The Seventh Heaven

The Seventh Heaven

1

A huge cloud surges over all existence, plunging through space. Everything pulses with a strange cosmic presence. Nothing like it has ever been, breaking living beings down into their basic elements, menacing all with destruction— or perhaps a new creation. Despite all this, he is still conscious of what is happening, seeming to live out the last moments of awareness. Seized by sensations that transcend imagination, he is witnessing things that none have seen before. Yet he is still himself — Raouf Abd-Rabbuh— without any fears, without evil whisperings within, and without any cares. He halts in the desert outside the ancient portal, floating in the dark, feeling as though he weighs nothing. He and his friend Anous Qadri are returning from their evening out. Where are you, Anous?

He heard not a sound, nor could he feel the touch of the ground. Then he had a bizarre sensation of levitation as he penetrated deeply into the churning, overspreading masses above. When he called out to his friend, no sound issued from him. He was present — and yet was not there at all. He was confused, yet not frightened, though his heart expected a direct reply from close by. The cloud thinned and began to vanish. The pulsing stopped completely. Then the darkness of night glittered with the luminous rays of stars. Finally I can see now, Anous! But what are you doing? The people are digging up the earth furiously, and with purpose. Then there is a young man sprawled on his back, blood pouring from his head. Raouf can see with a clarity greater than that granted by the starlight. How amazing! That’s Raouf Abd-Rabbuh himself! Yet he is me — and none other than me!

He was cut off from him completely as he watched from very near. No, it’s not a double nor his twin. That’s definitely his body. And those are his shoes. Anous urges the men on in their work. He does not see him at all. Evidently, he thinks that the body laid out there represents all there is of his friend Raouf Abd-Rabbuh, the creature that observes him, unable to do anything. He sensed that he was not whole like the corpse on the ground. Had he become two beings? Or had he departed from the living? Had he been murdered and suffered death? Did you kill me, Anous? Did we not spend an enjoyable night out together? What did you feel when you killed me? How could you so disdain my friendship that you would try to claim Rashida for yourself? Didn’t she tell me that she considered herself to be your sister from now on?

Ah — the men have carried my body to the hole, and are tossing it inside. Now they’re shoveling dirt over it and smoothing the spot afterward, restoring the ground to its natural shape. Thus Raouf Abd-Rabbuh vanishes, as though he never was. And yet, Anous, I still exist. You have cleverly buried the evidence of your hardened crime — all trace of it is gone. Yet why are you scowling so? What is that sardonic look in your eyes? I freely confess — even though you cannot hear me — that I still love her. Did you think that our relationship was now over? Even death is too weak to destroy such a passion. Rashida is mine, not yours. Yet you are rash and were raised amidst evil. You grew up in the sphere of your father, Boss Qadri the Butcher — monopolist of the meat trade, plunderer of the poor and the dispossessed, a gross greaser of palms. Let me tell you that what you aspire to is not yours — your felony is to try to gain it by force. What will you do now? You, who wouldn’t even go to the café without me, nor study without me, nor come and go to the university without me? We were the two best friends in our quarter, despite the infinite differences between us in money, status, and power. You may forget me, but I will not forget you. You should know that I have no longing for vengeance, or to hurt you in any way. All such weaknesses were buried with my body in that hole in the ground. Even the torture that your father’s oppression inflicts on our alley provokes neither rage nor wrath nor rebellion within me. Rather, it is a common occurrence that the power of love rejects, creating instead a lofty desire free of any stain. I mourn for you, Anous. I never conceived you in this ugly image before. You are a walking skeleton, a bat-infested ruin. Murdered blood splotches your face and your brow. Your eyes give off sparks, while a serpent hangs from each of your ears. Your father’s men file behind you on donkeys’ hooves, with heads like crows, bound in manacles bolted with thorns. How it saddens me to have been the cause for which you sullied your pages. I am overwhelmed with grief because of it — while my sense of happiness shrinks to nothing.

2

In the midst of a sigh, Raouf found himself in a new city— brilliantly illuminated, but without a sun. The sky was a cupola of white clouds, the ground rich with greenery, with endless orchards of flowering fruit trees. Stretching into the distance were rows of white roses. Throngs of people met and broke up with the fleetness of birds. In an empty spot, he felt the loneliness of the first-time arrival. At that moment, there arose before him a man enshrouded in a white mist.

“Welcome, Raouf,” the man said, smiling, “to the First Heaven.”

“Is this Paradise?” Raouf asked, shouting with joy.

“I said, ‘the First Heaven,’ not ‘Paradise,’” the stranger admonished.

“Then where is Paradise?”

“Between it and you, the path is very, very long,” the man answered. “The fortunate person will spend hundreds of thousands of enlightened years traversing it!”

A sound like a groan escaped Raouf. “Permit me first to introduce myself,” said the man. “I am your interlocutor, Abu, formerly High Priest at Hundred-Gated Thebes.”

“I’m honored to meet you, Your Reverence. What a happy coincidence that I’m Egyptian myself!”

“That is of no importance,” replied Abu. “I lost all nationality thousands of years ago. Now I am the defense counsel appointed by the courts for the new arrivals.”

“But there can be no charge against me — I’m a victim….”

“Patience,” Abu said, cutting him off. “Let me tell you about your new surroundings. This heaven receives the new arrivals. They are tried in court, where I serve as their advocate. The verdicts are either for acquittal or for condemnation. In case of acquittal, the defendant spends one year here spiritually preparing for his ascent to the Second Heaven.”

Raouf interrupted him, “But what then does ‘condemnation’ mean?”

“That the condemned must be reborn on earth to practice living once again; perhaps they would be more successful the next time,” said Abu. “As for verdicts that fall between acquittal and condemnation, in such cases the accused is usually put to work as a guide to one or more souls on earth. Depending on their luck, they may ascend to the Second Heaven, or the length of their probationary period might be extended, et cetera.”

“At any rate, I’m definitely innocent,” Raouf blurted confidently. “I lived a good life and died a martyr.”

“Do not be so hasty,” Abu counseled him. “Let us open the discussion of your case. Identify yourself, please.”

“Raouf Abd-Rabbuh, eighteen years of age, a university student of history. My father died, leaving my mother a widow who lives on a charitable trust from the Ministry of Religious Endowments.”

“Why are you so satisfied with yourself, Raouf?” queried Abu.

“Well, despite my intense poverty, I’m a hard-working student who loves knowledge, for which my thirst is never quenched.”

“That is beautiful, as a matter of principle,” remarked Abu, “yet you received most of your information from others, rather than through your own thinking.”

“Thought is enriched through age and experience,” said Raouf. “And regardless, would that count as a charge against me?”

“Here a person is held accountable for everything,” rejoined Abu. “I observe that you were dazzled by new ideas.”

“The new has its own enchantment, Your Reverence Abu,” said Raouf.

“First of all, do not call me, ‘Your Reverence,’” Abu rebuked him. “Second, we do not judge a thought itself even when it is false. Rather, we denounce submission to any idea, even if it is true.”

“Such a cruel trial! Justice on earth is far more merciful.”

“We will come to justice,” Abu reassured him. “How did you find your alley?”

“Horrible,” spat Raouf. “Most of the people there are poor beggars. They are controlled by a man who monopolizes all the food — and who has bought the loyalty of the shaykh of the hara. He kills, steals, and lives securely above the law.”

“That is an accurate description,” Abu said. “What was your position toward all this?”

“Rejection, rebellion, and a genuine desire to change everything.”

“Thank you. What did you do to achieve that?”

“It wasn’t in my power to do anything!”

“Do you want to rise to the Second Heaven?”

“Why shouldn’t I rise?” Raouf shot back. “My heart and mind both rejected what was happening.”

“And your tongue?”

“Just one rebellious word would get it cut out.”

“Yet even speech by itself would not satisfy our sacred tribunal,” warned Abu.

“What kind of proceeding is this!” Raouf asked, his frustration growing. “What was I, after all, but a single individual?”

“Our alley here is full of unfortunates,” rebutted Abu.

“My first duty was to acquire knowledge!”

“There is no dividing one’s trust — and no excuse for evading it.”

“Wouldn’t one expect that would lead to violence?”

“Virtues do not interest us,” said Abu dismissively. “What concerns us is truth.”

“Doesn’t it help my case that I was murdered over love?”

“Even that has an aspect which is not in your favor,” said Abu.

Astonished, Raouf asked, “And what aspect is that?”

“That you put your faith in Anous Qadri — when he is the very image of his tyrannical father.”

“I never dreamed I was so guilty.”

“Though you have some mitigating circumstances, my brief in defending you will not be easy,” worried Abu.

“Ridiculous to think anyone has ever succeeded in being declared innocent in this court.”

“Indeed, only a rare few discharge their full obligation to the world.”

“Give me some examples,” Raouf challenged Abu.

“Khalid bin Walid, and Gandhi.”

“Those are two totally contradictory cases!”

“The tribunal has another view,” said Abu. “The obligation itself is what matters.”

“There’s no hope for me now.”

“Do not despair — nor should you underestimate my long experience,” said Abu soothingly. “I will do the impossible to save you from condemnation.”

“But what could you say on my behalf?”

“I will say that you had a blameless beginning, under the most arduous conditions, and that much good was expected of you if you had only lived long enough. And that you were a loving, devoted, faithful son to your mother.”

“The best I can hope for, then, is to be made someone’s spiritual guardian?” Raouf fretted.

“This is a chance for you to recapture what had eluded you,” Abu consoled him. “In our world here, the human being only ascends according to his success on earth.”

“Then, Mighty Advocate, why don’t you send down a guide for Boss Qadri the Butcher?”

“There is no one who does not have their own guide.”

“How then,” Raouf asked in confusion, “can evil continue?”

“Do not forget that the human being has free will,” replied Abu. “In the end, everything depends upon the influence of the guide and the freedom of the individual.”

“Wouldn’t it be in the cause of good to eliminate this freedom?”

“The Will has determined that only the free may gain admission to the heavens.”

“How could He not admit into heaven the pure saint of our alley, Shaykh Ashur?” Raouf remonstrated. “He doesn’t practice free will, for all he does or says is filled with righteous inspiration.”

Abu smiled. “What is he but a creation of Qadri the Butcher? He interprets dreams in Qadri’s interests, relaying to him the private confidences from inside the houses that welcome his blessings!”

Raouf lapsed into defeated silence. He absented himself for a moment amid the ripe greenery adorned with rows of blooming roses, surrendering to the place’s sweetness and grace. Then he said, sighing, “How tragic for a person to be forced to abandon this garden!”

“Be warned — it is sinful to wish to evade your duty!” Abu scolded.

“When shall I appear before the court?” Raouf asked.

“The trial is finished,” announced Abu.

Raouf stared at him in stupefaction.

“The examination has been completed,” said Abu calmly. “The defense was raised during the discourse between you and me. The verdict has come down: you are to be commissioned as a spiritual guide. Congratulations!”

3

The court determined to hold Raouf Abd-Rabbuh in the First Heaven for a short time in order to cleanse him of any stains, in preparation for his mission. Abu stayed at his side till he had finished his training and acclimation, receiving returning guides at the same time.

“I’d like to see Adolf Hitler,” said Raouf. “Will he be coming now?”

“He was condemned, and has since been reborn in your very own alley. You saw him regularly.”

“Hitler?”

“He is Boss Qadri the Butcher.”

Dumbfounded, Raouf became quiet, then asked, “So who would the shaykh of the hara, Shakir al-Durzi, be?”

“Lord Balfour.”

“And Shaykh Ashur, the false friend of God?”

“He is Khunfus, betrayor of Urabi’s Revolution.”

“I don’t see them changing or learning from their repeated experience.”

“That is not always the case. Do you know who your mother was?”

“Abu, she was an angel, surely!”

“She was Rayya, the infamous serial killer; yet look how she has progressed!”

Shaken, Raouf fell silent again. Just then Abu received the first of the incoming arrivals.

The one who just arrived said, “I am trying as hard as I can.”

“I am aware of that,” Abu answered, “but you must redouble your efforts, for the time has come for you to go up.”

“I’m sure I know who that is,” Raouf said, when the man had disappeared. “Isn’t he Akhenaten?”

“Indeed he is. He is not very fortunate, however, for his probation has stretched on now for thousands of years.”

“But he was the first to bring the news that God is one!”

“Verily, but he imposed the One God on the people by coercion, rather than by persuasion and rational argument. Hence, he made it easier for his enemies to later remove God from people’s hearts the same way — by force. If it were not for his clear conscience, he would have been condemned.”

“Why has his period here been so prolonged?”

“He did not succeed with any of those he was chosen to guide, such as Pharaoh-in-the-time-of-Moses, al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah, and Abbas I.”

“Who is his man now?”

“Camille Chamoun.”

The next arrival approached; he delivered a written report, uttered some stirring words, then vanished completely. “That was President Wilson!” Raouf exclaimed.

“You are correct.”

“I’d assumed he was one of the happy few who’d risen to the Second Heaven.”

“You are no doubt referring to his sacred principles,” observed Abu. “But you forget that he neglected to use America’s power to implement them — and that he recognized the protectorate over Egypt.”

“And who’s his man?”

“The eminent littérateur, Tawfiq al-Hakim.”

When the third arrival had gone, Raouf declared, “That was Lenin — no doubt about it.”

“Correct again,” affirmed Abu.

“I’d have thought he’d be condemned on account of his atheism,” Raouf gasped. “What did you say in his defense?”

“I said that in the stream of intellectual prattle, he changed the names — but not the essence — of things. Perishable matter he termed divine, assigning it some of the qualities of God — timelessness, creation, and control over the fate of the universe. He called the prophets scientists, the angels workers, and the devils the bourgeoisie. He also promised a paradise on earth, which exists in time and space. I extolled the power of his belief and his bravery, as well as his service to the laboring classes through sacrifice and self-denial. I added that what really mattered to God Almighty was whether good or bad befell humankind. As for He Himself — His majesty be praised— He has no need of human beings. Not all their faith can increase Him, nor their disbelief diminish Him. Hence, Lenin’s sentence was reduced — and he was appointed as a spiritual guide!”

“Who did he get?” Raouf asked breathlessly.

“The well-known writer, Mustafa Mahmud.”

“And was Stalin, too, appointed anyone’s guide?”

“Certainly not. Stalin was condemned for having murdered millions of workers, rather than teaching and training them for a better life.”

“Maybe he’s living now in our alley,” Raouf pondered.

“No, he is toiling in one of the pit mines of India,” said Abu.

After receiving Lenin, Abu was done with his scheduled appointments, so he accompanied Raouf on a tour through the First Heaven. No sooner had the idea occurred to them than they were already on their way, in response to their inner wish, without needing even to use their feet. They soared like birds, intoxicated with an integral ecstasy that sprang from their magical powers to make any desired movement with ease and delight. They sluiced through the silvery air over the land embroidered with green below, the sky overhead illuminated with glowing white clouds. They passed by countless faces of multifarious races and colors, each absorbed in their lofty enterprise: to help the people of earth achieve progress and victory. In so doing, they seek to repent and purify themselves in order to resume their own rise through the levels of spiritual creativity, to be nearer to the Great Truth itself. They labor relentlessly, driven by warm, eternal passions toward perfection, right, and immortality.

“It seems to me,” Raouf said, “there is no less suffering here than in its counterpart on earth.”

A smiling Abu replied, “They are two sorts of suffering which join into one. The only difference is that here people experience it with a purer heart, a smarter brain, and a clearer goal.”

“Please spell that out for me, Abu.”

“You on the earth dream of a world containing the virtuous city, founded on individual freedom, social justice, scientific progress, and overwhelming power over the forces of nature. For the sake of all this, you wage war and make peace, and challenge the Opposing Power that — in your own terminology — you call reactionism. That is all fine and beautiful, but it is not the final objective, as you imagine it to be. Rather, it is but the first real step in a long road to spiritual elevation, which seems even to those who dwell in our First Heaven to be without end.”

Raouf was immersed in contemplation until Abu asked him, “Of what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking how much dreadful, daily crime is perpetrated by the Opposing Power.”

“That is crime in which the good take part by passively abstaining in the fight for the right,” said Abu. “They fear death — and death is what you see here!”

“What a life!” said Raouf.

“It is a battlefield — nothing more, and nothing less.”

Raouf thought until the very thinking wore him out, then returned to his previous passion for learning the destinies of people who interested him. “I’d like to know what’s become of my country’s leaders,” he told Abu.

“You could wait until you see them — or ask me now about whomever you like,” the ex-High Priest replied.

“What about al-Sayyid Umar Makram?”

“He is the guide to Anis Mansur,” said Abu.

“And Ahmad Urabi?” Raouf asked.

“He is working with Lewis Awad.”

“And Mustafa Kamil?”

“He is helping Fathi Radwan.”

“Muhammad Farid?”

“The mentor to Osman Ahmed Osman,” said Abu.

“And what of Sa‘d Zaghlul?”

“He has reached the Second Heaven,” intoned Abu.

“Because of his personal sacrifices?” said Raouf, expectantly.

“Because of his triumph over his own human weakness!”

“Again, please tell me what you mean.”

“You may be aware that he suffered from the sin of ambition before the revolution,” said Abu. “Afterward, however, he rose to become an exquisite vision of courage and devotion — and hence merited acquittal.”

“And Mustafa al-Nahhas?”

“He was attached to Anwar al-Sadat,” noted Abu. “But when October6 came, and freedom was restored, he, too, rose to the Second Heaven.”

“Then what about Gamal Abd al-Nasser?” the slain man asked.

“He is now guiding al-Qaddafi.”

At the end of the brief training period, Abu told Raouf, “You are now the spiritual guide to your murderer, Anous, Qadri the Butcher’s son.”

Raouf accepted the order with zealous resolve.

“Rely on your own mind for inspiration — for it has great power if you master its use,” instructed Abu. “When necessary, you may even resort to dreams — and may the Lord be with you.”

4

Raouf Abd-Rabbuh landed in the alley. He could see and hear clearly, though no one saw or heard him. He moved from place to place like a natural breeze through his beloved quarter, with all its solid and familiar scenes, its people engrossed in the affairs of life. All his memories were unchanged, along with his previous hopes and pains. He enjoyed a clarity of mind like a brilliant light. Scores and scores of laborers, both men and women, toiled away with furtive eyes and brawny forearms. The laughter floated over the curses, like sweet butter spoiled by bitter mold. And there was Boss Qadri the Butcher in his shop. No resemblance between his face and Hitler’s, but his body was bloated from sucking people’s blood. And here is Lord Balfour — that is, Shakir al-Durzi, the shaykh of our alley, who throws the law under the butcher’s feet. And there is the bogus wali, Shaykh Ashur, who foretells the future to flatter his lord and master.

My poor alley. May God be with you! How and when shall you burst these binding fetters?

Evidently, his own absence — that of Raouf — had stirred the alley’s tongues as well as its hearts. The women gathered round his weeping mother.

“This is the third day since he disappeared,” she moaned.

“Umm Raouf, you should tell the police,” they urged.

“I’ve already told ‘Uncle’ Shakir al-Durzi, shaykh of the hara,” she said.

The shaykh’s voice came to them scornfully, “Do young people today have no shame?”

“My son has never spent a whole night away from his home,” she said, still weeping.

And here is Rashida returning from her institute, the beauty of her tawny face marred by melancholy. Her mother said to her, “Take care of yourself — you can’t replace your health when it’s gone.”

Choking back tears, she said, “I know. My heart never lies to me!”

Raouf stared at her with sympathy. I believe you, Rashida. A loving heart is the most reliable receptor of truth. Yet we will meet again one day. Love is undying, Rashida, not like some people imagine it to be.

And here is the killer, swaggering home from the university. He holds a book in one hand, while he commits murder with the other! I am never out of your thoughts, yet you have no idea that I’ve been appointed your spiritual mentor. Shall you yield to me today, or persist in your error? Everything calls out to reassure you, Anous. Your father casts his shadow over all. The government and all authority are his loyal subjects — you can get any false testimony you need. Yet my image never leaves you. And why not? Did not people say that our friendship was proverbially close? Though trained in criminality, you didn’t practice it like your father. In the course of your education, you learned, or at least heard, of beautiful things. By committing this travesty, did you dream you would win Rashida’s heart? What was this that you slew and buried in the desert? What you have done has not hurt me more than it has you. I was your eternal companion, as you shall see. Confess, Anous. Admit your crime. Tell the truth and stick with me — and you will have a better part to play in all this.

Here is my tormented mother, blocking your path.

“Master Anous,” she pleaded, “do you have any news of your friend?”

“None at all, by God,” he swore.

“He told me as he went out that he was going to see you.”

“We met for a few minutes,” said Anous, “then he told me he had to do an important errand, and that we would meet tonight at the café.”

“But he hasn’t come back,” the distraught mother said.

“Didn’t I visit you asking about him?”

“That’s true, my dear boy, but I’m about to lose my mind.”

“I’m as upset as you are,” declared Anous.

Believe me, Anous. I see the distress in your soul like a blemish on your face. But you are malignant and cruel. You are from the Opposing Power, Anous — don’t you see the danger in that? We grumble all the way down the Path of Light — so what do you think about while sliding down the Path of Darkness? I am stuck to you. If you don’t taste that roasted chicken, then the fault is yours. If you can’t concentrate on the book you’re reading, that’s your own problem, as well. I will never leave you, nor shall I ever grow tired. You may as well stay up late, for you shall not know sleep before dawn.

When he rose back to the First Heaven, Raouf encountered Abu deep in discussion with Akhenaten.

“Every time I told him to go right, he went left!” the defunct pharaoh fumed.

“You must use your powers as needed,” exhorted Abu.

“We lack the ability to use physical force,” Akhenaten complained.

“Do you want to go up, or do you not?” exploded“ The trouble is, you are not used to persuading and convincing people of your point of view. You only know how to give orders!”

Abu turned to Raouf. “How are things with you?” he asked.

“I’m off to a good start,” the youngster said.

“Wonderful!” said Abu.

“Yet I wonder, doesn’t everyone have their own guide?”

“Naturally,” said Abu.

“Then why does everyone just give up?”

“How wrong you are,” Abu abjured. “You were born in the age of revolutions!”

At that moment, a green bird the size of an apple landed on Abu’s shoulder. It brought its rose-colored beak close to Abu’s ear. Abu seemed to be listening, when the bird suddenly flew off into space until it was hidden behind a white cloud.

Abu looked meaningfully into Raouf’s eyes. “That was the messenger from the Second Heaven,” he explained, “bringing word of the acquittal and right to ascend for one called Sha‘ban al-Minufi.”

“Who’s he?” asked Raouf.

“An Egyptian soldier who was martyred at Morea in the age of Muhammad Ali. He was mentor to a hard-currency smuggler named Marwan al-Ahmadi — and finally succeeded in his campaign to drive him to suicide.”

Sha‘ban al-Minufi approached, wrapped in his vaporous robe. “May you ascend gloriously and with grace to the Second Heaven,” Abu told him.

All the spiritual guides flocked toward them in the shape of white doves until the verdant place was packed, Sha‘ban al-Minufi’s face beaming in their midst. As celestial music sounded, Abu declaimed, “Rise, O rose of our green city, to carry on your sacred struggle.”

In a pleasing voice, Sha‘ban replied, “Blessings upon whoever renders service to the suffering world.”

At this he began to go up with the lightness of an ephemeral fragrance to the strains of the happy anthem of farewell.

5

Anous Qadri, the butcher’s son, stood facing the police detective who asked him, “When was the last time you saw Raouf Abd-Rabbuh?”

“The afternoon of the day he disappeared,” said Anous. “He came to see me at my house. No sooner had he showed up than he left to do some business. He promised to meet me that evening at the café.”

“Did he tell you anything about this business he had to do?”

“No,” said Anous.

“Did you ask him about it?” the officer pressed him.

“No, I thought it must be something to do with his family.”

“Some people saw the two of you walking together in the alley after he came to you,” the detective informed him.

Don’t be upset. The best thing is to confess. This is your golden opportunity, if you know what’s good for you.

“I walked with him till he left the gate,” said Anous. “You mean he simply disappeared in the desert outside?”

This is doubletalk, Anous — even worse than doubletalk. Only the truth can save you.

“Yes, he did,” answered Anous.

“What did you do after that?”

“I went to the coffeehouse to wait for him.”

“How long did you stay there?” the detective continued.

“Until midnight, then I went home.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Shakir al-Durzi, shaykh of the hara, was sitting next to me the whole time,” said Anous. “Early the next morning, I went to Raouf’s place to ask his mother about him. She told me that he hadn’t come back.”

“What did you do?”

“I asked all our friends and acquaintances in the alley about him.”

“Do you have any personal insight into his prolonged disappearance?” the policeman asked.

“Not at all! It’s truly baffling,” insisted Anous.

Here you are leaving the station, Anous. You prepare in advance every word you speak. You rue the mention of the gate, and wonder who saw you walking there with me. It’s as though you are contemplating more evil. You repeat the details of your conversations to your father. He is strident — the money, the law, and the witnesses are all in his pocket. I counsel you again to confront your crime with courage and to clear your account. But what’s this? Does Rashida’s image still trace itself in your imagination? This is the very essence of madness. Then you see that the inquiries about you will continue like a flood. The shaykh of the alley has come to the same conclusion. The Unseen warns of unknown surprises. You are thinking of all this, and at the same time you’re obsessed with Rashida, you fool!

Reflecting on this, Raouf remarked to Abu, “Fear of death is the greatest curse to afflict humankind.”

“Was it not created to prevent them from doing wrong?” Abu replied.

Raouf was silent as Abu added, “You were appointed as a guide, not a philosopher — remember that.”

6

You’re asking yourself, Anous, why did the detective summon you a second time? Things are not turning out as simply as you thought.

Here is the officer questioning you:

“What do you know about Raouf’s private life?”

“Nothing worth mentioning.”

“Really?” the detective challenged him. “What about his love for Rashida, the student in the school of fashion design?”

“Every young man has a relationship like that!” Anous said dismissively.

“Do you have one like it?”

“These are personal things that have no place in an investigation.”

“Is that what you think?” the officer shot back. “Even when you love the same girl yourself?”

“The issue needs clarification,” protested Anous.

“Good!” exclaimed the policeman. “What could that be?”

“I revealed to Raouf once that I wanted to get engaged to Rashida, and he confided in me that the two of them were in love with each other,” Anous asserted. “At that I excused myself, and considered the subject closed.”

“But love doesn’t end with a word,” scoffed the detective.

“It was nothing but a fleeting feeling…. I don’t know what you mean!”

“I’m gathering information, and I’m wondering if your feelings for your friend haven’t changed, if only just a little?”

“Absolutely not,” answered Anous. “My emotions for Rashida were nothing special — but my friendship with Raouf was the kind that lasts a lifetime.”

“You said, was—has it ended?”

“I meant,” Anous said nervously, “that our friendship is for life.”

You’re wondering, how is the investigation proceeding with Rashida? What has she admitted? Fine. Let me tell you that the inquiry is ongoing. She has told them of your attempt to rip her from your friend’s heart. Just as she told them of your father’s omnipotence, and her fear for her own and her mother’s safety. I guarantee you, things really are now going against you.

“You sound as though you’ve given up on seeing your friend again,” the detective taunted, laughing.

“I’m sure he’s coming back,” sputtered Anous. “That’s what my heart tells me.”

“A believer’s heart is his guide,” said the officer. “I, too, want him to come back.”

You’re leaving the police station, even more disturbed than you were the last time. I think you sensed that this clever little gumshoe suspects you completely, and you don’t believe your father is able to control everything. Did not Hitler himself suffer final defeat — and even kill himself in the end?

7

The detective has called you back for a third session, Anous. Nerves are starting to fray. Your father stares at Shakir al-Durzi with fury, but what can the shaykh really do? Stop in front of your tormentor, the officer, and listen:

“Anous, we’ve received an anonymous letter that accuses you of killing your friend, Raouf.”

“A contemptible charge,” Anous shouted with spurious rage. “Let whoever made it show his face!”

“Be patient,” the officer warned him. “We weigh everything accurately here. Didn’t you and your friend often spend evenings together outside the gate?”

“Sure,” Anous acknowledged.

“Where, then, did you two spend your time in that vast desert?”

“In the Nobles’ Coffeehouse on the plateau.”

“I’ve decided to conduct a face-to-face meeting between you, Anous, and the men in the café.”

Hold on, don’t be distressed. You are stubborn — that’s the truth. You don’t want to respond to my secret whisperings. Be sure that I’m working in your interest, Anous.

The meeting took place. The owner of the coffeehouse and his young helper testified that they hadn’t seen Anous for more than a month. That he was not entirely convinced showed clearly on the detective’s face. He glared at Anous harshly.

“Please get out,” the officer told him.

You’re leaving the station again, a grin of victory on your lips. You have the right to feel that way — for your father has thrown up a defensive line all around you. But will the affair really end there? Your heart is palpitating while you pass your days loitering in front of your victim’s house. Anxiety assails you yet again. Who was the unknown person who sent the letter accusing you? And will there be any more like it? You are a killer, Anous, and your conscience doesn’t want to awake. Just let me visit you tonight in a dream — for so long as you won’t respond to my clandestine appeals, you will find my corpse stretched out next to you on your bed. Ah — here your scream arises, propelled by your nightmare. You awake in terror, your heart heavy with horror. You slither from your bed to moisten your throat with a gulp of water. Yet you find the cadaver with you again as soon as you slip back to sleep. And the dream recurs to you night after night. Your mother urges Shaykh Ashur to examine you. He gives you an amulet to wear over your heart — but my grisly remains will not leave your dreams. Your condition worsens, so you go secretly to see a psychiatrist, with regular visits week after week. He tells you something truly astounding: that you imagine your friend has been murdered — his body represents your own body, due to the emotional bond between you — you are so closely linked that you think that his body is in the place of yours. But why do you picture yourself as the one slain? Your body plays the role of the replacement for another body and another person that, deep down, you’d like to kill. That person is your father. Your father thus is the cause of your dream — all of which reflects an Oedipus complex!

Yet, in reality, you are not courting your mother, nor do you really want to murder your father. Rather, you are in love with Rashida — and you murdered me simply to get me out of the way.

Raouf railed about this clinical error to his spiritual advocate.

“The complaints of incorrect scientific diagnosis are many,” commiserated Abu. “Frustration is mistaken for an illness arising from the consumption of chocolate. Depression caused by loss of faith results in treatment of the sympathetic nerves. Constipation due to the political situation prompts a prescription of laxatives — and so on.”

“What to do then, Abu?”

“Have you yet reached despair?”

“Absolutely not,” insisted Raouf.

“Then put all your strength into your task,” urged Abu.

8

The cause of Raouf Abd-Rabbuh’s disappearance remained undetected, while the incident itself slowly faded from people’s minds. The only ones who still thought of him were his mother and Rashida. Meanwhile, Anous continued to practice his normal way of living absorbed in work and amusing himself. The past pursued him from time to time, both in his waking hours and in sleep, but he tamed and controlled his internal uproar through sedatives, narcotics, and sheer force of will. With the legal side now completely subdued, Anous once again began to fix his thoughts on Rashida — for why else would he have undertaken the most horrific act of his life? He lay in wait to see her every morning as they went to their respective institutes to study. Was her face still set in the pain of remembrance,hasn’t she lost hope yet? Does she never think of her future as a young woman who should seek life, happiness, marriage, and children? Doesn’t she aspire to have the man who could offer her the most in our whole quarter?

His mad gambit in devotedly pursuing her and his un-shakeable desire to totally possess her had only intensified. Once, as she passed the place where he was seated on a tram, he called out to her in greeting — but she ignored him completely.

“We should be helping each other!” he called to her.

She wrinkled her brow in disgust, but he kept talking to her, “We’ve each lost a dear one that we both shared!”

At this she broke her silence, “He wasn’t lost, he was murdered!”

“What?” Anous recoiled.

“Many people believe that,” she said.

“But he didn’t have a single enemy!”

She glared at him with contempt, and said no more.

“She was accusing you of killing him,” Anous told himself. “Do you have any doubt about that? You could erase the crime from your record if you rose up to confront your father — but the time for love has already gone.”

She got off the tram before him. As he followed her movements with longing and resentment, his imagination was seized by uncontrollable visions of lust and violence.

9

“Everyone’s talking about that amazing man who summons the dead,” Rashida’s mother said. “So why don’t you give him a try, since it won’t even cost you a single millieme!”

Raouf’s stricken mother stared at her in confusion, then muttered, “If you’ll go with me.”

“Why not? I’ll get in touch with Rashida’s dearly departed father.”

“Many respectable people believe in the art of contacting the spirits,” interrupted Rashida, who had been following their conversation with interest.

And so, under the strictest secrecy, they made an appointment to try this experiment.

Raouf turned to Abu jubilantly, “This is my chance to expose the culprit!”

“You were assigned as a guide for him — not against him,” rebuked Abu.

“Would you let this opportunity slip out of our hands?”

“You are not a police counselor, Raouf,” Abu cautioned him. “You are a spiritual advisor. Your goal is to save Anous, not deliver him to the hangman.”

“But he’s like a hunk of rock. The winds of wisdom simply bounce right off him,” Raouf rejoined.

“That is a confession of your own incapacity.”

“No, I haven’t given up yet,” Raouf said excitedly. “But what should I do if they call upon my spirit?”

“You are free,” replied Abu. “It would not benefit your freedom to seek guidance from me.”

The séance was convened, attended by Raouf’s mother, along with Rashida and her own mother. They appealed to Raouf beyond the veil of the Unseen — and he entered the darkened chamber.

“Raouf greets you, mother,” he called, in a voice that all present could hear.

“What happened to you, Raouf?” she said, sobbing at the confirmation that her son was dead.

“Don’t be sad, mother,” he answered without hesitation. “I am happy. Only your sorrow grieves me. My greetings to you too, Rashida….”

With that, he instantly rushed from the room.

10

Raouf’s mother, Rashida, and her own mother returned from the séance, asking each other, “Why didn’t he reveal the secret of his murder?”

“He was taken in the prime of his youth!” Raouf’s mother lamented, drying her tears.

“Don’t sadden him with your mourning,” implored Rashida.

“Who knows? Maybe he died in an accident,” her mother wondered.

“But why didn’t he tell us how he died?” Raouf’s mother persisted.

“That’s his secret, whatever it is!” insisted Rashida.

The séances became Raouf’s mother’s sole consolation in life; she would go to them accompanied by both Rashida’s mother and Rashida. But in the final days before her exams, Rashida stopped taking part in them.

On one of these nights, as she was at home studying on her own, Anous Qadri burst into the room. He had slunk up the open central stairwell of her building, then forced his way in. Raouf shouted at him to go back where he had come from, and not to take a single step toward her. But Anous attacked Rashida, stifling her voice by jamming his palm over her mouth.

“You’re going to run after me from now on, you … you stubborn bitch!” he snarled.

Then he began to brutally assault her, as she resisted as hard as she could, but to no avail.

“I’m going to take you alive or dead!” he taunted her.

Her hand groped for a pair of scissors on the table. With an insane strength, despite being pinned under his heavy weight, she plunged it into the side of his neck. He pressed upon her with vicious cruelty. Then his vitality ebbed away until he fell motionless upon her body, his warm blood pouring over her face and her torn blouse.

She threw him off of her and he lay sprawled on the tattered carpet. Then she staggered to the window and shrieked at the top of her lungs.

11

The people came running to the apartment, where they found Rashida like a demented murderess spattered with gore. They saw Anous’ body and started to scream, while Rashida curled into herself like a ball, murmuring, “He wanted to rape me….”

If not for the arrival of the detective and the shaykh of the hara, then the news might have led Boss Qadri the Butcher to murder her on the spot.

“My son — my only son!” he roared. “I will make the world burn!”

“Everyone out now!” the officer ordered, as his assistants surrounded Rashida.

“I will drink your blood,” said Qadri, aiming his storming rage at the girl.

The news soon spread like wildfire through their quarter.

12

Anous stared insensibly down at his body. Raouf came up to him, smiling, as the other looked at him and blurted, “Raouf, what brought you here?”

“The same thing that brought you here,” he replied. “Come along with me quickly, far away from this room.”

“And leave this behind?” Anous asked, still peering at his corpse.

“That is your old robe. It won’t do you any good to wear it now!”

“Have I … have I …?” Anous stuttered.

“Yes, you have departed the world, Anous.”

He was silent for a while, then he said, referring to Rashida, “But she is innocent.”

“I am aware of that,” Raouf assured him. “But you can’t save her — so come with me.”

“I’m sorry for what I did to you,” said Anous.

“Regret has no importance.

” “I’m glad to see you,” answered Anous. “And I’m glad to see you,” responded Raouf.

13

Raouf rapidly began to acquaint Anous with his new environs, then told him, “Here is Abu — your lawyer,” when the ancient ex-Egyptian arrived.

“Welcome, Anous, to the First Heaven,” said Abu.

“You mean, it was written that I should go to heaven?” Anous asked in shock.

“Be patient. The road is much longer than you conceive,” Abu replied with his well-practiced smile.

Abu then began to inform him of the facts he needed to know about his new world, about the system of trials, and the kinds of verdicts to expect in them. He paraded Anous’ beastly actions in front of him like ugly ghosts, until the young man’s face grimaced and — wobbling with despair — he could endure no more.

Despite this, Abu said, “In any case, it is my mission to defend you.”

“Is there a chance you could succeed in that?” Anous pleaded. “Will it lighten the burden of my sins that I was deprived of life at an early age?”

“You lost it at the hand of a girl defending her honor as you attacked her. Then you left her facing a charge for your murder.”

“That’s true,” admitted Anous. “How I wish I could become her spiritual guide.”

“She was successful, as was her spiritual mentor. She has no need of you.”

“Does that mean I’m damned?”

“No doubt your father lurks behind your corruption,” said Abu. “He is the one who led you astray, who filled you with selfishness, who suggested that you harm people, who whispered in your ear that you should perpetrate crimes as though you owned the whole world.”

“You’ve spoken the truth,” Anous said animatedly, seeing his hopes revived.

“Yet, since you have your own mind, heart, and will, you are judged on your own account,” said Abu.

“My father’s power numbed all my powers completely!”

“Heaven holds you responsible for yourself — and for the world altogether.”

“Isn’t that responsibility far above the abilities of any human being?”

“But you bear it in exchange for the gift of life itself,” reproved Abu.

“But I was born without any say in the matter!”

“Rather, you took this pact upon yourself while you were still in the womb.”

“In all honesty, I have no memory of that.”

“It is incumbent upon you to remember.”

“This is a prosecution, not a defense!”

“We must establish the truth,” explained Abu.

“I was not without good qualities — I sought knowledge, and I loved sincerely, as well,” said Anous.

“You sought knowledge merely as a means to achieve status, while your love was but a presumptuous urge to possess the girl who belonged to your poverty-stricken friend.”

“She never left my mind for one moment….”

“That was nothing but arrogance and desire.”

Clinging to any thread, Anous pointed at Raouf. “I maintained a pure friendship!” he claimed.

“Did you not ultimately kill it off brutally?”

“I suffered enormous sadness afterward,” said Anous.

“That is uncontestable,” admitted Abu.

“And what of my love for cats and my tenderness toward them?”

“That, too, is beautiful.”

Abu reflected for a moment, then resumed his interrogation. “What was your attitude toward your father’s tyranny?”

“I was just a dutiful son!”

“Such devotion was hardly appropriate in a case like yours.”

“Some of his actions always disgusted me.”

“Yet you greatly admired other things he did that were no less appalling.”

“If only I had lived long enough to change all that….”

“You are being tried for what was, not for what might have been.”

“… Or if I could be given another chance.”

“Perhaps that could be arranged,” mused Abu.

“When will I appear in court?”

“Your trial is already concluded,” replied Abu solemnly. “Anous Qadri, I regret to inform you that you have been condemned.”

At these words, like a wisp of fog in the rays of the sun, Anous vanished into the void.

Raouf gazed at Abu questioningly. “Will I continue as his spiritual guide?”

“He will not be reborn on earth for at least a year, or perhaps even longer.”

“What then, will my new assignment be?” wondered Raouf.

Mournfully, Abu told him, “You must present yourself for trial once again.”

“Did I not put every effort into it?”

“Indeed, you did, but you failed. Your man was condemned, as you have seen.”

“The important thing is the work, not the result.”

“The work and the result are both important,” Abu admonished. “Moreover, you made a monstrous mistake.”

“What was that, Abu?”

“It was not your mission to make him confess to killing you, as though that had been the only or the biggest crime in your quarter.”

“But wasn’t that his main problem?”

“No,” said Abu.

“What was it, then?”

“His father was the problem,” Abu advised. “If you had goaded him against his father, then you would have attained higher goals!”

Raouf fell into a pained silence as Abu continued to lecture him, “You did not choose the right target. Your egoism got the better of you, though you did not know it. It would have been easier to provoke him to rebel against his father. If he had succeeded in that, he would not have been disgraced. But it was hardly easy for a foolish, pampered young man to sacrifice his own life — while his father’s felonies included your murder.”

“Please tell me the verdict,” Raouf said in resignation.

“Raouf Abd-Rabbuh, I regret to inform you that you have been condemned.”

As soon as Abu pronounced his sentence, Raouf, too, was gone.

14

There was a lengthy inquiry into the case of Rashida Sulayman. She went to trial, where she convinced the court that she had acted in self-defense. The result was acquittal. Her mother decided that to remain in the hara at the mercy of Boss Qadri the Butcher posed an unpredictable danger, so she fled that night with her daughter, destination unknown.

At the same time, the bursting stream of life in the alley began to wash away the froth of sadness. Raouf’s destitute mother married Shaykh Shakir al-Durzi six months after the death of his wife. She bore him a son that she named Raouf to immortalize the memory of the one she had lost. Yet this was not really Raouf returning, but the soul of Anous in a new guise. Likewise, one of Boss Qadri’s wives gave birth to a boy that the father called Anous, in honor of the son taken from him — but this was none other than Raouf’s spirit transmigrated to a new body.

15

The child Raouf (Anous) grew up in the house of Shakir al-Durzi, along with many brothers and sisters, in a life of luxury, thanks to the bribes that Qadri the Butcher paid the shaykh of the alley. Yet the shaykh did not preoccupy himself with raising his children, or with marrying off his daughters. None of the boys were educated beyond Qur’an school, but worked in the lowest trades, whether in the hara itself or outside it. Nor was Raouf more fortunate than his brothers. At the beginning, his mother insisted that he excel in learning, only to be harshly reprimanded by her husband. Soon the boy was given a petty job in a bakery. Raouf was glad for that, because he did not find within himself either the true inclination or drive to study. As he grew older he understood the actual situation in his alley — the cocky dominance of Boss Qadri the Butcher, and the despicable role played by his father. And there was the life of poverty to which he was fated, in the service of Rashad al-Dabash, the bakery’s owner.

Anous (Raouf) had been his classmate at school. They had a natural sympathy for each other, and spent all their time playing together. A strong bond of affection was forged between them. Nonetheless, life separated them despite their living in the same quarter. Anous was enrolled in primary school after Qur’an school, then in secondary school, before finally entering the Police Academy. Perhaps they sometimes met on the street, or in the home of Qadri the Butcher when Raouf was delivering dough or returning with loaves of bread. At such times they would each exchange a fleeting smile, or a greeting — from Anous’ side — that seemed a bit feeble. Raouf could tell that their childhood friendship was dwindling away and evaporating, and their two worlds were growing further and further apart. He felt more and more sharply the contradictions of life, and its miseries. He was annoyed with Anous, but he utterly loathed Qadri the Butcher and Rashad the Baker, and abhorred his own father. Indeed, the flame of life singed him, kindled by what he heard that the young people were saying in the coffeehouse— until Anous himself would sit with those same youths, expressing his views with passion. With this he appeared to be a strange young man, at odds with the house in which he dwelt, in rebellion against his infamous father.

For his part, Boss Qadri the Butcher watched Anous’s development with unease. This was a peculiarly peevish offspring, one that stirred fears; he even once called him “a bastard son.”

One day he asked him, “What do you say to the riffraff in the café, and what do they tell you?”

“We exchange our concerns, father,” he answered politely.

“They are your enemies,” objected Qadri.

“They are my friends,” Anous said, smiling.

“If you overstep your limits, you’ll find me another person, without any mercy whatsoever,” swore Boss Qadri.

Qadri told himself that soon his son would become a police officer. Then he would become mature and know his place in life. Next, he would marry — and his problem with him would end.

Anous did indeed graduate as an officer. He was appointed to their own quarter through his father’s influence and his courting of highly placed persons.

16

Time is what made Raouf and Anous turn out differently than expected. A current swept through the alley, or rather new currents did — both rebellious and even revolutionary. And so they burst out of the suffocating air at home, each one adopting a new personality. No one sensed the danger from Anous before he became a policeman. Yes, there had been alienating disturbances between himself and his father, yet Qadri had thought everything would change in his favor when his son was officially launched in his career.

As for Raouf, his employer, Rashad al-Dabash, soon grew angry with him. He slapped him on the face, shouting, “Look out for yourself — and don’t lead your pals down the wrong path!”

If it weren’t for his father Shakir al-Durzi’s rank as shaykh of the hara, then Raouf would have lost his job,though Rashad complained to him about the boy. The shaykh was astounded at this new type of insubordination, and sought to tame him with a harsh beating. When he found him still stubborn, he resorted to calling on the officer.

“Effendim,” Anous advised, “threaten him with the law — that is better than our having to arrest him tomorrow.”

Thus Raouf appeared before his old friend Anous. For a long time they traded just looks with each other, then memories they shared together, until their faces glowed with the warmth of their old camaraderie.

“How are you, Raouf?” Anous asked him, smiling.

“Miserable,” Raouf replied, “so far away from you.”

“You should have continued your education,” Anous told him.

“That was my father’s doing — and what’s done is done.”

“Look out for yourself,” Anous told him seriously. “The law has no mercy.”

“The Boss caused all this evil — and there’s no mercy in his heart.”

Lowering his voice, Anous repeated, “Watch out for yourself….”

After this, Anous sought to shake up the hara’s consciousness, and to make his father tremble. He had Shaykh Shakir al-Durzi transferred to another alley, putting a new, more trustworthy man, Badran Khalifa, in his place. This hit Boss Qadri the Butcher like a violent revolution, depriving him of the precious right hand that had shielded him from the law.

“How did this happen when you’re an officer in the station here?” he confronted his son.

“That protection is for you — and the people too.

“You’re my son — and my enemy, Anous.

“Know, father, that I’m your faithful son.

Each speaking their own language, mutual comprehension between the two became impossible, and black dust covered the house’s face.

17

A woman came to meet Anous in the station. When his eyes beheld her face, his breast was moved by a sweet new melody. Such a wonder, this serene beauty with her dark, almond-shaped eyes. It was as though her image was already engraved in his passion to awaken it anew. She was at least twenty years older than he was: her expression entwined serenity and sadness.

“I’ve come to request your protection,” she told him.

“What is your name?” asked Anous.

“Rashida Sulayman, schoolteacher,” she told him. “Recently, I was transferred to the New Era School in this quarter.”

That name — hadn’t it flitted before through the tangle of his memory?

“Whom do you fear?” he queried her, his eyes fixed on her face with infatuation.

“It’s ancient history,” replied Rashida. “I may be exposed to an attack on my life because of it.”

“Really?” he said raptly. “What’s the history? And who would the attacker be?”

“It’s an old legal issue in which I was found innocent— a case of self-defense,” she explained. “But the father of the person killed is a frightful man with many criminal supporters.”

The old story that he had heard repeatedly in his childhood assailed him like a sudden storm. Shaken, he struggled to control his battered nerves. Standing before him was the woman who had killed his brother, the first Anous. Had she beguiled him the way she had bewitched his brother before him?

“We ran away to Imbaba,” she continued her tale. “I trained to be a teacher in the provinces, until I was suddenly transferred to our old neighborhood.”

He fell silent, caught up in the vortex of his emotions. He had not asked her the name of the person she feared— but then she said, “The man is well-known to everyone here: Boss Qadri the Butcher.”

“Are you married, ma’am?” he queried, steadying himself with an enormous effort.

“I have never wed,” she told him.

“Why haven’t you explained your circumstances to the school administration in this district?”

“No one would pay any attention to me.”

“Where do you live?”

“At 15 al-Durri Street, Imbaba.”

“Stay calm,” he told her. “I will speak to the administration myself. And if it takes a while to get results, then I will see to your protection personally.”

“Thank you,” she said warmly. “Please don’t forget me!” No, he would not be able to forget her.

18

Anous found no difficulty in annulling her transfer. He went by himself to the house at 15 al-Durri Street in Imbaba. The time was late afternoon. The Nile seemed still, cool fires gliding along its surface. Rashida received him with surprise blended with pleasure and hope, then guided him into her small, well-furnished sitting room.

“Please excuse my stopping by,” he said, “but I wanted to put your mind at ease immediately. I was able to undo your move at work.”

“A thousand thanks to you, effendim!”

She ordered coffee for him, thus offering him a chance to tarry, as he had hoped.

“Do you live with your mother?” he asked her.

“My mother passed away ten years ago,” she replied. “I have no one but an old woman who is my faithful housekeeper.”

What a shame that Rashida is a spinster, though she still retains her beauty.

“Would it disturb you to know that I am Anous Qadri, son of that same terrifying butcher?”

Rashida was shocked. Her brown face flushed, its expression changed completely — yet she said not a word.

“I have upset you,” he fretted.

“I’m just surprised,” she said tremblingly.

“Please don’t hate me,” he begged.

“You’re just a normal person,” she said shyly.

He continued sipping his coffee while drinking in glances he stole at Rashida. Then he laughed nervously, “I’m not frightening like my father!”

“I’m sure of that,” she said.

“Really?”

“That’s very clear — and the truth is, I’m innocent,” she declared.

“And I’m sure of that,” Anous affirmed. After a moment, he added, “But there is something that perplexes me.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“Why haven’t you married?” he asked.

She stared in the distance for a while, then answered, “I have refused more than one proposal.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because of your love for the other man?”

“But that has been forgotten, like everything else.”

“There must be a reason,” he pressed her.

“The loss of my virginity was no small matter,” she said. “Perhaps I have despaired of making anyone happy.”

“That’s a very regrettable thing,” he said.

“Maybe it was meant to be,” she said resignedly.

She’s still a ravishing woman!

On his way home, Anous felt he was floating through an ethereal atmosphere. He loathed the duty that took him away from the house at 15 al-Durri Street in Imbaba.

It’s true, I have fallen in love with Rashida.

19

Estrangement fell like a forbidding barrier between father and son. The mother was saddened to the point of death. The house became downcast, as oppressive as a rat’s nest. Should he seek a transfer to one of the provinces? And what about Imbaba? What would happen if his father knew the passions burning in his breast? An unexpected thought occurred to him: he had been born as a punishment for his father. If not, why had he declared a secret war upon him from his earliest awareness of his surroundings? What a father deserving of absolute rejection, a sad and regretful situation — especially as I love the man totally. Though beastly and crude to the outside world, he is mild and kind inside his own home. He cannot picture his own perversity, believing instead that he is only exercising his natural right — the right of the smart and the strong. His greed for money and power knows no limits. As accustomed to committing crime as to saying good morning, he is solicitous to his supporters, generous to the point of profligacy. But when it comes to the common laborers, whose money he steals and whose food he hoards, Qadri scorns them all — without mercy. One day Anous will detest him so much that he will even deny the man is his father. Even more calamitous than this, the Boss has stamped Anous’ mother with his character, for she worships his power. Every time he commits some outrage, she falls into raptures of adoration. Truly, he — Anous — dwells in the lion’s den, in the temple of might and sin.

As things became more and more complicated, provocative situations emerged. He arrested his father’s supporters as they were pilfering the money of the bakery’s employees. No sooner had he locked them up — for the first time in the hara’s history — than a torrent of giddy joy exploded in the alley, stirring a volcano in the house of Boss Qadri the Butcher. No longer able to remain, Anous decided to go. His mother’s torso shook as she wept.

“He is the Devil himself,” she cried.

Anous kissed her forehead and left. He rented a small apartment in Imbaba, telling himself that putting an end to the activities of his father’s supporters would do the same to his malignant powers. Qadri would be incapable of doing any more harm, and the quarter would slip from his hellish grip. He appealed to God, if only he could arrest his father in the very act of perpetrating a crime directly. Yet it appears that Qadri had resolved to meet the challenge with a similar one before his whole edifice collapsed — for on the same night a battle broke out between his supporters and the bakery’s workers. During it, Raouf received a fatal wound. But before drawing his last breath, he managed to assassinate Boss Qadri the Butcher.

These were explosive events in rapid succession, shaking the hara to its very foundations, drowning it in blood— while dissipating the darkness that had engulfed it for so long.

20

The Butcher found himself in front of Abu, hearing him say, “Welcome, Qadri, to the First Heaven.”

Acquainting the arrival with the place himself, he noticed that Qadri was absent-minded, with a dazed, faraway gaze.

“It seems as though you have not yet cut your ties to the earth,” Abu pointed out to him.

“Something weighs heavily inside me,” Qadri replied.

“Be aware — you will now learn your destiny.”

“Yes, but I never imagined I would be killed by a mere boy like Raouf.”

“Your new memory has not awakened yet.”

Confusion showed in the furrows of Boss Qadri the Butcher’s face. Slowly, slowly, he began to remember, until he let out a deep sigh.

“Do you recall now who this boy Raouf is?” Abu asked, smiling.

“My son Anous killed me,” said Qadri painfully.

“Indeed,” said Abu. “And do you remember who you were before that?”

“Adolf Hitler!” answered Qadri.

“And before that?”

“A notorious highwayman in Afghanistan. I can’t even pronounce his name!”

“A long, black record,” Abu upbraided him. “Why do you resist all advancement and waste every opportunity granted to you? Your son is better than you — many others are better than you.”

“The lesson won’t be in vain this time!” Qadri pleaded contritely.

“And yet, even as you appear before me now, you still have not left your worldly instincts behind!” Abu cajoled him.

“Perhaps I’m still stoned,” said Qadri lamely.

“Your excuse is worse than the offense.”

“I hope I can be made a guide….”

“Do you have anything to say in favor of your behavior on earth?”

“Yes, I do,” said Qadri. “I started out as an honest merchant. What made me greedy was other people’s weakness, their carelessness, and their hypocrisy. Being a tyrant was fun for me, and there was nothing to stop me.”

“The others will be punished for their weakness, just as you will be for exploiting it.”

“Won’t my murder at the hands of my own son count at all against my evil?”

“Such relations have no meaning here,” snapped Abu. “How many sons and daughters have you killed, without even thinking about it?”

“Even so, I didn’t create my own character, or my instincts.”

“You own them freely,” rebutted Abu. “In your freedom, you found no limits.”

“If you improve your defense of me, then you can have anything you want,” Qadri dangled.

“You are still clinging to the world,” Abu laughed. “That is the most unforgivable sin of all.”

“What do you say about my trial?”

“The trial is finished, Qadri,” Abu disclosed. “You have been condemned.”

And Qadri the Butcher was no longer there.

21

Raouf encountered Abu ensconced in his white cloud. There was a brief moment of mutual recognition, then a questioning look started to show in Raouf’s eyes.

“Welcome to the First Heaven,” said Abu.

He began to lecture Raouf for the usual orientation, then asked him, “How did you come to be here?”

“I was killed in a fight,” replied Raouf.

“But you killed your killer, as well.”

“I struck him while I was being stabbed,” said Raouf. “I don’t recall anything after that.”

“For the second time, you arrive as both a killer and a person killed.”

“Really?”

“I speak with some authority.”

“What did I get the last time?” wondered Raouf.

“You were condemned,” said Abu.

“Will that happen again now?” Raouf asked with worry.

“What would you like?” Abu asked.

“I rushed bravely into a just battle, and slew the Satan of our alley.”

“That is true,” conceded Abu.

His face jubilant, Raouf queried, “Is there hope for my acquittal?”

“Your negligence in the search for knowledge will count against you.”

“But the circumstances I lived in were so extreme!”

“That is also true,” said Abu. “But we evaluate the individual according to his struggle against his surroundings.”

As the pain began to appear in Raouf’s face, Abu told him, “You are a fine young man, but the ascent to the Second Heaven is a formidable feat indeed.”

“Doesn’t what I have done speak on my behalf?”

“Everything has been heard,” answered Abu. “The verdict has been issued: you are appointed as a spiritual guide.”

Raouf greeted the judgment with satisfaction, then Abu added, “More good news: you will be guiding Anous.”

“The policeman?”

“Yes, his behavior bodes well for the ultimate result.”

“Could that be the promised Paradise?”

Abu grinned as he replied, “There are seven heavens consecrated in service to the people of earth; but the time has not yet come to think about Paradise!”

“How does one climb from heaven to heaven?”

“Through the succeeding levels of judgment.”

Perplexed, Raouf asked, “Shall we be spared further strife in the Seventh Heaven?”

“That is what customarily is said to give one hope and consolation,” expounded Abu, still smiling, “though there is not one shred of evidence that it is true.”

Streams of lyrical bliss flowed by, immersing them both in the waves of dripping pale clouds that spread over the endless expanse of verdure below.