by Robert Irwin
‘The others agreed that this must indeed be a remarkable ape, and delegation was dispatched, with all due haste, to Bagdad. They found the ape in the garden without any difficulty and explained the problem to him. As Washo listened, he became more and more convinced that the man’s quest was hopeless. However, he wished to appear wise. Therefore, with that fatal oracular obscurity that has plagued so many of the characters in this story, he recited the riddle of “the seven already named” and added, “Tell him to wander through towns and villages asking this riddle of all whom he should meet. Only ifhe should find someone who can solve the riddle should he abandon the quest. Let his search end then.”
‘By this Washo meant he will never find his son, for at this time he had only just learnt the riddle from the lady in the garden, and to him both the riddle’s solution and the man’s quest alike seemed impossible.
‘But the apes who listened to him took him to mean that the person to solve the riddle would be that man’s son.
‘But the man, who listened to the riddle and the message which the apes brought back, took them to mean that if he ever found anyone to answer the riddle, he might as well give up, for it would be a sign that his quest was hopeless. Hence his annoyance and his throwing away of the cup when the riddle was solved by the boy who had been reared among wolves.
‘But Iblis, who was behind it all, contrived it to mean that the riddle would be solved and the son found only at the cost of the father’s death. it was a deadly profusion of meanings.
‘Now, let me point to Iblis’s role in the story. The djinn in the story were all different manifestations of Iblis, for, though his name and appearance are legion, his evil essence is one. Iblis was the djinn in the toothed cave, the mate on the ship, the djinn fishing at the pool, the santon on the hill—all Iblis. He also disguised himself as the chess-playing lady in the garden so as to lead the Christian to his downfall. The reason Iblis solved the riddle was that he set it himself in the first place. The story is all of his contrivance and intervention.’
‘So why did Iblis engineer the chain of events that led to Washo passing on the riddle to the council of apes and from them to the man who had been raised among apes, while simultaneously contriving that the wolf-boy should solve his father’s riddle? Was it all pure mischief?’ asked Balian.
‘No, though it is certainly true that Iblis delights to torment mankind. No, the answer has something to do with fatality. Do you know the famous old story of the man who went to Bagdad to avoid his death?’
‘Please don’t, Yoll,’ cut in Bulbul hastily.
‘Well, anyway, Iblis wished to illustrate the strangeness of fate. What is fate but pattern? In Iblis’s eyes, man’s life has no meaning. Therefore Iblis wished to give it at least a pattern. Iblis has a tidy mind and the riddle (which is condensed thought presented in a syllogistic form) appeals to him.
‘So, anyway, thus it was that Washo transmitted the Devil’s riddle to the council of the apes, and apes and monkeys have treasured it ever since.’
Balian was restless. ‘You said that it was a teaching story of the Laughing Dervishes. What message do they get from all of this?’
Yoll ran his fingers through his hair (which was difficult, for his hair was clotted with dirt) before replying. ‘Some have taken the moral to be that in some stories there is a penalty for asking the question; in other stories there is a penalty for not asking the question. Therefore both action and inaction have their bad consequences. Others have taken it to be a fable about the child’s puzzlement about the sexual act. Myself, I have always felt it to be a rather mysterious parable on the transition from an oral to a written culture, but that is probably just my professional prejudice.’
‘This is all very deep, Yoll,’ said the friar. Then, after some hesitation, ‘However, such a profusion of meanings and interpretations amounts to no meaning at all.’
Balian did not want to ask the question, but in the end he had to. ‘Two things still puzzle me, Yoll. What happened to the maiden in the forest, the one who slept with the wolf-boy as he set out on his quest, and should not Iblis have had one more wish?’
Bulbul wept, but Yoll replied, ‘Ah, yes, “The Adventures of the Maiden in the Forest and of the Son that She Bore”. The story is a trifle intricate, but I must tell it to you.’
And he did. Wonder after wonder unstripped before them—it was a tale of flying horses, haunted castles, captive princesses, sinister flightless birds, intoxicating elixirs and apes, calculating apes, murderous apes, ghostly apes, crowned apes and apes that devoured themselves—but, O God, how Balian longed to sleep!
Finally he did sleep. He dreamt that a face of lined and falling flesh hung over his. With a start he realized that it was Zuleyka, heavily made up to look like a raddled old woman, and that she was waiting for him to get up. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We are going to amuse ourselves.’
They stepped out from Zuleyka’s kiosk and he noted with surprise that it was early afternoon, there was a lull in trading and the shopkeepers were sprinkling water in the streets to hold down the dust. They hurried on out of the market area towards the villas and pleasure palaces that spread themselves around the Lake of the Elephant.
‘Help me up,’ said Zuleyka.
Balian gave her bottom a push. She wriggled up, then extended a hand to him, and quite suddenly they were sitting on the wall that surrounded the garden of one of these palaces.
It was deliciously like being naughty children again. He wondered if they were going to rob the orchard. Noiselessly they dropped down into the shrubbery. As they crawled through the tunnels created by the arching of the branches, it began to rain. In the centre of the garden a figure lay sprawled on cushions. Balian recognized the epicene form of the Dawadar.
The rain was so faint that it did not disturb the Dawadar, who lay in blind reverie. Ghostly rainbow webs appeared in the bushes. Steam rose from the brass censer which kept the Dawadar’s opium warm and moist.
There was a chattering sound from the trees behind Balian’s head. Looking up, he saw a monkey and beside it, on the same branch, the man with the dirty white turban and robe. The man dropped down to join them. He and Zuleyka began to whisper together. From the other side of the garden came the sound of laughter, and after a pause two girls came tiptoeing out from behind a pergola.
Zuleyka pointed to them. ‘Khatun and Zamora,’ she whispered.
The two girls stole towards the Dawadar’s bowl of opium and, snatching handfuls of the stuff, crept stealthily away again, retiring towards the orchard where they ate it. On the edge of the orchard a brief fight for the hammock took place before Zamora installed herself in it and, languorously wriggling, fell asleep. Khatun returned again to the flower garden and went walking by herself along its watercourses. At the crossing of the watercourses was a fish pool. Khatun paused, reflecting over it and watching a fish.
Zuleyka turned to Balian. ‘Wait and watch. Your turn will come.’
Then, stepping out from the bushes, she began a selfconscious hobble towards the girl. Khatun was crying and her tears ran down into the basin. Zuleyka advanced until she stood behind the girl’s shoulder and bent over looking into the pool.
Khatun did not turn round, but spoke directly to the reflection.
‘Old woman, what are you doing here?’
‘I have come looking for you or your sister. I am here to satisfy all your desires.’
‘You don’t look as if you could satisfy all my desires,’ said Khatun, looking the squat veiled figure up and down meaningfully.
‘I meant that I could procure you all your desires,’ came the hasty reply.
‘That is different then. You are an opium vision?’
‘If you wish. Why do you weep?’
‘Our father keeps us captive in this garden. He will never let us marry.’ it has been well said, “When a girl begins to menstruate, either give her in marriage or bury her.” ’ Zuleyka recited the proverb in a hoarse croak and m
ade obscene jiggling motions with her fingers. it is true. Men and time are passing the garden by. ’ Khatun lost herself in melancholy thought awhile, then turned to Zuleyka. ‘What is it that you are selling or offering to me?’
‘I offer you what you desire—men.’
‘Does an old crone like you give away men as others give crusts of bread to the indigent and deserving?’
‘I offer you seven men. Whomsoever you shall point to up to that number, I shall fetch for you and introduce into the garden while your father sleeps. I can turn this place into a veritable mantrap.’
‘Old woman, you promise me all this? Why?’
‘I have a friend.’ And here Zuleyka whistled and the man in the turban emerged from the bushes. Khatun looked at him suspiciously. ‘And he has a friend. His friend is very ugly, hairy, with uneven teeth.’
The man in the turban leered back at the bushes. Revolted, Balian looked up at the ape. The ape looked modestly down.
‘And, as payment for sleeping with the seven I desire I must sleep with the one that no one desires?’
‘No, that is not our way. We wished to propose a game of forfeits. If the seven are willing and if you can bring them in succession to orgasm, then we shall have worked for you without payment. If you fail, then you shall sleep with our friend.’
‘That is ridiculous. They will all sleep with me for I am beautiful.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘I think that you are djinn. Djinn are addicted to these sorts of game.’
‘If you wish.’
‘Any man I want!’ She clapped her hands. ‘Over there is a grille that looks out on the street. I shall make my choice from there.’
The man in the turban settled down on the steps while Zuleyka hurried after Khatun, calling to her as she did so, ‘One other thing. Whatever you do, say nothing to these men or the spell is broken. And remember, you have seven choices. Don’t hurry.’
The Dawadar stirred uneasily in his sleep. The grille was some distance away, and from then on Balian caught only odd fragments of their excited deliberations.
‘One thing is paramount. He must not have a big bottom.’
‘I always think hands are the most important thing.’
‘It is impossible to tell in advance if he will have hairs on his chest.’
‘I should make a representative selection.’
Dizzied by the heat, he sat in the bushes listening. The sun was now low behind the houses, but the day’s warmth rose up from the earth. The ape in the tree stolidly munched on a banana. Time passed, the dusk came on and the roses released their scent into the shadows. At length—
‘What about that one? If I let that one pass, will I find another as good? That one. ’ Khatun’s first choice was made.
Zuleyka hurried off, letting herself out by a postern gate. Khatun returned to wait by the fish pool. Zuleyka returned, leading a blindfold youth by the hand. The blindfold was lifted and his beautiful gazelle-like eyes revealed. Silently he and Khatun withdrew to the summer house. When the youth re-emerged the man in the turban stood behind him and struck him unconscious with a stick.
The process was repeated. The second of the chosen was an Indian merchant, the third a wiry Bedouin, fresh in from the country. At length Balian, bored, rose from the bushes and stealthily set to exploring the garden. Noctambulos, his lightly padding feet were drowned by the deafening stridulation of the cicada. In the garden, in the half light, his eye was everywhere drawn to and amazed by the spider webs, and threads and cat’s cradles of foliage, which seemed to him to descend from the heavens, binding the growing things to the stars. So creepers and vines were drawn up walls and trellises towards the stars, their vegetable passions stirred by unseen conjunctions. The perfumes of the now invisible flowers breathed esoteric virtue at him and he felt himself move through a dark rain of astral influences. The open spaces of the garden were dominated by the waxy mask, the sleeping face, of the Dawadar which, bathed in moonlight, appeared as the dreadful totem of the place. Balian avoided this area but crept from thicket to thicket—chenar, poplar and cypress—towards the orchard.
In the orchard, among the ragged trees with their silvered oranges, the hammock of Zamora was slung. He stood to one side of it with only a profile in light, like a half-man. It was a foolhardy thing to do. What if she should awake?
Khatun was calling for Zuleyka to bring her a black man. Zamora awoke. The eyes did not seem to focus, but the lips parted and spoke. ‘Who are you? Where are the servants? Are you an opium vision?’
He felt a flutter of fear, yet he quietened it by reassuring himself that there was nothing to lose in this strange dream. It did not matter what he said, if you wish. I am here to satisfy all your desires.’
‘I have no desires. I don’t want to move or do anything ever again.’
And indeed she looked very comfortable. It seems that I am a failure as a nocturnal apparition, he thought.
Somewhere in the distance Khatun was shouting, ‘But I want a Frank! I want an infidel Frank!’
Zamora and Balian shared a smile of enigmatic complicity—that is, Balian smiled with her but he did not know why. Zamora focused on him more clearly.
‘You are not an opium vision. Rub your hands together.’ He did so. Threads or worms of dirt appeared in the sweat of his palms.
‘I thought so. You are of the earth. Like the vegetables, we are all born of the earth, and share their base needs. Before you woke me I had a real vision, though. A woman stood before me. Her face was white as an asphodel and she carried a knife in her hand. She asked me a riddle. The riddle was this:
My sister was my mother.
My father never begot me.
Never an infant, never an adult,
Who am I?
Can you solve it?’
He shook his head.
‘You are not much good at solving riddles,’ she murmured. ‘Am I a monkey for solving puzzles?’ he expostulated, but she was drifting off to sleep again.
He was still standing there, contemplating her cloudy face, when a voice, coming from the direction of the summer house, cried out in English, ‘I know you.’
There was a sound of scuffling and a heavy thud. Balian started running towards the wall, but Zuleyka rose up in the darkness before him. ‘Stop. All is well.’ Yet he thought that her face looked strained. ‘She still wants a Frank, though,’ she continued. ‘This must be your opportunity.’
As they walked towards the summer house, they passed the figure of a man lying deep in the long grass. There was at once something very odd and something very familiar about that figure. Balian was unable to locate the source of his disquiet, for Zuleyka hurried him along and continued to hiss in his ear, ‘Don’t speak. Remember what I have taught you. Let this be the consummation of your lessons. It is time at last to release the snake.’
The summer house was ablaze with lanterns. They entered and she presented him to Khatun. ‘He is thin, I know, but look at the eyes, and he is a student of imsaak and uncircumcised!’ Khatun looked troubled, but managed to nod her assent. Close to, he now examined her more closely. She looked like the lady with the peacock fan. The resemblance was there but, frustratingly, not the identity. A half echo. He stepped out of his rags.
‘Watch this,’ said Zuleyka to the man in the turban. He grunted. She produced an hourglass from the folds of her robe.
After the first embrace, Balian scarcely noticed the girl as he commenced the rituals to uncoil the serpent power. Loop by loop the cobra rises, past the abdomen and through the rib cage, twining itself along the spinal column in painful rhythmic jolts. As it enters the skull, its hood fans out and its jaws open. Its head fills Balian’s like a hand inserted in a glove.
He found himself looking out through the snake’s eyes at two separate gardens. There was no perspective. He was utterly detached. He was riding the snake. Khatun’s eyes were at first dilated in ecstasy, then dropped. The hourglass turned and turned again
. Occasionally he heard the ape chatter. He listened to the cries of the night-soil men as they passed in the road outside and the sounds of owls hunting in the garden. Eventually she fainted. He felt the serpent’s power growing within him. It forced his back straight, and his mouth opened in an awful rictus.
At length her eyes opened and she screamed as she tried to throw him off, ‘O God, will this never stop?’
Then the Dawadar was shouting back to her and there were servants running everywhere. Balian was unable to move of his own accord. The man in the turban half stunned him, and together he and Zuleyka pulled him off the girl. Now the postern gate was guarded. Balian was pushed, almost thrown, over the wall. The man in the turban was the last to come over. He stood on the wall and declaimed, ‘The tambourine is broken and the lovers dispersed. Ha! Ha! Ha!’ Then, ‘That will give His Excellency something to think about, ’ he said as he dropped down to join them.
The Dawadar’s servants were not far behind. The streets were unusually deserted. Once again he was being pursued and running through the streets at night. Again it was a distorted re-enactment, for this time he had two companions in his flight, not counting the ape who loped along beside them. They were running south towards the Citadel. It was only a little distance and they came out at the foot of the Citadel, at the Hippodrome, and the reason for the deserted streets became apparent.
‘We are saved, ’ said Zuleyka. ‘They will never find us now.’
Vast crowds had already assembled round the Hippodrome. A fiery ball of slow-burning wood flickered across the pitch. Men on horseback thundered pell-mell through the murk. The Sultan and his officers were playing at polo by torchlight. The Hippodrome was ringed by liveried pages, bearing alternately flambeaux and reserve mallets. At opposite ends of the field, yellow and black spiral-fluted goal posts were topped with pitch, which flared up brilliantly into the night. Every time a goal was scored a gong sounded. Every time the Sultan scored a goal trumpets sounded. At the end of each chukka musicians rode across the field beating on kettledrums. By night the game was dangerous and the crowd feverish.