Abdulaziz Al Farsi - Earth Weeps, Saturn Laughs

First published in 2013 by

The American University in Cairo Press

113 Sharia Kasr el Aini, Cairo, Egypt

420 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10018

www.aucpress.com

Copyright Abdulaziz Al Farsi

First published in Arabic in 2007 as Tabki al-Ard yadhak Zuhal by Muassasat al-Intishar al-Arabi Protected under the Berne Convention

English translation copyright 2013 by Nancy Roberts

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Dar el Kutub No. 13681/12

eISBN: 978-1-6179-7338-3

Dar el Kutub Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Al Farsi, Abdulaziz

Earth Weeps, Saturn Laughs / Abdulaziz Al Farsi Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, 2013

p. cm.

ISBN 978 977 416 590 0

1. Arabic fiction

I. Title

1 2 3 4 517 16 15 14 13

Designed by Fatiha Bouzidi

JOURNEYING TOWARD THE TALES

Those living elsewhere will have to take
the time difference into account

Alone I was, O homeland of mine, and you with me,

Traveling in me, living within me...

I was singing my only song, the shortest song the history of defeats has ever known, and the longest sorrow absence has ever clung to. I dont claim to have written it, but theres no doubt that I gave it a tune that was flowing in my blood and part of my voice. One day they asked me, Who wrote it exactly? Closing my eyes with utter confidence, I replied, A poet from Saturn. I refrained from making any further comment. The people of my village intersperse their conversations with lots of questions, but theyre defeated by curt, superficial replies. So, because they were afraid to say We dont understand or We dont know, they ignored the Saturnine poet and left me to sing.

I sing in hopes that the sun will bring some warmth to melt away the snow inside peoples souls here, or some light to chase away the darkness in my homeland, enshrouded atop a shadow. The night carries my voice to the edge of the distant ravine, to the boundaries of my village, which fell by mistake out of hell, and is bound to end up back there again, as Walad Sulaymi declared to the people of the village one frostbitten evening. Theyd gathered in Mihyan ibn Khalaf s meetinghouse as was their custom after the final evening prayer. Cups of unsweetened coffee were being passed around, kindling the hearts and senses of those present, when Walad Sulaymi added, You might as well not pray or engage in any other rites of worship. After all, you wont be called forward for a reckoning with the Almighty, and you wont pass over the razor-thin bridge that leads to Paradise. Instead, God will command one of His angels on the Day of Resurrection to take this village and everyone in it and throw them straight into the Fire.

If a stranger had happened along that evening, he would have concluded that everyone presentincluding Mihyan and my grandfatheragreed with Walad Sulaymi, since no one uttered a word in protest. All they did was shake their cups in silence and give them back to Khadim, who was pouring the coffee. However, scenes like this were nothing unusual, especially when Walad Sulaymi commented on the issues of the day! Even in this council I felt a loneliness I couldnt shake. The only thing I felt close to was the homeland. I went traveling through it the way Im traveling now, singing the one-line song. The cold, the night, the dogs barking, and the wolves howling only made me cling all the more tenaciously to the night of this village of ours. I stood on the balcony contemplating the dry, rigid palm trees around the mosque, and the abandoned houses that extended along one side in a row that ended near my house. Across from them was a parallel row of modern houses whose residents had turned out their lights, perhaps as a way of consoling the old, abandoned houses! The mosques minaret alone had adorned her head with a dim lamp that peered out diffidently at the night sky.

In my country, winter and death are two faces of the same desire. And in the soul, my village and Antarctica are two faces of the same homeland. This night was sketching my bewilderment in the shape of paths of annihilation. If I shouted, my voice would collide with the minaret and bounce back wearily to my ears. Even so, it was bound to waken these sleepers. So I shouted, Woe to what has passed of your life! How Ive agonized over your loss! What will become of me now that youre gone? As I uttered the last word, lights began coming on, until the village was a mass of light. The men rushed over and stood under the balcony, while some of the women looked out at my house from their balconies. When they had all taken their places, I said, Sorry. I know you dont wake up at midnight unless one of you has died, and no one in my family has died. Said Dhaba said, So who were you wailing over at this time of the night, you good-for-nothing? I was wailing over my homeland! I said. My reply descended upon them like a thunderbolt. Every one of them started looking from side to side. If they had found rocks to pick up, they would have thrown them at me. Hamid Dahana shouted, So you wake us up in the middle of the night just to wail over your homeland, you buffoon! Wouldnt it have been better for you to stay in the city? Ever since you and your Saturnine poet came around, weve been going downhill. I made no reply. Instead, I changed the subject: Did you know that spaceships are taking pictures of you now? The pictures they take will be broadcast on satellite television, and the village will appear as a mass of light. So you can thank me for this free service! Muhammad ibn Said clapped his hands. The mans lost his mind! The mans lost his mind! Walad Shamshum chimed in spitefully, Your homelands died, then, and well have a peaceful, happy life from now on. It hasnt died, I shot back. I was only lamenting the fact that its left. It leaves me every night, and comes back the next morning. Its sure to come back. Its sure to come back.

Thoroughly exasperated, they turned to go home. The lights began going out, until the village was engulfed once again in its riotous darkness. Youre the losers! I screamed, certain that they heard me. The pictures will appear on satellite television, and the village will be a mass of pitch darkness! I was sure they wouldnt make any reply. I scanned the horizon, trying to get another look at the towering palm trees on the plantations next to the abandoned houses. They were repeating my song. Then I looked back toward the ravine beyond the new houses. The other side of the ravine looked wounded in the dark unknown. I took a deep breath and lifted my voice in song: Alone I was, O homeland of mine, and you with me, traveling in me, living within me...

Dawn is this villages legend and its inexhaustible mystery. The heavens diffuse it over the east, and it brims with radiance.

The men turned out the lights in the houses and presented their calumnies against me and my sanity as offerings to their wives. They whispered, Well teach that lunatic a lesson tomorrow. Then they were swallowed up in the fragrances that emanated from soft beds, surrendering consciousness to the sultan of sleep. As for me, I didnt sleep after the lights went out. My throat melted into the bereaved song, and everything in the villageeverything, that is, but its human inhabitantsmelted with me. The trees sang with their towering sorrow, and the waves danced in the embrace of the fine sand along the magnificent shore just beyond the palm-tree plantations.