I tried hard to suppress a hearty laugh, but was only partly successful, particularly when this woman from Fez went on to ask me in all seriousness, “This al-Hakim, the builder of this mosque, was he Barquq’s father or grandfather?”
I promised to tell her when we got home. We continued on our way, while I muttered to myself that history and Umm al-Banin were clearly two diametrical opposites that would never come together. So I pray You, God, to keep her as innocent as she is and well rid of information about kings and eras.
On Bayn al-Qasrayn I showed my wife the big palace and the minister’s residence and then pointed out the Salihiya College where I had taught three years earlier.
“I am really terribly ignorant, ‘Abd al-Rahman,” she confided as she leaned toward me. “You’re laughing at me. . ”
“God forbid,” I replied. “I would never laugh at someone like you who is so eager to learn. What made me laugh in front of the al-Hakim Mosque was something quite different. My dear Umm al-Banin, the builder of that mosque was mentally ill and used to use his ever-changing moods and stories from old women as instruments of rule.”
“Stories from old women?”
“Yes, he used to get all kinds of information from deep inside people’s houses, most especially those of senior officials in the government. He was able to use the information the old women provided to find out all their reprobate habits involving eating and sex. They all assumed he must be some kind of sorcerer who could read the unseen.”
My wife smiled broadly.
“That’s what made me laugh,” I went on, seizing the moment.
We made our way through alleys, squares, and markets till we reached Bab al-‘Id Square; via Darb al-Salami and Darb Mulukhiya we reached the tomb-mosque of al-Husayn. Here I told my wife the story of al-Husayn’s severed head, which affected her deeply. With that we went over to al-Azhar Mosque. Each of us went to the appropriate side to pray. When I came out, I found Umm al-Banin buying a pomegranate from an itinerant salesman, while a handsome young man kept hovering around her. That made me really angry. Without pausing to think, I grabbed the young man by the arm and told him to go away. He slunk away, but not before asking a hurtful question: “Are you her father? I’m prepared to ask for her hand in front of witnesses.” Suppressing my fury, I went over to my wife. If it hadn’t been for the number of people staring at us, I would have hidden her inside my cloak so as to avoid all the rude gestures that were being aimed in my direction. I scolded her for buying yet another pomegranate, when we had already purchased one before. She told me that for a few days now she had felt a craving for pomegranates; the sensation she felt was overpowering.
We arrived home safely and found sha‘ban anxiously awaiting our return. Removing my cloak and shoes I collapsed on the bench. Umm al-Banin disappeared inside for a moment and came out with a bowl of warm water. She started rubbing my feet in the water, something she had done for me regularly ever since we were married; she paid particular attention to ankles and toes. I had told her previously that, whenever my late wife had been cooking, resting, or taking a cure, she had regaled me with her own spontaneous remarks. So now Umm al-Banin proceeded to do likewise, adding some categories of her own, whose secrets she had learned from women in Fez, including telling jokes—‘yams’ as we used to call them.
I asked Sha‘ban to prepare lunch for us. He was delighted and took his time over it. I made use of the opportunity to convince Umm al-Banin that she should leave some of the household chores to my aged servant. Then he would not get bored with sitting around with nothing to do; that would make him forget the idea that we did not need him any more. Tyrannical regimes are bad in politics, I told her, and they are just as bad in household management. She relented and supported my position, promising to slow down a bit and take advice, something al-Hakim, the builder of the mosque, had never done.
I had to take a nap, and did so in the bedroom before the time came for afternoon prayers. While I was dozing, a thought occurred to me about incipient old age, the first signs of which I had glimpsed during our morning walk. On the basis of such early symptoms I came to the conclusion that it involved having one foot in the grave and the other in a state of patience; a gradual process of finding movement increasingly trying to the point of impossibility, all that accompanied by a distressing realization that it was actually happening. Death consisted simply in a confirmation of rigidity brought on by a lack of awareness of the body.
In order to keep pace with my wife and make her happy in intimate as well as public matters, I would need, as of today, to keep old age’s clutches at bay and thwart all efforts launched by decrepitude and weakness to gain control of my body. I would have to follow the lead of old people who were fit and well, seeking aid and sustenance from Him who is Eternal and Alive. O God, I beseech You not to cover my head with too many gray hairs, nor to weaken whatever strength of mind and body I have left!
Somewhat resentfully, I got up and joined my wife on the roof veranda overlooking the Nile. She was sitting there modestly contemplating, all the while devouring a pomegranate and staring at her stomach. When she realized I had come up, she told me somewhat bashfully that she really wanted some pears and cake. I ask Sha‘ban to go to the closest market and get some. Just then she started crying like a baby. I asked her if she wanted some more fruit or sweetmeats, but she hid her face in her hands and seemed surprised that I did not seem to realize why she was having these cravings. For a moment she hesitated, but then stuttered out her wonderful news: “I’m pregnant, ‘Abd al-Rahman, pregnant!” I was so overjoyed that I almost started crying too; I had never seriously thought that this could happen.
“So you’re pregnant, Umm al-Banin!” I said, hugging her to me. “Have you made quite sure?”
“The signs are all there. I can tell and so can the midwife.”
“Pray to Me and I will answer you. All praise and thanks to my Lord!”
The kind of joy that I could now see making my wife cry was something the like of which I had never witnessed before. I can offer it as a definition of life itself. Life requires of us that we be willing to accept it as it is and offer it tokens of generosity and happiness. Joy and energy must win the battle against gloom and restraint.
Sha‘ban came back with the things he had been asked to get and a tray of coffee. I stood up and hugged him, whispering the good news in his ear along with instructions to help Umm al-Banin around the house. He was excited and offered me blessings, prayed that she would have a safe delivery, then withdrew. I started sipping my coffee, while my pregnant wife wiped the tears from her face now smudged with kohl and bits of cake.
Ever since I found out about my wife’s pregnancy, I’ve been counting time in days, living a life of excitement and anticipation. So worked up have I become at the thought of life growing inside my wife’s womb that I have found neither the energy nor interest to keep up with events or follow recent developments, however significant they may have been and wherever they may have occurred. The process of waiting while an embryo changes from an unseen force into a visible reality is something that demands as much concentration as possible. During this waiting period I’ve occasionally had the chance to look over my papers with a view to editing and correction, adding a thought or note here and there by way of illustration or explanation. I’ve also been staying up a lot at night, performing the required prayers and reading extracts from Ibn Hazm’s The Dove’s Neckring, Ibn Qayyim’s Meadow for Lovers, and Abu al-Faraj’s Book of Songs. Most of the time I have been making preparations and feeling scared, listening to Sha‘ban’s advice and observing everything the man does. I have no doubt in my mind that he fully deserves to enter paradise without any further reckoning.