Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

The milk that they brought for breakfast smelled like camel’s piss. I avoided it altogether and made do with a few pieces of bread that I moistened with water. I could recall some of the statements made by Sufi ascetics, which managed to provide me with the proverbial “milk and honey” that I needed. From a bodily point of view, it suggested avoiding the expenditure of too much energy during exercise time, both because it was easier and because the temperature was really cold early in the morning; from a more psychological point of view, the only path I discovered for reassuring myself and fending off depression was a thread that descended from on high, offering illumination and support, thus releasing me from the state of mind that I was in, even though it may have been pulling me toward some other level of spiritual existence. While I was indulging in conjecture and trying to work out how to fill my day with useful activities, the above-mentioned enormous black guard came in and gestured at me, the import of which was that the judge’s secretary was ordering me to appear before her with my report. As soon as I had retrieved the papers from their hiding place, he grabbed me by the wrist, and I left the cell alongside him. I either stared at the ground in silence or else sneaked glances at the passersby in civilian clothes, whose faces showed them to be foreigners. The black guard handed me over to another guard by the door of the judge’s office. The latter proceeded to search me, then tied my hands behind my back before informing the secretary that I had arrived, whereupon she instructed him to remove the bands from my wrists.

Once in the secretary’s presence, I was stunned by the difference between the veiled, jallaba -clad woman of yesterday and the modern, brazen, and attractive female I saw in front of me now-honey-colored eyes, heavily kohled eyelids, a beautiful, heavily made-up face, and blonde hair skillfully coiffed. I looked at the floor so as to lessen the effect she was having on me and then accepted her invitation to sit down and hand her my report.

“Oh yes,” I heard her tell me in a coquettish tone, “I’m the one you saw the last time you were in this office. Every Friday and religious holiday I wear the veil — or, rather, I wear traditional clothing. Apart from that, I’m thoroughly modern, as you can see. There’s religion, and then there’s the world, as the investigating judge is fond of saying. So what have you had to say?”

“You, the phony judge, and everyone else here,” I thought to myself, “can all go to Hell. By God, you have no share of either God or of this world!”

“What did you have to say?” she repeated her question.

“In my report,” I told her, “I’ve said what I’ve said, and that’s it.”

“You’ve just reminded me,” she went on. “The judge is busy, so he’s asked me to make a typed copy of what you’ve said so he can read it. I have to prepare a summary of it in French for Mama Ghula. So what did you say?”

“OK,” I said.

I paused for a few moments to collect my thoughts, then started reading out my report, in a loud voice at times and muttering at others. I noticed that she kept skipping entire paragraphs, then using the gold pen she was holding between her heavily lipsticked lips to underline particular words or whole lines. She would ask me to explain phrases she did not understand; for sure, I had failed to do any editing or had scribbled them too quickly in one of the fits of nervous depression that affected me sometimes. I asked her to give me the context again, and she moved in my direction, bringing her high heels, her half-exposed thighs, and her plunging neckline with her. Repeating the word “context” with a laugh, she leaned over me with her ample bosom in full view and spelled out each word for me with her gold pen. Under the spell of her peerless beauty and the attractive perfume she was wearing, I started tamping down my animal feelings and instinctive loathing. I kept sneaking looks at her legs as, given the context, I made the necessary changes and adjustments to my manuscript.

In this particular situation, it occurred to me that I might leap on top of this woman who was controlling me with her surging femininity and do to her what bulls do to cows. Once I had had my way, I would counter her accusation of sexual assault by accusing her in turn of sexual arousal. I was the one who was imprisoned and oppressed, and the difference was made that more obvious by her provocative dress, her suggestive movements, and her flirtatious chatter. My reasoning would certainly be persuasive: one evil deed promotes another, and the one who starts is the wrongdoer. However, I was aware of being in the same position as Joseph — may his remembrance be sanctified! — even though I was certainly not as handsome or devout as he was. For that very reason I decided against such an idea, cursing as I did so the evil temptations of the devil, not to mention the many salacious women of this morally corrupt era of ours.

The secretary herself may have become aware of the turmoil going on inside me, because she returned to her chair and gave me a series of ambiguous looks. Taking a mirror out of her handbag, she freshened the makeup on her cheeks, eyes, and lips, as though she had just emerged unscathed from a passionate conflict of some kind.

She now adopted a warmer, softer tone. “Words of wisdom now decree,” she said, “that you remove all the padding from your statement, and there’s a lot of it. Instead only include things that will help the investigation. Yet more wisdom: concentrate on eradicating any statement that smacks of a question. In the center’s constitution, Article Seven of the section on interdictions stipulates that the suspect is not permitted to ask questions, even though it be in a surreptitious or indirect fashion; on the other hand, the suspect is completely obliged to respond to the all investigating judge’s questions. So what did you say?”

“Madam,” I replied, “I have. .”

“Miss,” she corrected me.

“So, Mademoiselle,” I replied defiantly, “I have nothing to add or delete. Either the whole report is accepted, or it’s all deleted.”

Leaping to her feet she came over and started chastising me.

“The judge will remove exactly what he wishes from your report and will compel you to tell the truth about yourself. Should you refuse or behave defiantly, Mama Ghula will be able to remove you from existence with one flick of a knife. Are you belittling me because I’m a woman? Just take a look at my hand: it may have silk gloves on, but it’s made of steel.”

With that she slapped my face so hard that I almost fainted.

“And that’s just a sample,” she yelled angrily, her eyes red with fury. “Now get up and get out!”

Once outside the door, the black guard who had escorted me to the toilet started describing the woman and the restrictions I was under. I understood that what he was doing was letting me purge myself of illicit thoughts, something he undoubtedly had to do with every man who found himself sitting with and talking to this temptress of a woman and possessed even the slightest degree of masculinity and chance.

Back in my cell, I noticed that my bedcover was sticking up as though it had been stuffed with straw, alfalfa, or something like that. I lifted the bottom part, only to discover two human feet. I thought it was Ilyas Bu Shama, so I yelled his name as I lifted the top part. I found a head completely wrapped in bandages; all that was visible was a pair of closed eyes and a thin moustache that made it clear that it was not Ilyas, unless he had recently started a moustache. I lay down on the other bed, my mind going over all the images and scenes that I had witnessed in this strange, horrendous place whose exact location and the nature of whose functions and purposes were still a matter for conjecture and guesswork on my part. Just as I was dozing off, there was a knock on the door, and I was given some lunch through the aperture. I asked if my new cell mate was Ilyas Bu Shama, but the guard said that he knew no one of that name and then went away. I was now left with the question as to whether my particular cell had been designated as the favorite spot for major casualties, the prisoners who had been subjected to the very worst kinds of torture.