The Fall of the Imam Read Online Free PDF Page B

a message of eternal devotion. The Imam, however, had his eyes fastened on the heavens, for he believed that God was his best support in these times of political upheaval and economic crisis. The Leader of the Official Opposition seemed to be undecided. While his right eye gazed fixedly at the throne on which the Imam was seated, his left eye kept a careful watch on the Chief of Security. Every now and then the two men would exchange a smile, for this was the only thing they exchanged in broad daylight. After dark they spent many a night together drinking toast after toast to loyalty and friendship. They were great friends and bitter enemies, the Chief of Security a member of Hizb Allah, the Leader of the Opposition a member of Hizb al-Shaitan, both parties legalized and blessed by the Imam. They were like rivals united by their common love for the same woman, and by their common and bitter hatred for one another, like stepbrothers with the same mother and two fathers, united by a common hatred and a common love for the same woman.
    I was standing in the first row. The air resounded with the acclamations of the crowd, and the guns being fired in celebration of the Big Feast. The Imam had his eyes fixed on the clear blue sky above him, but my eyes kept roving behind my dark glasses, watching every flutter in the crowd, every flicker in a million eyes, seeing intention when movement was still a stillness in disguise, a hand preparing to be raised in defiance, a finger on a trigger, touching lightly just before it tightens. I knew them one by one, knew their faces well, could see them slip between a thousand heads. Whether they were men or women, their features were there in my files. I glimpsed her in the crowd, right at the back, hiding her face behind a pair of shoulders and a head. I knew who she was at once without the slightest hesitation, without a need to think. Her face was thin, her features worn, exactly like her mother, bitching daughter of a bitching mother always moving underground, creeping in the dark, conspiring with outlawed movements and secret parties. A wretched woman possessing nothing but a body to be sold for the price of a meal.
    I went to her once, but I was still a youth at the time and she was a young girl, almost a child. Before I could begin the first round she said to me, ‘Show me the colour of your money.’
    I said, ‘Don’t you trust me?’
    ‘You are the type who would live off a woman’s sweat,’ she said.
    I was tongue-tied. How had this child been able to see through me so easily? How had the secrets of life been revealed to her? I took out my money and put it in the drawer next to her bed. Then I mounted her once, twice, thrice, any number of times, until she was exhausted and fell asleep. I opened the drawer, took out all the money I found there, put it in my pocket and tiptoed out so as not to awaken her. And year after year I continued to collect money from here and there until I had enough to build a three-storied redbrick house.
    Then I married the daughter of a State Minister and became a member of Hizb Allah. I did not catch even a passing glimpse of her before we married. She was a very chaste woman, wore a veil and never showed herself before men. I married her in full accordance with the holy writ of God and His Prophet, and her father warranted for her in all ways. I paid a big dowry to betroth her, and we celebrated our wedding in the presence of all the notables. The Imam attended in person. But on the night of our wedding the bridal sheets remained as white as buffalo milk, with not the slightest drop of virginal blood, and I said to myself, Somebody must have taken her before I did, but God will compensate me for my loss. The honour of the Minister is more important than my honour and should be given precedence. Besides, God is all-merciful and forgiving and I cannot pretend to place myself above Him.
    I beat her until she confessed, then I forgave her just as God does