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The False Prophet 3
shock -- he had not felt his mane of hair. He hurriedly put both
hands to his head, fingering it all over. He had no hair -- his
head was bald. Slowly, carefully, making a great effort to
control himself, Mahmoud drew his hands down to his chin.
His beard had gone too. Wild-eyed and aghast, Mahmoud
became aware of something strange happening within him.
He thought he could hear voices. And this was so, but they
were inner voices.
'It was God who shaved you,' said the first.
'How do you make that out? God doesn't shave anyone.' Mahmoud, listening to this dialogue, grew livid. The next
comment was greeted with a laugh.
'Have faith in God, His mercy is in everything!'
'Ha, ha! You make me laugh. And when you fleeced those
poor blighters, in whose name did you do it?'
Mahmoud vigorously shook his head to try to silence these
voices, but to no effect; so he put his hands over his ears. He
did not want to hear any more. But the voices continued:
'Pray!' one commanded him. 'You have missed two prayers
already.'
'Look for your money first,' advised the other. 'Without it,
you won't be respected. You won't have any camels. You'll
have nothing to eat. Make sure of your money first. It's easier
to pray when you're sure of having a full belly.'
Mahmoud obeyed the last injunction. He scrabbled around,
casting earth and sand aside so vigorously that his actions
were quite unlike those of a normal human being. A goat at
bay bites; and Mahmoud would have bitten anyone who tried
to stop him looking for his hoard. He was sweating as he
crouched there with his tongue hanging out. He could easily
have been taken for a giant crab. He pushed the earth away
from the hole with his feet. His enveloping boubou was half-strangling him, so he wrenched the neck open and then dug
down with renewed energy. At last he reached the bottom,
and there to his dismay all he found was his sleek, black hair.
He lifted it up, glanced at it in bewilderment, then stared
down at the empty hole. Raising his eyes to the tree, he took
God as his witness, 'Bilahi-vahali, this isn't me.'
As he held his hair in one hand and stroked his shaved head
with the other, tears welled up in his eyes, 'Bilahi-vahali, I'm not Mahmoud Fall!' he said again, a sob in his voice.
Then he shouted at the top of his voice, 'My friend, my old
friend Mahmoud Fall, come and deliver me from this uncer-
tainty!'
The echo whisked away his call, rolling it over before
hurling it on to the plain like a stone on to a galvanized-iron
roof. The sound faded into the distance, and he murmured
slowly, 'My old friend Mahmoud Fall, don't play this trick on
me. I've known you for a long time...'
He strained his ears, listening hard, concentrating on a point
beyond his range of vision; but he heard nothing. Just a vast
emptiness. Then the mocking voices returned.
'Aren't you going to pray?' said the first.
Hardly aware of what he was doing, he stood up, faced
towards Mecca, and raised his hands to his temples, 'Allah ackbar! God is great,' he began.
But his eyes wandered to where his hoard had been hidden.
'Can you still pray when you've been robbed?'
'Ask God who the thief is,' said the other voice.
Mahmoud stood there with his arms raised, not knowing
what to do. Then he remembered his dream. 'I wasn't asleep,'
he thought.
He had seen the thief; he had even felt that he was being
shorn. And the Almighty had not intervened, the Almighty
had let it be done.
'No, I'm not going to pray any more,' he said in a low voice,
thinking that Allah would not hear him.
Three times he walked round the tree, hoping to find
footprints; but in vain. High in the sky, a migrating bird began
to sing cheerfully. Mahmoud Fall shouted curses at it. Then he
suddenly felt himself to be very much alone.
'On the word of a Moor,' he murmured, 'these sons of slaves
are all thieves!'
Rage possessed him, and he ran off like a madman into the
desert, his torn boubou flapping in the wind. He had just
realized that there is no need to believe in Allah in order to be a
thief!
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