Nouri was amazed by the place: even the great city of Tan-Arzhan seemed lifeless by comparison. So when Sayid returned to the beach to sell his melons and pears and tangerines, Nouri continued on along the footpaths and through the alleys and the courtyards, intrigued by the fair-haired Berbers, the scholars dressed in their crisp black gowns, the long-masted galleys that towered like gray-haired wolves above the wharves. But though everything he saw filled him with wonder, he still felt as if a battle were occurring beneath his skin. So since Sayid had insisted that one could find anything in the clamorous city, he went down to the beach to inquire where he could find something to remove his itching.
When he reached the tent where Sayid hawked his fruit, the loquacious fellow was filling a small basket with kumquats. When Nouri told him about his itch, he just stood there a moment, stroking his black beard.
“There’s a woman across the way who sells salves. And there’s a man who lives near the countinghouse who can put people into a trance.” He waved his hand over a basket of ripe figs to scatter the flies. “But if you want my opinion, neither of these things amounts to a pile of cat puke.”
“Well, there has to be something.”
Sayid narrowed his eyes. “I guess it depends on how badly you want to escape your pain.”
“Badly,” said Nouri. “Very badly.”
Sayid was silent. Then he reached for an apple, threw it up high into the air, drew his sword, and as it tumbled back down toward the ground, sliced it in two, catching both halves with his other hand. Then he slipped the sword back into his belt and offered one of the halves to Nouri.
“Then I’ve got just the thing for you.”
That was when he told Nouri about Abdallah, who with a few draws from one of his pipes would make Nouri’s itching go up in smoke. So Nouri followed the path that Sayid had described through the maze of streets until he arrived at the place where he stood now.
“Sayid sent me,” said Nouri. “He said to tell you that you should give me a ‘first-class passage.’”
The man draped in the tiger skin looked up. Then he rose to his feet and began to climb the crumbling steps, and Nouri followed behind. When they reached the top, the man drew the curtain aside and they entered a dark room. Nouri saw that he was in a narrow cell with no windows, the only light the flickering flames from a series of oil lamps that were scattered across the floor. Beside each lamp lay a man sprawled on a worn-out rug, sucking at the end of a slender pipe topped with a bowl that he held, inverted, over the flame. The tiger man—who by now Nouri assumed must be Abdallah—gestured to Nouri to take his place on one of the empty rugs. So he lay down beside a vacant lamp and waited to be shown what to do.
The man shuffled off to the far side of the room. Then he returned to Nouri with one of the long, lovely pipes. He opened the lid and placed a small pealike bundle in the bowl; then he replaced the lid, turned it over, and lowered it over the flame. Nouri watched as the heat rose in wavering plumes from the small glass chimney and warmed the contents of the bowl. Then the man handed the pipe to Nouri and nodded.
“Breathe!”
Nouri slithered close to the lamp, slipped the pipe between his lips, and drew in not smoke but a warm stream of vapor. Its taste was so acrid he wanted to pull the pipe from his mouth. But he decided that if the others could bear it, its reward must be great. So he persisted. Until at last his body relaxed, and his head grew light, and a sweet euphoria swept over him and carried him away.
* * *
THE BARGE WAS VAST, and tipped with gold, and floated, cloudlike, over the vermilion water. Nouri lay back on one of the cushions that were strewn across the deck and gazed out at the men washing their camels along the shore, the glittering domes of the mosques, the round ships and cogs and feluccas taking their turns in the afternoon light. He felt weightless. Blissful. Without a care in the world. So he was unprepared when the deck suddenly lurched and he bolted forward as something—a schooner?—a whale?—struck the side of the barge.
“You can’t just lie there all day, my indulgent friend! For the sake of Allah, it’s time to wake up!”
Nouri opened his eyes and gazed at the smoke-stained ceiling. He was not on a satin cushion on a golden barge on a silver sea. He was in Sayid’s room and it was neither a whale nor a schooner that had disturbed his calm but a sharp kick from Sayid’s foot.
“No one understands the lure of Abdallah’s pipes better than me. But you have to crawl out of the fog now and then. You have to eat. You have to piss.” He gave Nouri another kick. “And you have to work! Do you think such delicious visions come free?”
It had been two weeks since Nouri had first gone to the windowless room and inhaled the transporting vapors. And the pleasure he felt was so sublime—no itching—no sorrow—and a palpable muting of the sounds that assaulted his ears—that he returned each day until the narcotic fog enveloped him wherever he went. At night, he lay in Sayid’s room, dreaming delicious dreams of the past: talking with Vishpar, laughing with Habbib, walking through the streets of Tan-Arzhan with Sheikh Bailiri. When he awoke, he stumbled off to Abdallah’s and lay down with the pipe, never thinking about who was paying for his sweet escape. So despite the fact that Sayid’s words came as something of a shock, he could only stare up from the sweaty mattress, not knowing what to say.
“Get up!” cried Sayid. He paused a moment and then gave Nouri a final whack. “Now!”
Nouri attempted to raise himself from the bed, but he faltered. So Sayid went to the washbasin, lowered a cloth into the water, wrung it out, and brought it back to the bed. Nouri pressed it against his face and it dissolved a few outer layers of the fog. Then he went to the table, where Sayid fed him some dates and a bit of cheese.
“The woman who runs the local laundry,” said Sayid, “is in need of help. It’s a stinking place. I can promise you that. But as far as I can tell, you’re in no position to be choosy.”
Nouri couldn’t argue. So Sayid rose from the table. “Come,” he said. “Before you float back into the clouds.”
Sayid led Nouri into the street. Then they moved through a series of shadowed passageways until they came to an open doorway that belched great billows of steam. When they entered, Nouri found himself in an airless room hung with caftans and bedsheets and turbans, all dripping in the filmy air. Sayid looked around the room and, when he found no one there, cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted:
“Shoh-reh! My speckled quail egg! It’s Sayid!”
There was a momentary silence. Then a large woman, dressed in a tentlike shift, her face damp with sweat, strode into the room. “I’ve no time for fucking, Sayid! I’ve got too much work!”
“I’m not here to fuck. I’m here to introduce you to a friend.”
The woman looked at Nouri, a bead of moisture dangling from one of her chins. “For him, I suppose I can find the time.”
Sayid shook his head. “He’s not here to fuck either. He’s here because he needs a job.”
The light in the woman’s dun-colored eyes went out. “I need help with the stirring,” she said. “And the wringing. And the hanging.” She drew a rag from one of the folds of her voluminous shift and wiped it across her brow. “You can start now.” Then she turned and vanished into the sea of clothes.
Nouri stood there frozen. So Sayid gave him a shove. “Get going!” he cried. “There are worse ways to pay for a journey to the stars!”
Nouri closed his eyes. The room was dank, and foul smelling, but then he remembered the bliss that awaited him at Abdallah’s. So he took a deep breath and headed off into the haze.
* * *
WORKING AT SHOHREH’S LAUNDRY was much harder than Nouri had expected. From the moment he arrived each day, just as the sun was coming up, until he staggered out, as it was setting, there was an endless list of things to be done. Once Shohreh had taught him the various tasks, she left him to tend to them on his own. As soon as he finished one stack of fetid clothes, however, the next w
ould appear. By the end of the first week, his skin was raw, his hands were blistered, his back was knotted and sore. But the coins that Shohreh gave him at the end of the day felt smooth and cool in his pocket. And when he handed them to Abdallah and he handed Nouri the pipe, all thoughts of the grueling labor drifted away.
Day after day, Nouri shuttled between the laundry and the smoke-filled den: in the former, enveloped in clouds of steam; in the latter, in clouds of forgetting. The streets became a tunnel he floated through, the people he passed vague phantoms, Sayid a blur at the edges of sleep. At times, the fog in his head was so thick he could not find his way back home. At other times, his mind was so clear it was as if the rest of his life had been immersed in fog. He still slept at night, but as the weeks passed, his dreams began to sour. Instead of sweet memories of his days in Tan-Arzhan, he saw Habbib, tied to a wagon, being dragged through the streets, Soledad tending a flock of bloody sheep, Vishpar and Fortes making love. So despite the fact that the sweet vapors of Abdallah’s pipes were able to relieve his itching, they could not take away his pain.
One night, as Nouri staggered out of Abdallah’s den, he passed an alley from which an alluring scent beckoned. He rarely wandered off the familiar path that led from Sayid’s to the laundry to Abdallah’s and back to Sayid’s. The streets that jutted off from his accustomed route were merely deviations from his daily pattern of work, intoxication, and sleep. The fragrance was beguiling, however—a heady mixture of rosewater and lime—so he decided to head down the alley and find out where it came from.
It was a moonless night, so the only thing he had to light his way were the twitching candles in the darkened windows over his head. As he moved along, he could feel eyes peering from those windows, but he was unable to trace them to their sources. The smell that had lured him upon his course was soon smothered by other smells: frying onions and sandalwood and the stench of rotten fruit. His ears, ever alert—even beneath his head cloth and the haze of Abdallah’s pipe—could hear snatches of conversation, tree branches scraping against clay-tiled roofs, cats scurrying by. Whirled by the sharp euphoria of Abdallah’s magic, the night rattled and roared.
At the end of the alley, he saw a figure in a doorway: head lowered, arms folded across his chest, one leg drawn up against the door. As Nouri moved closer, the man raised his head and peered at him through the darkness. Nouri could feel his heart begin to pound and a flash of heat pass through him. He wanted to stop. To turn. To say something to him. But all he could do was continue on.
As he started down an alley that ran perpendicular to the one he’d just traversed, he could feel the man walking behind him. It was as if the fellow was leading the way from behind: under the low stone arches, over the cobbled courtyards, until they reached the narrow street that spat out onto the wharves. As they entered it, the man quickened his pace, and Nouri could feel the fear course through him. Before he could think what to do, however, he felt a hand on his shoulder. So he stopped. And he turned. Then the man took a step closer, lowered his hand, and grasped the serpent.
Nouri stiffened. But so did the serpent. And though the fear now gripped him, he could only gasp as the man raised his tunic, and opened his trousers, and fell to his knees.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, he thought of God. Then a wave of such pleasure passed through him, even God was gone.
Sixteen
On the morning after his encounter at the wharves, Nouri awoke in a state of arousal, the covers tented around the insistent hardness of the serpent. As he slipped from the bed and splashed water on his face, he could not stop thinking of what had happened the night before. He kept hearing the man’s footsteps—seeing his coal-black eyes—feeling the heat of his desire. As he followed the path from Sayid’s to the laundry, he felt sure each person he passed knew what he’d done. He felt sure Shohreh knew too: she kept pressing her body against him and could not stop speaking about the soiled bedsheets. Yet even Nouri’s discomfort at her closeness did not cause the serpent to relax. It jutted against the steam press and thudded against the vats and remained a general nuisance throughout the day.
When he was done with the day’s labor, he continued on to Abdallah’s. But the moment the luscious vapors took their effect, he hurried off in search of the man. When he reached the place where he’d found him the night before, there was no one there. But a bit farther on he found another man—this time leaning against a rusted gate—he could relinquish himself to.
A new daily pattern emerged: rising in the morning, trudging to Shohreh’s, hurrying to Abdallah’s, and then heading out to find the next man. Sometimes he wandered for hours without success. Other times he’d barely stepped into the dark alley before he found the next warm body. Each night was an adventure, each man different from the one before. Some were strong and thickly muscled. Some were wraithlike. Some were small. Some were covered with bristling hair. Some were smooth like stones washed by the sea. Some were charcoal. Some were fair. Some cried out when they came. Some whimpered. Some moaned.
All were on fire.
Few spoke a word.
And despite their vast number, he never encountered the same man twice.
As Nouri moved deeper into the world of the flesh, his body continued its passage from boy to man. His shoulders broadened. His face grew lean. His voice—which had been a piping shawm when he’d left the lodge—settled into the warmth of a resonant oud. More significant than these physical changes, however, were the changes in how he related to the world. He no longer felt the need to be looked after. To be approved of. To be told what to do. And after months of sating the needs of the serpent, he no longer felt ashamed at watching it rise and fall.
The months slipped by. The Sharqi blew in from the east and the sultry days grew shorter. And night after night, Nouri gave himself over to the pleasures of the body. Not even the delirium of the pipe could make the world so completely disappear. Each night, however, before he could carry his spent body back to Sayid’s, the persistent itching would return. And all he could do was tumble into a restless sleep, and begin a new cycle the next day.
* * *
IF SHEIKH BAILIRI HAD BEEN a part of Nouri’s new world, the Sufi master would have explained quite clearly that nothing remains the same for very long, that the senses dull, that pleasure fades, that left to their own devices all things, no matter how sweet, will inevitably decline. He was not there, however, and his voice—which had once echoed in Nouri’s ears—was now buried beneath layers of thick gauze. So Nouri could barely register the fact that it took longer to accomplish less at the laundry, that it took more draws from Abdallah’s pipe to produce the desired effect, and that the men he caressed in the hidden pockets of the night were becoming not only interchangeable but unappealing. He only knew that when he awoke in the morning he felt drained, that the smell of Shohreh’s soap made him queasy, and that he often had to search all night before he found someone to whom he was willing to offer himself.
Sayid—who rarely saw him anymore—found him a perfect model of dissipation. “I’ve watched many people pass through here. It’s a stewpot. A magnet for every vice. But I’ve never seen anyone fall so hard for the city’s lures. You’re impressive, my friend!”
Shohreh, on the other hand—who saw him every day—found him a perfect wreck. “I wouldn’t fuck him now,” she exclaimed to Sayid, “if he was the last prick in town!”
More important, she was no longer sure that she wished him to work at the laundry. His stirring was listless, his hanging erratic, and he seemed in need of a good pressing himself. So one morning, after a particularly impassioned night, she announced that he needed to either shape up or find a strong camel to ride out of town.
“If I’d wanted to look after a child, I’d have had one! Get the clouds out of your head! Or get out!”
To be honest, Nouri was grateful for the ultimatum. For he knew that his life was a mess and could not go on much longer as it was. But if he los
t his job at the laundry, he could not pay Abdallah for the pipe; if he could not use the pipe, his itching would increase; if his itching was not tempered, he could not bear the touch of even the gentlest stranger; and if he did not lose himself in his nightly trysts, he could not bear the sorrow in his heart. So he swallowed his pride and begged Shohreh to give him another chance.
As a test of his pledge to work harder, the gruff laundress gave him a particularly difficult task. Rashid al-Halil, one of her most steadfast customers, had just lost his wife. Consumed by grief, he’d ventured off to receive succor from a band of religious fanatics who lived in the mountains a few hours south. He’d remained there a month, and was so touched by the kindness they’d shown him, he wished to offer them a kindness in return. So he sent a pair of his servants to gather each towel, bedsheet, window curtain, tablecloth, and stitch of clothing the brothers possessed and take it to Shohreh’s to be cleaned.
“White!” Shohreh shouted, as she led Nouri to the absurdly large basket that the great heap of goods was piled up in. “Everything is fucking white! And I’ve been told to make certain it’s all even whiter when it goes back!”
Each item, she explained, had to be soaked in a solution of hot water mixed with vinegar and soap, then wrung out by hand, then rinsed with cool water, then wrung out again, then hung in the courtyard, then rinsed again, then wrung out again, then hung out again, then pressed in the steam press, then folded, and then carefully stacked in the enormous basket. Rashid al-Halil’s servants would return for the basket a few hours before sundown. So it all had to be done as swiftly as it could.
“They say the stupid fools barely eat!” Shohreh exclaimed. “So at least you won’t have to deal with shit stains in their drawers!”
Nouri found this scant consolation for the long day of labor that lay before him. But he rolled up his sleeves and set out to do the best that he could do. First he made a fire to heat the water for the vats. Then he added the vinegar and the soap. Then he gathered the sheets and towels and tunics from the basket and lowered them in. Once they were submerged beneath the scalding water, he reached for the long birch stick and began to stir. By now his arms were quite used to the exertion—indeed, after working at the laundry for almost half a year, they’d grown nearly as strong as Vishpar’s—but the steam that rose from the boiling vats stung his eyes, and the sound of the churning water deafened his ears, and his thoughts, spurred by Shohreh’s ultimatum, began to turn in his head.
A Poet of the Invisible World Page 14
