CHAPTER
14
I don’t sleep all night. Jamal lies curled in my arms, weeping, as he clutches Badi’s turban in his fists. By the time the cock crows, it seems our eyes have emptied themselves of an ocean. I rise and rinse my face. It isn’t real. I just saw Badi yesterday, healthy and laughing with Jamal. His death is a dream. A nightmare.
The water trickles off my cheeks in red drops like bloody tears. Badi’s blood from Saja’s hand. My whole body starts shaking as I stare at the water in the basin. A wrenching pain twists my insides. Saja’s pain must be a thousand times worse. Why didn’t I rush to her when I first saw her crying there with Badi? I might have been able to save him. The thought weighs on me like a pile of bricks; I can hardly breathe from the pressure. Remembering the sting of Saja’s slap and the coldness that settled over me as she walked away makes me weep fresh tears.
I hunger for the tiniest words of forgiveness from her, but I dread being turned away like a guilty criminal. My reflection in the water glares back at me. I take the basin and throw the water at the shutter screens. Some of it flies out the window and the rest drips down the screens and the wall, making a puddle on the floor.
Brisk knocking on the front door pulls me from my thoughts. Slaves don’t have the freedom of mourning. With swollen eyes and hair matted to my head, I open the door and squint into bright sunlight. I mumble a greeting to Leila, who’s returning her sister-in-law’s measure in an even brighter mood than the day before. But when Leila sees my red eyes, she catches hold of my sleeve.
“What’s wrong, dear? Oh!” She reaches out and holds my chin and cheek. “What a nasty cut. Are you all right?”
I wince at her tender touch. I forgot about the wound from Stinger’s ring. I nod and pull my scarf down lower. What would it feel like to rest my head on the shoulder of a woman like Leila and tell her everything? If only I had Umi. Mother’s words would be like a healing potion.
I take the measure. “I’m fine. As-salaam alaykum.”
The moment the door closes, Mistress flies from her chamber and snatches the measure from my hands. “Let me see that!” she cries. Her eyes widen as she inspects the underside of the cup. I want to slip back to my mat before Mistress can think of an early morning chore for me.
But a bleating sound escapes Mistress’s throat, and she sinks to her knees.
Thinking she’s fainting, I rush to catch her, but Mistress only stares, horrified, at the measure. I peer over her shoulder. On the bottom of the cup, stuck to the cooking fat, is a shiny gold coin.
I gasp.
At that moment, Master enters the hallway. His mouth falls open when he sees his wife sobbing on the floor. “What is the meaning of this?” he demands.
Mistress wails louder than a funeral mourner. “Ali Baba is already far richer than you!” She pulls the coin off the fat. “He doesn’t count his gold—he measures it!” She plunks the coin into the cup and shakes the measure at her husband like a tambourine.
Master’s face turns pale when he sees the shiny evidence. He plucks the gold from the cup. His eyes look as if they might pop from his head. “The fortune-teller’s prediction is coming true,” he murmurs. “Ali Baba grows rich, while I am meant to lose my wealth? I won’t let this happen.” He squeezes the coin in his fist and curses. “Marjana! Go fetch my brother immediately, before he leaves for the forest.”
I drag my eyes away from the coin and nod to Master. There’s no way Abu-Zayed could have known this would happen if he made the whole thing up. I hurry out of the house and catch up with Leila just as she reaches her door. “As-salaam alaykum!” I practically shout at the woman. “Master must speak with Ali Baba immediately—it’s an urgent matter. He’s quite upset.”
Leila hurries inside to fetch her husband, who appears at the door moments later, blinking in surprise. I don’t see lazy Rasheed anywhere, of course. At least I don’t have to face him again.
As soon as I return to the house with Ali Baba, Master bustles him into a nearby room and slams the door. Mistress drops the measure. Her hands fly to her face as she hurries from the room. Cook scurries to the back of the house, but I’m not going anywhere. Something strange is happening—I can feel it in my bones. I pick up the measure and stand in the hallway, listening to the voices behind the door.
“Ali Baba, you deceive me!” Master thunders. “You pretend to be a poor Sufi, turning away from worldly wealth and devoting yourself to Allah, but you secretly measure gold as if it were grain! What is the meaning of this?”
I step closer to the door to hear Ali Baba’s soft answer.
“Brother, it’s a wonder, to be sure. You’re right—I am no longer poor. My fortune has changed, praise Allah! But I don’t need worldly wealth; I can use it to help others!”
“What? I demand you tell me everything.”
“I’ll gladly tell you the story. It’s an astonishing one, I assure you. It happened just two days ago, when I was at the edge of the forest, cutting wood. I saw what looked like an army approaching on horseback in a cloud of dust. Fearing they were robbers, I climbed the nearest tree for safety. I counted forty—all rough-looking men, armed with scimitars and knives.”
“The Forty Thieves!” Master cries.
I almost gasp out loud and have to cover my mouth with my hand.
“Yes, brother. The finest-looking one among them, who I took to be their leader, made his way through the bushes below me till he reached a rocky slope. I could hardly believe what happened next.”
“Hurry and tell me, then! You try my patience, Ali Baba.”
“‘Open, Sesame!’” Ali Baba cries.
For a few moments, everything is quiet, till Master’s voice erupts, “Open what? Have you been eating hashish?”
“I’m in my right mind, brother. The captain said those very words, ‘Open, Sesame,’ and a door opened in the rocks!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. There are no such things as magic words. Open, Sesame. The idea is absurd. Ali Baba has always seemed so simple, so ignorant, but now he’s trying to dupe his own brother? Maybe he’s like the tricksters on the streets.
Ali Baba continues his story in an animated voice. “The robbers went inside the cave, and the door shut by itself. I waited in the tree to see what would happen. Finally, the door opened, and the thieves returned. After the captain said, ‘Close, Sesame,’ they mounted their horses and rode away. A great gust of wind almost knocked me out of the tree as soon as they were gone. It practically blew me to the rock face where the entrance had appeared and disappeared moments ago, and I decided to enter it myself. I had to see what was inside this enchanted cave! I inspected every inch of the rock but could find no door or device. But as soon as I spoke the magic words, the door flew open, and I saw the most amazing chamber, brightly lit, and full of the most thrilling treasures you could imagine!”
Impossible. I can barely keep from laughing out loud. Ali Baba’s tale is rich—better than the professional storytellers on the streets of Baghdad. Somehow, he’s managed to get a fortune—no wonder he was so excited the night I saw him hurrying home with his loaded donkeys—but a magic cave? No, Ali Baba must be a swindler. Or a thief.
A small gasp of surprise near my elbow makes me jump. Jamal crouches beside me, his ear glued to the door. His eyes are red and swollen from crying for Badi.
“What are you doing here, you little donk—”
“Shh!” Jamal puts his finger to his lips.
Ali Baba’s talking eagerly. “Can you believe it? There was a splendid table set with the choicest of foods and the rarest of delicacies. There was enough to feed a hundred street urchins! Everywhere I looked I saw rich silks and brocades, colorful rugs—even magic carpets that flew around the room. Pearls, emeralds, rubies, heaps of gold and silver, and leather purses of money littered the floor.”
Aha! So Ali Baba’s jangling baskets were full of those gold coins that day he
was hurrying up the street with his donkeys! I can imagine Master’s greedy eyes glittering with envy of such a find.
“Think of all the poor people we could help with such wealth!” Ali Baba goes on. “I have such plans for it—an orphanage and a school for the homeless children who roam the streets. Oh, the possibilities are endless. I brought out as many bags of gold as my donkeys could carry, and on a whim, I caught one of the magic carpets and brought it out as well. Then I said, ‘Close, Sesame,’ and hurried home, praising Allah all the way!”
Jamal squeezes my hand, his eyes lighting up as he listens. I sigh. Everyone hears the legends of treasure hoards. There are even professionals who spend their lives hunting for such fortunes. Maybe Ali Baba really did stumble upon the Forty Thieves’ hoard by accident, but why is he making up this crazy story about magic words and flying rugs?
“Humph.” Master sounds impatient. “I’ve seen a bit of your gold. Show me the carpet.”
Silence.
“Well?”
“I’m afraid you would be disappointed. Though the carpet flew when it was in the cave, it has lain quite still on the floor since I brought it home. But I—”
“Enough of these fantasies. I believe you’ve found a great stash of gold—too much for the likes of you—and I demand that you tell me what you plan to do.”
“Brother,” Ali Baba says, “you should have a share in this good fortune. It is too great a responsibility for just one man to manage.”
“Well, I would expect so!” says Master. “But you must tell me where to find this cave!”
I roll my eyes. Doesn’t Ali Baba know that his brother will take advantage of him if he reveals the location of his newfound wealth?
“Certainly, brother,” Ali Baba answers in a kind voice. “We must keep this secret for fear of our lives, but I have nothing to hide from you.”
I almost drop the measure. Why would he agree to such a thing? Master would do almost anything, I think, to prevent the fortune-teller’s predictions from coming true, including stealing from his own brother.
Cook calls for me and Jamal. I grab my brother’s ear and pull him away from the door. “You can’t say anything about this to anyone. Do you understand?”
“A magic treasure cave!” Jamal whispers.
“Shh! There’s no such thing as magic.”
Cook yells again with the hint of a whipping in her voice.
Jamal wiggles free. “You’re still not my master,” he says as soon as he escapes. He sticks his tongue out.
A flash of pain and anger sweeps over me, and my words burst out before I can rein them in. “If I were your master, I would have kept you home last night so you wouldn’t have gotten Badi killed!”
Jamal freezes. His face drains of its color, reminding me of the way he looked the night the devil-man burst through the door. As soon as I say them, the words sting like poison on my tongue. “Jamal, wait—” But before I can stop him, he turns and flies down the corridor to the kitchen.
I slide to the floor and hug my knees. Everything’s collapsing. I long to clutch my fate tightly in my own hands, but everyone keeps prying away my fingers. I want to be strong for Jamal and myself, to get us what we want, what we need. But I don’t know exactly what that is anymore.
Ali Baba’s voice lowers as he tells Master how to find the cave, and I can’t hear what he’s saying. But soon I hear both men approaching the door, and I hurry to hide around the corner as Master shuffles Ali Baba into the hallway and to the front door.
“A very interesting story, indeed!” Master says. “Brother, you must tell no one else of this tale. I will take care of everything, you just leave this to me! Now, off you go—I have many things to do.”
And he shoves Ali Baba lightly out the door and closes it behind him. As soon as he is gone, Master chuckles to himself and says under his breath, “Fool.”
When I turn to leave the hall, he hears me and says, “Marjana, go tell your mistress to come see me immediately—I have important news to tell her!” He rubs his hands together, a glint in his eye. “Hurry! I need to leave soon.”
“Yes, Master,” I say, and hurry to find her.
CHAPTER
15
As evening draws near, Mistress grows uneasy. Nothing I say seems to help. Making matters worse, Master doesn’t return home by his usual time. Mistress won’t stop pacing between the front door and the window, wringing her hands as if trying to squeeze water from them. Still he doesn’t come home.
I sit by the window, thinking of Saja. Will Allah listen to me? I can’t even think of the right words to pray. Umi’s Twirling Song comes to mind. If I could spin straight to Allah, I would ask Him to send His angels to comfort Saja tonight.
By the time the sky turns purple and gold along the horizon, Mistress’s eyes are puffy from crying. “Marjana!” she finally cries, “Escort me to my brother-in-law’s house—I must speak with him.”
Something’s gone horribly wrong. Mistress is high-strung, but this is worse than usual. I take her trembling arm and walk with her the short distance to Ali Baba’s home. When the couple sees Mistress in such distress, they immediately pull us into the house.
“What is it, sister-in-law?” Ali Baba’s brows wrinkle together. “Where’s my brother?”
“Oh, Ali Baba! Forgive him—he’s done a wicked thing. He left this morning for the cave to swindle you of all the treasure,” she cries. “I’m afraid he’s in danger. The sun is setting, and he hasn’t returned!”
I brace Mistress, who seems ready to faint. Ali Baba jumps to life. “I’ll ready the donkeys. I must hurry!”
Leila pulls Mistress to the other room to comfort her.
Rasheed is lounging on his pillows again, his long legs draped over a fancy new carpet—it must be the rug Ali Baba took from the cave and swore was magic. It’s pretty, but definitely ordinary. Rasheed should leap to his feet and hurry to the cave with his father, but the young man remains seated. His humble garments are made of wool, yet his proud face is fierce as a tiger’s. He looks like an annoying prince who would have all the silly princesses fawning like kittens. I roll my eyes as I glance away from him.
How can he treat his family like this? He should realize how fortunate he is to even have people who love him and take care of him. If he were my brother, I’d wrestle him to the floor and tell him exactly what I think. I clench my fists to hold in the brewing anger, but it doesn’t work. “What’s wrong with you?” My words burst out like steam from a kettle. “All you do is lie around. Don’t you care about your father or your uncle?”
Rasheed looks stricken. His nostrils flare, and his face twists as if he’s in great pain. He gropes among his cushions till he finds a carved wooden rod. I flinch. Would he dare beat me with that? He struggles to push his legs into place, and with great effort, he positions himself against the rod and attempts to rise to his feet.
My heart leaps to my throat. Rasheed can do no such thing. “Wait! I didn’t know—” My face burns like hot coals.
“You’re right!” Rasheed shouts. “All I do is lie around. I need to do something!”
“But you’re … you’re …”
“I’m lame!” Rasheed throws the rod across the room in frustration and falls back onto the cushions.
At that moment, Ali Baba returns. “My son,” he says, “your legs are weak, but your mind is strong.” He picks up the cane and hands it back to Rasheed. “I need you to help me tonight.” He pulls the young man to his feet, supporting one side, while Rasheed steadies himself with the cane. “Stay at my brother’s house and watch for my return. You must pray to Allah for your uncle and me. Recite the Qur’an over my brother’s household for protection, and sing some qasida to occupy them and keep their minds at peace.”
Rasheed stands up straighter. “Yes, Father.”
The women return to the room, Mistress’s eyes wet and red.
“We must hurry.” Ali Baba turns to me. “Help us get Rasheed to my brothe
r’s house—I will need to gather oil and lamps there.”
But before I can object, Ali Baba moves aside for me to take his place beside Rasheed. I put my arm around the young man’s waist. Women don’t put their arms around men. Why isn’t Rasheed outraged, and how could devout Ali Baba order me to do such a thing?
Rasheed can use his legs a little, but it’s an obvious burden for him. He puts most of his weight on the rod so as not to lean on me too heavily. Despite his inability to walk, he doesn’t lack in strength and his arm feels solid. The smell of ginger and roasted lamb lingers on his clothes. Jamal will be this big one day. I wish I hadn’t spoken so harshly to Rasheed. I never should have believed the rumors about him being lazy. At least I have my scarf, which hides the shame on my face.
Together, we walk back to Master’s house. Leila supports Mistress in the same way I hold Rasheed, and Ali Baba leads the donkeys. Once there, Ali Baba goes in search of the oil lamps as I lead Rasheed to the floor cushions and gather Cook and Jamal. Rasheed clears his throat and addresses everyone. “My father wishes me to recite the Qur’an for protection and sing qasida for your pleasure until he returns from his night journey. He put me in charge of the household until your master arrives.”
When all is quiet, he bows his head and closes his eyes. After several moments of silence, he lifts his head and begins the recitation. His eyes light up as he sings the holy words; his face comes alive.
I’ve only heard the Qur’an recited in turns, by groups of men, not just one. Has he memorized the whole thing? Until now, the words of the Qur’an always shot past me, aiming for the hearts of masters, not slave girls. But it never sounded so much like a song before.
Even Mistress stops crying and wipes her eyes, listening as if in a trance. Leila whispers into Mistress’s ear, “Shaykh Al-Junayed visits him almost every day with lessons. The shaykh says Rasheed is blessed by Allah. My son longs with all his heart to attend a madrasa and become a teacher, but his legs make it impossible.”
Restless, I drift toward the back of the house, looking for Ali Baba. The haunting sound of Rasheed’s voice follows me through the house. I find Ali Baba lighting the lamps.
The Forty Thieves Page 7