The Lover

by Laury Silvers

  The Lover

  A Sufi Mystery

  Laury Silvers

  Published by Laury Silvers, Kindle Direct Publishing,

  Copyright © Laury Silvers, 2019 All Rights Reserved

  Cover calligraphy and art by Abdulhussein Alrekabi,

  copyright © Laury Silvers, 2019 All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction based on historical places, circumstances, and, in some cases, historical persons as read through primary sources of the period and secondary scholarship concerning it. All historical places, persons, and interpretations are ultimately the product of the author’s imagination.

  Limited selected quotes adapted from secondary and primary sources fall under “Fair Use.” Alexander Knysh kindly gave his permission for the use of quotations adapted from his translation of al-Qushayri’s Epistle on Sufism.

  ISBN 978-1-9991228-4-3 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-9991228-3-6 (electronic book)

  For Michael, my champion

  and

  In memory of the women,

  some named, but mostly unnamed,

  some remembered, but mostly forgotten,

  who lived their love of God, despite everything.

  Acknowledgements

  I did not write this book alone. Sure, it was me who sat with the computer in my lap tapping away. But it was my partner, Michael Quinsey, who listened to me everyday when he got home from work as I told him about what trouble Zaytuna had got herself into now. It was he who read every single word, correcting and engaging me, but, most importantly, pressing me to grasp where I had not quite got down what was in my head, including, athlete that he is, helping me to describe all the physical action in the book. He walked through every moment of this process with me. He is a true companion.

  The following scholars have my admiration and appreciation for giving me their valuable time and expertise: Michael Mumisa, most of all, answered all my questions along the way, guiding my research, especially concerning Muslims of African descent and daily life in Baghdad at the time and read the book in a nearly completed draft for historical accuracy. He is a true mentor. I could not have written this book without him. Amina Wadud read chapters concerning Zaytuna and Tein’s mother and gave me crucial feedback. Alan Godlas answered queries at the drop of a hat about early Sufism when I was unsure of myself. Scott Lucas read a draft to check my representation of hadith scholars and scholarship and gave me helpful story feedback. Mathieu Tillier helped me sort out how my characters in this book and the next would navigate the by-ways of the complicated judicial system in Abbasid Baghdad. Sherwan Hindreen Ali, a native of Baghdad himself, corrected me on Baghdadi linguistic and cultural cues as well as offered detailed comments on characterization that led to several important changes. Aun Hasan Ali, who named Ammar, shared his unpublished scholarship with me on Shi’ism in Baghdad at the time and kept me from making several uninformed narrative choices. Peter Gray found critical documentary evidence for me on Islamic legal debates as well as guided me on book design. Kristian Petersen helped me create YingYue, the Chinese Muslim spiritual prodigy and answered every question I threw his way about Chinese Sufism. Thank you to the Department for the Study of Religion at the University of Toronto for providing me with a research fellowship allowing me to do the research that brought this story to life.

  To my dear friends and family, Kathleen Self sat with me at the beginning to help me sort out who had died and why, thinking through the major characters and basic story arc. Noor Naga read a very early, very rough half-draft, offered me needed insights, and most importantly, encouraged me to keep going when I was not sure whether or not I could write fiction. Joud Alkorani talked over characters with me one day, exploring with me the spiritual crises they would face. Greg Recco gave so much of his time to the book, ultimately sending me nine single-spaced pages of notes. Mishi Prokop, Nancey Silvers, and Susan Peters all guided me to find literary gaps that I couldn’t for the life of me find myself. Nasrin Mahdavieh helped me create Yulduz, Zaytuna’s Turkmen neighbour and provided me with her song. Nasrin and Sarah Shah gave me detailed resources on Shia prayer and shared how they, as Shia, would respond to Ammar’s circumstances. Ahsan Moghul kindly shared many sources and bits of fascinating historical data with me. Saad Wadi and Hamed Murad helped with Baghdadi slang. Katrina Daly Thompson and Sara Abdel-Latif helped me find the Old Nubian word for “my babies.” Nakia Jackson, Almas Zakiuddin, and Shaheen Ali provided careful editing under critical time constraints. I cannot thank you all enough.

  And thank you to all those unnamed who read bits and pieces for input, those who piped up when I asked questions via social media, and those who pointed out errors on my website. Anyone I’ve forgotten to mention, I ask you to forgive me for the lapse.

  I also want to acknowledge the scholars whose works played a major role in the writing of this book: Judith Ahola, whose dissertation, The Community of Scholars, on Tarikh Baghdad got this book started; Mohammad Mansir Ahsan for his Social Life under the Abbasids; the editors and authors of Continuity and Crisis at the Abbasid Court, especially Judith Ahola and Letizia Osti for their work on the topography of Baghdad and Hugh Kennedy’s work on caliphal administration and the police; Mathieu Tillier’s social histories on judicial systems; Herbert Mason’s translation of Massignon’s The Passion of al-Hallaj; Alexander Knysh’s translation of al-Qushayri’s Epistle on Sufism; and most of all, Abu Uthman Amr b. Bahr al-Kinani, otherwise known as, al-Jahiz, for his delightful and detailed commentary on the life and times of Abbasid Iraq.

  Any errors in this book are mine.

  My love to my family, Michael, Kaya and Ryan, Mishi and Ben, Eleonore, Evelyn, Tracey, Nancey, Catherine, and Candace and all the Quinseys for their unwavering support in the writing of this book. My thanks to my neighbours Bev, JoAnn, Claire, Cathal and the kids for cheering me on, and Billie Girl for long walks that cleared my head. My sincerest gratitude goes to my teacher, Murat Coskun, for his guidance, and our community for their constant support and companionship. Finally, this book could not have been written without my mother, Evelyn Silvers, who pored over every little bit of this book, sending me corrections and questions, but most of all, as always, giving me strength through her belief in my ability to do anything.

  On History and Fiction

  While the background, some storylines, and even some of the dialogue are adapted from historical and literary accounts of Abbasid Baghdad and its inhabitants, this is a work of fiction. The book takes up some of the uncomfortable realities of life at that time. Social norms such as slavery, racism, shadism, gender divisions, marriage, drinking habits, mosque attendance, and class divisions are all grounded in historical sources. Interested readers may want to read al-Jahiz’s delightful satire The Book of Misers, which accurately depicts the social life and material details of the Abbasid period.

  If your interest in reading my novels is to understand Iraq and the experience of the Iraqi people, please close this book and turn to the work of Iraqi writers such as those found in Hassan Blasim’s Iraq + 100 collections, Shakir Mustafa’s anthology, or Baghdad Noir collections of short stories, and the works of Shahad Al Rawi, Sinan Antoon, Dunya Mikhail, Leilah Nadir, and Ahmed Saadawi. Also see the online journal, “Arab Lit Quarterly.” My novels do not assume to speak for or about the Iraqi people nor the nation of Iraq, they are an exploration of an Abbasid past and, ultimately, the way that past is remembered in the Muslim present.

  If you want to know more about the characters, how I drew my narrative from history, and what’s history and what’s not, I have posted historical resources, a teaching guide, and book club questions on my website: www.llsilvers.com. Follow me on twitter @waraqamusa.

  The Ninety-Nine Names of God

  Al
lah

  The Lover

  The Merciful The Compassionate

  The Holy The Peace The Guardian of Faith The Protector

  The Firm The Compeller The Dominating The Creator The Crusher The Praiseworthy The Forgiver The Evolver The Bestower The Provider The Dishonouring The Knower The Constrictor The Expander The Abaser

  The King The Forbearing The Exalter The Honouring The Hearing The Seeing The Everlasting Refuge The Opener The Subtle The Aware The Great The One The Trustee The Grateful The Most High The Most Great The Preserver The Wise The Restorer The Embracing The Glorious The Resurrector The LightThe Responsive The Patient The Nourisher The One Who Forms The Revered The Generous The Watchful The Strong The Mighty The Friend The Reckoner The Accounter The Originator The Able The Unique The Life Giver The Slayer The Alive The Equitable The Finder The Noble The Avenger The Powerful The Expediter The Delayer The Most Exalted The First The Last The Outward The Inward The Governor The Accepter The Pardoner The Clement The Gatherer The Distresser The Possessor of the Sovereignty The Lord of Majesty and Bounty The Self-Subsisting The Sufficient

  The Enricher The Witholder The Incomparable The Everlasting The Open-Handed The Right Guide The Supreme Inheritor

  The Wise The Good The Truth The Judge The Just

  The Witness The All Forgiving

  Baghdad, 295 Hijri (907 CE)

  The First Day

  Chapter One

  The little one tucked in through Zaytuna’s open door, standing breathlessly with her back against the wall, eyes moving with worry that someone saw her come in. Zaytuna looked up, then went back to the task of sorting the grit from her lentils, saying, “Sweet one, close the curtain behind you, come sit here, and help me with this.”

  The girl stayed flat against the wall, her eyes still worried, but her breathing began to slow. Zaytuna leaned over slightly on the handwoven fishskin mat where she was seated to get a hold of the red earthenware jug that was cooling water by the far wall. She took the cup placed over the top of the jug and filled it. Zaytuna held the cup out to her, “Have a sip. You can’t come for a visit and not have a sip to drink. Show some manners, come now.”

  At this, the girl recovered herself well enough to sit down beside her. She took a long drink followed by a deep breath, and as she settled in she moved a bit nearer to Zaytuna, as if to find her way into Zaytuna’s lap, but knowing, even in her state, that would not do with this woman. She gave the cup back to Zaytuna instead.

  Zaytuna took the cup from her and held her face with a matter of fact look, asking, “Would you like some more? The water is sweet, isn’t it? I collected the clay to make the jug myself. It’s from the dried-up canal bed by the tomb of Maruf al-Karkhi, may God preserve his sanctity. My cousin, Mustafa, is a hadith scholar and a potter. He shaped and fired the clay himself. He’s pure of heart. This jug, this cup, is free of any human ugliness. The water from this jug mixes with that clay and gives God’s ease with every sip. It unravels every tangled knot.” She poured the girl another cup, “Now, tell me what knot needs unraveling.”

  “Zayd is dead.”

  Zaytuna’s face fell. She put the cup down on the mat, letting out a breath and a prayer, “We belong to God and we return to Him.”

  Zaytuna held back for a moment, then leaned in toward the little one, placing her long, thin arm around her, but not touching her, to let her know she could come closer if she needed to. The girl bent over, falling into comfort somehow in Zaytuna’s bony lap and began to cry. They were child’s tears, full and free, her body shuddering and releasing her sorrow. Why is this girl here? Did she have no one else to weep with over the loss of this boy?

  Zaytuna put her hand lightly on the girl’s back and wished she could remember her name. More than that, she wished she could remember which of the servant children who scramble around her alley every day was called Zayd.

  She kept one hand on the back of the girl, her other hand finding its way to the lentils laid out for sorting on the faded red muslin scarf folded over into a large square before her. She looked at her hand. Long-fingered like her mother’s, but not beautiful like hers. They were old, cracked and calloused hands on a young woman’s body. She’d dried herself up with fasting and barely eating, long nights standing in prayer, and days washing other people’s laundry. She pressed her index finger down onto one lentil lying with the others in grit and bits of dried grasses and pushed it slowly towards the pile of those she had sorted clean.

  Zaytuna stopped midway and picked it up, eyeing it, and silently gave it her heart’s sincere counsel. Look at you thinking you are being brought out of hardship and into ease. Not so, little one. You can’t run from being crushed by this world. You’ll rest in my bowl for a while, then you’ll be boiled in the heat of the pot. After that, you’ll be pounded by my teeth. Then you’ll be destroyed in my stomach. It’s life, little one. None of us escapes getting to know each of God’s names, and intimately so. It’s the truth. God may be The Lover, but He is also The Crusher. So do not complain. But you’ll end up feeding me. God is The Life Giver and The Nourisher, too. Take some solace in that.

  She placed the lentil carefully back onto the cloth with the rest. Then sorted the last of them, scooping them with her free hand into a red clay bowl. The girl seemed to be calming now. Her body spent. Zaytuna took her hand from the girl’s back and folded the red cloth over so the grit would not fall out. She covered the bowl with a rag and tied it in place below the rim so mice and insects would not get into it. Then stretched her arm up to place the bowl of cleaned lentils on a shelf above her jug and cup.

  The girl finally pulled herself up and wiped her eyes, blowing her nose on a length of the torn wrap she used to cover her head and body. Zaytuna sighed at this, thinking, Who is she dressing up to be with that ratty piece of shawl wound around herself so? Lord, all that thing does is get in the way of her work. Just wrap it under your arms and then throw the long end over your head in the street like the rest of us. Now look at it, soaked with your tears and smeared with your snot.

  Zaytuna carefully took up the rough cloth on which she’d been sorting the lentils so the grit wouldn’t fall out of it and stood, “Come with me down to the canal, if you’ve got the time. Insha’Allah, God willing, we can rinse out that wrap of yours.”

  She stepped outside into the courtyard and shook out the bits of grit from the cloth, letting the wide strip unfold completely to fall to its full length. As she came back in, she laid the cloth over the top of her own head, making sure it covered her pitch-black hair, then pulled its ends around from the front to back, tying it under and around, cupping her long, thick braid, with its one matted strand threading three round stone beads, into a cloth covered bun at the nape of her neck.

  She bent down and lightly touched the girl on the shoulder, holding her hand out for the girl’s wrap. The girl was unwilling to give it to Zaytuna at first, but Zaytuna kept her hand outstretched. So the girl did as she was told, pulling it off her shoulders and head. Zaytuna could see it had been fine once. The green muslin had been block printed in a design of repeating vines and roses with red and yellow thread woven through it and even had a band of densely embroidered linen sewn onto its edge, but it was now deeply stained and worn through. She could see how dear it was to her all the same.

  Despite Zaytuna’s prompting to come with her, the girl refused to get up, “They’ll see me.”

  Zaytuna wanted to tell her that no one gives a whit about the modesty of a girl like her. Only wealthy girls were wrapped up and stored away like little treasures, protected in the streets from ugly words and casual attacks. How she covered her head, the length of her qamis, or even whether or not she even had sirwal to wear underneath it, would always be limited to what she could pay for and what was practical, not propriety.

  She asked herself again, Why is this girl here?

  She could listen, give the girl an ear to unravel her woes. But there’s nothing she could do for her beyond that. Nothing she
could do for anyone. The way the girl cried, she hadn’t settled into the nature of this world yet. She’d expect a girl of ten, give or take, a girl like this, would be used to hardship already. Be done with sorrowful weeping. God knows she came to know it at a much younger age. Better this little one toughen herself up to not expect more from her life. But it wasn’t for her to say. So she did not say out loud to the girl, Everyone dies. Everything will be taken from you, little one.

  Then Zaytuna understood what the girl had meant by “They’ll see me.” Zaytuna said to herself, scolding, How slow you are, foolish woman, this isn’t about someone seeing her hair, her face, the shape of her body through her qamis. That girl is afraid someone saw her come in, will see her on the street.

  Zaytuna asked her, “Who are you worried will see you?”

  “Imam Ibrahim.”

  “Ibrahim as-Silafi?”

  “Yes, him.”

  “Ah.” This little one was one of Imam Ibrahim’s household servants. Salman, that fat grandson of a traitor, was always boasting that one of Imam Ibrahim’s boys came to him to learn about the Prophet rather than from the “illustrious” hadith scholar himself. Then she recalled the boy, remembering this odd, wrapped-up girl running in and out of the neighbourhood with a loud little boy. That must be Zayd. He was a regular in the main alleyway outside the cluster of homes where she lived, and where he would sit and listen to Salman’s stories.

  She remembered the boy plainly now. Sorrow came and pulled her spirit down, dropping it into her gut, making her want to sit. But she stood. He was one of those ugly children made beautiful by their charm. He was nothing but trouble, always mugging, turning things upside down to make people laugh. She had remarked to Saliha about him once, “There’s a survivor.” And now he’s dead. She asked herself, Zaytuna, woman, why didn’t you ever ask his name?