Abu Nuwas looked at me in mock surprise.
“But you have an assignation with a young lady. It would be most ill-mannered to leave her unsatisfied.”
I told him that I had clothes at the Hall of the Barid. This was a lie, but I wanted to test the extent of my privileges as a postman. Arriving at the Palace of the Barmakids I let myself in through the private door. I was disappointed to find that my friend Yaqub al-Mithaq was not there, but I found a household servant and demanded food, clothing and water to wash in. Almost instantly he reappeared with a dish of rice and broiled chicken, and a huge bowl of hot water.
The clothes took a little longer, but they too were eventually produced. They were plain and black, and not as fine as the ruined garments Abu Nuwas had given me, but they suited my purpose, consisting of a simple qamis, a short tunic and thick pants. As an afterthought I asked for, and received, a small dagger which I concealed inside my sleeve. Not wanting to push my luck any further I dozed away the hours till sunset, then headed out to Karkh, to meet with Layla bint al-Bazza.
Fourteen
The Tale of the Shower of Petals, including, The Tale of the Cock and his Hens
She was waiting for me when I descended into the garden.
Getting into the merchant’s house was nothing to me; I had often broken into buildings in search of gold, silver and jewels, but never for the promise of greater treasure than her company. I scrambled up a wall, using shuttered windows and the cracks between bricks, any irregularity my eager fingers could probe. The outer wall was two storeys high, but the upper level was only a facade. I swung myself over and dropped gently onto the flat roof of the outer rooms. From there it was a silent flit over the heads of the sleeping householders until I came to the women’s quarters, and a feather leap down to the courtyard.
The moon was nearly full now, but even so I did not believe what I saw as she ran up to me. She was unveiled, and I beheld her whole face for the first time. She was a few years older than me, at the peak of her comeliness. Her mouth was so shapely it seemed to be have been coaxed from clay by a master sculptor, and still glistened wet from the touch of his fingers. The wide brown eyes that had first caught my attention had shadows under them, as if they carried some secret sadness, but were clever and generous.
I gasped at the sight of her naked face. She smiled, causing small creases to appear at either end of her mouth, and whispered to me.
“This is the women’s quarters. Why would I wear a veil here?”
I was reminded of the danger I was in. If Imran ibn Zaid caught me in the women’s quarters of his house, he would rip me apart, and no qadi in the land would condemn him for it.
“Show me where it happened.”
Layla gestured around the garden.
“She was playing here. The nurse was in the privy, over there. It opens onto the courtyard, so she could see the child most of the time.”
I looked around. Ibn Zaid did well for himself, and for his women. A shallow pool at the centre cooled the air, and arranged in artful lines around it were roses and carnations, richly scented jasmine and beds of fragrant basil and coriander. The place seemed so calm, so soothing to the senses, it was hard to believe evil had come there.
“Where is the merchant?”
Layla pointed to the wall that separated the women’s quarters from the rest of the house.
“Through there.”
The door in the wall was secured with a heavy iron lock. Glancing nervously at the girl, I drew a couple of bent needles from my sleeve. I was ashamed to let her see my skill at housebreaking, but she watched with shining eyes and her mouth slightly open as I picked the lock, and kissed me on the cheek when the door swung open. I could hardly look at her as I spoke.
“Wait here. If you are found sneaking around the house …”
But Layla took my hand and led me through. Her skin was warm, her touch both reassuring and tentative.
The main courtyard was less ornate than the women’s garden, but was elegantly laid out, with a well at the centre. This made me wonder whether there was a simple answer to the mystery after all.
“Could it be that the girl fell down the well?”
Layla looked at me as if her confidence was slightly shaken.
“How could she have reached it? Besides, we have examined it thoroughly, even sending the kitchen boy down on a rope to search the water, until there could be no doubt Najiba was not there. And then we did again several times after that, when we could think of nothing else to do.”
Her use of the little girl’s name shamed me slightly. This was not about my efforts to impress an attractive woman. A child’s life might be at stake. I had to start acting and thinking like a serious agent of the state, not just worrying whether I looked like one.
“What happened when the nurse raised the alarm?”
“People came running, from all over the house. The steward was in the vestibule, arguing with the porter, so nobody could have got out through the front door. We searched every room; the windows were all shuttered and barred from the inside. Could somebody have come as you did, over the roof?”
I thought not. I was small and light, and an experienced climber. Anybody who managed to get over the high facade would then face the impossible task of carrying a six year old girl back across. They would need to be able to fly.
A light across the courtyard caught my eye. Somebody had lit a lamp within one of the rooms. I looked to Layla, who whispered:
“The merchant’s chamber.”
We crept over. There was a window onto the courtyard, from which the light was leaking. The window was shuttered, but one of the slats was broken, and allowed us to peer inside.
A woman stood in front of a long mirror. Although alone, she was fully dressed and veiled. Without taking her eyes from the mirror, she turned to both sides, putting one hand to her waist. She seemed to be admiring her reflection, although I thought her too heavily built to be attractive, with large, ugly hands.
As we watched she began to dance. At first she simply swayed her hips from side to side. Then she raised a hand above her head, elbow crooked slightly, and span so that her skirt swung around her ankles. There was no sound apart from the thud of her feet on the floor, but she danced as if hearing music which grew faster and wilder.
As she swirled, the hand at her waist crept towards her belly. To my astonishment she began to stroke her groin rhythmically, her whole body jerking in response. It was only when she threw her head back and climaxed with a groan as deep as a lowing bull that I recognised the harsh eyes above the veil, and understood the truth. The “woman” was the merchant Imran ibn Zaid.
I was distracted from the bizarre sight by a tug on my hand. Layla pulled me away from the window and we scrambled back to the women’s quarters. At first I thought someone was coming, but once we were in the rose garden she burst into fits of giggles.
“His wife is always complaining that her clothes are going missing! She has had the slaves beaten several times over it. No wonder he did not want you poking around the house …”
She did not let go of my hand as she recovered her composure. At last she became serious again.
“Have you had any luck finding the old man?”
I thought of Babak ibn Bundar, battered and broken in his cell at the Watch House.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
She looked at me as if expecting more, but I found myself unable to talk about him. Layla faced me, and fondled the collar of my tunic with the hand which was not holding mine.
“You are very brave, coming here like this.”
I wondered about that. Since arriving in Baghdad I seemed to have been at the mercy of forces greater than myself. I wondered whether I had made any choices at all, or whether my path was already determined for me, by God or Ja’far al-Barmaki. Her next words encouraged me not to contradict her.
“Such bravery deserves a reward.”
We were the same height, and o
ur faces were very close to each other. Mingled with the perfume of the jasmine I could smell her cinnamon skin and her honeyed breath. She tugged gently on my collar, bringing my mouth to hers. As she pressed her lips against mine, the deep eyes slowly closed.
After a moment she leaned back, and contemplated me.
“You’ve never kissed a woman before, have you?”
I jerked away from her. It was true, but I had not expected it to be so obvious. No respectable girl would look at me in my years of journeying, and the diseased whores who were available held no appeal for me. She laughed at my hurt expression, a fresh, cleansing sound.
“It is no sin, to be young. I have only ever kissed one man, before you. I loved him truly, but he is dead now, so you may take the scowl from your face. We all have secrets, deep below the ground. Come, sit with me.”
“But this is madness! If I am caught here –”
She was serious now, and the sadness under her eyes deepened.
“Then you wish to die in old age, without ever having lived? I did not think you were so ordinary, Ismail the Newborn.”
She drew me down beneath the shelter of a rose bush, heavy with star-white blossom. Petals drifted down onto us as we reclined on the thin rug which she had lain there. She stretched out on her back, and drew my head toward her. I suddenly found I did not know what to do with my arms, uncertain of whether I could touch her and if so where. The result was that I collapsed on top of her. She giggled, shaking quietly under me.
“Lean on one elbow. Put your other hand on my cheek – there.”
I stroked her face, and found the courage to lean forward myself and kiss her. After a couple of moments she pushed me away.
“That’s nice, but don’t press so hard. Here –”
Layla took my head in both hands, and craned her neck towards it, so that she could control the contact. She teased my mouth with little brushes and licks from her tongue and lips, before kissing me properly. When her mouth opened mine did the same, and our tongues were like beasts mating, writhing around and caressing each other.
My zabb was painfully stiff, and protruding through my pants. It ached for contact with her body, but I arched my back away so that it did not accidentally prod her. She wore no coat, only a green dress that hung modestly to her knees, over her pants and qamis. Now she sat up and pulled the green dress over her head. Only a thin layer of cotton separated me from her naked skin.
She lay back, and I bent over her, kissing with more confidence. She took my hand and placed it under her qamis. I felt the warmth of her belly, which was both firm and yielding.
The excitement was unbearable, and my hips jerked towards her in involuntary spasm, so that the tip of my tool brushed her torso through our clothes. Layla reached below, and eased down my pants. My zabb sprang free, quivering in the mild summer air.
The gentle kiss of the breeze on my buttocks sent thrills through my body and caused my skin to pimple. I would have exploded at the slightest touch, but then we were interrupted by a voice.
“What’s that? Who’s there?”
Layla and I froze. My zabb slowly declined, and the glow of a lamp intruded on our bower. I rolled away, pulling up my pants as Layla scrambled back into her dress. She stood up, while I shrank behind a nearby bush.
“It’s only me, Wahb. I couldn’t sleep and came out for some air.”
A turbanned figure was waddling towards her.
“Then why are you skulking under the roses, child?”
Wahb had the typically wide hips of the fat old eunuch. The loss of sexual desire was often replaced by indulgence in other, simpler appetites.
“I was frightened when I saw your light. After what happened to Najiba – oh, Wahb!”
Layla flung herself onto the eunuch’s neck, bursting into very convincing tears. In the process she spun him round, so that his back was turned to me. I had burgled enough houses to know when it was time to get out quick. I scrambled for the wall.
Fortunately getting out was even easier than getting in. The inner wall offered plants and decorative features to aid my swift ascent to the flat roof. Once there I waited until Wahb escorted the weeping girl inside, then carefully scaled the facade, hanging from the outer face before dropping lightly onto the silent street beyond. The fall stung the soles of my feet, but I was confident I had escaped undetected. That is, until strong hands grasped my shoulders.
“Got you, you filthy degenerate!”
I reached for the knife in my sleeve. Then in my mind I saw again the damaged face of Babak ibn Bundar. I had caused enough death for one day. Instead, I drove an elbow backwards, at the same time crouching slightly. As I had hoped, the difference in heights between me and my captor meant that I jabbed his groin. While he fell to his knees gasping in pain, I ran for my life.
My assailant recovered with terrifying rapidity. I was quick on my feet, but before I could get round the corner I heard booted feet pounding after me. I risked glancing back, and saw a giant shadow bearing down. I ducked down another alley, but my pursuer was gaining on me.
I turned again, running blindly now with my head down. So it was that I nearly rammed the wall before I realised I had turned into a dead end. I tried to clamber upwards, but felt a jerk on my ankles. As I crashed to the ground, a heavy body fell on top of me, pinning me down. It reeked of wine and river mud.
“Ah, Newborn, I have dreamed of this moment, but somehow this is not as I imagined it would be …”
My pursuer was Abu Nuwas. I spat in his face in fury.
“Get off me, Abu Ali, you disgusting pig!”
He sat up, laughing.
“So it is no longer ‘master,’ and ‘Father of Locks’. Now the Newborn calls me ‘Abu Ali’, as if he were my equal!”
His facetiousness only enraged me further.
“Actually, I called you ‘disgusting pig’, as if you were my inferior. I have been risking my life to search for the missing child, while you have been carousing with royalty.”
He gave me a sly look.
“Let me see if I can predict the outcome of your efforts. You found no trace of the merchant’s daughter, but the shop girl revealed a few things to you, eh?”
I tried to maintain my pose of righteous indignation, but my astonishment at the accuracy of his guess made it impossible.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’ve seen the way she looks at you, and if I can’t spot a girl with a bit of the devil in her, than I am not the man I am reputed to be. Besides, when you hopped over that wall you were blushing like a virgin bride.”
“Then why were you waiting for me … master?”
Abu Nuwas jumped to his feet.
“Of course! I must tell you what I have discovered this evening. But not here. We must go somewhere more agreeable. And I must have wine.”
We hurried through the quiet streets of Karkh, and along the way I told him more about the merchant’s house. He nodded absently and offered no comment, until we came to an impressive residence at the southern end of the district. Here he banged on the door like a debt collector. A face peered over the edge of the roof.
“In the name of God the All-Merciful, what do you think you are doing, Abu Ali?”
“Let us in, Abbas! I have a tale to tell and a terrible thirst that threatens to choke me to death. If you do not satisfy my needs, I may expire here on the street.”
Abu Nuwas fell to his knees and began to make awful retching and rasping noises. Voices could be heard from neighbouring houses. I could now make out the features of Abbas, the emaciated poet, as he hissed at us.
“What are you playing at? I have a woman here. Her reputation –”
“Are you ashamed of your friends, Abbas? Will you not introduce us to the lady? Perhaps I need to serenade her.”
My master drew breath as if to begin singing, and Abbas realised he was not going to win.
“Wait there, Father of Locks. I will give you a drink, if you promise you will go immediatel
y afterwards.”
His head disappeared, and Abu Nuwas grinned at me. Moments later the door creaked open. A hand yanked my master inside, so I followed.
Abbas hauled him off to a small but richly decorated room off the main courtyard, and flung him onto a rug.
“Wait there, I will return with the wine.”
I sat beside him. A veiled head peered shyly round the door.
“I heard Abbas call you ‘Father of Locks’. Could it be that you are –”
Her voice was refined, but tinged with a childish excitement. My master rose and bowed.
“Indeed, my lady. I am Abu Nuwas, the poet. And you are?”
The woman danced into the room, clapping her hands in joy. If she had been about to disclose her name, she was interrupted by the return of Abbas, carrying a tray with a jug and three goblets. I thought he was going to drop the tray when he saw that the woman had joined us.
“My lady, what are you doing down here? It is not seemly –”
“Oh, don’t be such a bore, Abbas. It is not seemly for me to be lying on your roof with you, doing what we have been doing. The greatest living poet hammering at the door, in the middle of the night, with a story to tell – you surely don’t expect me to hide upstairs like a timid maiden, and miss all the fun.”
She settled imperiously on a farsh. Abbas, whose temper had clearly not been improved by her description of Abu Nuwas, sat glumly beside her. He reluctantly poured the wine, and I was touched by his courtesy as he passed me a goblet and went without himself. The woman took command.
“Well then, Father of Locks. You have your drink, now tell us your tale.”
So he did.
The Tale of the Cock and his Hens
I arrived at al-Khuld at sunset, and was taken to a garden planted with sandalwood and lavender, which I had not seen before. At the centre of this fragrant sanctuary was a pavilion. It had a domed roof and the walls were perforated by a hundred windows.
Within the pavilion was the Commander of the Faithful, already flushed and excited from wine. This Harun is a very different creature to the haughty monarch you see on public occasions. Our Khalifah never forgets that the Umayyads were thrown out for their decadence and deviation from the true path, and is careful to maintain his front of pious orthodoxy. However in private, with his friends, there is nothing he likes more than to get outrageously, slobberingly drunk.
The Father of Locks Page 18