A Muslim Suicide

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177 11 Back at the house, the only person I found there was ‘Abla, the servant-girl. She took my gear from me and accompanied me to my prayer-cell. Without paying any attention to my annoyance at this situation, she asked my permission to wash and massage my feet. My response was neither positive nor negative; I simply sat down and surrendered my feet willingly to her ministrations and the hot water soaked in sweet basil. While she was doing it, I was either staring up at the ceiling or closing my eyes to the seductive delights of this gorgeous whiteskinned girl. When I signaled to her to stop, she dried my feet with a towel. Picking up her equipment, she asked me if I wanted dinner now; if so, she would bring it. I pretended to be full and sent her away with wishes that she sleep well. But just as she was leaving, she tripped, fell down, and let out a cry of pain, claiming that she had twisted her ankle. I hurried over to help her, and she let me massage her where she was pointing. Once she was able to stand up again, she departed, with modest expressions of thanks. No sooner had she departed than I rushed to the bathroom to rid myself of the impurities of this contact with another woman. Hoping to wake up and rid myself of the exhaustion caused by my travels, I washed myself, then performed the ritual ablutions. I found that I could not avoid feeling guilty toward the woman who had opened her bosom and home to me and saved me from sinful distractions. In the hope of overcoming my guilty conscience and asking God for forgiveness, I performed my prayers, then fell asleep. Sometime during the night I opened my eyes in the darkness with the sense that there was someone beside me in the bed. “Fayha’,” I asked, “when did you get back?” 178 | Bensalem Himmich “It’s ‘Abla!” replied the voice of someone spread out at my feet. I lit a candle and sat there, desperately thinking of a way to keep the girl at a distance and to find a better solution to the problem. “What you’re doing is wrong, my girl!” I told her, doing my best to control myself and trying to be as cordial as possible. “We’re the only people here,” she replied in a soft, tender voice. “Not true,” I said. “God is the third, so fear Him!” “Do you realize, Sir, that I’m a virgin? No man has ever touched me before!” I decided that I could not ask her to explain why that was so and what was the problem, in case my tongue got things wrong and made it all worse. “I will never be that man!” I replied in a terse and harsh tone that surprised even me. “I’m a married man and I fear God!” “But just a while ago I washed and massaged your feet,” she pleaded. “I only want you to do for me what I did for you.” I made it clear that I was still going to say no. I ordered her to go back to her own bed. No sooner had she got up off the bed and headed for the door than I stretched out and extinguished the candle. But now she turned around and pounced on me like a famished hyena, scratching my neck and chest with her sharp nails. I did nothing to resist her onslaught, but still kept telling her to stop behaving this way and live in fear of her Creator. Suddenly she let go of me and sat on the edge of the bed, crying and sobbing uncontrollably. “Prayers from a devout man of God such as yourself are much to be desired,” she said. “Pray to your Lord that I may be married to an honorable man. Pray to him also that He may relieve me of the tyranny of the man who has power over me . . .” Lighting a candle again, I asked her to tell me more about this person and what precisely he had done. For a moment she said nothing, but then she told me that she had sworn on the Holy Qur’an not to reveal either his name or what he had done. I explained to her that, if he had made her swear anything under compulsion, then the force of the oath...