The investigation went on for some time with no results, until one day a junior clerk, unfamiliar with Harold, overheard at The Office pub, someone from another firm mention Harold’s name in connection with the damaging articles.
After regular pub-goers from the firm responsible for the articles were interviewed, Harold was summoned to Mr. MacTavish’s office. When he entered the office, Mr. Fraser was already there standing beside Mr. MacTavish, who sat behind his desk.
“Harold, come and sit down,” MacTavish commanded and pointed to a chair facing the desk.
“As you know, Mr. Duncan, a very sensitive financial file was stolen from our secure document room recently,” MacTavish said, looking intently at Harold.
“Yes, sir?” Harold replied.
“There have been a series of articles misrepresenting these documents to the business world at large. This exposure has cost our company several clients and, thus, a considerable sum of money,” MacTavish continued.
Harold sat there silently.
“In the course of our investigation, we interviewed several clerks who frequent The Office, a pub just down the block. You are familiar with it?”
“I am aware of it,” said Harold.
“Harold, we have been informed you have been seen drinking alone at this establishment, neglecting coworkers, but on at least one occasion, socializing with clerks from other companies, and indeed, buying them a round of drinks. One night you were seen sitting with a senior clerk from the same rival firm that has been maligning us in the business press. After that night, we are told you have not returned to the pub,” said Fraser.
“I have never been to The Office pub. I have not spoken to rival clerks in any setting. I would never steal information about our company to give to anyone!” said Harold, rising from his chair, almost yelling.
“Sit down!” MacTavish commanded. Harold sat down quickly.
“Interviews with the rabble you associate with at this pub have implicated you in the sale of the stolen documents! The senior clerk who obtained the file came forward when we threatened to file a defamation suit against his firm, and under penalty of perjury, he said a young man at The Office pub greeted you by name as you passed said senior clerk the stolen file,” MacTavish said.
“I did not steal or sell any documents! The raise was enough! My salary is more than adequate,” Harold protested.
“Rival clerks we deposed identified you. Their sworn statements assert you tried to sell them the files!” MacTavish yelled.
“I do not doubt their word or integrity, but I don’t know how they came to believe I was ever in that particular pub,” said Harold, burying his head in his hands. Tears welled up in his eyes.
MacTavish looked at Fraser and nodded.
“In light of the fact that you rose to a new position of trust quickly, without proper vetting of qualifications or background references, that you had access to financial papers, that you associated with competitors’ clerks by drinking and carousing, and that you stopped visiting The Office pub after the stolen documents were sold there, I have no choice but to assume you are guilty and to terminate you immediately!”
MacTavish’s harsh, accusing words hit Harold in the heart.
“But, sir—”
“Good day to you, sir! Leave these premises at once, or I will have you arrested for theft!” MacTavish yelled.
Harold stood up, looking to Fraser for support. Fraser avoided his eyes.
Harold slowly turned to the door, opened it, left the room, and closed the door gently behind him. Tears rolled down his face as he was met by a senior staff member and a security official. He walked past the secretary, who would not even look at him.
Others in the office saw Harold walk back to his desk with his entourage and watched him clean out his desk under close supervision.
Murmurs began to rumble through the large room as Harold was escorted out the front door.
Falstaff saw Harold leaving and laughed, a wry smirk on his face.
“Good riddance, you thieving wretch!” Falstaff yelled out as the door closed behind Harold.
Abbas Mohammad Fattah
Harold tried to hide the tears welling up in his eyes as he left the building.
As Harold stepped outside, a cold wind swirled about him, chilling him to the bone. His grip on his belongings became weak, and he almost dropped them on the steps as he descended to the street. He looked up at the gray clouds rolling in the sky above. Rain began to fall, splattering in his face. He lowered his head and slowly walked home, not even opening his umbrella. This, indeed, was a dark day for Harold.
He went home, hung up his umbrella, hat, and coat, and in slow, tired steps, went upstairs to collapse on his bed, weeping until he fell asleep.
Late in the evening, Harold woke up, shivering.
“How odd that I should baselessly be accused of theft just like Al-Hamid was,” Harold said to himself. “It is also interesting that when I follow the same wisdom imparted by Al-Hamid’s story, I receive the same results. I must do more.”
Harold decided to write some more with the pen and got up. He made his way in the dark to his study. He turned on his desk lamp, sat down, and grabbed a blank sheet of paper and the pen. He started to write. The pen gently warmed his hand and made him feel better as it started to write again.
As the fog cleared from Harold’s eyes, he found himself standing on hot, white sand near the Nile. He began to sweat from the mid-day sun’s searing heat. He put his hands over his eyes to shade them from the bright rays. He saw Al-Hamid lying face down in the mud at the edge of the Nile. He looked up and saw a small caravan of camels and their handlers walking along the shore toward him.
After nearly being eaten by crocodiles and then almost drowning in the Nile, I was found by a Bedouin tribe slowly making its way along the Nile. Later, I learned all about my rescue. I was told, in dramatic fashion, that the sun was high in the sky and the air was hot. The camels in the caravan chewed their cud, carrying their loads on their backs while following a lead camel upon which a robed man was mounted. Other men and women were walking by the sides of the caravan, their sandals making small prints in the sand. Because they walked single file, their numbers could not be guessed. They decided to stop their caravan and let the camels drink from the Nile while they ate a small meal of couscous and lamb. A few men watered the camels and then walked over to a nearby palm tree to sit and eat.
Harold watched them and saw they had not yet seen Al-Hamid. He walked over slowly to some men eating, leaned over to one, and whispered in his ear, “Go see that the camels are finished drinking.”
Ansha looked up from his food, having heard Harold. He looked at the other men. “Okay, okay. Fine, I will go check on the camels,” he said in disgust at having to interrupt his meal. He knew he was the youngest and thus had to do what his elders commanded. He got up and wandered toward the camels. The others watched him stand up and walk away. They looked at each other, shook their heads, and went back to eating.
Ansha wandered over to check on the camels. As he came to the last camel, he saw me lying prone on the ground a short distance away. He ran to the other men and yelled, “Hisam, Ekeli, there is a man over here! Looks like he might have drowned in the Nile!”
They jumped up and ran over to where I was. Ekeli, the eldest, looked me over to see whether I was dead or held anything of value. After all, if I was dead, anything I had would be of no use to me. He knelt down next to me and could see I was still breathing. He shook me, trying to wake me.
“Hey, you, wake up. Wake up!”
Giving up, he sat back on his heels and looked at me, shaking his head. It was the custom of the desert tribes to offer aid to any person found alive and in need in the desert. Ekeli motioned to the others to help him carry me. They set me on a piece of tent material secured to two poles, which were
then fastened to a camel. I rode like this for the rest of the day, fading in and out of consciousness.
When the caravan was prepared to move on, Harold got up on the camel that pulled Al-Hamid and rode along with the caravan.
After they made camp, they put me in a tent used to care for people in need. I had contracted a fever, and I was badly in need of water when they found me. All this I was told later in great detail.
Harold was sitting in the tent with Al-Hamid when the white fog came and went, as if time were passing. Al-Hamid’s story continued.
I awoke several days later. When I opened my eyes, the most beautiful face I had ever seen was looking at me. She had big brown eyes and a beautiful smile. She was touching my forehead with a damp, cool cloth very gently. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
Her tunic was of soft cloth, dark blue in color, with a sheer veil covering her face and a scarf covering her hair.
“Stay still. Although your fever is broken, you are still weak. Here, eat this,” the beautiful woman said.
She put down the cloth and picked up a warm bowl of soup. She carefully spooned out a small portion, blew on it to cool it down, and brought it to my lips. My eyes had not left her face, and so my mouth was still closed when the spoon was presented to my lips.
“Open now, or I shall spill this hot soup upon your chest,” she said, smiling.
I opened my mouth, and she poured in the soup. I coughed a little as it came too quickly.
She put down the spoon and bowl, gathered a cloth, and wiped my mouth clean.
And thus my care went.
A week later, I was brought before the tribal chief, Abbas Mohammad Fattah. He was an older man with a long, gray beard. In his large tent, with a rug covering the sand, he sat on brightly decorated cushions of camel hair.
Recognizing he was my benefactor and a man of power, I dropped to my knees and gave him a deep bow, placing my forehead on the rug before him.
“I thank you, sire, for my rescue and subsequent recovery. I would surely have died had you not taken me in. Thank you. Thank you, a thousand times,” I said in all humility.
“Thank Allah for being found. My actions were just of His will, in accordance with His command to help those in need, for one day our roles may be reversed. Rise and tell me who you are. How did you come to be spit out and left for dead by the Nile?” he asked as he brushed off my bow of humility with a wave.
I sat up and looked around. I was surrounded by many elders of his tribe and his sons. The women of the tribe could listen from outside the tent, but they were not allowed inside during a meeting.
“My name is Al-Hamid Akbar. I am the apprentice of Jomana Karim, a merchant of fine goods in Cairo, and I am learning about buying and selling goods under his instruction. While true to my master, I was falsely accused of thievery and chased by a Nubian guard until I fell into the Nile. I drifted, I do not know how far, and finally washed up upon the shore where you found me.”
Abbas’ old eyes lit up and grew wide.
There were rumbles among all present.
Abbas looked at me and said, “You are truly blessed by Allah. For you were not drowned or eaten by crocodiles. He must still have a path for you to travel in this life. Do you wish to return to Cairo?”
“I dare not, for the Nubian hates me and will not let the false acquisitions go. I have no means to defend against them. Returning now means certain death,” I said, shaking my head.
He looked into my eyes for a long time, then leaned over to consult with members of his council.
I sat there, shaking and afraid they would turn me out into the desert to rid themselves of a thief, a man without honor. Or shackle me and turn me over to the Nubian.
Abbas finished his discussion and turned to face me again.
“When we found you, you had the dress of a wealthy man, not the rags of a thief. Your hair was trimmed and your face pleasant. You also did not bare the bruised knuckles or rough hands of a vagabond. Therefore, we believe your testimony. We believe you were, indeed, falsely accused. You may travel with us until you choose to leave. We only require that you, once fully recovered, make yourself useful. Are these terms acceptable?”
I threw my face down again on the rug before Abbas and wept with joy.
“I thank you, sire, and your council, for such a gift. I truly have been blessed by Allah to have come into your concern,” I said as firmly as I could manage into the carpet as tears gathered on my cheeks. I lifted my head, crawled toward him, and kissed his feet.
“No, no, no. That is not necessary. I am not the Almighty,” Abbas said as he nodded for servants to help me to my feet.
The people around him laughed pleasantly, and I smiled meekly as I was lifted to my feet.
“Everyone here has a job that supports the tribe as a whole,” said Abbas. “Can you help sell and trade goods? If so, I would commit you to helping the council in such matters.”
“Oh, yes! I would be honored. I will work very hard to ensure you obtain the very best price and goods!” I said, tears still drying on my face, but now adorned with a broad smile.
Harold smiled. He was glad Al-Hamid had found a benefactor. Then his vision began to fade and he knew this dream trip was over.
Rescue
Harold woke up, put away the paper he had been writing on, along with the pen, and went to the bathroom to look in the mirror.
“What?” he said in surprise.
His face was a bit sunburned. Then he remembered that in his dream travel, he had spent a great deal of time in the harsh sun.
“Oh, yes, yes, that is right, the sun,” Harold said. It was still dark, so he went off to bed.
Harold had a hard time getting another job since the false accusations of document theft ran through the legal industry in Edinburgh where he had built his career. He applied for position after position, but he was always turned down, without so much as an interview. What little money he had saved soon ran low. He was behind on his rent and was threatened with eviction. He was eating porridge and drinking only tea. He was lost and foundering. Eventually, he became so depressed that he spent days in bed just sleeping.
Waking one morning, Harold decided to sit down and think about what kind of job he really wanted, since he was having no success getting a law clerk position. As he was eating an old, dried-out biscuit, he thought about his love for writing. He thought he really wanted to work in publishing—start small, a clerkship, and if he worked hard, maybe someday earn a living as an editor. Or, dare he dream, he might one day become a professional writer. He decided to try the visualization technique he had learned from Al-Hamid that had helped him obtain his rare leather case; maybe it could help him get the job he wanted.
Harold began to think about what such a position would be like. How it would feel. He decided to write those thoughts down, and he even drew a picture of what he would look like sitting at a clerk’s desk in a publishing firm. He posted that picture and the description by his bed so he would see it when he went to bed at night and when he woke in the morning. In doing so, he demonstrated to the Universe that he was in its hands. He was hopeful the technique would prove its worth in this effort. He looked at the drawing and said the words in the description with passion every day for weeks and weeks, but eventually, he began to get discouraged.
Then one crisp Monday morning, there was a knock on his front door. Harold, still in bed and having great difficulty extricating himself from it almost every morning at this point, heard the knock, but he turned over and ignored it.
The knock came again. Harold refused to get out of his warm bed to see who it was. He was sure it was the landlord coming to tell him to vacate immediately. He just did not need that now. Besides, he had nowhere to go.
Late the same day, hunger drove Harold to get out of bed and find something to eat. So, he reluctantly
rose, put on his robe and slippers, and went downstairs to the kitchen. As he descended, he glanced at the front door. There, on the floor next to the door, lay an envelope that had been slipped under the door. He went over and stood there looking at the envelope for a moment, unsure what to do.
Harold finally bent down and picked it up. The return address belonged to a company in Glasgow whose name he did not recognize.
“Probably a bill I forgot to pay,” Harold said to the envelope as he stuffed it in his robe’s pocket and lumbered off to the kitchen.
Harold put a kettle of water on the stove, opened the small metal stove door, stoked up the small, glowing embers with a poker, and put one lump of coal on them. He only had five pieces of coal left.
Harold retrieved a cup from his cupboard and put it on his small table. Then he went to his lauder and found, on a nearly empty shelf, his last tin of tea. He brought it to the table, placing it next to his cup. Before he sat down, he retrieved a small spoon from a drawer under the counter. He sat down and put a bit of tea in the bottom of the cup, then waited for the water to boil. His head was in his hands, his eyes shut when the kettle announced it was hot with a shrill tweet of steam. As he got up from the table to answer the kettle’s whistle, the letter in his pocket fell out on the kitchen floor.
Harold looked down at the letter.
“Oh, bother,” he said, stepping over it and lifting the kettle. Turning back to the table, he slipped on the letter, spilling a bit of hot water on his right foot.
“Oh, ow, ow!” he exclaimed as he hopped about, splashing even more hot water around the small kitchen.
When he’d calmed down a bit, he went to the table and poured hot water into his cup. He replaced the kettle on the stove and bent to pick up the letter.
Harold sat down at the table with the letter, picking up a small spoon and stirring his tea. “Well, with all that trouble, I might as well see how much I owe this bunch,” he said to the stove.
He put the spoon down, took a sip of tea, set the cup down, and opened the letter.
The Pen- Sultan's Wisdom Page 9