The Forty Thieves

by Christy Lenzi

  “Jamal,” I tell him, “Mistress’s bath attendant, Saja, has a brother named Badi who may come over after his work is done.” I place the gillyflowers in a vase and glance at my brother. “I thought you might become friends.”

  Jamal frowns and rolls his eyes.

  “Saja’s worried about Badi. He’s joined a gang of street warriors—”

  “Street warriors!” His face lights up. “Cook tells me all about them. She says they make shop owners pay for protection against the other gangs. They get to wear helmets and fight! I wish we had one in this neighborhood.”

  I grab him by the ear and pull him close. “Shh! Don’t let Master hear you say such things—he’ll beat you.”

  “He never beats me.”

  I don’t want to tell Jamal how Master was true to his word and gives Jamal’s beatings to me instead. “Well, he just might if he hears such talk.”

  Jamal snorts. “If there were street warriors in this neighborhood, I would join them and make Master pay me to keep his shop safe. If he had done that before, I bet the Forty Thieves never would have dared taking us.”

  I sigh. Things aren’t going as I’d planned. Irritated, I shove Jamal toward the door. “Go change, you little donkey. It’s almost time to serve dinner.”

  We expect Master’s guest any moment, and suddenly I feel a great apprehension. If fortune-tellers learn the fates of mortals from harmful jinn, Saja’s right—they should be avoided, not welcomed into the home. I’m nervous about spying, too. If Master catches me, I’ll get a beating instead of a pretty dagger. I place an arrangement of pistachios, dates, and pomegranates in the center of the cloth and walk to the window. Trying to calm my nerves, I gaze at the swaying fig tree outside and breathe in the smell of jasmine on the breeze.

  A noise like the parade of clopping hoofs and the jangle of tambourines makes me jump. Master’s brother, Ali Baba, hurries up the street, his face bright. His donkeys trot after him, their heavy baskets making a clinking sound.

  A knock on the door pushes all thoughts of Ali Baba from my mind. I duck my head back inside the window. “Jamal!” I cry as I pluck up my lute. “Answer the door!” I fly across the room and slip behind the curtains Mistress and I set up in front of a doorway. I want Mistress’s dagger as much as Mistress wants to know her husband’s fortune.

  Spreading a small carpet on the tile, I settle myself cross-legged on the floor with my lute in my lap and peer through a slight gap in the curtains. Abu-Zayed enters the room with Master. The fortune-teller is a small, stooped man with a plain face and keen eyes. He looks harmless enough. He even reminds me of someone I’ve seen before, but can’t think of who it might be. The two men make themselves comfortable on the cushions while Jamal brings them the silver washing basin and pitcher.

  I play softly while the men begin eating.

  After they finish, Jamal clears the dishes and brings the coffee. I quietly set aside my lute, hoping Master will assume I’ve left my closet. If he suspects my presence during the fortune-telling, he won’t hesitate to pull me out and beat me in front of the man.

  “Come, come, my friend!” Master’s deep voice is eager. “We’re alone now, and I’m ready to hear my fortune! I can tell that you have it on the tip of your tongue. Please, have some coffee.”

  The little man raises his hand to decline the drink. “It’s as you say. I’ve learned your fate and will waste no time in revealing it to you faithfully. Indeed, if I had the payment, you would have your fortune already.”

  Master shoves a bag of coins into the man’s hands. “Done! Now, what have you heard from the jinn regarding my fate? I was spared being murdered by the Forty Thieves, and most of my wealth was secure in my shop when they attacked. I’ve married well, and my business is booming—what’s next? Will my wife conceive a son, an heir? Will I become wealthier still?” He strokes his double chin in anticipation.

  I don’t trust the shrewd look on the fortune-teller’s face. I lean forward to hear the reply.

  Abu-Zayed tucks the coins into his sash and sighs heavily. “Alas, you will die childless and threadbare.”

  Master’s cup crashes to the floor.

  I jump, swallowing back the cry of surprise that rises in my throat.

  The fortune-teller continues. “In the end, any dignity you have left, you will owe to the charity of your brother.”

  “What? My brother!” Master looks as if he’s choked on a chicken bone. “He’s a good-for-nothing Sufi! He’s a poor, miserable woodcutter. I am twice the man Ali Baba is!”

  Abu-Zayed glances at Master’s large belly. “Be that as it may—in the end, you will be but a quarter of the man he is.”

  “Nonsense!” Master cries.

  The old man lifts his chin in disdain. A jagged but faded scar runs across his lower neck. “On my honor, it is the truth I received from the jinn, which I faithfully revealed.”

  For just a moment, the fortune-teller’s calm gaze rests on the gap in my curtain. His eyes narrow, and a thin smirk spreads across his face. I gasp and draw back, almost knocking against my lute.

  Master struggles to his feet. “Leave my house immediately!” He swears at the man, his face growing red. “You falsifier!” With a flurry of rebukes, Master ushers him from the room. The door slams behind them.

  I stare at the puddle of coffee on the floor, stunned. What should I do? Mistress is waiting for me and won’t like to hear what I have to tell her. I could lie. After all, the fortune-teller is not to be trusted—maybe he is a falsifier. If I tell Mistress everything he said, the woman will be so upset, the whole household will suffer. But Mistress can always tell when I am lying. I sigh. If I want that knife, I have to tell Mistress what really happened.

  By the time I relate the fortune and leave Mistress’s chamber, I’m exhausted from the woman’s wailing. But at least I have the silver dagger, which makes me feel the way I did that day I escaped the Forty Thieves—stronger, in control. I walk along the corridor of the harem to the tiny room Jamal and I share and see Saja standing outside the carved wooden screen, smiling and squinting through the cut design. “I brought Badi,” she says.

  So the girl braved the evil bathhouse mistress and came after all. I use my new knife on the shutter screen’s lock and almost have the catch pried free when Saja cries, “Stop, Marjana—you’ll break it! Your master will be furious. I shouldn’t stay long, anyway. I have to finish my work.” She glances nervously behind her. “But Badi is done with his.”

  I peer down at Saja’s brother. He looks Jamal’s age. Drops of water from the fountain spray speckle his white tunic, and his knees are scratched up. I wave him toward the back of the house. “Jamal is digging in the garden.”

  Badi nods and runs off.

  Saja leans closer and holds on to the screen, trying to see me better. The breeze carries the scent of lavender from her hair.

  She whispers, “Marjana, after you left, I kept thinking of the song you played on your lute. The words wouldn’t leave my mind.”

  “But there were no words, only music.”

  “Well, maybe no one else could hear the words, but I did. They were about wanting things like freedom. And someone to care.”

  I look away. Saja had somehow broken open the lock on my heart.

  “The song said exactly what I was feeling. You have a gift, Marjana. Your music reveals the listener’s secrets to themselves.”

  I don’t know what to say. Badi’s and Jamal’s laughter drift to us from the garden. “It’s just a simple song.” I shrug, feeling uncomfortable.

  Saja smiles. “I should leave now—I’m supposed to be doing laundry. If the mistress of the baths finds out I’ve been gone, she’ll wring me out and hang me up to dry! Here, this is for you.” She takes something from her sash.

  “But I don’t have anything to trade—”

  “No, it’s a gift.” Saja slips her fingers through the screen and drops something small into my palm before hurrying away.

  I lif
t my hand to the light streaming through the screen, curious to see Saja’s gift. A whole cardamom. What was it Leila said the cardamom from her soul sister meant?

  You are my secret-keeper.

  The same warmth that flooded over me at Saja’s embrace comes rushing back. I never had a friend before. I squeeze the green cardamom in my fist. But friendship means trust. I don’t know if I want to share my secrets with Saja the way she shares things with me. The thought scares me.

  “Marjana!” Mistress cries. “I need my smelling salts! Oh, I’m so distressed.”

  I breathe in the fresh scent of the smooth seed pod. As I run to soothe Mistress’s worries about her husband’s fortune, I pop the cardamom in my mouth. The cool flavor bursts on my tongue when I chew, bringing to mind the refreshing peppermint oil at the bathhouse. Something inside me longs to trust Saja. But I know better than to believe in that safe, loving feeling I lost when Mother died. I know how easily such a feeling can be pulled out from under me, leaving me feeling empty and alone.

  When I reach Mistress’s chamber, I spit the seed pod into my hand and let it fall to the floor.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Early the next morning, I wake to the sound of brisk knocking. Throwing on a cloak, I run to the front door and squint into the light. Ali Baba’s wife, Leila, stands there, beaming like the sun.

  “As-salaam alaykum, dear. I’m so sorry to call this early, but I’m in desperate need of a measure. Would you ask my sister-in-law if I might borrow hers?”

  The woman seems so cheerful. The combined brightness of the morning and Leila’s smile makes my head ache. I’m still reeling from the previous night and the drama I endured when Mistress learned her husband’s fortune. I force a smile for Leila and run to Mistress’s dressing room to relay the request.

  “Has the woman gone mad?” Mistress scowls. “What on earth could she have such a great quantity of that she needs a measure—their family is poor as the dirt! And at this hour!”

  “Perhaps they’ve had some good fortune. Shall I fetch it for her?”

  At the word “fortune,” the color drains from Mistress’s face. She hesitates, no doubt recalling Abu-Zayed’s prediction. Mistress bites her lip, thinking. “This is what we shall do. Tell her I need to wash the measure, first, and then I’ll send you over with it directly. In the meantime, I’ll spread a little cooking fat underneath, on the bottom of the measure.” Her eyes light up. “A grain of millet, rye, or whatever it is she’s measuring will stick to the fat, and the mystery shall be solved!”

  “Of course.” I smile as I go tell Leila I’ll be over with it shortly. While I wait for Mistress to prepare the measure to her liking, I return to the small room I share with Jamal. He’s still asleep on his mat.

  “Get up, you lazy little donkey.” I poke his shoulder with my toe. “What did you and Badi do last night?” I’d been busy consoling Mistress and had fallen asleep before Jamal came to bed.

  He rolls over and groans. A dark bruise covers his left eye.

  “What is this?” I grab his shoulders and stare at his face “Did Badi hit you? Your eye is black and blue! That brat! When I get my hands on him—”

  Jamal shoots up from the floor, a grin spreading across his face. “It’s blue? Really?”

  “Why did he do this to you?”

  Jamal brushes my hand away from his face. “It doesn’t hurt. And Badi didn’t do it. We’re friends!”

  Although I’d wanted Saja’s brother to become friends with Jamal, now I’m not so sure. “But if Badi didn’t hit you, then who—”

  “Marjana!” Mistress calls from the other room in an impatient voice.

  I roll my eyes and head for the door. “You will tell me everything you and Badi did, little donkey, as soon as I come back.”

  Mistress, beaming with pride at the plan she concocted, hands me the prepared measure, a large cup for scooping and measuring grain; I can’t even see the layer of fat coating the bottom. As she gives me directions to Ali Baba’s house, I think how sneaky Mistress is! First the scheme to eavesdrop on the fortune-teller and now this. Her idea was amusing at first, but now it seems trivial. What did the boys do last night? A sinking feeling comes over me. I slip the measure under my arm and leave the house. Saja had been so happy when I suggested that Badi become friends with Jamal. I should have paid more attention, kept an eye on them. I can’t shake the nervous clenching in my stomach.

  It’s only a short distance to Ali Baba’s house. The family lives on a small, nearby alleyway. The road and dwelling are ancient and need repair. Ali Baba didn’t inherit as much money or marry a wealthy man’s daughter as his brother had, and his poverty is obvious.

  I knock on the faded wooden door. After several moments of waiting, I try again. They probably have no servants to receive guests, so I let myself in. Before I can call out, voices reach me from a back room, and I start in that direction. A burst of merry laughter makes me pause.

  “Sesame! Can you believe it, wife?”

  More laughter pours from the room, accompanied by the clinking noise of a tambourine, just as I had heard the night before.

  “And to think sesame will change lives!”

  So, that’s what they want to measure—sesame seeds. I open my mouth to call out a greeting, when someone speaks from behind me.

  “As-salaam alaykum.”

  I jump. Rasheed, Ali Baba’s son, reclines like a sultan on a bed of ragged cushions in the corner of the room. He laughs at my surprise.

  My face grows hot as a brick oven. “Why didn’t you come to the door and let me in?” I snap, forgetting for a moment that he’s Master’s nephew. I bite my tongue, wondering if he’ll leap up to strike me.

  Rasheed’s grin fades. He turns away, but doesn’t get up.

  I could kick myself for my foolishness. Lazy Rasheed will tell his uncle, and I’ll be punished. “I thought—” I stop. Why should I explain? It will only make him feel smug. I approach the young man and hand him the measure. “Here. Your mother needs to borrow this from my mistress.” I want to ask why he doesn’t help his father cut wood, but I have no intention of starting a conversation with him.

  I glance at his face. His eyes are dark and deep. They tell me nothing. Feeling exposed, I instinctively touch my headscarf. I want to turn and leave without a word, shaming him with rude silence, but Master won’t hesitate to try and slap the fire out of me if his nephew complains about my behavior.

  I bow stiffly. “As-salaam alaykum,” I mumble before hurrying from the house. I fly down the old road, stumbling over ruts and stones, cursing under my breath.

  I storm through the harem door. “Now tell me what trouble you and Badi got into last night!” I yell, taking my frustration out on my brother.

  Jamal is wrapping his turban around his head. I yank him by the ear and the ring of cloth on his forehead slips down about his neck like an ox yoke.

  “Ow!” he cries, and bats at me.

  I let go, and he stomps on my foot. I resist the urge to scream or hit him, and cross my arms over my chest instead. “What did you and Badi do?”

  Jamal flings his turban at me. “Something brave and exciting. We’re doing it again tonight, and you can’t stop me. You’re not my father or my master. You’re just a slave.”

  “So are you!”

  “But you’re a girl slave; you’re nothing. I’m a war—”

  Cook’s sour voice rings through the house. “Jamal, you louse, get off your mat and come peel the pears!”

  He grabs his head cloth, sticks out his tongue, and dashes away.

  Why is he being such a stupid little donkey? Steaming, I bend down, roll up his mat, and throw the rug as hard as I can at the window screen. It hits the lock I pried loose the night before and knocks the shutter screens open. The rug flies right out the window like a magic carpet.

  “Aiyeee!” cries a voice from outside.

  I rush to the sill.

  Saja sits on a squashed rosebush, a
bewildered look on her face. She rubs her head. “Is that how you air out your rugs? It’s very dangerous.”

  “Saja, what are you doing here?”

  She stands up and puts her hands on her hips, pretending to be angry. “That’s all you have to say? Saja, what are you doing here? How about I’m sorry, Saja, for trying to kill you with a rug—please reveal the important matter you must have come here to tell me.”

  I can’t keep a laugh from escaping. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Saja leans over the window ledge. “I have to hurry. I snuck away from the bathhouse, but I’ll be missed soon. I’m so afraid of getting caught.” She hesitates and bites her lip. “I came to tell you I saw Jamal for a moment last night. Badi brought him to the slave quarters at the baths. I’m pretty sure he took him to the street warriors, but of course, I couldn’t follow them on my own—it was almost dark. I know you said it’s just a game, but sometimes I see warriors through the window, fighting in the streets and breaking into shops. I’m so worried. Badi’s all I’ve got.”

  I swallow hard. “Saja, I—”

  “Badi says he’s coming for Jamal again, tonight. I just thought you would want to know. I need to get back to the bathhouse.” Saja squeezes my hand and lets go, leaving a smooth stick of cinnamon in her palm.

  A soul sisters’ gift. Leila said it means I trust you.

  Saja’s trust creates a heaviness in my stomach and a lightness in my head at the same time, as if I’ve drawn a long pull of smoke from a hookah. “Wait!” I catch her sleeve.

  Saja turns, waiting.

  I breathe in the warm scent of the cinnamon stick. “Thank you.” I’m not used to saying the words. They feel foreign on my lips, difficult to get out right. Making sure I’m still alone in the room, I lower my voice. “I know the street battles aren’t a game—Jamal came home with a black eye. We can’t sit by and watch our brothers grow up to become thieves and murderers like the Forty Thieves.” The devil-man’s green serpent slithers across my thoughts. I take a deep breath. “The Forty Thieves killed Master’s guards and stole most of the people who once lived in this house. They stole Jamal and me, too, but we were lucky to escape.”