naked body, neither robe nor blouse nor slip. Her nakedness was stark, complete, so revealing of every detail that in death it seemed to speak of sin. For what woman, living or dead, would go stark naked like that? If she took off her veil, she would still keep her robe, and if she took off her robe she would still keep her blouse, and if she took off everything she would still wear a slip.
But there she lay on her back, as naked as a newborn babe, with her face looking up at the heavens and her brow, like her breast, pure and gentle and serene. But her nipple was hard and erect, definitely black, and between her legs was a deep wound, a gash in the flesh which she did with her hand. At least that was what they said. And since she was hiding her wound, it could only mean she had wounded herself. In other words, she had killed herself. And since it is God alone who gives us life, it is God alone who has the right to kill, to take it back. Therefore to kill oneself is to rebel against the will of God. To kill oneself is a crime. But that was not all. Had she not been found completely naked? Her crime was therefore a double crime, that of killing oneself and that of being naked, for nakedness was a crime, no doubt. Thus she had committed two crimes, to which they added a third, the crime of being an orphan without father or mother. And now that she was dead nothing was left of her except a name composed of three names kept inside a blue folder in the Security Department with an empty line for her father and an empty line for her grandfather and a line in which was written the third name inherited from her mother. Opposite each of her three names were registered the three crimes she had committed: killing, being an orphan, and dying naked.
It was the night of the Big Feast. A whole year had circled round the earth, making the Feast of the Sacrifice coincide with the Day of Great Victory and giving the people a double occasion to celebrate. So they gathered under the street lamps and sat cross-legged on the ground pushed up against one another. Their features were grey, their faces thin, the bones of their heads almost bare of flesh, their sharp noses prominent. From their mouths they blew out smoke and words, and below the bushy whiskers on their upper lips moved in and out with a coughing sound. Then, gulping down smoke and coughs and words, they closed their mouths and were silent for some time. But tiring of the silence after a while, they sneezed once or twice, peered at the sky cautiously to make sure that all was well, and started to tell stories about kings and gods, and devils and djinns.
One of them said, ‘Fellows, remember the good old days when we used to worship the sun and the God of Floods?’
Another commented, ‘Yes, verily, Allah is witness that the God of Floods gave us no peace until we satisfied Him with a virgin girl. He did not like women who were married or widows or women whose husbands had divorced them.’
Still another said, ‘What cunning he has, fellows.’
A fourth one commented, ‘All Gods were like that. The soldiers used to go searching from one peasant’s house to the other looking for a virgin girl to take away. The girls would hide on top of the mud oven or under the dry fodder or in the buffalo shed. But the God would remain full of wrath until he had been satisfied with the blood of a virgin.’
Then someone else added, ‘Not even King Shahrayar at his mightiest was like that.’
A man who had been silent till then said, ‘Why speak only of King Shahrayar? All kings are like that.’
Upon which they gulped down their words, their smoke and their saliva with the air, and throwing cautious looks at the door of the Security Department, lapsed into a deep silence, with their bodies reclining and their weight carried on their elbows, digging a small pit in the ground as the days went by. A column of ants crawled slowly towards the pit, misled by their queen leader, for the colour
But there she lay on her back, as naked as a newborn babe, with her face looking up at the heavens and her brow, like her breast, pure and gentle and serene. But her nipple was hard and erect, definitely black, and between her legs was a deep wound, a gash in the flesh which she did with her hand. At least that was what they said. And since she was hiding her wound, it could only mean she had wounded herself. In other words, she had killed herself. And since it is God alone who gives us life, it is God alone who has the right to kill, to take it back. Therefore to kill oneself is to rebel against the will of God. To kill oneself is a crime. But that was not all. Had she not been found completely naked? Her crime was therefore a double crime, that of killing oneself and that of being naked, for nakedness was a crime, no doubt. Thus she had committed two crimes, to which they added a third, the crime of being an orphan without father or mother. And now that she was dead nothing was left of her except a name composed of three names kept inside a blue folder in the Security Department with an empty line for her father and an empty line for her grandfather and a line in which was written the third name inherited from her mother. Opposite each of her three names were registered the three crimes she had committed: killing, being an orphan, and dying naked.
It was the night of the Big Feast. A whole year had circled round the earth, making the Feast of the Sacrifice coincide with the Day of Great Victory and giving the people a double occasion to celebrate. So they gathered under the street lamps and sat cross-legged on the ground pushed up against one another. Their features were grey, their faces thin, the bones of their heads almost bare of flesh, their sharp noses prominent. From their mouths they blew out smoke and words, and below the bushy whiskers on their upper lips moved in and out with a coughing sound. Then, gulping down smoke and coughs and words, they closed their mouths and were silent for some time. But tiring of the silence after a while, they sneezed once or twice, peered at the sky cautiously to make sure that all was well, and started to tell stories about kings and gods, and devils and djinns.
One of them said, ‘Fellows, remember the good old days when we used to worship the sun and the God of Floods?’
Another commented, ‘Yes, verily, Allah is witness that the God of Floods gave us no peace until we satisfied Him with a virgin girl. He did not like women who were married or widows or women whose husbands had divorced them.’
Still another said, ‘What cunning he has, fellows.’
A fourth one commented, ‘All Gods were like that. The soldiers used to go searching from one peasant’s house to the other looking for a virgin girl to take away. The girls would hide on top of the mud oven or under the dry fodder or in the buffalo shed. But the God would remain full of wrath until he had been satisfied with the blood of a virgin.’
Then someone else added, ‘Not even King Shahrayar at his mightiest was like that.’
A man who had been silent till then said, ‘Why speak only of King Shahrayar? All kings are like that.’
Upon which they gulped down their words, their smoke and their saliva with the air, and throwing cautious looks at the door of the Security Department, lapsed into a deep silence, with their bodies reclining and their weight carried on their elbows, digging a small pit in the ground as the days went by. A column of ants crawled slowly towards the pit, misled by their queen leader, for the colour
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