Earth Weeps, Saturn Laughs , livre ebook

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 Mu’assasat 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
     823

1 2 3 4 5 17 16 15 14 13

Designed by Fatiha Bouzidi
JOURNEYING TOWARD THE TALES
Khalid Bakhit 
The One-Line Song 
A Billion Years of Passion 
The Call to Prayer Duo 
Mihyan ibn Khalaf 
The Dream’s Eyelids, the Fluttering of Time 
The Awaited Trial Council 
Ayda 
Passing before the Lovesick Balconies 
Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha 
Some Coups Are an Existential Necessity 
The Fatiha of the Gorged Bellies 
Walad Sulaymi 
Dreams Are Canvases That Capture Many a Ravine 
Mihyan ibn Khalaf 
The Flood of Death, the Flood of Birth 
Khadim Walad al-Sayl 
Son of All, Beloved of No One 
The Illustrious Marketplace 
Here’s Bangladesh 
Khalid Bakhit 
Running Away from a Dead Man 
Epiphanies in the Presence of the Saturnine 
The Sanctity of the Dead 
Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha 
No to Imports! 
The Saturnine Poet 
Games That Ever End 
A Thousand and One Ruses 
Let Thy Heart Be a Cloud 
Ayda 
Waiting 
Spirits That Are Bound to Meet 
Walad Sulaymi 
The Strange Dawn 
History Is a Failed Thief 
Khalid Bakhit 
The Messages Are for Me Alone 
The Warning 
Mihyan ibn Khalaf 
How Zealously the Wind Guards the Mud 
In Absence There Is Also Experimentation 
Between the Two Calms, a Storm . . .
Between the Two Storms, a Calm! 
Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha 
Modernity May Invade the Leadership 
Khalid Bakhit 
Footsteps in the Dark 
On Our Shoulders We Carried Our Fates,
the Fates No Forehead Could Bear 
Walad Sulaymi 
Council of Silence 
Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha 
The Night When Daytime Paid Us a Visit 
Khadim Walad al-Sayl 
O Sorrow, Wring Us Dry! 
Walad Sulaymi 
The Prayer of the Fearful 
Khalid Bakhit 
The Messages Are for You Alone 
Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha 
The Dead Can Sometimes Do Harm 
Khadim Walad al-Sayl 
A Predawn Tryst 
Mihyan ibn Khalaf 
At Dawn Stories Are Born 
Glossary 
Those living elsewhere will have to take the time difference into account
KHALID BAKHIT
The One-Line Song
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 don’t claim to have written it, but there’s 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 they’re defeated by curt, superficial replies. So, because they were afraid to say “We don’t understand” or “We don’t 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 people’s 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. They’d 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 won’t be called forward for a reckoning with the Almighty, and you won’t 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 present—including Mihyan and my grandfather—agreed 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 couldn’t shake. The only thing I felt close to was the homeland. I went traveling through it the way I’m 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 mosque’s 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 I’ve agonized over your loss! What will become of me now that you’re 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 don’t wake up at midnight unless one of you has died, and no one in my family has died.” Sa‘id Dhab‘a 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! Wouldn’t it have been better for you to stay in the city? Ever since you and your Saturnine poet came around, we’ve 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 Sa‘id clapped his hands. “The man’s lost his mind! The man’s lost his mind!” Walad Shamshum chimed in spitefully, “Your homeland’s died, then, and we’ll have a peaceful, happy life from now on.” “It hasn’t died,” I shot back. “I was only lamenting the fact that it’s left. It leaves me every night, and comes back the next morning. It’s sure to come back. It’s 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. “You’re 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 wouldn’t make any reply.