One Thousand and One Nights

by Hanan al-Shaykh

  With that the lady gave Baqbouq a brief, quick kiss near his mouth, which made him spin around like a dog chasing his tail. “I am your slave, my lady,” he told her, “do whatever you want with me.”

  “Let my slave dye your eyebrows and pluck your moustache,” the lady said. But Baqbouq objected strongly, “It’s all right to dye my eyebrows, but plucking my moustache is going to be too painful, and I couldn’t endure the pain.”

  “God created me with a huge appetite for fun and to be merry, and whoever joins in with me will ultimately win my heart and body.”

  “But I’m scared. My moustache has lots of hair.”

  The slave whispered to him, as she gave him a cup of wine, “Be patient, soon you will take everything you wish and desire of her; if you’re not patient, you’ll lose everything you’ve endured already.”

  Baqbouq accepted reluctantly, closed his eyes and pressed his two hands to his chest, sobbing, even before the slave had touched him. When she did, he cried out in pain and fright and didn’t stop till she’d finished plucking his moustache. Then she dyed his eyebrows while he sat, happy as a clam, counting the seconds before he could be with his lady.

  Finally, the lady sat beside him and pretended to kiss his reddened eyebrows. “But where has your moustache gone?” she asked.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already that it was plucked out, didn’t you hear me cry like a bull?”

  The lady laughed and giggled. “Oh yes, I remember now.”

  Then she stroked his beard, and sighed. “How I wish that you could get rid of your beard, so that your face is as smooth as a plum.” Baqbouq was annoyed, but excited by her touch at the same time. “If I get rid of my beard, everyone in the market will laugh at me,” he said. “No, no, I’d better not.”

  But the lady held his hand and stroked her own face with it. “Can you feel how delicate my skin is—like a rose petal? It scratches very easily, even when the soft breeze touches it, so you can imagine what will happen if your beard rubs my face when we are kissing, licking and embracing.”

  Baqbouq looked at her with love, infatuation and, above all, lust, but remained silent. The slave whispered, “Are you mad? Don’t you see how passionately my mistress is in love with you? Be patient, you’re nearly there, you’re about to have her and in a day or two your beard will grow back. Now lie down for me and don’t think about anything except the blissful time you will have with my lady.”

  So trusting Baqbouq put his faith in her and in God, and let her shave off his beard with a knife. Then, feeling something on his face, he asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Applying an ointment to help your beard grow tomorrow,” she answered.

  She took him by the hand, back to her mistress, who, when she saw his painted face, laughed and giggled, saying, “I am delighted! You look so handsome, like a real prince. You have won my heart and all of me, with your patient and sublime nature. Let me, beloved, see you dancing, so I become excited and lustful. What will arouse me and turn me on is a handsome young man like you swaying and shaking his hips.”

  Baqbouq felt proud of himself for the first time in his life. He danced without any rhythm or tempo, which made the lady laugh hysterically. She began to throw cushions at him and her slaves joined in, hurling potatoes and lemons. Every time he ducked, the lady made him dance with her, until he was bent over like a monkey suffering indigestion. The lady began to take off her clothes but Baqbouq was too embarrassed and overwhelmed to respond. The slave whispered into his ear, “My lady is intoxicated now, wait until she is in her underwear, and then take off all your clothes and follow her.”

  When the lady had stripped down, she cried out, “Catch me if you can!” Baqbouq stripped off as if his clothes were on fire. The lady called out, “Do you really want me?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Baqbouq replied. “Come and get me,” came the reply. She ran from one room to the other, as Baqbouq ran after her panting, his penis hardening, encouraged by the slaves who called out, “You’ve nearly reached her!”

  He ran from one room to another like a rabid dog, drooling, his penis jutting out like the branch of a tree. Then, running after her, he found himself in a dark room and felt he was running on wooden boards, but nothing could stop him now, he just wanted the woman. All of a sudden, the floor broke and he fell down and found himself in the leather market. When the traders saw him fall down among them, totally naked, with an erect penis, without a beard or moustache and with red, bushy eyebrows and a face as red as a baboon’s bottom, they beat him with leather, laughing, until the poor fellow lost consciousness. Then they put him on a donkey, parading him through the market to the chief of police, who asked, “What is this and where did you find it?” “He dropped and fell from a chamberlain’s house like this,” the merchants answered.

  Baqbouq was given one hundred lashes, and then he was ordered to leave Baghdad for good. When Baqbouq’s two brothers found out what happened, they came to me to ask me for help, knowing that I visit the Commander of the Faithful from time to time. I hurried to the Wali himself, describing the gentle nature of Baqbouq, who wouldn’t even tread on a dead ant, assuring him that someone must have played a trick on him, and the Wali pardoned him, and let me take him back to his family. From that day, until now, Baqbouq has never crossed the threshold of his house. He is unable to trust anyone, man or woman; not even me, who helped him.

  Abu Nuwas, coming to the end of his tale, looked round at the sisters. “Now, my ladies, I urge you to confide in me with all the humanity you hold and conscience you carry within you. Can the actions of that disgraceful, whimsical and spoilt lady be described as mean, vile and lowly? Surely he suffered the ultimate injustice at her hands, because he was what people call an idiot? In my opinion, he suffered as all of you have, because of the cruelty of a woman. And I want you to imagine what would have happened to him if I hadn’t asked the Wali to pardon him. He would have become a fugitive, away from his home and city, exiled and alone in the wilderness, not only with no money or food or roof over his head, but with no love, care or sympathy.”

  Dalila the Wily

  he audience shook their heads in sorrow for poor Baqbouq.

  “My brother, the fisherman, is Baqbouq’s neighbour,” said the porter. “You’ve forgotten, my dear poet, to add that Baqbouq has never stopped repeating, ‘Why, why, why,’ his breath rattling in his chest like a slaughtered beast!”

  The poet turned to the five sisters, whose expressions remained blank. “Baqbouq’s story is nothing but a few mint leaves with which to whet the appetite. The main dish is most certainly mischievous Dalila the Wily.”

  To the great surprise of all who were gathered in the room, one of the elder two sisters stood up.

  “Oh Commander of the Faithful,” she said. “Would you permit me to tell the tale of Dalila the Wily myself? My family knew her so well.”

  “Yes, you may,” answered the Caliph.

  She cleared her throat, but Abu Nuwas interrupted her, barking like a dog.

  “Would someone stop this infernal dog from barking?” said the Caliph, with great irritation.

  But the eldest sister simply ignored the commotion and began her story.

  Dalila’s husband was in charge of rearing carrier pigeons for the Caliph. When he died, his salary of a thousand dinars was stopped, as well as the two meals provided for him, his wife and two children each day. Dalila tried in vain to get a pension, even a quarter of her husband’s salary. But her request was declined and so she was forced to seek employment, working here and there as a maid to make ends meet. She worked every day without ceasing until she became old.

  It happened one day that she heard of two men who had come from Cairo to Baghdad and played confidence tricks and grew in influence until they found their way to the Caliph himself, who appointed them commanders of the right and left flanks of the district just outside the walls of the city. They were given money, food and above all respect, which in Dalil
a’s opinion they did not deserve. She decided that she would exact revenge for her ill treatment, playing confidence tricks with great craftiness and deviousness in order to win her reputation in Baghdad and thereby claim the salary of her late husband. She swore that news of her feats would reach not only the Wali, but the Caliph himself.

  “I will show them that I am the only person able to milk an ant!” she said to herself, and then she dressed up like a Sufi in a woollen gown which reached her ankles, with a wide belt around her waist and a woollen jubba on her head. She wrapped prayer beads and worry beads around her neck, filled a jug with water and laid three dinars in a cloth across the rim.

  Then, covering her face with a thin veil, she strolled through the streets calling, “Allah, Allah!” But behind the veil, her eyes, like two eagles, were hunting constantly for prey. “What trick can I play now, and on whom?” she murmured.

  Dalila made her way through the poor alleyways and slums until she reached the better part of town, where the influential and rich lived. Her senses alive, she scanned the streets until she spotted an arched door inlaid with marble. She stopped and looked at the house, calling out louder, “Allah, Allah, Allah!”

  A beautiful young lady, surrounded by her maids, looked out of the window. When Dalila spotted the girl’s elaborate clothing and glittering jewellery, she decided she would lure her out of the house and strip her of everything in which she was attired. She began to whirl like a dervish, her white woollen robes swirling as she turned until she looked like a dome of light.

  “Come, you saints of God, let us be blessed by your presence,” she intoned, as she turned.

  When the gatekeeper of the house heard Dalila, he hurried to kiss her hand, but she refused, saying, “Keep away, lest you spoil my ablution. But I shall let you drink from my jug, so that you might be blessed.”

  She twirled the jug in the air, shaking her hand until the cloth fell and the three dinars dropped at the gatekeeper’s feet. He picked them up and handed them back to her.

  “These worldly things don’t concern me,” Dalila said loudly, so the beautiful woman would hear, and she indicated that the gatekeeper might keep the coins.

  “This is indeed a heavenly gift,” said the astonished gatekeeper.

  Dalila ignored him, sprinkling drops of water in the direction of the woman’s window.

  “Come, saints of God!” she implored, “and bless these women!”

  “Go and ask her ladyship if she wants the Sufi woman to bless the house. She is clearly a woman of great power and devotion,” the excited gatekeeper said to the maids at the window.

  As Dalila continued her devotions, a maid came down, kissed her hand and took her into the house to meet her mistress.

  Once inside, the young lady rushed towards Dalila, offering some food.

  “I eat only the food of Paradise, and then only five days in the year,” Dalila said humbly, eyeing the woman’s jewellery from beneath lowered eyelids.

  Hearing this, the young woman asked all her maids and slaves to leave them. Dalila sensed that something was bothering the girl. She closed her eyes, and holding the girl’s hand, murmured, “I can sense that you’re worried about something, so confide in me, my daughter, and I’ll try to help you.”

  The young woman began to weep. “My husband is the Emir Shar al-Tariq, Prince Evil of the Road,” she murmured. “We’ve been married one year, and I haven’t yet borne him a child. Yesterday he pushed me away when I approached him, saying that a man who leaves no sons or daughters will not be remembered. Then he accused me of being barren, unable to conceive, and said that he would start looking for another wife tomorrow. I defended myself, telling him that I had ground up so many medicines that every mortar in the house was worn away, and that I am not at fault. But he shouted at me, saying sleeping with me is like carving in stone,” said the girl, weeping even harder.

  Dalila, extremely happy to hear this, stroked the girl’s hand in sympathy.

  “I weep because I don’t wish that flat-nosed mule, with his useless sperm like farting soap bubbles, to divorce me and rob me of all this wealth.”

  “Did he say tomorrow?” Dalila said. “Then we must hurry. Prepare yourself, and I’ll take you to Sheikh Abu al-Hamalat, whose name describes how he carries everyone’s problems in his heart and as a burden on his shoulders. If we go to him now, and you convince your husband to sleep with you tonight, you will conceive a daughter or a son.”

  “I swear that I’ll fast for a whole year if this Sufi woman is not a holy saint!” said the gatekeeper, as Dalila and the young woman left in a great hurry, hand in hand.

  Dalila, the holy saint, was thinking all the while, “How can I strip the girl of her jewellery and clothes, when the streets and alleys are so full of people?”

  She said to the girl, whose name was Khatun, “Walk behind me, my daughter, because the people will stop me to kiss my hand, and burden me with offerings, but don’t let me out of your sight.”

  Dalila led Khatun to the merchants’ market, using all her antennae to sense those who were attracted by Khatun’s bejewelled ankles and tinkling hair tassels. She spotted a handsome young merchant, too young even to shave, called Master Hasan, and indicated that Khatun should wait opposite Hasan’s stall. Then she approached the young merchant.

  “Are you Master Hasan, son of the merchant Muhsin?”

  “Yes, but who told you my name?”

  “I’ve been seeking a bridegroom for my daughter and many honourable people suggested you. Look at that beauty in the distance. Isn’t she like a fairy princess? Her father, my husband, died and left her a fortune. I’m following the wise saying, ‘Look for a husband for your daughter, but never for your son,’ and so I would like you to marry her.”

  Master Hasan glanced at Khatun, and sighed a hundred sighs.

  Seeing this, Dalila’s heart stopped racing, and she said, casually, “I shall open another shop for you, and shower you with money.”

  Hasan smiled. “Well, my mother is constantly offering to find me a bride, but my sole condition is that I will only marry a girl I have first seen for myself.”

  “I guarantee that you’ll see her naked,” said Dalila, smiling, “if you follow us.”

  Dalila walked off with Khatun following, and Hasan quickly closed his shop, bringing a thousand dinars to pay for the marriage contract.

  “God in heaven, tell me where I should take these two to strip them?” Dalila said to herself.

  As soon as she cast her eyes back down she saw a dyer’s shop. The owner, Hajj Muhammad, was sitting outside, eating figs and a pomegranate. He lifted his head at the sound of Khatun’s anklets.

  Dalila sat on the empty chair beside him, and asked, “Are you Muhammad the dyer?”

  “Yes I am, what do you want, Sheikha?” Muhammad replied, his mouth filled with figs.

  “Honest people have directed me to you, as it’s known that you have two rooms you rent out from time to time. Do you see my daughter, with my son behind? He’s walking at a distance, because he’s so ashamed that we’re homeless. We have been advised by our builder to leave our mansion for a month while it is repaired, because hundreds of rats have gnawed at the wood, and it’s in danger of collapsing. Do you think we can lodge with you?”

  Hajj Muhammad handed her three keys. “Here is one key for the house, the second for the hall, and the third for the upper floor,” he said.

  Dalila thanked him, went to the house, unlocked the door, and when Khatun followed her inside, she said, “This is Sheikh Abu al-Hamalat’s house. Go upstairs, take off your veil and wait for me.”

  Hasan appeared and she said to him, “Wait here in the hall, while I go up and get my daughter ready for you, as I promised.”

  She winked and went up to find Khatun, who said, nervously, “I need to see Sheikh Abu al-Hamalat immediately, before other people arrive and recognise me.”

  “In a moment,” replied Dalila. “But first, there’s something I must e
xplain. My son is one of the Sheikh’s helpers, but unfortunately he is an idiot, and he can’t differentiate between summer and winter, hot or cold, and so he remains half-naked all year round. He pulls the earrings off every beautiful woman who comes to see the Sheikh, tearing their earlobes, and then he cuts off their clothes with scissors. So take off your jewellery and clothes quickly, and I’ll keep them safe for you.”

  Khatun handed over her jewellery and clothes, so that she stood in just her shift and her drawers.

  “I’m going to hang these on the Sheikh’s curtains, so that you earn an even higher blessing,” Dalila said, hurrying away to hide Khatun’s clothes, and then going back down to Hasan, who was waiting as if on hot coals.

  “Where have you been? Where’s your daughter?” he demanded.

  Dalila began to weep.

  “God curse Satan, who put jealousy and envy into the hearts of our neighbours,” she cried. “For they saw you entering our house and asked me who you were. When I told them, proudly, that you were my daughter’s bridegroom, they said, ‘Is your mother so tired of feeding and clothing you that she’s decided to marry you off to that leper?’ My daughter was very taken aback, but I have convinced her that they are wrong. However, she has made it a condition of agreeing to marry you that if you insist on seeing her clad only in her shift and drawers, then you too must be half-naked.”

  Hasan was enraged. “Let her see if I’m a leper or not,” he said, tearing off his fur hat, and all his clothes, so that he was clad only in his drawers and an undershirt which revealed a glimpse of his chest and his arms, which were as white as silver.

  Dalila took away his clothes and the thousand dinars, assuring him she’d keep everything safe and that she would go and get her daughter. Then she rushed from the room, gathered Khatun’s clothes and wrapped everything in a bundle, and fled the house, locking the couple in behind her.