by Tahir Shah
'"This town is called Ikhtiyar," he said. "If you are rich here, people treat you with respect, and if you are poor, everyone will shun you. To go from poverty to wealth is almost impossible, although I myself arrived here a pauper and I have managed to turn rags to riches. I borrowed a little money from the merchants in the bazaar, invested it and paid it back as soon as I could. And I can help you to do the same as I have done," he said.
'Maruf thanked God for sending Ali his way. Before he knew it, his new friend had dressed him in the finery of a prince. So well attired, it was easy for him to borrow money from the merchants in the bazaar. When they asked why he was so well dressed but so short of funds, he simply replied that his caravan laden with riches was delayed en route to Ikhtiyar.
'The difference between Ali and the cobbler was that Maruf had no understanding of trade. Worse still, the newcomer had an insatiable streak of generosity. As soon as he had money in his pocket, he handed it out to all the beggars who approached him. As the months passed, he borrowed more and more money. And the more he borrowed, the more he distributed to the poor and the needy. The money-lenders were calmed by the prospect of the treasure caravan and were impressed by the stranger's charity. As they saw it, a man who could squander a sack of gold on beggars must be worth many thousand times more.
'As time slipped by, the merchants in the bazaar began to wonder if they had been tricked by Maruf. A group of them went to the king and explained the situation. Greedy at the thought of gaining the treasure caravan for himself, the king summoned Maruf to his court. The monarch's vizier designed a test. The stranger would be presented with a large emerald, unequalled in size and quality. If he realized its true value, he would be rewarded. If not, he would be beheaded.
'Maruf arrived at the palace, where he was received by the king and offered the enormous gem. But instead of accepting the stone, he waved it aside. "Keep it for yourself," he said, "for I have far larger jewels in my caravan." "Dear stranger, where exactly is your caravan laden with riches?" asked the king. Maruf the cobbler touched a hand to his great silk turban and said: "It will be here any day now, Your Majesty."
'Unable to contain his greed, the king of Ikhtiyar decided to marry his loveliest daughter, Princess Dounia, to the fabulously rich stranger, despite the grand vizier's disapproval. But when Maruf received the invitation to marry the royal princess, he said: "How could I sustain such a treasure as your daughter until my own treasure caravan arrives?" The king, who was now beside himself with avarice, opened the royal treasury and demanded that Maruf take what he needed for the wedding.
'Celebrations on a scale never seen before continued for forty days and forty nights. The poor were rewarded with charity beyond their wildest dreams and the rich were buried in gold, all at Maruf's insistence. Watching the royal treasure vaults being emptied, the grand vizier pleaded with the king to test Maruf one last time.
'A plan was devised, involving Princess Dounia, the cobbler's new wife. As they lay together in their palace suite, she asked Maruf about his caravan. Not wanting to lie to his beautiful new bride, he told her the truth. "There is no caravan of treasure," he said. The princess, who had fallen in love with Maruf's generous spirit, said: "Dear husband, take this sack of gold and flee. Send word to me of your whereabouts and I shall come to be with you as soon as I can."
'Dressed as a simple cobbler again, Maruf crept out of the city at dawn. A little later, the king sent for his son-in-law. Princess Dounia went into the throne room. "Father," she said, "Maruf received a group of royal outriders in the night. They were dressed in the finest livery." "What did they want, my dear?" "They came to tell my husband that his caravan had been attacked. Fifty of his soldiers had been killed and two hundred camel-loads had been stolen." "What a tragedy," said the king. "On the contrary," replied Princess Dounia. "Maruf hardly seemed to care. As he left to escort the rest of the caravan into the kingdom, he declared that two hundred camels was but a small fraction of the whole."
'Maruf himself rode day and night away from Ikhtiyar. He eventually came to a farmstead, where a peasant was tilling the land. Seeing the stranger, the peasant greeted Maruf and asked him to wait while he fetched refreshments. As a gesture of thanks, the cobbler took the tiller and continued with the ploughing until the farmer returned.
'He went up and down with the oxen. Then, suddenly, the plough hit a stone. Fearing its blade had been broken, Maruf looked down and saw a slab of stone, with an iron ring in the centre. He pulled the ring and the stone came away, leading to stairs. He crept down cautiously and found a huge chamber filled from the floor to the ceiling with treasure—'
At that moment, a fist knocked at the door. Noureddine glanced up, cursed and apologized once and then again.
'It is the landlord of this building,' he said gloomily. 'I shall have to sit with him a while.'
I excused myself and said I would return later in the day. The cobbler unlocked the door. He shook my hand and looked me in the eye.
'Do you promise?' he said.
'Promise?'
'Promise that you will come back.'
Sometimes we understand a thing only when it is no longer there. Through my childhood and until his death, a week into my thirties, I heard my father speaking thousands of times. On some occasions he was addressing a crowd; on others, a small group, or just me. He wasn't the kind of person who took part in idle chatter. His conversations usually had a point, a central idea, which he revealed as he went along. When he spoke, I felt it wise to listen well, although much of the time I couldn't grasp the full depth of his address.
In the years since his death, I have found snippets of the conversations bubbling up in my mind. I can hear him, stressing certain words or phrases, giving caution for a time that he envisaged would one day arrive. My great fear then was that I didn't remember conversations as they came and went. But now I understand that the snippets which stuck form a structure of their own. Just as with the teaching stories he passed on, the shreds of advice and the observations have a framework and a cause.
Of all the fragments of conversation, the ones most vivid are those that offered guidance. My father was a believer that every person had an inbuilt ability to achieve in the most astonishing way, but that most people never realized their ambition because certain circumstances held them back. He considered it an imperative to get the correct set of circumstances in life if one was ever going to realize one's full potential. Teaching stories was for him a way of preparing the individual for the process of learning, the path to achievement.
'People think I am a writer,' he would say, 'and when they think that they are missing the point. I write things down but the writing is just a tool. It's nothing more than ink arranged over a surface of wood pulp. If they had real insight, they would see that I am really a basket-weaver. I have always told you that, Tahir Jan. I take reeds from the river that have been nurtured by fresh water and grown in good soil, and I turn them into baskets, a product that has so many uses. I know how to make baskets from something so simple because my father taught me, and his father taught him.
'Make baskets of your own,' he would say; 'make them all kinds of shapes and colours. But never forget that your baskets are made of something that is there for anyone to cut and use. And never imagine that you created the reeds yourself. You are only the person who shapes them into something that can be of use to others.'
At six in the afternoon, I returned to the cobbler's shop.
The old man was stitching a workman's boot, gritting his teeth as he forced the needle through the layers of Taiwanese rubber. As soon as he saw me come in, he tossed the boot aside, slapped his hands together and bolted the door.
'Praise be to God for your virtuous return!' he cried.
The chair was hauled out from the back room once again and, a moment later, the cobbler had conjured us back into the tale.
'As I have told you,' he said, 'Maruf found himself in a dark and wonderful cavern, abundant with preci
ous gems and gold. He could not believe his eyes, so great was the wealth. He ran his fingers through rubies and sapphires overflowing from iron coffers and became almost hypnotized by the sheer amount of gold. But there was one item that caught his attention by its dazzling brilliance: a rock crystal box, no bigger than this.' Noureddine motioned something round with his hands, the size of a pencil box.
'Maruf picked it up, unfastened the golden catch and found inside a gold ring. He slipped it on to his finger and was knocked backwards by a tremendous noise and blinded by a flash of lightning.
'Before him towered a colossal dark-faced jinn, with a golden earring in his ear and a scimitar in his fist. "I am your servant, O Master!" roared the creature.
'Craning his neck back, Maruf shielded his face with his hand. The jinn explained that the treasure which lay beneath the furrowed field had once belonged to a king called Shaddad. He had served him until his kingdom had fallen.
'Maruf ordered the spirit to transport the treasure up to the surface. It was done in the blink of an eye. The jinn then materialized a multitude of camels and fine stallions from a legion of spirits. A moment later the treasure was loaded on to the caravan.
'The peasant arrived back at the field in time to be showered in jewels. He assumed that the visitor was a prosperous merchant who had until then been in disguise. Maruf commanded the jinn to transport the treasure caravan to Ikhtiyar. It took an entire day and a night for the train to enter the royal city such was its enormous length.
'As soon as the king spied from his royal balcony the caravan, snaking its way forward, he danced with jubilation. His daughter, the princess Dounia, although confused, assumed that her husband had lied in order to test her loyalty.
'Once the caravan had arrived, Maruf himself appeared. He repaid the merchants in the bazaar with precious gems and distributed sacks of gold to the beggars who lined the streets. But the grand vizier, who had secretly wanted to marry his own son to Princess Dounia, tricked the cobbler into admitting the truth. As soon as the king's adviser understood the power of the ring on Maruf's finger, he stole it and summoned the jinn himself. The creature appeared in a flash of light, and was ordered to transport Maruf to the furthest corner of the world.
'But providence shone upon the cobbler,' said Noureddine, gazing out at the street. 'For, realizing what had taken place, Princess Dounia stole the ring from the vizier and summoned the jinn again. She commanded the spirit to return her husband and to bind the grand vizier in chains.
'In less time than it takes to tell, Maruf was transported back across the world and into his apartment in the palace. With time, Princess Dounia bore a son. And, with her father's death, Maruf succeeded him as king.'
The ancient cobbler tugged off his dark-blue hat and scratched his nails across his head. I thanked him for the tale. He held an index finger in the air.
'But the story has not ended,' he said.
'There's more?'
'Of course,' said Noureddine. 'It's an epic from Alf Layla wa Layla.'
'But I have to go and pick up the children from their friend's house,' I said, shifting in my seat.
'Rushing a good tale is a terrible crime,' replied Noureddine gravely.
'Then I shall return tomorrow,' I said.
We shook hands and the door was ceremoniously unlocked.
'There is one crime worse than rushing a story,' the cobbler said as I was leaving.
'What?'
'Not finishing a story once it's begun.'
TWENTY
Do not look at my outward shape, But take what is in my hand.
Jalaluddin Rumi
THE NEXT MORNING, I WAS STANDING OUTSIDE THE COBBLER'S shop by eight o'clock. The traffic was like a seething juggernaut, choking anyone stupid enough to be standing on the road. I waited for twenty minutes but the cobbler didn't come. I was about to turn round and go home, when his apprentice appeared.
'Where's the cobbler?'
'He was taken ill in the night,' he said.
'Is he at home?'
'No, Monsieur, he's been rushed to the hospital.'
The boy wrote the name of a public hospital on the back of a shoe receipt and handed it to me. An hour later, I was going up and down the hospital corridors, the smell of bleach heavy in the air. There were so many patients that they had spilled out into the corridors, many lying on makeshift beds. I wasn't sure why I was there. The story could have waited. But something inside prompted me to go.
At the end of the last corridor on the right, I came to a ward edged on both sides by beds. I don't know how, but somehow I knew Noureddine was in there. I could feel him pulling me in. His bed was near the window. He was asleep, the blue woollen hat on the nightstand beside a jug of water and a strip of pills. I crept closer, until I was standing over him. His face was calm, the deep furrows on his brow smoothed a little by sleep. He must have heard me approaching. His eyes flicked open. He strained to focus, paused, smiled.
'My dear friend,' he said.
I held his hand and whispered a greeting. He looked very tired, as if he might not live.
'Sit down,' he said.
'Where?'
'Here, on the edge of the bed.' He gazed at me. 'I must hurry,' he said faintly.
'With what?'
'With the story. Quickly, moisten my lips.'
I poured a glass of water and held it to his mouth.
The old cobbler pushed himself up higher on the bed.
'Bismillah rahman ar rahim,' he said softly. 'In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful . . .'
'Are you ready?'
'Yes, yes.'
Noureddine wove his fingers together on his chest and began.
'Where was I?'
'Maruf had become king.'
Noureddine peered into the middle of the room.
'Ah, yes, I see it,' he said. 'Maruf and Dounia were happier than they could have imagined. They had luxury, a fine healthy son and a people who loved them very much. But good fortune can be turned upside down in the blink of an eye. And it was. Queen Dounia became gravely ill. She knew she would not survive. On the last day of her life, she whispered to her husband, who nursed her day and night, "Dear Maruf, when I am gone, look after our son with great care and make certain you guard this well." So saying, she passed him the magic ring and took her last breath.
'After the funeral, which the entire kingdom attended, a long period of mourning began. Maruf felt very alone, although he had the little boy to keep him company. He called for the peasant on whose land he had found the treasure cave and appointed him grand vizier.
'Days turned into months. Maruf did his best to raise the child and rule over the kingdom, but the loss of Dounia had struck a heavy blow. One night, he retired to his chamber and fell into a deep sleep on his bed. But he woke up with a start, as a strange smell wafted into his dreams. A woman was lying beside him. "Dear Maruf," she said, "do you not remember me, your wife from Cairo? It is I, Fatima."
'Almost dumb at seeing the hag, Maruf leapt out of bed. "How did you get here?" he cried. The crone explained how she had resorted to begging when Maruf had deserted her. She had existed on charity and, the more she did so, the more she realized how good life had been when she was married. Years had passed. Then, the night before, she had repented, shouting out loud how foolish she had been to nag her beloved husband constantly. Suddenly, a gigantic creature, a jinn, had appeared from nowhere. Taking pity, the spirit had transported her to the kingdom of Ikhtiyar, where she found herself lying in the king's bed.
'Maruf then explained how he had been transported to the very same kingdom, how he had been married to the royal princess, been forced to flee for his life, found the treasure and the magic ring, been sent to the wilderness at the edge of the world, been made king, and how his wife had borne him a beloved son before taking her last breath.
'"I shall return you to our own land," Maruf said to his wife, "and shall ask my jinn to construct a magnificent palace for
you and adorn it in precious silks." "Oh, husband," said the crone, "my dream is to stay with you, here at your side." Feeling pity for the woman, Maruf agreed to allow her to stay. He bade the jinn build her a separate palace not far from his, where she lived in opulence beyond her wildest dreams. And, while her husband attended to matters of state, she grew a little uglier and a little more gluttonous each day.
'As for Maruf's son, who had by this time reached seven years of age, the wretched Fatima despised him. One night, hearing that her husband was entertaining officials from another kingdom, Fatima crept into his palace and gained entry into his bedchamber. There, on a plump silk cushion, she discovered the magic ring with the power of summoning the great jinn.
'But, unhappily for her, the sound of her large clumsy feet woke the little prince, who was sleeping next door in his own chamber. Spying his hideous stepmother and understanding instantly what was about to occur, he fetched his small sword and lunged at her. The sword may have been short, but it was sharp as a razor and quite capable of slicing an old woman's throat. It did so, and the little prince saved the ring, which the vile Fatima was about to use to take the kingdom for herself.
'And with that,' said Noureddine, taking a sip of water, 'Maruf lived out his days until he was at last called to Paradise.'
The next week I met a woman from Chicago called Kate. She had come to Morocco to meet her sister, who was in the Peace Corps down in the Sahara, and she was lost. The heat, the dust and the smoky cafés filled with dejected husbands had been too much for her. She had sat down in the middle of the street near the port and begun to weep. That was where Hamza's brother-in-law, Hakim, found her. He was a parking attendant and the woman was making his job very difficult. The cars wanting to park could not get into their places, and the parked cars couldn't leave, because the woman was blocking the way. Not knowing quite how to handle a distressed American lady, but stirred nonetheless by a sense of civic responsibility, Hakim bundled her into a taxi and brought her to our home. He told me later that he didn't know how to explain his intentions, as he spoke no English. The only word he could remember, he said, was 'help'. So he shouted it at her as loudly as he could.