In service to the Sultan he had performed admirably as a Qadi, doling out justice in the manner that the Quran prescribed. As Ibn Battuta did not speak Persian very well he had been assigned two assistants to help him translate the petitions of those attending court. His punishments were known to be harsh but fair, and the Sultan had shown him even greater favor by tasking him with the maintenance of the Qutb al-Din Mubarak mausoleum, a venerated historical site, as reward.
Ibn Battuta had taken a wife as well, the daughter of a court official who’d plotted rebellion against Muhammad Tughluq and had been put to death. She was very lovely, with a sharp mind and a ferocious wit. Soon after the wedding she became pregnant with child. The doctors who visited their stately home, another gift from the generous sultan, foresaw the birth of a healthy baby girl.
It seemed for a time that Ibn Battuta would live out the rest of his days in Delhi, for life was good and he was rather well off in the grand scheme of things. Unfortunately, the learned explorer had taken to befriending various holy men in the capital, as was his wont. One of these men, a well known Sufi mystic, had flatly refused the summons of the Sultan when he was called to advise his liege, believing himself to be above such mundane matters of state. Such an errant refusal would simply not do, and the man was dragged to the court by the royal guard and had his beard plucked out hair by hair in a publically humiliating ceremony. He was then banished from the realm. Later the mystic, who was by now only trying to live a simple, religious life as a hermit, was ordered again to return to court by his liege, whose command he again disobeyed. This was too much for the Sultan, who by all accounts was an intelligent and generous man to his friends but was bloodthirsty and violence-prone towards his enemies; he had the Sufist arrested, tortured, and executed.
Worse still, the Sultan sought to make an example out of the mystic who had refused to serve his liege for the betterment of the kingdom, and had a list drawn up of the man’s friends. Ibn Battuta’s name was included on said list, and he was put under house arrest with armed guards at every entrance and exit to his home.
The Moroccan prayed and fasted for nine days, more fervently than he ever had before. He read the Quran cover to cover each day, endlessly absorbing the Surahs and their wisdom. When he was finally summoned before the Sultan he was pale white and gaunt thin, resembling nothing more than a sorrowful wraith. Muhammad Tughluq smiled as he greeted his faithful servant, and assured him repeatedly he had nothing to fear. Relief washed over Ibn Battuta’s face and, in an act of courage and contrition, asked his Lord if he might make the Hajj again in gratitude for his master’s endless kindness and benevolence.
The Sultan declined his servant’s request, and instead proposed an assignment he suspected Ibn Battuta would take up gladly: to serve as an envoy to the distant Mongol Court of China, the Great Yuan.
****
Cairo’s nightlife was like no other; the city pulsed with the vibrant hum of eight million souls. From afar it seemed to glow and shake with radiant energy, an orange haze of electric light blotting out the stars above. The throb and din of its people was excessive, and Amina reveled in the sheer excess of life found here. The city was older than Tunis, amazingly enough, and far larger; here was an epicenter of humankind, a node of civilization that stretched across the ages, an eternal epoch unto itself. The Nile, the broad river that coursed as a vein through the heart of the metropolis was its ley line, a nurturing mother even as its children abused and despoiled her; it would not falter, could not cease to sustain and simply be, even if the seas were to rise and humankind collapse in on itself.
Amina entertained briefly the thought of simply abandoning her task here and submerging herself into the city’s miasma, absorbing its history and folkways waiting to be uncovered, excavated even. The thought was attractive, but she reigned in the impulse; she was here with a purpose. She stood outside Cairo University’s New Central library, wherein her book launch party was already underway.
“Amina!” her mother called to her from the balcony doorway. “Amina what are you doing out there? There are a lot of people in here who want to meet you.”
“I’ll be right in, mom. I’m just admiring the view. I’ve never been to Cairo before, you know!”
Her mother approached her and put her arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “I know, my beloved. No one in the family has; we’re the first.”
“This has all happened so fast. I didn’t think the sheikh would actually answer my email, let alone say yes to my request for backing.”
“But it’s what you wanted, isn’t it? What Ali would’ve wanted?”
“Yes, I think so...yes.”
“Well then, let’s go inside and talk to some very important people, shall we?”
“Alright mom. Sounds good.” Amina clasped her mother’s hand in hers and walked confidently back into the library’s media center. Clusters of academics, both westerners and native-born Egyptians hovered around platters of hors d'oeuvres, mingling and conversing in English, French, and Arabic. An oversized display of the book, the party’s raison d’être, its white cover flecked with Amina’s stylized illustrations of butterflies, stood in the center of the room. She had thought the massive replica a bit gaudy but the publishers’ PR firm responsible for the release had insisted, and so she’d gone along reluctantly. She wasn’t sure about this launch party either, but her mother had encouraged her to fly out here, to mingle and socialize, to imitate the creatures on her book’s cover. And it was her book, just as much as it was Ali’s, in a way. The title was there in bold, glossy black letters: My Country, My Faith. Thoughts from a Deceased Tunisian Reformist. Below it, in smaller but still visible print, was Ali’s full name and then her own. He had done the writing, the substance of the work, but it had been a disjointed, meandering maze of theory and ideas. She had connected the pieces together, more than just editing the essays; she had even written the forward. I have straightened a crooked path.
A well-dressed man approached Amina and her mother, and bowed slightly, placing his hand over his heart in a traditional greeting. “Good evening, Amina, Mrs. Hannachi. It is a pleasure to finally meet with you both in person. I’m Karim Thawadi.”
Amina’s eyes grew wide. “Mr. Thawadi! The pleasure is all mine. Thank you for coming. You’ve been so helpful over these last few months, I greatly appreciate it.”
“Not at all, not at all. It was our mutual benefactor, the sheikh, who insisted we make the publication of your book our top priority...our top terrestrial priority anyways. Speaking of whom, he sends his apologies for not being here in person. I’m afraid he has other pressing concerns that must, by necessity, command his attendance.”
Amina’s mother Najwa spoke up. “Yes of course. We know the sheikh is a busy man! We’ve been following the elevator’s progress with great interest. All of Tunisia is.”
“Well I’m glad to hear it. That is half of the sheikh’s motivation in getting the elevator up and running: to overwhelm the Arab world’s factionalization and disparate power struggles with dreams of progress and prosperity for all. That is also the reason why he has endorsed and supported your book Amina, and Ali’s writings; our efforts are two sides of the same ideological coin.”
Amina hadn’t considered this particular revelation before, and sought to test it. “But don’t you think both our works, especially when seen linked together, might drive certain groups - the fundamentalists I mean - to further aggravation? There are enough destabilizing events in the Middle East: the civil war in Syria, the Islamic State, Al-Qaeda. I won’t back down of course, but we’ve already seen what can happen…” And here she trailed off, a sharp stab of emotion briefly overwhelming her; the wound of Ali’s murder still fresh even after so much time. She immediately composed herself and continued. “I refer to both my loss and the recent attack on your facility.”
Karim removed his glasses and wiped them on his red silk pocket kerchief. “Just so, but we believe the overall impact in the
Middle East and North Africa to be a positive one, and also an ideological extension of the recent Arab Spring uprisings. The region has become incrementally more democratic over the last two decades despite the violence, and its people more educated, its middle class grown larger. I think we must remain optimistic.”
Amina looked out the window. She knew that even now members of a traditionalist Egyptian political party were protesting outside the university’s gates, condemning the book and those associated with it. She wondered if any of the protesters had even read its contents.
Turning back to Karim and her mother, she smiled. “Well, who knows what will happen. For now, let’s enjoy our night in the spotlight.” Her mother seemed pleased with her attitude adjustment, and looked at her daughter approvingly.
Karim bowed again, slightly. “I agree fully, Madame. And before I lose your kind attentions, I’d like to extend the sheikh’s formal invitation to you: a personal tour of Al-Hatem Aerospace’s tower and launch facility, whenever is most convenient.”
Amina’s heart skipped a beat. “Please tell him I accept! How exciting!” She was truly thrilled. “Perhaps after the coming holidays? Really whenever works for him... I will make the time.”
Karim noted her enthusiasm with a nod, and moved off to talk with a prominent Egyptian poet.
“Your father and I won’t be able to go with you, my dear, though I very much would like to. I have your father’s household and your brother to manage, and he has his work at the bank...”
“I know. I’ll go alone.”
“Are you sure? Perhaps we can find a cousin…” And at this her mother’s more traditional attitudes slipped through her enlightened, exterior affectation. There was nothing wrong with her being concerned; Amina understood completely. A single woman traveling in the Emirates would usually attract unwanted attention or reproach, but she was confident the sheikh would make the proper arrangements designed to mitigate any potential concern. He had done so much for her already, and they had not even spoken face to face.
“I’ll be ok mom, really. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure the sheikh will take care of everything.”
Her mother looked mollified. “Alright, but don’t you come crying to me if you get catcalled or shamed whenever you walk outside alone over there!”
“Of course not.” Just then several readers, two of whom had brought pens and copies of the book for Amina to sign, approached. She autographed each book with her name in flowing Arabic calligraphy, though it felt odd doing so. For a brief moment she wished Ali were there to sign the books in her stead. Would he have even sought to have his works published like this? She didn’t know. The patrons seemed pleased however, and began to pepper her with questions: What did she think of the developments in Egypt? Who should run for the presidency the following year? One man, an army officer by the looks of his dress uniform, even asked if she would endorse a particular secularist candidate for the office. She politely professed her ignorance of internal Egyptian politics, disarming the questioners with her charming Tunisian accent and articulate colloquy. Addressing the gathering crowd, Amina wished the Egyptian people well, and hoped the government would sustain and expand the rights and freedoms it granted to its citizenry during the recent uprisings. This brief speech brought a smattering of applause and appreciative nods, much to Amina’s surprise. When the conversation shifted to more frivolous topics, Amina excused herself and slipped away to the buffet table. What was that? She considered how she, still a nobody in her own mind, could have her opinions taken so seriously, and by the elite Egyptian literati no less. She looked over at her mother, who was laughing and enjoying herself as she teased two rather handsome, older looking statesmen. Is she flirting? Oh God and his prophets, help me. Well, at least one of us knows who she is.
****
The monofilament thread had slowly, incrementally become something more tangible, something solid. What was once a strand so thin it appeared to be made of silk had gradually become a woven cable of superb strength. The solifuge spiders had dragged their robotic forms down its surface ever so carefully, weaving carbon fibers and diamond nanothreads emitted from thorax printers in a complex braid. Those solifuges which ran low on the raw materials carried in their abdomens were refueled by other spiders which moved up and down the thread from the asteroid depot, an arachnid supply train of immense technological complexity and utter logistical simplicity. One solifuge would mount a weaver in a bizarre imitation of some biological mating ritual and would refuel the worker via docking nozzles before departing back up the thread to refuel and reload. It was all a thing of beauty, the work organized and governed by the AI embedded within each automaton, monitored by the terrestrial humans below. The result was a cable one and a half meters in diameter, possessed of incredible resiliency and strength.
Even more impressive, within the span of twenty-two weeks of nonstop, round-the-clock work approximately a third of the cable had been brought up to its operational size; Al-Hatem Aerospace was running ahead of schedule. The sheikh no longer had to court skeptical foreign investors or untrusting distant relations; international mining conglomerates, telecommunications and energy firms, even a New Zealand explorers’ guild had petitioned the company for space on the first elevator voyage up the cable. Al-Hatem’s mailroom was inundated with fan mail from all over the world. Some few parcels contained checks or extra stamps that would cover the cost of the weight of the envelope itself, each requesting that the missive be shipped into orbit for various sentimental or absurd reasons; the paltry cost soon affordable to any member of the global bourgeoisie.
Todd Wittry’s team was in charge of monitoring the spiders themselves, ensuring that they were functioning within defined and optimal safety parameters. Any solifuge that showed signs of deterioration or malfunction would return to the asteroid depot to be repaired by others of its make, though as of yet this had proved to be unnecessary; he and his team had designed outstanding machines. His crew worked alongside other teams that were in charge of other aspects of the elevator’s construction, each team’s manager reporting directly to Karim, who was seemingly ever present at the mission control center.
Despite their creation’s seeming success, Todd was not faring well. He had not fully recovered from the attempt on his life, and his mental faculties as well as his managerial skills had suffered for it. Sleep came infrequently to him, and when it did it was always filled with nightmares: guns pointed at his head, or losing control of his car at high speeds, the vehicle often careening over the side of a bridge or into a building full of pedestrians.
His psychiatrist, an Austrian woman who lived and worked in Abu Dhabi, had prescribed antidepressant and antianxiety medications, which he took to little effect. To make matters worse, his team seemed to be suffering alongside him. John Bolivar, while assiduously attending to his work, was untalkative and remote, unwilling to even engage in the most inane workplace socializing with his coworkers. He often refused to look Todd directly into the eye, and was never able to find the time for another golf outing or dinner date with his wife. Other coworkers were more open about their troubles: several of their homeland’s governments had contacted them, threatening them or their families with fines, jail, or permanent deportation unless they ceased their work for Al-Hatem Aerospace. Karim had been busy addressing these issues with his staffers on Todd’s behalf. International politics was above his pay grade.
Anne had done her best to comfort him, and had taken to cooking some classic American meals for Todd: grilled hamburgers and fries, lasagna, she had even bought a kilo of peaches at the vegetable souk and had made cobbler, his favorite dessert. He attempted to remain outwardly stoic, but on occasion the facade would crack, notably when Thor, their dog, had suffered a heat stroke and had to be taken to the nearest veterinarian’s office eighty kilometers away. The poor animal had survived, and was even now back to his gregarious, usual self, but the scare had stressed Todd to the breaking point.
; Communications with their family and friends back in the USA was also trying. Karim had advised them both that their phones and internet usage were being monitored by multiple governments, some hostile, and that they should cease, or at least try to limit, any discussions of Todd’s work for Al-Hatem. Anne’s family, her father and mother especially, had been accusatory and critical of their refusal to return home after the terrorist attack. This had put Anne in a sour mood for several weeks, which taxed their relationship even further.
Through it all Samam had been there, taking care of the household, preparing meals, ensuring that the additional security escort, a constant presence now, was able to do its job without being too intrusive into the family members’ personal lives. She was a blessing, a godsend, and Todd knew that he would have had a complete breakdown had it not been for her. She had even taken to chatting with Anne and he on their rare days off, and they learned of her life growing up on the streets of Karachi, her escape as a young girl to the UAE, her employment with the military and then the royal family. She had risen through the ranks of multiple patriarchal organizations through sheer aptitude, displaying a powerful strategic mind and proficiency for ranged and hand-to-hand combat.
Her stories were meandering and sweeping in scope: she had led a life of poverty and oppression only to escape and prove herself, an immigrant in a foreign land, through hard work, intelligence, dedication, and a little bit of luck. It was all a grand narrative that had taken many sessions to tell, Samam’s account only interrupted by Anne’s digressive inquiries or Todd making more coffee in the kitchen. Though they did not consciously realize it, the story had served to enhearten the couple, relieving some of the stress garnered from their daily lives and work, fostering their spirit to persevere in the face of adversity, especially as they were laboring as immigrants in an alien land. It was a propitious gift in a time of need, to be sure; Todd often felt like king Shahryār from One Thousand and One Nights, listening to Scheherazade spin her tale each successive evening, his whole being rapturously enchanted.
The Prophet's Ladder Page 14
