by Tariq Ali
Shadhi was dismissive, refusing to take the illness seriously.
“He probably had too much to drink or extended himself too far when fondling that foolish boy who read Salah al-Din’s letter. Go to bed, Ibn Yakub.”
I did go to bed, but I was too worried to sleep, so I got up again, put on my robe and walked outside. The moon had set and the stars had changed places. I walked slowly in the direction of Farrukh Shah’s bedchamber, only to be greeted by his favourite attendant who was weeping like a child, loudly and uncontrollably. I feared the worst, but he was still alive, though still in a swoon.
The next morning, Farrukh Shah’s condition weakened. He never recovered. Even as the Sultan was marching towards Aleppo, loud screams and wailing rent the citadel in Damascus, announcing to all of us that his nephew had breathed his last.
We buried him the next day, with all the honours due to his person. It was not just a gathering of nobles. Thousands of ordinary people, including several hundred vagrants, came to offer prayers at the side of his grave. This was the clearest indication to me that perhaps Shadhi’s hostility to the dead man had been misplaced.
TWENTY
Halima abandons Jamila and the latter is heartbroken
IN THE ABSENCE OF the Sultan my daily routine had been transformed. I would spend most of the morning in the library, studying any manuscript I could find which related to my own work. Here in Damascus there was a private collection in the possession of a great scholar, Ibrahim ibn Suleiman, now nearly ninety years of age. I had first heard of him and his library from someone whose memory even now brings me pain. My only image of him is that of an animal satisfying his lust on my wife’s body. I shall not dwell on him again, or so I have hoped.
Ibrahim was the oldest Rabbi in the city. I used to see him nearly every day as I made my way to the synagogue, behind which his library was situated. On most days he could be found there. Old age had not yet affected his mental faculties. On the few occasions when I needed to ask him for some advice, he revealed the splendours of his mind, making me feel somewhat sad and inadequate. He had heard a great deal of the intellectual prowess of the man I have no desire to mention again, and one day he sat me down and wanted to know everything I could tell him about Ibn Maymun.
The spell is broken. The accursed name has again darkened these pages. And yet...And yet, I could not deny Ibrahim ibn Suleiman the information for which he yearned with all the eagerness of an eighteen-year-old scholar.
So, against my will, and to please this great and generous old man, I talked of Ibn Maymun and of the work on which he was engaged. I mentioned why he was writing The Guide to the Perplexed, and, as I spoke, the wrinkled map that was Ibrahim’s face was suddenly wreathed in a smile so pure that I was shaken by the change. This was the face of true wisdom.
“I will the happy now, Ibn Yakub. Another has done what I wanted to, but could never achieve. I will write to Ibn Maymun, and give you the letter. You can use your position as the Sultan’s favoured scribe to have it sent to Cairo immediately. I will also enclose with the letter some of my own work on the subject which he might find of some use. How well do you know him?”
How well did I know him? The question echoed and re-echoed in my mind. A deep pain, which I thought I had transcended, gripped my insides once again, as the memory of that awful night burst like a thunderstorm that drowned me in the moment. I did not realise that tears were pouring down my face. Ibrahim wiped them with his hands and hugged me.
“He brought you grief?”
I nodded.
“You may tell me if you wish, even though I may not be able to help.”
And so my heart poured out its long-repressed agony to this patriarch in his robes. He sat listening, as Musa must once have listened to the troubles of his children. When I had finished, I realised that the pain had disappeared. This time I felt it had gone forever. It would never return.
The comfort Ibrahim offered was written on his face. His alert, intelligent eyes did not flicker. He understood. He did not need to say anything. I understood. In the scale of suffering that our people had undergone, my personal experience was a grain of sand. Nothing less. Nothing more. All this had been suggested by his presence alone. As if through a miracle my head had suddenly cleared. The residual pain had disappeared. My inner balance was restored. Everything could be seen through a different, centuries-old perspective. I wanted to laugh out loud, but restrained myself. He noted the change.
“Your face has cleared, Ibn Yakub. The lines on your forehead have evaporated. I hope the dark clouds inside your head have once again given way to the sun.
I nodded my head. He smiled.
As I made my way back to the citadel, the sun was at its zenith, piercing the black muslin robe that I wore. I was beginning to sweat and feel uncomfortable. The minute I had reached my destination, I headed straight for the baths. I lay in the cold water for a long time. Slowly the heat and discomfort in my body gave way to a cool calm. I dried myself and returned to my chamber fully restored. I drank some water and lay down to rest. My dreams were very clear, as they usually are during the afternoon sleep. Because one is sleeping lightly, the memory is clearer. I was dreaming of the domed room in Cairo, and I saw my wife and daughter sitting in front of a vessel containing water, which they were pouring over each other. How the dream would have developed, I do not know. I felt myself being shaken out of my slumber, and raised my eyelids to see the grinning face of Amjad the eunuch.
“The Sultana wishes to see you now, Ibn Yakub.”
I sat up in bed and glared angrily at him, but he remained unaffected.
“Which Sultana?” I asked.
He refused to reply, as was often his wont, merely indicating with an arrogant gesture that I should follow him. In some ways he reminded me of the eunuch Ilmas in Cairo, who had come to a bad end.
It was Jamila who awaited me in the antechamber which led to the harem. She dismissed Amjad with a flicker of an eye. She was not her usual ebullient self; her languid eyes were unhappy. She had been crying, and had clearly not slept well for many a night. What could have upset this woman whose piercing intelligence and strength of character had dazzled the Sultan himself? She stared at me for a long time without speaking.
“The Sultana appears distracted. Can a humble scribe help in any way?”
“Your old friend Halima has betrayed my trust, Ibn Yakub. In her I thought I had found a worthy friend. She shared my criticisms of the way we lived. For many months, as you know, we were inseparable. We lost count of the days we spent together. She learnt to appreciate Andalusian philosophy and the satirical poetry of our wits in Cairo and Damascus. We used to laugh at the same things. Even our animosities were matched. For fear of offending your delicate sensitivities, I will not describe our nights together, but believe me, Ibn Yakub, when I say that they move me still. We played together like the flute and the lyre. Need I say more? When, looking at me, she used to smile, her face flowed like a freshwater spring, radiating goodness and tempting one to bend down and drink its refreshing waters. When she smiled it was as though the world smiled with her.
“Since the birth of her son, something has transformed her completely. She behaves in a strange fashion. She shuns my company. She listens to the ravings of superstitious old witches whose only task is to frighten us into submission. Amjad tells me that some of the old maids in the harem have filled her head with nonsense of every sort. He says that they told her that the Sultan favoured her son over my boys; that her son could become Sultan one day, but only if she broke away from me. They told her that I was a malign influence, that I had led her astray, away from the true path decreed by Allah and his Prophet. They filled her ears with falsehoods about my past. All this Amjad told me, and his sources are always accurate.
“Halima has begun to believe that the world is full of demons. The other day I heard her anxiously asking a maid whether the udar ever attacked children. Do you know what the udar is supposed to be
, Ibn Yakub? It is a creature the Bedouin invented centuries ago to frighten away their rivals in the desert.
“The udar is supposedly a monster who rapes men and leaves them to roast in the desert, but only after he has made sure that worms have built nests in their anuses! If an uneducated person believed in all this rubbish I would simply laugh, but I have spent months teaching the finer points of philosophy to Halima. I thought she understood. Instead she now thinks that the udar is real and Ibn Rushd and Ibn Sina are false. It is as if her brain has been eclipsed by a dark cloud, which refuses to be blown away.
“When I try and speak with her she looks at me with fear-filled eyes, as if I was a demon or a witch. She refuses to let me pick up her child. She will not let me touch her. Three nights ago she told me that everything we had done together was evil, sinful and repulsive. She said that Allah would punish us by throwing us to the mercy of djinns and other demons. I wanted to scream at her, to pull her hair, to shake her roughly till she saw sense again, but I contained myself, trying instead to understand what had happened to her.
“Only once, when I surprised her alone in the bath, did she seem like her old self. She was on her own and I, too, slipped off my clothes and entered the bath beside her. Neither of us said a word. I took a piece of cloth and began to gently massage her tender, slender shoulders. It must have stirred some memories.
“For the first time in months, she turned round to look at me. Then she smiled. Her teeth were gleaming like polished ivory and her face lit up again. It was the old Halima. My heart melted away and I stroked her head, before lowering my arms and rubbing her breasts.
“Then it was as if she had been struck by a thunderbolt. Her entire demeanour changed. Her face grew stern. She glared at me with anger, removed herself from the bath and fled. She screamed for her attendants, who rushed to her side with towels. I sat in the bath, Ibn Yakub, and watched silently as my tears increased the volume of the water.
“Now I am broken-hearted and distressed beyond reason. Yes, beyond reason, and that hurts me for I feel that I, too, am being dragged away from calm, rational, elevated thoughts, and from a love whose purity is deep.
“She was my closest friend. We talked about everything, including Salah al-Din’s weaknesses in the bedchamber. Now that I am estranged from Halima there is nobody with whom I can discuss matters that are close to my heart. I thought of you, because you were once her friend. She spoke well of you and told me that you were a good listener. To find an intelligent listener these days is not easy, especially if you happen to be married to the Sultan.
“How do you explain Halima’s evolution? Surely, Ibn Yakub, it could not simply be the outcome of childbirth. I have provided Salah al-Din with two sturdy boys, with no such effects. How is it that she can live in a world totally composed of fantasy?”
I was shaken by Jamila’s story. It was difficult to believe that Halima, a free spirit if ever there was one, a woman who the Sultan once described to me as being strong-willed as a pedigree horse, could be the frightened, pathetic creature of Jamila’s description. A thought flashed through my head. Perhaps Halima had decided to end her unnatural relationship with the older woman, and the only way she could do so was by rejecting not just Jamila, but everything associated with her, everything she had taught and everything she stood for in this world. If that were the case, however, surely Halima would not need to descend so low as to believe in monsters and evil spirits. Or again, was she putting on an act to convince Jamila that everything was over, and that she Halima had changed for ever? Aloud I said:
“I was deep in thought, Sultana, trying to fathom the mysteries of the change you have described. To me it appears unreal, as if Halima were in a trance. I do not think it has much to do with child-bearing, but it could be that meddlesome women, jealous of her friendship with you, have sought to poison her ears.”
“That was tried in Cairo as well, Ibn Yakub, but she scattered the troublemakers with words so rude that they must have scorched their ears. So why should she be more vulnerable in Damascus? I wrote a great deal for her. Stories, poems, letters to express my passion. In return I received but one little piece of paper a few weeks ago. It contained these words: ‘I am what I am. I wish you another, who is better than me. I no longer deal in happiness like a trader in a caravan. I love only Allah and I follow the way of his Prophet.’
“Does this make any sense to you at all, Ibn Yakub? Nor to me. It is like being stabbed in the heart and hearing her voice say ‘Die!’
“I have a request to make of you. Will you please speak to Halima, and see for yourself whether or not I am mistaken? Perhaps where I have failed, you might succeed. The Sultan does not object to either Halima or myself meeting with you as often as we like. This is a well-known fact, there would be nothing secretive about such a meeting. If you have no objections, I will arrange it. Amjad will fetch you at the agreed time.”
Before I could agree to her proposal, she swept out of the chamber. It was not a request, but an instruction.
For a week or more I walked about in a daze. It was almost as if I had been infected by Jamila’s sadness. Her words had left a deep mark on me, yet I could not believe that Halima’s transformation could have been as profound as she had suggested.
I waited impatiently for Amjad the eunuch, and one morning he came to fetch me. His smile always irritated me, but I noticed that he could not help himself. It was a sign of nervousness on his part. I followed him eagerly through a long corridor to the same antechamber where I had met Jamila several days ago.
Halima was already seated on a large cushion draped with brocades. She saw me and managed a weak smile. I was stunned by her appearance. Her face was pale and the life seemed to have gone out of her eyes, which appeared hollow. Her voice was subdued.
“You wished to see me, Ibn Yakub.”
I nodded in silence.
“Why?”
“I wanted to congratulate you on the birth of your son and to inquire as to your own thoughts and preoccupations. If I may be so bold, can I ask why you appear so changed? Was the birth difficult?”
“Yes,” she replied in a voice so soft that I had to strain to hear her words. “It was very difficult. They put a special stone in my hand to ease the pain, and wound a snake-skin round my hips to speed up the birth. You ask whether I have changed, Ibn Yakub. I have. My son was born healthy only because of three spells that were written by a man of medicine. These involved a renunciation of my entire past and especially my relations with Jamila. The birth changed me completely. Even if the spells had not been cast, I would have wanted to thank Allah for giving me a son by not deviating from the path he has determined for us through our Prophet, may he rest in peace.
“It was not easy for me. As you know, Jamila and I used to spend all our time together. We used to joke, laugh and blaspheme in the same breath. If I were to tell the Kadi some of the things she used to say about our Prophet, peace be upon him, the Sultan himself would not be able to save her neck.
“Everything she taught me was false. She wanted me to doubt the word of Allah. She said that the wisdom contained in the writings of al-Maari, Ibn Rushd and Ibn Sina far exceeded that contained in our Holy Book. Allah forgive me for listening to such dangerous rubbish. I have repented, Ibn Yakub. I am no longer a sinner. I pray five times a day, and Allah will forgive me and protect my son. As for Jamila, I wish we did not have to stay in the same quarters. Her presence is a constant reminder of my sinful past. I know this will shock you, but I wish she were dead.”
All this had been uttered in a listless voice devoid of passion. Even her last sentence was spoken in a melancholy whisper. The change in Halima went very deep. I could see that now, and it upset me greatly. I had been wrong to doubt Jamila. This was not just a case of Halima deciding to break her friendship. She had turned her entire life upside-down. I made one last attempt.
“Lady Halima, if someone else had told me that you had undergone such a complete change I
would have laughed in their face. Surely you must accept that not everything the Sultana Jamila taught you was evil. Did she not teach you to appreciate poetry? Are the songs that I heard you sing in Cairo defiled because she taught them?”
For a moment her face softened and I caught a brief glimpse of the Halima I had once known. But her features quickly hardened again.
“Her influence on me was evil. I thought she loved me, but all she wanted was possession. She wanted me to belong to her and to nobody else. I must belong to myself, Ibn Yakub. Surely you can understand my desire to become myself again.”
“You forget that I knew you before you met Jamila. Have you forgotten Messud? Can you not remember the way you spoke to the Sultan when the Kadi brought you to the palace in Cairo? It is true that you had not then been subjected to Andalusian philosophy, or to the erotic poetry of Wallada, but your mind was ready for a leap. Jamila, too, noticed that and helped to show you a new world.”
“Jamila played on me as if I were a lute.”
This was a travesty of the truth, and I felt constrained to defend the motives of the Sultana.
“Even though I resented her power over you, she played well. The music that the two of you made together was the envy of the palace. The eunuchs talked about you all over the city. They talked of two queens who cared for nothing but the truth. They described how your eyes were like a furnace when you denounced those unfortunates who believed in djinns and other imaginary creatures. Your fame spread everywhere. That was a kind of freedom, Halima. I say that to you as a friend.”
“You talk like a fool, scribe. True freedom lies in the commands of Allah and his Prophet alone. Why should we be so arrogant and assume that we alone, a tiny minority, speak the truth, while a majority of Believers who refuse to doubt are, by virtue of this refusal, prisoners of prejudice? Let me tell you something. I now know that Jamila’s blasphemies were like a breeze from Hell. You look shocked, Ibn Yakub. I should not be so surprised. How could a Jew ever understand the ways of our Prophet?”
