Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

I sat there like a statue, waiting for the person who had summoned me to say something and let me know why I had been invited to appear before him in such a luxurious environment. But he seemed distracted; something weird was going on underneath his table. Just then, a half-naked girl emerged and went out of the door. I watched in utter disgust as the judge pulled up his trousers and poured himself a glass of whisky as though it were water. I found it necessary to let him know I was there, so I let out a cough, all the while fingering Na‘ima’s vial. I coughed louder, but then suppressed it when he started spouting nonsense:

“Fantastic things: fucking in water, using pregnant women as permitted by law, menstruating females, having clusters of gorgeous whores under tables. . I’ve done it all — no stake involved and no pretense either. .”

He started rocking to and fro on the bench, eyes closed and utterly drunk. I started coughing again, and he sat up and asked who was coughing. I told him who I was, and he was surprised to find me there. I reminded him that he was the one who had summoned me. After a moment’s thought, he told me to sit down close to his table, but only on condition that I did not cough any more. I managed to stop.

“So, Hamuda from Oujda,” he told me between gulps of whisky and puffs on a cigarette, “this is your very last chance. If you take it, you’ll be set free; otherwise it’s the end for you. All the long years I’ve been working, I’ve never encountered anyone as stubborn and resistant as you. But let me be totally clear: I’m not going to let you be a thorn in my foot or a rock in my path. I’ve devoted a lot of my valuable time to you, even though you’re not worth it. I’ve stopped the female ghoul from torturing you even more; I’ve given orders for you to be washed and cleaned; I’ve seen to it that your leg has been cured; I’ve appointed you as mufti and given you all kinds of gifts on the two platters. But here you are, you ungrateful bastard! All my kindness and gifts have been rewarded with stubborn resistance and recalcitrance. You’ve closed your heart and soul in my face! You revealed a number of details to the Disciplinary Committee that you’ve kept from me. I’ve a feeling — in fact, I’m certain — that you’re still concealing information, most importantly about your terrorist cousin, al-Husayn al-Masmudi, and his gang. So now the final hour has struck: either you tell us what you know in return for which you’ll join our service, be pardoned and have your previous crimes wiped clean; or else you’ll carry on rejecting this and that, in which case you’ll go back to the penitents’ wing, where you’ll be killed by one of the professional murderers. Once you’re back there, there’ll be no guarantee that you’ll remain alive. Anyone who issues such a warning is forgiven if things go wrong. Your fate is now in your own hands. Make your mind up and don’t delay!”

As I listened to these words, my heart was in my throat.

“Sir,” I told this debauched and totally drunk judge between coughs, “I’ve told you about my cousin a thousand times. I’ve nothing to add to what I put in my report for you, or do you want me to make something up? That would be wrong, and in both religious and moral terms. My state of health makes it impossible for me to enter the service. The atmosphere inside your center does not agree with me; as you can tell, it’s had a negative effect on my health.”

I watched as the judge’s face altered in fury. He came round the table and attacked me with a series of blows. He told me not to cough, then lifted me up and delivered a savage blow to my head that sent me reeling; I almost lost consciousness. When he went back to his bench and took another drink and puff from his cigarette, I took advantage of the moment.

“No to violence!” I yelled, “no to violence! Isn’t that part of your personal credo, Judge?”

While I was expressing those words, I put the blood vial in my mouth and did what Na‘ima had advised me to do. Getting a good amount of blood mixed with my spittle, I went over to the judge, started coughing, and splattered a glob of blood into my hands. I protested that I had tuberculosis and was afraid I might be infecting him too. The judge leapt up and moved away. He covered his face with a handkerchief, then pointed to the backdoor.

“Get out of here, you tubercular creep!” he yelled. “Get out of my sight!”

At first I did not obey his order. I decided to play the fool a bit so this raving judge would have another pretext for ruling that I should go back to my homeland. It now occurred to me that I no longer had anything to lose in this detention center. My tuberculosis was my weapon, whether I actually had it or not. With that in mind, I started chasing the judge all around his wide lounge, coughing all over him and spitting blood and threatening to pass on my disease to him. All the while he kept maneuvering his elephantine body around the copious supply of furniture, holding his handkerchief over his nose and mouth. So here we are, Na‘ima! Your boss is behaving like a scared child, running away from a genie or ghoul who’s chasing him. If you happened to see him looking so scared and panting for all he’s worth, with sweat pouring off him, the pretense would fall away completely, and you would realize that this would-be lion who determines the fate of tortured souls in this facility is merely a paper tiger, someone who is as afraid of death as any other poor wretch.

When I noticed that his esteemed excellency had taken refuge in the toilet and locked it, I decided that it was time to close the circus and leave the lounge by the door that his now vanished eminence had pointed to. It opened out to a cement cellar with dim lighting suitable as an escape route or some such thing. At the end it led to a sandy area with hills and mounds of earth. The light of the full moon showed clearly how vast the space was and how closely packed and well-arranged its sections were. For a few moments I stood there wondering what to do, trying to make out the direction that would take me back to the detention center buildings. One thing I knew for certain: wandering around in the desert without food or compass was guaranteed to result in my demise, either buried under mounds of sand or else as fodder for birds of prey and other rapacious animals.

Not wanting to die in such an undignified manner, my mind — or what was left of it — led me to work out that the jeep that had transported me to the spot where I was standing had not traveled more than five kilometers or so. So I had to walk in the opposite direction, invoking all my senses to pick up any noises, smells, or lights that might guide me. And that is precisely what I did.

A fair amount of time went by, and I covered a distance that I could only assess by how tired and cold I felt. Just then I heard dogs barking, and, as I increased my pace and overcame my fear, the sound grew gradually louder. Before long, a patrol appeared with their dogs. They shined a powerful searchlight in my face, surrounded me, and learned my identity and cell number. They had a shackled prisoner with them, and their leader asked me in the light if I recognized him. I pursed my lips so as not to say his name—‘Umar al-Rami — and for caution’s sake pretended I did not know him. However, ‘Umar hastened to remind me of the night he had spent with me in my cell before the female ghoul had ordered his second testicle removed. They now allowed him to give me a hug and kiss.

“In front of these people, my brother,” he told me tearfully, “I confess that I’ve tried to escape from this prison. I now accept the death sentence that has been passed against me.”

“No, ‘Umar,” I replied distractedly, “that’s an unjust verdict. You must demand an appeal!”