The Mirage (18 page)

They all hooted again, then barraged me with jokes and wisecracks, and I laughed with them nonchalantly. Then I thought it best to take my leave, so I called the waiter, paid him, and bade farewell to my drinking companions. As I left, they were still teasing me mercilessly. Staggering, I headed for a carriage in the parking lot. Then, sitting down self-importantly in the middle of the seat, I said to the driver in a loud slur, “To the seat of corruption!”

The carriage took off, and before long I was enjoying its sluggish movement. I began looking at the street in such merriment and delight, I wished the ride would never end. I realized I was embarking on a new experience that was no less dangerous than the one before it, and I was beset by
anxiety. However, enthusiasm got the better of me again. The carriage stopped on a noisy street and the driver gestured with his whip, saying with a laugh, “Here’s the original seat of corruption!”

After some hesitation I asked him, “Do you have any idea about the prices?”

“The most expensive time would be a riyal!” he said with a chuckle.

Pained by the expression despite my drunkenness, I got out of the carriage and found myself in a world ablaze with bright lights and swarming with drunks and revelers. The sounds of laughter mingled with curses and shouts, and I could hear the beating of tambourines and stale tunes coming from a worn-out fiddle or a tinny-sounding piano. Meanwhile, my nose was bombarded by the aroma of sweet-smelling incense. I couldn’t bring myself to mix with the crowds of merrymakers, so I made my way to the nearest door and went in. Once inside, I found myself at the entrance to a spacious, circular courtyard onto which numerous doors opened. Around its periphery were couches and chairs occupied by men and women, and its floor was carpeted with bright yellow sand on which a half-naked woman was dancing. My liquor-induced daring seemed to have dissipated by this time, however, and I froze in place, not knowing what to do. I was mesmerized by the dancer, since I was seeing dancing for the first time, and I gaped with revulsion and fear at the writhing, semi-naked body. I was equally disturbed by the state of her face, which was coated with a heavy layer of garish paint. Her lips parted to reveal gold teeth that looked like holiday candies wrapped in shiny paper.

Then suddenly there appeared before me a man wearing
a striped, brightly colored tunic whose features bespoke malice and depravity. He invited me to have a seat, but I retreated from him and, as I did so, collided with someone behind me. As I turned to get away from the man, I saw a woman who was undoubtedly of the same type as the dancer, and who blocked the door with her arm. She had an offensive smile on her face and was chewing a bit of hashish, which she popped with her teeth. My limbs went cold and my heart shrank in alarm. Seeing the uncertainty and fear in my face, she let out a shrill laugh. Then in a flash, she reached out and snatched my fez, placed it on her head, and headed with swift steps toward a nearby door.

Still standing in his place, the man said to me, “Follow her and don’t be afraid. This is Merry Zouzou, and there’s no one like her!”

Not willing to stand there a second longer, I left the place without looking back and without giving a second thought to my lost fez. Getting in the first carriage I came to, I said to the driver, “To Manyal.”

I arrived home before midnight, broken-winged and smarting with defeat, failure, and disappointment. I’d never imagined that such a bright dream could end on such a hideous note. The magical intoxication had evaporated, leaving in its wake a thick pall that drained the life out of my spirit. I don’t know how, but I wakened my mother as I was undressing. She sat up in bed and looked at the alarm clock.

“You’re awfully late,” she mumbled with a yawn.

Making no reply, I continued undressing until my legs gave out on me and I flung myself onto the chair. I gathered my strength and got up again, but I was still unsteady on my feet, and if I hadn’t grabbed hold of the bedpost, I
would have fallen to the floor. My mother slipped out of bed and came toward me, her eyes wide with amazement and alarm. She looked searchingly into my face for a short while without saying a word. Then she sat me down on the chair and began undressing me herself. She lay me down to sleep on my bed, and no sooner had I hit the mattress than I fell fast asleep. And it seemed to me—or perhaps I dreamed—that my mother was sobbing.

T
he next morning I woke up unexpectedly early, and within seconds I’d remembered all the events of the day before. I looked fearfully in the direction of the other bed, and as I did so, I happened to see my mother praying. My face ablaze with chagrin, I got hurriedly out of bed and headed for the bathroom feeling altogether disoriented. When I got back to the room, I found my mother waiting and trying to appear calm. However, those limpid eyes of hers couldn’t lie. Avoiding her glance, I said, “Good morning” in a near whisper.

She sighed audibly, then came up to me and, placing her hand on my shoulder, said gently but imploringly, “After my devotions, I said a long prayer specially for you, and God is the One who hears and answers. We don’t have much time, so listen to me, Kamil. Listen with your heart, and not just with your ears. What’s past is past. Never in my life had I imagined that you would do such a thing. However, government employees aren’t the best company
to keep, and they could corrupt you and lead you astray. This was a mistake that Satan lured you into, so repent of it to God. Do I need to remind you of your father’s tragedy when you yourself have been a witness to it, and your mother one of its victims? Even so, my heart is at peace in spite of what happened. After all, you’re a believer who fears God, and you’re your mother’s son, not your father’s. Someone like you who comes before God in prayer five times a day is sure to do all he can to come into His presence in a state of reverence and purity. Don’t forget that yesterday’s error was a great evil and that it will go on being like a knife that cuts me to the quick. Alas, I’m no longer able to keep you by my side. So when you go out into the world, meet it with the heart of a person of faith who’s conscious of God at all times. You’ll go to Lady Umm Hashim’s shrine today to offer God your repentance with her help.”

My eyes didn’t meet hers once that morning, and I went to the ministry grieved. I recalled what she’d said word by word and pondered it thoroughly. I was dismayed that I’d allowed her to discover what I’d done, and I realized what a terrible shock it had been to my poor mother. I remembered the disillusionment I’d suffered in the courtyard of that strange house, and my lips curled in revulsion. At the same time, though, I hadn’t forgotten the rapturous bliss that had come with drinking. I hadn’t forgotten it despite the hangover, the fatigue, and the scandal it had left in its wake. Even after performing the ritual dawn prayer in all sincerity and faith, I couldn’t find it in me to hate it. It wasn’t that my conscience was at peace (when had it ever been at peace?), but dreams of that enchanting intoxication swept over me, overruling my conscience, my sufferings,
and my mother. The meaning of happiness and contentment had been doomed to remain beyond my reach until that intoxication flowed in my blood, opening its heavenly portals before me. This was what I’d been looking for. God! How could I possibly give it up and ask forgiveness for it? What would remain to me after this but unspoken longing, mortal affliction, and anxiety that would tear me limb from limb? Of course, even if I succumbed to its allure, it couldn’t possibly yield undisturbed repose. On the contrary, it would add one more struggle to my conscience that I could well do without. I was already in a constant tug-of-war: between taking the world by the horns and shying away from it, between my sweetheart and my mother, and between addiction to my infernal habit and the desire to give it up. Now I faced a new struggle between my desire for alcohol and the need to repent of it, and it burdened me to the point where I turned into a pendulum in constant motion being pulled one way by demons, and the other way by angels. Angst took such a toll on me that I groaned in distress, wondering: Why didn’t God create life as pure ecstasy that lasts from one generation to the next? Why can’t we attain happiness without suffering and anguish? Why does love suffocate in our hearts from despair, and why does our beloved come and go, unaware of our existence even though she’s just a kiss away?

Come what may, I concluded, alcohol is the key to deliverance. It was the embodiment of consolation, the password that opened the door that would lead to my beloved. I didn’t want the world so long as it refused to change itself. My loathing for reality was no less than my loathing for that hideous dancer. In fact, the world itself had been
revealed to me in a form similar to that dancer in her writhing and twisting, her phony exterior, and her hidden wretchedness. Why, then, should I resist the allure of this magical intoxication?

That afternoon my mother invited me to visit Umm Hashim’s shrine with her, so we went out together. It was the first time I’d been out with her in years. We got into a carriage and sat side by side in a way that brought back memories for both of us of the old Victoria, and her gentleness eased the anxiety that had seized me. My mother was wearing a light summer coat that complimented the loveliness of her slender frame. Her comely face looked placid and acquiescent, and in her limpid green eyes she had a dreamy look tinged with melancholy. Her head was swathed in a black veil that framed her face with a solemnity that revealed traces of the fifty-four years she’d spent thus far of the lifetime apportioned to her. Tender affection for her welled up in my heart and I wished I could kiss her. I thought with profound sorrow about her gradual advance toward old age. Then I remembered the treacherous thoughts that had gone through my head when she’d been bedridden, and I bit my lip furiously. What despicable thoughts they’d been! They’d sprung from the depths of the ache that I sought to escape by any means. However, my emotional agony was mitigated by what I imagined she would inherit from my grandfather, who was nearly ninety years old.

At that moment it would have seemed an enormity to disobey her. At the same time, I sensed in my heart of
hearts that I was about to offer a sham repentance to which I had no choice but submit, and it grieved me. How would I come before Umm Hashim with this perfidious heart of mine when nothing could be hidden from her? How could I have been transformed overnight from a good-hearted, devout soul into a rascal enamored of waywardness? We arrived at last at the mosque and entered reciting the Fatiha, and as we made our way toward the tomb, my heart was a mix of love, faith, and fear. Memories of days gone by wafted over my heart—memories of when I would come into the sacred mosque with a happy heart that had yet to suffer a sense of guilt and a tormented conscience. My mother went before me into the sacred place whispering fervently, “Umm Hashim, I’ve brought Kamil to you to repent of his error, so bless him and guide his steps!” Then she nudged me in the direction of the tomb. I placed my open hand on it and felt a coolness flow into my heart. I stood there silently for quite some time in the presence of a majesty that causes hearts to grow humble and reverent. I imagined the holy tomb to be gazing at me with glistening eyes that hadn’t been changed by death, and I called upon Umm Hashim from my heart to inspire me with right understanding, to deliver me from my confusion and misery, and to accept my repentance. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I asked her to watch over my wretched love with her merciful eye.

As we took our leave of the sacred resting place, my mother dried her eyes.

“Have you repented to God?” she asked me.

“Yes,” I replied without looking at her.

“I hope it was a sincere repentance,” she murmured.

I
wasn’t able to resist the new urge. Nothing could stand in the face of it, and not my conscience, my repentance, or my inborn fear of God did me a bit of good. I felt hopeless about my life: my job was truly abominable, my love life was one long sigh of discontent, and the days passed heavily without consolation or hope. My eyes would behold and my heart would beat, but my will was incapacitated by weakness and fear. Alcohol-induced euphoria was my only consolation, and I gave myself over to it heart and soul. This miserable consolation was short-lived, however, and fate wasn’t favorably disposed to my enjoyment of it.

One Friday in the early autumn of that year, my mother and I sat talking as usual. The doorbell rang and the servant opened the door, then came and summoned me to meet a certain “bey.” I went to the door right away and found a distinguished-looking man who must have been sixty or seventy years old. After a courteous greeting, I looked at him questioningly.

“Are you Kamil Effendi?” he asked.

“I’m Kamil Ru’ba,” I replied as I looked searchingly into his face. “This is the house of Colonel Abdulla Bey Hasan.”

Taking me by the hand, he led me outside, then leaned toward me and said, “May God grant you length of days. Your grandfather has died, son.”