The Thief and the Dogs

The same day he'd visited them with the detective and Ilish's friends, Ilish Sidra and Nabawiyya had moved out of their flat and another family had moved in, so the voice he'd heard had not been Ilish Sidra's nor had the screams been Nabawiyya's. The body was that of one Shaban Husayn, the new tenant who'd worked in a haberdashery in Sharia Muhammad Ali. Said Mahran had come to murder his wife and old friend, but had killed the new tenant instead. A neighbor testified that he'd seen Said Mahran leaving the house after the murder and that he'd shouted for the police, but that his voice had been lost in the din that had filled the entire street.

A failure. It was insane. And pointless.

The rope would be after him now, while Ilish sat safe and secure. The truth was as clear as the bottom of an open tomb.

He tore his eyes away from the paper and found the Sheikh staring through the window at the sky, smiling. The smile for some reason or other, frightened Said: he wished he could stand at the window and look at exactly the same bit of sky the Sheikh was looking at so he could see what it was that made him smile. But the wish was unfulfilled.

Let the Sheikh smile and keep his secret, he thought. Before long the disciples would be here and some of them who'd seen the picture in the paper might recognize him; thousands and thousands would be gaping at his picture now, in a mixture of terror and titillation. Said's life was finished, spent to no purpose; he was a hunted man and would be to the end of his days; he was alone, and would have to beware even of his own reflection in a mirror — alive but without real life. Like a mummy. He'd have to flee like a rat from one hole to another, threatened by poison, cats and the clubs of disgusted human beings, suffering all this while his enemies kicked up their heels.

The Sheikh turned to him, saying gently, "You are tired. Go and wash your face."

"Yes," Said said irritably, folding up the paper. "I'll go — and relieve you of the sight of my face."

With even greater gentleness, the Sheikh said, "This is your home."

"True, but why shouldn't I have another place to shelter?"

The Sheikh bowed his head, replying, "If you had another you would never have come to me."

You must go up the hill and stay there until dark. Avoid the light. Shelter in the dark.

Hell, it's all a waste of time. You've killed Shaban Husayn; I wonder who you are, Shaban. We never knew each other. Did you have children? Did you ever imagine that one day you would be killed for no reason — that you'd be killed because Nabawiyya Sulayman married Ilish Sidra? That you'd be killed in error, but that Ilish, Nabawiyya, and Rauf would not be killed in justice? I, the murderer, understand nothing. Not even Sheikh al-Junaydi himself can understand anything. I've tried to solve part of the riddle, but have only succeeded in unearthing an even greater one. He sighed aloud.

"How tired you are," said the Sheikh.

"And it is your world that makes me tired!"

"That is what we sing of, sometimes," the Sheikh said placidly.

Said rose, then said, as he was about to go, "Farewell, my Master."

"Utterly meaningless words, whatever you intend by them," the Sheikh remonstrated. "Say rather: until we meet again."

NINE

God, it's dark! I'd be better off as a bat. Why is that smell of hot fat seeping out from under some door at this hour of night? When will Nur be back? Will she come alone? And can I stay in her flat long enough to be forgotten? You might perhaps be thinking you've got rid of me forever now, Rauf! But with this revolver, if I have any luck, I can do wonderful things. With this revolver I can awake those who are asleep. They're the root of the trouble: They're the ones who've made creatures like Nabawiyya, Ilish and Rauf Ilwan possible.

Something sounded like footsteps climbing the stairs. When he was sure he heard someone coming, he crouched and looked down through the banisters. A faint light was moving slowly along the wall. The light of a match, he thought. The footsteps came higher, heavy and slow. To let her know he was there and to avoid surprising her, he cleared his throat with a loud rasp.

"Who is it?" she said apprehensively.

Said leaned his head out between the banisters as far as he could and replied in a whisper, "Said Mahran."

She ran the rest of the way up and stopped in front of him out of breath. The match was almost dead.

"It's you!" she said, breathless and happy, seizing his arm. "I'm sorry. Have you been waiting long?"

Opening the door to the flat, she led him in by the arm, switched on the light in a bare rectangular hall, then drew him into a reception room, square and somewhat larger, where she rushed to the window and flung it open wide to release the stifling air.

"It was midnight when I got here," he said, flinging himself down on one of two sofas, that stood face to face. "I've waited for ages."