Death of a Monk Page 7

Aslan drew near the short older man and was repelled by the wrinkles that furrowed his face and the crafty eyes in a coarse shade of brown that skittered over Aslan’s body and did not let up even for a moment, and the older man, some fifty years of age, perhaps sixty, not quite Aslan’s height and older even than his father and uncles, said nothing; he merely placed a warm hand on Aslan’s right thigh and held tight, as if the thigh had belonged to him since time immemorial, and Aslan, against his will, felt the stirring of that organ that does not know satiation, and the organ stretched and flexed and stood erect in spite of his disgust at the sight of this older man, who signalled to Aslan to lean close and then whispered in his ear, Do you wish to have me now?

  My happy friend, only one small word now stood between me and that union I had heard tell of, and the appearance of this old man became, all at once, that of one beloved and desired, and I noticed the bulging veins of his hands and his scarred fingers and the overflowing sacs under his eyes and I loved these dearly, for what purpose and what aim could a young man have if not to unite with a man older than he, one sated with love and suffering, to learn from him like a maiden, a virgin, about the twisted paths and dead ends that life doles out, to be embraced by arms consumed by wind and sand, which were, as far as I could discern, thick and tanned, just as I like them, to hear the low buzz of his voice offering instruction and advice, full of experience, and to turn a soft cheek to his thick and prickly beard, to be a beloved and loving son to him?

  But before I could respond to the proposal of the older man, a herald came to make an announcement I failed to comprehend about the impending arrival of some singing whore come to gladden the hearts of the growing crowd of men in the Maqha, and the herald held a large lantern in his hand which spilled, momentarily, a narrow strip of light on the face of my new friend, the older man, and how great was my astonishment, and how my desire for him doubled and trebled, when it became apparent to me that the man whose warm hand held my thigh was none other than Father Tomaso, known to all as Baba Toma, from a humble monastery in the city’s Christian Quarter, a wooden cross dangling from his neck, a broad monk’s cap on his head, his black cloak embroidered with red thread, and he was beloved and very well thought of by all and came quite regularly to the homes of the Jews on all manner of business, once to sell second-hand furnishings and once to negotiate the sale of property and once to provide injections and mix potions, something he had taught himself to do with the aid of an ancient book written in the Italian language, and he was even known to me from my youth, when he would come to inoculate me and the other boys at the Talmud Torah against aljidri, smallpox, and he would remove our tunics, revealing our buttocks, and prick each one gaily with his sharp needle.

  Tomaso, who seemed to notice my look of recognition, laughed broadly and warmly and began massaging my thigh as his fingers climbed towards my testicles, now tight as two nuts in a shell, and Tomaso straightened the cap on his head and muttered the name of one of the Catholic saints and, in the accent of his youth, which he had retained even after thirty years in Damascus, he repeated his proposal, to which I nodded ever so slightly, and Tomaso loved me mightily for that.

  From the moment I gave my consent I was overcome with great feebleness and nearly toppled over, my traitorous legs quaking beneath me, and Tomaso goaded me on: Well then, let’s be off, and I asked him, To where, the monastery where you reside? And he laughed raucously and said, In the name of Holy Jesus, that is not right and proper for a monastery, nor are the bushes near to the Maqha suited to the act of love in which we intend to engage; instead, for this purpose, he could provide us with a small, hidden room near the wall of the city, not far from the Jewish Quarter, which he maintained for acts such as these, and he held me tight, his fingers all the while massaging the entrance to my buttocks, and commanded me to accompany him there immediately, for the hour was already quite late and he would need to rise early for morning prayers, and to greet the small but faithful contingent of worshippers who prayed at the chapel of his monastery.

  My happy friend, I was poised to leave with the monk, to meet his uncircumcised member and learn all there was to know about it, and had already shed my feebleness and replaced it with a moment’s resolve to carry out that forbidden act, when something wondrous occurred: on a small stage in a corner of the café there mounted a woman, stately and ravishing, her shoulders a bit broad but her eyes almond-shaped and her legs doe-like, and at once she gave over her gentle voice to an old song that tells the tale of a lover who departs, never to return, the song I used to sing with my first friend, Moussa:

  Min badak ahgor khali

  Ya a’aeb an aynya

  To you I will depart from myself

  You, who are far from my eyes

  Aslan knew at once that this was none other than Umm-Jihan from the day of his marriage, and she was radiant with light and her thick lips were painted red, and her face was gently rouged and her black hair was shimmering and wavy, and Aslan knew that neither the indecent act he was about to engage in with this sinner nor the loathsome marriage to the daughter of a rabbi were his destiny; rather, he was meant for love and peace and tranquillity with this tall, clear-voiced woman, and she was the perfect mixture of everything he had ever desired: the delicate features of her face and her wide, assured gait, the high-pitched sounds she produced from her throat and her gentle gaze; she was a woman of valour who surpassed all the daughters of Damascus.

  Imbued with a pure, new passion, I remove Tomaso’s fingers from my hot thigh and fix my gaze on that woman full of magic, whose eyes lock with mine, and perhaps she recalls my wedding and our brief dance and she shakes her large breasts, awakening in me, much to my surprise, love and infinite longing.

  Tomaso tries to coax me one more time but I turn my back to him and draw nearer to her, and he whispers in my ear that one day we shall meet to carry out that act of union and coupling for which we two were destined, perhaps at that same café or perhaps at some other place in the city, even the Jewish Quarter one day soon, and he utters some Christian incantation to ensure it, but I do not heed or listen to any of his words, I merely draw nearer to Umm-Jihan, that most beautiful of women, and join her in singing that old song I loved, about my lover and the orchards and sporting with him barefoot on the roof under the light of the moon.

  When the song ends and Umm-Jihan disappears I am filled with desire to see her at once, to tell her of my love and to sail with her on the back of an Arabian mare galloping across the deserts of Arabia, and I ask the moustachioed barman filling glasses of araq under the table, Where is this woman whom I love, and the barman smiles the smile of a pimp, a shepherd of women, and nods to a small chamber behind the stage, and then he winks and I fail to understand the meaning of this, but I rush to that place, catching Tomaso – from the corner of my eye – as he departs from the Maqha on the arm of his young and able-bodied servant and there, behind a curtain of red beads, I knock on a small door and am permitted to enter the room, where the songstress is sipping from a cup of anisette to restore her spirits.

  Quickly I compliment Umm-Jihan on her singing – which has captured my heart – as well as her appearance and the feminine wisdom so evident in her, and she extends her cheek gracefully, a true lady, and I kiss it lightly, inhaling the touch of her pleasant skin, and I wish to add more, to tell her that she is my succour and my hope, that to her my secret thoughts are devoted, that she staves off waves of ugly desire, but instead I stand there silent and mute, and Umm-Jihan flashes me a smile of purity and says, Int mahbub, You are cute, and she asks my name but then begs my forgiveness, she must be alone, she must change her apparel and leave for her abode, and I say quickly, Where can I see you again? Here at the Maqha? Or elsewhere? And Umm-Jihan laughs, jiggling her gold earrings, and spreads her long, pink fingernails like a fan of blooming violets and tells me that in the past she appeared at many private functions throughout Damascus, but now her time is not free for such things, and in the sound of her f
ading laughter I note one round tear pooling in her eye and making its messy way down her rouged cheeks, and Umm-Jihan steels herself to ensure that this one tear will not drag forth a shower of sobs whose meaning I do not comprehend, and before I, too, can burst out crying in that way Aslan has, and make myself a laughing-stock in the eyes of the only woman I have ever loved, I lift my legs and propel my body away from there into the crowded and smoky Maqha.

  Although the hour is quite late and the Jewish guard has undoubtedly fallen asleep, and the members of our household – if they have noted Aslan’s absence – will be exceedingly angry, Aslan chooses to step out into the street to lie in wait at the gate of the café for Umm-Jihan to exit, and until she has finished gathering her elegant dresses and her long, shiny hair, and instructing the porter to carry her belongings to her home, Aslan is forced to watch the parade of men, drunkards and wastrels, departing from the café after a night of entertainment, and there are those whose buttons are undone after coupling with young whores in the small rooms, and there are those who emerge bellowing rude songs, embracing in their drunkenness, and there are those who stand urinating on the wall, the flow strong and acrid, droplets of urine spewing into the clear night, and there is one gang of men poised to strike out against another gang of men over some trifling incident until the young man at the door, who has been collecting admission fees all evening, hushes them, threatening to summon the agents of the Tufekji-Bashi, the chief of police, to toss them all behind bars, and they cease their amiable tussling and button their buttons and return to their wives and children awaiting them in slumber all across the city of Damascus.

  Some time later, convulsed with the cold of darkness but determined to cast a last glance at the woman he loves, Aslan hears thin, high shrieks from one of the hidden entrances to the café and immediately understands that his beloved is in need of his help, and he rushes towards the low bushes, now scented with men’s semen and urine, and here he spots two gendarmes roughly removing Umm-Jihan from the place where she sang so beautifully that evening, and they kick her and toss aside her purse and pack her on to a mule covered in a patched and tattered blanket, saying, Harki tizeq, Move your arse, woman, Ya mal’ouna, and Aslan’s heart is stirred, for her eyes sparkle with tears, and when they pinch her buttocks she shrieks those small, thin shrieks that drew his attention and Aslan very nearly jumps up to stop the gendarmes, for what injustice and what sin could so pure a woman cause any man on earth, and why are they handling her so roughly and mercilessly, and Aslan wishes to gather her in his arms and take her into his heart, but he knows that the gendarmes are stronger than he and that he, Aslan, has no home or room to which he can lead her, and no horse upon whose back he may escort her, only his first, unique love, now bubbling through him and filling his veins, and so he returns, confused and elated, to the Jewish Quarter, and he cares not when le guardien demands more money from him. In love and distracted, he pours all the coins remaining in his pocket into the guard’s cash box and departs for home, anxious and distraught.

  7

  UMM-JIHAN AND UMM-JIHAN and Umm-Jihan, this was the only name Aslan would ponder and utter and chant from morning to evening. Again and again he would resurrect in his imagination her elegant manners and the lovely things she had said to him during their brief meeting, such as, You are cute, and such as, What is your name, and such as, I must be alone, and then he would recall the coarse shouts of the gendarmes and the lurid curses they had hurled at her and that depressing, thick-headed mule toiling, in the small hours of the night, to carry out its contemptible mission, and Aslan would toss and turn in his bed, unwillingly soaking up the scent of sweat from his wife Markhaba, and his sorrow swirled together with longing.

  Aslan prised information from a cousin of his – a cunning gossip, unlike other men – about Umm-Jihan, and this cousin told him with a sly smile that that woman, among the most wondrous of women the world over, had been sentenced to long-term imprisonment for some crime whose nature he did not know, so that instead of baths of milk and honey she spent her days in the prison beneath the Saraya. Further, he told Aslan that on occasion she was granted permission to appear and perform in public as she once had, but that only a tiny per cent of the proceeds ever reached her hands, the rest disappearing into the governor’s coffers.

  Aslan wished to ask his mother and his father and his uncles for all they could tell him of Umm-Jihan – perhaps she had been born to a Jewish mother, but even if she were Christian or Muslim he thought she might consent to convert to the Jewish faith; such things had been occurring for as long as Jews had been residing in Damascus, and in that case he would divorce Markhaba and distance himself from her family of rabbis and cling to Umm-Jihan instead, and together they would know only happiness and love – but if Aslan were too persistent in his pursuit of the information he desired so dearly about the life of his one true love, his interrogee would nip the conversation in the bud, saying, Aslan, remove your thoughts instantly from this person, who is filled with nothing but sorrow and misery, evil and wickedness, malediction and imprecation, she is like a snake whose head must first be bashed.

  These constant thoughts about Umm-Jihan awakened a dormant desire for women in Aslan, inflaming and inciting him with dreams of bedding the stunning songstress, and this led to acts of love with his wife Markhaba, for although she caused his organ to fall limp, in her female body there was some trace, some glimmer, some slight hint of that vivacious and beloved singer, so that Aslan banished the servant-boy from the room and visited Markhaba from time to time and for a moment, with the aid of darkest night, was capable of believing that it was Umm-Jihan who was giving herself over to him and jiggling her thighs and caressing his back, and it was that cherished and long-desired name that he whispered in his wife’s ear.

  Aslan visited the Maqha, on the outskirts of the city’s Christian Quarter, several times more, which was no simple matter, for he had to bribe le guardien and pay the admission fee and sit and wait – in vain – for Umm-Jihan, and no one could tell him what had become of her, his beloved, why she did not set foot on that small stage reserved only for her, and why it was that her bell-like voice did not ring out, echoing through the smoky café, which was suffused with men’s curses and lecherous looks.

  And it happened that each time Aslan came to the Maqha to await the appearance, if even for a moment, of his only love, that same sunburnt older man dressed in the black robe of a priest, a large skullcap covering his head, would seat himself beside Aslan and lay a warm hand on his thigh and whisper debauchery in his ear about how his organ excelled in hardness and thickness, and how from his foreskin there arose a pleasant fragrance, and how the head of his penis bore a double crown, and how for some time now he had lusted to unite with a lad like Aslan, one with a delicate soul and an innocent look, not like the Muslim Arabs whom one could meet at the baths or late at night at the Khan Assad Pasha, young men willing to deliver their organs to his mouth but who covered their buttocks with two layers of cloth and kept them protected and out of view; even his own right-hand man Ibrahim Amara refused, with the stubbornness of a virgin, to open himself up to the monk’s sweet organ and enter into a covenant of unity and love with him in the simple bed they shared in the humble monastery.

  Tomaso would whisper sweet and beautiful praises in Aslan’s ear about his lovely and pleasant body, about the downy hair that covered his skin like vines and leaves of ivy climbing the fortified walls of a city, and he would explain that it was incumbent upon the Jews to atone for the enormous sins they had perpetrated against Christians and against priests and against their lord and saviour Jesus Christ when they surrendered him to his death and informed upon him and spoke libel against him and for that reason are accursed for time immemorial, and how they could atone for this murder and be forgiven by bending over and stretching their backs so that devout Christians could satiate themselves, spraying their holy fluids into their bodies as a sign of absolution and atonement.

&n
bsp; But Aslan had fallen under the spell of that maiden who caused his soul to rejoice, and so he offered no response to the monk, nor did he engage in any conversation with old Tomaso and did not pay heed to any of his arguments or pleas; he would merely sit in his place ignoring the glances of rich merchants as they cast their eyes upon him, and those of the waiters curious for the taste of a Jew, waiting like a faithful dog whose owner had abandoned him and for whose return he will wait a very, very long while.

  Tomaso repeated his entreaties to Aslan about that secret room he kept near the Jewish Quarter, eager to escort him that short distance in order to know him and love him there in the way of men with men, and he wished to know why it was that Aslan was so estranged from him, for Aslan had been glad and willing to enter a holy covenant with him at the time of their first meeting; but Aslan filled his mouth with water and repeatedly abstained from revealing the reason for his refusal until one day, when he paid a visit to the Maqha and waited in vain for his beloved to appear, Aslan acquiesced, and told Tomaso, Why do you adhere yourself to me instead of your servant Ibrahim? My heart has one purpose only and one love only, and it is directed to that God-fearing woman Umm-Jihan.

  The moment Tomaso understood the reason for Aslan’s estrangement he spilled the glass of araq he had been drinking, spraying it from his mouth as he laughed uproariously, so that the clients of the Maqha stared viciously at him; in any event they secretly cursed him – a man of the cloth – for entering such a place of ill repute without the slightest embarrassment, and they wished the most scabrous of deaths upon this abject Christian and all the other heretics whose purpose in residing in Damascus was none other than converting Muslims from their true and rightful faith.

  Tomaso, however, was oblivious to this animosity. He clapped his hand around Aslan’s neck and said, My sweet friend, my dear boy, my beloved comrade: banish from your mind at once these vain hallucinations and foolish visions, for the woman you await and yearn for is not a woman at all, but a man like all men, save for the fact that he enjoys donning women’s clothing on occasion for the purpose of entertainment.