his cheek when a little girl appeared from behind him, pulling at his hand and yelling “Dad!” He pushed the girl inside and said to her, as he lifted his face toward the sky, “You believe in God and the Prophet, Safi. God’s law gives me the right to marry another woman. The law of the land gives me the same right. Go to court if you wish!”
It was Friday when Zakariah al-Khartiti left the villa in Garden City and headed to the mosque on the adjacent street. Mosques proliferated on streets, pavements, and alleys. Tiny mosques sometimes sprouted inside houses, in courtyards, or in entrances. A little minaret might emerge from a wall, and a loudspeaker might be attached by nails to it to turn the structure into a mosque for men to go for Friday prayers and listen to the imam’s sermon.
It was a warm spring morning. The warmth of the sun seeped through the body after the chill of winter. Zakariah al-Khartiti had abandoned the heavy woollen suits and the scarves around the neck. He wore instead a silk suit over an open shirt without a tie. The soft breeze tickled his short, fat neck and moved to his hairy chest whose little black hairs grew thinner year after year.
After reaching the age of sixty, the black hairs on Zakariah al-Khartiti’s chest and head became interspersed with white hairs. He had a large bald spot in the middle of his head which gleamed gold in the brightness of spring. His narrow, sunken eyes had a sly look about them. Whenever his eyes fell on the column of his newspaper colleague, he’d turn his face away.
No street or alley was devoid of a newspaper kiosk or a pavement covered with magazines and newspapers, especially the distinguished daily
Sphinx,
which was everywhere. It was displayed in kiosks at the corners of streets and squares, and spread on the pavements near mosques, churches, schools, law courts, nightclubs, theaters, and cinemas. On its front page the picture of the president loomed large. Laid out on the street around the paper were charms, the Qur’an, rosaries, censers, Ramadan fasting schedules, prayer times, photographs of candidates for parliament, the consultative council, presidential elections, or village and city councils. There were also pictures of theater, cinema, and television stars. All the photographs were placed side by side: the photographs of the Great Imam with his turban, beard and moustache, and the rising star, Zizi, who took the torch of dancing and singing from her mother, Zozo.
Zakariah al-Khartiti moved the beads of the rosary with his short, lean fingers. He felt relaxed after finishing writing his daily column and after his wife and daughter had gone out. He was particularly relieved to see the back of his wife. Her observant eyes, like God’s, knew his infidelities before they even happened. She detected them before they even became an idea in his brain cells or a passing shiver down the hidden member beneath his belly, when his eyes fell on the thighs of a little girl jumping on the street or an adolescent girl wearing a miniskirt.
After prayers, Zakariah al-Khartiti was relieved of the weight of his conscience. He used to visit Mecca on an annual basis to wash clean his numerous sins. In the mosque he whispered to the man squatting next to him, “Good God, brother! God shows His mercy to human beings. Man by nature is sinful, but God is merciful nonetheless. If it hadn’t been for prayers, fasting, and pilgrimage, we wouldn’t have been able to bear the weight of our guilt, we would have died of a guilty conscience!”
“Very true, brother! God forgives all sins except the sin of worshipping other gods besides Him. Even adultery may be forgiven as long as we worship Him alone.”
“But this adultery subject is controversial. We haven’t been introduced, brother, have we?”
“I’m one of God’s worshippers, a small employee at the government archives. And you, sir?”
“I’m Zakariah al-Khartiti.”
“What do you
It was Friday when Zakariah al-Khartiti left the villa in Garden City and headed to the mosque on the adjacent street. Mosques proliferated on streets, pavements, and alleys. Tiny mosques sometimes sprouted inside houses, in courtyards, or in entrances. A little minaret might emerge from a wall, and a loudspeaker might be attached by nails to it to turn the structure into a mosque for men to go for Friday prayers and listen to the imam’s sermon.
It was a warm spring morning. The warmth of the sun seeped through the body after the chill of winter. Zakariah al-Khartiti had abandoned the heavy woollen suits and the scarves around the neck. He wore instead a silk suit over an open shirt without a tie. The soft breeze tickled his short, fat neck and moved to his hairy chest whose little black hairs grew thinner year after year.
After reaching the age of sixty, the black hairs on Zakariah al-Khartiti’s chest and head became interspersed with white hairs. He had a large bald spot in the middle of his head which gleamed gold in the brightness of spring. His narrow, sunken eyes had a sly look about them. Whenever his eyes fell on the column of his newspaper colleague, he’d turn his face away.
No street or alley was devoid of a newspaper kiosk or a pavement covered with magazines and newspapers, especially the distinguished daily
Sphinx,
which was everywhere. It was displayed in kiosks at the corners of streets and squares, and spread on the pavements near mosques, churches, schools, law courts, nightclubs, theaters, and cinemas. On its front page the picture of the president loomed large. Laid out on the street around the paper were charms, the Qur’an, rosaries, censers, Ramadan fasting schedules, prayer times, photographs of candidates for parliament, the consultative council, presidential elections, or village and city councils. There were also pictures of theater, cinema, and television stars. All the photographs were placed side by side: the photographs of the Great Imam with his turban, beard and moustache, and the rising star, Zizi, who took the torch of dancing and singing from her mother, Zozo.
Zakariah al-Khartiti moved the beads of the rosary with his short, lean fingers. He felt relaxed after finishing writing his daily column and after his wife and daughter had gone out. He was particularly relieved to see the back of his wife. Her observant eyes, like God’s, knew his infidelities before they even happened. She detected them before they even became an idea in his brain cells or a passing shiver down the hidden member beneath his belly, when his eyes fell on the thighs of a little girl jumping on the street or an adolescent girl wearing a miniskirt.
After prayers, Zakariah al-Khartiti was relieved of the weight of his conscience. He used to visit Mecca on an annual basis to wash clean his numerous sins. In the mosque he whispered to the man squatting next to him, “Good God, brother! God shows His mercy to human beings. Man by nature is sinful, but God is merciful nonetheless. If it hadn’t been for prayers, fasting, and pilgrimage, we wouldn’t have been able to bear the weight of our guilt, we would have died of a guilty conscience!”
“Very true, brother! God forgives all sins except the sin of worshipping other gods besides Him. Even adultery may be forgiven as long as we worship Him alone.”
“But this adultery subject is controversial. We haven’t been introduced, brother, have we?”
“I’m one of God’s worshippers, a small employee at the government archives. And you, sir?”
“I’m Zakariah al-Khartiti.”
“What do you
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