by Tariq Ali
“He asked me to ride after Salah al-Din, but without any trace of panic. My instructions were to follow him, to observe where he went, but to keep a careful distance. In other words I was to be a spy. Naturally, I did as I was asked.
“It was not difficult to pick up his trail. Just outside the Bab al-Djabiya, as you will see when the Sultan takes you with him, there is a very large maidan, bisected by a river. When you stand on the ramparts of the citadel, the light of the setting sun can play strange tricks with your eyes. The maidan becomes a giant green carpet made from the finest silks. It was here that Salah al-Din and his brothers played chogan. It was here that they raced horses and learnt to wield the sword and the bow and arrow. The river is surrounded by a large grove of poplar trees.
“In the distance I could see him galloping ahead, his head uncovered and without any protection. I saw him rein in his horse and dismount. I did the same and tied my horse to a tree. Then I walked towards the boy, making sure he did not see me. Soon I had found a suitable position behind some bushes, and there I could observe him quite clearly without being seen in return. You’re getting impatient with this old fool, Ibn Yakub, but I’m almost there.
“Salah al-Din had taken off his clothes and jumped into the river. He was swimming first with the flow and then against it. I laughed to myself. What a strange boy. Why had he not told us that all he wanted was a swim? Some guards would have come and kept watch till he had finished. End of story.
“I was about to walk to the bank and hail him, when suddenly I saw a woman who must also have been watching him walk towards where he had left his clothes. She picked them up and folded them. Then she sat and waited for him to finish. He swam to the shore and said something to her. I couldn’t hear the words since, on glimpsing the woman, I had once again taken my distance. She was laughing and shaking her head. He was insisting. Suddenly she jumped up, discarded her clothes and jumped in with him.
“She was a mature woman, Ibn Yakub, at least twice the age of the boy. The rest you can imagine. When they had finished their swim, they dried themselves in the sun, and then that sorceress mounted our boy and taught him what it was like to be a man. Allah be praised, Ibn Yakub, but they were shameless. There underneath the clear blue sky, under the gaze of Allah in his heaven, they were behaving like animals.
“I waited patiently, making a mental note of everything as I had been ordered to do by the master. She left first. She just seemed to disappear. He lay there for a few moments and then dressed himself. At this stage, as you can imagine, I was tempted to declare my presence. This would have been my revenge for that episode in Baalbek, but I had my orders. I rode back to the city, not waiting for young Salah al-Din to regain his composure. Back at the house, I reassured his father that all was well.
“Ayyub, may he rest in peace, wanted to know everything. Happily, I was in a position to supply him with each and every detail. I have given you a very short version, O learned scribe, but at that time it was all fresh in my mind.
“Ayyub, to my great surprise, clapped his hands and exploded with laughter. Perhaps he was relieved that it was a wench, rather than one of his soldiers or a young mare! His severe face returned as he threatened me with a terrible fate if even a word of what had transpired ever found its way to Salah al-Din.
“It was difficult for me to remain silent. I had always felt close to the boy and, in different circumstances, this tongue of mine would have defied the instructions. But there was something in Ayyub’s tone that warned me against disregarding his injunction. Despite the strong temptation, I obeyed him.”
“You mean,” I asked, “that to this day the Sultan is unaware of what happened? Can this be possible?”
Shadhi grinned, and picked his nose.
“I waited for the right moment. I told him on his wedding night. He was in a cheerful mood, and he laughed, but I should have known him better. A month later, when I thought he had forgotten the whole business, he asked me for an explanation. His face was stern. I told him. He expressed surprise that neither of his parents had ever raised the matter with him. I shrugged my shoulders. That was hardly my responsibility.”
Seven
The Spring Festival in Cairo; an erotic shadow-play in the Turcoman quarter
WEEKS PASSED. IT WAS no longer winter, yet the spring had not yet begun. I had still received no word from Halima, and the intoxication was beginning to lose its effect. On Ibn Maymun’s advice, I had stopped tormenting my own heart by yearning for her. I had not seen him now for many days. At home, Rachel had recovered her good spirits. Our lives had adjusted to a new routine.
In the palace, the Sultan was busy with his most trusted family members, discussing his strategy for liberating al-Kuds. This was the only time I was denied entrance to his council chamber. The deliberations in which he was engaged were not intended for ordinary ears. These were truly confidential talks. An indiscretion or a thoughtless boast, the Sultan always used to say, could cost our side an entire army and set back our cause for decades. Yet it would be dishonest of me to pretend that I was not upset. I thought of myself as someone in the total trust of his ruler. The Sultan must have noticed this, for he tried to soothe my hurt pride.
“Ibn Yakub, what you are writing is known to me, the Kadi and three other people. If I were to permit you to attend our military council, everyone would know who you are and this would be dangerous. One of my brothers or nephews might think that you hold the secret to my succession. They might torture or kill you, and then forge documents claiming whatever they wish people to believe. Do you understand?”
I nodded and bowed my head, acknowledging the truth in the words he had spoken.
The Cairenes greeted the early morning mists of spring as they had done for hundreds of years. The city was taken over by its people. All were equal on that first day of spring. In the schools and colleges, the students either stayed away, in preparation for the late-afternoon festivities, or came and kidnapped their teachers, holding them prisoner till a ransom was paid. The money was spent on food and wine, freely distributed to the poor throughout the day.
I had avoided the streets for the last few years, in fact, ever since some revellers had thrown Rachel into a fountain, the better to see her breasts through her soaked clothes. Her objections had been mild compared to mine, but this year I was determined to spend the whole day in the company of the common people. Who would be the object of their humour this year? For the last three years they had targeted the Kadi al-Fadil, laughing at his poetry, mocking his pomposity, and cruelly mimicking his courtroom manners.
Ibn Maymun, who never missed a festival, admitted that the mock trial of a donkey, accused of pissing on a preacher, had made him laugh aloud. The student acting the part of the Kadi had heard the arguments, questioned the donkey and then pronounced his judgement. The donkey was to be publicly humiliated. His penis was to be sliced into five portions, arranged on a platter, and served to the preacher it had insulted. Furthermore the donkey was to be forced to bray in public, at least five times every day. When asked whether he accepted the verdict, the donkey emitted a loud fart.
“Their thoughts and actions are by no means lofty,” Ibn Maymun had told me on that occasion, “but only a deaf and blind person could deny that they are hugely popular.”
Rachel and I went to where the big procession was due to assemble. This year the youths were all wearing thin beards as they laughed and joked on the streets. Snake-charmers and jugglers were competing for attention with acrobats and contortionists and conjurors. There were spellbound children everywhere, their innocent laughter bringing a smile of joy to the face of even the most cynical adult.
We bought leopard masks and had barely managed to cover our faces when we were surrounded by other masked leopards of all sizes. We began to exchange greetings, when one of them suddenly extended his arms and began to feel Rachel’s breasts. She slapped the offending hands, and the masked offender ran away.
Who would be
elected the Emir of the Spring Festival? It was Rachel who first noticed the candidates for the “Emir”. A young man climbed a wall of shoulders and began to introduce the choices. As each one was paraded, the crowd made its preference clear. The transvestite attired as a dancing girl, with exaggerated make-up and water-melons masquerading as breasts, was declared the Emir by loud acclaim. He was led to the ceremonial mule, painted red, yellow and purple for the occasion, with green encircling its posterior.
The Emir of the festival, holding a fan in one hand, mounted the animal, and the whole crowd, including Rachel and myself, began to sing and dance. The Emir fanned himself in an exaggerated fashion, anticipating the summer to come. Four naked men, their private parts covered by a mi’zar, and their bodies smeared all over with a white fluid, suddenly emerged from the heart of the crowd. They were loudly cheered.
Two of them carried bits of ice and jugs of cold water and drenched the Emir. The other two rushed up and fed him a bowl of warm soup. They put a blanket round his shoulders to drive away the cold.
The ceremony over, the four naked men took their places in front of the ceremonial mule and began to fart, each attempting to better the performance of the one who preceded him. There was total silence as we strained our ears to capture the rough music of these gifted farters. Such musical farting was a much-appreciated accomplishment on these occasions, and the final crescendo, performed in unison, won much applause and laughter. Their performance proved strangely infectious, and those of less advanced years attempted to mimic the masters of the art for the rest of the afternoon. Mercifully their success was limited, and we did not have to pray to Allah to send us a breeze from heaven to cleanse the air.
At last the procession began to move. Its pace was slow, deliberately slow. It gave the participants time and opportunity to purchase and consume small flasks of wine from wayside vendors. We were winding our way to the large square outside the Sultan’s palace. Would he appear and greet the crowd? This was the first time he had been physically present in Cairo during the Festival.
In previous years the Kadi al-Fadil had made a token appearance, to be greeted by a display of a thousand phalluses. The Kadi had quickly retreated, and refused to address the common people. This year, with the Sultan in the city, the Kadi was taking no risks. He could not afford to let the Festival degenerate into an orgy. His inspectors had appeared on the streets the previous night, accompanied by the criers, shouting out a warning: all obscene displays would be severely punished. The response of the people was equally severe. A transvestite had been picked to be the Emir.
When we reached the square outside the palace, the noise had subsided. It was as if everyone simultaneously had felt the Sultan’s presence. He was seated on his horse, surrounded by his personal bodyguards. As our Emir approached, Salah al-Din rode forward to meet him. Words were exchanged between them, but only the transvestite heard them. A hundred different versions were circulating later that afternoon. The Sultan was seen to smile. Then he rode back into the palace.
The revelry would continue late into the night, but many of us, exhausted and hungry, began to make our way home as the sun began to set. Rachel and I had removed our masks. We were buying some wine to take home when a face I thought I recognised approached, bent over my ear and whispered.
“Ibn Yakub, if you want to see some real fun tonight, go to the Turcoman quarter, just behind al-Azhar. Don’t go to the Bab al-Zuweyla this year. The shadow-plays will be something unusual.”
Before I could reply, the man had disappeared. Why was his face so familiar? Where had I seen him before? My inability to place him began to irritate me. Then, while we were eating our evening meal, I remembered who he was, and the memory made me gasp. He was one of the eunuchs, Ilmas by name, who worked in the harem. I had seen him, on occasion, talking to Shadhi and whispering in the Sultan’s ear. He must be a spy sent to observe the shadow-players, and to report on each of their performances. He had spoken to me conspiratorially, but was his whispered message in reality an order from the Sultan? Usually the players performed just outside the Bab al-Zuweyla. Was the eunuch Ilmas trying to keep me away from something? I gave up and decided to follow his advice.
The festivities were approaching a natural climax as I walked back through the maze of lamplit streets to the Bab al-Zuweyla. Reassured by the fact that nothing unusual was taking place there, I walked on till I had reached the Turcoman quarter. The square was lit by lamps, and people were drinking and eating as they discussed the events of the day.
Salah al-Din, according to the gossips in this quarter, had complimented the “Emir” on his eye make-up, and asked whether he and his friends would come and celebrate the impending liberation of al-Kuds. At this critical point, our transvestite leader had evidently lost his tongue and simply nodded like a child in the presence of a magician.
The odour of hashish, not at all unpleasant, wafted by me at several points. At a distance I could see a large gauze cloth, behind which the shadows of the musicians and the actors could be seen preparing for the first of the evening’s performances.
The play began at midnight. It was the story of a beautiful girl, surprised with her lover by an angry husband. The anguished crowd sighed with sympathy as the lover was slain and the woman dragged away by her husband.
During the interval, the fate of the woman was the only subject of discussion. Angry debates shook the square. Should the husband have killed her as well? Why had he killed the lover when it was his wife’s fault in the first place? Why kill anyone? Love was sublime and no laws, Allah be praised, could prevent the attraction of one person for another.
As the evening progressed, I realised that what we were watching was no ordinary tale. I seemed to know all these characters—or was my imagination at work, seeing parallels where there were none? The emotional tension in the square indicated that I was not the only one to have noticed a degree of coincidence.
The second part of the performance removed all my doubts. The husband was sentenced to a public flogging at the Bab al-Zuweyla, and the errant wife was sent to a lame preacher, blind in one eye. The preacher, instead of offering her spiritual sustenance, soon seduced her, and at this point the curtain began violently shaking. A shadow-copulation began, with a cucumber symbolising the preacher’s penis and a gourd his victim’s vagina.
On most occasions, when these plays reach their bawdy climax the audience joins in with unrestrained laughter and slow claps, but not tonight. With entry effected, the musicians began to hum a dirge. This union, they were telling us, was not a joyous one.
The atmosphere during the second interval was more restrained. People spoke in whispers. Misfortunes like this were common in the town, but it was obvious to everyone that the half-blind preacher was a barely disguised version of the Sultan. That was why Ilmas, the eunuch, had wanted me to come here tonight. Was this Halima’s revenge? I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to confront the grinning visage of Ilmas.
“How did our great scholar find the play?”
“Who wrote it, Ilmas? Who?”
“Can’t you guess?”
I shook my head.
“I think,” he whispered, “the authorship will be obvious before the performance concludes.”
There was something in the way he spoke that sent a chill through my body. Instinctively I felt that I should leave at this point, and not stay till the end. I was curious to see how it would end, but I was also fearful.
The Sultan trusted me. If he found out that I had been present at this occasion, but had not provided him with a detailed account, he might question my loyalty. If I stayed till the end, I would have to tell the Sultan. If I left now, it would be proof enough that I had a low regard for the play and did not believe it merited any special report.
I nodded a farewell to Ilmas, who could not conceal his surprise, and began to walk away.
Eight
The story of the sheikh who, in order to keep his lover at home with
him, forces his sister into marriage with the man, and the disastrous consequences for all three
“YOU HAD BETTER PROCEED immediately to the audience chamber, Ibn Yakub. The Sultan has been waiting for you and he is not in good spirits this morning.”
Shadhi’s tone worried me, but from his eyes I learnt nothing. Perhaps it was my now waning guilt at having attended the shadow-play. I had misinterpreted his voice.
The Sultan was indeed looking stern, but he was not alone. The Kadi al-Fadil was seated in front of him. Both men smiled as I entered the chamber. That, at least, was reassuring. I bowed and took my place, just below the Sultan’s throne.
“Peace be upon you, Ibn Yakub,” said the Sultan. “I’m glad you did not stay for the final act of the performance in the Turcoman quarter last night. Al-Fadil and I were admiring your good taste and judgement.”
The Kadi aimed his stern gaze straight at me. I did not avert my eyes. He smiled with his lips, but his eyes remained hard.
“The eunuch who betrayed the Sultan’s trust was executed early this morning. If you take a walk this evening you will see how his head decorates the Bab al-Zuweyla.”
I nodded my head in appreciation. Should I ask them why the foolish Ilmas had decided on the course which had led to his beheading, or was it better to remain silent? Curiosity triumphed. I looked at al-Fadil.
“Why did the eunuch Ilmas decide...?”
“The answer lies in the play. He was in love with the red-haired temptress. She had rebuffed him several times. The only way to possess her was in his imagination.”
“Enough!” said Salah al-Din with a frown. “We have more important matters to discuss. Begin, al-Fadil, and prepare to write, scribe.”