The letter was sent with a traveling merchant. From that moment, I waited for eight full months with no response or reaction from the Maghrib. Eventually I despaired of waiting and wrote once again to Sultan Faraj begging him to let me travel. Yet again his response was to issue yet another official edict appointing me Maliki judge. I accepted the position with the greatest reluctance so as not to annoy the sultan and completely sever every last strand of hope. This all happened in Dhu al-Qa‘da of the same year.
Like present, like past, water and water, this was the way I regarded my reappointment as judge: testimony, statements, mistakes, in never-ending succession, all accompanied by an increasingly sophisticated use of graft, fraud, and trickery. In such circumstances, how I longed to break my bonds and leave forever the whirlpool of corruption for another place where people could live a simpler life with their animals and land. Had I been younger and more vigorous, I would not have hesitated for a single second to take a boat or camel and travel long distances, taking in vast expanses and incredible sights on the way. But when old age strikes and you have one foot in the grave, all you can do is chew the cud while you wait or else react and object as you ride on the backs of fancies and dreams. For my part, I kept having disturbing nightmares. Whenever I woke up after them, my mouth would still be moist with the stirring words I had been uttering. There was one day when I managed to recall every detail about such a dream: I had been speaking to Sultan Faraj. He was totally drunk and weaving his way among his drinking companions. “You took me with you on a foul war and then you ran away. You gave me up for lost with your sworn enemy. As a result, when news reached Cairo that I’d been killed, my family was shattered. What do you have to say?” The sultan let out a vile laugh. “Old man Judge,” he responded with a leer, “can anyone your age still be so in love? No doubt, your young wife has found herself another mate. Forget all about her and have a good time!” My dream finished with me saying, “God curse all wanton drunkards, you shameless and godless reprobates!”
At the beginning of Dhu al-Hijja, when I was most depressed, Sha‘ban came up to see me with a beaming smile.
“Master,” he said, “I hate seeing you so depressed and miserable. I realize that your wife’s departure has affected you very deeply, but aren’t you the one who has always said, ‘Never despair of God’s mercy’? During last year’s pilgrimage season I asked a Maghribi pilgrim on his way back to Fez from Cairo to enquire after your wife and tell her that you are still alive and are longing to have her back. My network did not produced any results, but I’d like to try again with the pilgrims from Fez who are leaving here on their way back to the Maghrib. So write some letters to Umm al-Banin, daughter of Salih al-Tazi, and I’ll see to the rest.”
My expression managed to reflect some glimmerings of hope. Welcoming Sha‘ban’s idea, I kissed him and promised to write some letters.
I wrote just one short letter in a number of copies. In it I told my wife that I was still alive and employed and that my dearest wish was that she and our daughter would return to me. Sha‘ban gave the letter to seven separate pilgrims and asked them to make a thorough search and carry out their mission to the full. I prayed to God to respond to my network of letters and bring about a happy outcome. Two months and more now passed with no news from the Maghrib. Meanwhile, I kept counting the time in heartbeats and upsets to my lifestyle. Neither my dismissal from the judgeship for the fourth time nor news of Sultan Bayazid’s death in one of Timur’s prison cages interfered with my patient waiting.
Rabi‘ al-Awwal of 806 came to an end, to be followed by Rabi‘ al-Akhir. Sha‘ban tried to counter the effects of my rekindled depression with various promises and soothing thoughts, including a solemn promise to undertake the rigors of a journey — albeit after a two- or three-month wait — to bring my wife and daughter back. “Unlike you, Master,” he would say, “I’m not involved in the sultan’s court. It’s up to me to perform this function as a sign of my gratitude to you for your generosity and kindness.”
Sha‘ban’s genuine and kind offer touched me deeply and made me feel somewhat happier. With a certain amount of effort I forced myself to start reading books again, things that had been waiting on my desk for some time. I also made some additions to the dictated texts which my late amanuensis, Hammu, had written down during those seven nights, and some marginal notes concerning my correspondence with the late Lisan al-Din ibn al-Khatib and my journey to see the king of Castille, Pedro Alfonso, some four decades earlier.
At the end of Rajab in this same year, Sha‘ban heard a gentle tap on the door at about midday. His heart in his mouth, he rushed over to open it. There, right in front of him, stood Umm al-Banin with her jalabiya, veil, and other familiar features. He could not stop himself from kissing her forehead and hands and yelling out her name in welcome and in thanks to God who had responded to his prayers. When he brought her up to my private quarters, they both found I was doing my prayers, so they waited till I had finished. However, I deliberately prolonged the wait till there was complete quiet and the only sound to be heard was me reciting my prayers. With that, Sha‘ban went to the kitchen to prepare drinks and sweets and get lunch ready. When he returned with his tray, I was still performing prayers and intercessions. Once I had finished, I started reciting some of the short suras from the Qur’an in an audible voice, and followed them with other litanies and prayers. At long last, I turned to face my wife.
“You did me wrong, my wife,” I told her with tears in my eyes. “You believed all the stories about my death. You should have waited till my corpse was brought back. You should have planned burial rites in accordance with my station. You did me wrong, my wife!”
My wife leaped up and kissed my hands, then burst into tears. She asked Sha‘ban who was on his way back to the kitchen to vouch for the fact that her brother had played a big part in her decision to leave. Everyone had assured her that people who fell into the Mongol monster’s hands were sure to die. She went on to say that, as soon as she had received my letter, she had immediately made plans to come back here along with two families from the Fez nobility who were traveling to the holy places to perform the minor pilgrimage.
“And where’s my daughter, al-Batul?”
“With my mother, revered pilgrim. When you left, her health deteriorated. Thanks to my mother’s potions, she’s much better now that she’s in Fez. My closest friends advised me not to subject her to the rigors of such a long journey.”
“But she has to come back. Without you and her this house is an unbearable wasteland!”
“It’s the same with our home in Fez, O lord of men! No delight, no pleasure. I’ve returned so you can see me as you’ve known me. I’ve come to beg you, by our lord Idris, to come back with me to the city of that pious saint.”
“That’s very difficult, Umm al-Batul, and will require some thought.”
After a period of silence, she told me she had promised the Fez families that she would be returning with them to Fez by boat from Alexandria at the end of Dhu al-Hijja. There were five months ahead, and that was quite enough to make preparations for the journey. For the time being there was no need to discuss the matter.
“From now till then,” I said, “there’s always God, the Wise Arranger. Sha‘ban, bring in the lunch.”
My faithful servant came in with lunch, all smiles and thanks to God. He spread it out in front of us and justified the amounts by saying that this was a festival day. I found my appetite again, a sure sign that my spirit had returned. I started asking my wife to eat and made an effort to erase all signs of annoyance from my expression. When I managed to smile for the first time, she went away for a moment and returned with gifts in the form of a burnous, prayer mat, rosary, and several bottles. I made do with taking the burnous, which was exactly like the one that was stolen from me, and handed the rest to Sha‘ban with due thanks to Umm al-Batul for her kindness.