The Father of Locks

by Andrew Killeen

  My head swam, and I could not tell whether it was the wine, or the intoxicating company of the older man. However I will not pretend that I did not know what was happening. I was not as drunk as that, and the confessions of the singing girls had made me worldly beyond my years. When he suggested that I undress, I knew exactly what he intended to do, and I complied willingly.

  Within a week I was travelling to Kufah as Waliba’s apprentice. My mother, still easily gulled by a handsome scoundrel, was as overwhelmed by the poet as I had been. Besides, she saw how happy I was, and how much I wanted to go. You may think that Waliba took advantage of me; but at the time I simply thought he was the most wonderful person I had ever met. I wanted to be with him, and I wanted to be like him.

  Waliba’s circle in Kufah was not unlike my mother’s house. At all hours there were visitors exchanging scandal and stanzas. The gossip was wittier and the verse often improvised, or at least original, but otherwise they were similar establishments.

  I soon discovered that, despite Waliba’s protestations of undying love, he was not entirely faithful to me. Many nights, he was not at home, and I knew that he was spending the evening with friends. Or with friends of friends. Or with boys he had met on the streets.

  I did not confront him about this, having spent enough time with his coterie to know that such behaviour would be considered gauche. Instead I gave myself to his closest friend, who forgot any loyalty he might have felt in his slobbering enthusiasm to get his hands on me. Waliba never mentioned my betrayal, although I thought he looked at me differently thereafter.

  I took his silence to mean that I was no longer bound to him exclusively. His friends competed for my favours, and I enjoyed the attention. Between the flirtations and assignations I gathered every scrap of knowledge I could accumulate, on history, astronomy, philosophy or jurisprudence.

  When I returned to Basrah, I was sixteen years old, beautiful, accomplished and arrogant. I had learned to ensure that my admirers gave me expensive gifts, and was able to live well without the need to work. I offered to support my mother too, but she continued to entertain her singing girls. As her youth faded she needed to be surrounded by gossip and music.

  My next tutor was Khalaf al-Amar. This wily fox was an expert on the Jahili, the desert poets from the time before the Prophet. He travelled the land collecting and preserving the ancient lyrics. Sometimes he just forged them. You are familiar with the Lamiyyat al-Arab, the two hundred year old classic rhymed on the letter “L”? That was in fact Khalaf’s masterpiece. It was he who told me that before writing anything original, I should memorise one thousand poems of the Jahili, then forget them all again.

  I also studied with Abu Ubayda, who taught me the tribal lore, the Battle Days. These accounts of raids and feuds are the oral histories of the Arabs. Abu Ubayda was generous with his learning, but I loved to tease the old sodomite. On one occasion I scrawled a scurrilous verse on a column in the mosque:

  “God bless Lot, and the tribe who love boys,

  And Abu Ubayda, the last of them all …”

  He is a short, fat man, and could not reach to rub the words off. So he lifted his catamite onto his shoulders, and shouted at him to erase the slander, while a crowd stood round laughing at him.

  There were other teachers, and other friends. One was a chubby young man, who sold jugs by day but dreamed of being a poet. He had an embarrassing enthusiasm, like a clumsy puppy, that betrayed his ambition and need to be loved. Half in jest, I called him Abu’l-Atahiyya, the Father of Madness. The name stays with him to this day.

  I had many lovers, both boys and older men, but none of them captured my heart. When I fell in love at last, however, it was with a woman. This came as much of a surprise to me as it did to everybody else. Janan was no singing girl, although she came to my mother’s house to talk about poetry and music. She was two years older than me, possessed of haughty beauty, and, young as she was, reputed to be the cleverest woman in Basrah.

  Perhaps it appealed to my vanity, to believe that only this perfect woman would ever be worthy of me. Certainly it was a very public courtship. I filled acres of parchment with verse in Janan’s praise, all of which sold very well. Every rejection became a challenge, in response to which I would devise a lawyer’s refutation. When I heard that she had cursed me, I invited her to keep cursing, so that my name would always be on her lips. When she told me that she would never love me, I replied that she could not say that, since only God knew the future. The literati of Basrah followed our romance as others follow horse racing, taking sides and placing bets.

  I even followed her on pilgrimage to Makkah. When she kissed the Black Stone, I put my cheek next to hers and my lips to the rock. This was the closest I ever came to kissing Janan. A friend of hers, scandalised, asked me how I could desecrate the most holy of shrines with my lust. I answered:

  “Why else do you think I travelled all this way?”

  In the end my persistence won her over. She sent a message saying she would be my lover, but on one condition: that I give up male flesh forever. I spent a night agonising and weeping, and by dawn I had made my decision. I never spoke to her again.

  Despite the ostentation of my wooing, my passion had been real, and so was my pain. The obsession with Janan had consumed me so utterly that once it was gone, I lost all direction and purpose. I stopped writing, began drinking before noon and started pointless fights. I might have died before my twentieth year, stabbed in a street brawl or poisoned by wine.

  But that was when I met Ja’far ibn Yahya al-Barmaki.

  ***

  I waited to see which way the story was about to twist. However Abu Nuwas spoke no more, but looked away into the darkness. In the end I broke the silence.

  “Is that the end of the tale, master?”

  “I said I would tell you how I became a poet. How I became a postman – well, that is a different story, for another day. Unhappy is the man with two destinies, for one day they will tear him apart.”

  “But I thought that Ja’far was your patron.”

  “Oh, the Barmakid has aided my career. Without his recommendation I may never have been granted audience with the Khalifah, let alone won his friendship. However that aid has come at a heavy price. And now that he has rejected me, my destinies seem to have converged here, in the wilderness.”

  There was no self-pity in his voice, simply an emptiness that accepted inevitable defeat. Impulsively I moved to sit beside him, putting my arms around him in comfort. I half expected him to lay his head on me, and half feared he would try to kiss me. Instead he continued to stare, as if somewhere beyond the firelight was the answer he was seeking.

  “Master, do you know what made me ask you that, ask you why you are a poet?”

  He said nothing, but turned to look at me.

  “Because all your verse that I have heard dances on the surface, like those insects that are so light they can walk upon the water. For all its cleverness of imagery and rhyme, you never speak from your heart.”

  I feared that I had gone too far, and indeed there was anger in his voice when he spoke.

  “You want to hear me speak from my heart, boy? Then listen, and I will recite for you a ghazal to my truest and most faithful love, my only source of succour in a bitter world.”

  I leaned against him, my arms around his waist, and his voice whispered into the night.

  “Stop at the home of those who are gone

  Cry, if that’s what must be done.

  Ask there, “Where have they gone?”

  We ask, but no answers come.

  Daughter of the Shaykh, bring wine this morning

  Why do you take so long?

  Lively blood beats in your face

  Come, dance as you let the wine run.

  From now on I will drink nothing

  But that which the holy men shun.

  Keep it away from those misers

  Who make punishing flesh their religion,

 
Who sourly await their judging

  While they sit and watch hours drag on …”

  I put my hand on his cheek, turning his face. When his eyes met mine they seemed to snap. At that moment I understood, that the brittle glitter of his verse was crafted like a crystal, which invites one to peer into its empty centre. Within is a heartless universe, where our only comfort is a brief flash of light and warmth; where we seek relief in oblivion, from the oblivion we fear.

  I pulled his face to mine and pressed my lips against his. His beard felt strange, scratching against my chin. At first he did not move. Then his mouth opened with a kind of sob, and he held my head as we kissed.

  He stroked my face. As well as the bitterness of his tongue, I tasted the salt of his tears. I reached down, and wriggled my hand under his qamis, so that I touched the bare skin of his belly. Although I could feel the strong muscles beneath, there was a softness unlike the bodies of the two girls I had held, which reminded me that he was more than twice my age. I was not deafened by my raging blood, as I had been with Hervor in the cedar grove. Instead there was calm, and a serene, almost maternal desire to soothe his pain, in the only way I could conceive.

  Pushing further, my fingers closed around the poet’s zabb. I had heard so much about this legendary beast, that I was shocked to find it languishing, grey and sickly, in my hand. Some say that the liver is the ruling organ of the body; others say it is the heart, or the kidneys, or even the brain. In the Father of Locks, I am certain that it was his zabb that was pre-eminent, the source and spring of his pride, his desire, his will.

  Now, however, it lay dormant and enfeebled. Awkwardly I cradled it, as if it were a newborn lamb unable to suck. Abu Nuwas gave a soft moan at my touch, although whether from pleasure or pain I could not say. I had no map to give me location or direction, so I kissed him with desperate love, and tried to stroke the life back into his limp member. Slowly at first, then more strongly, it stirred, swelled, and raised its head. The poet’s breath grew hot and slow against my face.

  Just then the voice of Rabi’a penetrated our embrace. Somewhere in the darkness she was singing, in a voice that cut like a diamond.

  “I have loved you selfishly

  And also loved you truly

  When possessed by selfish love

  I think about you only

  But when my love is real

  You free me to see clearly

  And whether true or selfish

  Love comes from you, not me …”

  The words were simple, but I could feel Abu Nuwas shift as he listened. Then, slowly, he pushed me away.

  “A curse upon you, Rabi’a al-Adawiyya! You are right, as you always are.”

  He sat back. I was confused, and not a little hurt.

  “No, Ismail. For the sake of a few moments of passing pleasure, I will not diminish you forever. And I cannot possess you by fucking you, any more than I can take back my youth, and the foolish decisions I made.”

  I hugged my knees, still piqued, but conscious now of a growing feeling of relief. Abu Nuwas spat on the ground.

  “Thank God the All-Merciful we are in the desert. If this had happened in Baghdad my reputation would be ruined.”

  He gazed northward, in the direction of his home, and sighed.

  “I suppose, now, Baghdad will burn. I only hope the fire is earthly and not infernal.”

  “But master, is the danger so great?”

  “Whatever Abu Murra has, in the Brass Bottle, the Franks cannot be permitted to get their hands on it. Their enemies may be our enemies for now, but diplomacy is a fickle jade, her favours changing with the wind.”

  “And you really believe we were the city’s only hope?”

  “Its best hope, perhaps. Ja’far al-Barmaki certainly believed so.”

  I pondered that melancholy notion for a while, before speaking.

  “I would, at least, have liked to save the children; the two that may still be alive.”

  Abu Nuwas nodded, and we sat silent in the gloom. A flickering light appeared nearby. It was Rabi’a, carrying a torch and a water jug. She did not approach us, but wandered away as if searching for something.

  “What is she doing, master?”

  He laughed, obviously glad of the distraction.

  “She says that the torch is to set heaven ablaze, and the water to put out the fires of hell. Then, free of worry about reward and punishment, free of fear and longing, we can worship God as he should be worshipped: with pure love.”

  There was a silence. Then he uttered a sharp gasp, and sat upright.

  “Fire … water … water on the fire, fire on the water …”

  I wondered whether he had been bitten by a snake, or if the madness had returned.

  “Can I help you, master?”

  He stood up.

  “Help me, boy? Yes, you can help me. You can beat me with sticks as punishment for my stupidity. But first we must return to Baghdad.”

  “Won’t they cut our heads off?”

  “Possibly, but there are worse fates beyond the firelight. How long have we been gone?”

  “This is the sixth dawn rising, master, since we left the city.”

  “Then we still have time. Fadl ibn Rabi said that he needed a week to raise the gold. If we can find the hooded man before tomorrow, it may not be too late. I know, now, what is in the Brass Bottle.”

  Twenty Two

  The Tale of the Brass Bottle

  Abu Nuwas ignored my desperate pleas for explanation, instead busying himself with loading up the horses and filling our waterskins. In a bid to get his attention, I raised the obvious practical difficulty.

  “But master, it is impossible for us to reach Baghdad in a single day! It took us six days to ride here.”

  He grinned at me.

  “You forget, boy – we are postmen. Do you still have that pass from the Wazir, which he gave you that first night?”

  I did. Although it was now stained and grubby, it clearly commanded loyal Muslims to give me every assistance. Abu Nuwas examined it.

  “This may do. If you were alone, the postmasters would be unlikely to trust you. Let us hope my fame, and your pass, will see us safe to Baghdad.”

  He handed me the bridle of my imbecile pony, and once again I had to overcome my revulsion and clamber into the saddle. I was about to protest that we had not thanked our host, when Abu Nuwas called out.

  “Pray for us, Rabi’a al-Adawiyya! We will need it!”

  With that he galloped away, and I spurred my horse after him, hanging on grimly.

  It was not long before the horses began to tire, but Abu Nuwas did not slacken our pace. I wondered what we would do when our mounts dropped from exhaustion. However I knew better than to ask my master that question when he was in this mood.

  We were not retracing our steps, but taking a course closer to due east. When we reached the Euphrates we stopped for a while to allow our panting horses to drink. Then, to my surprise, instead of following the river upstream towards Baghdad, we headed in the opposite direction.

  It was not long before we came to a small building outside which tethered horses stood grazing, and I understood my master’s plan. A portly man in black robes came out as we approached, and Abu Nuwas shouted a greeting.

  “Peace be upon you, Abu Harb.”

  “And upon you also, Father of Locks. I heard that you had been beheaded for murder.”

  Abu Nuwas dismounted as he talked to the postmaster.

  “Indeed, and it was most inconvenient. Then Isa ibn Maryam flew down from heaven and popped my head back on.”

  “I see. And these would be the horses purloined from the Palace of the Barmakids, and not returned. What have you done to them? They are half dead.”

  Abu Harb eyed me suspiciously, clearly holding me responsible for the abuse of the poor beasts.

  “I think this pony was half dead to start with. And we are, as you can see, returning them now. We need fresh mounts.”


  The postmaster looked pained as Abu Nuwas thrust the grubby parchment at him.

  “I don’t know, my friend. The news from Baghdad has been disturbing. And this pass seems to date from before the Flood.”

  Abu Nuwas gripped his arm.

  “Listen. If you let us have horses and we disappear with them, the Wazir will be angry. He may even dismiss you from your post. But if you prevent us carrying out a mission of critical importance to the safety of the Ummah, then he will have your head stuck on a pole outside your station. The choice is yours, my friend.”

  Abu Harb peered at him doubtfully, then sighed.

  “The sorrel mare and the black filly are the swiftest rides I have. If you are lying to me, poet, I will track you down myself.”

  After this we had few problems with the postmasters. When they saw us racing up on horses that they knew to come from a neighbouring station, we needed no dubious passes from the Wazir. Usually they were already leading out a pair of mounts for the next stage of our journey before we had dismounted from our sweating, dusty steeds. I recalled al-Mithaq’s boast that he could get to Tiaret in three weeks using the Barid network. As I watched the Black Lands fly past us I realised that, if anything, his estimate was conservative.

  The journey was exhilarating but also agonising. I was not riding knock-kneed ponies now, but prime beasts trained for speed. I hung on desperately and followed my master, muscles frozen in terror. To some extent the fear numbed the pain of the long hours in the saddle. However I remember the day mainly as a dizzy haze of sickness and soreness.

  The sky was already blackening by the time we reached Kufah, ninety miles from the capital, but we pressed on into the growing darkness. The danger now was real. We could not see the roads over which the horses’ hooves thundered, to avoid stones and potholes, and a fall at this pace could be fatal. God, or good fortune, destined us to arrive safely at Baghdad however, as midnight approached.