It was a useful opening move by the old magician. The Sultan raised his hands to the heavens and laughed.
“The Sultan can only propose. Ibn Munqidh must dispose as he chooses.”
“Good,” said the old storyteller, and began without further ado.
“Some years ago I was invited to stay with a Franj nobleman, who lived in a small citadel near Afqah, not far from the river of Ibrahim. The citadel had been constructed on the top of a small hill, overlooking the river. The hillside was a cedar forest and the whole prospect afforded me great pleasure. For the first few days I admired the view and relished the tranquillity. The wine was of good quality and the hashish even better. What more could I want?”
“If Shadhi were here,” muttered the Sultan, “he would have replied: ‘A pretty young man!’”
Usamah ignored the remark and continued.
“On the third day my host informed me that his twenty-year-old son was seriously ill and asked me to take a look at him. I had met this boy once before and had taken a strong dislike to him. As the only son he was greatly overindulged by his parents. He used his position as the son and heir of the Lord of Afqah to have his way with any wench who caught his eye. Several months ago he had killed two peasant boys who attempted to protect the honour of their twelve-year-old sister. To say that he was loathed by his father’s tenants would be an understatement. Perhaps some of the stories about him that travelled from village to village were exaggerated during the journey. Perhaps not. It is difficult for me to say.
“Yet I could not turn down the request of my friend to look at the boy. I was not a trained physician, but I had studied all the medical formularies and my closest friends had been celebrated practitioners. After their deaths I was often consulted on medical matters and surprised myself by my own knowledge and prescriptions, which were often successful. My reputation had grown.
“I ordered the sheets to be removed and inspected the bare body of this boy. There were abscesses in both legs, which had spread and could kill him within a few weeks unless drastic measures were taken. It was too late for poultices and a severe diet. I told the father that the only way of saving the boy was to sever both legs from the thighs. My friend wept. His wife’s anguished screams softened even the hardest heart present in the boy’s chamber.
“Finally the father gave his approval, and I supervised the removal of the legs. The boy, not unnaturally, fainted. I knew from past experience that once he returned to awareness he would not realise his legs had been removed. This is an illusion which remains for a few days after an organ has been cut off. His father told me to ask the poor boy what his greatest wish was in this world, and he would do all in his power to make sure it was granted. We waited for him to recover. We waited for over an hour. When he opened his eyes, he smiled because the old pain had gone. I whispered in his ear: ‘Tell me, son, what would you like the most in this world?’ He smiled, and a chilling, lecherous grin disfigured his face. I bent down so he could whisper back in my ear. ‘Grandad,’ he said mockingly, and I was surprised that even in this state his voice was marked by viciousness. ‘What I really want more than anything else is a penis that is larger than my leg!’
“‘You have it, my boy,’ I replied, slightly ashamed at my own pleasure. ‘You have it.’”
At first, the Sultan looked at Usamah in horror. Then he began to laugh. I could see that the story was not yet finished. Usamah’s body movements indicated that a few embellishments, last-minute treats, still awaited us, but the Sultan’s laughter became uncontrollable and began to take on a character of its own. He would stop. Usamah would make as if to continue, but the Sultan would be overcome by a new fit of laughter. I had caught the infection and joined him, discarding a time-honoured court ritual. At this juncture, Usamah, deciding that his isolation was now complete and that his story was destined to remain unfinished, decided to forgo the ending and joined in the merriment.
The Sultan, having recovered his composure, smiled.
“What a marvellous storyteller you are, Usamah ibn Munqidh! Even Shadhi, may he rest in peace, would not have been able to resist a laugh. I understand now that humour only amuses when it is twinned to something else. Have you anything else for us this evening?”
The Sultan’s praise pleased Usamah. The lines on his face multiplied as he smiled to show his pleasure. The old man took a deep breath and his eyes became distant as he recalled another episode from his long life.
“Many years ago, some time before you were born, O Sultan, I found myself one evening in a tavern in the Christian quarter of Damascus where only lofty subjects were discussed on the day of the Christian Sabbath. I was nineteen or twenty years of age. All I wanted was to enjoy a flask of wine and think again of a Christian girl who had been occupying my mind for several months.
“I had come to this quarter on that particular day for one reason alone. I wanted to catch sight of her coming out of church with her family. We would exchange glances, but that was not the sole reason for my journey to this quarter. If the scarf was white it was bad news, and meant we could not meet later that day.
“If, however, she was wearing a coloured headscarf it was a sign that we would meet later that evening, at the house of one of her married friends. There we might hold hands in tender silence. Any attempt by me to stroke her face or kiss her lips had been firmly rebuffed. Last week she had taken me by surprise, by responding warmly to my lukewarm effort to go beyond holding hands. She had not merely kissed me, but guided my hand to feel her warm and trembling breasts. Having set me on fire, she had refused to put out the flames, leaving me frustrated and in a state of considerable despair.
“‘One citadel at a time, Usamah. Why are you so impatient?’ Having whispered these words in my ear she had fled, leaving me alone to cool myself. It was this change in her attitude that had given this particular day its importance. I was dreaming of conquering the citadel that lay hidden under that perfumed forest of hair between her legs.
“She emerged from the church, wearing a coloured scarf. We exchanged smiles and I walked away, surprised at my own self-control. I wanted to jump up and down and shout to all the other people on the street that exquisite raptures awaited me that afternoon. Happy is the one who has experienced the torments, tempests and passions of everyday life, for only he can truly enjoy the fragile and tender delights of love.
“I waited for her at the house of her friend, but she did not arrive. After two hours a servant-boy came with a letter addressed to her friend. She had made the mistake of confiding her growing love for me to her older sister, who, overcome by jealousy, had informed their mother. She was worried that her parents would now hasten her marriage to the son of a local merchant. She pleaded with me not to act rashly, but to await a message from her.
“I was desolate. I wandered the streets like a lost soul and wandered into the tavern of lofty thoughts with only one thought, namely to drown my sorrows. To my amazement they were not serving wine that day. The innkeeper informed me that they never served wine in his establishment on the Sabbath. I found this odd, since alcohol had always been part of their pagan church ritual, symbolising as it did, the blood of Isa.
“I protested and was informed in a cold voice that the prohibition had nothing to do with religion. It was simply the day designated for lofty thoughts. I was welcome to repair to a neighbouring tavern. I looked around and realised that the clientele, too, was unusual. There were over fifty people, mainly men, but a dozen women. Most of them were old. I think, leaving me aside, the youngest person present must have been forty years of age.