Street of Thieves

These manuals were enormously successful. Our bestseller: Sexuality in Islam, I sold hundreds, no doubt because everyone thought there’d be sex in it, advice on positions, or weighty religious arguments so that women would allow certain practices, but not at all, the act was called “coitus,” “lovemaking,” or “the encounter” and the whole thing was an annotated compilation of phrases of great medieval lawyers that wasn’t the least exciting — a rip-off, in my opinion, even at five dirhams. The people who bought the manual were 99 % male. Our bestselling book for women was Heroines of Islam, a rather simple and effective pamphlet on the contemporary world, the injustice of the times, and how the only thing that could save the world was if women returned to religion; the pamphlet drew from the examples of the great women of Islam, especially Khadija, Fatima, and Zaynab.

The other part of our catalogue was more expensive, 9.90 per book. These were bound books, usually in several volumes, heavy as a dead donkey. The collection was entitled The Heritage of Islam and was comprised of re-editions of works by classical authors: lives of the Prophet, commentaries on the Koran, works of rhetoric, theology, grammar. Since these mammoths had beautiful imitation-leather bindings in colored calligraphy, they were used mostly to decorate the neighborhood’s living and dining rooms. It should be said that the Arabic of a thousand years ago is not the easiest thing in the world to read. We also sold CDs of recordings of the Koran, and even a DVD of a Koranic encyclopedia that was pretty interesting — if only because you didn’t have to lug around the fifty volumes of various commentaries that it contained. The bookseller’s dream, in fact.

The Thought was open all day, and my bookstore as well, but there weren’t many customers. Some came by sometimes to buy one of the books that I wasn’t authorized to put out on the tables. I asked Sheikh Nureddin if they were forbidden by censorship, and he told me of course not, they’re just texts that require a greater knowledge, which could be interpreted the wrong way. Among them were Islam Against the Zionist Plot and pamphlets by Sayyid Qutb.

One of my tasks (the most pleasant one, in fact) consisted of looking after the association’s website and Facebook page, and of announcing activities (not many), which allowed me to have access to the Internet all day long. I took my work seriously. Sheikh Nureddin was pleasant, cultivated, sympathetic. He told me that he had studied theory in Saudi Arabia and practice in Pakistan. He recommended readings to me. When I got tired of the porn on the web (a little sin never did anyone any harm) I would spend hours reading, comfortably stretched out on the rug; little by little I got used to Classical Arabic, which is a sublime, powerful, captivating language of extraordinary richness. I would spend hours discovering the beauties of the Koran through the great commentators; the simple complexity of the text astounded me. It was an ocean. An ocean of lights. I liked to picture the Prophet in his cave, wrapped in his coat, or surrounded by his companions, on his way to battle. Thinking that I was reproducing their gestures, repeating the phrases they themselves had chanted helped me put up with the prayers, which were still an interminable chore.

I felt as if I were making amends, as if I were undoing the stains of months of vagabonding. I could even imagine meeting my father or mother without shame. That thought revolved often in my head, Fridays as I stood behind my table; I said to myself that a day would come when I would meet them, it was inevitable. I knew that they refused to even mention my name in public; I had this disconcerted feeling that Bassam was hiding something from me, he avoided talking to me about my family. When I questioned him he’d reply: don’t worry don’t worry, they’ll get over it, and would change the subject. I missed my mother.