The Lover

by Laury Silvers

  He hauled himself off his stool to go inside, and as he stood, his great frame was a little straighter, feeling a touch more himself for her words. He managed to reply to her with a bit of a rakish smile, grateful to her, knowing full well that her compliment was charity. He was willing to take it, allowing himself to believe for a moment that this beautiful woman, Saliha, this bold Arab woman, always ready to laugh, with her creamy almond skin, round hips and bottom, heavy breasts, and long black hair tied, but falling loosely from under her wrapped kerchief, had ever thought him handsome in his ratty green qamis.

  He came back in the green qamis as commanded and handed over his stained one to her, “My thanks for your kindness.”

  She replied, “No thanks necessary. Maybe I’ll bring it back to you later. Tonight?”

  He shook slightly, sore ass forgotten. She was serious. He managed to say, “If it is no trouble.”

  Zaytuna heard the proposition made and accepted, she looked around to make sure no one had heard them. There was hardly anyone in the square now. She sighed, thwarted from setting right her wrong and watching these two arrange to satisfy their petty urges.

  Saliha indicated they were leaving, giving her greetings to Salman. Zaytuna stood still, her eyes unfocused but staring at the broken pieces of clay inside the shop and the red stained earth. She sat down on a stool, saying, “Salman, you mentioned the boys. Did you hear about poor Zayd?”

  “Yes. I heard,” Salman sighed.

  Saliha interrupted, “Zay, now is not the time. Let’s go.”

  Zaytuna raised her eyebrow, saying, “There’s plenty of time to this night yet.”

  Salman laughed, “God willing.”

  Saliha laughed with him, “Really, Zay.”

  Salman spoke, considering that this beautiful woman might change her mind once she got home, and he wanted to keep her there, with him, a bit longer, “God have mercy on the boy’s soul and beautify him in Paradise,” shaking his head, “He was an ugly child.”

  Saliha audibly stifled a laugh.

  Zaytuna caught it and shot Saliha a look, but this only served to release Saliha from her pent up laughter, “Walla, if we cannot laugh when tragedy strikes, we cannot laugh ever. And the boy was ugly.”

  “You’re laughing at him, Sal. You are laughing at him for being ugly.”

  “He was ugly, but smart and charming, too,” Salman cut in, adding with a nod and a smile, “Let us not forget that about him. That makes up for a multitude of inadequacies.”

  Zaytuna sighed, “May I die after the two of you, so my soul does not have to hear what you really think of me after I go.”

  “Amin, dear sister,” replied Salman with feigned gravity.

  Saliha asked, “Salman, what was he like?”

  “He was a charmer and cunning. He could draw the birds to him from the trees with his song, then once in his grasp he’d carve them up and eat them for dinner. That nose of his made him so, I suppose. Who would love that boy as he was?”

  Zaytuna nearly growled, “Listen to you, Salman! Certainly he was loved by someone!”

  “Oh Zaytuna, your piety is so exhausting! But as it happens, he was loved, by two girls. That Layla you had by the hand the other day and, between us,” he leaned forward so as to speak quietly, “the daughter of the stupendous Imam Ibrahim. He had those girls wrapped around his finger.”

  Zaytuna’s stopped still. She stepped into the moment presented to her, asking, “How could the Imam’s daughter have come to that, falling in love with him, right under the housekeeper’s nose?”

  “I don’t know. But knowing Zayd, he’d know how to hide it from the old woman. Or maybe he had her tied up too.”

  “You make him sound like a horrible child.”

  “No, simply lonely. Wanting to be loved.”

  Saliha asked, “Did he love them?”

  “God knows. It wasn’t the sort of thing he would boast of in front of the boys and me.”

  Zaytuna asked, “Did you get any sense from him that the Imam knew?”

  “Ah, I see what you are getting at. No, not that I heard. The boys though have their own theories. They say the old Jew, Umm Binyamin, from the Candy Seller’s market poisoned him and he walked off the roof in a fit as a result.”

  Saliha interjected, “What sort of ridiculous notion is that? That old woman is too bitter to be allowed to sell sweets, but why in the world?”

  “It seems our beloved Zayd was also a bit of a thief. He regularly stole candies from her shop and distributed them to the boys. I myself have been the recipient of several of these purloined delights.”

  Zaytuna said, “And the boys think she made him a special batch for him to steal and get poisoned. And somehow the other boys he gave them to were not poisoned as well?”

  “According to them, this most recent batch he did not share with them, but took home hoping to present them to the girl, Zaynab.”

  Zaytuna replied, “Ridiculous.”

  “Yes,” he said, adding sarcastically, “Much more likely that he was killed by the Imam. I cannot imagine that ‘man’ killing anyone. He is ineffectual, at best.”

  Saliha looked hard at him, triggered by his remark, “You know families do that. Men do that.”

  “As is their right.”

  Saliha spat the words at him, “It’s not their right. It’s illegal. It’s murder.”

  “A man’s right and what is legal may be very different things, my dear.”

  Saliha’s anger flared for just a moment, then she fell cold to him, done. Saliha sighed, “Well, that’s that then.”

  Zaytuna looked at her and smiled, hearing the shift in her friend’s voice, and knowing full well what she meant. There would be no worries about Saliha sneaking past the torches of the night watchmen for the sake of this one.

  Zaytuna asked, “Do you know why Layla came to see me? I didn’t know these children beyond their running around the neighbourhood.”

  “Layla? I don’t know. But I do know the boys respected you. Your spiritual athleticism impressed them. They didn’t know how a woman could eat so little and be so utterly intimidating!”

  Saliha might have laughed just a few moments earlier at this sharp observation of her friend, but now she was feeling that Zaytuna had been right all along about this man. It irritated her that she had to wash his enormous qamis at the end of a long day and, worse, there’d be no sex now.

  Zaytuna was confused, “Intimidating?”

  Saliha rolled her eyes, thinking how thick Zaytuna could be, and put her hand on her arm to indicate she wanted to leave.

  Zaytuna ignored it, “When Layla and I saw you in the street that morning, she pulled on my hand to get away from you. Why would she do that?”

  “Ah,” he said, “I wouldn’t let her study with the boys. I shooed her along, perhaps a little too strongly and I frightened her.”

  “I don’t understand. You wouldn’t let her hear the stories of the Prophets? Why not?”

  “No,” he said, “I wouldn’t teach her how to read and write with the boys.”

  “You teach the boys to read and write!”

  His voice deepened with indignation, “It is not as if they had the money to attend classes. By my grandfather’s memory, these children will be scholars someday! They are going to make something of themselves! These boys did heavy labour all day and then they stole whatever time they could from their masters to memorize the Qur’an at the mosque. That’s how they all met, filthy working boys washing in the fountain outside the mosque so they could make themselves acceptable to memorize God’s Word. They carry the whole of Qur’an memorized in their hearts, each of them is a hafiz! They sat in on the open hadith lessons, too, but no one would teach them to read and write beyond the basics without payment. So now they steal time to study hadith under me and are learning to write them down.”

  Salman began to get angry at the thought of it, his voice rising, “These boys are good for nothing but hard work in the eyes of t
he rich. To me, they are much more. Why do you think that Imam’s little daughter fell in love with our Zayd? Because he could read! Because I taught him hadith! Her father taught her and I taught him.”

  Zaytuna said, “Salman, I thought you were only telling them stories….”

  “I teach them, just like my grandfather did. I teach them from my grandfather’s collection of hadith. It won’t be lost just because he couldn’t hold out against the Caliph’s inquisitors. These boys will receive certificates for the transmission of this collection someday.”

  “Salman,” Zaytuna asked, knowing the answer but needing it said aloud, “Why not Layla, too?”

  “I need to have the highest standards, for God’s sake. No one will be able to fault these boys because I compromised the ethics of their education by including girls in our humble schoolroom.”

  Saliha now spoke, the exhaustion of the day hitting her and her exhaustion with this man hitting her even harder. She counted her points out slowly on her fingers, “You sell wine, you drink wine, your grandfather was a coward and a traitor, but somehow an innocent girl learning to read and write is going to bring your reputation down?”

  He sighed, “What you say about me could be said of others. People don’t know what the scholars are like. They speak in high tones, correct the simple man’s grammar, and, as the joke goes, will accept a cup of wine if they cannot determine it is not juice with absolute certainty. They are people just like anyone else. Some are better than others. And we have our greats, of course. All to say, Saliha, I have sat in that back room and discussed hadith over a cup of date wine or much more with some of these revered scholars. And I keep their secrets.”

  He leaned in toward Saliha, nearly taunting her, “I heard from one there is at least one great legal scholar who has reasoned some forms of alcohol are permissible! Do you want to know who it is?”

  Zaytuna replied, sharply, “No need to spread lies!”

  He continued without concern, “It is no lie. Of course, everyone disagrees with him, most sharply his own students and colleagues. As a scholar, I must admit its prohibition.” He laughed lightly, “But as the man who runs this humble tavern, I take heart in his reasoning nonetheless.”

  His back straightened, and he became serious again.“Now, as for my grandfather, I will tell you that no one outside of Baghdad cares that he collaborated with the inquisition and no one will care in the years to come. His collection will be quoted and he will be remembered. Insha’Allah, I will be remembered as his faithful transmitter and teacher to these boys. But a woman unrelated by blood or milk here? That is another matter.”

  Saliha said plainly, “You were willing to screw ‘an unrelated woman’ in that backroom classroom a few minutes ago.”

  Salman winced at her vulgarity, “I gather it does not make sense. I also gather that you will not be returning to me tonight, and I am sorry for it.”

  “You ‘gather’ right.” Saliha shook her head as if to shake loose some understanding of all this. “But the Imam’s daughter. She is allowed to study?”

  He looked at Zaytuna, tired, “You can explain this to her.”

  Zaytuna answered Saliha, “She is his daughter. They are related. There’s no scandal in him instructing her so closely.”

  Saliha looked at her, “You don’t approve of this, him not teaching girls, do you?”

  “Saliha, who do you think I am? I was taught alongside Mustafa and Tein and the other children at the Shaykh’s circle!”

  Salman spoke over them both, “By Zayd’s account, Zaynab never leaves the home unattended and studies under her father’s watchful eye, no other. It’s perfectly acceptable and she will be in a long line of female hadith scholars who learned under the guard of their modesty.”

  Zaytuna came back at him, “Who have the luxury to guard their modesty. Where does that leave women without connections, without wealth?”

  “You can sit in the mosques like everyone else and listen to the Imams teach.”

  “You know it’s not that simple. Look at you! Even the poorest boys have a better chance of being taken on than a woman.”

  Saliha stood, tossed his qamis on the table before her, “Enough of this man. We’re only good for fucking and washing his shirt. Walla, I won’t wash his shirt either!” She stepped out onto the square and walked in the direction of the alleyway to their home.

  Zaytuna picked up his qamis, folded it over, and handed it to him, “That’s how it is.” She paused not sure if she should speak, but then decided, yes, that she would. “I am sorry I took satisfaction in your situation and that I’ve insulted you all these years. That was wrong of me and I’ll answer for that to myself and to God. To you, I apologize sincerely. I respect what you are doing here with the boys no matter why you do it. I’m grateful to you for that much. But I don’t like anything else you do here.”

  Salman took the stained qamis from her and nodded, “Fairly said. Thank Saliha for me, and thank you, for looking in on me. You surely did not have to do so. No one else bothered. I won’t forget that.”

  Zaytuna hurried to meet Saliha, who by then was nearly at the opening to their street off the square, and put her arm around her shoulders. Saliha leaned on her.

  “What a pig-headed fool,” Saliha said, looking up at her. “You’d think he’d be able to hold his opinions to himself for one day. I sorely needed a little nighttime marriage.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It had been a long day. It had been an even longer two days since Layla came in and gave Zaytuna the news that Zayd had been killed. Every nerve was frayed. Every bit of her heart spent on this, on them, on herself. Zaytuna looked forward to just lying down. Just this once, she pleaded with herself, she would not stand in prayer late into the night. She promised herself she would sleep a while then wake up to pray in the last third of the night. Prayer would help clear her mind, but now she needed sleep. She pushed aside the curtain and ducked in only to trip with her first step over Tein’s body splayed out on the floor, sleeping soundly. She caught herself against the wall to keep from falling over him, but allowed herself a little kick to his side, that she could have avoided, to wake him up. She moved across him to the corner and sat down in the small space left to her. He kept sleeping.

  It was too dark to see, but she knew he had been drinking. She could smell the alcohol on him, and she could smell him on him. She wondered what he’d been rolling in that night. He hadn’t smelled this bad the night before. He was lying on her mat, probably her blanket too. No doubt working his stink into them. She wouldn’t even be able to take them out to make a bed in the courtyard. Maybe she could crawl in with Saliha. Making a decision, she felt around on the reed mats and found her blanket under his legs. She yanked at it until it came free and finally there was a sound out of him, “Uff, what?”

  “Get up you filthy man and go outside. You smell and I need to sleep.”

  Tein pulled himself up, leaning against the wall, no longer heavily drunk and not happy about it, “Where were you today? I came back here for you.”

  “I had to work, Saliha and I had two houses and…”

  “I had to work, too.”

  “So maybe we can talk to Ammar tomorrow?”

  “Ammar told me not to come back until I’m clean. He threw me some money to get to the bath, but I spent it on wine.”

  “I can smell that. You weren’t at Salman’s. His wine jars were smashed.”

  “What,” he said, coming awake. “Poor man! A true servant to the community. Well, he can’t complain to the police. He could, to me, but there’d be nothing I could do about it. Only the Caliph’s wine jars being smashed would be cause to action there.”

  “Tein, how are you going to do this job? Are you going to turn corrupt, too?” She shook off the thought, “In any case, Salman knows who did it. Religious fanatics. Nothing to do about that.”

  He lifted a drunk finger to point at her, “They’re everywhere,” but she couldn’t see it in t
he dark.

  “It’s better if I see Ammar tomorrow, anyway. Tein, I found out something important today. I have more to tell him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be all ears, if I’m clean.”

  “I got paid. I’ll give you enough for the bath and wash your clothes in the morning. You’ll be fine. You’ll take me to meet Ammar.”

  “Alright, then.” He began to slide down the wall to go back to sleep.

  She heard him slide down and felt him push against her legs, “No you don’t, brother of mine. Get out into the courtyard, you smell.”

  Tein rolled over onto all fours and crawled out through the curtain and fell asleep in front of the door, curled up, as their mother used to say, like the dog guarding the Seven Sleepers in the Cave. Zaytuna felt for her fishskin mat and blanket and sniffed them; they would do, she whispered, “Alhamdulilah.” Then she shook them out to get whatever might have been on Tein off them. Lying down on her side, she held her wool blanket against her through her legs and arms. For the first night in a long time she felt the sharpness of her bones against the hard earth underneath her and she shifted to find a comfortable spot. She heard her mother’s voice, always reminding her whenever she wished aloud they had sheepskins to sleep on, “The Prophet told us that the earth said to the child of Adam, ‘You put a cover between you and I? Yet tomorrow you will be inside me’,” and she felt the ground soften underneath her. She fell into the softness, enveloping around her, the warm animal smell of the blanket following her down, and dreamed.

  She found herself walking up an old dried river bed. She noticed a stream of water ahead, coursing through it, down toward her. She pulled up her qamis, but it and her sirwal were somehow already wet. Water pushed up against, then flowed around her calves, in thick, glossy ropes. She had never seen this stream before and wondered how she did not know it. The water was cool and clear, the stream bed of tumbled smooth, translucent gems were refracting the white light, that came, it seemed, from all directions, into sparkling, glittering multi-hued feelings that alighted on her. She looked down at the colours shining, flitting, then dissolving and soaking into her, flowing through her, then beyond her. She did not know what to do with all of them. One after another, she witnessed so many coloured feelings coursing through her, overtaking each other. One would divert the stream of another. One would mix, just so, with the jewelled light opposite it, transforming its coloured feeling to a new course. Then a different colour would come and push those back until they were transmuted into another newly discovered emotion, finding a different way through her, while still another saturated them all with its light. Feeding them all. The light behind the light. She wondered at it. It announced itself to her, saying, “I am Love.”