Ibrahim al-Koni - Seven Veils of Seth

They all laughed again, and their bodies swayed back and forth, as if dancing at a celebration of the full moon. They so dazzled his eyes that he whispered some advice to himself: “Had no beautiful woman ever entered the desert, it would have been preferable to put your head under the water and keep it there forever.”

One of them, in a lilting voice, asked, “Why do you doubt we’re human?”

Without any hesitation he answered, as he plowed through the water, “Your beauty!”

They echoed in unison, “Beauty?”

Even so, he replied with the wiles of a man well acquainted with women, “Not merely your beauty, but your similarity. You resemble each other like female jinn.”

“Like female jinn?”

They laughed merrily, and then the woman with the seductive voice suggested, “You speak about the female jinn as if you belonged to that nation.”

“I’m not a jinni, but my first wife was one.”

They cried out with genuine curiosity, “Really?”

Then they started laughing again as they leaned their alluring figures over the bank of the spring. One of them requested, “Tell us about the female jinn. What are they like?”

In her eyes he saw a seductive look that no man experienced with women could have missed. He asked, “Do you mean in bed?”

They all laughed with genuine gaiety and for the first time blushed in embarrassment. So he decided to push the game one step further: “I’ve never found anyone to equal them in bed. They’re like blazing fire.”

The area resounded with their boisterous, flirtatious laughter, which no longer hid its bashfulness or seduction. He observed then that they were a covey of six beauties, each so comparable in allure and stature that it was hard to tell them apart. He seized the opportunity afforded by their mirth to ask, “Are you sisters?”

More than one responded, “Of course not!”

“As you know, I’m a stranger in this settlement, and the stranger is always entitled to consideration from the resident.”

“Speak!”

“I want to hear you sing at an evening party.”

One replied, “We’re singers by profession. What good would we be if we didn’t sing for men?”

He added mischievously, “A belle is only beautiful if she recites poetry. A belle is only beautiful if she slips into the bedchamber.”

Some laughed but others said, “It’s not right for a man who has just made shocking remarks to ask women to sing.”

“Shocking?”

“Didn’t you say — moments ago — that water’s embrace is more delightful than a beautiful woman’s?”

He disappeared into the water to seek prophetic inspiration to deliver him from this crisis. Then he said, “That was the tongue of the desert dweller speaking, not mine.”

“The desert dweller’s tongue?”

“Thirst’s tongue.”

“Thirst’s tongue?”

“A person who has never known the fire of the desert doesn’t understand the meaning of water; so forgive me.”

The woman with the seductive voice said, “Before you obtain our forgiveness, I have a piece of advice for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Never insult a woman, not even in private.”

“You’re right!”

“Do you know why?”

“I’m all ears.”

“Just as the birds carry seditious talk to a leader, the air is charged with carrying insults to a woman.”

“Are you a diviner?”

“Every woman is a diviner. A woman is instinctively a diviner.”

“You’re right, so right. I swear I’ll have to figure out how to repay you for this counsel, because advice is more precious than a pot of gold. That’s true even if it’s from the mouth of a fool; so, what then if it’s from the tongue of a beautiful woman?”

“Are you a poet?”

“Everyone in the desert is a poet; why ask?”

“Because the only appropriate recompense for a woman is praise in verses that tribes broadcast and that subsequent generations repeat. Similarly, there is no punishment for a woman more harmful than mocking her in an ode that’s repeated by every tongue and enjoyed by the tribes.”

He responded admiringly, “You’re right, so right.”

The woman with the seductive voice approached him and introduced herself: “I’m Tafarat.”

She stepped back so her companion could introduce herself: “My name’s Temarit.”

She stepped aside so her neighbor could present herself: “My name’s Tamanokalt.”

She drew back so the woman next to her could introduce herself: “My name is Tahala.”

She stepped back so her neighbor could come forward: “My name’s Tamuli.”

She stepped back so her friend could introduce herself: “My name is Taddikat.”

Silence prevailed. The dove stopped its cooing and the grasshoppers quieted their refrain. Then the stranger said, “My name is Isan!”

More than one of the covey exclaimed: “Isan! What a name!”

Then the proud beauty who had given her name as Temarit moved forward to say, “May I give you another piece of advice?”

When he nodded his bare head, she declared, “Be careful never to expose your head in a woman’s presence again.”

He was quick to defend himself: “I thought it shameful for a man to remove his veil in the desert, but not in the water.”

Temarit stepped back while Tamanokalt moved forward to elucidate the saying’s secret meaning: “If men realized how repulsive their faces are, they would never take their veils off.”

“What?”

“Their faces resemble camels’.”

“Camel faces?”

She stepped back so Tahala could add: “And their ears resemble donkeys’.”

“Donkey ears?”

She retreated, and Tamuli stepped forward to continue: “And their noses are birds’ beaks.”

“Birds’ beaks?”

She withdrew, and Tafarat presented herself to sum up: “Aren’t camel faces, donkey ears, and bird beaks a handicap for you?”

Initially upset, he responded, “A handicap. . a great handicap.”

“Avoid letting a woman see you without your veil, because she will despise you even if you fashion a palace for her in your heart and have enough children by her to populate the desert.”

Silence reigned again. They fetched their jugs to fill with water from the spring. First Tamuli bent over the pool. A black plait of her hair escaped from her wrap’s confinement to swing seductively through the air. In fact, it fell into the water. He crept toward her, as if to help fill the jug, but instead seized the braid in his hands, clasping it between his palms. A daring strategist well acquainted with women, he squeezed it till water sprayed out. He closed his fingers around it and affectionately fondled it. Then he leaned down to kiss it, inhaling its fragrance. Closing his eyes he said, as though to himself, “I never dreamt there were retem blossoms in the oases.”

In a whisper like the rustling of northern breezes caressing the plumes of the retem bushes, she replied: “In the oases, there are flowers more fragrant than retem blossoms.”

“You are a jinni!”

Whispering once more, she told him, “A man’s favorite perfume is a woman’s scent, not a retem’s.”

He clung to the plait and pressed it against his damp chest with an audacity ill-becoming a visitor who had only just entered an alien sanctuary. He had a strong incentive, however, for the inaccessible mystery guiding his steps granted him a prophetic insight that women tend to be animated and spontaneous with strangers but cautious and inhibited around kinsmen. Thus, he acted spontaneously, since he was certain the young women’s temperaments would not shine forth unless his did. Generally speaking, women are like dolls that are animated only when we manipulate them, when we show them how, for woman is a paste more malleable in a man’s hands than dough. He can transform her into a nun or an artiste, perhaps because her spirit is contained within man’s spirit. For this reason, no woman is corrupt unless a man corrupts her, and no woman is virtuous, unless a man has rendered her so.