To my master, `Abd al-Hagq:
"Lord of my heart and soul, gentle overlord of my every move and of every quarter, you who reside in my dreams day and night, you! So did you grace my house with your presence? I have a request to make of you, but in person if you would be so kind."
How could I possibly not accept this request on such a splendid morning! Needless to say, I accepted her request out of love and respect, it being my major priority and aspiration.
I told her servant to wait long enough for me to wash myself, put myself to rights, and dab on some perfume. Within the hour I was fully prepared to respond to the invitation and proceed to her house. As I approached the horse, it started making a big fuss and pawed the ground with its hooves as a sign of welcome and acceptance. I mounted it, happy and proud, while the servant grabbed hold of the bridle and led it on foot. He never looked behind him, neither to left nor right. The entire area around the zawiya was free of residents or passers-by; it almost felt as though they had decided to let me enjoy and relish what was happening to me on my own.
Going down the mountain was easy and untroubled, just like plunging into delights I had never encountered before. The horse proceeded on its way slowly and obediently, while the servant said not a single word, as though he were either dumb, had been told not to speak, or else was praying silently. The path toward the one who had so infatuated me, my own path, was embellished with springtime's gleaming raiment, whose various components were bursting into flower and arraying themselves all around. As I took it all in, my very consciousness was totally overwhelmed with the kind of happiness that is only rivaled by that of a bridegroom on his wedding night.
I dismounted by the door of my beloved's house and was given a warm greeting by a young eunuch, who accompanied me to a hall illuminated by lanterns. There I found the lady of the house looking absolutely radiant. She was waiting for me in the company of two servant-girls, one of whom was holding a tray of dates while the other had a tray with cups of milk on it. As I approached, I gave my hostess a greeting, and she responded with words of welcome. The way she was looking at me was even more fervent than my own glances. She pointed to the dates, and I took one; then to the milk, which we both drank from a single cup, looking at each other all the while. She then took me across the interior garden and through two passageways to a reception room even bigger and more lush than the one I had seen on my first visit with the Meknesi shaykh. She sat me down opposite her, close to a table that had all kinds of food and drink laid out on it.
Her expression made it clear that she was feeling both shy and deeply affected. When I tried to initiate a conversation with her, all she could manage was a few stuttered words of welcome. She clapped her hands, and the young man behind the screen called out, "Abla, bring in the scent, and you, Hafsah, bring in the tray." With that the first maid put some more aromatic wood into the enormous brazier and sprinkled rosewater around, then the second one came in with a tray so I could wash my hands, which I did.
Then I was left alone with the lady of the house.
"I'm not sure I deserve such a lavish and wonderful welcome," I said.
She responded with a few broken phrases, the significance of which-if I read her correctly-was that I fully deserved it. She invited me to eat, and I took a little while informing her that I was normally satisfied with the small amount of food that Sufis normally eat. She now asked me about the holy man from Meknes, and I replied that he was alive and well, but spending the remaining days of his life in prayer and sleep. His one remaining and abiding hope, I told her, was to meet his Lord in a purified state and gain entry to paradise as soon as possible. I added that in his devotions he was constantly praying for her. She let out a loud sigh and lowered her gaze, as though she were either afraid of stuttering again or else waiting for me to initiate further conversation.
For a moment I thought about talking to her about the various components that would make up the letter that I was proposing to send to her once I had actually written it, but I was afraid that that might make her even more emotional, so I decided not to do so.
Then I thought of drawing attention to the letter that she had recently sent to me, which might lead her to explain the request that she had said she wanted to make of me, but I was afraid that that might only distress her and make her even more tongue-tied than she already was.
Dear Lord, what am I supposed to do?
Here's a woman who holds the trump card when it comes to things that delight me and lift me up, things that can transform me and raise me to higher planes. Her initial invitation to me, her wonderful figurative words, her first letter brimming with love and passion, her second letter in which she proclaims her love and urges me to hurry to her, these latest gestures on her part, not to mention one boon after another, all these things inevitably demand of me that I seal and bless them with kisses planted on the mouth of the one who has fostered and provided them.
As I envisioned things, the benefit of such kisses would be twofold, and so would the rewards: in the first place I would be able to establish without any doubt that in this adventure in love my suit had a distinct chance of succeeding; and second-and this was more important by far-I would be able to untie the knot that was restraining my beloved's tongue. Once that was done, the words would flow freely between us, replicating the purest ether or the coursing streams of paradise. With regard to this latter category, I can actually recall a previous occasion, one that I can summarize briefly, following the principle of one thing reminding you of something else:
During my frivolous youth in Murcia one of my love-escapades led me to know a beautiful woman with a stutter that made it impossible for her to communicate with other people and hold conversations. She asked me for a cure, and my response was to recommend that, whenever she felt tense and unable to express herself, she start taking rapid breaths, stop thinking about the words she wanted to use, and instead make use of synonyms, invoke metaphors and images and hand gestures. My suggestion only helped a little. What was far more effective was showing her affection and giving her a kiss every time she found it difficult to speak. The process whereby I used to drink the sweet nectar from her mouth turned out to be the best way of resolving the problem and opening up the paths to conversation.
By now I have forgotten what that particular woman looked like; it's only by chance and on this particular occasion that I have remembered the way I solved the problem. So by analogy should I now be applying the very same cure in the case of this lady Fayha'?
I was still considering the wisdom of this course of action when the lady in question broke her silence by clapping her hands, in response to which two servant-girls appeared. One of them held a bowl as I washed my mouth and hands, and cleared the table, while the second one told her mistress that the private quarters were now ready, as she had requested.
Her mistress and mine-yes, by God, my mistress-now invited me to follow her, and I did so with the greatest pleasure.
The private quarters consisted of a small room, neatly furnished with elegant cushions and wall-hangings. Subdued candlelight illuminated the space. In the middle was a table loaded with drinks of all types and colors. It was a warm and intimate space, and the songs from the birds, both indigenous and migrant, outside in the garden were a perfect accompaniment to it. In the midst of such music Fayha' handed me a glass, and I did likewise to her. We both drank with discreet relish, savoring the attractions of the moment, while from a neighboring room the sounds of the oud wafted to our ears. I asked her who was playing, and she stuttered a reply: "It's Ghaz… zzz… zzz… Ian. Do you like it?"