On the morning of the departure, Maleeh al-Morad awoke before dawn, dressed, and headed out through the village carrying a small cloth satchel and little Nouri in his basket. The mist was so thick she could barely see; it swirled in damp clouds about her head as she hurried along. When she reached the home of Akbar Zartouf, he was strapping a canvas tarp over his milkwagon. Without saying a word, Maleeh al-Morad handed him the satchel and basket, which he proceeded to lower inside. Then she climbed in after them, he closed the tarp, and the journey began.
It was a bumpy ride. For the first hour, Maleeh al-Morad lay curved around the base of a wooden milk drum, her head resting on a small pile of rags, little Nouri sucking contentedly at her breast. Only when she was sure that the wagon had traveled well beyond the limits of Al-Kashir did she unfasten the tarp and peer out. The sky was beginning to lighten and the sight of new trees and new houses filled her with hope. Perhaps life in Dursk would be a new beginning for her and her child.
Toward the end of the first day, they reached a village called Nashtam. After eating some bureg and a small sack of figs that Maleeh al-Morad had packed for the journey, Akbar Zartouf tucked the wagon behind the local alehouse, laid a blanket across the seat plank for himself, and left mother and child to sleep between the drums. The following morning, he rose, tossed a few carrots to his horse, and pissed loudly against the alehouse wall. Then he climbed into the wagon, grabbed the reins, and led them back upon their course. The plan was to skirt the city of Tan-Arzhan by crossing the River Tolna, which ran along its northern edge. Then they’d sleep that night in a village called Sourd and—if all went well—they would arrive in Dursk before sundown the following day.
That second morning was cool and clear, the sky freshly painted a perfect blue, the air laced with gillyflowers. As they were now quite a distance from Al-Kashir, Maleeh al-Morad sat in the front with Akbar Zartouf, humming to Nouri, who lay sleeping in her arms. There were no fears to assuage and no problems to solve. There were only the golden fields and the wheeling birds and the steady creaking of the wheels of the wagon as they made their way along.
The sun was at its zenith when they reached the River Tolna. The river was not very wide, but when Maleeh al-Morad saw the flimsy network of struts and ties they were to use to cross it and the silvery water that churned far below, she felt an impulse to throw herself and Nouri from the milkwagon onto the grass. Sadly, the justification for that impulse came a few minutes too late. For they were already on the bridge when Akbar Zartouf placed his hand on Maleeh al-Morad’s upper thigh—which caused her to jerk her body away—which caused Akbar Zartouf’s mangy horse to lose his footing—and by the time the bridge buckled and the wagon went sailing over the ropes it was too late to jump free.
As she plummeted to her death, Maleeh al-Morad could not help but wonder that her end should so perfectly mirror that of her husband. She felt sure, though, that it was not the end for little Nouri. Even as she squeezed a lifetime of love into the split second of their good-bye, she saw the man strolling along the distant bank, gauged the distance between them, and knew, as she hurled the child in his direction, that he would not only catch him but care for him.
If it had been Pandor the saddlemaker who’d been walking along the river, Nouri’s fate would have been to sit strapped in a chair beneath a banner that read “The Wonder of Tan-Arzhan” while people dropped coins into a silver bowl. If it had been Karim the deaf-mute, his fate would have been to remain locked in a toolshed and to be fed kashk through a narrow grate. If it had been Fetnem the butcher, his fate would have been to be beheaded in the shit-smeared alley behind the pigsties. But thanks to Allah—the Preserver—the Compassionate—it was Habbib who was strolling along the river that day, and into whose arms the child fell. He’d been thinking about the herb garden he’d planted outside the window of his cell. Salim Rasa, the order’s cook, had given him some sage and some basil, but Habbib longed for mint. Just one or two leaves would give zest to his morning tea, and on those special occasions when the brothers prepared lamb, a few handfuls would transform the entire dish. He knew mint was prolific—his mother had planted some when he was a boy and in a few months their backyard was ablaze with it—so as he walked along the river he kept his eyes on the ground, hoping to spy a few sprigs to carry home. Only when he heard the strange whooshing sound and perceived something hurtling toward him did he raise his head. Then Allah smiled and Nouri fell into his arms.
To the end of his days, it would remain the most penetrating moment of his life. And when it was clear that the child was unharmed by his flight—and that no one was going to come rushing out of the woods to claim him—the man with six fingers tucked the baby with four ears into the crook of his arm and they headed off to begin their new lives.
Two
When Habbib reached the lodge, he slipped the infant beneath his cloak. Then he headed for the safety of his cell. As he made his way along, he met Jamal al-Jani, the small, wiry dervish who tended the chapel mosque. When he questioned Habbib about the bulge beneath his garments, Habbib explained that he was sneaking in a sack of potatoes to make a dolmeh seeb zamini for Sheikh Bailiri and that he must promise not to say a word. The dervish agreed and Habbib only hoped that he’d remember to go out and get some potatoes, ground meat, and rice to make the dish later in the day.
There were only a few dervishes in the order in Tan-Arzhan, but they were as different as a bedbug from a bee. In addition to Sheikh Bailiri and Jamal al-Jani, there was Salim Rasa, the soft-bodied fellow who cooked most of the brothers’ meals; Piran Nazuder, a slender dervish with a grinning mouthful of wayward teeth; Hajid al-Hallal, an elderly dervish with a snow-white beard that flowed past his waist; and Sharoud Ahmirzadah, a dour fellow with a dark cast to his eyes who made Habbib’s heart clench. Habbib was convinced that if they knew he’d smuggled an infant into the lodge, both he and the child would be expelled. So he took great care to keep it concealed as he moved through the halls.
When he reached his cell, he drew the baby from his cloak and laid him on his low straw bed. He had large eyes and wisps of black hair and—with the exception of his unusual head garment—he seemed much like any other child. As he lay there gurgling, Habbib suddenly realized that he would have to make him a cradle and bathe him and feed him, as well as a score of other things he could not think of at that moment. Even if his crushed fingers were suddenly restored, he would not be able to do it all himself. He would have to take someone into his confidence, and he knew that that someone was Ali Majid.
Ten years old, brown as a chestnut, and missing most of his teeth, Ali Majid had appeared at the gates of the lodge with a note pinned to his sleeve that read: “Did he not find thee an orphan and shelter thee?” The brothers, of course, knew that the words were from the Qur’an. But they also knew that Ali Majid’s mother was alive and selling her body nightly in the bazaar quarter, just south of the great mosque. They reasoned, however, that the boy would live a far better life with them than the one that he was living in the streets. So they ushered him in, pronounced him the kitchen boy, and returned to their prayers.
It did not take long to discover that the boy was a bit slow of mind. Hajid al-Hallal was convinced that his ability to stare off into the distance for long periods was a sign of spiritual grace, but the theory was quickly dismissed. He was quiet, though, and he scoured the pots with zeal, so like Habbib he became a part of their lives. Habbib, in particular, had a warm feeling for the boy. He reminded him of the monkey that crouched in the tree that stood beside the tanoor where he and his father had baked bread, so he gave him nuts and dried figs, which the boy gratefully gobbled down. It was therefore to Ali Majid that he turned when he realized that he would need help to care for the infant.
It was easy to find him. After years of having to shuffle out of bed during the night when his mother brought a client back to their room, Ali Majid had fallen into the habit of sleeping during the day. Each morning, therefore, after the cups
and bowls and plates from the morning meal had been washed and dried and put away, he’d wander into the small garden along the eastern edge of the inner courtyard and slip into a delicious slumber. The brothers rarely disturbed him until it was time to prepare for the evening meal. So when he felt a pair of hands shake him awake, he was rather surprised.
“Habbib asked me to fetch you,” said Jamal al-Jani. “He says that he needs your help.”
Ali Majid could not imagine why the odd caretaker would need his help. But since there was a good chance he might offer him a handful of pistachios or some chopped dates, he rose to his feet, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and padded off to Habbib’s cell.
When he reached it, he rapped loudly on the door. “It’s Ali Majid!”
There was a momentary silence. Then Habbib opened the door and ushered him in. “You must swear you won’t say a word to anyone about what I’m about to show you.”
Ali Majid swore. So Habbib led him over to the bed, drew back the covers, and revealed the child. Ali Majid was silent a moment. Then he stuck his finger in his ear.
“I like his hat,” he said.
Habbib sat him down and explained that the infant had fallen from the sky and that at least for the moment it was best that he remain a secret. Ali Majid did not question the matter. He merely asked Habbib what he wished him to do.
“The first thing is to feed him,” said Habbib. “But the brothers will know if we take anything from the larder.”
Ali Majid assured Habbib that he could steal almost anything, from the large green melons at the market to the succulent lamb shanks on Karim Rathwalla’s grill.
“I don’t think he’s ready for lamb shanks,” said Habbib.
The boy tried to picture what a baby might eat. Rose petals? Dragonflies? Dew?
“What about milk?” said Habbib.
“Goat, sheep, or cow?”
Habbib chose goat and in less than an hour Ali Majid returned with a well-filled bucket. They poured some into a tiny bowl, raised the bowl to the baby’s lips, and he drank it down.
Once the issue of nourishment had been solved, they turned to making a cradle for the child. Habbib explained that it had to be large enough to allow room to grow, deep enough to prevent falling out, and soft enough to provide soothing dreams. Ali Majid scampered off to the kitchen and found a small wooden crate, a large sack of rice, and a freshly washed dishcloth. And though Habbib worried that the crate was too rough, the rice too hard, and the cloth too riddled with holes, when they put them together and placed the baby inside he seemed to like it just fine.
The last thing Habbib asked for was a container in which he could bathe the little fellow. Ali Majid brought him an old soup pot, which he filled with warm water. Then he returned to the kitchen to perform his evening chores.
What with catching the infant and carrying him to the lodge and procuring the milk and the cradle and the pot, it had been a long day for Habbib. So he wished to bathe the child quickly, lay him in his cradle, and go to sleep. He removed the loose gown he wore and laid it on the floor beside the soup pot. Then he slowly began to unwind the slender ribbon of his head cloth. As the first layer came free, a slip of paper floated out and alighted, like a moth, in his lap. Despite the fact that Habbib had shown no spiritual leaning, Sheikh Bailiri had insisted that he learn to read. So he raised the slip of paper to his eyes and mouthed the words that were neatly written upon it:
In the name of Allah, I rain blessings upon you! I am Nouri Ahmad Mohammad ibn Mahsoud al-Morad. If you are reading these words, you have been chosen to protect me!
Habbib lowered the paper and gazed at the child. “Nouri Ahmad Mohammad ibn Mahsoud al-Morad,” he repeated. A great smile flashed across his face, and then he bowed his head. “I am Habbib.”
As he continued to unwind the ribbon of cloth, he wondered who’d written the note. When he removed the last layer, however, all thoughts disappeared. For that was when Habbib saw the four ears.
He felt no horror. He felt no disgust. He felt no impulse to carry the child back to the river and throw him in. The only thing he felt was a deep sense of wonder. And an overpowering feeling of love.
* * *
IF HABBIB HAD FELT THAT Nouri should be kept a secret when he found him, he was certain of it when he discovered his four ears. With the help of Ali Majid, all traces of the child’s existence were concealed. And while Sheikh Bailiri noted that Habbib seemed distracted, none of the brothers ever could have guessed that he harbored a magical child in his cell. For one thing, Nouri never cried; whether hungry or sleepy or soiled, he merely gazed out of his curious eyes at the world of Habbib’s cell. For another thing, Habbib’s simple role in the brothers’ lives remained unchanged. He greeted them with the same good cheer in the morning. He swept the smooth tiles outside their cells with the same gentle care. Yet even Habbib should have suspected that Sharoud Ahmirzadah would pose a threat to his scheme.
If one believed the stories that circulated around town, Sharoud had been mean-spirited from the day he was born. According to his mother, when he was first raised to her breast, still sticky and gleaming, he clamped his newborn gums around her nipple so hard he drew blood. She assumed there was no malice in it—he was only three minutes old—but as the days passed, he repeated the action so often she took to squeezing her milk into a jug and spooning it into his mouth rather than letting him anywhere near her naked flesh. When he was old enough to walk, he took to breaking things, yet the damage he did was never random. He went straight for those objects his mother loved most: the earthenware bowl with the four dancing fish, the fluted salt cellar, the vase with the bright blue flowers along the rim. And rather than run off and hide when the deed was done, he would wait beside the wreckage, eyes wide, to observe her reaction when she found it.
His father fared no better. A simple cobbler, whose goods, if a bit rough-hewn, were at least watertight, he received word from his customers, around Sharoud’s second birthday, that when they slipped their feet into their newly made shoes they encountered prickly pods, dried beetles, dead lizards, and a sticky mixture of acacia honey and curry powder. When he confronted Sharoud about the pranks, Sharoud just grinned. So the cobbler placed a padlock on the door to his workshop and kept his distance from the child.
Sharoud’s parents hoped that when the boy began to speak he would explain what was troubling him. When words finally came, however, he had little to say. In time, they became used to the taut mornings, the hushed mealtimes, the attenuated evenings, and accepted the child as their lot. So they assumed that it was one of his dark jokes, on that late-spring day when Sharoud was ten, when he suddenly announced that he’d had a mystical vision. He stumbled into the house—his face even paler than usual—and claimed that as he was coming home he’d heard a voice say his name, and when he’d looked up, God—who was wearing a blue turban and sitting in a pear tree—had called out to him:
“Be careful, my son! Ill deeds accumulate! There are worlds beyond the one you see!”
Sharoud’s mother had a hard time believing that God would appear in a pear tree—or anywhere, for that matter—to a boy like Sharoud. Yet it was quite unlike him to make any sort of reference to his errant behavior. When he further insisted that his future lay with “the sainted ones,” his parents didn’t argue. They bundled him off to the dervishes and feasted for a week.
When Sharoud arrived at the gates of the lodge, the brothers, as ever, took him in. He was too young to become an initiate, but his conviction that his path lay with God was so fervent it could not be ignored. So they taught him the basic principles of the order, gave him a woolen khirqa to wear, and allowed him to participate in zikr, the devotional act in which the names of Allah are repeated to infuse the practitioner with the remembrance of God. If he was meant to become a Sufi, the rest would unfold over time.
Sharoud soon found that life in the order—the plain meals, the bare cell, the drab clothes—suited his sober temperament. Yet des
pite his newfound allegiance to God, his mean-spiritedness did not abate. He poured candle wax on the prayer rug. He carved epithets in the catafalque. He farted, quite loudly, during meals. When these deeds came to the attention of Sheikh Bailiri, the Sufi master responded by giving him a taste of his own tricks. When Sharoud greased the walkway between the cells with ghee, Sheikh Bailiri smeared his bed pillow with duck fat. When Sharoud sprinkled the yogurt with black mustard seeds, Sheikh Bailiri laced his soup with bitter cloves. And the farting matches made mealtimes nearly impossible.
Despite the ascetic lifestyle of the brothers, Sheikh Bailiri was quite rounded in his approach to daily life. For one thing, the complex of buildings where the dervishes ate and prayed and slept stood on the grounds of what had once been his family home. Nearly a half century before—after his mother and father had died, one after the other, from a fungal infection and a rancid goat stew—he’d set out upon the Sufi path. A few years later, when his teacher’s dwelling had burned to the ground, he’d opened his home to his fellow dervishes to continue their prayers and their studies. In time, the order grew, attracting not only murids but wealthy lay members, who paid for their meals and clothes. When it became clear that the brothers were in need of more space, one of the latter offered to raze the simple home and build a mosque, cloister, and cells. Sheikh Bailiri consented, and the lodge was born.
After spending his entire life strolling its gentle grounds and reading beneath its leafy trees, Sheikh Bailiri could only think of the place as home. And since that home had been blessed with an abundance of nature’s gifts, he could only encourage his fellow brothers to enjoy those gifts with gusto. The Sufi path was a path of service. Selflessness. Sacrifice. Poverty. But it was also a path of love, so when he assumed the role of murshid Sheikh Bailiri could never find fault with his disciples for celebrating life. That was why, when Sharoud arrived, Sheikh Bailiri decided to take the boy’s antics in stride. He knew that a strong spirit was needed to follow the path. He knew that even good-hearted play could produce a glimpse of the divine. But Sharoud’s pranks were more than just good-hearted play. They showed a lack of respect for Allah. So Sheikh Bailiri knew that he had to do whatever was needed to put a stop to them.
A Poet of the Invisible World Page 2