Saja told me about the brother and sister who own the shop and how the woman trades plants and seeds for Saja’s help. Cook talks about the owners as well, saying they can always be counted on for the latest gossip. From the condition of a neighbor’s foot rash to the state of the imam’s wart problems, all manner of personal health information is shared freely by the shop owners.
I push open the door to the tinkling sound of little bells. Light streams through the cut designs in the wooden screens, casting strange shadows over the clay jars and glass bottles of powders, pills, syrups, and ointments that clutter the shelves. Dried roots and herbs hang from the ceiling, and vats of scented oil line the walls. Breathing inside the apothecary shop is like being drugged with a potion. The air hangs thick with the perfume of spices—henna, thyme, garlic, rosemary. The heady scents bring a sharp pang as I recall Saja’s dream of owning a perfume shop. I force myself to swallow back tears. While I had the chance, I should have told Saja how much it meant to me that she trusted me with her secrets.
I wait at the counter near a large set of scales and a stone mortar and pestle. The brother and sister soon emerge from the back room, their faces beaming. Kadir sports a turban that towers like a sultan’s. Kadira brings with her the scent of roses and rain, making the whole room smell like a garden in spring.
“As-salaam alaykum.” I bow my head.
“Wa alaykum as-salaam!” they exclaim in unison.
“I’m Marjana—”
“Ah, Marjana! We’ve heard of you. Welcome; my name is Kadira and this is my brother, Kadir.”
“My master—”
“Oh, we know your master,” Kadir says knowingly. His turban sways as he speaks. “We’ve heard all about your mistress, too.”
I smile. Cook’s tongue must be just as loose as the shop owners’. I start to pose a question, but Kadira asks eagerly, “Have you heard about Old Ghayda?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know Ghayda.”
She throws her hands into the air. “What a melancholy temperament.”
“So irritable!” adds Kadir.
“Her husband’s at his wits’ end,” Kadira continues. “Ghayda can’t sleep, which means he can’t sleep!”
Kadir shakes his head, and his turban rocks precariously. “Too much black bile in her body.”
“If only she’d eat the pickled peppers I gave her and soak at the baths every day, her humors would balance themselves out and she could get a little rest!”
“And her husband, too.”
“Maybe it’s her cooking,” Kadira whispers, even though we are the only ones in the shop. “I hear her bread’s dry and hard as a stone.”
I let out a little moan. “Oh! If only my poor master had such mild ailments as this Ghayda! His problems are so much worse than hers.”
Kadir’s and Kadira’s eyebrows rise at the same time. “What’s the matter?” They lean forward, eyes wide.
“Well, he’s—”
Before I can answer, Kadira interrupts. “Well, he’s obviously choleric—anyone can tell by his sallow skin and his blustery voice.”
“Too much yellow bile.” Kadir clucks his tongue.
“Why, yes,” I say. “And—”
“He drinks too much dry wine and eats too much overcooked mutton.” Kadira folds her arms in front of her chest and frowns.
“You certainly know my master,” I admit. “And now I’m afraid he’s dangerously ill. His throat is dry and painful. His chest burns, and he coughs all the time. His fever’s so high, he’s turned delirious, and we don’t know what to do!”
The brother and sister glance at each other triumphantly. “Choleric!” they declare. “Just as we thought.”
Kadira scurries over to the shelves and starts collecting bottles.
Kadir lectures me as he assists his sister. “Darkness! You must keep him in the shade, where it’s cooler. And don’t forget melons! Make him eat as many as he can. The juicier the better.”
Before long, they prepare some elixirs to bring down fever and a bag of twisted pieces of violet candy, intended to ease Master’s supposed sore throat.
The shop owners send me on my way with mixed advice on balancing my own humors. Kadir feels I am too phlegmatic and need to eat salt in front of an open oven, while Kadira claims I am overly sanguine and should nibble mint leaves and sleep under an open window. As I leave the apothecary, I pop one of the sweets into my mouth from the bag of lozenges and smile to myself.
Later that afternoon, I chop an onion until my eyes turn red and teary and then hurry back to the shop. I burst through the door, the bells jingling.
“Oh, help me!” I cry.
When the shop owners see my weepy eyes, their mouths fall open. Kadir drops the pestle he is holding; it falls with a thud to the floor. Kadira, who was pouring some seeds into his mortar, stares at me in stunned surprise as the seeds keep spilling from her bag, all over the mortar and counter.
“What is it?” they ask, their eyes wide and eager.
“My master.” I sniff. “He is at death’s door.”
Kadir and Kadira blink at each other.
“I knew it!” Kadir exclaims.
“I thought so!” says Kadira.
Kadir nods to his sister, who takes a potion bottle off the shelf. He turns to me. “In sad times like these, there is only one thing we can do.” He tries to make his voice sound somber, but his eyes are bright, and I think he must be imagining the thrill he will have in telling the next customer about my poor master and his dangerous, deathly disease.
Kadira hands me the bottle. “One drop will ease the pain of dying and bring days of deep, peaceful sleep, almost like death itself.” She smiles. “It sounds lovely, doesn’t it?”
I sniff again and wipe my eyes. “Thank you! I’m so glad he won’t have to suffer any longer.”
“Yes!” they say together. “We are, too!” And though they try to make their faces sad, their voices ring out cheery and bright, as if they have picked out a fancy present for me to give to Master.
I nod and leave the shop. That should do the trick! The story of Master’s “dangerous illness” is sure to be all over the neighborhood by evening prayer time.
CHAPTER
18
The next day, I scrub the kitchen floor as I think over my plan. Soon we’ll wash and enshroud Master’s body and parade it through Baghdad for the funeral procession, and it’s up to me to make sure no one suspects he was gruesomely murdered. I grimace at the thought of what I’ll have to do.
As I wring the water from my rag, I hear music. But it sounds as if it’s coming from inside the house rather than the street. Walking the corridor from the harem to the main room, I listen. It’s Jamal’s tabor, but who’s accompanying him on a reed instrument? The notes undulate around the drum beats like a swaying dancer. It hypnotizes, drawing me closer. The rhythm takes hold, stirring and fanning the cooled embers in my heart, my arms, my hips. I want to dance.
Peeking around the corner, I see Rasheed sitting on his rug and cushions, holding a long reed flute to his mouth. His eyes are closed, and his body sways to the music like a snake charmer’s. His fingers pulsate against the holes in the flute, coaxing the notes to wake and leap into the air.
“Marjana, dance!” Jamal calls out when he sees me.
Rasheed opens his eyes and lowers his flute. He blinks as if coming out of a trance. “Do you dance? I didn’t realize you and Jamal were so talented.”
Jamal doesn’t stop the rhythm but continues beating his drum as he speaks. “She loves to dance. Almost as much as playing her lute.”
“The lute! We should all play music together sometime.”
Why does Rasheed act kind to me despite the way I treated him? His eyes draw my trust toward him like iron to a lodestone. It scares me, but I don’t want to pull myself away. I run my finger down the smooth surface of the flute. “What instrument is this?”
“It’s called the ney. It’s a sacred instrument to
Sufis.”
My heart leaps. I want so badly to learn more about my mother’s beliefs. “My mother’s master was a Sufi, and she practiced the same sacred rituals you do. But she died when I was young and my new master, your uncle, had different practices. I have always wanted to know more about what she believed. What exactly are Sufis?” I almost whisper the question, because I am ashamed at my ignorance.
Rasheed smiles, pleased at my interest. “Sufis are men and women who aren’t satisfied with merely knowing about Allah; we seek the ecstasy of knowing Allah.”
Jamal keeps drumming. The beats mirror my heartbeats, taking hold of them and dancing together inside my chest.
“One can know a thing in three different ways.” Rasheed leans forward. “Take for instance a flame. You can be told of the flame.”
Jamal’s drumbeats get louder.
“And you can see the flame with your own eyes.” Rasheed reaches toward the shelf and lifts the magic lamp that Ali Baba took from the cave. The light flickers, creating shadows over the wall behind them. The drumbeats pulse in my chest.
“And you can reach out and be touched by the flame.” He raises his hand over the spout where the tongue of fire glows. He closes his eyes, and his eyebrows knot together as his palm passed slowly through the flame. When he opens his eyes, he smiles. “This is the way we Sufis seek to know Allah.”
Jamal’s drumbeats fill my whole body.
“Your music—does it help you know Allah in that way?”
Rasheed nods and glances at his ney. “Sometimes when I’m playing, the music feels like existence itself. There are some Sufis who do a whirling dance to the music. They say it brings them closer to Allah.”
“The Twirling Song,” I whisper. My heart seems made of feathers.
“The ecstasy comes when you get swept away with the rhythm, the movement, and you let go of yourself and understand your place in the world—your destiny. It is connecting with God.” He raises the ney. “Would you like to dance?”
I can only nod. At that moment, I want to dance more than anything else in the world. The voice of Rasheed’s flute joins the beat of Jamal’s drum. I close my eyes and think of Umi dancing with me. I raise my arms in the air, letting the music turn me round and round until it lifts me out of myself, just as I remembered doing as a child.
The fingers of the breeze trail across my skin as if skimming the surface of deep water. It sends ripples of warmth through me as I let go and spin free of my body, free of the world. And it is liberating to feel so alive—to feel connected to everything, yet at the same time to be set loose from the things that bind me. I never thought I could feel this way again, but here I am.
I open my eyes, and everything’s changed. Everything blends into one, and I’m a part of it all. I’m free.
When the music stops, I slip to the ground and watch the spinning world slow down.
“Marjana.” Jamal’s voice punctures my thoughts and swirls for a moment around my head. “Did you travel to Allah?” He stands over me, his eyes wide.
I wait as everything comes into focus and settles into place along with a contentment I’ve never felt before. The ache of Umi’s absence is finally relieved by letting go of my desperate longing. I smile at Jamal and Rasheed. “I certainly traveled somewhere, though I never left the room.”
Rasheed laughs. “That’s the way I usually have to travel.”
I rise, still dizzy from the dance, and smooth my qamis and sirwal.
“I would love to journey all over the world, but as you can see, I’m not a traveling man.” Rasheed motions to his legs.
Jamal struts over and plops down beside him. “I’ve been all the way to Basra, once.”
“Basra? That’s a long way, indeed, little brother. An eight-day journey, at least. You’ve seen more of the world than I have.”
Jamal puffs out his chest and grins. I smile at the words little brother. I wish Jamal had an older brother like Rasheed.
Rasheed sighs. “And yet, there’s so much more of the world to see. It’s almost impossible to envision how vast this universe is. Many people have tried, though, and through scientific study, we learn more and more every day. But what fantastical stories people have told in the past to describe the vastness! Remember the tale I was telling you about the king who was on a quest for the Ring of Solomon?”
Jamal nods, eagerly.
“The ancient tale goes that the king was given a tour of the universe and that it consisted of seven worlds.”
Jamal’s eyes widen.
“The seven worlds were carried by an angel. This angel stood on a rock that was placed on a giant bull, and the bull stood on a huge fish that was placed in an endless sea.”
“Was that the bottom of the universe?” Jamal asks.
“Not even close! Below the sea, an endless space of air extended, and underneath the space was a realm of fire. Beneath that was the cosmic serpent who was so, so large, it could have swallowed all that was above it and not even know the difference.”
Jamal whistles. “I bet the king was surprised that his universe was so big!”
Rasheed pats him on the back. “He was indeed. I imagine one day you too will do lots more traveling and go on adventures. You can come back and tell us true stories about what the world out there is really like.” He laughs. “But don’t get started too soon. We like having you around in our little part of the universe.”
Jamal nods solemnly. “Don’t worry. I don’t have a map yet.”
I laugh. “Better travel to the kitchen, little donkey. Cook will be home soon and she told you to start making the meatballs when she left for the market.”
When Jamal runs off, Rasheed’s grin turns into a more serious expression. “Marjana, I’m glad you are here because I wanted to talk to you.” He motions for me to have a seat on the rug beside him.
I tense at his somber tone, but I sit down on the carpet.
“Marjana, my father told me about your plan for the funeral preparations tomorrow.”
I frown. Obviously, he doesn’t care for my idea and wants to take over. I fold my arms across my chest. Of course—I should have known.
“It’s an excellent plan.”
“Oh!” I uncross my arms, surprised.
Rasheed’s eyebrows knot together. “But some people would lose their courage—or their stomachs—while overseeing such an ugly matter.”
Is he being infuriating on purpose? I cross my arms again and lift my chin. “I have no intention of losing either.”
Rasheed smiles. “I had a feeling you’d say something like that. My father thinks you are a brave person, and I don’t doubt it.”
I can’t figure him out—when I expect him to be cruel, he’s kind. He speaks to me as an equal and doesn’t order me around, even though his parents are my masters now. I’d like to stay and talk to him, but the thought makes me uncomfortable, as if I’ve forgotten to wear my headscarf. I turn to go. “I won’t let your family down.” I hardly know I’ve said the words before the promise is already hanging in the air between us. Feeling exposed, I pull my scarf down lower over my face.
“Marjana, don’t go,” he says. “I have complete faith in you. Father says it was your idea to use some of the treasure money to offer a reward through the magistrate for information leading to the captain’s capture. He also says you took everything in stride the night he told you of my uncle and the cave.”
My face turns hot and I stare at the swirling gold patterns on the crimson rug. The truth is far from what he supposes. I’m tired of holding bits of myself back and long to be known more fully. But it’s hard. I take a deep breath and look at Rasheed. “To tell the truth, I was very much shaken. And … afraid. But I tried not to show it. I didn’t believe your father before I saw it with my own eyes.” I throw my hands up. “I still hardly know what to think.”
“Yes, it’s hard to believe some things until we experience them for ourselves. Take this carpet.” He nods toward the rug w
e’re sitting on. “My father says that when he arrived at the cave, this very rug was flying about as if it were alive. But the minute he left the cave with it, it became an ordinary rug. My father is a truthful man, and yet, it is difficult for me to imagine such a thing.”
I run my hand over the soft weave of the fabric. “Perhaps it only does its magic inside the magic cave?”
“Perhaps. But the lamp continues to burn outside the cave.”
“Maybe the carpet requires a magic rite to work, the way that the cave opened only with the words ‘Open, Sesame.’”
At that moment, the room seems to shift and fall away from us. I clutch the edge of the rug and cry out, “What’s happening?”
CHAPTER
19
The carpet lifts itself off the floor. Pillows tumble over the sides as it rises upward. I fall back and almost roll off, but Rasheed grabs my arm.
“You said the magic words!” He pulls me next to him in the center of the rug. “The words that worked for the cave work for the carpet, too!” The rug is halfway to the ceiling now, and still rising. “When the words opened the cave for Father, they must have brought the carpet to life.” Rasheed’s head bumps the ceiling and little crumbs of mud plaster fall off.
“How do we make it stop?” I can’t hide the panic in my voice. Rasheed and I press our palms against the ceiling and push, but the carpet keeps moving upward. If we don’t get off soon, we’ll be crushed. He won’t be able to jump from the carpet like I can.
“Jump off, Marjana.” Rasheed lies flat against the rug to give himself more space.
“But what about you?” I cry. We need more magic words. I have to bend my head and lie flat like Rasheed. I stare into his dark eyes. He’s trying to mask his fear, but it’s showing through. Suddenly his eyes light up as he realizes the same thing I do—we don’t need to figure out the magic words to stop it. We already have them.
“Close, Sesame!” we yell at the same time.
The Forty Thieves Page 9