After the wine had been passed round again, the lady of the house, the most beautiful of the three, stood up and stripped off her clothes. The porter grasped the back of his neck with his hand and massaged it, saying: ‘My neck and my shoulders are common property.’ When the girl was naked, she jumped into the pool, dived under water, played around and washed herself. To the porter in her nakedness she looked like a sliver of the moon, with a face like the full moon when it rises or the dawn when it breaks. He looked at her figure, her breasts and her heavy buttocks as they swayed, while she was naked as her Lord had created her. ‘Oh! Oh!’ he said, and he recited:
If I compare your figure to a sappy branch,
I load my heart with wrongs and with injustice.
Branches are most beautiful when concealed with leaves,
While you are loveliest when we meet you naked.
On hearing these lines, the girl came out of the pool and sat on the porter’s lap. She pointed at her vulva and said: ‘Little master, what is the name of this?’ ‘The mint of the dykes,’ he replied, and when she exclaimed in disgust, he tried ‘the husked sesame’. ‘Bah!’ she said. ‘Your womb,’ he suggested. ‘Oh! Oh! Aren’t you ashamed?’ and she slapped the back of his neck. Whatever name he produced, she slapped him, saying: ‘No, no,’ until he asked: ‘Sisters, what is it called?’ ‘The khan of Abu Mansur,’ they replied. ‘Praise God that I have reached safety at last,’ he said. ‘Ho for the khan of Abu Mansur!’ The girl got up and put on her clothes and they all went back to what they had been doing.
For a time the wine circulated among them and the porter then got up, undressed and went into the pool. The girls looked at him swimming in the water and washing under his beard and beneath his armpits, as they had done. Then he came out and threw himself into the lap of the lady of the house, with his arms in the lap of the doorkeeper and his feet and legs in the lap of the girl who had bought the provisions. Then he pointed to his penis and said: ‘Ladies, what is the name of this?’ They all laughed at this until they fell over backwards. ‘Your zubb,’ one of them suggested. ‘No,’ he said, and he bit each of them. ‘Your air,’ they said, but he repeated ‘No’, and embraced each of them.
Morning now dawned and Shahrazad broke off from what she had been allowed to say. Then, when it was the tenth night, her sister Dunyazad said: ‘Finish your story.’ ‘With pleasure,’ she replied, and she continued:
I have heard, O fortunate king, that the girls produced three names for the porter, while he kissed, bit and embraced them until he was satisfied. They went on laughing until they said: ‘What is its name, then, brother?’ ‘Don’t you know?’ ‘No.’ ‘This is the mule that breaks barriers, browses on the mint of the dykes, eats the husked sesame and that passes the night in the khan of Abu Mansur.’ The girls laughed until they fell over backwards and then they continued with their drinking party, carrying on until nightfall.
At this point, they told the porter that it was time for him to get up, put on his gaiters and go – ‘Show us the width of your shoulders.’ ‘By God,’ said the porter, ‘if the breath of life were to leave me, it would be easier for me to bear than having to part from you. Let me link night with day, and in the morning we can all go our separate ways.’ The girl who had bought the provisions pleaded with the others: ‘Let him sleep here so that we can laugh at him. Who knows whether in all our lives we shall meet someone else like him, both wanton and witty.’ They then said: ‘You can only spend the night with us on condition that you accept our authority and that you don’t ask about anything you see or the reason for it.’ The porter agreed to this, and they then told him: ‘Get up and read what is written over the door.’ He went to the door and there he found written above it in gold leaf: ‘Whoever talks about what does not concern him will hear what will not please him.’ ‘I call you to witness,’ he said, ‘that I shall not talk about what is no concern of mine.’
The housekeeper got up and prepared a meal for them, which they ate, and then they lit candles and lamps, dipping ambergris and aloes into the candles. They sat drinking and talking of past loves, after having reset the table with fresh fruits and more wine. They continued for a time, eating, drinking, carousing together over their dessert, laughing and teasing each other, when suddenly there was a knock on the door. This did not disrupt the party, however, and one of the girls went by herself to the door and returned to report: ‘Our happiness is complete tonight.’ ‘How is that?’ the others asked. She told them: ‘At the door are three Persian dervishes, with shaven chins, heads and eyebrows. By a very remarkable coincidence, each of them has lost his left eye. They have only just arrived after a journey; they are showing the signs of travel and this is the first time that they have been to our city, Baghdad. They knocked on our door because they couldn’t find a lodging for the night and they had said to themselves: “Perhaps the owner of this house would give us the key to a stable or to a hut in which we could pass the night.” For they had been caught out by nightfall, and, being strangers, they had no acquaintance who might give them shelter – and, sisters, each of them is of a ludicrous appearance.’
She continued to persuade and cajole until the others agreed to let the Persians come in on condition that they would not talk about what did not concern them lest they hear what would not please them. The girl went off joyfully and came back with the three one-eyed men, with shaven beards and moustaches. They spoke words of greeting, bowed and hung back. The girls got up to welcome them and, after congratulating them on their safe arrival, told them to be seated.
What the visitors saw was a pleasant and clean room, furnished with greenery, where there were lighted candles, incense rising into the air, dessert, fruits and wine, together with three virgin girls. ‘This is good, by God,’ they all agreed. Then they turned to the porter and found him cheerfully tired out and drunk. They thought, on seeing him, that he must be one of their own kind and said: ‘This is a dervish like us, either a foreigner or an Arab.’ Hearing this, the porter glowered at them and said: ‘Sit down and don’t be inquisitive. Didn’t you read what is written over the door? It is not for poor men who arrive like you to let loose your tongues at us.’ The newcomers apologized submissively, and the girls laughed and made peace between them and the porter, after which food was produced for the new arrivals, which they ate.
They then sat drinking together, with the doorkeeper pouring the wine and the wine cup circulating among them. The porter then asked the visitors whether they had some story or anecdote to tell. Heated by wine, they, in their turn, asked for musical instruments and were brought a tambourine, a lute and a Persian harp by the doorkeeper. They then got up and tuned the instruments, after which each one took one of them, struck a note and began to sing. The girls added a shrill accompaniment and the noise rose. Then, while this was going on, there was a knock at the door and the doorkeeper got up to see what was going on.
The reason for this knocking was that the caliph Harun al-Rashid was in the habit of going around disguised as a merchant and he had come down from his palace that night on an excursion to listen to the latest news, accompanied by his vizier, Ja‘far, and Masrur, his executioner. On his way through the city, he and his companions had happened to pass that house, where they heard music and singing. He had said to Ja‘far: ‘I want to go in here so that we may listen to these voices and see their owners.’ Ja‘far had replied: ‘Commander of the Faithful, these people are drunk and I am afraid that they may do us some harm.’ The caliph had then said: ‘I must enter and I want you to think of some scheme to get us in.’ ‘To hear is to obey,’ Ja‘far had replied, before going up and knocking on the door. When it was opened by the doorkeeper, Ja‘far advanced and kissed the ground. ‘Lady,’ he said, ‘we are traders from Tiberias who have been in Baghdad for ten days. We have sold our goods and are staying at the merchants’ khan, but this evening we were invited out by a colleague. We went to his house and, after he had given us a meal, we sat drinking with him fo
r a time, but when he let us go night had fallen and, as we are strangers here, we could not find our way back to our hostel. Of your charity, and may God reward you, would you let us come in and spend the night with you?’
The girl looked at them and saw that they were dressed as merchants and appeared to be respectable people. So she went back to her sisters and passed on Ja‘far’s message. The others sympathized with the visitors’ plight and told her: ‘Let them in,’ after which she went back and opened the door. The caliph, Ja‘far and Masrur came in and when the girls saw them, they stood up, seated their visitors and ministered to their needs, saying: ‘Welcome to our guests, but we lay a condition on you.’ ‘What is that?’ they asked. ‘That you do not speak of what does not concern you, lest you hear what will not please you.’ ‘We agree,’ they replied, and they sat down to drink together.
Looking at the three dervishes, the caliph was surprised to find that each of them had lost his left eye. He was also thrown into confusion by the beauty and grace of the girls, which prompted his admiration. They began to drink together and to talk, but when the girls invited the caliph to drink, he said: ‘I am proposing to go on the pilgrimage to Mecca.’ The doorkeeper then got up and brought him an embroidered table cloth on which she set a china jar in which she poured willow-flower water, adding some snow and a sugar lump. The caliph thanked her and said to himself: ‘By God, I shall reward her tomorrow for the good that she has done me.’
Then they all occupied themselves with drinking, and when the drink had gained the upper hand, the lady of the house got up, bowed to the company and then, taking the housekeeper by the hand, she said: ‘Sisters, come, we must settle our debt.’ ‘Yes,’ agreed the other two girls, and at that, the doorkeeper got up in front of them and first cleared the table, removed the debris, replaced the perfumes and cleared a space in the middle of the room. The dervishes were made to sit on a bench on one side of the room and the caliph, Ja‘far and Masrur on a bench on the other side. Then the lady of the house called to the porter: ‘Your friendship does not amount to much. You are not a stranger, but one of the household.’ The porter got up, tightened his belt and asked: ‘What do you want?’ ‘Stay where you are,’ she said. Then the housekeeper stood up and set a chair in the middle of the room, opened a cupboard and said to the porter: ‘Come and help me.’
In the cupboard he saw two black bitches, with chains around their necks. ‘Take them,’ said the girl, and he took them and brought them to the centre of the room. Then the lady of the house got up, rolled back her sleeves and took up a whip. ‘Bring one of them,’ she told the porter, and he did this, pulling the bitch by its chain, as it whimpered and shook its head at the girl. It howled as she struck it on the head, and she continued to beat it until her arms were tired. She then threw away the whip, pressed the bitch to her breast and wiped away its tears with her hand, kissing its head. Then she said to the porter: ‘Take this one away and bring the other.’ This he did and she treated the second bitch in the same way as the first.
The caliph was concerned and troubled by this. Unable to contain his curiosity about the story of the two bitches, he winked at Ja‘far, but the latter turned to him and gestured to him to remain silent. Then the lady of the house turned to the doorkeeper and said: ‘Get up and do your duty.’ ‘Yes,’ she replied and, getting up, she went to the couch, which was made of juniper wood with panels of gold and silver. Then the lady of the house said to the other two girls: ‘Bring out what you have.’ The doorkeeper sat on a chair by her side, while the housekeeper went into a closet and came out with a satin bag with green fringes and two golden discs. She stood in front of the lady of the house, unfastened the bag and took from it a lute whose strings she tuned and whose pegs she tightened, until it was all in order. Then she recited:
You are the object of my whole desire;
Union with you, beloved, is unending bliss,
While absence from you is like fire.
You madden me, and throughout time
In you is centred the infatuation of my love.
It brings me no disgrace that I love you.
The veils that cover me are torn away by love,
And love continues shamefully to rend all veils.
I clothe myself in sickness; my excuse is clear.
For through my love, you lead my heart astray.
Flowing tears serve to bring my secret out and make it plain.
The tearful flood reveals it, and they try
To cure the violence of this sickness, but it is you
Who are for me both the disease and its cure.
For those whose cure you are, the pains last long.
I pine away through the light shed by your eyes,
And it is my own love whose sword kills me,
A sword that has destroyed many good men.
Love has no end for me nor can I turn to consolation.
Love is my medicine and my code of law;
Secretly and openly it serves to adorn me.
You bring good fortune to the eye that looks
Its fill on you, or manages a glance.
Yes, and its choice of love distracts my heart.
When the lady of the house heard these lines, she cried: ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’, tore her clothes and fell to the ground in a faint. The caliph was astonished to see weals caused by the blows of a whip on her body, but then the doorkeeper got up, sprinkled water over her and clothed her in a splendid dress that she had fetched for her sister. When they saw that, all the men present were disturbed, as they had no idea what lay behind it. The caliph said to Ja‘far: ‘Don’t you see this girl and the marks of a beating that she shows? I can’t keep quiet without knowing the truth of the matter and without finding out about this girl and the two black bitches.’ Ja‘far replied: ‘Master, they made it a condition that we should not talk about what did not concern us, lest we hear what we do not like.’
At this point, the doorkeeper said: ‘Sister, keep your promise and come to me.’ ‘Willingly,’ said the housekeeper, and she took the lute, cradled it to her breasts, touched it with her fingers and recited:
If I complain of the beloved’s absence, what am I to say?
Where can I go to reach what I desire?
I might send messengers to explain my love,
But this complaint no messenger can carry.
I may endure, but after he has lost
His love, the lover’s life is short.
Nothing remains but sorrow and then grief,
With tears that flood the cheeks.
You may be absent from my sight but you have still
A settled habitation in my heart.
I wonder, do you know our covenant?
Like flowing water, it does not stay long.
Have you forgotten that you loved a slave,
Who finds his cure in tears and wasted flesh?
Ah, if this love unites us once again,
I have a long complaint to make to you.
When the doorkeeper heard this second poem, she cried out and said: ‘That is good, by God.’ Then she put her hand to her clothes and tore them, as the first girl had done, and fell to the ground in a faint. The housekeeper got up and, after sprinkling her with water, clothed her in a new dress. The doorkeeper then rose and took her seat before saying: ‘Give me more and pay off the debt you owe me.’ So the housekeeper brought her lute and recited:
How long will you so roughly turn from me?
Have I not poured out tears enough?
How long do you plan to abandon me?
If this is thanks to those who envy me,
Their envy has been cured.
Were treacherous Time to treat a lover fairly,
He would not pass the night wakeful and wasted by your love.
Treat me with gentleness; your harshness injures me.
My sovereign, is it not time for mercy to be shown?
To whom shall I tell of my love, you who kill me?
H
ow disappointed are the hopes of the one who complains,
When faithfulness is in such short supply!
My passion for you and my tears increase,
While the successive days you shun me are drawn out.
Muslims, revenge the lovesick, sleepless man,
The pasture of whose patience has scant grass.
Does love’s code permit you, you who are my desire,
To keep me at a distance while another one
Is honoured by your union? What delight or ease
Can the lover find through nearness to his love,
Who tries to see that he is weighted down by care?
When the doorkeeper heard this poem, she put her hand on her dress and ripped it down to the bottom. She then fell fainting to the ground, showing marks of a beating. The dervishes said: ‘It would have been better to have slept on a dunghill rather than to have come into this house, where our stay has been clouded by something that cuts at the heart.’ ‘Why is that?’ asked the caliph, turning to them. ‘This affair has distressed us,’ they replied. ‘Do you not belong to this household?’ he asked. ‘No,’ they replied. ‘We have never seen the place before.’ The caliph was surprised and said, gesturing at the porter: ‘This man with you may know about them.’ When they asked him, however, he said: ‘By Almighty God, love makes us all equal. I have grown up in Baghdad but this is the only time in my life that I ever entered this house and how I came to be here with these girls is a remarkable story.’
The others said: ‘By God, we thought that you were one of them, but now we see that you are like us.’ The caliph then pointed out: ‘We are seven men and they are three women. There is no fourth. So ask them about themselves, and if they don’t reply willingly, we will force them to do so.’ Everyone agreed except for Ja‘far, who said: ‘Let them be; we are their guests and they made a condition which we accepted, as you know. It would be best to let the matter rest, for there is only a little of the night left and we can then go on our ways.’ He winked at the caliph and added: ‘There is only an hour left and tomorrow we can summon them to your court and ask for their story.’ The caliph raised his head and shouted angrily: ‘I cannot bear to wait to hear about them; let the dervishes question them.’ ‘I don’t agree,’ said Ja‘far, and the two of them discussed and argued about who should ask the questions until they both agreed that it should be the porter.
The Arabian Nights: Tales of 1,001 Nights: Volume 1 Page 10
