Raja Alem - The Dove's Necklace

Now, how far can I limp without an idol to worship that’ll distract my body from this pain?

I wonder: can an impotent man fall in love? Can his heart thrash with passion or skip a beat? What is love? Just a physical reaction? In that case, according to your theory of existence, you’re finished!

Intelligent young men rush headlong, blinded by love, and then as they age, their virility betrays them and they take refuge in clinging to that slim alternative, the thing they call sensuality, going totally overboard in their obsession with the senses and their desperation to satisfy them. Who was it who said that?

June 30, 2006

Aisha, that thieving script-writer — why did I let her write the last act?

She called out to me. I was going past her house when I noticed her hand signaling to me from the doorway. My mouth went dry … But no, it’s not true that her hand reminded me of Azza’s.

Despite my resentment, I went closer, scarcely believing I’d find that it really was Aisha. She addressed me from behind the door in a whisper: “Come in, take them to … There are minds who could live off these books; maybe you’re one of them.” I could hardly make out where it was she wanted me to take them.

I confess I was shaken to hear her hoarse voice for the first time in my life. It was as if she were really saying “these books should be saved from the Lane of Many Heads.” Rats are the first to leave a sinking ship, I felt like retorting nastily, but I didn’t dare, and instead went into the dim hall to find a row of cardboard boxes, overflowing with books, waiting for me. The dizzying smell of damp paper and ancient minds poured out of the boxes … I wanted to lie down and inhale to death.

When I looked up to catch a glimpse of Aisha, she’d already gone, leaving a patch of darkness on the wall of the stairs after disappearing upward. She didn’t wait to see if I’d carry out her instructions — she knew my weakness. A faceless woman; I’ll never know what she looks like.

I ran outside and stopped the first Mitsubishi pick-up, then went back in to get the boxes. I wasn’t sure about giving them to the library at Umm al-Qura; I knew they’d set up a whole load of committees to examine the books before accepting them, and then end up destroying most of them, so I took the liberty of taking most of them to the library of the Literature Club.

One last confession: right in the fast lane, in the middle of all the cars, I made the Mitsubishi stop, and started going through the boxes like a crazy person. I checked them page by page, title by title, but I couldn’t find a trace of Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. I slumped against the books in dismay as the truck drove on. She’s mocking me, mocking all of us, by keeping that Time locked up in her room …

Yusuf

Closure

“I COULD CLOSE THIS CASE WITH THE SNAP OF A FINGER.”

Nasser was stunned to find that the Lane of Many Heads case had been taken out of his hands and transferred, without any notice whatsoever, to the counter-terrorism unit, and that he’d been summoned to explain himself. Facing that staring eye, Nasser felt unreal.

“The Lane of Many Heads is leagues ahead of you,” the cold, sardonic voice lashed at him.

“I arrested Khalil, but he was released … Some force behind the scenes is working against me. But you have the means to correct that, sir. Believe me, we’re letting a real criminal loose in Mecca with that Khal—”

“Khalil is pathetic, that dinosaur of his makes him an easy target … Concentrate on the armies of vermin who make up the very soil in the Lane of Many Heads … You can’t expect to succeed in a plague-ridden environment like that unless you examine it microscopically.”

The air in the luxurious office chilled tangibly.

“I picked you specially for this case based on your life choices. For a quarter century you’ve had the option of living or being promoted, and you’ve always chosen to leave life behind, without hesitation or regret. That’s why I gave you free rein in this case, but you’ve disappointed me. Your twenty-five-year career looks like a joke. You’re broken, letting yourself be taken in by words. I carefully chose you, to polish and powder like a fine billiard cue, but you’ve turned out to be just another ball rolling around on the table with the others. And you’re taking the case like it’s like a personal tragedy — look at your hair, it’s gone white in less than a week!!

“Give me another chance … Please … Just one last chance!” beseeched Nasser, dying to be that favorite billiard cue again.

“History moves like a wave, all ebbs and flows, and you can never ride the same wave twice.” Both men listened appreciatively to the hollow echo of those words. “That said, I’ll be even more generous than I usually am and give you a head start in the second round with the Lane of Many Heads. So you can be in control of the game, I’ll let you see from above what happened before the corpse was discovered, and show you the four moves that you missed when you were drawing that circle of suspicion.

“Come here, take a look … Focus on those four steps in the air …”

First Move: Cadillac

A ROUND SUNSET, THE PURRING BLACK CADILLAC PARKED AT THE MOUTH OF THE Lane of Many Heads, blocking the alley. It was carrying a female social worker, come to conduct a study of the socioeconomic conditions of the neighborhood, whose rickety old houses heaved and jostled, flaunting their poverty to catch her attention. The driver stepped out followed by a woman fully armored in black from her head to her socks and her elbow-length black gloves, and the pair walked the length of the alley, followed by eyes peering surreptitiously out of windows, until they reached Sheikh Muzahim’s place.

“Good evening, sir. This lady’s come to visit you from Social Security. She’d like to have a chat with your family and find out how things are for you.”

The Sheikh’s face lit up and he gestured toward the door in welcome. “God bless her,” he murmured.

The woman knocked lightly at the door. No sooner had Azza opened than the abaya pushed her back into her room and clamped a hand firmly over her mouth, the veil slipping away to reveal the face of a man. Azza recognized him; he’d gotten in her way several times before, but she froze in shock and he yanked her toward him easily. She scattered like a broken string of prayer beads; she was deep in his abaya, which reeked of agarwood oil; she couldn’t hear or see, wasn’t conscious of how she tore him away or how he left.

She leaned against the wall, her stunned eyes fixed on her father Muzahim. She wasn’t sure at what point she stuffed the envelope full of money into his hands and rushed to her bathroom. As she stood under the shower, the man’s smell surged back with the warm water, along with the words he’d bored into her head.

“K.S. is security itself. His miracles make the miracles of Moses and Joseph in the court of the Pharaohs look pitiful. You don’t need to read about him, just look at what he has planned and his dazzling smile … Soon he’ll write a book: K.S.: Making Billions … He’s got his eye on a satellite network. His commercials and his conquests will be everywhere — East and West, from the North Pole to the South in bold face — taking the financial supplements by storm, disproving every theory, engineering new global relationships. K.S. is an economic empire, above states and political borders, above passports, above obstacles, above fingerprinting and retina scans. Just watch him. He can tear down mountains and rebuild them. We’re immortal, we run the universe with our satellites, we’re a race above humans, prepared to mate with demons if that’s what it takes to inherit the earth and everything on it.”