The Fall of the Imam Read Online Free PDF

called my shameful part. I recall how my body rebelled despite the threat of death.
    I said, ‘Who told you that?’
    ‘“I” is God’s word,’ they said.
    ‘But’, said I, ‘His word is written and you neither read nor write. So who told you that?’
    They remained silent for a while. They looked at one another, lifted their eyes to heaven, pointed to the picture which was hanging on the monument to victory. They said, ‘It is our Lord the Imam who has seen God and knows His word.’
    So I asked, ‘Where did the Imam see God?’
    They said, ‘God visited him while he slept.’
    I made an effort to remember before all memory of things was dead. ‘But God also visited me in my sleep,’ I said.
    ‘God does not visit women nor does He reveal Himself to them.’
    ‘God visited the Virgin Mary and she was a woman,’ said I.
    They looked at me and said, ‘That only happened once in history, and God Almighty is too great to do what He does a second time.’
    ‘God visited the Prophet Muhammad and revealed Himself to him in a vision several times, and before that He visited Abraham, so why should He not repeat the same thing with the Imam?’ said I.
    They were silent for a long time. They looked at one another, lifted their eyes to the picture hanging from above. They said, ‘He has seen God many times, but God has never revealed Himself to us.’

The Chief of Security
     
    The world was so dark that it seemed as though the sun had been extinguished for all time. She continued to run as fast as she could, trying to get away before she was surrounded. Her dog followed behind her, his paws raising a cloud of dust. The eyes of the Imam fastened their sights on the trail of dust, following close on her tracks, with their dogs bringing up the rear, yapping and barking at their heels without stop. At a certain moment the Chief of Security came to a halt, pulled a pure silk handkerchief from out of his pocket, wiped his eyes, and then carefully polished the lenses of his glasses. Since he had been promoted to his new post he had taken to wearing dark glasses. This way he felt more secure, more satisfied, in a way superior to others. For now when he spied no one could follow his eyes as they lingered slowly on a pair of rounded thighs, or watched a child urinate in the night, or tried to pierce the disguise of the Imam slipping out of a prostitute’s house.
    He was the Chief of Security and his sacred duty was to ensure that the Imam was well protected from enemies and friends alike, and that the members of Hizb Allah flourished at all times. He always sat in the front row on the right of the Imam, pressed so close up against him that he would have occupied his seat were it not for the fact that the Imam sat squarely on it. On the left of the Imam was the Great Writer, his fountain pen jutting over the edge of his pocket, his right eye fixed on the Imam in a steady, unwavering gaze, his left eye straying all the time to the balcony reserved for the women of the Imam’s harem. Next to him was the Leader of the Official Opposition, while in the second row behind him sat the Ministers of State, their shoulders touching, their knees pressed tightly together, their right hands held over their left breasts as though they were all seized with the fear of a common foe. The foreign guests stood in silence, a superior far-away look in their eyes, their faces and their shoes shining in the sun, their women huddled together nearby on the balcony reserved for the harem. Here also were gathered the wives of all the important personalities of State, and in their midst was the Official Wife of the Imam, wearing her angel’s face and the Order of Highest Honour, its bright colours flowing over her rounded breast.
    The Chief of Security threw one of his sidelong glances at the Official Wife. It lasted long enough for him to catch the passionate looks she was directing at the Great Writer and to notice the flicker in his eyes expressing