A Poet of the Invisible World

by Michael Golding

  No one—either in or outside the household—knew that Nouri was a Sufi. But Nouri knew. Each morning, before he awoke the children, he would sit in his room and affirm his connection to God. Each afternoon, when he’d finished sweeping, he would sit in the garden. And listen. And look. What he was forging inside of himself had no texture, no sound, no scent. But it was real, and it was growing stronger each day.

  From time to time, Nouri thought about his ears. They’d marked him as different from his very first breath, but after a lifetime of keeping them concealed, he could only wonder that they’d seemed so important. He still didn’t know if they were a quirk of nature or a sign of his spiritual calling. But he knew that without them his life wouldn’t have been his life. And since he could not wish away his life—not one moment of it—he could not wish away his ears.

  The children grew from eight and six to twelve and ten to sixteen and fourteen. Nouri cared for them and swept the house and communed with God. At times—despite the fact that he was now more than fifty—the old questions would reappear:

  Who am I?

  Why am I here?

  Which of the Nouris is really me?

  He knew by now that he was not the Nouri who studied or the Nouri who suffered or the Nouri who prayed. Those were the chalice. The vessel. The shell. The only Nouri that came close to who he really was was the Nouri who loved. That was who would remain when all the other Nouris were gone.

  One day, while he was sitting in the garden, he heard a voice:

  “The children are old enough to care for themselves now. It’s time to go.”

  When he turned, he saw his old friend Soledad standing at the entrance to the garden, her hair tied back in a slender braid, her dark eyes shining. He wanted to go to her and enfold her in his arms. But he knew that she was not really there. The following morning, however, he placed a few things in a satchel, left the house, and headed out to the ruined room in the clearing on the outskirts of town where he’d lain, beneath the stars, beside Vishpar, a lifetime before.

  When he reached the clearing, he paused for a moment and gazed at the forgotten structure. The crumbling walls were overgrown with weeds, the stone floor had been worn away to reveal patches of dark earth, and the small piece of roof that had framed the night sky that had spat stars over him and his friend seemed to have blown away. He did not know what awaited him in the little room. A flash of lightning? A final struggle? But he knew that, whatever it was, he had to face it alone.

  He crossed the clearing and climbed over the wall. He found a place where the floor was still intact and settled himself in. Then he opened the satchel and—one by one—lowered the items he’d brought with him to the stones.

  A bowl to catch rainwater.

  A blanket.

  A knife.

  His tattered copy of the Qur’an.

  And a sack that held a small stack of paper, a pot of ink, and a pen.

  For though he knew by now that words could never enter the invisible world, they could carry him to the threshold. And despite what he’d been through, he still felt the need to praise.

  Twenty-Nine

  Nima could never resist a dare, and no one knew that better than Azad. Whatever challenge Azad, who was twelve, posed to Nima, who was only ten, Azad knew that the boy would embrace it with gusto. Climbing to the top of the Darni Sunim. Stealing eggs from Hasam al-Farid’s hens. Jumping into the River Tolna in the middle of winter. Nima would do anything to win Azad’s favor. For although Azad was small and possessed of a lateral lisp, he had the combative confidence of a bulldog. With his approval, the other boys moved more freely through the streets, and slept more soundly at night.

  It was therefore without hesitation that Nima agreed to head out to the abandoned room by the river and bring something back to prove that he’d faced the spectral figure that dwelled there. Some said he was the ghost of the man who had built the tiny structure. Others said he was a djinn. Still others said he was a wandering saint who’d grown tired of wandering. They only knew that he’d been there as long as anyone could remember. And that if someone called out to him, he’d just sit there—eyes open—hands resting gently in his lap—as if nothing had been said.

  Nima didn’t know which of these theories was true. But he knew that if the fellow was a djinn, he was not likely to respond kindly to a visit from a thieving boy. So while he had every intention of meeting Azad’s dare, he did not approach it without trepidation.

  The night before he was scheduled to set out, he lay flat on his back, taut with excitement, until the first glimmer of light traced the sky. Then he bolted up, pulled on a pair of trousers, and headed out into the morning mist. As he made his way along, he tried to press back the thoughts that crowded in of what might happen when he got there. Perhaps the fellow was mad and as Nima drew near he would grab him and slit his throat. Perhaps he really was a djinn and would transform him into a toad. It occurred to Nima that he did not have to go at all. He could easily find a cup or a jug and tell Azad that he’d taken it from right beneath the fellow’s eyes. Azad would never know he’d been too frightened to see the challenge through.

  But Nima would know. So he wiped the remaining sleep from his eyes and continued on toward the clearing.

  Nima was going to be a great man when he grew up. He was not sure if he would become a caliph or a magistrate or a judge. Or perhaps even a sorcerer. But he knew there were important things for a man to know, and he was determined to find them out.

  By the time he reached the edge of the clearing, the mist had dissolved. So he slowly made his way toward the roofless room, where he found an old man wearing an odd-looking head cloth seated cross-legged on a blanket. To his left sat a bowl and the remains of a small fire. To his right stood a pot of ink, a quill pen, and a sheet of paper folded over into a square. The old man’s eyes were open wide, yet he did not seem to notice Nima as he approached. So the boy scrambled over the wall to see what he might carry away.

  It was only when he was standing right beside it that he saw the snake. It was a dull brown covered with pale zigzag stripes that seemed to flash through its supple body as it slithered across the stones. And he knew—from the countless lectures he’d been given by Azad—that it was not only a viper, but the deadliest kind.

  Nima was well past the clearing and deep into the woods before it even occurred to him that he might have called out to the old man before dashing away. Yet he sensed that—even if the fellow had a hundred ears—he would not have heard him. So he continued running until he reached the safety of his home.

  Nima spent the rest of the day hiding from Azad. And that night, just as the night before, he barely slept. He kept seeing the snake sink its fangs into the old man. He kept seeing the old man writhe in pain. But he also kept seeing Azad’s face when he went to him empty-handed. So when dawn came, he summoned his courage and headed back to the room.

  As he approached the clearing, he pictured the old man lying lifeless on the stones, his skin a ghastly greenish black. When he reached the room and climbed over the wall, however, he found that it was empty. Only the handful of objects strewn about gave any sign that the man had ever been there.

  As Nima scanned the room trying to decide what to take back to Azad, his eyes fell upon the inkpot. The pen was also nice: a perfect goose feather, dappled with gray. When he turned to the bowl, however—to his surprise—he saw the viper curled up inside. And since he did not know whether it was sleeping or dead, he thought it best not to go near it.

  He turned back toward the clearing. There was no one watching him, yet he felt he was being watched. Then—just as he was about to give up—he saw the small square of paper lying at his feet.

  Perhaps the old man had written a message upon it.

  A secret.

  A spell.

  Perhaps when Nima read the words they would change his life.

  He knelt down and reached for the piece of paper. A shiver ran through him. Then he slipped
the folded page into the waistband of his trousers and hurried off to find his friend.

  Thirty

  The light filtered in through the trees, casting scalloped patterns on the grass, as Azad stared at the sheet of paper he’d just unfolded.

  “You don’t even have the guts,” he snarled, “to take a dare!”

  He shook his head a few times. Then he balled up the paper, threw it onto the ground, and walked away.

  Nima’s heart thundered loudly in his chest. He could not imagine what the old man had written that could have angered Azad so. So he went to retrieve the crumpled page to find out.

  He crouched down and raised it from the dirt, and as he pulled back its edges his mind flashed with images. Fierce constellations in a cobalt sky. Splashes of wine on a tufted divan. A boat crossing a slender sea. A ribbon of smoke curling up from a dying fire. When he smoothed out the paper to read it, however, he found, to his surprise, that it said:

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  He folded up the page and slipped it back into his trousers. Then—filled with an excitement he could not really explain—he ran off through the clearing toward home.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  One can never acknowledge all the exchanges and encounters that find their way into the rich loam from which a novel grows. I’m grateful for all who shared their experience and understanding of the spiritual path.

  Among the many books that aided me, I’m especially thankful for A Sufi Rule for Novices, translated and edited by Menahem Milson; The Adventures of Ibn Battuta by Ross E. Dunn; A Dervish Textbook, from the ‘Awarfu-i-Ma’arif of Sheikh Shahabuddin Suhrawardi, translated by Lieutenant Colonel H. Wilberforce Clarke; Essential Sufism, edited by James Fadiman and Robert Frager; Daily Life in the Medieval Islamic World by James E. Lindsey; Divine Governance of the Human Kingdom by Ibn ‘Arabi, translated by al-Jerrahi al-Halveti; The Sufis by Idries Shah; Islam by Karen Armstrong; Sufis of Andalusia by lbn ‘Arabi; and Islamic Art and Spirituality by Seyyed Hossein Nasr. Most of all, a deep bow to the great Sufi poets, whose beautiful light still dazzles.

  I cannot imagine a more wonderful editor than Will Schwalbe. His passion for the book, from the first reading through the various stages of publication, and his warm friendship have been a blessing. Likewise, I could not have had a better team than the one at Picador: my publisher, Stephen Morrison, who is smart and kind and elegant; Emily Mahon and Henry Sene Yee, whose cover design is magical; Kolt Beringer, Emily Walters, and Kim Lewis, who went over the manuscript with a fine-tooth comb; Shannon Donnelly, James Meader, and Darin Keesler, who put their hearts into the marketing; Cassie Mandel and Isabella Alimonti for their media wizardry; and Bryn Clark and Kara Rota, whose intelligence and grace helped make the process a joy.

  Every writer should be so lucky to have an agent like Gail Hochman; her huge heart and lightning mind are fantastic allies. Thanks also to Marianne Merola, Jody Klein, Lina Granada, Jody Kahn, and all the other folks at Brandt and Hochman.

  For inspiration, courage, and love, I thank my son, Joshua. For a lifetime of unconditional love, I thank my mother. For her warm support, I thank my sister. For lessons in how to bring humor to life’s struggles, I thank my father and my stepfather, both of whom are deeply missed.

  To the many friends who have sustained me over the years, who have shared their stories and listened to mine, who have comforted me, taught me, and helped me to keep on, I’m forever indebted. A special thanks to Jean Taylor, Thomas Fenn, Jo Anna Mortensen, Mari Reeves, Elizabeth Blake, Jeanne Chapman, Brigid Moran, Daniel Labensohn, and Gwendolyn Marks for being the first to read, and for offering their loving encouragement.

  There are no words to thank my teacher, Robert Burton, for he has taught me how to go beyond words. His love and unwavering insistence on what is true have changed my life.

  FOOD GLOSSARY

  aash-e aloo: a rich soup made with walnuts, spinach, peas, beans, and lentils

  baghali polo: rice mixed with lamb, dill, and fava beans

  baslogh: a pastry made of wheat flour and roasted walnuts

  bureg: pastry triangles filled with cheese

  ceviche: raw fish cured in citrus juice

  dolmeh seeb zamini: potatoes filled with ground meat, rice, and herbs

  ghee: clarified butter

  kashk: a fermented dairy product made from yogurt

  kefir: a fermented milk drink

  khabisa: a sweet made of walnuts, honey, and starch

  khoofteh berenji: large balls of rice, ground meat, onions, walnuts, and herbs

  khoresht annar-aveej: a stew made of chicken, walnuts, pomegranate juice, and garlic

  khoresht baadenjaan: a stew made with meat, eggplant, onions, and lime juice

  maast-o khiar: yogurt mixed with cucumbers and mint

  mirza ghasemi: roasted eggplant in a tomato and garlic sauce, with egg

  naan-e barbari: a furrowed, oval-shaped flatbread

  naan-e sangak: a large flatbread sprinkled with sesame seeds

  naan-e taftoon: a round, leavened bread sprinkled with poppy seeds

  panir: a cheese made by curdling heated milk with lemon juice

  ranginak: a sweet made of dried wheat flour, dates, walnuts, pistachios, cinnamon, and cardamom

  shaami: ground meat mixed with eggs, bread crumbs, milk, and tomatoes

  sharbat-e limoo: a drink made with fresh lime juice, honey, and water

  tagine: a stew cooked in an earthenware dish

  yakh dar behesht: a sweet made with rice flour, rosewater, pistachios, and milk

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MICHAEL GOLDING’s first novel, Simple Prayers, was published in 1994 and has been translated into nine foreign languages. Benjamin’s Gift, his second novel, was published in 1999. He is also a screenwriter, whose works include the adaptation of Alessandro Baricco’s Silk. He lives in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas in Northern California. You can sign up for email updates here.

  ALSO BY MICHAEL GOLDING

  Simple Prayers

  Benjamin’s Gift

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part 2

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part 3

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part 4

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part 5

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part 6

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  Food Glossary

  About the Author

  Also by Michael Golding

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A POET OF THE INVISIBLE WORLD. Copyright © 2015 by Michael Golding. All rights reserved. For informa
tion, address Picador, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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  Cover design by Emily Mahon

  Cover art by Colorjuli/Shutterstock

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-07128-6 (trade paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-250-07130-9 (e-book)

  e-ISBN 9781250071309

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  First Edition: October 2015