it is, and I'll do it for you."

"The way I'm feeling now," she replied somewhat less diffidently than before, "I certainly can't put it into words."

"Well then, tell me with signs and gestures."

My companion now used her thumb to point to her bosom and then to me. She then used her middle finger to expose both her breasts before my very eyes. When she saw that I was flummoxed (actually "dumbfounded" would be more appropriate), she took hold of my right hand and intertwined her fingers in mine. At this point my only course was to ask her point-blank if she wanted to be married to me, and, without further ado, she responded that she did.

"Our hearts have a language of their own," I went on. "The mind has no control over it. What I said has come straight from my very soul, so I am innocent of any charge against me. In my particular form of language my love for you stems from complete free will."