Free The Fall of the Imam by Nawal El Saadawi

her tunic or the invisible pressure of her bare foot on the floor. The knob of the door would move round of its own accord as though turned by the hand of a spirit or a devil. I could see her as she slipped into the dormitory like a white shadow, moving from bed to bed, inspecting the dreams of the girls while they slept, her eyes shifting from bed to bed like a pair of flashlights to make sure there was only one head in each. She counted the heads on her fingers like a herdsman counting his sheep. If a head was missing from a bed or if there were two heads on one bed, the alarm would be given as though we were at war.
    I was in my bed, and close to me Nemat Allah lay in hers. Her eyes were wide open, with a faraway staring look which never left her. Her face kept getting thinner and paler and her eyes bigger and blacker all the time. If I whispered in her ear at night she did not answer. If my lips touched her face not a muscle of her features moved. I put my arms around her frail body and fell asleep. But in the middle of the night I suddenly opened my eyes and looked at her bed. It was empty and the place at my side where she sometimes slept was empty too.
    I knew my way. The long passage was dark, and I walked on the edge of the wall without faltering. When I reached the end I found a closed door and behind it I heard someone moaning. I pushed the door open with my fist, and for a moment could see nothing but the tiles of the floor shining dimly. But as my eyes grew used to the dark I saw her lying there in the corner of the room. She was curled up like a baby in its womb, and from under her body trickled a fine thread of blood. It was dark red in colour, but her fingers were as white as the moon, as though there was no more blood in them. Between her fingers I could see something written in black letters on a sheet of crumpled paper held between fingers turned to stone. No one could open her fingers.
    ‘What was written on the paper?’ asked the Head Nurse, standing in front of a line of men dressed in official uniforms with hats on their heads.
    ‘I do not know,’ said I.
    The line of men looked at me and said, ‘How can that be when she was with you day and night?’
    ‘She was with me day and night, but she lived in another world,’ said I.
    ‘Which world is that?’ they queried.
    ‘I do not know, for I have not been there yet,’ said I.
    Night falls, faces melt into the dark, and the air ceases to whisper in my ears. I see her standing in the night. I open her stone-like fingers clasped around the crumpled piece of paper, hold it under the white moon and read the letter written on a surface white and pure.

The Legal Wife will Not Go to Paradise
     
    The acclamations of the crowd resound in my ears. Above my head is the throne of the heavens, and at my feet where I stand lies the throne of earth. I am surrounded on all sides by my men. They keep a close guard and protect me from my enemies, who are numerous and are waiting for their chance to replace me on the throne. My friends are few. They think their turn will come when I die. On my right stands my Chief of Security, who is more interested in my downfall than anyone else. On my left stands my Great Writer, with his right eye fastened on the leader of Hizb al-Shaitan and his left eye fastened on my legal wife, where she stands on the balcony reserved for the harem, surrounded by model wives and mothers of martyrs. The acclamations of the people echo in her ears, mingled with the noise of rockets shooting to the sky in celebration of the Big Feast and the sharp noise of bullets fired from a gun. She watches my face as it falls off my body, but she remains standing in the same place with her right eye fastened on the throne and her left eye gazing at my lifelong friend.
    Ever since I was a child I have envied and hated him. He always managed to get higher grades than I did in the examinations. Besides, despite all the girls who admired him, he found nobody