In previous years the Kadi al-Fadil had made a token appearance, to be greeted by a display of a thousand phalluses. The Kadi had quickly retreated, and refused to address the common people. This year, with the Sultan in the city, the Kadi was taking no risks. He could not afford to let the Festival degenerate into an orgy. His inspectors had appeared on the streets the previous night, accompanied by the criers, shouting out a warning: all obscene displays would be severely punished. The response of the people was equally severe. A transvestite had been picked to be the Emir.
When we reached the square outside the palace, the noise had subsided. It was as if everyone simultaneously had felt the Sultan’s presence. He was seated on his horse, surrounded by his personal bodyguards. As our Emir approached, Salah al-Din rode forward to meet him. Words were exchanged between them, but only the transvestite heard them. A hundred different versions were circulating later that afternoon. The Sultan was seen to smile. Then he rode back into the palace.
The revelry would continue late into the night, but many of us, exhausted and hungry, began to make our way home as the sun began to set. Rachel and I had removed our masks. We were buying some wine to take home when a face I thought I recognised approached, bent over my ear and whispered.
“Ibn Yakub, if you want to see some real fun tonight, go to the Turcoman quarter, just behind al-Azhar. Don’t go to the Bab al-Zuweyla this year. The shadow-plays will be something unusual.”
Before I could reply, the man had disappeared. Why was his face so familiar? Where had I seen him before? My inability to place him began to irritate me. Then, while we were eating our evening meal, I remembered who he was, and the memory made me gasp. He was one of the eunuchs, Ilmas by name, who worked in the harem. I had seen him, on occasion, talking to Shadhi and whispering in the Sultan’s ear. He must be a spy sent to observe the shadow-players, and to report on each of their performances. He had spoken to me conspiratorially, but was his whispered message in reality an order from the Sultan? Usually the players performed just outside the Bab al-Zuweyla. Was the eunuch Ilmas trying to keep me away from something? I gave up and decided to follow his advice.
The festivities were approaching a natural climax as I walked back through the maze of lamplit streets to the Bab al-Zuweyla. Reassured by the fact that nothing unusual was taking place there, I walked on till I had reached the Turcoman quarter. The square was lit by lamps, and people were drinking and eating as they discussed the events of the day.
Salah al-Din, according to the gossips in this quarter, had complimented the “Emir” on his eye make-up, and asked whether he and his friends would come and celebrate the impending liberation of al-Kuds. At this critical point, our transvestite leader had evidently lost his tongue and simply nodded like a child in the presence of a magician.
The odour of hashish, not at all unpleasant, wafted by me at several points. At a distance I could see a large gauze cloth, behind which the shadows of the musicians and the actors could be seen preparing for the first of the evening’s performances.
The play began at midnight. It was the story of a beautiful girl, surprised with her lover by an angry husband. The anguished crowd sighed with sympathy as the lover was slain and the woman dragged away by her husband.
During the interval, the fate of the woman was the only subject of discussion. Angry debates shook the square. Should the husband have killed her as well? Why had he killed the lover when it was his wife’s fault in the first place? Why kill anyone? Love was sublime and no laws, Allah be praised, could prevent the attraction of one person for another.
As the evening progressed, I realised that what we were watching was no ordinary tale. I seemed to know all these characters — or was my imagination at work, seeing parallels where there were none? The emotional tension in the square indicated that I was not the only one to have noticed a degree of coincidence.
The second part of the performance removed all my doubts. The husband was sentenced to a public flogging at the Bab al-Zuweyla, and the errant wife was sent to a lame preacher, blind in one eye. The preacher, instead of offering her spiritual sustenance, soon seduced her, and at this point the curtain began violently shaking. A shadow-copulation began, with a cucumber symbolising the preacher’s penis and a gourd his victim’s vagina.
On most occasions, when these plays reach their bawdy climax the audience joins in with unrestrained laughter and slow claps, but not tonight. With entry effected, the musicians began to hum a dirge. This union, they were telling us, was not a joyous one.
The atmosphere during the second interval was more restrained. People spoke in whispers. Misfortunes like this were common in the town, but it was obvious to everyone that the half-blind preacher was a barely disguised version of the Sultan. That was why Ilmas, the eunuch, had wanted me to come here tonight. Was this Halima’s revenge? I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to confront the grinning visage of Ilmas.
“How did our great scholar find the play?”
“Who wrote it, Ilmas? Who?”
“Can’t you guess?”
I shook my head.
“I think,” he whispered, “the authorship will be obvious before the performance concludes.”
There was something in the way he spoke that sent a chill through my body. Instinctively I felt that I should leave at this point, and not stay till the end. I was curious to see how it would end, but I was also fearful.
The Sultan trusted me. If he found out that I had been present at this occasion, but had not provided him with a detailed account, he might question my loyalty. If I stayed till the end, I would have to tell the Sultan. If I left now, it would be proof enough that I had a low regard for the play and did not believe it merited any special report.
I nodded a farewell to Ilmas, who could not conceal his surprise, and began to walk away.
Eight
The story of the sheikh who, in order to keep his lover at home with him, forces his sister into marriage with the man, and the disastrous consequences for all three
“YOU HAD BETTER PROCEED immediately to the audience chamber, Ibn Yakub. The Sultan has been waiting for you and he is not in good spirits this morning.”
Shadhi’s tone worried me, but from his eyes I learnt nothing. Perhaps it was my now waning guilt at having attended the shadow-play. I had misinterpreted his voice.
The Sultan was indeed looking stern, but he was not alone. The Kadi al-Fadil was seated in front of him. Both men smiled as I entered the chamber. That, at least, was reassuring. I bowed and took my place, just below the Sultan’s throne.
“Peace be upon you, Ibn Yakub,” said the Sultan. “I’m glad you did not stay for the final act of the performance in the Turcoman quarter last night. Al-Fadil and I were admiring your good taste and judgement.”
The Kadi aimed his stern gaze straight at me. I did not avert my eyes. He smiled with his lips, but his eyes remained hard.
“The eunuch who betrayed the Sultan’s trust was executed early this morning. If you take a walk this evening you will see how his head decorates the Bab al-Zuweyla.”
I nodded my head in appreciation. Should I ask them why the foolish Ilmas had decided on the course which had led to his beheading, or was it better to remain silent? Curiosity triumphed. I looked at al-Fadil.
“Why did the eunuch Ilmas decide…?”
“The answer lies in the play. He was in love with the red-haired temptress. She had rebuffed him several times. The only way to possess her was in his imagination.”
“Enough!” said Salah al-Din with a frown. “We have more important matters to discuss. Begin, al-Fadil, and prepare to write, scribe.”