Then he set the letter aside and was again lost in thought. Had he guessed the letter was a brilliant forgery?
“Ibn Batuta travelled last to Mali. Yes, it is possible he left his documents here. I can find out easily. But why would he have not mentioned his son in Bukhara in Al-Rihla?”
Al-Kaburi was exasperated. “How could he, Haji? He left before the child was born and never returned. The letter also says “if a boy.” Perhaps he was taking a chance that he had a son in Bukhara. He mentions in Al-Rihla that his son in Morocco had passed away.”
Toumani Kouyate nodded reluctantly. “Yes, that is possible, I agree. Yes.” He paused. “Shall I then check my records and find out if Ibn Batuta left behind something?”
“I would be very grateful,” bowed Yaqub Beg Batuta. “May I return in the evening?”
“Yes you may. But if we find it, it would take us a day to retrieve those documents. The hidden library is vast.”
Toumani Kouyate said suddenly. “And I am a little surprised you do not look like an Uzbek.” His tone was sharp.
“I already asked him about that, Toumani Kouyate,” said Al-Kaburi, now slightly irritated. “It appears that the concubine was possibly from Tabriz in Persia. And he says the family has always sought brides from Persia since then. Let us believe him. We have no reason not to.”
Toumani Kouyate nodded, again reluctantly. The meeting dispersed. I was reclaimed by my master, who bid a warm good-bye to Al-Kaburi and a slightly less effusive one to Toumani Kouyate. It was agreed that they would meet again at about five in the evening.
Timbuktu—The Manuscript
“Books sell very well there (in Timbuktu),
and a greater profit is to be made out of them
than out of any other merchandise.”
—Leo Africanus
We returned to the abaradiou, with me following at an appropriate distance. Holmes spoke in a low voice.
“A fine performance there, Watson. Please continue for a while till I advise you. It is possible that we are being followed. Toumani Kouyate is certainly suspicious and will try to verify our story as best as he can. I must think.”
I followed silently and deferentially, as we walked through the narrow streets of Timbuktu, with mud houses lined on both side.
Hasso and his fellow Tuaregs were waiting for us anxiously.
“Where were you, my friend?” he cried. “We thought you had been kidnapped or were lost. And why have you changed your dress? Where is your tagelmust?” He seemed slightly offended.
“We thought it would be an excellent adventure to explore Timbuktu and try on a new dress, Hasso. We went to the Sankore Mosque, as you and I had discussed earlier. We ate some local fare. The Tuareg food is certainly more appetizing!”
We sat down with Hasso and his friends, who had pitched tents close to the abaradiou. The afternoon stretched out, with the blazing sun refusing to relent. Holmes and Hasso conversed quietly in a corner. I thought philosophically about the advantages and disadvantages of being a deaf and dumb slave. What is the need to speak at all, I wondered. And far better to listen to oneself rather than the noise of others. Better to be Holmes’ slave than someone else’s, I thought, and certainly not Al-Kaburi, who might put me to death with little notice. Would my wife be disturbed to know that I, Dr. John Watson, was now a slave in Timbuktu? I drifted away to sleep.
At about four o’clock, Holmes woke me up and we set out to Sankore Mosque.
We reached the charming mosque and went to Al-Kaburi’s room. Toumani Kouyate was already there and had brought along several manuscripts.
“Yaqub Beg, I am searching for the entries.”
“I am sorry for the trouble,” replied Yaqub Beg Batuta.
“We should have the answer soon.”
He examined many parchments closely, rejecting them one after the other. He finally found one that seemed promising.
“AH 752, yes, there is a possibility here. I had suspected that the entries at that time were not very detailed, so we see much fewer. And many were destroyed during times of war, of course.”
He exclaimed. “Ah! There is an entry by the Imam of that time! Let me read.”
He mumbled to himself as he read the entry. The suspense was intense, even to me, who was just an object against the wall.
“This says that the traveller, Qadi Ibn Batuta, has expressed the need to leave Timbuktu for Gao and then to Morocco as quickly as possible. He proposes to come back next year. To lighten his burden, he has asked us to store his books. We prefer not to store the personal papers of others and take responsibility, especially for those not related to scholarship. But we decided to make an exception this time as Ibn Batuta was a renowned scholar and had also made a generous donation to Sankore Madrassah. He handed over an iron and wood box which we buried toward the back wall of the mosque.”
“Has the location been mentioned?” asked Al-Kaburi eagerly.
“Yes, though not in the specific way we do these days.”
“It simply says…hmm, “a foot away from the third column at the North.” Shall we take a look? I had planned to do this tomorrow, but perhaps we can start now.”
We stood up, and I was curtly summoned to start digging. But an amused Toumani Kouyate took pity on me and suggested that their younger and stronger slaves handle the matter. All of us travelled to the back end of the mosque, which was some distance away. We went to the north boundary wall and identified the third column.
The slaves began digging with crow bars, shovels, and other implements while everyone else watched.
The sun was milder and the sand yielded easily. The job progressed fast. But after a couple of hours, nothing had been found except pieces of an old pot.
Our disappointment was evident. Had we made a mistake?
Yaqub Beg, Toumani Kouyate, and Al-Kaburi returned slowly to the room, heads bent, thinking deeply.
As slaves dispensed tea and dates, Al-Kaburi mused.
“How strange! It seems odd and unnecessary to have someone give incorrect directions.”
“It is possible that the box was discovered and stolen years ago. It is not impossible. In 1591, this mosque was attacked and ravaged,” mused Toumani Kouyate.
Yaqub Beg stood up and walked around the room in ferment, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind him. The other two were startled by this display of energy.
“Perhaps it is too much to expect a mosque built in 1325 to be in exactly the same condition after all these years,” Yaqub Beg mused. “What could have changed?”
“What makes you think this mosque was built in 1325?” asked Al-Kaburi, astonished. “Yes, the very first mosque was built in about 988 with a donation by a wealthy Mandinka woman. And then there were many changes. As a recognized mosque and madrassah it is true that it was re-established about 1325. But technically this mosque was rebuilt by El-Agib in 1582 after being destroyed earlier, based on measurements that he had taken with a rope of the Kaaba during his pilgrimage there. Then there were many restorations in 1709, 1710, and 1732. So you see, it has not been a building with no changes!”
Yaqub Beg Batuta spun around, his eyes flashing.
“What specific changes do you know of, Haji?”
“As I said, I know that the mosque was expanded and redesigned to the exact dimension of the Kaaba by Imam El-Agib in 1582. That means that the mosque area effectively doubled in size.”
“Did it expand equally in all directions?” asked Yaqub Beg keenly.
“A good question, a good question” said Toumani Kouyate slowly, thinking. “I think the answer is that it expanded in three directions. The front was kept as is, though the mighrab was demolished and rebuilt too.”
Comprehension dawned, and his face cleared. “Ah! I understand what you are saying!”
“Do you have a map of the old mosque floor
plan?”
“I can find it. That will be easier to find as it would be part of the administrative records. Give me an hour.”
Within twenty minutes, Toumani Kouyate was back, his excitement evident. “Yes, I have the plan.”
“I do not understand all this,” said the bewildered Imam, Al-Kaburi.
“Haji, what Yaqub Beg Batuta is saying is that the directions provided in our records refer to the old mosque, not the newly built one. All we have to determine is where the wall was before the mosque was expanded!” explained Toumani Kouyate.
“Excellent! A very intelligent man, Batuta!” exclaimed Al-Kaburi, delighted.
“This did not occur to me earlier because we have never searched for documents before the 1582 re-construction,” Toumani Kouyate said, slightly defensively.
“But it is almost dark now. Much as I would be happy to be of assistance, I must leave for prayers. And further, we need light. If you wish, we can begin digging early. Say at seven in the morning? I can rearrange my classes.”
“Thank you, Haji. That seems possible.”
“Meanwhile, I suggest you look at the other two mosques in Timbuktu. They are very grand—the Djinguereber Ber and Sidi Yahia.”
“I shall follow your advice, Haji.” Yaqub Beg Batuta bowed.
“Batuta, if we find the box, I would be very happy for you. It would be a historic moment for us.” Al-Kaburi was very excited. “I have prepared a box for you to take back to your Tuareg camp. Your slave will carry it for you.”
He beckoned and I went up quietly to him. Other slaves lifted a rather large and unwieldy wooden box and tried to place it on my head. It was clear immediately that I had neither the strength nor the skill needed to carry the box. Everyone present laughed loudly at my plight, but Al-Kaburi took pity on me and assigned two slaves to carry it for us.
“I cannot understand why you are so fond of this weak slave, Yaqub Beg! Ibn Batuta would have been disappointed in your choice!” chortled Al-Kaburi, his body shaking with amusement. “I shall be happy to present you with a younger and stronger slave, if you like.”
Yaqub Beg Batuta laughed. “Ah well, he has his uses, Haji! Thank you for this. We shall be back early tomorrow.”
With that, we left the mud-walled Sankore Mosque and returned to our camp. There was a feeling of accomplishment, but we were tense, too. Toumani Kouyate had thawed but who knew if he might change his mind.
The slaves accompanied us, walking with me while Yaqub Beg Batuta walked the streets of Timbuktu, admiring the other mosques.
We reached Hasso’s camp. He was standing at the entrance of his tent, waiting for us. Though his face was covered with his tagelmust, it was clear that he was tense. His eyes were unsmiling.
The slaves placed the wooden box full of food on the carpet and departed. The Tuaregs opened it and shared camel meat and cheese. We had some too. The taste was again extremely alien and disturbing, but I persevered. Who knew when we would sample the cuisine of England again?
We waited for Hasso to speak. He came up to us.
“We will have to leave Timbuktu soon.” His eyes betrayed grim concern.
“Why?”
“We have received news that the Guardians are only a few days journey behind us. It is expected that they will reach Timbuktu quite soon. And you can be sure that the Guardians will visit the Sankore Mosque immediately. If you finish by then by God’s grace, we must escape. Otherwise we shall be in trouble. If there is a confrontation, the gendarmes will arrest us first as we are Tuaregs.”
Hasso had barely finished speaking when there was a disturbance just outside the tents.
A Tuareg rushed in and spoke in an urgent undertone to Hasso, whose eyes widened.
“French gendarmes. Are they looking for you? Thank God you are not wearing our clothes! Remember to pretend to be who you say you are!”
Six French gendarmes and a number of Malinese policemen rushed in with revolvers and rifles. The inspector, a formidable looking Frenchman, pushed a few Tuaregs about, shouting in broken Tamasheq.
“Who is your chief? Where have you come from? Speak up!”
Hasso identified himself and walked across.
“I am Hasso Ag Akotey. I am the chief.” He spoke with authority.
“Come outside! I have questions for you!”
Hasso was dragged away roughly by the policemen. They stood at a distance from the rest of us.
“When did you come?”
“Yesterday,” replied Hasso.
“Lying to me, dirty Tuareg? If you are, I can do many things to you!”
“I am not lying,” Hasso said quietly.
“Where have you come from?”
“Fez, Sijilmasa, Taghaza.”
“Who travels at this time of the year?”
“Sometimes we do. We plan to visit the mosques here and then go to Abalessa.”
“How many in the caravan?”
“Twenty nine. One died of a snake bite. We buried him on the way.”
“Only Tuaregs in the caravan?”
“Yes.”
“Who are those two men?” asked the Inspector, pointing at Holmes and me.
“They are Uzbeks. Yaqub Beg and Morteza. They came from Iwatlan yesterday and asked for shelter. We know nothing about them.”
“Call them here!” shouted the Inspector.
Holmes and I walked across. Holmes smiled pleasantly. I continued as a slave.
“You are?”
“Yaqub Beg. This is my slave Morteza. He is deaf and dumb.”
“Where are you from?”
“Bukhara in Uzbekistan.”
“And where are you going?”
“Possibly Yaounde.”
“Can you speak French?”
“A little, sire. I picked it up during my travels.”
Bon, alors parlons en français plutôt qu’en arabe. Qu’est-ce qui vous amène à Tombouctou?18
Je suis un commerçant, Monsieur. Je me suis rendu de Gibraltar à Tanger, puis à Rabat, Casablanca et le long de la côte de Mauritanie. Nous avons ensuite atteint Iwatlan et sommes arrivés hier ici à Tombouctou. Nous sommes venus pour visiter les mosquées et rechercher des occasions d’affaires.19
Avez-vous des preuves de votre histoire? 20
Des preuves? Voyons voir. Oui, voici quelques pièces de monnaie de l’Ouzbékistan. Puis voici un livre que j’ai acheté à Istanboul, en route pour Tanger. Et voici encore une lettre de l’imam de la Jama Masjid à Boukhara; il s’agit d’une lettre de présentation à l’imam de la mosquée de Djenné. Et voici enfin une lettre de l’imam de Boukhara à son ami, l’imam de Yaoundé.21
The inspector examined the papers, and asked about me. He did not wait for an answer. The police team left abruptly.
Hasso and Holmes looked at each other and nodded imperceptibly. Hasso heaved a sigh of relief, turned to his Tuaregs and left.
Holmes looked at me.
“A routine check. Luck has favoured us, Watson. Or should I say, Morteza? No, no, do not say a word, let us rest.”
***
In perusing my notes, I see that Holmes and I were acutely aware that the day was to be crucial in more ways than one. Bereft of cocaine and any other stimulant, and in a strange and exotic land with no recourse to the majesty of the law in case of a crisis, Holmes was, for the first time that I could recall, particularly nervous. He did not sleep well and walked about outside in the open and cold air, muttering to himself. He woke Hasso, and the two of them were engaged in a long and intense discussion. I knew Holmes’ methods. He often did not involve me in certain matters because he did not want to compromise my safety, which would happen if I were aware of specific details.
It was clear to me that the day would be very significant. The news that the Guardians of the Letter would likely ar
rive on the morrow was unpleasant and unnerving. They were ruthless people, guarding someone they believed was Ibn Batuta’s descendant from India. They had a deep-rooted and exaggerated sense of loyalty to him and would brook no opposition. While they had the fake copy of the half-manuscript that Holmes had so cleverly created to throw them off, they were certain to visit the Sankore Mosque and demand access to Ibn Batuta’s documents. They would likely create an ugly situation if it were discovered that someone else had only lately acquired them and disappeared. We could add the administrators of Sankore Mosque and French gendarmes to the list of those who were looking for us. That was on the assumption that our own plan worked smoothly and we escaped.
The next morning, Holmes and I presented ourselves at the Sankore Mosque. It was still cool and the religious school was already humming with activities, with boys of all ages rushing about. I could hear collective recitation of the Quran from a building as I walked by.
Toumani Kouyate and Al-Kaburi were already waiting. Yaqub had told me that it was critical that we exhibited patience and not convey the fact that we knew every minute was important. If everything went well, we hoped to be lucky, take the box and leave Timbuktu. Holmes told me that he had informed Hasso to convey to everyone that we should plan to return the same way, via Taghaza. The Tuaregs were getting ready for another long journey. They had exchanged their tired camels with others. These camels would reach Fez in due course in the possession of related Tuaregs.
Yaqub Beg greeted the two men, who reciprocated. Both seemed cheerful. A small team of slaves had been assembled.
“Come, Yaqub Beg Batuta! Let me show you the plan!” cried Al-Kaburi, waving at Holmes. His excitement was contagious.
They pored over an old parchment, while I sat again in the niche reserved for me, Morteza, the deaf and dumb slave of Yaqub Beg Batuta, accidentally of Bukhara but originally from London.
“The old wall was broken down and a new one was built where it stands now. I have calculated the distance and I believe the old wall is here”—he indicated the place on the map. “This spot is quite close to this building. Let us begin right away!”
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 17