On the morning of the feast at the end of the fasting month I purified myself, then joined the other people in the residence for their celebrations. On the second day of the festivities, the Egyptian lady came to visit me again in the evening, and I received her in the garden. Our company also included Ghaylan, who insisted on plying us with yoghourt and sweetmeats of various kinds. It was a short meeting, during which we exchanged names and words of congratulation on the feast and also on our health and well-being. I did not want her to feel I was being rude or mean, so I made a point of sounding both sincere and warm in my greetings. As she stood up to leave, she whispered in my ear, "`Abd al-Haqq, you know where my house is."
Yes indeed, I certainly did know where this noble lady, whose name was the same as my mother's, Umama, lived. But how on earth could I go there without arousing all kinds of suspicions and chit-chat?
How nice it was for this woman to be in love with me through God and for me to share the same sentiment with her! And equally nice to seek consolation in the line of poetry by Imru' al-Qays*:
But what was supposed to happen if this entree proceeded to a point where I was no longer in control or where the consequences would be bad? That is precisely what had happened years earlier with Maymuna, my elder brother's divorced wife, and with many others whom I do not even remember. This was a tricky question, one that I had posed to the image of Fayha', my wife, as soon as I had met this strange lady from Egypt. The gestures that I had got back counseled extreme caution. However, when I sought her advice again, her face was shrouded in a veil of total silence and rigid neutrality. As I pondered the situation, I decided that what it meant was that Fayha' was leaving the decision entirely in my hands and giving me complete discretion in the matter.
So be it!
However, I have a personal problem, one that I must try to solve, or else it's going to totally preoccupy my attention. The issue concerns monogamy: that I'm married to one woman and only one, Fayha', my very life and the sweet perfume of the monotheistic phase in which I am living and functioning. 0 God, please resolve this problem for me, unravel my uncertainties, and show me the path that You prefer me to follow!
I kept repeating that prayer beneath the sacred waterspout and in every single holy spot that I visited; in my prayers, litanies, and supplications; sitting and standing, every single place I went. But days and months went by without my getting any answer or even part of one. No light shone on the topic, not even the glimmer of one. All praise be to God who decides and predestines!
Ah me, how days and seasons can weigh one down when there is no certain news about one's homeland and family!
By now I have been in Mecca for more than five years. There's no news about either my students in Granada or my family in Sabta and Tangier. My only consolation lies in the fact that I've received a letter from Al-Shushtari in which he tells me that he is settled back in Bijaya and trying to recover from his various health problems. He tells me that he is hoping to join me in Mecca soon. Part of the letter includes a poem that begins
There are other verses too in which he lavishes on me the kind of praise that I pray to God to justify their author's good opinion of me, if only to a certain extent. I will also admit that I got a good deal of consolation from the series of meetings that I used to convene with some students on the roof once a week at lunchtime. The person who was most assiduous in proposing the idea and organizing the session was none other than Yasir from Yemen, the warden, who spared no effort to get things ready and provide all the necessary facilities to make it successful. Among those who used to attend the sessions on a regular basis was that strange Egyptian woman whom I continued to address as Sitt Umama.
I was very careful to make sure that the meetings with this woman in the garden, all within the general context of those lessons, were overseen, indeed overlooked, by the warden in person. I wanted to avoid any suspicion. In my fear of God I asked Him to keep me safe from the temptations of the Devil and the lusts of the flesh. Our discussions were usually somewhat sorrowful, but were nevertheless pleasant enough; there was no dissimulation or formality involved. She would ask me a question about the law, and I would give her a legal opinion; she would ask me to explain some Sufi principles or about previous female ascetics, and I would respond. When she inquired about my family, I told her that I loved my wife deeply and was very attached to her, to which she responded by wishing us both health, long life, and the opportunity to live together once again. Once in a while she came to ask to borrow some of my books or to give me some spiced coconut honey or sweetmeats that she herself had made, prime among them being some special pastries.
Thus I used to spend my days teaching, worshipping, and reading. Whenever I felt weak or ill at ease, I used to go out on exploratory walks around Mecca and the neighboring areas. I walked for miles, and on each occasion I used to turn off by the Mountain of Light; part of the time I would simply sit on the flat stone, but I would also squat in the blessed cave as well. Just listen now, Al-Shushtari, as I briefly talk about this particular spot (and I'll be able to expand on this description when we meet, either in this place or somewhere else):
As I've already told you, my pens had all dried up and my pages had been folded away. However, at this particular place and time, I've started composing again, but based on tablets whose origins lie inside me and whose branches are in my mind. The pen that I am using is subtle, precise, and clear, to the point of being almost invisible. The ink that flows from it could just as well be coming from the Red Sea itself, so plenteous is it, or from some abundant underground well. What I compose is a vast flood, but, when I go back to my private quarters, all I can remember is the headings. Some of them observe my transformations from the onward rushing violence of time to my desire for the clear truth, while others raise high the standards of my defiance and ascent to flutter obstinately in the breeze.
This then was my way of life, with its burning, ascendant motto: anyone who would advise people to continue the struggle and ascend ever upward without doing such things himself is a craven hypocrite. Knowledge is an indication of lofty goals. In the firmament of love one will find nourishment for life and the path to well-being. Those are the things that I have talked about and taught to others. There can be no going back, even if all manner of catastrophes, disasters, and squabbles should gang up against me. My success comes only through God; it is toward Him that I strive and to Him that I turn for consolation and help.
As the sixth year of my stay in Mecca drew to a close [1258 CE], news arrived of the terrible destruction that Baghdad had suffered at the hands of the Mongol hordes under Hulagu Khan.* Everything had been destroyed: crops, property, children, families. The collapsing fortunes of the Abbasid caliphal dynasty had finally been crushed. As a direct result, huge numbers of refugees made their way to the Hijaz region of Arabia, as they tried to escape almost certain death. The city of Mecca received a large number of such people, and Muslims rushed to offer them all the assistance that they could: shelter, food, and medical services. I was among the group charged with medical matters and offering care to the wounded and traumatized. The majority consisted of wounded men, but there were women, children, and old folk as well. At the hospital I did my best to treat them with drugs, plant remedies, and comforting words. The majority of people I dealt with in this way were orphans, widows, and bereaved women. They all had their stories about the utter barbarity of the Tatars and their deliberate terrorist policies involving mass murder and total destruction of everything.