It wasn’t until they’d been lovers for several weeks that Ryka learned what was hidden beneath Nouri’s head cloth. He’d not questioned the fact that his head always remained covered, even as they lay in each other’s arms. He assumed it was a sign of his respect for Allah and left it at that. One night, however, as they were lying together, Nouri suddenly pulled away.
“What is it?” said Ryka.
Nouri looked deep into the youth’s eyes. Then he rolled over onto his back.
“Is something wrong?”
Nouri was silent, his body taut, his breath rising and falling in waves. Then he rose up onto his side and, with an aching slowness, began to unwind his head garment. He remained perfectly still as the strip of pale cloth fell away—like the ashes from a coil of incense—until at last the final layer was removed and his secret was revealed.
For a long while, Ryka neither spoke nor moved. Then he took Nouri’s head in his hands and gently kissed each of his ears.
“Allah the Incomparable,” Ryka whispered.
Nouri pressed back the tears that flooded his eyes. Then he and Ryka dissolved in each other’s arms.
* * *
DESPITE THE CONSTANT CARE that Nouri and Ryka took to keep their lovemaking a secret, Sharoud had no doubt that they’d crossed that invisible line. He could hear Nouri slip from his cell and creep down the hallway in the middle of the night. He could smell their scent on each other during the day. Before he could bring the matter back to Sheikh al-Khammas, however, he needed absolute proof. So one night, after Nouri had gone to Ryka’s cell, Sharoud tiptoed down the hall, pressed his ear to Ryka’s door, and waited for the two men to perform their sacrilege to God.
Sex had been repugnant to Sharoud from the first moment that it had entered his awareness. When he was three, he crept into his parents’ bedroom one night while they were making love and from the sight of his father’s body over his mother’s, and the sound of her cries, he could only conclude that he was taking her life. When he awoke the next morning to find her calmly tending the hearth, he was convinced that black magic had occurred, and he could never look at either one of them the same way again. When adolescence arrived, he was so dismayed by the insistence of his erections that he rubbed turmeric on his penis, which—though it burned like hellfire—made it go limp. He repeated the procedure until the poor thing became docile, in which state it remained throughout his time at the order in Tan-Arzhan. Only when he was alone in the desert did it rear again: one morning, a pack of nomads stopped at the oasis to water their camels and while the men rested, the women disrobed and waded into the water to bathe. When Sharoud—who’d taken cover behind a cluster of date palms—saw their soft hanging breasts and their voluptuous buttocks, his forgotten organ sprang to attention like a serving boy at the appearance of the Sultan. He was so transported by the sight of them splashing the cool water on their bodies, he could not keep from taking himself in hand. And though he was convinced that the dazzling pleasure he felt was the elixir of the devil, he could not make himself stop. When he reached his climax and found himself covered in a sea of slime, he was so horrified he took a vow that it would never happen again. And from that day on, there was not a flicker from beneath his robes.
Now, as he listened to the sounds that came from Nouri and Ryka, not only was he repulsed; he was enraged. And when he summoned the courage to crack the door and peer through the inky shadows, he knew that such perversity could not be allowed beneath the roof of a spiritual dwelling. So he closed the door and went to the chapel and bowed his gaunt body in prayer. Then, when morning came, he paid another visit to Sheikh al-Khammas.
When he reached the cell, he rapped loudly on the door. But no answer came. So he pushed it open and went to the narrow bed where the Sufi master lay. The room was so dark it was hard to discern where the bed linens ended and Sheikh al-Khammas began. But his eyes were wide open, and they gave Sharoud the signal to speak.
“Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said.
“If one is truly inclined toward Allah, one has already been forgiven,” said Sheikh al-Khammas.
“And what if I told you I’d seen something that goes beyond forgiveness?”
“Then I’d counsel you to cleanse your eyes.”
Sharoud hesitated. He knew that he had to be careful. But he felt sure that if Sheikh al-Khammas had seen the foulness he’d seen, he’d condemn it with all his heart. “I know he’s dear to you,” he said. “Like a son. But what he and the boy are doing cannot be condoned.”
Sheikh al-Khammas remained silent for a while. Then he parted his withered lips and spoke. “I cannot leave this world while there is discord among you. You must stop this, Sharoud. Or you must go.”
Sharoud was incensed. But he knew that there was no more to say. “I won’t speak of it again. I assure you.”
He bowed his head. Then he rose from the stool and left the room.
As he made his way back to his cell, Sharoud vowed that he would not speak of Nouri and Ryka again to Sheikh al-Khammas. But there were other ways to destroy them. And with Allah on his side, he knew that he couldn’t fail.
* * *
THIS TIME ABBAS AL-KUMAR wanted fenugreek.
“Nothing stimulates the liver better than fenugreek,” he announced one day over the morning meal. “I’ll put some in Sheikh al-Khammas’s khoofteh berenji. He’ll live forever!”
He knew that there was sure to be some at the bazaar, so once again he asked Nouri to travel down the mountain to fetch it.
“Try Aftab Hamiwallah’s stall,” he said. “Or if you want the best price, Rashid al-Hamid’s.”
Nouri was reluctant to leave Sheikh al-Khammas’s side. But if it meant prolonging the Sufi master’s life, he would have traveled to Cairo to pluck a hair from the head of the vizier. “I’ll set out after zikr.”
Abbas al-Kumar nodded and the matter was settled. As they rose from the table, however, Ryka asked Nouri to let him go in his place.
“I haven’t left the mountain in months,” he said. “And it would be a gift to be able to help Sheikh al-Khammas.”
Nouri was afraid that the trip would be too hard for his friend’s fragile heart. But Ryka was now nearly twenty, and he understood his wish to serve. “We’ll go together.”
“No,” said Ryka. “You should stay here.” He reached out and placed a hand on Nouri’s shoulder. “I haven’t had a spell in weeks. I can do this alone.”
Nouri was not convinced. But he did not wish to undermine the youth’s confidence, so he agreed. “Just promise me you’ll take your time. And that you’ll stop and rest if you need to.”
“I promise.”
So Abbas al-Kumar gave Ryka the money to buy the fenugreek and he set off.
As he started down the mountain, he felt as weightless as a gooseberry husk. The air was fragrant and the sight of the fields in the distance filled him with joy. As he approached the village, he spied the colored awnings and heard the plaintive cries of the bazaar. And before he knew it, he was swept up in the sea of goods. There were tooled leather saddles and beakers of blown glass; there were carpets and caftans; there were reed pipes and inkpots; there was jackfruit and passion fruit and carob fruit and kepel fruit and quince. Ryka wanted to stop at each stall and examine its wares. But he knew that Abbas al-Kumar was in need of the fenugreek for Sheikh al-Khammas. So he continued on until he found an inconspicuous stall that sold the leafy herb.
He was just placing his purchase in his sack when he heard a voice.
“I suggest that you get some rose of Jericho as well.”
He turned and, to his surprise, he found Sharoud standing behind him.
“Fenugreek is good,” he continued. “But rose of Jericho will help to purify his blood.”
“I’m afraid I’ve spent all the money Abbas al-Kumar gave me on the fenugreek,” said Ryka.
Sharoud peered into his eyes and then smiled.
“Allow me.”
He reached into the pocket of his
robe, drew out a coin, and purchased some of the bitter herb. Then he handed it to Ryka.
“We wish to keep our master alive, don’t we?”
“Of course.”
Ryka lowered the rose of Jericho into his sack.
“There’s a merchant that makes a nice apple tea,” said Sharoud. “Will you join me for a glass?”
“It’s kind of you to offer,” said Ryka. “But I ought to get back.”
“As you wish. Just remember that it’s an arduous climb.”
At Sharoud’s words, Ryka thought of how strenuous the journey up the mountain would be, and of the promise he’d made to Nouri that he would take time to rest. “On the other hand,” he said, “it would be good to take some refreshment before I start back.”
Sharoud smiled again. “It will do you good.”
Sharoud led Ryka past the silk sellers and the cheese sellers and the men discussing the Hadith to a small tent where a man with an extravagant mustache sat beside a steaming kettle perched over an open fire.
“Some apple tea,” said Sharoud. His eyes scanned the pastries that lined a table beside the fire. “And a pair of baslogh.”
The man combed his fingers through his lavish mustache. Then he went to one of the sacks that were propped up along the wall, scooped out some pieces of dried fruit, and placed them in a teapot. He carried the teapot to where the kettle sat, filled it with hot water, placed it and a pair of etched glasses on a wooden tray, and laid a pair of warm pastries beside them. Then he handed the tray to Sharoud and returned to the fire.
“Come,” said Sharoud. He led Ryka to a table and a pair of chairs that were perched outside the entrance, lowered the tray to the table, and they sat.
Ryka waited for the tea to steep and for the dervish beside him to speak. In all the time he’d lived at the mountain lodge, he’d barely spoken with Sharoud. He made Ryka nervous, with his beady eyes and his imperious manner. Regardless of how enticing the baslogh looked, he wished that he’d headed straight back to the lodge.
“You seem to be adapting to the order,” said Sharoud. “It’s not a path to which many can adhere.”
“I thank Allah for giving me the courage to search for Him.”
Sharoud poured the tea into one of the glasses. “And may He give you the strength to find Him.” He handed one of the glasses to Ryka. “The pastries are rather sweet. But even a Sufi must give over to the senses now and then. Don’t you agree?”
Ryka—who entirely missed the insinuation in Sharoud’s comment—reached for one of the pastries and took a bite. It was quite delicious. For a few moments, the two men were silent. Eating the baslogh. Sipping the tea. Then Sharoud lowered his glass to the table and spoke.
“You and Nouri have become quite close.”
Ryka nodded. “He shows me the way to God.”
“Perhaps.” Sharoud paused. “Or perhaps he obstructs it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re young. It’s natural that you would place your faith in someone who’s older.” Sharoud took a sip of his tea. Then he gazed into Ryka’s eyes. “But what you’re doing is unnatural. And deeply offensive to God.”
Ryka said nothing, but Sharoud knew that his words had pierced him.
“You need look no further than the Qur’an for confirmation. ‘Will you commit abomination before the Lord? Will you lust after men instead of women?’”
Ryka felt the ground give way beneath his chair, the pastry turn to granite in his stomach.
“Take heed,” said Sharoud. “Allah sees into the darkest corners. There is nowhere to hide.”
He took one last sip of his tea. Then he headed off into the crowd, leaving Ryka alone.
For a long while Ryka just sat there, unaware of the tea growing cold or the bodies moving past him or the man sitting distracted by the fire. It had never crossed his mind that what went on between himself and Nouri in the deep hours of the night might be wrong. It was so full of joy—so consistent in its power to move him beyond the boundaries of his existence—he could only think of it as a blessing. Now it was as if a veil had been lifted and what had seemed good was suddenly evil. And though he could not name the feeling that coursed through him as shame, he knew that his connection to Nouri would never be the same.
Twenty-Four
The fenugreek did nothing. Neither did the rose of Jericho, the parsley, the turmeric, the coriander, the gray verbena, the basil, the marjoram, or any of the other herbs Abbas al-Kumar added to Sheikh al-Khammas’s food to reinvigorate his blood. Day after day he lay in the darkness—his eyes open—his body inert—until it seemed as if he’d go on in that state, perched between life and death, until the end of time. He ate the simple food Nouri brought him. He murmured the Shahaadah. He glowed as if he’d swallowed the sun. One day, however, he stopped speaking and then a few days later he stopped eating. And that was when Nouri knew that the end was near.
From then on, Nouri remained at his teacher’s side: eating the meals Abbas al-Kumar carried in, responding to the call to prayer with a fervent whisper, sleeping when he could no longer resist. He found it hard to believe that a heart so great could actually stop beating. That a man so profound could ever draw his last breath. But Nouri kept his hand on the Sufi master’s chest, determined to feel that final moment when his spirit broke free.
Later—when he tried to reconstruct the exact order in which things had occurred—he could not remember whether the cat had shrieked before or after the shutters had crashed open or whether the mirror had shattered before or after the taper had gone out. He only knew that when he heard the sound he drew his hand from Sheikh al-Khammas’s heart, and when he placed it back, the shrunken body was still.
Death had finally come.
And Sheikh al-Khammas was gone.
* * *
WHEN NOURI ANNOUNCED that Sheikh al-Khammas had died, the brothers were grief-stricken. The Sufi master had been their compass, and they could not picture life in the mountain lodge without him. They knew, however, that there were strict rules regarding the mourning of the dead, and sacred rites they had to perform. So they reminded themselves that their beloved murshid was now with God, and then set to work.
The first thing that needed to be done was to carry the body to the meeting hall for cleansing. And since Ryka was too frail and Abbas al-Kumar and Omar al-Hamid were too old, the task fell to Nouri and Sharoud. As they raised the lifeless body from the bed, they did not exchange a glance or utter a single word. They simply carried it from the cell, down the stairs, and into the hall where the others were waiting. They laid the body on a table that Omar al-Hamid had placed at the center of the room. Then Abbas al-Kumar removed the clothes, drew a rag from a bucket of perfumed water, and began washing it from head to toe.
When the cleansing had been performed three times, Omar al-Hamid began the shrouding. The Sufi master’s turban was used and—just like the washing—the shrouding was done three times. Then the brothers chanted the Salaat-ul Janaazah, and the body was carried to the garden, where a simple grave had been dug beside the shimmering pool where the Sufi master had loved to sit.
They placed the shrouded corpse in the grave and covered it over with soil. Then Nouri knelt down and lowered his forehead to the ground. He remained there for a very long while, bidding farewell to his beloved friend. And when he rose to his feet, it was clear that the mantle had been passed.
Over the following days, a hush fell over the lodge. For despite the fact that Sheikh al-Khammas had been bedridden for months—barely moving—barely speaking—his death was like the arrival of winter on a bright summer day. The brothers went on as before: taking their meals, chanting their prayers, practicing zikr. But the future of the order was unclear, and no one knew this better than Nouri.
To complicate matters, Ryka became ill. For from the moment Sharoud dropped the doubts into his apple tea, his fragile heart began to falter. Before he even left the bazaar, he suffered one of his spells, which c
aused him to knock over a stand of melons. He took the climb up the mountain so slowly the sky was dark when he arrived. And though Nouri pressed him to explain what had happened, he would not say a word. That night, when Nouri came to his cell, Ryka said that he was too tired to be intimate. And the following morning—when Nouri began his vigil at Sheikh al-Khammas’s side—Ryka vowed that they would never make love again.
It was clear to him now. It was wrong. And what was even more clear was that the fault lay with him. He must have been sent to Nouri as a test of strength. To see if his friend could move beyond the yearnings of the flesh. So he decided that he would use his unorthodox heart to remove the temptation.
At first the illness was feigned. He’d been through it so many times it was easy to fake the dizziness, the shortness of breath, the frenzied fluttering in his chest. As the days passed, however, the false manifestations began to give way to the real ones. His guilt over his impassioned nights sapped his blood. And the loss of those nights caused a sorrow that he could hardly bear. With each day he grew weaker, until it was clear that something had to be done.
Nouri instructed Abbas al-Kumar to prepare Ryka ginger-and-honey tonics and strong cups of hawthorn tea. When these had no effect, he called in the doctors. But after endless examination and much shaking of heads, they explained what Nouri already knew: Ryka’s heart was not like other hearts, and its fate was uncertain. So once he’d finished his vigil beside Sheikh al-Khammas, Nouri devoted himself to tending to Ryka.
When Sheikh al-Khammas died and Nouri took over the order, Sharoud did his best to remain silent. When the doctors appeared at the gates of the mountain lodge to see Ryka, he escorted them to his cell. But when Nouri began spending his days at Ryka’s side, Sharoud could no longer hold his tongue. So one morning, as Nouri was taking a bowl of maast-o khiar to the youth, he intercepted him on the stairs.
“I need to speak with you.”
“Can it wait?”
Sharoud frowned. “I’m afraid not.”
Nouri had not slept well in weeks, and the last thing he wanted was to struggle with Brother Shadow. But he knew better than to stir up Sharoud’s wrath, so he acquiesced.
A Poet of the Invisible World Page 21