One Thousand and One Nights

by Hanan al-Shaykh

  I cried in terror when I heard the word “home.” Weeping, I asked, “What am I going to tell my husband happened to my cheek?”

  “He’s not going to pay attention to your face,” the old woman reassured me. “Just pretend that you are not feeling well, cover your face, and I’ll dress your wound with ointment. You’ll be cured in no time.”

  Encouraged, I rose to my feet and we walked back home, where I hurried to my bed and covered myself.

  “Oh darling, what’s the matter?” my husband asked when he saw me lying there.

  “I have a horrible headache,” I answered weakly.

  How I wish I hadn’t lied! He hurriedly lit a candle, lifted the covers and saw my wounded face. “What happened to your soft cheek?” he asked.

  “I was in the market with the old woman buying fabrics, when a camel carrying firewood bumped into my face in the narrowest passage and the wood cut my veil and cheek, as you can see.”

  “Tomorrow I will go to the Governor myself and ask him to hang every camel driver in the whole of Baghdad,” my husband said.

  “No, my lord, we must not hang innocent men and bear the guilt of their death,” I pleaded, in great agitation.

  “Tell me again what happened; who actually harmed you?” my husband asked.

  “I was on a hired donkey and when it wouldn’t budge, his driver tugged very hard, and it stumbled and I was thrown to the ground and as luck would have it, I landed on a piece of glass, which cut my cheek.”

  “I promise you that as soon as the sun rises I shall be standing before Jaafar al-Barmaki, demanding that he hang not only every single donkey and donkey driver in this city, but also every sweeper.”

  On hearing this I changed my story again. “But my Lord, this was not what happened to me. I don’t want you to kill innocent people and beasts because of me.”

  At this point, my husband started to lose patience. “Tell me, then, what really happened to you!”

  I begged him to drop the matter: what I had suffered was my fate. But he kept insisting, pressing me to tell him what happened. I became more and more evasive and vague, but I could feel my cage constricting. At last, exasperated, I mumbled the truth.

  My husband gave a great cry that shook the house and brought three slaves running. He asked them to drag me to the middle of the room. The slaves pulled me from my bed and threw me to the ground. My husband ordered one of them to sit on my chest, the other to hold my head and the third to draw his sword. Oh Commander of the Faithful! The three slaves granted his wishes at once.

  Then my husband spoke to the slave bearing the sword. “Strike her, Sa’d, and cut her in half. Then each of you shall carry one half to the River Tigris and throw her to the hungry fish. This is her punishment. And to anyone else who breaks the oath and fails to follow my orders, I say the following.” And he said angrily:

  “If I’m betrayed in love,

  I kill, despite my soul’s destruction,

  Better to die nobly than challenge another,

  To sleep in the arms of my own cherished lover.”

  Staring, filled with hate, he again ordered the slave to finish me off. The slave, now sure my husband meant it, bent low and asked me, “Do you have any wish? For this is your end, my lady.”

  “My last wish is that you get off me and let me speak to my husband,” I said.

  The slave stood up. I raised my head and realised that I now faced death; once I had been high and powerful; now I was disgraced. I wept and choked with sobs and tears. My husband looked at me with fury and disgust and said:

  “You dared to leave me for another

  And repay me with mocking disdain?”

  Hearing this, I wept even more, looking up at him as I said:

  “You said you’d love me for ever,

  Then smashed your vow like an unwanted vase,

  Leaving my innocent love bleeding

  With all trace of trust receding.”

  His look was ferocious, as if my words had been like knives in his chest, and he continued:

  “I didn’t leave her for another,

  Oh no, her sins framed her fate.

  God condemns duplicity

  And cautions against its debate.”

  I pleaded for my life, but he yelled at the slave, “Go ahead, cut her in half, and rid me of her, for she and her life are worthless to me.”

  At this, I lost any hope that I might survive, and saw that my life was at an end, for his heart had become a steel fortress. Shivering and trembling, I nearly lost consciousness, when I was roused by a commotion behind me, and the voice of the old woman, like the roar of a cyclone. She threw herself at my husband’s feet, wept and pleaded with him.

  “Forgive her, my son, don’t kill her. By the breast that nursed you and reared you, I ask you this, not for the sake of this worthless woman, but for your own sake, because he who slays ultimately shall be slain. Go on; drive her out of your sight and life completely.”

  She wept more tears, and implored him to set me free. Finally he relented. “But I will not let her go without branding her with a permanent mark on her body,” he said.

  He ordered the slaves to strip off my clothes and sit on me. My husband took a quince rod and within seconds whipped me all over my body, so hard that I wanted to die with the pain. Then he told the slaves to take me home under the cover of darkness and leave me on my doorstep.

  My two sisters wept for me. The mistress of the house treated me with ointments and drugs, but nothing helped the pain or the marks on my body or the wounds to my soul. I stayed in bed for months and when I eventually recovered, my body remained disfigured, as you have witnessed, Oh Commander of the Faithful.

  One morning I ventured out to visit my husband’s house. But alas, I found it ruined and the alleyway a rubbish heap. Distressed, I went back home and swore never to think of him again, nor any man.

  That night, and every night which followed, my two sisters, the black bitches, are flogged. Each time the whip falls on their bodies, my old wounds are reopened and ooze, and I writhe in pain, and sorrow drenches my heart.

  In this way I lived in quiet seclusion with my two sisters, and the two bitches, until today, when the youngest sister, our shopper, allowed the porter, who carried home our goods, to stay for supper …

  “This is my story, my Caliph.”

  The Caliph gestured to the flogged sister to sit. Then he asked the shopper to come to the middle of the room. “It seems that you have a story as well, for I noticed how you sang with such pain and disdain. Am I right? Tell me if you too have suffered a calamity at the hands of a man?”

  The third sister, the shopper, began. “Oh Commander of the Faithful …”

  The Shopper’s Tale

  h Commander of the Faithful,” she said, and then fell silent, lifted her shawl from around her shoulders and secured it on her head. But then she began crying softly, wiping away her tears with the hem of her shawl.

  “Oh Commander of the Faithful, with your permission I will abstain from telling my story.”

  “Everyone in this room has told his or her story,” said the Caliph. “Remember that when I entered this house in disguise, with the Vizier and Abu Nuwas, the three of you sisters threatened us with death should we not reveal the truth about ourselves. Now go on and tell your story.”

  “With your permission,” said the shopper, “I should like to emphasise that I will achieve nothing by telling my story, other than to cause embarrassment to others present, and so I …”

  But the Caliph interrupted her and ordered her to begin, and so she did.

  Upon witnessing the suffering and pain of my four sisters at the hands of their husbands, I pledged to lock my heart with a key and never to think of love and marriage. But bad luck and destiny lay just around the corner. Yes, Oh Commander of the Faithful, I was dragged by the tide of fate and nearly died like a bee drowned in her own honey. I say honey, because I was soaking in bliss and the happiness of love, livin
g in the Caliph’s palace, of all places.

  The Caliph looked intrigued and confused as the shopper continued.

  I was invited to attend a large banquet to celebrate the circumcision of the only son of my cousin. To my surprise a lady came in, glittering from head to toe, and even before I heard women whispering to each other, “Lady Zubeida, Lady Zubeida,” I thought to myself, who could this gorgeous woman be except the Queen?

  I learned that my cousin had made a vow to slaughter one hundred sheep to give to the poor if Lady Zubeida attended. I should mention here that when asked to play the oud, I played as if only the sky was the limit, and this pleased Lady Zubeida and she asked if I might sit beside her. I bowed and kissed her hand as I had seen the others do.

  “Your dress is out of this world, it’s a sheer delight, like a poem,” she said to me.

  I was wearing one of my sister’s dresses that Azraq had given her, with beasts and birds embroidered on it in red gold. I told her it was my sister’s.

  “But where did your sister buy it from? I haven’t seen anything like it before.”

  I fabricated an answer, telling her that the dress had been given to my sister by a sorcerer and once belonged to a princess who had died of love. Lady Zubeida, with tears in her eyes, asked if I was married.

  “Oh, Lady Zubeida, I will never fall in love or marry.”

  She was horrified. “Never say that,” she replied. “You’re still in the prime of your youth and life is ahead of you. I’m sure when you meet the right person and your heart dances and rejoices you’ll forget your vow and pledge yourself.”

  I smiled, thanking her for her kind words and her interest in me.

  “And I have just the right person in mind. Let me work on it.”

  That evening, when I returned home, I thanked God that Lady Zubeida had been distracted by all the other women, and had forgotten all about matchmaking. But I couldn’t have been more mistaken, for early the following morning a eunuch arrived at our house and invited me to the palace for dinner. The idea of a prospective suitor filled me with dread, but once I was in the palace, I entertained her and her slaves by singing and playing the oud. Each time I began to make preparations to leave, she insisted I stay, until, in the early hours of the morning, my fingers could play no more, and I had no voice left to sing and the eunuch led me to where my maids were waiting for me.

  But all of a sudden the eunuch left, as a man approached.

  “What are you doing alone here at this hour?”

  He smelled like all the delicious fragrances of the garden.

  “I was playing the oud for Lady Zubeida,” I replied, “and my maids are taking me home.”

  “Are you the lady whom I heard competing with the nightingales and the sparrows?”

  I blushed and smiled.

  “I swear you are now shaming the flowers and roses with your beauty. The stillness of the night carried your voice and playing to me when I was wandering in this garden, because I couldn’t sleep. Now I’ve put a face to the voice, I am struck double by insomnia.”

  Hearing this, I was sure this man was the suitor that Lady Zubeida had talked to me about, especially since the eunuch and my maids had disappeared when they saw him, leaving us alone.

  The Caliph now exclaimed with great confusion, interrupting the shopper’s story, and asking her to reveal her face. She did so, and when he recognised her, he gasped and shook his head in disbelief, gesturing to her to sit back down, which she did. The Vizier hurried to the Caliph and kissed his hand, and whispered into his ear. The Caliph thought for a moment, then nodded, and addressed the shopper.

  “Come back to the centre of the room, and continue with your story.”

  The shopper came forward again, letting the veil hit on the sides of her head, as she continued.

  When I heard this suitor speak, I registered how his manly voice matched his looks. Who could he be? I watched him as he cut a sprig from a tree, which he presented to me. The fragrance of Queen of the Night enveloped my heart. But then I remembered my vow never to marry.

  “I wonder where my maids have gone,” I said.

  “They must have gone to bed, assuming you’re staying here,” he said, but then he laughed, and shouted out, “Who’s there?”

  We heard the footsteps of my maids and he left me, disappearing into the darkness.

  When I was safely in my bed, I congratulated myself on avoiding fate, because my suitor would think I wasn’t interested in him. But the next evening, another eunuch knocked at our door, and said that he had come to take me to the palace.

  I assumed my summons came from Lady Zubeida, but when we arrived at the palace the eunuch directed me elsewhere, leaving me in a room full of books and cages of birds.

  To my surprise, my suitor came in. He poured wine for us both, smiled and when I refused to drink, he opened a cupboard and brought out an oud.

  “Can you sing ‘O! How I Would Like to Lie on Her Lap, for One Year, One Month, Or Even One Hour’?”

  “I regret to say, sir, that I don’t know that song.”

  He laughed mischievously. “This isn’t a song, but how I feel. And now, let me kiss you, so that I might cool the fire which has been in my heart since last night.”

  I looked at the pattern on the carpet, willing myself not to give in to the desire to be kissed, and reminded myself that I had taken an oath never to love or marry. When this didn’t work, I sought refuge in memory, picturing my unhappy and distraught sisters, but to no avail: I still longed to kiss this man.

  Then I thought that if I drank wine, I might pretend that I was acting under the influence of drink. So I swallowed my cup of wine and then another, and when he did the same, desire took hold and my suitor drew me to him.

  “By God, I am in love with you too, but there is no way you can reach me, for I have vowed to myself to remain chaste,” I said, making for the door. “I beg you not to mention anything to Lady Zubeida.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If she knows I refused you, she’ll be furious with me,” I told him.

  At this my suitor laughed and laughed. “On the contrary, she’d be delighted. For Zubeida happens to be my cousin and my wife!”

  I gasped and my hands shot up to my mouth. Could it be that this man was none other than the Commander of the Faithful, Haroun al-Rashid? Then, as if I was dreaming a beautiful dream, I asked, “But why didn’t you reveal your identity the first night?”

  He laughed like a little boy. “I was enchanted that a woman who didn’t know me might fall in love with me, as a person, not as the Caliph! Besides, I was terrified that you would disappear if you discovered my identity.”

  As I shook and trembled, I asked him if he had read the piles of bound books on the open shelves.

  “Not all of them, but many,” he answered. Then he took my hand and we sat and talked about music, science, astronomy and poetry, and he was surprised by my knowledge.

  Then sleep overcame us and I slept on one couch while he slept on another. In the morning, when I woke before him, I smiled happily.

  “I have broken my oath, but will never regret it, because the Caliph is not like any other man.”

  He awoke, and rejoiced to find me still with him, and we kissed.

  Then I showed him what I’d embroidered on to my underwear, beneath my dress: I promise you, body, not to let any man touch you, so you will be free from suffering.

  He kissed me on my forehead. “Let me assure you that you’ll never suffer with me. Just give me one month, and then I’ll draw up a marriage contract.”

  The Caliph settled me in a beautiful apartment within the palace, with ten women slaves to tend to me. Our days stretched into nights, and nights into days, until we became inseparable, like fish and water.

  * * *

  The mistress of the house and the flogged sister whispered to one another and gasped in horror at what they heard, while the shopper continued with her tale.

  When the C
aliph left me my heart would count the seconds till his return, and when I combed my hair before him, he would say to me, “Why are you deserting me?”

  Then one day Lady Zubeida sent her eunuch with an invitation to dine.

  The shopper’s voice trembled, and she paused, then forced herself to go on with her story, swallowing hard. The Caliph and the Vizier exchanged glances.

  I accepted the invitation, but my eunuch ran after me.

  “Must you go, my lady?”

  “Yes, I must, I don’t wish to make an enemy of Lady Zubeida.”

  Now I realise that the eunuch, in his way, was trying to warn me. For it was known throughout the palace that Lady Zubeida had stopped eating and drinking for a whole six weeks, as the Caliph’s visits to her became briefer and less frequent, while his concubines saw neither hide nor hair of him.

  It wasn’t only the Caliph’s relations with his women which were under strain from his wish to remain constantly at my side. Ministers from the government assembly complained that he was neglecting public affairs, venturing out of the palace only for Friday prayers. Jaafar al-Barmaki, the Vizier himself, tried to reason with him, drawing his attention to the growing dissatisfaction.

  “My obsession with her is beyond my control, my heart is totally ensnared,” the Commander of the Faithful replied.

  Jaafar persisted, however, advising the Caliph that he could resume his public affairs without jeopardising our relationship. “She will always be there, waiting for you, Oh Commander of the Faithful.”

  He suggested a hunting trip, and the Caliph agreed to go, for one night only.

  All of this had been hidden from me; I knew nothing of it at the time. The Caliph kept me apart, alone and cocooned, and in this way he robbed me of all power over my fate.

  The night before he left, we embraced and embraced, as if we were parting from each other for ever—which of course we were.