A Muslim Suicide

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111 3 In my current quarters time passed pleasantly; the days were full of positives rather than negatives, of ups rather than downs. Even the birds, it seemed, headed our way in quest of their own share of their particular qualities and features . I used to go into Sabta once or twice a month to stroll around and get whatever I needed; I would frequent its Kasbah and mosque and make some purchases at the port: ointments, perfumes, fish, and bread. The city itself had expanded outward because floods of people kept arriving from Spain, Muslims and some Jews as well, the elite and common people alike. Some were wealthy, others indigent, but they were all united in their sadness and grief. Fortunately they had no difficulty integrating themselves into the daily lives of the people of Sabta, where they could feel safe and respected. One day I was meandering my way through the fishmongers’ stalls at the port, looking for some shark, mullet, and carp, when I spotted a woman staring at me, her eyes gleaming behind a thin black veil. Completely oblivious to my surroundings , I began to take in her perfect beauty and to exchange deeply meaningful glances with her. I only came back to my senses when the fishmonger whose catch I was still holding addressed me: “God be praised! Do you like what you see?” “Who?” I asked. “Excellent choice! Good and succulent . . .” “Who?” I said again. “The fish you’re holding!” I paid the man for the fish and some others that were smaller, but declined the other fish he offered me. Once I left his stall, I noticed that the woman was still in sight, so I quickened my pace. But just then an annoying dervish stopped me and refused to get out of my way until I had explained to him how it was 112 | Bensalem Himmich that beans and humus were called poor man’s meat; and what wisdom was there in choosing fish over meat? While I was concocting a response that this idiot could understand, I realized that the object of my quest had by now disappeared without a trace. Rather than go on looking for her, I decided to trust in God and return to my residence. It was almost evening by the time I got back to my room. I sat there, looking at the carp, with its eyes open, its thin nose and lips, its delicate features, and its wonderful shape and smell. So tempting and luscious was its body that it seemed to be enveloped in a gleaming white halo. I was so thrilled by its appearance and eager to consume it that I rushed to prepare it for grilling so that I would gain the greatest possible benefit from eating it. And so it was. Once I had finished, I gave thanks to God Almighty and lay down to concentrate on the concept of those gorgeous, bright, mascara-lined eyes I had seen. When I had first spotted her, she had lowered her gaze, and I got the impression that I was looking at a devout recluse. But then I had taken a longer look, and the sense of pleasure I felt was even stronger and more penetrating, the kind that, within the context of women and pleasure, will regularly strike the lover—all in accordance with the practice of the Prophet of Islam, who declared, “There is no monasticism in Islam.” It was that stronger and more penetrating sense of delight that was affecting me now, as I lay there on my own recalling the face of that lovely, radiant woman. How amazing that I should feel so passionate toward those who make up half of humanity! How amazing that I’ve not forgotten those who are the companions of men, particularly in view of the fact that this period that I’m spending in seclusion in this zawiya imposes no barriers between myself and the supply of women! No, I am no ascetic when it comes to women or my own portion of this life on earth. I’m neither an ascetic nor a monk, the kind of people who go to excessive lengths in displaying their poverty, harboring their frustrations, and renouncing all of life’s demands on them. While my memory, associations, and impressions were all at their height, I had the vision of a woman whose name and other particulars I had forgotten. All I could recall were her...