The Forty Thieves

by Christy Lenzi

  “It suits you so much better than the musky ambergris that most slave girls wear.” The girl smiles and takes my wrist, touching it gently at my pulse. “If you crush the blossoms against your skin right here—”

  I slip my hand away, not used to being touched.

  Saja blinks. She turns to gather her linens, but starts sniffling again and looks as if she might start crying. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about my little brother; he works in the men’s bathhouse. He got caught stealing from the bath patrons this morning, and the master of the baths whipped him.” She wipes her eyes. “His back is covered in welts.”

  I wince, imagining Master whipping little Jamal like that.

  She stands up straighter, and seems to pull herself together. “I won’t burden you with my troubles.” She points to my sash where the jasmine is hidden. “If you bring me a basketful of blossoms, I can press them for jasmine oil and mix it with powdered orris root.”

  “Why?”

  “I just thought you might like to have some jasmine perfume made from the flowers you like so well. And I enjoy creating the potions. Kadira, the woman who runs the apothecary shop with her brother, taught me how to mix them.”

  I start to say I need to get back to Mistress, but Saja keeps on talking, making excited gestures with her hands as she speaks.

  “When I was young, Kadira noticed on her visits to the baths that I was interested in scents and could discern which elements had gone into all her perfumes. It wasn’t long before I was helping her form new recipes, and she kept leaving me plants and oils to make my own and seeds to grow the plants myself! Now I—”

  “I understand,” I interrupt. I don’t know how to talk with someone like Saja. She’s too open with strangers. I’m afraid she might expect me to be the same way in return. “You’ll get your jasmine.” When I see the hurt look on Saja’s face, something inside me wavers like a lute string plucked out of tune. Unsure of what to say, I glance over my shoulder. “My mistress is waiting.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  On the next bath day, I rise early in order to pick enough jasmine petals to fill a basket. It will be easy enough to hide it among the bundles of linens, jars of henna, and my lute. Mistress asked me to play some soothing music while they recline at the baths. I’ve been practicing every chance I get. The melodies that find their way from my fingers to the strings are different from the ones I used to play before that day the Forty Thieves came. Something about that day—the horrible possibility of losing Jamal and the thrill of freedom when we escaped—stirs my heart and wants to find its way out in my music.

  Jamal’s already been playing the drum for years, and Mistress is delighted with his progress on the pipe—she says he plays like a snake charmer. But practicing the pipe and assisting Cook aren’t enough to keep Jamal out of trouble.

  Just the previous morning, Jamal took the labels off Cook’s spice jars and switched them around without her knowing. As if that weren’t enough, he’d laughed out loud watching Master clutch his throat and shout after taking a bite of pears with hot pepper sprinkled on them instead of cinnamon. I rub the bruise on my cheek where Master punished me for Jamal’s mischief.

  As soon as I settle Mistress and her sister-in-law by the pool, I hurry to find Saja, but Saja finds me first.

  “As-salaam alaykum, Marjana.” She takes hold of my hand, her eyes swollen, again.

  I stare at Saja’s fingers caging mine and resist the urge to peel them away. “Here are the flowers you asked for.” I hand her the basket of sweet-smelling jasmine blossoms and turn to go. “My mistress is waiting for us.”

  “Wait, Marjana. My brother—”

  I’m afraid the girl might cry again, but I find myself hesitating to listen. Something about the tone of Saja’s voice echoes the anxiety I have for my own brother.

  Saja whispers, “Badi’s in even deeper trouble, now.”

  “He got caught stealing again?” I don’t mean to ask the question, but it slips out.

  “No, it’s not that. The master beat him so hard last time, he hasn’t done it since. This is worse. Some of the older boys took Badi into their gang. He’s a street warrior now.” She sniffles and blows her nose on one of the bath linens.

  My heart skips a beat. “But that’s not real warfare, is it? It’s just a boys’ game.” I try to make my voice light, but I can’t help thinking of the street gangs Ali Baba talked about and the gleam in Jamal’s eyes.

  “No, I’ve seen them outside the bathhouse at night sometimes. They weave helmets and shields for their leaders and ride on each other like warriors on horses.”

  “See—it’s just pretend.”

  “They have weapons! They make battles with the other street gangs at night and break into shops. Badi could grow up to become a bloodthirsty thief and join that gang of robbers everyone talks about.”

  My skin prickles. “The Forty Thieves?”

  Saja nods. “People see them sometimes, outside the city.”

  The devil-man, so nearby—my heart beats faster. “You’re right—you can’t let that happen.”

  “Are you all right, Marjana? You’ve turned pale. Are the jinn affecting you?”

  “I’m fine.” I take a deep breath. “You’re right. The Forty Thieves were young boys once. You can’t let your brother become like them. Can you leave the bathhouse at all? Maybe you could bring Badi with you to my master’s slave quarters sometime—I have a brother, too. Maybe they just need someone to play with in a safe, proper place out of the streets, to keep them out of trouble.”

  Saja’s face lights up as if I’ve offered her the royal Taj Palace. “Well, I haven’t been out very often and don’t know my way around the city. The mistress of the baths is a monster and easily annoyed. Some of the girls bribe the khādim or sneak out of the bathhouse through a broken shutter when their work is done, but I’ve never—”

  I turn to go. “Well, I understand. My mistress is waiting for us.”

  “Wait!” Saja catches up with me. “I want to.” She blinks at the mosaic floor, looking surprised at herself. “And I’ll take Badi this evening if you tell me how to get there.” She beams. “Oh, thank you! I’m so glad you came today—I hardly knew what to do.”

  The heat and steam make it difficult to breathe normally. Saja’s nearness is smothering me. I take the linens from her. “We should go to Mistress.”

  Saja smiles, grabs my hand, and practically drags me through the steam to where Mistress reclines on her mat beside the pool, munching dried jujubes. Leila’s in the pool; when she sees us, hand in hand, she sighs and says to Mistress, “Oh, seeing these two together reminds me of my days as a girl in Iran before I was given in marriage to Ali Baba and came to Baghdad. How I miss my soul sister.”

  As Saja begins loosening Mistress’s pinned-up hair and applying the henna, I sit cross-legged on the floor watching with my lute in my lap. I don’t know what Leila means by “soul sister.” I run my fingers over the fine wood of my new lute. Its smooth curves and delicate strings send that old familiar thrill through me. As Saja works the muddy green paste into Mistress’s hair, I strum the song I’ve been working on.

  Mistress closes her eyes and asks Leila the very question I’m wondering: “What are soul sisters?”

  Leila rests her arms over the tiled edge of the pool. “Oh, the closest friends in the world.” Her eyes light up. “When a young woman finds her soul sister, they take a vow together at a shrine in front of their family and friends.” Leila’s happy voice seems to dance to the music of the lute.

  I’ve never heard of a vow like that. I can’t imagine having such a close friend that I would want to make a vow to her.

  “A matchmaker arranges it by sending a wax doll to the girl. If she says no, it’s returned with a black veil, but if the proposal is accepted, it’s returned with a necklace around its head like a crown.”

  Mistress makes a hissing sound through her teet
h. “Sounds like a marriage. Except for the most important thing—the dowry.” Mistress lowers her voice. “My husband would call such women ‘witches,’ I’m sure.” She giggles.

  “Oh, but it’s a most holy vow of friendship, honored by the whole community. Soul sisters know each other better than anyone else. They share even their most secret thoughts.” Leila smiles as if that’s a good thing.

  I’d rather be slashed with a knife than have my thoughts opened for someone to see.

  Leila sighs. “My soul sister used to send me kitchen supplies.”

  “Kitchen supplies?” Mistress snorts. “My husband sent me far better gifts than that. Once he gave me a beautiful little dagger made of silver, with a hidden compartment in the hilt.”

  “Oh, but sister-in-law, these were special gifts, full of meaning. A cinnamon stick was not just a cinnamon stick. It meant ‘I trust you.’ A whole cardamom said, ‘You are my secret-keeper,’ and a cracked one meant she was in agony.” Leila smiles. “My favorite, the tiny sesame seed, said, ‘You are my treasure,’ but the pear seed …” She swallows hard and stares at the pattern on the floor where she sits. “The pear seed …”

  Mistress raises her head. The green henna in her hair makes her look like an evil demon. “Well, what does the pear seed mean?”

  Leila dabs at the tears welling up in her eyes and whispers, “It means ‘I hate you.’”

  CHAPTER

  6

  I hate you.

  My fingers fumble on the lute strings when Leila tells us the meaning of her soul sister’s pear-seed gift. The notes I’m playing clash together. Saja glances in my direction. I almost pull down my scarf, but Saja acts as if my eyes are like pleasant pools rather than locked doors to be broken into.

  Mistress frowns at her sister-in-law and lies back down. “Then why on earth would she ever give you a pear seed? Sounds like your soul sister’s love was not as strong as you say.”

  Leila’s silent as she traces the colorful pattern in the tiles. After a few moments, she says quietly, “Nay, you’re wrong. Sometimes love is so strong, it makes us weak. When my father promised me in marriage to Ali Baba, and I told her I must move away, she broke our vow of sisterhood and said she never wanted to see me again.”

  Saja wipes the henna from her hands and takes Leila’s hand in hers, massaging the woman’s fingers. Leila blinks back tears.

  “Please—tell us about your home country.” Saja surprises us all by speaking. “Was it beautiful?”

  Leila smiles. She seems grateful to Saja for changing the subject. “Oh yes! When I was a girl, we lived by the Khazar Sea, the loveliest place in the world. The water sparkled like diamonds and emeralds tossed in a silver bowl. Have you ever seen the sea?”

  Saja shakes her head. “No, but I can imagine the water—it sounds like the color of Marjana’s eyes.”

  The women turn to look at me. No one has said such a kind thing about me since Umi died. A warm sensation creeps up my neck and over my cheeks as I play.

  “Ah, I think you’re right.” Leila smiles and pats Saja’s hand as she steps out of the pool. She dries herself off, dresses, and gathers her soaps and linens. “And now I must go home to my son, Rasheed. As-salaam alaykum.”

  When Leila leaves, Saja wraps Mistress’s hair in linen and massages her muscles. After a few moments, Mistress’s snoring grows louder than the lute, and I set it aside. Saja whispers, “Your turn.”

  I’ve been looking forward to this. The water’s so inviting. I slip off my qamis and sirwal and slide into the bubbling pool, letting myself sink to the bottom like a stone. The roiling liquid pulses over me, washing away the grime, the streets, the masters, the thieves—the whole world—and wraps me in a blanket of peace.

  As I soak, Saja spreads a piece of linen over her white attendant’s skirt and mixes more henna. When I step out of the pool, Saja beckons me to her side where she sits cross-legged on the floor, and I lie down next to her and rest my head in her lap. The henna paste smells sweet. Saja works it gingerly into my hair, humming my lute tune. Her voice makes me think of warm honey, but it doesn’t melt the stiffness in my bones.

  Saja pauses for a moment. “Where did you learn that song for your lute, Marjana? It sounds … lonely. Like the music wants to be known and heard by someone who understands it or it will die of heartache.” Saja sighs. “I know what that feels like.”

  No one’s ever talked about my music that way before. It’s as if Saja has peeked inside the window of my heart, a window I keep locked up with a wooden screen. “I made it up myself.”

  “It’s lovely,” Saja whispers, rinsing her hands. She kneels beside me on a cushion and rubs perfumed oils over my body in gentle waves of pressure. “You have such hard knots in your muscles, Marjana. Relax.”

  But Saja’s words only make my body tense up, resisting her soothing fingers.

  “This is violet oil. Violets are the trickiest flowers—their scent is so difficult to capture and keep. They refuse to be held for more than a moment. Take a deep breath.”

  I inhale the sweet smell.

  “Burnt sugar and lemons—that’s what violets smell like, don’t they. But now take another breath.”

  I inhale again, but smell nothing.

  Saja laughs. “Gone! Coy little things. Soon you’ll smell their sweetness again.”

  Saja’s right. The next time I take a breath, there it is, like magic. As she works, Saja talks about everything under the sun, whispering so she won’t wake Mistress. She speaks of flowers, herbs, and spices as though they’re characters living in a story.

  Then she lowers her voice even more. “Marjana, I’ll tell you a secret I haven’t told anyone else. I once had a dream I’ll never forget. It’s not a grand dream about living in a palace or finding a treasure, but I think about it all the time. I wish for it to come true. Sometimes, I tell myself the dream, like a story, over and over, as if that will make it real.”

  I’m reminded of how I sometimes do the same thing with my dreams about Umi coming back to be with me and Jamal and being a family again. I wait, curious to hear Saja’s wish.

  “One day I dreamed that I was free and owned my own perfume shop. Me! And all day long I worked with the most beautiful smells on earth—rose, sandalwood, vanilla, cedar, apple, lily of the valley…. I made perfumes that captured every beautiful scent in the world—scents that held people’s best memories. When customers bought my perfumes, the scents made them happy because they were reminded of their favorite things—a childhood joy, a lover’s embrace, a friend’s smile, or perhaps a mother’s voice.” Saja sighed. “I think of this dream all the time.”

  I see Saja’s dream as vividly as if I’d dreamed it myself. My body relaxes a little, and some of the tension dissolves. I listen in a trance to her words, unused to conversations that don’t involve orders or complaints, until Mistress finally wakes with a start. The woman immediately begins giving commands, breaking the peaceful spell Saja created.

  “Oh, we must hurry!” Mistress scrambles to gather her things. “Marjana, as soon as we get home, you and Jamal shall put the house in order. Cut some gillyflowers, bring out the gold-fringed cushions, and assist Cook. My husband has a guest tonight—the fortune-teller, Abu-Zayed.”

  Saja gives me a nervous glance as she hands me the lute. Fortune-telling is black magic—Sihr. It’s thought that harmful jinn creep up to the lowest heaven to eavesdrop on the angels’ conversations and carry the information to fortune-tellers’ ears. Umi once told me that shooting stars are really balls of fire that angry angels hurl at the retreating jinn.

  Mistress’s news doesn’t surprise me; Master isn’t pious like most Muslims, and he looks down on his devout brother, Ali Baba. Ali Baba and his family are Sufis like Umi was, Muslims who wear woolen garments and practice meditation. I wish I could ask Ali Baba more about Sufis, but I’m forced to follow Master’s beliefs. I don’t think Ali Baba would mind my questions, but I doubt Master would take it well if he caught
me asking about Sufism.

  As Saja helps Mistress dress, the woman sighs. “Oh, if only I could be at their supper!” She giggles and winks at me. “I’d give my pretty little dagger to hear my husband’s fortune.”

  I glance at Mistress as I pack up my lute. I recognize that coy voice she uses when she wants me to do something but is too ashamed to demand it. Usually it’s something improper, like wanting me to spy on the neighbors. Mistress’s dagger has weavelike designs carved into the hilt and a Damascus steel blade that looks like it’s made of swirling water. I remember how it felt to use the paring knife to cut the ropes from Jamal’s wrists. I wouldn’t need to swipe an old paring knife from Cook’s kitchen to have that feeling again—I’d have my own beautiful weapon. A smile creeps across my face. I decide to play along to see what she’s up to this time. “But fortune-telling is evil. Besides, men and women never dine together,” I say.

  Mistress titters and nods as if reading my mind. “Yes, it would be unacceptable and impossible for a female to hear the fortune.” She hands me the basket and winks at me again before heading out the door. “Unless she is a slave girl, merely obeying her mistress and playing a lute behind a curtain …”

  I can almost feel the knife in my hand already. It’s an easy trade; I’ll do it.

  After Mistress leaves, Saja’s brow wrinkles in concern. “Be careful, Marjana. Fortune-tellers should be feared, not welcomed. And masters don’t like their slaves getting involved in their affairs.” She draws me close, kissing both cheeks as if I’m an old friend. Saja’s hands are gentle and warm from her work.

  I’m used to Jamal’s rough contact and nearness, but no one’s ever embraced me like a friend the way Saja does. My armor’s melting like wax. I don’t like that feeling. I pull away the slightest bit. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  After the muezzin’s call for sunset prayers, I help Jamal spread a round embroidered cloth in the middle of the floor and arrange silver dishes over it.