The Seventh Heaven (6 page)

“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?

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.

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.