The Father of Locks

by Andrew Killeen

  “What do you want?”

  He was a fat man of middle age, with pouches of skin hanging under his eyes that gave him a dolorous appearance. I had not considered what I would do beyond this point, and now had to weigh my choices quickly. A direct assault was out of the question. Although I would back my knife against his club, he was too big for me to tackle alone. No lies sprang to mind, so I decided to see where the truth would get me.

  “I have come to see the Father of Locks.”

  The policeman got to his feet.

  “Have you, indeed? Are you one of his boys? I’ve heard all about the disgusting things he gets up to, the filthy pervert.”

  Despite the policeman’s words, he did not appear disgusted. His rough breathing was partly due to the exertion involved in standing up, but his wide eyes and leering mouth suggested that he found the idea exciting. With a heavy heart I realised what I would need to do.

  “Yes, my lord. He is my master, and I must submit to whatever he wishes to do to me. Sometimes he puts his – a respectable officer of the law such as yourself could not imagine the vile practices which I am forced to endure.”

  His expression suggested he was imagining hard, and he licked his lips.

  “Then why would you come to visit him, on his last night on earth?”

  I had to think quickly.

  “Why would I come? To see for myself that he has truly been incarcerated, and cannot get free to corrupt me still further. Is he in one of these cells?”

  I was slowly working my way round the room to the row of doors at the back. Suspicion and prurience battled in the policeman’s face, but desire won.

  “Don’t worry, lad, he is safely locked up in that middle cell there. So does he have many – boys, such as you?”

  “Oh, there are many of us. More than I can count. All around his house we stroll and loll, mostly naked, waiting for him to use us as he wills. Some have been so debased by years in his service that even when he is not there they will engage the other boys in debauchery, so that entire rooms will be filled with young men writhing and groaning.”

  I briefly wondered whether I had overdone it, but the policeman lumbered over to me as I leaned against the cell door, with an uncomfortable gait that suggested his zabb was responding to my words.

  “Poor lad. Why don’t you come away from that door, and show me what sort of things he forces you to do? I ask only so that I can recognise and catch his kind more easily in future.”

  “But my lord, is it not better that the poet hears us together? Let him be tormented, in his final hours, by listening to his favourite servant in the arms of another man. It is practically your duty to punish him by reminding him of his sins.”

  The policeman was as limited in his patience as he was in his intelligence, and fell upon me where I stood. I tried not to choke on his foul stench as he nuzzled and mauled me clumsily, like a garlicky dog. Such was his enthusiasm that he was unaware that my hands were not occupied as his were, but were instead busy behind my back.

  The three-pin lock was not a complicated one, but attempting to pick it in such an awkward position was difficult enough without the policeman’s clumsy thrusting and groping. I caught two of the pins with a speculative rake, but I could not find the third. I had to let all three drop, then set them again in the opposite order. At last the pins clicked into place, and the barrel turned. I could only hope that Abu Nuwas was alert and awake, and had correctly deciphered the sounds filtering through the door.

  By now the policeman was tugging down his pants with one hand and mine with another. I pushed him away.

  “Wait – wait.”

  Managing to free myself, I dodged around him so that he was between me and the cell.

  “You must not rush, my lord. We have until dawn to prolong the deviant’s misery. Why do you not stand against the door, so that your moans of sweet pleasure assail his ears while I use upon you every trick and technique that he taught me for his own vile purposes?”

  The policeman grinned, revealing blackened teeth. He leaned back against the cell door – and toppled over as it swung open. Abu Nuwas, his handsome face battered to a gory mess, leapt upon his guard’s chest, and looped his belt around the man’s neck.

  “Quick, his legs!”

  I pounced on the flailing limbs, then noticed the policeman’s face turning as blue as his robes. I grabbed a pebble from the ground and hurled it at my master.

  “Don’t kill him, you fool! He has done nothing wrong, and besides, then you really will be the murderer they accused you of being.”

  For an instant the poet glared at me, madness in his bruised eyes, and I wondered whether he would turn on me next. Then he released the pressure on the policeman’s throat. While the unfortunate guard gasped for breath, Abu Nuwas used the belt to tie him up. I stuffed fabric into his mouth to gag him, guiltily remembering the terror I had felt when ibn Bundar had done the same to me.

  Once he had been secured and silenced, we left the Watch House. Outside Abu Nuwas looked to me, and I indicated the two horses. It was only when we were saddled and riding westward out of the city that he finally spoke.

  “I must thank you twice, Newborn. First for liberating me, then for restraining me.”

  I said nothing, and we travelled on until the last houses on the outskirts of Baghdad had disappeared into the darkness behind us.

  “I was frightened, Newborn. I did not want to die – at least, not then, and not so stupidly. I was so angry at the pointlessness of what was happening, at the injustice of it.

  “Then I heard voices, and the shifting of subtle devices. When I flung open the door and battled for my life, I was not fighting that fat fool, who dreams of pretty boys while he fucks his fat wife. I was fighting the futility, the grief, the violation. I was fighting God.”

  The next time he spoke, we had left the road, and found our way through the fields by following the black water of the Sarat canal.

  “Fear can master us, take away our reason and turn us into animals. But fear can be subdued, it can be defeated by love. When you climbed on that horse, I saw the grimace on your face. I hear how you breathe through your mouth, trying not to inhale the odour of the animal. I feel your body jolt with every step, as you hold yourself rigid in the saddle. Yet you have uttered not one word of complaint.

  “You have done it, Ismail. You have done what had to be done. You have done what you chose to do.”

  I leaned away from my mount and vomited until my stomach ached. Then I cried, fruitlessly straining to weep my soul as empty as my body.

  Twenty One

  The Tale of the Saint and the Sinner, which includes, The Education of a Poet

  We camped that night where the Sarat met the Euphrates, then the next morning followed the river south. There were no signs of pursuit. Ja’far’s anger, it seems, was deep enough for him to refuse help, but not so deep that he would have us hunted down. As for the Harbiya mob, I could not imagine them leaving their trades to pursue mounted men beyond the city boundary.

  Abu Nuwas was leading once more. I did not ask him where we were going. Once I had told him how the Wazir had turned his back, we had passed beyond words, and rode for most of the day without speaking. I recalled that he had lived for a time in Basrah, and wondered idly if that was our destination. In the end my lack of curiosity drove my master to break the silence.

  “Have you ever met a saint, boy?”

  I thought about this for so long that he turned to look at me, unsure whether I was ignoring him.

  “I do not know, master. I do not know how I would know if I had.”

  “When you meet the one we are going to see, there will be no doubt. A saint is one without selfishness or hatred, who sees with utter clarity and loves with absolute purity. Such a one is my friend al-Adawiyya.”

  I nodded but made no other response. Abu Nuwas looked to the horizon, and we journeyed on.

  For a second night we camped in open air, but by the en
d of the third day we had come to the city of Kufah. I hoped that we would seek lodgings, at least for a while. However Abu Nuwas said that he was too well known there. I visited the suq to purchase supplies while he waited in nearby woods, and at dawn the next day we crossed the river by ferry.

  Once on the west bank of the Euphrates we no longer followed its course, but instead headed due south. As the river curved away to our left, eventually disappearing, the irrigation canals petered out and the land became increasingly barren. Our water was running out, and I gradually became aware that my master had been more badly hurt during his arrest than I had first realised. His breathing had become noisy, and sometimes he groaned for no obvious reason, although he tried to disguise it as a cough or yawn.

  As the fifth day wore on, Abu Nuwas started to mutter to himself. It began with curses, suddenly spat out on no provocation. Later, fragmented phrases dropped from his swollen lips.

  “A dozen to the dinar … The camel belongs to Abu Yusuf, I swear it … Take that milk away. I did not ask for milk …”

  “What milk, Father of Locks?”

  He stared at me through his eyebrows as if deeply saddened by my inability to understand him, then trotted ahead. I was frightened, not least because he was leading me further into empty lands. The ground was rocky, and a forbidding range of hills stretched out ahead. I could not be sure how long he had been irrational. Did he know where he was going? What did he mean about meeting a saint?

  When we came near the hills he pointed to some rubble ahead of us.

  “There … there …”

  He leaned forward, squinting. I followed his gaze, trying to see what he was peering at so intently. Then I realised he was slowly tumbling from his saddle and falling to the ground.

  I dismounted and ran round to him. His eyes had rolled into his head, and he was breathing with difficulty. I had no idea what to do. A brown flicker caught my eye, in the direction he had indicated.

  I was alone, and had trusted him this far. I raced across the open ground towards the distant movement.

  “Hey! Help! In the name of God the All-Merciful, help us!”

  The old woman looked at me in mild surprise as I ran towards her.

  “In the name of God, you say? Well, that is different. Had you entreated me in the name of the Devil, I would certainly have taken you to my hut and cooked you for my breakfast.”

  She was standing by a stream which had been hidden from me by the lay of the ground. She wore robes of rough wool, and in one hand she held a water jug. Her words made me fear she was mad, but then I saw the flash in her eyes that suggested she was laughing at me.

  With a farmer’s strength she helped me haul the unconscious Abu Nuwas to her hut. This was a low building of mud brick not far from the stream. Inside the hut was virtually bare, containing only a reed mat, a crude screen of wood and cloth, and a prayer rug.

  She brought the rug outside and we laid my master upon it. She contemplated him gravely, and sighed.

  “Oh, Abu Ali. What have you done to yourself this time?”

  The old woman pottered over to what seemed to be a small herb garden beside her hut, and began to pick leaves, while singing to herself.

  “Eyes close, stars open, spark of evening dew

  The sky above falls silent, below the deepest blue

  You are the Truth that never changes

  Eternity that is ever new

  The doors of Kings need bolts and guards

  Your door stands open to let me through

  Each is alone with the one they love

  I am alone with you.”

  As I listened to her voice, I understood what Abu Nuwas had meant about clarity and purity.

  “My master speaks very highly of you, al-Adawiyya.”

  She looked up from her work.

  “Call me Rabi’a. I need no tribe, nor family, so long as I have my Beloved.”

  She used the same word that the poet had used of his falcon, and it took me a moment to realise she was talking about God.

  “My master says you are a saint.”

  She laughed.

  “I am what my Beloved has made me, and nothing more than that. If your master praises me, he is praising God, and I am glad of it.”

  Rabi’a al-Adawiyya lit a fire and warmed the water in the jug, adding the herbs a little at a time.

  “Why don’t you see to your horses? I will look after your master. He needs to sleep.”

  ***

  I too needed to sleep. When I woke, it was dark, apart from Rabi’a’s fire, which was still burning, and a distant glimmer I guessed must be the first hint of dawn. Abu Nuwas was sitting up, staring into the wilderness.

  “Are you well, master?”

  He turned towards me. When I saw the terrible emptiness in his eyes, I thought he had gone for ever, and a shiver convulsed my body. Then he spoke.

  “I would be better for a cup of wine.”

  He smiled cheerlessly.

  “The healing of saints is a marvellous thing, Newborn, but their hospitality is meagre.”

  “And where shall we go now for hospitality?”

  The smile faded. I was relieved.

  “I don’t know, boy. Basrah may be far enough, until it is safe to return to Baghdad. The Qadi’s judgement will not stand long, once tempers have calmed, and the Khalifah will already have been asking where I am. Much depends on how the Barmakid answers that question.”

  “And how will we live?”

  “Oh, there are rich men in Basrah, who will pay well for fawning verse, and for the company of a celebrated wit. Not so well as in Baghdad, but …”

  His voice trailed away.

  “Why are you a poet, master?”

  Abu Nuwas was dumbfounded.

  “Why am I a poet? Because I can be. Because it is better than selling jugs. Why are you a poet?”

  “I am not a poet, master. Not yet. I am al-Rawiya, the Teller of Tales. I thought I wanted to be a poet.”

  He did not ask me why I used the past tense, as I had hoped he would. Instead he returned to my original question.

  “I cannot tell you why I am a poet, but I can tell you how I became one, if you wish.”

  The wind whipped the scrub, in the darkness beyond the firelight. I nodded, so he did.

  The Education of a Poet

  Jullaban, my mother, was a beautiful girl in a small town. Fate would have taken her from there, one way or another. She was like a sapphire buried in the silt of a river bed.

  When Fate came to Jullaban, it was riding in the baggage train of Hani ibn Abd al-Awwal, of the Hakami clan. He was a dashing, reckless warrior of the southern desert, with an infallible knack for picking the losing side. Hani had fought for the Umayyads against the Army of the Black Flag, and later died in the rebellion of Abd Allah. He was one of few casualties of this uprising. Most of the rebels just surrendered as soon as Abu Muslim took to the field against them.

  In between his military misadventures he washed up in Ahwaz, an undistinguished market town in the marches between Persia and Arabia. When he heard of my mother’s beauty he paid furious court to her, offering an extravagant bride price. Her family were poor, and could not refuse such glamour.

  It was not until they were married that it emerged Hani’s wealth was not in his baggage train, but at his estate south of the Empty Quarter. Or so he claimed. A few weeks after the wedding he rode off, promising to return with the gold. Instead he went north to Jazira to join the rebellion, and to meet his death.

  Jullaban was left penniless, and, she soon discovered, with child. Ahwaz had little to offer the young widow. As soon as I was old enough to travel, she took her few belongings and moved to Basrah.

  Before the founding of Baghdad, Basrah was perhaps the greatest city in the region, a bustling port near the mouth of the Shatt al-Arab. It was, and remains, a place of culture, where the fine arts of poetry and music are treasured. Jullaban took in sewing and sold trinkets carved from bamboo.
However the main source of her income was the singing girls who frequented her house day and night.

  My earliest memories are of running around the legs of giggling, gossiping women. As in Baghdad, the best singers were rewarded richly, but the demands on them, artistically and sexually, took a heavy toll. My mother’s house became a haven, where they could relax and exchange stories without angering their owners, who knew that Jullaban was a respectable widow. An extensive repertoire of poetry was essential for a singing girl, and I memorised my first verses by listening as they taught each other qasidas and ghazals. However, they were often coarse, and I also learned much at a young age about the variety and complexities of love-making.

  My mother made enough money that she could afford to send me to study at the masjid. Reading seemed so natural to me that I could not understand why the other boys made such a fuss about it. I wondered whether they all had problems with their sight, that they could not simply look at the page and speak the words. I had committed the entire Quran to memory before my tenth birthday, and my recitations were celebrated, despite my lisp.

  I was a devout child, eager to learn more about the holy book which held the answers to every important question. Of course I was also slightly vain, and the praise and attention that I earned for my piety gave me secret pleasure. However, my fame within the city was to attract the attention of a different kind of teacher.

  Waliba al-Asadi was a poet from Kufah, who had heard about the pretty young hafiz and came to satisfy his curiosity. I stumbled over my words that day, as he sat brazenly upright at the front of the congregation, blue eyes appraising me. I was twelve years old. The next day he visited my class and persuaded my teacher to send me to his house for the evening. I have often speculated how much he paid, for my virginity.

  I was dazzled by Waliba, by his wit, erudition and confidence. He gave me wine, which I had never drunk before, and overcame my virtuous reservations by reassuring me that the Quranic stricture applied only to date wine, grapes having been unknown to the Prophet. I dared to share with him my own thoughts and ideas. He did not mock me or insist that, because he was older, he must be right. Instead he engaged with my theories, challenging them with concepts from Greek and Persian philosophy that were alien to anything I had ever encountered.