by Simon Parke
‘I said “faith”, Shams-Ud-Din. It is our faith under attack.’
‘Ah, then I cannot help you, my friend. I am in love with God, not faith.’
Karim looks puzzled.
‘But God is found and defined by faith, surely?’ A tightening of the screw.
‘No,’ says Hafiz, ‘God is found and defined in a barking dog, in the ring of a hammer, in a drop of rain, in the face of Everyone I see. God is even found in my friend who sits between you - he who lives in a land that does not border sanity.’
‘You show an unfortunate contempt for religion,’ says Mubariz. His voice is deep.
‘Loving God is not enough?’
‘Religion is God’s guardian.’
‘I thought only minors needed guardians, those still finding their feet in the world. I’ve never believed God to be one of those.’
Mubariz does not offer further opinion. They are happy for Hafiz to hang himself and the poet seems eager to oblige.
‘The idea of anyone presuming special knowledge of God’s needs has always seemed a strange one to me,’ he says.
‘Then perhaps you’re forgetting the opening lines of the Koran which you claim to know by heart.’
‘Guide us in the Straight Path, the path of those whom thou has blessed, not those against who thou art wrathful, nor of those who are astray.’
Hafiz is word perfect. Karim claps in mock praise and responds:
‘It would appear you condemn yourself. In noting those who stray, religion is surely God’s guardian?’
‘More often God’s jailer in my experience.’
Raised eyebrows among the beards, which don’t come down as Hafiz points out that those who imagine they know what is good for others, are the most dangerous of people.
Mubariz moves restlessly. Here is a lawyer more at home with a fist buried deep in the abdomen than the niceties of theological dispute.
‘Are you aware of the blasphemy law, Shams-Ud-Din?’ asks Karim. He asks the question gently, a polite enquiry, the tone of one asking the way to the fruit market.
‘I know the Koran doesn’t mention the word “blasphemy” so neither do I.’
‘Your innocence is charming.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But dangerous.’
‘My innocence is true.’
‘In the ninth sura of the holy book’ - Dead-Eyes hands Karim a copy -
‘we read, let me see, where are we now? Ah yes, “When the sacred months are over, slay the idolaters wherever you find them. Arrest them, besiege them and lie in ambush for them everywhere.”’
He hands the book back to Dead-Eyes and continues:
‘It would appear to be fairly clear in the matter of blasphemers from that reading.’
Hafiz replies: ‘And in the second chapter we read, if my memory serves me correctly and it usually does: “Let there be no compulsion in religion”.’
‘As for unbelievers,’ declares Mubariz reading again from the holy book, “God has set a seal on their hearts and on their hearing, and on their eyes a covering, and there awaits them a mighty chastisement”.’
‘And then in the seventh sura,’ adds Hafiz, “My mercy embraces all things”.’
There is a pause in proceedings. Karim fingers his parchment again and Mubariz leans his sweating frame forward a little. Hafiz speaks again:
‘There is little to be gained, my friends, from throwing verses at each other like fighters with their punches. Trading verses really is one of the dullest pastimes in my experience, akin to throwing excrement at one another. Both activities leave a nasty taste in the mouth.’
‘You will not deny that in the Koran, Allah has friends and enemies.’
‘Indeed.’
‘That at least we can agree on.’
‘And we will know his friends by the delight in their life!’ A further silence follows, broken by Hafiz:
‘People find in the scriptures exactly what they are in themselves. Did you know that, Karim?’
‘I did not know that and still don’t.’
‘Then take it from me.’
‘An unlikely event.’
‘So those who are angry or unhappy or hateful find a God of similar mind. This is why people’s scriptures always agree with them.’
If a poisoned atmosphere can get worse, it does at this point.
‘You mentioned coffee in your invitation,’ remarks Hafiz, briefly craving its bitter strength.
‘That poor man last week,’ says Karim, ignoring him. Coffee would have to wait.
‘Which poor man was that?’
Hafiz didn’t follow the news as closely as he might. He’d learned that from Muhammed Attar.
‘Did you not hear about him? I’m surprised.’
‘I see many poor men in this city... so many to choose from.’
‘I refer to the one found guilty of blasphemy.’
‘Ah.’
‘Tragic.’
‘And an increasingly familiar tale, sadly.’
‘Though, of course, this old man stayed silent throughout the proceedings. Didn’t he stay silent, Mubariz?’
Mubariz nods.
‘And that was a problem?’ ventures Hafiz.
‘It was perhaps unwise.’
‘In my experience, noise is a cruel ruler,’ he replies, and then, remembering the poem from which he drew, continued:
‘ “Noise is a cruel ruler and always imposing curfews. While stillness and quiet Crack open the vintage bottles
And awake the real musicians within”.’
The beards are unimpressed. Music had recently been banned among the faithful and Karim continues:
‘He was finally condemned to death on the charge of “finding fault with a belief or practice that the community has adopted”.’
Hafiz ponders the words.
‘And that is blasphemy?’
‘Indeed it is.’
‘Then it is a new law for a world already weary with them; and as I say, one beyond the knowing of the Koran, a book I learned by heart in my teens.’
‘You learned nothing, Shams-Ud-Din.’
‘Is that why you struggle to use my name, “Hafiz”?’ Their refusal to call him by his adopted name rankled.
‘You learned the words, but not obedience to the commands.’
‘I learned the spirit behind the words, wherein lies true obedience.’
‘Oh, so now you go behind the words, Shams-Ud-Din? You go behind God’s words?’
‘I prefer flowers to fences and God to laws.’
Was he saying too much? Should he mind his tongue?
‘Then beware for your health, Shams-Ud-Din.’ Hafiz contemplates the threat.
‘My health? Well, I cannot skip like I used to, and I do widen a little round the waist, but still enjoy a walk in the Musalla Gardens. It is good for the heart, I’m told.’
‘We will not talk of punishment today,’ says Karim.
‘And in that choice we imitate God.’
‘But if we did speak of punishment, not that we will, but if we did, we’d note that correction for blasphemy starts with fines and imprisonment but moves quickly on to flogging or amputation.’
Karim allows the words to sit for a while.
‘And that would be a tragedy, Shams-Ud-Din. No, really, imagine a poet losing his hands. How would he then write for his adoring public?’
‘Rest assured, I write mainly with my heart.’
‘And then, of course, in extreme instances - and it is not what anyone wants, but what truth sometimes demands - there is the beheading of the blasphemer or, as the poor man last week discovered, the tightening noose of judicial hanging.’
&nb
sp; Dead-Eyes moves, slightly stirred, a half-glance at Karim.
‘He will be a freer man now,’ says Hafiz.
‘We must hope so, because I believe you once knew him.’
‘I knew him?’
‘Oh, I think so.’
‘He spoke of me?’
Hafiz tries to sound calm, though his chest tightens.
‘He didn’t need to; others did that for him.’
‘And the name of this man?’
‘The fruit and perfume seller, Muhammed Attar.’
A terrible rage swamps Hafiz. He thinks of Muhammed cutting melons, sniffing the perfume and then swinging on a rope. He thinks of his dear friend and master, so frail and tired, patient teacher, eyes over his shoulders, a secret life now public, swaying in the sun on the end of a rope.
‘Yes,’ says Karim, picking up the story with some glee. ‘We - how shall I put it? - encouraged one of his students to tell us what went on in that secret little room up the stone stairs - stairs, I imagine, you’re familiar with, Shams-Ud-Din.’
‘I may have met him,’ says Hafiz with indifference. ‘I like fruit and have lived in Shiraz a long time.’
‘And, of course, alongside your love of fruit, he was your teacher for forty years, which makes familiarity a strong possibility, don’t you think?’
Hafiz breathes in deeply.
‘I fancy a walk by the river,’ he says. ‘We could breathe God’s beautiful air together.’
Now big Mubariz speaks, entering the ring late, with his opponent already on his knees.
‘The blasphemer Muhammed Attar lacked the patronage you have so far enjoyed,’ he says.
‘He enjoyed God’s patronage, I believe.’
‘Muhammed Attar had no Shah to hide behind, which made him vulnerable, poor man. You must feel bad about that.’
‘Why so?’
‘He was the real thing, Shams-Ud-Din, a brave man, living with a daily threat that you - the pampered court poet and so-called celebrity of words - have never known, not even close! Until now perhaps.’
Muhammed Attar had taught Hafiz everything; or rather, created the climate in which he’d learned everything. Muhammed didn’t offer spiritual flowers but worked the soil that gave life to them. Beyond the fruit and perfume the seller had been a spiritual master; and beyond the shop front, a gathering of seekers sworn to secrecy, aware of orthodox eyes. Whenever the meetings ended, with hasty goodbyes exchanged, there was always the feeling, as they stepped out into the night, that this could be the last time; that next time, Muhammed might not be here. And now he wasn’t.
And then the conversation further muddies its boots. It’s Karim who speaks:
‘It was Sultan Baybar, of course, who made legal the use of torture on apostates.’
He delivers the words as one commenting on the weather.
‘Do you have an opinion, Shams-Ud-Din? An opinion on torture?’
Twenty Nine
‘An opinion on torture?’
An unfamiliar request for Hafiz and he hesitates.
‘You know how we value your words,’ says Karim.
‘Well, I’m for sane ideas rather than mad ones. That’s where I start, I suppose. I always favour the sane. And one sane idea is not to bring a cocked gun into a meeting. It’s better to leave it outside in a field. Brought indoors, it can make for a tense atmosphere, and may well go off.’
‘But on the matter of Sultan Baybar and torture?’
‘An interesting figure,’ says Hafiz. He knew what he would say: ‘A man who legalised torture, as you observe; yet also the first Sultan to allow the Christian order of Franciscan monks to set up communities in the Holy Land. Is there such a community arriving in Shiraz any time soon?’
Hafiz notes the bearded irritation across the table, but continues. He is angry:
‘Our heroes, you see, don’t always behave as we might want them to. So we pick and choose what suits us.’
‘You would have blasphemers in our midst?’
‘Oh, I think we’re done, are we not? I think we have travelled as far as we sensibly can.’
He added that he’d learned so much from God, that he could no longer use the old religious labels. Christian? Hindu? Buddhist? Muslim? Jew? Neither these, nor any other tags, meant anything, Man? Woman? Angel? ‘All inside me is ashes,’ he says, ‘and all inside me is freedom.’
The four men sit silent until Karim speaks:
‘We are a ship you would be wise to sail in, Shams-Ud-Din.’
‘A good picture, Karim.’
‘Thank you. I like to think there is a poet in me as well.’ Doesn’t Everyone?
‘And all the great religions are ships, Karim, there we agree, ships moving slowly and purposefully through the water.’
‘Moving with God’s purpose, I believe.’
‘Yet do you know what? Every sane person I’ve met, has had in the end to dive overboard - with Muhammed Attar kindly handing out life belts here in Shiraz.’
There is no going back now. And anyway, what does he have to go back to? ‘Expect a visit soon, Hafiz.’
‘I look forward to it.’
‘I don’t think you do.’
And they were right, he didn’t. Behind his smiling eyes were fearful feelings and then Dead-Eyes spoke:
‘So now you know the fear the blasphemer Muhammed Attar knew for sixty years.’
Such intensity, such venom.
‘You’re very precise about that,’ says Hafiz.
‘And why not, Shams-Ud-Din?’
‘My name is Hafiz. And you ask why not? Because you simply cannot know these things about another. You cannot know what he feared.’
‘A son might know these things of his father.’
‘Possibly.’
‘And I am the son of Muhammed Attar.’
Thirty
The day before the Feast of Fools
Barnabus pondered tomorrow’s Feast of Fools and today’s clients. Neither prospect filled him with joy.
Yesterday he’d seen the mannered Kate Karter and the aggressive Virgil Bannaford. Later today he’d see Martin Channing, the newspaper editor; but first, the quiet, suited man before him now, the Reverend Ezekiel St Paul, Pastor of the Seraphimic Church of the Blessed Elect in Uplifting Glory. And he was nothing like he’d imagined.
What had he imagined? Barnabus had expected a hell-fire preacher, an ebullient figure filling the room with his wide-eyed presence. But the Reverend Ezekiel was no such a man. A small figure, he barely filled his chair, let alone the room, and presented as a thoughtful soul and polite. Nigerian religion was not always so irenic, but after Virgil Bannaford, Barnabus could do with some serenity. Later that evening, of course, he would squirm at such misjudgement and appreciate once again how even therapists can misread the psychological weather to come.
‘A warm welcome to Mind Gains, Ezekiel. Is that what I call you?’
‘May I ask a question?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Are you under the blood, Mr Hope?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Are you under the blood?’
His first thought was to look up to the ceiling.
‘I’m not sure I’m with you.’
‘Under the blood of the lamb?’
‘Which lamb would that be?’
‘One of the elect?’
‘Ah!’
Barnabus rebuked himself for being slow. Jesus as the Lamb of God, a truly repulsive idea, its throat cut for the sin of others.
‘I’m not sure I’d put it quite like that, Ezekiel.’
‘Reverend.’
‘Reverend.’
‘So how would you put it?’
How wou
ld Barnabus put it? He wouldn’t put it at all.
‘It’s not imagery I find helpful.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I suppose we all have different ways of making sense of the world.’ The Reverend sat quietly, moving his lips a little, looking down and then up, in some private religious transaction.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Barnabus.
‘I wonder to myself by what authority you speak?’ said Ezekiel, with a half-smile.
‘That’s quite a question.’
‘You say you don’t find the blood of Jesus Christ helpful - so by what authority do you speak?’
Not an inquiry he received every day.
‘By what authority does anyone speak?’ he offered back at the precise moment the answer flashed before his eyes, the right answer, which the Reverend then gave him:
‘When I stand in the pulpit to address my people every Sunday, sometimes twice, I speak with the authority of God.’
Why didn’t Barnabus think of that? Probably because he didn’t believe it or perhaps assume it, didn’t assume he was God’s mouthpiece on earth. Though who knows, perhaps sometimes he was. By the law of averages ...
‘And so I wonder by what authority you speak?’ continued Ezekiel, like a polite but determined drill.
Dreams of a serene afternoon lay in ashes, but Barnabus gathered himself and looked for the steel in his veins. You do on occasion need to gather yourself as a therapist. And first of all, he needed to escape this therapeutic log-jam of self-righteousness... he needed to dislodge the sticking logs, so the river of communication could flow again. That would be helpful.
‘By what authority do I speak?’
The Reverend nodded. The witness had correctly heard the prosecution’s question.
‘And tell me: did you come here today to ask me that question?’
‘I do not think it an unreasonable one.’
‘Neither do I, Reverend, I think it’s a very good one.’
They smiled at each other, a brief moment of connection.
‘And I suppose my answer would be,’ continued Barnabus, ‘that I don’t locate the authority in myself.’
‘No?’
‘No, I locate my authority in you and your will for health and in this unfolding moment between us, this present conversation.’
