The Wedding of Zein by Tayeb Salih Read Free Book Online Page B

through the area from end to end, his feet one day led him for no particular reason to the people of the Koz. He was roaming round the tents as though looking for something he’d lost, when a girl appeared and Zein, struck by her beauty, was rooted to the spot. The girl had heard of him, for his fame had reached even as far as the bedouin of the Koz, so she laughed and said jokingly, ‘Zein, will you marry me?’ He was speechless for a while—in the thrall of the girl’s beauty, he was now made spellbound by the magic of her words. Then and there he called out at the top of his voice, ‘O people, she has slain me.’
    Many heads craned out from the doors of the houses and from between the flaps of tents. The girl’s mother called out, ‘Haleema, what are you up to with that dervish?’ And the girl’s brothers rushed at Zein, who took to flight. But Haleema, the belle of the Koz, thereafter became the object of an infatuation that did not leave him till she was married. People got to hear about her and many of the wealthy men of the village, the eligible youths and notables, came to ask for her in marriage from her father. In the end she was married to the son of the Cadi.
    The marriage of the Omda’s daughter and that of Haleema were a turning-point in Zein’s life, for the mothers of young girls woke up to his importance as a trumpet by which attention was drawn to their daughters. In a conservative society where girls are hidden away from young men, Zein became an emissary for Love, transporting its sweet fragrance from place to place. Love, first of all, would strike at his heart, then would be quickly transferred to the heart of another—just as though Zein were a broker, a salesman, or a postman. With his small mouse-like eyes lurking in their sunken sockets, Zein would look at a beautiful girl and would be overcome by something that was perhaps love. His innocent heart having succumbed to this love, his thin legs would carry him to the far corners of the village, running hither and thither like a bitch that has lost her pups, his tongue continually singing the girl’s praises and calling out her name, so that ears were soon cocked and eyes on the look-out. Soon, too, some handsome young man’s hand would stretch out to take that of the young girl. And when the wedding took place, if you looked around for Zein, you’d find him either working away at filling pitchers and large ewers with water, or standing bare-chested, axe in hand, in the middle of a courtyard cutting up firewood, or exchanging good-natured banter with the women in the kitchen, while from time to time they fed him with tit-bits and he’d burst out into that laugh of his, so like a donkey’s braying. And then would begin another romance, and from each romance Zein would emerge unscatched and, to all appearances, unchanged: his laugh unaltered, his tomfoolery in no wise lessened, and his legs never weary of bearing his body to the outlying parts of the village.
    Years of abundance replete with love were experienced by Zein. The young girls’ mothers went out of their way to gain his affection, tempting him into their houses where they’d give him food to eat and tea and coffee to drink. On entering, a seat of honour would be spread out for him and breakfast or lunch served up in the best crockery, after which mint tea would be brought if it happened to be morning, or strong tea with milk if afternoon; after the tea he’d be served coffee with cinammon, cardamom, and ginger, be it morning or afternoon. No sooner did the women hear that Zein was in a nearby house than they’d flock to him, for they were amused by his raillery. Mothers would urge their daughters to go along and greet him, and lucky the one that gained a place in his heart and whose name was upon his lips when he went out, for such a girl was guaranteed a husband within a month or two. Perhaps Zein