A Poet of the Invisible World

by Michael Golding

  “Forgive me for interrupting, but I need your help.”

  The two men turned to find a frizzy-haired youth standing before them.

  “Brother Omar asked me to come find you.”

  “What’s wrong?” said Abbas al-Kumar.

  “One of the grates in the bathing chamber is clogged.”

  “And what does Brother Omar think I can do about it?”

  “He wants to borrow one of your cooking utensils to dislodge it.”

  “One of my cooking utensils!” Abbas al-Kumar turned a bright crimson. “Tell him I’ll be right there! And don’t let him touch a thing!”

  The youth bowed, and vanished into the lodge.

  “It seems that we have a new initiate,” said Nouri.

  “Oh, there’s more than just one!” said Abbas al-Kumar. “I’m afraid things have changed a great deal while you’ve been gone!”

  Before Nouri could learn what he meant, Abbas al-Kumar hurried off. So he followed him into the lodge to find out for himself.

  As he stepped over the threshold, he felt as if he was entering a place he’d never been. The floors were covered with rich woven rugs, the windows were draped with colored silks, and a strong smell of sandalwood filled the air. A series of lamps was strung from the ceiling and the walls were piled high with books. What startled Nouri the most, however, were the dozens of men moving to and fro. They were all ages. All shapes. All sizes. And they all seemed to be at home in the mountain lodge.

  When Nouri reached the doors of the garden, he stepped outside. There was a youth trimming the hedges, another pruning the roses, a third edging the footpath that led to the pool. Nouri’s attention, however, was instantly drawn to the pair of graves. So he crossed the well-cared-for lawn and knelt down before them.

  He closed his eyes and felt not pain, but communion. Gratitude. Love. Then—like the base note of an old, insistent song—he heard the familiar voice: “I knew you’d return. But I didn’t think it would take this long.”

  Nouri was silent. Then he rose to his feet and greeted his friend and foe. “Assalamu alaikum, Sharoud.”

  Sharoud bowed his head. “Alaikum assalam.”

  The moment crackled. Then Sharoud spoke again.

  “We have things to discuss. Follow me.”

  He turned and headed into the lodge, and Nouri followed. They moved down the corridor to one of the small prayer rooms that flanked the meeting hall. When they entered, Nouri found that it had been transformed into a private chamber even more lavishly appointed than what he’d already seen. Glittering objects adorned every surface and—despite the enormous Qur’an that lay open on a silver stand—the room was devoid of grace.

  “Please be seated,” said Sharoud, as he gestured to one of the velvet cushions that were scattered across the floor.

  Nouri sat. Then Sharoud closed the door and sat beside him.

  “You vanished,” he said. “Without a word.”

  “I grew tired of words.”

  “That’s commendable.” Sharoud paused. “Especially for you.”

  Nouri felt something stir inside him. But he did not respond.

  “The fact remains that you were chosen to be our murshid. And you abandoned us.” Sharoud paused a moment. Then he smiled. “But Allah always achieves what He desires. So it seems clear—from a more detached point of view—that you were removed so that we might prosper.”

  Nouri knew that Sharoud’s words were meant to wound him. But they had no effect.

  “We have twenty-three new members,” continued Sharoud. “Fourteen have come from other orders and nine are new initiates. We have a dozen new lay members. We’re growing. Thriving.”

  “And you are the new murshid?”

  “There are no rules about what to do when the head of an order disappears. Someone needed to grasp the reins.”

  Nouri raised his eyes to the polished lamp that hung like an ill star over their heads. He hated the thought of so many brothers pledging their love and devotion to a master like Sharoud. Yet he knew even he could not stand in their way if their paths were true. It was clear to Nouri that he could not exert an authority he’d walked away from or use a voice he’d given up. He would not subject the order to a struggle for power. And he would not waste a single moment arguing with Sharoud.

  “May Allah be with you,” he said.

  Then he rose to his feet and left the room.

  As he moved down the corridor, he saw how intently the new members of the order approached their tasks. He wanted to tell them that their bodies were too clenched—their words too emphatic—that what they yearned for was not in some distant future but right before their eyes. But he knew how much they would have to go through before they would understand. And how much had to fall away.

  When he reached the entrance, he paused for a moment. The sun felt warm, and the world seemed perfectly still. As he crossed the threshold, he realized that once again he was setting out on a journey. This time, however, he knew his destination. So he passed through the gates for the last time and started off down the mountain.

  PART SIX

  Twenty-Six

  As the wagon approached the city of Tan-Arzhan, it was as if time folded back into a pleat, causing the present moment, in which Nouri sat on the wooden seat plank, weary from the lengthy journey, to lie flat beside the moment, more than thirty years before, when he’d last laid eyes upon the town. The cows and the chickens and the yards were like the ones he’d known then. Yet everything seemed smaller, as if the rain and the sun had shrunk them, made the trees and the stones more compact, boiled the essence of the place down to a more concentrated version of itself. Despite the fetid smell of the goat hides that lay stinking in the back of the wagon, Nouri was grateful for the ride. For while the ten-month trek had been interrupted by fleeting passage on the back of a camel or the deck of a boat, for the most part the journey across the blazing sand and over the rutted roads had been made on foot. Nouri’s bones ached, and his feet were in shreds. But he was almost there. So he closed his eyes and tried to rest before the wagon pulled in and he had to travel the final stretch of the journey.

  When the shout came, and the wagon lurched to a stop, Nouri saw that—for a few blissful moments—he must have nodded off. As he thanked the driver and stepped down to the ground, he tried to shake off the night and the lingering traces of sleep. But as he walked through the streets—past the town square—past the schoolhouse—past the Darni Sunim—he felt as if he were moving through a dream.

  When he reached the Sufi lodge on the outskirts of town, it seemed to be deserted. The gate was rusted open and the walls were covered over with twisted vines. As he stepped into the forecourt, the memories rushed in. Sitting on the bench for a lesson with Sheikh Bailiri. Polishing the stones with Jamal al-Jani. What struck him the most as he stood there, however, was the quiet of the place. Even the laughing ghosts of his old friends could not disturb the silence.

  He climbed the weathered steps and reached for the handle of the door. It opened. So he stepped inside and moved down the vacant hall past the empty rooms. It was as if the order had been consumed by the hungry flames he’d ignited that night on the mountain. Not a trace of the work or the prayer or the devotion remained.

  When he reached his former cell, he paused in the doorway. The bed, the table, and the washbasin were just as they’d been so many years before. But he could not bring himself to step inside. He could only stand there and wonder at the strangeness of time.

  When he heard the pensive note rise up, it seemed another trick of memory. But as the note stretched into melody and progressed into song, he knew that the sounds were actually occurring in the space. He followed them, and when he reached the courtyard he found a slender man, about a decade older than himself, seated cross-legged on the ground. He was playing a wooden ney, and the sounds seemed to issue from every part of him, from his dirty toes to the cloud of fuzz that surrounded his head. And even before he looked up and the
old, toothless grin spread across his face, it was clear to Nouri that it was Ali Majid, the odd serving boy from his youth.

  “I thought they ate you,” said Ali Majid. “Or skinned your hide and stretched it out to make a tombak.”

  Nouri moved closer, the memory of the gangly youth peering out of the deep seams that lined the face of the fellow before him. “You’re still here.”

  Ali Majid lowered his ney to the faded tiles. “And where else would I be?”

  Nouri crouched down. “And the brothers?”

  “All gone.”

  “And you’ve stayed here? All of this time? All alone?”

  Ali Majid—as he had done so many times—poked his finger in his own ear. “Who said I was alone?”

  He gazed at Nouri a moment. Then he grabbed his flute, rose to his feet, and started away. Nouri felt his heart begin to pound, but there was no time to either think or hope. All he could do was follow the wiry fellow across the courtyard, down the corridor, and out through the low stone archway that led to the small enclosure between the chapel and the southern wall of the lodge, where a tiny figure sat pulling up weeds.

  When Nouri saw him, he felt a dam break inside him and a lifetime of longing wash over him.

  “He always said you’d come back,” said Ali Majid. “I never argued. But I never believed him.”

  Nouri crouched down and gazed into the old man’s eyes. His skin hung loose and he was missing more teeth than Ali Majid, yet there wasn’t a doubt in Nouri’s mind that the withered fellow who sat before him was the loving caretaker and sweet companion of his childhood, Habbib. What surprised him was that he was wearing a head cloth—for his beloved friend had never shown the least sign of any desire to become a Sufi.

  “I’m sorry I took so long,” said Nouri. “So many things happened.”

  Habbib raised his fingers to Nouri’s cheek, which only then did Nouri realize was wet with tears. Then the old fellow smiled, and Nouri took him into his arms.

  When Nouri drew back from the embrace, he turned to thank Ali Majid for looking after him. But Ali Majid had scampered away, so Nouri turned back to Habbib. He gestured to Nouri to lower his head and, when he did, he reached out his hands and began to unwind Nouri’s head cloth. Bit by bit, the fabric unfurled until the four ears were exposed. Habbib raised his fingers and gently stroked them. A smile spread across his face. And Nouri knew that he no longer needed to hide them away.

  Nouri rose and reached out his hand to Habbib. But Habbib wouldn’t take it. Instead, he patted the place where Nouri had just been. So he crouched down again.

  “What is it?”

  Habbib said nothing. But then, with a determined slowness, he began to remove his head cloth. He kept his eyes fixed on Nouri’s as he gently pulled the tattered layers away. And the calmness behind them was the only thing that kept Nouri from crying out once his head was bare.

  His ears were gone. Like a sea-washed stone, his head was a lumpen sphere, the two holes on either side surrounded by mottled scar tissue grown hard over time. Nouri could feel his heart constrict, but before he could speak Habbib pressed a bony finger against his lips. Then he reached for his hands and placed them over the savaged flesh.

  The two friends remained that way for a long while. Then Nouri lowered his hands, rose to his feet, and helped Habbib rise to his.

  There was so much to ask.

  And so much to tell.

  But Nouri had ears for them both.

  And they had plenty of time.

  Twenty-Seven

  The following morning, when Nouri awoke, he went out to the courtyard and asked Ali Majid to explain how Habbib had lost his ears. As he suspected, it had happened on that day when the lodge had been attacked by the marauders. According to Ali Majid, Hajid al-Hallal had been slain just moments after Nouri had been carried away. With the others already felled, only Sheikh Bailiri—whose grace seemed to deflect the villains’ weapons—and Jamal al-Jani—who was off pissing in the woods—and Ali Majid and Habbib had survived the attack. The latter had remained frozen in place as the men stormed the lodge, seizing the prayer stands and the lamps. As the men were leaving, however, Habbib had cried out Nouri’s name. And like a huntsman slicing a pair of bright apples from a tree, one of the barbarians turned back and lopped off his ears.

  According to Ali Majid, Jamal al-Jani was so troubled by what he found when he returned to the lodge that he retired to his cell and remained there for the rest of his days. Sheikh Bailiri, in contrast, went to the chapel, where he bowed down in a prolonged state of prayer. When men arrived offering to rebuild the order, Sheikh Bailiri instructed Ali Majid to send them away. As a result, the daily maintenance of the lodge fell to the flute player and the six-fingered fellow with the broom. And when the two Sufis died, they simply carried on as before.

  “I make the meals,” said Ali Majid. “Habbib tends the garden and keeps the place clean. If you’ve nowhere to go to, you’re welcome to stay.”

  It was clear to Nouri that he’d been drawn back to the lodge in Tan-Arzhan in order to care for Habbib. For though his friend was still able to sweep the floors and tend the garden, he moved so slowly it took him the whole day. So besides the obvious joy that his presence would bring, Nouri could help to reduce Habbib’s workload.

  Despite the fact that his ears were gone, Habbib could still hear. The sound was muffled, but if Nouri leaned in when he spoke and Habbib cupped his hands around the damaged holes, he could perceive every word. Each night, therefore, before bed, they would retire to Habbib’s cell and, by the light of a taper, Nouri would retell the stories that Habbib had so lovingly told to him when he was a child. Like a thread being wound back onto its spindle, each image would rise up as if Nouri had just received it the night before. And Habbib would sit and listen as if he were hearing it all for the very first time.

  Time passed and the two friends watered and weeded and swept. Nouri and Ali Majid took turns preparing meals, and Ali Majid sat in the courtyard for hours making music with his ney. One day, however, while Nouri was replacing a tile in the floor of the chapel mosque, Ali Majid came to see him.

  “I’m leaving,” he said.

  Nouri looked up.

  “There’s still time for me to learn a new song,” said Ali Majid. “Even have an adventure.”

  It was only then that Nouri saw that Ali Majid had remained at the lodge all these years to care for Habbib. So he bid the loose-limbed fellow farewell and—after a simple good-bye to Habbib and one last impossibly haunting melody on the ney—Ali Majid headed off.

  The days grew colder. Then warmer. Then colder again. Nouri and Habbib continued on. Nouri knew that he could not give his friend back his ears or the years that had slipped by, but he could give him his love. And that was all that Habbib seemed to need.

  The days grew longer. And shorter. Then longer again. And gradually, like a spring winding down, Habbib began to falter and had to take to his bed. His skin became ashen. His eyes became veiled. Then slowly the illness crept in, sucking the breath from his lungs and wracking his little body with pain. Nouri sat beside him mopping his brow, spooning the broth into his trembling mouth, holding his withered hand.

  When the end finally came, there were no words. Habbib gazed at Nouri, and Nouri—his mind empty—his heart full—gazed back. A world passed between them. Then the worn-out lungs took their last breath, and Habbib was gone.

  The silence in the room after Habbib died was even greater than the silence that had greeted Nouri after the explosion. But for all the seductive peace that it offered, Nouri knew he could not remain at the lodge. So he gathered up Habbib’s lifeless body, carried it out to the garden, and buried it beneath the fig tree that his friend had loved. Then he whispered a brief prayer, retied his head cloth, and headed out through the gates.

  Twenty-Eight

  When Nouri left the lodge, he made his way along the curving path that led to the heart of the city. He had no idea what lay ahead. The fu
ture seemed as unreal as the past. After the quiet of his time with Habbib, however, he felt enlivened by the throb and clatter of the streets. So he walked past the public bath—past the countinghouse—past the grand bazaar—and drank in the vivid life that surged all around him. At night, he found a patch of grass in the town square where he could sleep. Then he awoke the next day and continued roaming the streets. Past the schoolyard, where the children laughed and played games. Past the stables, where the horses grazed. Each day the city seemed new, as if it had been razed to the ground and carefully reconstructed while he slept.

  One morning, as he was walking through the northeast quadrant, a door flew open and a man dashed out. As he tore past Nouri, another man—dressed in expensive robes and clutching a broom—appeared in the doorway. When the second man saw Nouri, he handed him the broom, ran into the street, and shouted after the first man:

  “And don’t show your pox-ridden face in my house ever again!”

  By the time he’d finished shouting, the fellow had disappeared. So he turned and—still shaking with rage—started back to the house. When he saw Nouri holding his broom, he folded his arms over his chest.

  “Can you sweep?”

  Nouri—who could only think of Habbib—nodded.

  “Can you write?”

  Nouri nodded again, and the man took a step closer.

  “Can you tell stories?”

  Nouri nodded a third time. So the man ushered him into the house and he began his new existence.

  For the most part, his job consisted of caring for the man’s children. Aban, the boy, who was as frisky as a newborn goat, was eight. Sanam, the girl, who was as plump as a freshly picked fig, was six and a half. Nouri would awaken them and feed them and escort them to school. Then he would return to the house, fetch the broom, and sweep the inner courtyard and the rooms. When school was done, he would fetch the children and then retire to his room while they ate their supper with their parents. Then he would tuck them into bed and tell them one of the stories he’d learned from Habbib.