The Face

MANY TIMES, THOSE who toiled on Nuzob would ask themselves if they had done so before. It was not the kind of thought to have in such a place, but they would nonetheless hold themselves at arm’s length and in that rare moment of unabashed introspection they would ask:

“Have I done so before?”

Oh, creature come by the light, where the flame sees a travelling face 

by the wearisome lines it has traced.

“Have I done so before?”

Hunger and age will eternal prevail, and the wish of goodnight 

is a stranger’s embrace.

“Have I done nothing else?”

Have you done nothing more?

“Have I done nothing else?”

You have done nothing less.

One of the mountain’s many halls held an account of each time this question was asked. It was a square room, no wider than a stone’s throw, with a vault as high up as any great cathedral’s dome. It had black obsidian walls, which reflected to perfection, and a name engraved for each of those times. There were no dates by the names, only faces of white alabaster. Their expressions varied, but they all had a hint of doubt, a pause, in their eyes. Some faces belonged to the same owner, they posited a recurring line of thought, where the room would find them once in a while and they would experience it as a brush with the faintly familiar.

But the room is unknown. No one has ever seen it, or seen his face, which very likely has a place on its walls. Sirhan never has, his faces are few, but there. Amal has a few more. Your own is right here, beside them. Even I asked. There are young faces stopped in their tracks, and old ones that take up too much space. No two are alike, except that they all rest here, in unison. And many still ask:

“Have I been here before?”

You have.