The Bleeding of the Stone. Ibrahim al-Koni

and biscuits.

      They were generous—more generous than the Archeological Department in the oases.

      He often wondered just what lay behind the Christians' interest in the ancient paintings. He decided, finally, they must be making a pilgrimage to the Matkhandoush figures because they belonged to the same old religion; they didn't, after all, believe in the Prophet Muhammad, or kneel facing the Ka'aba as Muslims did. Veneration, and supplication and surrender, were revealed in their eyes; betrayed too by the odd way their hands moved over their faces as they examined the vast figure of the king of the wadi, and his sacred waddan that rose alongside him, contemplating the far horizon. The Christians stood before the masked giant exactly as Muslims stood before God. And yet his father had told him this masked jinni was his ancestor too.

      3. TWILIGHT VISITORS

      He managed to drive all the herd into the big cave before the visitors arrived. The noise of the truck grew louder, and, across the expanse, he saw a cloud of dust on the horizon. The bleating of the goats rose, while the young kids leaped constantly at the mouth of the cave in protest at their early confinement. The sun vanished behind the mountain, but still poured itself on the plain opposite. At sunset it pleased the sun to clothe the desert in the red mantle of its rays.

      The truck began its descent into the wadi, coming to a stop at the bottom next to the palm trees. Here and there in the dried-up bed, wild bushes had kept their greenness from the flood of the previous year. Two men got out of the truck, quite different in appearance: one tall, the other short, the tall man slim, the short man plump. They seemed about the same age. For all his weight, it was the short man who seemed the fitter and more energetic. He busied himself taking things from the truck and throwing them down on the ground, among the green bushes beneath a tall palm tree: utensils, plates, wooden boxes, canvas bags, and a large tent, which he went about pitching. The tall man approached Asouf, waving to him in greeting, and Asouf, reassured, moved toward him.

      They met in the middle of the track.

      “So you're the herdsman,” the man said, laughing and pressing Asouf's hand warmly. “The one who's happier living in an empty desert than being with other people. They told us about you in the Wadi Aajal.”

      Asouf gave no answer, hastily arranging the veil over his face to hide his embarrassment. As for the man, he gazed casually out toward the mountains, his hands on his hips.

      “Do you get many tourists visiting here?” he asked. “The foreigners seem to have beaten us everywhere in the desert. Wherever we've been, we've found they were there before us. These foreigners are devils.”

      In his belt Asouf saw a small black weapon, the sort they called a “pistol.”

      “Yes,” he replied. “No one's come to Matkhandoush before except the Christians. This is the first time I've seen Muslims here.”

      The man laughed.

      “Who said we were Muslims?” he remarked.

      Asouf, embarrassed once more, hurriedly pulled the edges of his veil over his face. The man, seeing this, hastened to reassure him.

      “I'm only joking,” he said. “It's true we don't pray, or pay zakat^iv, and we've never done the pilgrimage. But we're Muslims just the same.”

      Asouf hesitated, then asked:

      “Have you come to look at the sights? I can show you places I've never shown the Christians. Places no one has ever seen.”

      The man started laughing helplessly.

      “The sights,” he said scornfully, when he'd finally recovered. “What business do we have with sights? We're sights ourselves, don't you know that? People seek us out, just the way they do you. The westerners come from beyond the seas to look at us and see how we live. Have you ever seen a sight interested in other sights?”

      The blood surged to Asouf's prominent cheeks, and he didn't know what to do with his eyes and hands. The agitation reached his limbs, and he began trembling.

      “The truth is,” the guest said, “we're here on the track of something different—waddan. Can you put us on to the waddan ? They say you even know where the birds build their nests in Massak Satfat.”

      Asouf looked toward the man and saw a strange glint in his eyes.

      “Who told you that?” he asked, still trembling. “The waddan died out a long time ago, just like the gazelles. I can't take you to any waddan.”

      He was still trembling. The man seemed displeased by his answer, but he held himself in.

      “Well, then,” he said, gazing suspiciously at Asouf, “since you evidently don't know where the waddan lives, you can show us the other sights.”

      They moved toward the tent.

      “But I can't sleep without meat,” the man went on. “How can I eat my supper without meat?”

      His fat friend, who still hadn't shaken hands with Asouf, laughed.

      “He's not joking,” the man said. “He hasn't slept even one night without meat, not since his mother bore him. They say he came into the world with a piece of meat in his mouth. Lamb's meat.” He laughed. “I've known him all my life,” he went on, “and I'm telling you, he's likely to eat himself if he doesn't find some meat to eat at night.” He laughed again.

      “You'd better not sleep close to him. He might crawl out and eat you. Ha, ha!”

      “God help us,” Asouf murmured simply. “Is he so fond of meat?”

      The tall man answered, gnashing his teeth together, his eyes shining once more with their strange glint.

      “Is there anything in the world tastier than meat? Everything begins and ends with meat. Woman's meat too. Have you ever tasted a woman's meat?”

      Asouf shook his head, the anxiety shining in his eyes.

      “You're a poor devil, then,” the man went on, laughing. “You've never enjoyed a woman's meat. It's the tastiest of all. Apart, that is, from gazelle's meat and lamb's meat—and the meat from the waddan.” He laughed again. “Every sort of meat's tasty. Have you ever eaten—”

      “No,” Asouf cried out, dismayed. “No! I haven't had any sort of meat. I don't eat meat.”

      “You don't eat meat? What sort of life's that?”

      The man reflected for a while.

      “Well,” he said finally, “it makes sense. If you don't eat meat, then you have to live apart from other people. I see now why you've chosen to live in this empty wilderness. If a man doesn't eat meat, then he doesn't live. You're not alive at all. You're dead!”

      Asouf retreated a couple of steps, as if about to flee.

      “I heard,” he said, “that you've eaten up all the lambs in the north. Is that true?”

      “Ha, ha! Listen to him! Yes, it's true enough!”

      “And they say you've wiped out all the gazelle herds in the Red Hamada. Is that true as well?”

      “Ha, ha! Listen to him! Yes, it's true. I'm proud to say I personally ate the last gazelle in the northern desert. Do you have a problem with that? Where's the harm?”

      Asouf was silent for a few moments.

      “There aren't any waddan in these deserts,” he answered, in a perplexed tone. “The waddan died out long ago. I have some goats. I can slaughter a goat for you.”

      The man threw himself back and laughed. The weapon rose prominently on his waist. Then he spat several times on the ground.

      “Ha!” he sneered. “You call that proper meat? It's filthy stuff. Even the dogs won't touch