by Nizami
When he woke, the sun was already sinking low in the west. How long had he been asleep? It had seemed but minutes, yet the fading light and the approaching cold told a different tale.
As he pondered the mysteries of sleep, trying to work out how so much time could have passed unnoticed, Majnun was suddenly gripped by the feeling that he was not alone, that someone or something had been watching him as he lay sleeping. Surely he must be mistaken — after all, he thought, apart from me there is no living thing for miles around.
And then he saw it. High up among the leaves of the topmost branch of the palm in whose shade he had been sleeping, a dark shadow arrested his gaze. There, motionless in the greenery, sat a huge, coal-black raven, its eyes glittering like diamonds.
He, too, has donned his mourning robes, thought Majnun. Like me, he has taken to the wilderness to be alone with his grief. Majnun cleared his throat and called out to the bird, ‘Hey, you with the black cloak! Whom do you mourn? Why do you wear the colours of night in the full light of day? Tell me, are you grieving on my account?’
Starting at this sudden cry, the bird hopped on to another branch, its lamp-like eyes fixed on Majnun. Majnun continued, ‘If you, like me, are one of those whose hearts have been torn in two by love, why do you shun me? Or maybe you are dressed in black because you are a preacher, ready to mount the pulpit in order to deliver your sermon. Is that it?
‘Then again, it could be that you are a Negro guard, here to watch my every move. If that be the case, why are you afraid? Perhaps I am a King and you are the knight sent to protect me.
‘Whatever you are, listen well: if, while you are on the wing, you should meet the one I love, tell her this from me.’
And Majnun began to recite:
Rescue me from this well of loneliness,
For my life’s light fades in this wilderness.
‘Don’t be afraid, for I am yours!’ you said;
If that be true, come now — or let them find
me dead.
Once trapped, the dying lamb hears all too late
The heartfelt cries of ‘Wolf!’ that would prevent
its fate.
As Majnun came to the end of his verse, the raven hopped further and further away to the tip of the branch. Then, with a frenzied flapping of wings, he took off from the crown of the palm and soared away. Soon he had vanished from sight, swallowed up by the encroaching blackness of night.
The day was done; the night had come. Bats wheeled and swooped as twilight faded and darkness swelled. Soon the sky was darker than a raven’s coat; indeed, the night itself was like a raven, ink-black and foreboding. And as the monstrous bird of night spread its wings across the heavens, diamond-like eyes stared down once more at Majnun — now he saw not a single pair but a hundred thousand, large and small, near and far, shining in cold splendour above his head. To escape their gaze, Majnun covered his face with his hands.
Then, he sat down and wept.
Chapter 25
The morning light was like a sharp knife, cutting through the veil of night. Slowly the old earth found new life again, born afresh like a vast flower emerging from the bud.
Majnun rushed onwards, his feet scarcely touching the ground. It was as though he had suddenly sprouted wings and could fly; he was like a moth that dances through the darkness towards the flame it wishes to make its own. But Majnun was aflame before he had reached the candle of his desires; his separation from Layla was a pain that he could no longer bear; it was a fire that had consumed his very being.
The nearer he came to his goal, the more intoxicated his soul became with Layla’s scent, the more distinctly his ears seemed to hear her voice, the more clearly his eyes perceived her image in everything he saw — in the mountains, the valleys, the rocks, the shifting sands.
Before long, he had become so fatigued that he was forced to stop for rest. Within minutes, he felt as though he was a corpse now resurrected: with every breath, every sigh, he felt the life force stream back into his tired limbs.
He had not been resting long when he saw two figures approaching. A man, chained and bound, his emaciated body clad in filthy rags and his hair and beard dishevelled, was being dragged along by a woman. The wretched captive was clearly out of his mind; every now and then the woman would yank his chains and beat him with her stick, hurrying him along like some worn-out beast of burden, causing him to yell out in distress.
Deeply shocked at the spectacle, Majnun ran forward to the couple and made a grab for the woman’s stick. ‘For pity’s sake,’ he cried, ‘leave the poor wretch be! What has he done to deserve such inhumane treatment? He may be crazy, he may be a criminal, but whatever he is, he is still a human being and you have no right to punish him in this manner.’
The woman replied, ‘Do you really want to know the truth? Then listen well. This man is not crazy; nor is he a criminal. I am a poor widow and he is a dervish, a “fool of God”, and both of us have suffered great hardship. We are both of us ready to do anything that will make money enough to put a crust of bread on our table.
‘And so I parade him around in chains; that way, everyone thinks that he is mad. People take pity on us — on him for being mad, and on me for having to bear so heavy a burden — and they give us money out of the goodness of their hearts. Whatever we earn, we split between us.’
Majnun sank to his knees in the dust and began to plead with her: ‘For the love of God, take the chains from this poor man’s hands and feet and put them on me, for I should be tied up, not he! You see, I am truly mad!
‘Yes, I am one of those unfortunate wretches whose minds have been destroyed by love. Tie me up and take me with you! Parade me in chains instead of him and everything that you earn shall be yours to keep; money does not interest me in the least.’
The woman did not need to think twice about Majnun’s offer. Ripping the chains from the hands and feet of the dervish, she tied Majnun up in his place. Taking their leave of the dervish, the woman yanked on Majnun’s chains and dragged him away, a happy smile on her lips. Majnun, for his part, was overjoyed, and every blow of the woman’s stick upon his bare back was like a lover’s caress.
The woman and her new prisoner moved from oasis to oasis, stopping at each tent they passed. Majnun would sit in the dust and recite his love poems, each dedicated to Layla, pummelling his face with his fist or dancing around like a drunken bear while the woman beat him with her stick.
At one particular oasis, at the edge of the stream, Majnun saw a tent which seemed familiar to him. Edging towards it, he saw to his astonishment that it was Layla’s tent.
Suddenly his eyes burst like spring clouds, sending showers of tears down his cheeks. He sank to the ground, pounded his head against the hard earth and cried out, ‘Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me alone and share nothing with me but your grief?
‘Look what has become of me! I am doing penance because I made you and your people suffer at the hands of Nowfal. To atone for my sin, I have given up my freedom and now here I stand, chained and bound, waiting to be punished. I know that I have done wrong, and that the burden of my sin is so great that I will never be forgiven.
‘I am your captive; you must be my judge. Condemn me, if you will; punish me with the severest punishment you can think of.
‘I am to blame for the suffering that you and your people have endured; it is my fault entirely. Do you think I do not know this? Can you not see that this is why I am chained and bound and beaten black and blue? I have confessed to my crime and now I am here in chains to suffer punishment at your hands. So imprison me, torture me, kill me if you must — but do not reject me!
‘While I lived, I lived for your greetings, but they did not reach me. While I lived, I lived for the touch of your hand upon my face, but you were always out of reach. But now — now that my life is over — there is hope!
‘Maybe now, as you kill me with your arrow, you will look at me! Maybe now you will touch me, if only to bare my n
eck before you sever my head from my body with your sword! I am not afraid of death: what do I have to fear, if you are my executioner? Why should I tremble if it is your sword that is to cut off my head?
‘My heart is a candle: trim the wick and it will only burn brighter! While I live, all roads to you are blocked, so why should I not embrace death willingly? Come, save yourself from me, and me from myself, and let me rest at your feet in eternal peace and everlasting tranquillity!’
There was nothing more he could say. With a heartrending cry he shot up from the ground like an arrow, his face contorted with rage. Like a man possessed by demons he grasped his chains with both hands and, strengthened by some unknown force, tore them from his limbs and tossed them into the sand. Then he ran. He ran away from the old woman, from Layla’s tent, from the oasis, from all human beings, and headed for the mountainous desert wastes of Najd.
One by one his friends and relatives were told: all were saddened by the news, but few of them were surprised. Majnun’s behaviour had been worrying them for some time, but what could they have done? A meeting was held and a party of Majnun’s relatives was sent off to search for him. When eventually they found him, high up in one of his most isolated retreats, they realised that the only thing he remembered was Layla and his love for her; the rest of his past was erased. As soon as they tried to jog his memory by mentioning the names of friends and relatives, people and places he had known, he would fall silent or close his eyes, as though he was too exhausted to think. All attempts to get through to him, to make him see sense, failed miserably; in the end, his relatives gave up and headed back to the town. Others tried to reach him, but with little success, and in the end even his father and mother had to abandon hope that he would ever return.
Chapter 26
It was her father who told Layla of Nowfal’s victory. He came running into her tent, his robes spattered with blood, his turban askew. He was exhausted, of course, yet strangely enough there was triumph in his voice. Layla tended to his cuts and bruises while he told her what had happened.
The old man slapped his thigh and said proudly, ‘What a coup! What a stroke of genius! I have done the impossible: I have tamed this wild creature Nowfal with my tongue; within minutes of the defeat he inflicted upon us, I showed him who the real victor is! And now I have escaped disaster, and all by a hair’s breadth!
‘As for that maniac, that crazed demon Majnun — if he had forced his way in, as indeed he was trying to do, he would have ruined everything. Never mind. Although Nowfal has won fairly and squarely — and why not, since he fought sincerely in the name of God — thanks to my diplomacy, he has withdrawn and we are saved.’
Layla listened, smiling and nodding in all the right places, but her heart was breaking. She felt that she would die of grief before long, but of course she could not reveal her feelings.
Day in and day out she suffered in silence, feigning smiles and laughter and responding as expected when she was spoken to, but as soon as night fell she would take to her bed and cry, safe from prying eyes, until there were no tears left to shed.
Her parents’ home had become her prison; no, it had become her tomb, for was she not as good as dead? She guarded the secret of her love as jealously as a serpent guards treasure, but secrecy had its price. The fact that there was no one in whom she could confide made her feel like a bird in a trap: she was tired of her suffering and longed for release, even if that release meant certain death.
And while she suffered in silence, she waited, listening to the murmurs of the wind, hoping that it would bring her a message from her beloved.
Meanwhile, Majnun’s sonnets and odes extolling Layla and her unparalleled beauty had spread throughout the land; so famous had his poetry made her that before long, suitors were flocking from all corners of the land to ask for her hand. Some offered orchards and sheep, others gold and silver. Intoxicated by the very sight of her, they resorted to every trick and stratagem they could in order to reach their goal. Yet, however skilled they were in the fine arts of persuasion, their efforts were all in vain: no amount of land or sheep, of gold or silver, could sway Layla’s father. To him, she was a precious diamond that was to be preserved with tenderness and loving care; to him, she was a casket of gems whose key was not to be given away lightly. Layla, for her part, was touched by his paternal solicitude and showed her gratitude for his concern with smiles and affection. But her smiles were the smiles of a candle that shines through waxen tears; hers were the smiles of the rose that hides its thorns.
News of the comings and goings of Layla’s suitors soon reached Ibn Salam, who was outraged by the thought of so many grubby hands reaching out for his promised jewel. His patience tested and his passion inflamed, he could bear it no longer. With great speed he equipped a caravan worthy of a sultan: fifty donkeys, each loaded with amber and frankincense, musk and myrrh, and enough sweetmeats to feed an entire army. His camels, barely visible under their loads of rich cloth, looked like moving mountains of silk and brocade. Ibn Salam, for his part, was dressed like a King, and as the caravan moved from oasis to oasis, he showered the people with gold.
Setting up camp near the oasis where Layla and her clan had their tents, Ibn Salam allowed himself and his retinue a day of rest before sending his mediator to Layla’s family. This mediator was a man of great eloquence, skilled in the art of rhetoric. He could weave a spell with words; so effective was his speech that he could melt the iciest of hearts; such was his discourse that he could have raised the dead with the power of his logic and the force of his argument.
Such dogged determination on the part of Ibn Salam’s mediator was hard to resist; even harder to resist was the seemingly endless stream of gifts that Ibn Salam had brought with him. Spices from India, carpets from Persia, rich brocades from China, perfumes from Byzantium — each gift designed, no doubt, to sweeten the bitter pill of Ibn Salam’s request and to help open the lock that was, thanks to the key of his mediator’s sweet tongue, half open already.
The mediator began to charm Layla’s father: ‘Ibn Salam is no ordinary man. He is a veritable lion, the pride of all Arabs! He has the strength of ten of the strongest men and he is the backbone of any army.
‘But he is not only a master of the sword, for wherever he goes he is obeyed. Wherever he steps, his fame precedes him. His nobility is without question, his honour and integrity are without flaw. His wrath is without parallel: if need be, he will shed blood as though it were water. His munificence is the stuff of legends: if necessary, he will shower gold as though it were sand.
‘Can you afford not to accept such a man as your son-in-law? If you are in need of trustworthy men, he will find them for you. If you are in need of protection, he will grant it.’
Like the showers of spring, the mediator’s words rained down on Layla’s father, hardly giving him the chance to reply. What was he to do? What was he to say?
Had he not already promised his daughter to Ibn Salam? Events were happening too fast and he would have preferred to wait a little longer, but the fact remained that he had made a promise on which he could not renege. He searched for some excuse, some loophole, some way out, but there was none. He was like a man who, suddenly surprised by an enemy, searches in vain for the nearest weapon with which to defend himself, only to find none.
And all the time he was being driven further and further into the corner by the silver-tongued artistry of his opponent. Eventually, he gave in and a date was set for the wedding.
When the wedding day finally dawned, the sun cast its veil of light over the shoulders of night, as one casts a veil over a bride. Layla’s father rose early, eager to set the wedding preparations in motion; by noon, everything was ready.
Ibn Salam, his party and the other guests were led into a pavilion that had been erected specially for the wedding celebrations. In time-honoured tradition, the guests were sitting together, admiring the bride’s presents, throwing showers of gold and silver into the air, enjoying the f
ine foods and cementing new ties of brotherhood and friendship. Laughter filled the air and all felt at peace with the world.
But what of Layla? She sat in the bridal chamber, surrounded by chattering women and squealing children.
The women had adorned the walls of the room with silks and tapestries and were now burning frankincense in brass bowls, its bittersweet fragrance filling the room. So engaged were they in their preparations that they did not notice Layla’s tears.
Among all these happy, smiling people, she alone was sad. Icy daggers of loneliness and desperation were piercing her very soul; never before had she felt so terribly alone. How close she and Majnun had been to their goal … and now everything was lost: just as the goblet had touched their lips it had smashed, spilling the wine of happiness on to the sand.
No one could read Layla’s thoughts; no one had the slightest inkling of the storms that were raging in her heart. Can a runner see the thorn which makes him limp? Even if she had dared to reveal the extent of her unhappiness, her family would not have understood. And she was determined to say nothing. What good could have come of it? Those who rebel against their tribe will lose that tribe; a finger bitten by a snake must always be cut off and discarded.
Life is built on the harmony and equilibrium of all its elements: whenever this harmony is disturbed, death creeps in and does its worst. And however happy she tried to appear on the surface, there could be no denying that death had already appeared in Layla’s heart and was now biding its time, ready to turn her soul into a tomb.
Chapter 27
The ship of night carried its cargo of shining stars down the Tigris river of the sky while the sun pitched her golden tent on the blue meadow of heaven. Morning had arrived.
