Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

“Now you’re ride of fleas, gnats, and cockroaches. You should be grateful!”

Here I am now with my mirror that I have taken out of its hiding place. When I take a look at my face, I can hardly recognize myself. All the bumps, bruises, and bald spots that used to be covered up by my hair, all the cracks in my lips — some the result of smiling, other resulting from incredible pain — are now exposed, as is the absence of most of my front teeth. May God grant me an even greater profusion of hair to make up for what has been shaved off and burned, and a bushy beard, too, which can accompany me on nights when I shall devote myself to higher things. When it comes to Your enemies, O God, those who abuse helpless people inside this place, send down upon them lice, flood, a plague of frogs, and blood, just as you sent down as clear signs of Your wrath against the tyrant Pharaohs of old.

Next morning, the guard woke me up with an invitation to a communal breakfast. I waddled my way after him to the usual prisoners’ mess. No sooner had I set eyes on them with their heads and beards completely shaven than I remembered that I now looked exactly like them. It was difficult to recognize people and even more difficult to talk, particularly when, like me, you had no particular friends there. At the table to which I was assigned, I noticed that there were some prisoners with no eyebrows, and, when I looked round, there were others like them as well. I guessed that they had been punished that way for resisting yesterday’s shaving routine and causing trouble.

A general mood of suspicion and caution hovered over the scene at the tables, not surprising in view of the fact that some of the so-called prisoners were actually plants among the real internees. For that reason, the major sound was the clanking of spoons, sipping noises, and the clearing of throats, all of which covered up the lack of any conversation. Beyond that, there were the usual suspicious movements going on close to and underneath the tables.

Once I had finished my broth and coffee, I started looking around, trying to work out who were the real internees and who were the plants. The shaving routine had not discriminated between the heads and beards of either group, but, like me, some of them had colds and catarrh and looked thin, while others looked perfectly healthy. The latter looked like violent skinheads, while the former now had all the bumps and bruises of their faces and skulls exposed. So where exactly did the bounds of truth come to an end and those of deceit and obfuscation begin? That particular question kept nagging at me, especially when one of the latter group leapt up on a table and attracted people’s attention. Once everyone was watching, he lowered his trousers.

“So they shaved my beard and head,” he yelled as they cackled, “but shit on all of them. My masculinity is still intact; they haven’t been able to shave that off. Anyone who doubts that can take a look at my erect penis in my hands.”

The guards came rushing over and tried to grab him as he leapt from one table to the next and then wove his way between the chairs, just like a well-trained clown. There was widespread chaos at this point, and voices were raised:

“Power to the man with proof in his hands!” they yelled. “Power to him!”

“Long live the stallion,” others cried. “Long may he live!”

Taking advantage of the security lapse in the mess hall, I slunk my way out through the kitchen door to the administrative wing and the investigating judge’s office. I told the guard that I had some crucially important information to convey to the judge; it was really urgent, I told him. When he seemed reluctant, I threatened him with the dire consequences of not responding to my request. He went inside to ask the secretary about it, and I slunk in right behind him and shouted out the information that I had provided to the guard. The secretary upbraided me for my behavior and ordered me to be taken out. But, while she was still on the phone, she suddenly calmed down. Telling the guard to leave, she instructed me to sit down.

I took a seat opposite this woman, who seemed to be in charge but still to be showing some kind of understanding. I relished the fact that I had managed to inveigle my way into the administrative wing and grab the opportunity for a meeting with the investigating judge without an appointment. I gazed at this new secretary who was busy working, at the computer, on files, or other stuff. For sure she was not like either of her two predecessors, Nahid al-Busni and the earlier woman called Jumana. This woman was pretty and had her head uncovered, a pair of languid tawny eyes and silky black hair. Her clothes were contemporary but modest, and she was lightly made-up. Her facial expression was neither vicious nor flirtatious, and she seemed so serene and relaxed that the overall effect led me to nurse other feelings as well.

I felt a strong urge to talk to her, even though the fact that she was on the telephone made that difficult. When she started typing, I seized the opportunity.

“Which country are you from, Miss?” I asked her.

She did not answer, but instead asked me what was the purpose of my visit.

“The purpose of my visit?” I replied, acting dumb. “The purpose of my visit? Well, Miss, in your presence the purpose has gone right out of my mind. Maybe I’ll remember in a while. .”

“Are you intending to tell the judge about the events in the cafeteria?” she asked me. “If so, his excellency already has all the details.”

I did not dare ask her whether the judge had a concealed camera somewhere with a private screen to keep him informed about everything going on in the mess hall, the game field, the exercise yard, the corridors, the cells, and every conceivable part of this complex. Perhaps he was well aware of the all the secret activities of my own life, everything that had happened when I was in the shock and terror cellar, not to mention my first and second cells. Perhaps he also knew about the terrible way I had been treated during that phony soccer game and the various types of torture that that female ghoul had inflicted on me — May God destroy her in this world before she even reaches the next!

The fact that the judge was aware of what had happened in the cafeteria just as soon as the events had occurred was extremely valuable information. It was not clear whether this modest beauty had revealed the information by accident or deliberately. Here I was sitting next to her, wishing that this situation could go on and on so that I could savor her feminine beauty, if only from a distance, and listen to her melodious voice.

“Have you remembered?” I heard her asking me.

“Remembered?” I asked. “What? My senses? My mind?”

“No, what you came here for.”

I rubbed my shaved head as though pondering.

“Not yet,” I told her, “but when I do. . But let’s get to know each other a bit better and have a chat. Please, let me kiss your hand. .”

She pulled her hair back off her face and gave me an affectionate glance.

“I know everything about you,” she said, “but, when it comes to me, you’ll only find out what the judge allows you to know.”

I presumed that the reason she was being so coy was that the judge was watching the whole thing on a screen in his office. With that in mind, I stopped pushing the point. Just then, a noise from the buzzer on the desk indicated that I was supposed to go in to see the judge. The secretary came over to do a body search, and I helped her by removing my clothing as far as my underwear. I was delighted to catch a few whiffs of her perfume, which enveloped my head and face. That done, she hurriedly helped me put my clothes back on and took me over to a dark corner of the judge’s office. He was still busy on the phone, so she invited me to take a seat and take it easy for a few moments. She then greeted her boss and left.