Perhaps poor Hazaz would have a chance of getting medical help in time—if any is to be had there.
We shall remain here one more night. The spring just doesn’t have enough
water for the number of people and animals now camping here, but thanks to the rain in the mountains, the water level is rising rapidly. However, the water is too muddy. I hope the sediment will have settled by morning.
The two scoundrels have not shown their faces all day, although they were not at all intimidated by my threat. It’s a good thing that there are now eleven more men here.
*
*
*
*
*
I was proud of Beschir today. After the first shock, he proved alert and
prudent, with great character. It would have been easy for him to let his revenge gain the upper hand. He’s a good boy and I shall try to spend more time with him in future. Hazaz will no longer be in a position to look after him. But I shall take on this extra responsibility gladly.
I am not looking forward to meeting the notorious sovereign of El Fasher, the ruler of the Sudan. He is supposed to be partly of European descent. Those are often the worst despots in the countries which were once called the third world and which are the only countries in which human beings still live today.
Hazaz has been lying in fever for the past two days and he keeps
asking, ‘Did you hear the fat one laughing? He laughed the whole
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night. The whole night.’ I wipe the sweat from his forehead. His
wound stinks. It has begun to fester.
‘What does he mean by the fat one?’, asked Master Jack.
‘Oh, that is the hyena. Most of our fairy tales are about the stupid
fat one who is taken in by everything, even squirrels and lizards, and
always falls flat on his face.’
‘Then he has every right to laugh! For we are the stupid ones this
time’, Master Jack said. He was right.
He is very worried about Hazaz’s condition but tries not to let it
show. I pray to Allah and implore him to let his cape of kindness be
large enough to cover Hazaz with just one tiny corner.
We climbed for three days through ravines and rugged canyons and
rocks as large as palaces. The road was difficult and the animals tired
quickly.
Master Jack had built a frame on which we could set down the litter
with Hazaz it in to load it on to another camel. We had to lean it
against the rocks so that it wouldn’t collapse as the animals were so
tired and impatient to be rid of their loads that they fell to their knees before I could even loosen the straps and give the command to kneel.
They are taking advantage of me and I have to use the whip to curb
their growing stubbornness.
They notice the absence of Hazaz’s strong hand.
Late in the afternoon of the third day of our journey, we reached
the summit of the pass. Bare mountains as far as the eye could see, a
labyrinth of stone. No plant, no animals, no sign of man’s work. We
rode on into the land that was not made for humans, a land that had
frozen in the middle of creation as if Allah had lost interest in his work before separating the mountains and valleys. In spite of the merciless
sun, this land is strangely dark and gloomy as if it were the bottom of
an ocean. Sometimes the vultures sail over this land in elegant flight,
creatures of a higher world descending to investigate the ocean floor,
their sharp eyes looking for prey.
I have never been so far east. The loneliness of this expanse of land
is so overwhelming. There is hardly a trace of the caravan route. The
rocks are hard. The signs indicating the way to A’alam are often only
two to three stones one on top of the other and one needs good eyes
to make them out. Master Jack always stops and stares through his
glass. In this desolate land there are no people. El Fasher cannot be far now.
The next morning we are surrounded by a patrol. Threatening
figures on long-legged Mahari, racing camels of the famous Tuareg
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breed, with saddles and bridles of silver, covers and turbans with
white and green tassles, the colours of the king. The cavalrymen are
armed with lances and crossbows, some of them even with rifles. An
officer with a laced jacket, with green and white epaulettes, orders his
dismount, shares salt and tea with us. He inspects the litter with a
critical eye. Yes, there are doctors, Egyptians, Arabs and even light-
skinned doctors. They will be able to give Hazaz the medical attention
he needs. Under cover of the cavalrymen, we ride into El Fasher only
four hours away. We are not given quarters in one of the caravan-
saries, but are taken directly to the palace of the king, which he had
built on a plateau in the north of the city. There are many soldiers and
many light-skinned people. The market place is full of activity.
Affluence is apparent, flourishing under power and common sense.
Laughing faces—an oasis of colour in this dark wasteland—El Fasher.
The palace of the king: the sumptuous nest of a bird of prey,
grandiose, a fortress against attack: beautiful, built of stone and
clay, ornamented with coloured tiles. The sun has reached its highest
point and casts straight, sharp-angled shadows, created by the many
ledges, eaves and balconies over the facade of the building. Two burnt
out tanks flank the entrance of the palace like frozen mastodons, their
guns raised like threatening trunks.
In the courtyard before the palace we are told to unsaddle the
camels. A doctor is called. He is a young Egyptian. Hazaz is then
carried away. What will it cost? He has a wide nose and the corners of
his mouth drop under his black moustache, an honest, trustworthy
face. He lifts his hand as if testing the weight of the air while his eyes take note of our belongings—two camels, three, we’ll see. We are
given a room near the stables. Our animals will be looked after.
Master Jack opens his packs, looks for fresh clothes and a present for
the host.
Extracts from the Journal of Master Jack
May 10th, 2036
El Fasher at last! It has not lost any of its significance as the former capital of Darfur. Even the size of the population has remained the same as before the war, unlike most of the cities of the Sahel Zone. However, it is no longer the hub of trade that it once was. Once, in former times, the caravans went
through Bahr El Ghazal to the Upper Nile and through Equatoria to
Ethiopia, to Uganda into Northern Kenya and then on to Somalia and
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came back with salt for the herds. Today, it is one of the most important stops between east and west, part of the old pilgrim route from Chad to Darfur and Kordofan to Nubia.
Achmed Ueled ben Muchtar, King of Sudan and as he calls himself, Emperor
of the edge of the still inhabitable world and A’alam of Allah to the holy places, is apparently not the despot he is made out to be. He can thank his diplomatic skill and the tactical ability of his officers for his reputation as a cruel and severe despot. His reputation increases with distance. In the city itself, there is no trace of tyranny. The city is crowded with Europeans and refugees from Libya, Egypt and Arabia and many h
ave the privileges of well-respected citizens. However, there are many light-skinned slaves, but they are well fed and certainly do not live in want. The troops as well seem to be predominantly Europeans.
The royal residence was designed by a French architect who had been received at court. It is an object of interest far and wide, sumptuously combining elements of European architecture with those of the orient. It is said that more than 3000 people live in this palace in which we also were received with such hospitality. Hazaz is being treated by a doctor. I hope that it is not too late and that the necessary antibiotics are available.
I am racking my brains thinking of a present for my host. I have a dozen
magnifying glasses, two watches, a few yards of the finest asbestos cloth, four or five compasses and my telescope. I would not like to part with the latter. All this seems very meagre for a sovereign of whom it is said that he led
plundering expeditions as far as the African Mediterranean Coast and is
reputed to have returned home with fabulous treasures. Apparently, he even has an electric car and a helicopter. However, there is no fuel for the
helicopter. But he is sure to send an expedition soon to the abandoned oil lines of Libya in order to get his toy moving.
I have just visited Hazaz. He is lying in a white bed in a room with
white walls. He is being looked after by a male nurse who was trying
to put a glass tube into his mouth. His arm has been freshly bandaged
and no longer stinks. But Hazaz, himself, looks as if he is going to die.
His appearance frightens me. He didn’t recognize me. The nurse
pushed me out and as I tried to crouch just outside the door ordered
me to go.
Yesterday, Master Jack was invited to the king’s palace. Today, we
have moved into the part of the palace reserved for guests. The rooms
are high and spacious and the floors are laid out with the finest
carpets. Many light-skinned men live in the palace, especially artists
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and technicians to the king. By no means all of them have been
castrated as many have wives and children with them.
In the evening supper was served in the inner courtyard of the
palace. Afterwards a light-skinned musician played a stringed instru-
ment called a ‘mandolino’. It is played by plucking at the strings and
sounds very strange, sometimes like the cooing of turtle doves, at
times sad and then again, merry. He sang this song to the music.
‘If rain hovers over the land
like a black muleta
then, my friends, death is near. . .’
But the king called down to him, ‘Not such songs! the rainy season is
far off and death doesn’t interest us at all.’
Everyone laughed and the musician sang some other songs. He has
that red skin with white spots deepened by the light just like those
who come out of the countries of the dead. On his bald head behind
his left ear there is a wet wound which looks as though it will never
heal and the whites of his eyes are a sickly yellow. But his voice is all the more beautiful filling the courtyard and making me forget the
miserable appearance of the man.
He sang six or seven old songs from the past—I can almost
remember the exact words of them. It was an amusing song about a
little monkey who tried to reach the stars and in doing so set fire to
the tree where he was sleeping and scorched his fur in the process.
This was the refrain:
The play is over,
the monkey dead,
the stars remain on high.
The monkey’s tree,
and the man’s own dream
as dust now scattered fly.
Thus perishes mankind too
by his own hand,
himself Eternity to deny.
A frail light-skinned deaf and dumb youth stood beside the singer.
He had the shy fright-filled eyes of those who cannot hear. He
watched the lively faces of those listening and turned again to stare
at the lips of the singer. Each time the musician put his instrument
down, he picked up his Jew’s harp and put it to his mouth to
accompany the song. This sounded very strange as he was always
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just one note behind because he followed the lip movement. It was
this imperfection that made their playing together so charming.
A pilgrim, who had been to the holy places and was on his way
home to the west, told Master Jack that between Omdurman and Port
Said flying ships have often been seen travelling through the air
hovering noiselessly over the desert. They have crews of giant beetles
and are navigated by creatures with birds’ heads. Such Egyptian
beasts as one finds carved in stone in certain places arose from the
mud of Lake Nasser when it dried up. Another reported that he had
seen such a bird-headed creature with his own eyes. It had been killed
near Atbara. A carnival showman had this thing that was neither man
nor bird stuffed and exhibited at fairs up and down the countryside
between Omdurman and El Obeid until the remains had stunk so
fearfully that somebody burned them and chased the showman to the
devil.
Although Master Jack is otherwise very smart, in such things he is
terribly credulous. He listened patiently and asked what the flying
ships looked like, asked about the colours of the plumage of the bird-
headed creatures, asked about the beetles and the scarabs which
according to the stories must have looked more like cockroaches. And
he asked many other questions. The boastings of the pilgrims im-
pressed me just as little as the other pack of liars—I didn’t believe one word.
When I went to our guest chambers on the second floor, I met a
man on the stairs who, judging from his clothes, had a high position
at court. He refused to let me pass.
‘Come here’, he ordered.
I obeyed, stepped nearer and bowed. He slung his arm intimately
around me and pressed me into a corner. His well-kept white beard
smelled of sweet perfume, but his breath was pregnant with Laqbi.
‘Listen, young man’, he said in a drunken voice and grasped me
tightly between the legs. I cursed in pain.
‘Have you already got a teacher?’, he tittered happily.
‘I belong to Master Jack’, I said in a tortured voice.
He let me go. I was horrified at the shamelessness of it all and ran
away from him as fast as I could. As I ran up the steps I could hear him
calling after me laughing, ‘Who the hell is Master Jack?’
I awoke in the middle of the night. Someone was standing in the
door. I recognized the weak profile, the bald head and the delicate
figure. It was the youth who had played the Jew’s harp. He looked
cautiously to the right and left and then stared at me.
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‘What do you want?’, I asked in a low voice so as not to wake
Master Jack asleep in the next room. It then occurred to me that the
youth couldn’t hear me at all. His presence made me ill at ease. He
raised both arms and made a few dancing steps setting his bare feet
on the complex mosaic moonlight-flooded tiles, so that he seemed to
be floating. I followed the movements of his feet with my ey
es as
though intoxicated. I felt reality slowly slipping away. Through the
movement of the dance and the magic of the moonlight I was
slipping into the realm of unreality. I pulled myself together and
tried to shake off the growing numbness. At that same moment, the
youth disappeared. I ran out into the corridor, but I couldn’t find
him anywhere. Where could he have disappeared to so quickly?
Under a lantern at the end of the corridor, I saw a guard asleep at the
table. His head rested on his crossed arms. I padded through the
moonlight to the window and looked down on the courtyard in
which the concert had taken place. It lay deserted, covered in a
melancholy silver light. In the dark shadows pincered scarabs under
the command of bird-headed pirate captains lurked to storm the
sleeping palace.
‘Beschir?’, Master Jack called. I ran to the threshold of his room,
but he didn’t say any more. Had he called my name in his sleep?
Late that afternoon when Master Jack had been summoned to the
king, I roamed through the upper floors of the palace. No one stopped
me. I found a garden, a small paradise about a hundred feet long and
forty wide surrounded by a building several floors high. Gravel paths
led through the flower beds and hedges, the graceful pomegranate
and peach trees, to a fountain in the centre. Its water sparkled in the
midday sun falling wastefully on the large meat-like leaves of the
water-lilies that had almost overgrown the little pond. The falling
water gave the air a pleasant freshness. Several peacocks paraded with
ornamental step over the grass and spread out their shimmering green
and dark blue feathers into fans, stiff trains and rustling aureoles. I
was fascinated. How could there be so much colour in this land of
melancholy light and dark stone?
At the other end of the park, there was a draw-well; its cisterns
were just being filled to feed the fountain. A great wooden treadwheel
the height of at least three men turned creakingly while three slaves
clad in loin cloths climbed up over the smooth worn treads to keep it
moving. Their white bodies were wet with sweat and their heavy
breathing was drowned by the splashing water. Then one of the black