A Poet of the Invisible World

by Michael Golding

  It did not take long for him to discover that beside each of the stone towers that rose to differing heights throughout the complex lay a courtyard, each with its own name. Beside the Falcon Tower sat the Court of the Finches. Beside the Soldier’s Tower sat the Court of the Running Brook. Nouri could not figure out why they were called what they were called—there was nothing sorrowful about the Court of Despair, and the Crimson Tower was a deep ochre—but he felt that he was learning the history of the place by learning the various names. What pleased him even more, though, was his discovery that behind a handful of the courtyards sat smaller courtyards where no one seemed to go. And behind one of these—the Court of Wrens, which sat beside the Tower of Retribution—was the Court of the Speckled Dove. Unlike the larger courtyards, it was clear to Nouri how it had gotten its name: at the center of its broken fountain sat a lovely bird carved of variegated stone. And Nouri knew the moment he found it that it was the perfect place for him to write.

  Despite the daily calls to prayer—which were as consistent at the palace as they had been at the lodge—Nouri’s spiritual life seemed to have vanished after his abduction by the marauders. The myriad things that Sheikh Bailiri had taught him seemed fragments of another world. His pledge to devote himself to God seemed as distant as a dream. One morning, however, while he was waiting in the kitchen for The Right Hand’s tray, he overheard a conversation between the head pastry maker and the Sultan’s chief attendant that made it all come rushing to the surface.

  “They say that he can make water flow from a rock!”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “Hossein al-Farid saw him do it! And Ahad Zanzar claims he saw him levitate during zikr!”

  When they left the kitchen, Nouri asked the pock-faced boy who brewed the Sultan’s tea whom they’d been speaking about and the boy explained that a Sufi master named Ibn Arwani had taken a pair of rooms beside the stables on the edge of the city and in a fortnight had attracted a dozen followers. Nouri said nothing. But he felt as if a shaft of light had suddenly pierced the darkness. And though he knew that no teacher could ever match the wisdom of Sheikh Bailiri, that afternoon, when The Right Hand dozed off after a lunch of slow-roasted lamb, fried eggplant, and honeyed dates, he headed off through the winding streets to find him.

  As he made his way along, he found it hard to believe that anything remotely holy could rise up from such dirt and din. The streets were scattered with fish bones and rotting fruit, his heels were nipped by chickens and goats, the shouts of food sellers and crying babies tortured his hyperaware ears. When he reached the stables, he found the rooms where the Sufi master had taken up residence. The windows were open, so he approached them and looked in. There were eleven men spread out across the room—their legs crossed, their heads bowed, their eyes shuttered to the world. And while there was no way of discerning the leader of the group by either his clothing or his position in the room, Nouri could instantly tell which one was Ibn Arwani.

  He neither floated off the ground nor emitted any strange, heavenly light. But it was clear that he was the master of himself. And while there was no proof that he could teach anyone else to be so, Nouri vowed that he would become his pupil.

  Just as these thoughts were taking shape, a horse and cart thundered by carrying the evening’s fresh bread. The smell reminded Nouri of the naan-e taftoon that would be waiting for him at supper, and the poem he had to compose for The Right Hand for the following day. So he turned from the window and hurried back through the ragged streets to the comfort of the palace.

  * * *

  LEISHA REACHED FOR THE CARVED wooden box, lifted her veil, and held it up to her nose. “I can still smell the cinnamon.”

  She handed the box back to Nouri, who took a sniff.

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  “Cinnamon!” said Leisha. “And a trace of mint!” She picked up the stained cotton cloth and threw it at Nouri’s head. “Keep working!”

  It was a light-dappled day at the height of summer. Nouri and Leisha were lying on a grassy knoll not far from the palace gates, cleaning the spice boxes. Or—to be more precise—Nouri was cleaning them and Leisha was assessing his work as he went along. While she gazed at the wispy clouds that floated by, Nouri would scour each compartment of the boxes that lay beside him, rubbing away the color and scent with a cotton cloth. Then he’d show the boxes to Leisha, who would invariably tell him to clean them again.

  “I don’t see why we have to get every last speck,” said Nouri. “They’re just going to fill them again when we’re through.”

  Leisha let out a world-weary sigh. “That’s why you’re still just a tea boy. You won’t be promoted until you’re determined to do a thing as well as it can be done.”

  Nouri said nothing. He liked being a tea boy and had no ambition to advance to another role. Yet he knew that Leisha’s advice was good, so he burrowed the cloth deeper into the compartment and rubbed a bit harder. For the most part, it was easy to detect when the traces of a spice still remained. The saffron left a rust-colored stain, the rose petals a pinkish powder, the parsley, cardamom, and lime various smudges of green. The cinnamon was the color of the wood, however, and he could not always tell when a few specks of it remained. So he depended on Leisha, whose sense of smell was so strong it almost rivaled his acute powers of hearing.

  Now, as Nouri pressed the cloth into the corner of one of the compartments, he studied the girl who lay beside him. She was the first girl he’d ever known and from the shape of her body to the thoughts in her head she was an absolute puzzle to him. She generally decided when they’d meet and where and what they would do. And she usually did most of the talking.

  “It seems the Sultan’s daughter is about to give birth! How anyone could make love to such a cow is an utter mystery to me. If it’s a boy, he’ll be the sultan himself one day. My friend Kamala is going to be one of his nursemaids. Imagine wiping the crap off the bottom of the future sultan!”

  Nouri gave a final swipe to the box he was cleaning and held it out to Leisha, who raised it to her nose.

  “It’ll do.”

  Nouri laid the box beside the others he’d finished and reached for the next one. As he did, Leisha raised herself up onto her elbow and gazed at him.

  “You’ve never said a word about your life before you came here.”

  “There’s not much to say.”

  “Of course there is!” she exclaimed, with a toss of her head. “Was it cold? Hot? Flat? Hilly? Green? Barren? Wretched? Nice?”

  Nouri thought back to the lodge in Tan-Arzhan. “It was home.”

  Leisha rolled her eyes. “And?”

  “Hot,” said Nouri. “Flat. Green.” He thrust the worn-out cloth into the box. “Nice.”

  Leisha lay back. “My friend Kamala says The Right Hand has over a dozen lovers. And that’s just within the city gates. He has more in each of the places he visits.” She slipped her hands beneath her head. “Isn’t that thrilling?”

  Nouri pictured The Right Hand moving from bedchamber to bedchamber, his eyes growing more glazed with each conquest, thick clouds of incense trailing behind him.

  “I’m going to have my own horse someday!” said Leisha. “I’ll ride and I’ll ride and no one will be able to stop me!”

  Nouri spied a smudge of pale yellow in one of the compartments. Was it turmeric? Ginger? Before he could decide, however, Leisha bolted upright, drew aside her veil, and kissed him on the mouth. When she pulled back, she looked deeply into his eyes, her gaze half challenge, half plea. Then she swung her dark braid over her shoulder and lay back on the grass.

  “Keep working!” she barked. “They have to be finished by noon!”

  Nouri said nothing. Although her lips were soft, the kiss did not evoke the least trace of desire. So he thrust the cloth back into the box and continued on with his work.

  * * *

  LEISHA WAS NOT THE ONLY GIRL in the palace who longed to kiss Nouri. Sarana, the frail girl who p
runed the Sultan’s roses, had to take care not to chop off their heads when he passed by. Suleini, the plump girl who milked the palace goats, had to make sure not to squeeze their udders too hard when he came to fetch cream for The Right Hand’s tray. In the kitchen—at the market—as he wandered through the town—heads swiveled as he approached and eyes lingered as he moved away. For as the seasons passed, Nouri changed from a fair-faced boy to a bewitching youth: his body growing leaner, his cheeks traced with the soft beginnings of a beard, his dark eyes glistening beneath the ever-present head cloth.

  “Can’t you see how they look at you?” said Little Ahmed, the squashed fellow who helped tend the palace grounds. “I’d drool for a glance like that from the worst of the lot!”

  Nouri tried to shrug off Little Ahmed’s words, yet he knew they were true: though he’d barely reached the age of sixteen, he could have his choice of any girl in the court. The only thing that compelled him, however—that rattled his brain and kept him up nights—was the daily struggle with words. After The Right Hand had requested that he deliver a new verse each morning, Nouri’s afternoons were set aside for him to write. He usually went to the Court of the Speckled Dove, though at times he wandered out along the ramparts or sat beside the star-shaped fountain that flowed beside the Tower of the Sun. Writing was the only thing that made him feel that this Nouri, who wore linen tunics and ate oranges and served tea, was the same Nouri who’d studied and prayed at the lodge in Tan-Arzhan. Each day, to conjure a new poem, he would gaze at the clouds, smell the fragrance of the jasmine, feel the smooth stones beneath his feet. But mostly he would listen—not just to the sound of the water flowing or to the cries of the birds, but to the rhythm of the words as they laid themselves out in his head. Listening was such an integral part of Nouri’s writing process, he sometimes wondered if that was why he’d been given two sets of ears.

  Day after day, Nouri watched. And listened. And wrote. And listened again. And he might have gone on in this way for a long while had the girl in the white gown not appeared. He was sitting in the Court of the Speckled Dove writing a poem about the morning naan when the fountain in the courtyard suddenly rattled and a thin stream of water began to pour from the mouth of the stone bird. This would have been enough to stamp the moment in Nouri’s mind forever. But when he turned he saw a girl in a white gown standing at the entrance to the courtyard. She was carrying a large jug upon her head and as he gazed at her he heard the voice of Sheikh Bailiri:

  “There are a thousand veils that cover the Self. You must dissolve them. Anything that separates you from God is a veil.”

  As the words rose up, the girl vanished from sight. And Nouri suddenly saw that, for all the pleasure it brought, his writing was a veil between himself and God. So he carried the pen, ink, and paper to his room. Then he headed out through the winding streets to find Ibn Arwani.

  This time when he peered through the open window, the Sufi master, still seated in zikr, was alone. Since Nouri did not wish to interrupt him, he waited in silence for him to finish his practice. It therefore came as a surprise when—without bothering to rise or even open his eyes—he suddenly spoke.

  “Dogs and other stray animals linger in the street. Men offer their greetings to one another. And make themselves known when they look into a stranger’s home.”

  Nouri was so startled he could barely respond. “Forgive me,” he stammered. “I didn’t wish to disturb your practice.”

  “You assume that only words can intrude,” said the Sufi master, as he opened his eyes. “If you wish to enter, the door is on your left.”

  Nouri went to the door, pulled it open, and stepped into the room. There was little there: just a low table graced with a pitcher and bowl and, on the floor, just in front of where the Sufi master sat, four burning candles.

  “Are you a seeker?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know what it entails?”

  “Yes,” said Nouri. He paused. “No.” He shrugged. “I’m not really sure.”

  “Well, that,” said Ibn Arwani, “is an honest beginning.” He gestured to the floor across from the candles. “Sit.”

  Nouri crossed the room and sat on the floor.

  “Where do you live?”

  “In the palace.”

  “Chamber boy? Stable boy?”

  “I’m a tea boy.”

  Ibn Arwani narrowed his eyes. “And you’re willing to work hard?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you admit that you know nothing of God?”

  Nouri thought for a moment. “Not nothing,” he said. “Not much. But not nothing.”

  “Good,” said Ibn Arwani. He leaned forward and blew out the four candles. “Come back tomorrow at dawn. We’ll see what rises in you. And what resists.”

  Nouri lowered his head to the floor. Then he rose to his feet and departed. He knew that it would not be easy to rekindle his spiritual flame while remaining at the palace. But he was so elated at the thought of resuming his practice, he could not help running all the way home.

  Ten

  On the following morning, Nouri awoke before the sun was even a glimmer on the horizon and set off to begin his studies with Ibn Arwani. As he made his way through the sleeping hallways of the court, there was hardly a soul in sight. All he saw as he padded by were a pair of the Sultan’s serving girls and Little Ahmed and a gaunt-looking fellow practicing zikr on a bench in the garden. When he passed by the fellow, a chill ran down his spine.

  It was Sharoud.

  His childhood foe.

  He’d somehow followed him to the court.

  As Nouri hurried on through the gates, however, and out into the city, he laughed at this thought. It was clear that some part of himself had conjured up the dark Sufi to trip up his heels as he headed back to the pursuit of God.

  As Nouri moved through the streets, he found a seamless shroud lying over the town. Only here and there in the pale predawn light did a cat or chicken dart by to disrupt the stillness. When he reached the rooms of Ibn Arwani, he found a half dozen men already seated in zikr. The Sufi master did not acknowledge his arrival. So he quietly took his place among the rest. When the practice was done, Ibn Arwani took him aside and explained what would be expected of him if he joined his teaching. Then the youth made his way back to the palace to prepare The Right Hand’s tray.

  Thus began Nouri’s new double life: part tea boy to the primary adviser to the Sultan, part Sufi-in-training. Early morning was zikr; then back to the palace to serve the tea and recite a new verse for The Right Hand; then back to Ibn Arwani for the day’s menial tasks; then back to the palace to compose the following day’s verse and partake of the evening meal; then back to Ibn Arwani for private instruction; then back to the palace to collapse into bed. Despite his strictness, Ibn Arwani accepted that Nouri divided his time between his spiritual training and his duties at the court. He was still quite stringent in his demands—indeed, he gave him such a string of tasks that Nouri wondered whether he’d entered a Sufi teaching or a work camp—yet he trusted that if the youth’s aim was true, he would be able to turn away from the court when the time came to choose.

  As for those at the palace, they could only guess what the new tea boy was up to when he crept through the gates before dawn.

  “I hear he’s become the secret lover of the Widow Alban,” said the Sultan’s seamstress. “They say you can hear her cries from ten houses away.”

  “I hear he wanders out through the gates in a trance,” said the palace hearth cleaner. “That’s how he comes up with the poems that he writes for The Right Hand!”

  The Right Hand himself took little notice of Nouri’s comings and goings. He registered that the boy seemed a bit tired, but that perception merely grazed his mind for a moment and then disappeared from sight. Only Leisha—for whom Nouri now had no time—was determined to find out what was going on.

  “You’re like a ghost!” she cried, as she saw him staggering back to the palace o
ne night. “And a frazzled-looking ghost at that!”

  Nouri insisted that he was too busy to talk, but Leisha would have none of it.

  “I haven’t seen you in weeks!” she cried. “You’re not going to run off on me now!”

  Nouri was too tired to protest. So he followed her out to the gardens that bordered the northern edge of the palace, lay back on a stone bench, and struggled to stay awake.

  “You’re leading a secret life,” said Leisha. “Everyone knows it. You sneak away at dawn—you slip off again in the early afternoon—you vanish in the evening. The only thing that nobody seems to know is what it is you’re actually doing!”

  Nouri, who ached with exhaustion, tried to respond. But Leisha simply rambled on.

  “I think you’re a spy! An enemy court planted you here as a tea boy to win our trust. But you’re gathering information to help them overthrow the Sultan!”

  Nouri shifted his body and felt the cool air swirl about his head. “It’s true,” he said. “And what’s more, they want me to find an accomplice. Someone who can help me to get top-secret information. And I’ve decided that you’re the perfect candidate for the job!”

  Leisha was silent. Then she reached for a clod of earth and hurled it at Nouri. “Very funny! Now tell me what you’re really doing!”

  Nouri hesitated. He did not wish to speak about his spiritual practice, but he knew that Leisha would not let him sleep until she discovered the truth. So he brushed away the crumbs of dirt that sprinkled his chest and said, “I’m striving to become a Sufi.”

  Leisha furrowed her brow. “A what?”

  “A spiritual being. A servant of God.” He paused again. “The Sufi tries to free himself from the material world. From the tyranny of thought. His goal is to experience the divine in all things.”

  Leisha tried to piece together what Nouri was saying. “You mean you’re studying with that crazy loon who came to town last month?”

  “He’s a remarkable teacher. I’m lucky to have the chance to be his murid.”