He smiled.
“It is painful, scribe. What happened took place seventy years ago, but I still feel the pain, right here in my heart. The past is fragile. It must be handled carefully, like burning coals. I have never spoken about what happened all those years ago to anyone, but you asked me with such affection in your voice that I will tell you my story, even though it is of interest to only me and affects nothing. Shirkuh was the only one who knew. I must warn you, it is not an unusual tale. It is simply that what happened burnt my heart and it never recovered. Are you sure you still want to hear me?”
I nodded and pressed his withered hand.
“I was nineteen years old. Every spring my sap would rise and I would find a village wench on whom to satisfy my lust. I was no different from anyone else, except, of course, for those lads who had difficulty in finding women and went up the mountains in search of sheep and goats. You look shocked, Ibn Yakub. Recover your composure. You asked for my story and it is coming, but in my own fashion. When we were children we used to tell each other that if you fucked a sheep your penis grew thick and fat, but if you went up a goat it became thin and long!
“I see that none of this amuses you, but life in the mountains is very different from Cairo and Damascus. The very function of these big cities is to curb our spontaneity and impose a set of rules on our behaviour. The mountains are free. Near our village there were three mountains. We could just lose ourselves there and lie back and watch the sun set, and permit nature to overpower us.
“One day my real father, your Sultan’s grandfather, raided a passing caravan and brought the plunder home. Part of what he had pillaged were a group of young slaves, three brothers aged eight, ten and twelve, and their seventeen-year-old sister.
“They were Jews from Burgos in Andalus. They had been travelling with their family near Damascus, and had been captured by bounty-hunters. The father, uncle and mother had been killed on the road, their gold taken by the traders. The children were being brought to the market in Basra to be sold.
“The sadness in the girl’s eyes moved me as nothing had done before, or has done since. She had clasped her brothers to her bosom and was awaiting her destiny. They were clothed, fed and put to bed. Our clan adopted them and the boys grew up as Kurds and fought many of our battles. As for the girl, Ibn Yakub, what can I say? I still see her before me: her dark hair which reached her waist, her face as pale as the desert sand, her sad eyes like those of a doe which realises that it is trapped. Yet she could smile, and when she smiled her whole face changed and lit the hearts of all those fortunate enough to be close to her.
“At first I worshipped her from a distance, but then we began to talk and, after a while, we became close friends. We would sit near the stream, near where the lilies with the fragrant scent grew, and tell each other stories. She would often start weeping as she remembered how her parents were murdered by the bandits. I could think of nothing else, Ibn Yakub. I asked her to become my wife, but she would smile and resist. She would say it was too soon to make such important decisions. She would say she needed to be free before she could decide anything. She would say she had to look after her brothers. She would say everything except that she loved me.
“I knew she cared for me, but I was annoyed by her resistance. I often became cold and distant, ignoring her when she came up to me and attempted to talk, ignoring her when she brought me a glass of juice made from apricots. I could see her pleading with her eyes for more time, but my response remained cruel. It was hurt pride on my part, and for us men of the mountains, dear scribe, our pride was the most important thing in the world.
“All my friends were aware that I was losing my head over her. They could see me going crazy with love, like characters we used to sing about on moonlit summer nights when we talked of conquering the world. My friends began to mock me and her. This made me even more determined to hurt her and offend her sensitivities and her feelings.
“How many times have I cursed this sky, this earth, this head, this heart, this ugly, misshapen body of mine, for not having understood that she was a delicate flower that had to be nurtured and protected. My passion frightened her. Soon her delight on seeing me turned to melancholy. As I approached, her face would fill with pain. She had become a bird of sorrow. Even though I was only twenty years old myself, I began to feel that I was fatal for all those who are tender and young.
“All this happened a long time ago, my friend, but have you noticed how my hand trembles as I speak of her? There is a tremor in my heart and I am beginning to lose my strength. I want to sink into the ground and die, for which the time cannot be too far away, Allah willing. You are waiting patiently for me to reach the end, but I am not sure if I can today. Now you look really worried. Let me finish then, Ibn Yakub.
“One evening a group of us young men had been drinking tamr, date wine, and singing the khamriyya and becoming more and more drunk and, in my case, unhappy. It was a really warm summer’s night. The sky was glittering with stars and the dull light of a waning moon was reflected in the water. I walked away from my group to the edge of the stream where she and I used to meet and talk. At first I thought I was imagining her presence. But my eyes had not deceived me. Feeling the heat of the evening, she had discarded her clothes. There she was, naked as the day she was born, bathing in the moonlight. The sight turned my head. I felt my senses taking leave of me, Ibn Yakub. May Allah never forgive me for what I did that night.
“I see from your frightened eyes that you have guessed. Yes, you are right, my friend. I was in the grip of an animal frenzy, though most animals are kinder to each other. I forced her against her will. She did not scream, but I could never forget the look on her face, a mixture of fear and surprise. I left her there by the stream, and made my way back to the village. She never returned. A few days later they found her body. She had drowned herself. You would have thought that an animal like me would have recovered, found other women, married and produced fine sons. Yet perhaps with her death the animal in me also died. My heart certainly did, and I think of it as buried near that little stream in the mountains of Armenia. I had discovered and lost a priceless treasure. I never looked at or touched another woman again. Alcohol, too, was banished from my life. Allah has his own ways of punishing us.”
Usually after one of his stories, Shadhi would wait for my reaction, discuss further details, and answer questions. Often we would share a glass of hot water or milk with crushed almonds, but not today. Today he slowly raised himself to his feet and limped away, probably cursing me inwardly for having compelled him to recall painful memories. He had said that the past was always fragile, and as I saw his back recede as he walked away, I thought of how he symbolised those very words in his own person.
I was stunned by his story. Forcing women was not an uncommon occurrence, but the punishment Shadhi had inflicted on himself was truly exceptional. This old man, to whom I was already greatly attached, now grew further in my estimation.
Sixteen
I meet the great scholar Imad al-Din and marvel at his prodigious memory
AS WAS MY HABIT, I entered the palace library to browse while I awaited my call from the Sultan. To my surprise, the person who came to fetch me today was the great scholar and historian Imad al-Din himself. Even though he was approaching his sixtieth year, there were not many white hairs on his head or in his beard. He was an imposing man, a good measure taller than both the Sultan and myself. One of his books, Kharidat al-kasr wa-djaridat ahl al-asr, an enlightening anthology of contemporary Arab poetry, had just been published, to great acclaim.