A Land Without Jasmine Read online

  I feel that I’m under siege, that my society assails me from every direction and that I must have committed some unknown crime against them thousands of years ago, a crime no one bothered to record, even though it still reverberates in their unconscious. When a girl matures she certainly counts as society’s number one enemy!

  I don’t hate anyone, not even my society, but everyone around me makes me feel that I’m not a human being with a brain and a spirit but merely an instrument of pleasure. They’ve compressed my human existence into a small, dirty triangle, ignoring all the rest of me. This terrifying struggle is over a putrid piece of meat! Bug off! Take this piece of meat and let me live in peace.

  2

  THE MINION OF PLEASURE AND POWER

  At 1 a.m. I received a missing person’s report on a girl of twenty.

  My name is Abdurrabbih Ubayd al-Adini and I’m an inspector in Criminal Investigations.

  I received her description and a colour photo taken six months ago. We pulled that from her folder at the University Records Office. We didn’t find any recent pictures of her in the family’s photo album. They only had pictures of her as a child. (That’s odd, isn’t it?)

  Her father, Nashir al-Ni‘am, didn’t provide me with any useful information. He was in a state of extreme, fiery agitation and sparks flew from his eyes as if he were a ferocious lion. He cursed everyone he could think of: he cursed his missing daughter, he cursed young men, calling them ‘Tyros and …’, he cursed the state and the police, he cursed his children and his wife. He even bestowed a dozen vile epithets on me, too.

  Never in my entire life have I seen a face change colour from one minute to the next the way Hajj Nashir al-Ni‘am’s did. While he was speaking, his face would turn red and swell up till I thought, from the intense way he was holding his breath and venting his rage, that if I pierced his cheek with my fingernails, blood would splatter all over me and the walls.

  When he listened to me and my fellow officers his face lost its colour, turning dull and dark, as if he were a murderer chained to his cage in the courtroom while waiting for the judges to pronounce the verdict. When we were silent and he was swept up in his private world, seeing in his mind’s eye his daughter’s honour being defiled, the blood drained from his face and he became alarmingly pale. His skin turned so grey it was pitiful, and I feared at those moments that he was suffering from angina.

  I could call Jasmine’s mother ‘The Lady of the Vale of Tears’; her eyes were as red as embers and her eyelids had become inflamed from weeping. She slapped her cheeks the whole time, grieving for her daughter and blaming herself. She’ll probably go crazy if her Jasmine doesn’t return soon. Instead of giving me any useful information, she knelt at my feet, kissed my knees and begged me to bring her daughter back. By the time I left her I was sighing with frustration; these people who wanted me to find their daughter had been no help at all.

  According to the information I had, Jasmine had left home at 7.30 that morning on her way to the university and hadn’t returned. We undertook a thorough investigation of the Faculty of Science, where her classmates, male and female, confirmed that on this ill-omened morning she had attended Dr. Aqlan’s lecture, which had lasted from 8 to 10 a.m. No one had seen her after she quit the lecture hall.

  A hunch led me to the office of Dr. Aqlan, whose original name was said to be the less elegant ‘Ajlan’. I was told he had changed his name on receiving his doctorate. I had a number of questions for him.

  I asked, ‘What do you think of your student Jasmine?’

  He responded cautiously, ‘In what respect?’

  I laughed and said sarcastically, ‘Any you want.’

  Raising one eyebrow he said, ‘Jasmine is a below average student. In her first term she received low marks in my subject.’

  A student wanted to come into the office but Dr. Aqlan waved him away.

  Studying his features, the proportions of his clean-shaven face, his hair, which was dyed black, and his large ears, I realized that he was a ladies’ man, an indefatigable lothario.

  So I lowered my voice and asked, ‘What do you think of her morals?’

  He wasn’t surprised. He had been expecting my question and answered through pursed lips, ‘She’s a loose girl who claims virtue, though virtue claims her not. She makes a show of being pious and devout while actually she’s the reverse.’

  I was shocked by his comments, by his accusations, which were honed like the blade of a knife. Straightening in my seat I asked coldly, ‘How do you know she’s … I mean … not of good character?’

  He smiled cunningly and his jaw dropped like a wolf’s muzzle as he remarked, ‘I’m an observant man and have spiritual insights. I can deduce mankind’s secret thoughts from one simple gesture and…’

  I interrupted him curtly: ‘Excuse me; my question is how you know she’s a loose girl?’

  He scowled and his expression grew sullen. His deceptive veil was drawn back and he hissed in a low voice, ‘Two weeks ago I went into the laboratory to run a class with a co-ed group of students. Wanting to break down the psychological barrier between us I greeted them and proceeded to shake hands. When I held my hand out to her she apologized, saying that she didn’t shake hands with men. She left my hand hanging in the air and put me in a ludicrous situation. I heard some male students laugh at me. That’s how I discovered that she’s one of these women who pretend to be modest and who refuse to shake hands in public but then open their cunts in private. This type of feminine hypocrisy is widespread. You find that such a woman always does the opposite of what she advocates and says the reverse of what she believes in her heart. It’s a putrid type raised in a rotten way and living a life of contradictions. To be candid, this girl has a split personality and is two-faced.’

  I put an end to his foolish prattle and said, as I looked him straight in the eye, ‘Dr. Aqlan, let’s speak candidly. It’s possible that Jasmine may have fallen in love with one of her classmates and gone off with him; perhaps she’s simply eloped with him. What do you think?’

  He wagged his head and fingered his earlobe. After some reflection he replied, ‘This is not too likely. We are a conservative society.’

  Just then he blinked and I sensed that he wasn’t satisfied with his response. I pressed him harder, ‘Have you noticed whether any of your male students are interested in her?’

  He narrowed his eyes and looked at me intently as he began to consider various possibilities. After he had remained silent for a long time I prodded him, ‘What’s his name?’

  He replied slowly, ‘I don’t know.’

  We were silent for a while, and he seemed to be reviewing specific memories till he forgot I was there. A sudden thought took hold of me with growing insistence. Following my hunch I asked him, ‘Does your wife live with you?’

  As if returning from the depths of the oceans he replied, ‘No, she’s in the village.’

  I pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. When I blew smoke in his face, he reacted by raising his brows. Then he asked me coldly, ‘Why do you ask about my wife? What bearing does she have on the topic?’

  I gazed up at the ceiling, from which the paint was peeling, and said, ‘I don’t know. It just crossed my mind to ask.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ he retorted loudly, betraying his anger. ‘You suspect me.’

  Noting the agitated tapping of his feet I replied, ‘Your previous statement revealed your interest in her.’

  He recoiled in dismay and glared at me with venomous hatred. He looked at his watch and opened his mouth as if trying to say something; but he was unable to get out a single syllable. Then he grabbed his black briefcase and departed.

  I recorded a number of observations about him in my notebook and decided to concentrate my investigations on him. I would find out what he had done the previous day and would place his apartment under surveillance.

  At this point he wasn’t a suspect, but my hunch, which was based on years of experienc
e as an interrogator, was that he wasn’t telling everything he knew. The way he spoke about her confirmed that there was something between them. The question about his wife had simply been a ruse to unnerve him and cause him to spill the beans about someone else.

  At 1 p.m. I received a report on Jasmine from the Bureau of Investigations: ‘There is no record of her in the hospitals or police stations. Her whereabouts are unknown.’

  I lunched in a salad bar and had some tea in an empty café while devising an excellent plan for investigating the more murky aspects of Jasmine’s disappearance.

  I strongly suspected she might have been lured somewhere and held against her will. In cases like this time is of the essence. If she hadn’t been killed already her life was now in extreme danger. I went back to her family’s residence and at the door to the building found a crowd of her relatives, some armed with Kalashnikov rifles. They were arguing vociferously with each other, all wound up and ready to explode.

  I mingled with them and they began to ask me loutishly about their missing relative. Their faces were terrifying, so angry that they spewed ill will, and their eyes glowed with savagery, like those of angry lions. Jasmine is a member of a particularly ferocious tribe; all its men are heroic warriors for whom a daughter’s honour is the red line; any creature crossing that line is destined to die.

  I heard them threaten her father that if they found Jasmine and she was no longer a virgin, a thousand bullets would rip through her body. This totally threw me; I could no longer distinguish one thing from another, and I forgot the plan I had prepared.

  The tribe’s shaykh arrived in a late-model sedan that bristled with armed men. He stepped out haughtily and majestically, encircled by guards on every side, and the men of the tribe clustered around him. I wasn’t able to approach because of all the crowding and shoving. So I stood on a stone bench in the distance to watch what was happening. I saw Jasmine’s father grovel so humbly before the shaykh that his abasement could well have killed him as his head struck the ground.

  Over our heads a kite screeched as it circled low. I felt depressed and my senses seemed strangely disturbed. I realized that fear from some unknown source had wormed its way into my soul and that a chill was spreading through my bones.

  The venerable shaykh issued his directives calmly and gravely. Then he climbed back into his superb sedan – as his guards elbowed each other for pride of place, leaping into the rear seats – and left the neighbourhood as swiftly as he had appeared.

  I no longer had control of the situation and was in a pitiful state of confusion. I pulled out a pack of cigarettes but found it empty. I tossed it beneath one of the parked cars, cursing the day I became a police officer. I walked to a nearby grocery store and bought another pack.

  The weather was gloomy and dust particles in the air limited visibility and diminished the sun’s glare so a man felt he was suffocating inside a dirty bottle. Loudspeakers blared out the afternoon call to prayer, and the muezzin’s voice was hoarse, doubling my soul’s sorrow. Behind me, the middle-aged owner of the grocery was humbly repeating the muezzin’s words.

  I became aware of his existence as the resonance of his voice sent a quick spasm through my chest. I sat down on a filthy wooden chest and lit a cigarette. Looking up, I saw the apartment where Jasmine’s family lived. Curiosity prompted the owner of the grocery to approach and ask me, ‘Do you all know where she is?’

  I shook my head: no. He gestured with his eyebrows toward the window directly opposite him and asked, ‘Do you know that’s her room?’

  I turned toward him and almost smirked I was so delighted. In a tone devoid of emotion I asked, ‘Are you sure?’

  He replied confidently, ‘Yes.’

  I inquired as graciously as I could, ‘Does she spend a lot of time at the window?’

  Stroking his beard, he was slow to reply. ‘I ask Almighty God’s forgiveness … what should I tell you, son? These are questions one shouldn’t delve into.’

  I felt even more strongly that he had something to tell me but felt awkward about stating plainly what was bubbling up inside him. Trying to wear down his resistance, I told him, ‘Don’t worry, Hajj – sorry, what is your esteemed name?

  Swallowing, he replied, ‘Sultan Atiq.’

  I continued, ‘Hajj Sultan, I’m a police inspector doing my duty. So you shouldn’t feel awkward about providing me with some information. This is your legal obligation!’

  He cleared his throat and began to play with his black prayer beads, ‘The truth of the matter is that Hajj Nashir al-Ni‘am’s daughter’s morals are so-so. She’s reckless and likes to tease men.’

  I nodded my head to encourage him to continue.

  Half-closing one of his eyes he added, ‘Even a grey-beard like me, who prays that God will provide him with a good ending to his life, was not spared her flirtations. She tried to tempt me, teasing me and my white hair at the end of my days.’

  I moved closer and asked, ‘What exactly did she do?’

  He began to tense up and stuttered, ‘I … I mean I would see her open the window and make rude gestures.’

  Tightening the noose, I asked, ‘Like what?’

  Looking far away, toward Jasmine’s window, he replied, ‘I … I mean she bites into a cucumber while looking at me and winking. She licks ice cream and sticks her tongue out. She chews gum and makes bubbles that pop as if she’s throwing me a kiss. Many times she has deliberately let her hair down at the window as if displaying it to me. Naughty things like this that girls do.’

  When he had finished his statement, he released a sigh so deep it almost dislocated his ribs. I wondered whether it was conceivable that this senile grey-beard was vain enough to be in love with her. The way he sighed over her and the effort it had cost him to talk to me (in view of his admission) must show he was fond of her, consciously or not.

  I reckoned that he loved Jasmine with every ounce of his being and that the fires of jealousy raging in his gut had prompted him to mention her to me. He seemed convinced that she had run away with a youth with whom she had fallen in love.

  I couldn’t let this golden opportunity slip away. So I asked, ‘Hajj Sultan, I want you to tell me candidly: did you ever notice a young man from the neighbourhood who made repeated visits to your store and deliberately sat opposite her window to court her?’

  He avoided my stern gaze, moistened his index finger and ran it down his neck. Then he raised his head to look up and whispered, ‘Forgive me, Lord.’ He gazed at her window and a fleeting gleam of jealousy sparked in his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there was one.’

  I snuffed out my cigarette and asked him nonchalantly, ‘What’s his name?’

  He thrust his prayer beads into his coat pocket and busied himself with straightening his turban. ‘His name is Ali Nashwan,’ he said.

  Taking the notebook from my pocket I recorded the name and then asked, ‘Could you show me where he lives?’

  He said, ‘He’s one of the building’s residents, on the second floor. His apartment is right across from hers.’

  I asked, ‘How old is he?’

  He replied, ‘About eighteen.’

  I asked, ‘When was the last time you saw Jasmine?’

  He answered, ‘Yesterday at 7.30 in the morning; I saw her leave the building.’

  I asked, ‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about her? For example, did you notice whether she was carrying a suitcase or a large clothes bag?’

  He said, ‘No, she had a black handbag under her arm and a blue notebook with a hard cover, nothing else. But I noticed that the boy, whose name I just gave you, emerged immediately after her and followed her like a billy-goat.’

  My heart pounded when I heard this valuable information and I asked, ‘Are you sure it was Ali?’

  He replied quickly, ‘Yes it was. Every day he comes out right behind her and trails her like her own shadow.’

  I recorded some quick observations in my notebook.


  As he gave me a conspiratorial look he said, ‘If you’ll allow me, I’ll close my shop. I want to catch the afternoon prayer at the mosque.’

  I waited for him to shut up shop and then we said goodbye with a wave of the arm. He walked quickly toward a nearby mosque. I, for my part, put my trust in God and headed to Ali’s apartment.

  When I knocked on the door I heard a woman’s voice ask from inside, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Is Ali there?’ I asked.

  ‘Who wants him?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m his friend Abdurrabbih,’ I replied.

  In a minute, a solidly-built, tawny-complexioned man opened the door, his cheek swollen with qat. I guessed he was Ali’s father and that he was between 47 and 50.

  Narrowing his eyes he looked me up and down and said, ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

  Showing him my card, I told him, ‘I’m Inspector Abdurrabbih al-Adini and I want to speak with Ali. Five minutes, no more.’

  His eyes opened wide and he stepped back to allow me to enter. ‘I’m his father. Come in. God has brought you.’

  I didn’t know whether to be encouraged or discouraged by his last statement. I heard footsteps hastening away and a muffled clamour. I realized that a large family was being corralled into a room at the far end of the apartment.

  I entered a small, warm parlour and sat down. Qat twigs were strewn on the floor beside an ashtray filled with mangled cigarette butts, a third of which were stained with lipstick.

  He sat down in the middle of the parlour and leaned back. He wanted to offer me a bundle of qat stems but I declined. He covered his feet with a wool blanket that would make him sweat, warm his body, and thus speed the arrival of the narcotic’s euphoria.

  Conscious that I was being observed through the keyhole of the closed door and that dozens of ears were listening, I asked, ‘Where’s Ali?’

  He replied, ‘Ever since Ali learned that the neighbours’ daughter had left but not returned he’s been searching the streets for her like a madman. Yesterday, he didn’t come home till five in the morning. He had barely dozed for three hours when he went out to search for her. He hasn’t had a bite to eat since yesterday and hasn’t been to school. As you see it’s 4 p.m. now and His Excellency hasn’t returned. His mother has been weeping night and day and my heart hardly has the strength to beat I’m so worried about him.’