A Poet of the Invisible World

by Michael Golding

  He knelt down and brushed away the dirt. A blade appeared. He tried to wriggle it free and managed to loosen a small knife from the soil. It was heavily crusted with something dark and dried. But it was only when he grasped the handle and felt the weight of it in his hand that the memories came rushing back.

  The anger.

  The fury.

  The struggle.

  The bloodshed.

  The pain.

  The pain.

  The pain.

  The pain.

  The violence of Nouri’s dreams had been real. But rather than vent his rage on The Right Hand, he’d killed the rams. And the only thing more shocking than this realization was the fact that he’d managed to bury it so far down in the dark corners of his mind, he hadn’t even known that he had done it.

  * * *

  WHEN NOURI RETURNED TO THE BARN, he fetched a bucket, filled it with water, found an old rag beside the pump, and in a hidden corner beneath the loft began to scrub away the dirt and dried blood that befouled the knife. He rubbed and rubbed until the slender blade gleamed. Then he carried it up the ladder, slipped it beneath the thin straw mattress, and lay down to sleep.

  It soon became clear, however, that sleep would not come. His heart was too anguished at what he’d done, and he was concerned that if another dream came he might do it again. He knew that he would have to go to Enrico in the morning and confess his crime. But he feared that when the old man found out, he would reach for his knife and kill him on the spot. If he didn’t, he would be sure to ask why he’d done it, and Nouri would not be able to answer without explaining what had happened with The Right Hand, which he knew that he couldn’t do. So he lay there—counting the knots in the beams—listening to the buzzing of the insects—as the hours crept by.

  The following day, he avoided Enrico, fearful that the exchange of even a glance would betray his guilt. And the following night he lay awake, on the theory that if he could keep from sleeping, he could keep from enacting the violence of his dreams. After three tortured nights, he could no longer resist. He slipped beneath the waves and remained submerged until Enrico came to rouse him several hours after the sun had risen. What he found, however, when he shook off his slumber, was that the simple awareness of what he’d done had changed the structure of his sleep. It was as if a sentry now stood guard in his head, monitoring his thoughts in the night. So he let himself drift off the following night, and the next night, secure that he would neither wander from his bed nor do any harm.

  One morning, about a week after he found the knife, Nouri awoke to a terrible itching. It started in his legs, a crawling sensation, as if a band of ants had burrowed beneath his skin. Then it spread up his body to his belly, his arms, and finally his ears. He knew that if he removed his head cloth and began to scratch, he would never stop. So he gave up trying to figure out what had caused it—a bug bite?—something he’d brushed against?—something he’d eaten?—and tried to find something to take it away. He soaked his body in both warm water and cold. He rubbed it with acacia honey. He covered it lightly with salt. But none of these things seemed to bring the least bit of relief. So since he was still somewhat chary of Enrico, he took the problem down the mountain to Soledad.

  When he reached the farm, she was kneeling beside a small basin of water, washing a stack of clothes.

  “I need your help.”

  Soledad looked up.

  “I have a terrible itch. And I can’t seem to get rid of it.”

  “Where is it?”

  Nouri took a deep breath. “Everywhere.”

  Although Soledad did not profess to have any medical knowledge, she asked Nouri if she might examine his body. Nouri agreed. So she took him inside the house, led him into the small room that she shared with Concepción, and told him to remove his clothes. As she studied his legs and his chest and the warm hollows beneath his arms, they were both keenly aware that this moment was creating a new intimacy between them. But when she asked him to remove his head garment, he declined, for the memory of The Right Hand’s reaction when he’d discovered his ears still filled him with terror.

  When Soledad was finished with her examination, she told Nouri to slip back into his clothes. Then she asked him to remain where he was and she left the house. About an hour later, she returned with an old woman with milky eyes, whom she introduced as Señora Inez. The woman spread a large cloth over Soledad’s bed and told Nouri to remove his clothes again and lie down. Then she proceeded to sponge his body with a solution of vinegar and antimony. She followed this by massaging oil of violets into his skin. Then she covered him with a red chalky substance, wrapped him in muslin, and left him to rest.

  At first, Nouri thought that the odd treatment had worked. The vinegar was cooling, the violet oil was numbing, and the chalky substance seemed to draw the itching away. His body relaxed and he fell into the first sleep he’d known in days. A few hours later, however, he awoke to find the muslin torn from his body and his fingers clawing his flesh.

  It was only then that Soledad’s father stepped in. Nouri was sitting in a chair by the window, wrapped in a thin blanket. He was lost in thought and had not even noticed that the taciturn man had entered the room. Only when he heard the low voice did he turn and see him standing in the shadows.

  “I hear you’ve got an itch.”

  Nouri nodded.

  “An itch is bad.”

  Nouri nodded again and there was a long silence. Then Soledad’s father folded his arms.

  “I know a fellow who can help you,” he said. “But you’ll have to travel far to see him.”

  “If it would stop the itching,” said Nouri, “I’d go to the moon.”

  Soledad’s father did not respond. So Nouri spoke again.

  “How do I get there?”

  The gaunt man was silent. Then he shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to take you.”

  The offer came as a surprise to Nouri. “Thank you,” he said.

  “We’ll leave in three days.”

  Soledad’s father stared at Nouri a moment. Then he left the room.

  Nouri could not imagine going off on a journey in such a condition. But the thought of remaining where he was, with no relief from the itching, was far worse. So he closed his eyes and prayed that he could keep from removing his skin before it was time to depart.

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING DAYS WERE filled with preparations for the journey. Soledad sewed a small tablecloth into a sack and her mother spent hours baking bread and wrapping olives and sausages and cheese into small bundles to fill it up. Concepción gathered handfuls of dried grass and wove a pair of broad-brimmed hats to protect the two travelers from the sun, while Fortes fashioned a pair of sharp knives to slice the sausages and the cheese—not to mention the throats of any strangers on the road who might try to harm them.

  The most difficult thing for Nouri was to tell Enrico about the trip. He’d avoided him for weeks and still found it hard to look him in the eye. He finally managed to mumble it to him one morning as he stood drawing water from the well, and though the old fellow barely said a word Nouri knew that the news had struck him hard. The most Nouri could do was reassure Enrico that he would come back soon, and that the sheep would be safe while he was gone.

  The morning of the departure was overcast and gray. Soledad helped Nouri and her father gather their things together and load them into a pair of satchels. Concepción gathered handfuls of wildflowers to hand them and Soledad’s mother gave Nouri an ointment of beeswax and juniper berries to ease the itching until they reached their destination. They said their good-byes: Soledad giving her father a tender embrace and Nouri a heartfelt look, Concepción running into the house, Fortes hanging back on the porch. Then they hoisted their bags and set off down the mountain.

  They walked in silence, the sky clearing to a searing blue as they made their way down the winding path. When the land leveled off, they came to a small farm, where an elderly man gave them a pair of br
own steeds. Soledad’s father drew a rasher of pork from one of the bags and gave it to the man. Then they loaded their things into the satchels and headed out over the dusty terrain.

  They rode all day, not exchanging a single word. When night fell, they tied the horses to a tree and laid a pair of blankets on the ground. Then they ate a bit of the pork and cheese and, with the intricate beadwork of the stars overhead—not to mention the aid of Soledad’s mother’s ointment—they managed to get some sleep.

  On the second day, they set out at dawn, the dust clouding their eyes, the heat parching their throats, the sun blazing down like an evil djinn. Nouri knew that the journey would be less oppressive if he and Soledad’s father conversed. But the heat dulled his brain, and Soledad’s father said nothing. So they rode on together in silence. On the third day, they came to a tiny village where they bartered their salted pork for fresh hay for their horses. Nouri wanted to linger awhile to gaze at the new faces. But Soledad’s father said they still had a long way to go, so they mounted their horses and continued on.

  They traveled until Nouri lost track of time. Days of riding, the heat a dull weight pressing down on his body, the itching a steady presence beneath the skin that threatened to break loose at any time. When hunger came, they stopped to eat. When night fell, they laid out their blankets and slept. But mostly they just rode and rode and rode.

  One afternoon, they reached the crest of a large hill that they’d been climbing most of the day, and Nouri looked out to find an expanse of sea so blue, so light-dappled, so seemingly endless, he could hardly believe his eyes.

  “We’re close now,” said Soledad’s father. “The boat will be waiting for us at the water.”

  Nouri did not point out that there’d been no talk of a boat or any passage across the water, especially not a sea as vast as the one they faced now. Instead, he merely followed as Soledad’s father gave a sharp kick to his horse and continued on toward the coast.

  When they reached the sands that bordered the sea, they reined in their horses and dismounted. Then Soledad’s father told Nouri to wait with the tired steeds while he went to search for a man named Alfonso. About an hour later, he returned with a ruddy-faced fellow with piercing eyes who told them to entrust their horses to a boy who tied them to a tree. The fellow led them to a small wooden boat, helped them aboard, and proceeded to pull up anchor. Then, with a gentle breeze at their backs, they set off.

  It was the first time in Nouri’s eighteen years that he’d ventured out upon the water. So it took him a little while to get used to the buoyancy and the salty flavor of the air. As they moved away from the coast, he saw the water change from dark green to turquoise to a silvery blue. But even more alluring than the water was the light: it seemed to pour in from every direction, sending a warmth through his body that licked at the ice that surrounded his heart.

  They slept that night on the boat, Alfonso laying blankets over the seat planks and making ceviche for them to eat from the carp that he caught. Nouri, however, spent most of the night wide awake, thinking of the relief from the terrible itching that would finally come when they reached their destination. In the morning the sun rose golden and sleek, and when Nouri looked out he found that land was within sight. As Alfonso guided them in, he saw boats hugging the shore and people scattered across the beach. And as the smells wafted in from the food being cooked on a series of open fires, it was clear they were entering another world.

  When they reached the shore, Alfonso dropped anchor. Then Soledad’s father stepped from the boat and gestured to Nouri to do the same. They waded through the low water until they reached the sand. Then Soledad’s father paused.

  “How do we find him?” Nouri asked. “The man who can help with my itching?”

  Soledad’s father raised his eyes to the clay-colored towers that loomed at the far edge of the beach. “There is no man.”

  Nouri stared at him, not comprehending.

  “I know you killed the rams,” he said. “I don’t know why you did it. But I know.” He was silent a moment, his eyes still locked on the distance. “On top of this, I see how you look at Fortes. This is not natural.” He was silent again. Then he turned to Nouri. “So I’ve brought you to a place where this god of yours abides. Let him deal with you.” He stood there to make sure that his words drove home. Then he waded back to Alfonso’s boat.

  Nouri closed his eyes and tried to press back the feeling of dread that rose from his gut. But he could not avoid the fact that he was stranded in a foreign land with no friends—no money—and an itch like a madman roiling beneath his skin.

  PART FOUR

  Fifteen

  Despite the number of twists and turns he had to take, the sleeping dogs sprawled across narrow alleys, the rancid smells rising from sun-soaked courtyards, Nouri knew when he saw the slender man draped in the tiger skin and seated beside the pipes that he’d reached the place he’d been sent to find. The pipes—which were strewn across the steps that led to the curtained door—were of all shapes and sizes: long wooden tubes topped with circular bowls, elegant hookahs of knobbed silver, carved ivory wands that curled up to flirt with the smoke that issued from their mouths. Exposed to the harsh glare of the midday sun, they seemed tame and ornamental. But Nouri could tell, from the faraway look in the man’s eyes, that they were conveyors of real magic.

  After living in the windswept town for nearly a week with no relief from his itching, Nouri needed whatever magic he could find. When Soledad’s father had abandoned him on the beach, he’d just stood there, staring at the sea. When he finally turned back to the land, he was overwhelmed by the activity: the fishermen untangling their brightly colored nets, the women carrying large woven baskets on their heads, the men grilling fish in open pits that smoked like the portals of hell. So he crossed the beach to a narrow shelf that was sheltered by a string of palms, lowered himself to the cool white sand, and sat staring at the horizon, where the world he knew lay smashed like a broken toy.

  He sat there the whole day. And the next day. And the next. And he might have sat there until the life drained from his tormented body had a man with a thick beard and dressed in a dazzling blue robe not approached and held out a ripe, gleaming pear.

  “Unless you’re just a figment of my imagination—in which case I should be home in bed and not selling fruit in a moth-eaten tent on the beach—you must be as hungry as a fucking mule after sitting here, staring at the whore-loving sea, for the last three days.”

  Nouri was so stunned by the man’s florid speech—not to mention the fact that the entire thing was in Arabic—he could not say a word.

  “Take it,” said the man, as he offered the pear. “Or I’ll slice your head off and sell it as an exotic melon.”

  Nouri reached for the pear, took a bite, and a stream of sweet juice trickled down his chin. Then, in a single gulp, he devoured the rest.

  “As I see it,” said the man, “you have three choices. Either you get up and go back to where you came from—which I assume, from the way you look, is a journey you’re in no condition to make—or you come with me. Which will at least prevent the mosquitoes from eating you alive.”

  Nouri waited for the man to go on, but he said no more.

  “That’s only two choices.”

  The man gazed at Nouri and shrugged. “Or I’ll slice your head off and sell it as an exotic melon.”

  Nouri tried to consider the options. But he knew that returning to where he’d come from was not a choice. And despite the relentless nagging of his thoughts, he still valued his head. So he rose and shook the sand from his clothes.

  “Lead the way.”

  The man nodded. Then he started across the beach and Nouri, still light-headed and confused, did his best to follow behind. As they made their way through the crowded streets, he learned that the fellow’s name was Sayid, that he’d spent his whole life in the bustling city, that he’d tried selling spices and leather before he’d settled on fruit, that he’d been
with over three dozen women, that he could spit farther than any man he’d ever met, and that Nouri was welcome to stay with him until he figured out what to do next. Nouri had never heard anyone talk so much. One sentence flowed into the next until he was swept away on a torrent of sound. But he was tired, and hungry, so he let the fellow jabber away as he led him on.

  When they reached Sayid’s room—which was stuffed with books and jars and rugs and hides—there did not seem to be enough room for Sayid, let alone for Sayid and himself.

  “There’s a pump in the alley for water,” said Sayid. “And a place to shit. As for food, you can help yourself to whatever I have. Which isn’t much. But then life can be lived on quite little, if you know what you like.”

  Nouri was too dazed to respond, so Sayid took a broom, thumped the thin straw mattress that lay on the floor a few times, and told him to lie down.

  “Sleep!” he cried. “The elixir of Allah!”

  Nouri removed his shoes and added them to the clutter. Then he crawled onto the lumpy bed and fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke, Sayid presented him with a mouthwatering tagine—laden with lamb, dotted with prunes, drenched in a sweet cinnamon sauce—which Nouri wolfed down. Then he took him out on a tour of the humming city. It was filled, he explained, with a hodgepodge of contradictions. Christians and Muslims. Tradesmen and clerics. Crusaders and pirates. Its bright face was as shining as its dark, hidden underbelly was grim.

  “There’s nothing you can’t find here,” said Sayid. “And if you do think of something you can’t find, there’s always someone who’ll venture off to where you can and bring it back.”