The Seventh Heaven (19 page)

“That beautiful, bewitching face!”

“And her girlfriend who would never stop laughing!”

“And that self-important character who made himself the maestro at every party!”

We philosophize and say, “Well, that’s life and we must take it as it is. It’s been that way since the age of Adam, always treating people in the same fashion…. So where’s the surprise?”

But the debate subsided as the hall was emptied of its heroes. Today, no one comes, not a man or a woman. I wait and wait in hope that maybe … but it’s no use. I am tortured by loneliness, as my loneliness is tortured by me. I am unaware of what goes on beyond my sight. Nothing remains but mummified imaginings in the sarcophagi of memory. Sometimes I believe—and sometimes I do not. There was nothing in my heart but bruises and wounds, and affection for that One who dwells within me, when he asked me, “Shall I tell you the truth?”

“Please.”

“They have all been arrested,” he said. “The Guardian executes his duty, as you are aware.”

“But they’re all so different. How can he arrest them all without distinguishing between them?”

“He is not concerned with differences.”

“Do you foresee when they will be released?” I asked, with intense distress.

“Not one of them shall be freed,” he answered, his voice frigid with finality.

Ah! He means what he says. None of them shall be spared. The period of my loneliness shall linger and lengthen. But the matter didn’t stop there. Motion is eternal and unceasing. I was watching a moth fluttering about my lamp when he breathed in my ear, “Be warned…. They are looking into you.”

Really? No matter how long your voyage, your mission keeps growing with it, an old saying goes. But anxiety did not grip me as it did of yore. I listened to him as he whispered, “There is a chance for survival.”

I heard without heed. He was goading me toward the impossible. He often teased me this way—but I felt neither fear nor a desire to protest. Nor was I without a certain strange pleasure.

“No,” I told him.

And I occupied myself with packing my bag.

I alternate between packing my bag and amusing myself by watching the comings and goings.

I wrap myself in my robe against the cold of winter. I stand behind the windowpane, the glistening earth shaded by the boughs of trees, the sky obliterated by clouds. My
eyes observe closely. More than once I spot him as he crosses the road, his tall, slender figure untouched by age. But he has not yet headed toward my house. In my youth I was deceived by his friendship with my father and his praise for him, and then … what was the result? That amazing man! During the days when I was deceived with what there was between him and my father, I came upon him unexpectedly on the street near my home. In all innocence, as courtesy demands, I invited him to visit us.

“Not today—thank you, my son,” he said, smiling.

How often people are confused by his kind reputation and his sadistic acts! In an interview a woman journalist asked him about his preoccupations.

“That I execute my duty to perfection,” he explained.

She pointed out examples of iniquity that sometimes occur.

“My work is carried out with perfect justice!” he rejoined.

“Have you never once loathed your duty?”

“Never—I execute a law that is absolutely just.”

“Aren’t there incidents that deserve explanation?”

“If we get into these legalistic details, the readers will lose all patience with me!”

And so the reporter ended the interview by noting his complete self-assurance.

Such is the man whose name breathes terror into hearts, who once declared publicly, “I do not go to people to arrest them. Rather, it is they who come to me by themselves.”

He added, “Likewise I deny with vehemence all that is said about the torture practiced in prisons.”

And so, here I am, looking out from behind the window-pane, during the brief moments in which I pause from packing my bag.

W
e had not thought that Hasabu, who warned us of danger, would ever amount to so much. He used to sell perfumes for a meager profit, though his wealth in human affection knew no bounds. His most prominent qualities were his soundness and reliability. In his leisure time he would dabble in song, loving to stay up late talking, though he didn’t partake of a water pipe except behind the neighborhood tombs.

One morning he came back from his late night out, his face white and his mind distracted. He told his friends in the coffeehouse that he had been summoned as he returned in the dark, finding himself surrounded by furious ghosts. He learned from their conversation that they were skeletons of the former residents of our quarter. They
were agreed among themselves that what was now going on here was morally forbidden. They asked him to serve as their herald, warning the people of the
hara
that if they didn’t put right their affairs, and return to the straightened path, then the spirits would creep upon them as an army of walking bones, cleansing the quarter of both sin and sinners.

Some people laughed. Others cracked jokes. Yet they all fell speechless in view of his intense sadness, and his tearful, dejected looks.

“You’re serious, Hasabu!” said one.

“We’ve never known you to be a liar!” declared another.

“But what you’re saying is simply impossible!” opined a third.

So he answered in a quavering voice, “Sublime is His powe
r
…. He says of something,
Be!
—and it is….”

Amazingly, what Hasabu said greatly affected many souls. One group repeated what is said of the Holy Traditions, that there can be no altering them. Others clung to the word of the All Powerful, who knows no limits. The wise men, common folk, and fools alike became caught up in all this until it kindled civil strife. The shaykh of the alley finally felt compelled to intervene, calling out to them on market day, “What have you to do with these arcane affairs? Have you given up your daily concerns?”

He appealed for help from the prayer leader of the local Sufi order, but the disputation persisted and grew out of control. Insults were traded, and fistfights broke out.

During all this, they would refer to the warning of the
Dead as if it were an undeniable fact. Yet this did nothing to diminish the deviations from the righteous way that took place every day, as though there was no relation between the two.

As for Hasabu, he withdrew from the life of his alley— and was drawn instead to the world of the Unseen with all its force. All connections between himself, people, and material things were cut, as he retired with his white robe, green turban, and cryptic speech. He spent most of his days at the cemetery’s edge, staring into the wasteland beyond, awaiting whatever Time would bring.

“The Seventh Heaven” was published as “al-Sama’ al-sabi’ a” in
al-Hubb fawq hadabat al-haram,
1979.

“The Disturbing Occurrences” was published as “al-Hawadith al-muthira” in
al-Hubb fawq hadabat al-haram,
1979.

“Room No. 12” was published as “al-Hujra raqm 12” in
al-Jarima,
1973.

“The Garden Passage” was published as “Mamarr al-Bustan” in
al-Tanzim al-sirri,
1984.

“Forgetfulness” was published as “al-Nisyan” in
al-Tanzim al-sirri,
1984.

“Beyond the Clouds” was published as “Fawq al-sahab” in
al-Fajr al-kadhib,
1989.

“The Haunted Wood” was published as “al-Ghaba al-maskuna” in
al-Fajr al-kadhib,
1989.

“The Vapor of Darkness” was published as “Dukhan al-zalam” in
al-Qarar al-akhir,
1996.

“A Man of Awesome Power” was published as “al-Rajul al-qawi” in
al-Qarar al-akhir,
1996.

“The Only Man” was published as “al-Rajul al-wahid” in
al-Qarar al-akhir,
1996.

“The Rose Garden” was published as “Hadiqat al-ward” in
Sada al-nisyan,
1999.

“The Reception Hall” was published as “al-Bahw” in
al-Qarar al-akbir,
1996.

“A Warning from Afar” was published as “Nadhir min ba‘id” in
Sada al-nisyan,
1999.