“His what?”
“His disciple,” said Nouri. “His student.”
Leisha was silent a moment and Nouri waited for her to begin laughing or to throw something harder than a clod of dirt at him. Instead, she rose and moved through the shadows to where he lay.
“How thrilling!” she cooed. “I’ve never been with a murid before!”
Nouri looked up and saw that her eyes were filled with hunger. Without saying more, she began to loosen her robes, exposing her soft flesh to the night. Nouri had never seen a girl without clothes and he was curious to know what a pair of breasts actually looked like. When they swung into view, however—ripe as a pair of sun-kissed melons—he felt no impulse to reach up and take them in his hands or lean forward to place his mouth over their nipples. He only lay there, staring at them with a curious disinterest. And Leisha, inflamed as she was, understood.
“You’re not normal!” she hissed. Then she gathered her garments and ran off into the night.
Nouri lay back and looked up at the stars. He did not know what it meant to be normal. He only knew what it meant to be Nouri.
Who had four ears.
And was far from home.
And was trying to find his way back to God.
So he rose from the bench and made his way to his room, where he finally gave over to his crushing fatigue.
* * *
NOURI RESTED THE SHOVEL against the wall and wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. He’d been digging for over an hour and his head cloth was soaked with perspiration, yet he knew that he had no choice but to continue on. The ground was rocky and unyielding and it would take a miracle to make a garden take root. But Ibn Arwani had instructed him to do it. So he raised the shovel, ran the back of his wrist across his forehead one last time, and continued digging.
He’d been coming to the simple rooms of the Sufi master each day for almost six months now. And though he was grateful to have found a teacher again, it took time for him to adjust to Ibn Arwani’s ways. Where Sheikh Bailiri had been loving, Ibn Arwani was strict. Where Sheikh Bailiri had been patient and reassuring, Ibn Arwani was confrontational. When Nouri said that he wanted to be with God, Ibn Arwani said:
“First you must learn who ‘you’ are. Then you must learn what it means to ‘want.’ What it means to ‘be.’ Then you must learn what ‘God’ is. Otherwise, it’s just a game. A pretense.”
When Nouri said that he wanted to know the truth, Ibn Arwani said:
“You must suffer a great deal to know the truth. You must be crushed into powder. People always say they want the truth. But they really want lies. The truth requires sacrifice. The truth requires work.”
When Nouri said that he wanted to become a servant, Ibn Arwani said:
“First you must become a warrior. Only with your sword raised high can you become a servant of God.”
Nouri listened, and tried to understand. But the image of a raised sword only brought thoughts of the attack at the lodge in Tan-Arzhan. So he focused his energy on the morning zikr and the various tasks he was given to perform each afternoon. At times they were pleasant: chopping the walnuts for the ranginak or trimming the wicks of the evening tapers. But they were often exhausting, like the labor he was engaged in now. In this case, the grueling task was his own fault. A few days earlier, as he was waiting to be dismissed after washing the tea bowls, Ibn Arwani had said: “What do you think of our gathering place, Nouri?”
Nouri looked around the spare dwelling where he and the others came to pray. “It’s nice,” he said. “There’s lots of room for remembrance.”
“So you don’t think it requires any improvement? To be more pleasing to Allah?”
Nouri was silent. He knew that part of being a Sufi was to accept each thing, no matter how simple, for what it was. But he also knew that Ibn Arwani’s questions were always a test. And as he looked out through the window at the land that sat behind the two rooms—neglected and overgrown with weeds—he could not help thinking of how a garden would inspire Ibn Arwani’s disciples to open their hearts to God.
“I think it would be nice to have some roses,” he said. “And maybe a small fig tree.”
Ibn Arwani thanked him for his advice. And on the following day he handed him a shovel and told him to begin digging. Nouri found the job rather daunting, but he did his best not to complain. Instead, he tried to picture the fragrant flowers that would bloom when his efforts were through.
Now he was so focused on his labor, he did not even notice the terrible thirst that gripped him. So he was startled when he heard a voice and turned to see Ibn Arwani standing beside him with a pitcher and a cup.
“You look as if you need a bit of rest,” said the Sufi master. “Let’s sit for a little while.”
Nouri rested the shovel against the wall again and then followed Ibn Arwani across the yard to the small patch of shade that the house cast upon the ground. He waited for the Sufi master to sit. Then he seated himself beside him.
“It’s a pleasant day,” said Ibn Arwani. “Don’t you think?”
Nouri hesitated. It was an extremely warm day, especially for digging up rocks. But he knew better than to contradict his teacher. “Quite pleasant.”
Ibn Arwani reached for the pitcher and poured a pale liquid into the cup. Then he raised the cup to his mouth and drank.
“A few of the others have offered to help dig.” He paused a moment, the soothing beverage perched in the air between himself and Nouri. “But I thought that would rob you of the pleasure of doing it yourself.”
He took another sip of the liquid and Nouri felt his throat constrict. He hadn’t expected Ibn Arwani to be so severe. He could feel that the Sufi master was quite advanced, yet he could not help but chafe at his methods. Before he could protest, however, Ibn Arwani spoke.
“The part of you that wants to know God is very small. You must strengthen it if you wish to master the part that fears. That desires. That thirsts.” He was silent a moment, his eyes boring into Nouri. “The beast or the master. You have to decide which one you wish to be.”
At the moment all Nouri wished was a drink of the cool liquid in the pitcher. But he did not say this. Instead, he said, “I should get back to work.” Then he rose and went to fetch the shovel that he’d laid against the wall.
He was just about to pick it up when Ibn Arwani called out to him: “By the way—”
Nouri turned.
The Sufi master held out the cup. “Would you care for a drink?”
Nouri felt his tongue rake over his parched lips. Then he nodded.
Ibn Arwani rose, raised the pitcher, and poured more liquid into the cup. Then he crossed the yard and offered the cup to Nouri. It was stronger and more tart than Nouri had expected. But it quenched his thirst. So he handed the cup back to Ibn Arwani, reached for the shovel, and continued digging.
* * *
IT WAS EARLY MORNING. Nouri had just returned to the palace from his morning zikr with Ibn Arwani when he was stopped in the garden by Little Ahmed.
“The Right Hand is asking for you!”
“But his tray isn’t due for nearly an hour.”
“Well, if I were you,” said Little Ahmed, “I’d go to him now!”
Nouri could not imagine why The Right Hand wished to see him. But he thanked Little Ahmed and headed to his chamber. When he reached it, he found the door slightly ajar. So he pushed it open and stepped inside. The ney player was just removing his flute from its silken wrapper and The Right Hand’s attendant—a tall boy with long curly hair—was drawing the drapes to let the morning light tumble in. The Right Hand, as always, was seated on the divan, and when he saw Nouri enter, he turned.
“There you are!” he shouted. “Come! Sit beside me!”
The words seemed more a command to Nouri than an invitation. So he crossed the room, lowered himself to the pillow that lay on the floor beside the divan, and—while the ney player began an insinuating tune—waited to learn why he’d
been summoned.
“The air is so sweet before dawn. So full of possibilities.” The Right Hand looked into Nouri’s eyes. “Don’t you think?”
Nouri nodded.
“Yet there must be something quite special to make you rise so early, and wander away from the court!”
It was clear to Nouri that The Right Hand knew quite well where he was going when he slipped off each morning. And though it was equally clear that he did not approve, Nouri knew there was no point in lying about it.
“I participate in a morning zikr,” he said. “I hope that doesn’t displease you.”
The Right Hand smiled. “And how could I be displeased by a morning zikr?”
The ney player turned to The Right Hand to seek permission to begin playing. The Right Hand nodded. Then the music rose up and The Right Hand closed his heavy-lidded eyes.
“I simply wish to protect you.”
“From what?”
The Right Hand opened his eyes and turned to Nouri. “You realize you have a gift, don’t you?”
“A gift?”
“You’re a poet! It’s a talent that’s not given to very many.”
Nouri said nothing.
“It would trouble me a great deal to see you waste it.”
The Right Hand was silent a moment. Then he rose from the divan, went to the large carved cabinet that stood in the corner of the room, opened it, and removed a small book. Then he headed back across the room to where Nouri sat.
“Your gift was given to you by Allah. He wishes you to use it. Not sit in a trance and whisper His name over and over, which anyone can do.”
The Right Hand held the book out to Nouri.
“I propose we make a collection of your verses. We’ll have the court calligrapher copy them out. We’ll have the court illuminator embellish them. Then, when it’s finished, we’ll present it to the Sultan himself.”
Nouri gazed at the slender book. Its cover was made of rich brown leather and its spine was embossed with suns and moons.
“Would you like that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if we’re to do this you’ll need to devote yourself to your writing. There’ll be no time for zikr. Or any other activities outside the court.” He gazed into Nouri’s eyes. “Do you understand?”
Nouri could not imagine turning away from his spiritual practice. But the thought of the Sultan reading his poems was too enticing. Perhaps a short break from his studies would let him digest what he’d learned. He could always return in a few months, when the book was done.
“I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.”
The Right Hand’s eyes flashed with pleasure. “You won’t disappoint me,” he said. “I’m certain of that.”
Nouri wished that he could be as sure as The Right Hand of his success. But the most he could do was wait until he gave him leave to depart, and then race to his room and get to work.
Eleven
When Nouri told Ibn Arwani that he would be taking a hiatus from his practice, the Sufi master shrugged. “There is no break from practice,” he said. “One is either with God or one is not.”
Nouri wanted to explain that it was only a temporary measure, but he knew there was no point in trying to defend his position. So he thanked Ibn Arwani for his help and headed back to the palace.
As he made his way along, he tried to consider what lay ahead. To compose a few lines of verse for The Right Hand’s tea was one thing. To fill an entire book to be read by the Sultan was another. So he searched the streets for the telling image that might inspire a new poem. The man with the sunken eyes carrying the pig to slaughter. The girl lifting her skirt as she stepped through the mud. The light slicing down between the rooftops. The squashed banana. The broken jug. He knew he would need to go further, and deeper, than he’d gone before. Only perfect dedication would allow him to pull it off.
So the veil fell again, and this time with a thud. Nouri was released from his duties as a tea boy. He was supplied with a thick stack of paper and endless pots of black ink. And he was expected to write. From the first strangled cry of the cock to the evening’s last guttering candle, he’d conjure up images and weave what he saw into words. He tried to extract meaning from each bud. Each breeze. He tried to experience the simplest object with a sense of wonder.
The Right Hand was pleased by Nouri’s devotion to his task. He gave the boy new clothes and had trays of food brought to him while he worked. After weeks of constant writing, however, it was clear that the youth needed a break. So one morning, The Right Hand went to the Court of the Speckled Dove and invited Nouri to go riding with him in the mountains.
“It will do you good! Bring some fresh air into those scholarly lungs!”
Nouri knew better than to refuse The Right Hand. But in truth he quite liked the idea of riding into the mountains. He felt sure that the adventure would yield a poem, or even a few. So he put aside his paper and pen and he and The Right Hand set off.
It was a brisk day, so they hardly broke a sweat as their horses climbed the mountain path. The Right Hand did not say a word, yet Nouri could feel the pleasure he took from the ride. Nouri took pleasure from the silence, which seemed to grow deeper as they went higher, and which soothed his beleaguered ears. Only when they reached a plateau did The Right Hand slow to a halt and speak.
“Magnificent!” he whispered. Then he turned to Nouri. “Don’t you think?”
Nouri looked out at the snow-capped peaks that rose in the distance. “Magnificent,” he repeated.
“They say that on a perfectly clear day you can see the four corners of the realm.”
Nouri knew that this was impossible, but he did not say so. Instead, he tried to press the beauty and grandeur of the landscape into his heart.
“I was thinking that you might enjoy a new room,” said The Right Hand. “Something with a more inspiring view.”
“I like my room,” said Nouri.
“Well, what about a girl, then? Tell me what you like! Large-breasted? Slender? A nice firm ass? I can have whatever you wish sent directly to your room!”
“No, thank you.”
The Right Hand threw back his head and laughed. “It’s a strange lad who’d refuse such an offer! When I was your age I was on fire! I couldn’t wait to find a place to shove my prick!” He was silent a moment. Then he turned to Nouri. “Are you a virgin?”
Nouri said nothing.
“Well, the sooner you let the serpent strike, the better! Otherwise your balls will become inflamed! And you may have trouble pissing!”
Nouri could feel his blood rise at The Right Hand’s words. He awoke every morning with “the serpent” stiff and throbbing against his belly. Sometimes it even exploded while he slept, leaving his bed a sticky mess. He knew, however, that he did not wish to lie with a girl. So he thanked The Right Hand for his advice and they said no more.
The weeks sped by and Nouri gave no thought to either his studies or the spiritual labor he’d turned his back on. It was as if an invisible wall had been erected around Ibn Arwani’s dwelling, a fog of forgetting more impenetrable than the battlements of the palace. Only now and then did the sound of the santur or the setting sun evoke the flashes of grace he’d experienced with the Sufi master. Then a feeling of uneasiness came over him. His room seemed too grand, his clothes too ornate, the cakes too sweet upon his tongue. The feeling only lasted a moment, however. Then he’d reach for the quill and return to the refuge of words.
* * *
WHILE NOURI WORKED ON—the verse pouring like clarified honey from his pen—the artisans began to prepare the book for presentation to the Sultan. Each poem, when it was done, was given to the court calligrapher, who painstakingly copied it into the leather-bound book. Then the court illuminator would embellish the words with tiny scallops and arabesques, enclosing the title in a cloud band of shimmering gold. Each step in the process took hours to complete, not to mention the time required to make the title page, which was care
fully inked in saffron and moonstone, and the borders, which were lovingly decorated with lapis lazuli, cinnabar, and jet.
For the most part, Nouri was oblivious to these efforts. Yet he found that—when he wasn’t writing or riding or sitting on a satin cushion at The Right Hand’s feet—he could not stop thinking about how the Sultan would react to his verse. He’d never had any real contact with the man. He’d only seen him sweep by, surrounded by bodyguards, his robes flowing like freshly poured cream from his massive body, his turban gleaming like snow atop his regal head. He envisioned himself being summoned to his chambers and told how deeply his words had touched his soul.
“Such imagery!” the Sultan would say. “Such feeling! You possess a remarkable gift!”
Nouri would blush at this praise, half-forgetting that he’d imagined the entire thing in his head. Yet he could not help feeling that his whole life was about to change.
Despite the sweet tenor of the time, now and then Nouri would dream of the ferocious creature he’d dreamed of on the morning of his seventh birthday. It always appeared out of nowhere—its eyes gleaming—its teeth bared—and followed hot on his heels. Nouri always awoke in an icy sweat before it managed to reach him. But he was aware that with each successive dream it was getting closer.
One morning, as Nouri sat writing in his room, The Right Hand paid him a visit.
“I’ve asked the court painter to paint your portrait,” he said. “On the final page of the book!”
Nouri worried that he was going too far, yet he could not find the strength to refuse. “It will be an honor.”
“I’ve arranged for him to meet you this afternoon in the Court of the Speckled Dove. He’ll be waiting for you after the midday meal.”
So that afternoon Nouri put on his new clothes, wrapped his head garment around his head with extra care, and went out to his favorite spot to have his image laid down.
When he reached the courtyard, he found the court painter—a large fellow with a bulbous nose and a wild black beard—preparing his easel. A small boy was seated behind him, his head on his knees, fast asleep.
A Poet of the Invisible World Page 10