The Thief and the Dogs

The papers accused Said of being mad, craving for power and blood: his wife's infidelity had made him lose his mind, they said, and now he was killing at random. Rauf had apparently been untouched, but the unfortunate doorkeeper had fallen. Another poor innocent killed!

"Damnation!" cursed Said as he read the news.

The hue and cry was deafening now.

A huge reward was offered to anyone giving information of his whereabouts and articles warned people against any sympathy for him. Yes, he thought, you're the top story today, all right. And you'll be the top story until you're dead. You're a source of fear and fascination — like some freak of nature — and all those people choking with boredom owe their pleasure to you. As for your gun, it's obvious that it will kill only the innocent. You'll be its last victim.

"Is this madness, then?" he asked himself, choking on the question.

Yes, you always wanted to cause a real stir, even if you were only a clown. Your triumphant raids on the homes of the rich were like wine, intoxicating your pride-filled head. And those words of Rauf that you believed, even though he did not — it was they that really chopped off your head, that killed you dead!

He was alone in the night. There was still some wine in a bottle, which he drank down to the last drop. As he stood in the dark, enveloped in the silence of the neighboring graves, slightly giddy, he began to feel that he would indeed overcome all his difficulties, that he could disdain death. The sound of mysterious music within him delighted him.

"A mis-aimed bullet has made of me the man of the hour!" he declared to the dark.

Through the window shutters he looked over the cemetery, at the graves lying there quiet in the moonlight.

"Hey, all you judges out there, listen well to me," he said. "I've decided to offer my own defence for myself."

Back in the center of the room he took off his gown. The room was hot, the wine had raised his body heat. His wound throbbed beneath the bandage, but the pain convinced him it was beginning to heal.

"I'm not like the others," he said, staring into the dark, "who have stood on this stand before. You must give special consideration to the education of the accused. But the truth is, there's no difference between me and you except that I'm on the stand and you're not. And that difference is only incidental, of no real importance at all. But what's truly ridiculous is that the distinguished teacher of the accused is a treacherous scoundrel. You may well be astonished at this fact. It can happen, however, that the cord carrying current to a lamp is dirty, speckled with fly shit."

He turned to a sofa and lay down on it. In the distance he could hear a dog barking. How can you ever convince your judges, when there is a personal animosity between you and them that has nothing to do with the so-called "public welfare"? They're kin to the scoundrel after all whereas there's a whole century of time between you and them. You must then ask the victim to bear witness. You must assert that the treachery has become a silent conspiracy: "I did not kill the servant of Rauf Ilwan. How could I kill a man I did not know and who didn't know me? Rauf Ilwan's servant was killed because, quite simply, he was the servant of Rauf Ilwan. Yesterday his spirit visited me and I jumped to hide in shame, but he pointed out to me that millions of people are killed by mistake and without due cause."

Yes, these words will glitter; they'll be crowned with a not-guilty verdict. You are sure of what you say. And apart from that, they will believe, deep down, that your profession is lawful, a profession of gentlemen at all times and everywhere, that the truly false values — yes! — are those that value your life in pennies and your death at a thousand pounds. The judge over on the left is winking at you; cheer up!

"I will always seek the head of Rauf Ilwan, even as a last request from the hangman, even before seeing my daughter. I am forced not to count my life in days. A hunted man only feeds on new excitements, which pour down upon him in the span of his solitude like rain."

The verdict will be no more cruel than Sana's cold shyness towards you. She killed you before the hangman could. And even the sympathy of the millions for you is voiceless, impotent, like the longings of the dead. Will they not forgive the gun its error, when it is their most elevated master?

"Whoever kills me will be killing the millions. I am the hope and the dream, the redemption of cowards; I am good principles, consolation, the tears that recall the weeper to humility. And the declaration that I'm mad must encompass all who are loving. Examine the causes of this insane occasion, then reach your judgement however you wish!"

His dizziness increased.