by Tariq Ali
Ibn Maymun maintains that in a state of heightened emotions, one sees and hears imaginary things related to the subject of the emotions. He told me once of a man whose favourite horse had been killed as part of an old blood-feud. He used to catch a glimpse of the horse in the oddest places. It is the same with the object of one’s love, regardless of whether that love has ever been spoken. Suddenly I had no desire to see Halima. I wished she was dead. This feeling did not last longer than a few minutes at most and, as I waited at the agreed spot near the public baths, just behind the Street of the Bookbinders, I felt ashamed of myself.
The messenger-woman saw me from a distance and beckoned me to follow. She was swift of foot and, fearful of losing sight of her, I lost all sense of geography. When she entered the courtyard of a modest house, I had no idea of the quarter. The house was empty. I was directed to a small room and, seeing that I was sweating and out of breath, an attendant provided me with a jug of water. I did not look at him too closely till he spoke, in a strange voice, which made me wonder whether he was a eunuch.
“Would you like to rest for a while?”
“No, no, I’m fully recovered.”
I waited. The attendant continued to stare at me in a familiar fashion. His insolence annoyed me, but I managed a weak smile. He burst out laughing and removed his headgear, revealing the light red tresses of Halima. She had come disguised as a man.
“Even you, Ibn Yakub, who stared at me so long that day in the palace when I was telling my story, even you did not recognise me. This gives me hope.”
She showed her pleasure by clapping her hands, like a child. Then she laughed, a throaty deep laugh, the sound of which struck me like a waterfall and increased the pace of my heart. I was glad she disappeared for a while after this performance. I needed a little time to recover. When she returned, in a brocaded green and blue silk robe with large sleeves and gold bracelets, she reminded me once again of those legendary princesses of the Caucasus. Whatever anger I may have felt earlier was soon dispelled. One could not be angry for long with such an exquisite treasure.
“Have you been struck dumb, scribe?”
I smiled and shook my head.
“Why do you think I have summoned you to my presence?”
“I assumed there was something you wished to communicate to me. You see I have brought my equipment with me so that I may transcribe your every utterance.”
She ignored my display of servility.
“Why did you not stay till the end of the shadow-play? Ilmas told me you left before the final act.”
I sighed.
“The public humiliation of our Sultan was not pleasing to my eyes or ears. I have grown to like him.”
Her face changed suddenly. Lightning flashes from her wrath-laden eyes burnt me to the core. I was speechless in the face of her rage. She sipped some water and counted thirty cross-sections on the fingers of both hands. Thus becalmed, the softness returned to her features. She swayed gently from side to side.
“Can you play the lute, scribe?”
I shook my head.
“Then Mansoora shall play for us. When one is sad, the sound of the lute is like the noise of water to a thirsty traveller in the desert.”
Her maidservant began to strum the lute, and a strange, magical peace embraced the room. Halima started speaking. Slowly she spoke, and my pen moved in perfect rhythm with her words. I was in such a trance that I barely knew what she was saying. Not till I returned home did I understand the import of what she had told me.
For the first few nights, I couldn’t sleep. Salah al-Din would enter my chamber and possess me with a passion whose intensity was such that it excited me, even though I had no real feelings for him. After he had finished, I would leave his sleeping body and wash myself. I did not wish to bear his child.
I should speak the truth with you. After the first few nights I used to shut my eyes when Salah al-Din mounted me, and I would imagine that he was Messud. You seem shocked, scribe. Or is it that you think my immodesty might cost you your life? Do not worry. My lips will never speak of our encounter, but I wish you to know everything. Or are you worried that I have become too embittered with your Sultan and dream of revenge? Why should I? He saved my life and became my lord and master. For that I am grateful, but in my bed he is a man like any other.
The only man I have truly loved is Messud. Perhaps it is just as well that he is no more. If he were here, I would risk both our lives to lie in his arms once more. I used to dream that he would make me heavy with his child, and I would pretend it belonged to Salah al-Din. Can gold ever cure grief, scribe? I think of Messud all the time. I torture myself by imagining him in Paradise in the arms of a houri, a creature far more alluring than me. In my heart I am still with him. I tell myself that we have not separated. He disturbs my sleep often. His smiling eyes, his serene gaze, his comforting voice, the feel of his hands stroking my body, all this enters my dreams and I know it will not go away.
It was during the first few weeks, late at night, that I would hear the others talking loudly and anxiously about their own lives and futures, and about me. They were laughing at me. I suppose they thought that I loved the Sultan, and that when he moved on to feed himself in newer pastures, the blow would cripple me, leaving me alone to nurse my wounded heart. How wrong they were, and how little they knew me in those early days. It was only six months ago, Ibn Yakub, but it seems like an eternity.
The first few weeks were fine, though being the latest concubine in the harem was not a pleasurable experience. Salah al-Din’s first wife, Najma, was a noble but ugly lady. She is the daughter of Nur al-Din. He told me he found her repulsive, but that did not prevent him planting his seed in her. The marriage, as you can imagine, was hardly designed for pleasure. It had only one purpose, and that was fulfilled when she bore him three sons in succession. She, too, felt her duty done, and never left Damascus.
Salah al-Din’s visits, thanks be to Allah, became fewer and fewer, and once I was with child he stopped altogether. At this stage everyone became more friendly. I was surprised when I first entered the harem to discover that there were not many of us. Apart from myself, there were eighty other concubines and two wives, but there was no real distinction between us when it came to enjoying the privileges of the court—except that we had six attendants to serve our needs, while the wives had eight or nine.
I had realised in the very first week that there was one woman who dominated the harem. This was Jamila, a lute-player from Arabia, of noble birth. The Sultan’s brother sent her as a gift, and Salah al-Din was entranced by her beauty and her skills. Since you will never set eyes on her, Ibn Yakub, let me describe her to you. She is of medium height, not as tall as me, dark-skinned and dark-haired, with eyes which change colour from grey to green, depending on where you catch sight of them. As for her body, what can I say? I embarrass you again. I will stop. If you think that Mansoora plays the lute like a magician, you should hear Jamila. In her hands the lute begins to speak. When it laughs, we smile. When it is sad, we cry. She makes it almost human. It is Jamila who keeps our minds alive. Her father was an enlightened Sultan. He adored her and insisted that she be educated, just like her brothers. He refused to tolerate any attempt to restrict her learning. What she has learnt she tries to teach us.
I was exhilarated when she started talking about us in a very bold way. Not us in the harem, but us women. Her father had given her a manuscript by the Andalusian Ibn Rushd, and she talked of him in a reverential tone. She told us of how Ibn Rushd had criticised the failure of our states to discover and utilise the ability of women. Instead, he argued, women were used exclusively for purposes of procreation, child-rearing and breast-feeding. I had never heard talk like this in my whole life and, judging by the expression on your face, nor have you, my dear scribe.
Jamila told us that many years ago in Cairo, one of the Caliphs of the Fatimids, Al-Hakim, had woken up one morning and decided that women were the well of all wickedness
. He promptly passed a decree preventing women from walking in the streets and, in order to make sure they stayed at home, shoemakers were forbidden to make shoes for women. He had all the wives and concubines in his palace packed into crates and thrown into the river. Jamila said that though Al-Hakim had undoubtedly taken leave of his senses, it was interesting that his madness was directed exclusively against women.
Jamila and I have become close friends. We hide nothing from each other. My innermost secrets are hers and hers are mine. She has already borne Salah al-Din two sons, and now he rarely comes to her. At first, like me, she was upset, but now she sighs when he comes. It is not the other way round. How fickle our emotions can be! I wonder how I would have felt if the memory of Messud was not so strong in me. Jamila thinks that Messud is a fantasy that I nourish to keep myself sane. I know that the past loses power over the heart, but it hasn’t happened to me yet, and in the meantime Jamila lets me dream. Sometimes she encourages me in this, for she never had a Messud. She also encourages me to stop shaving the hair on my pudenda.
My only other friend was Ilmas the eunuch. He had been in the harem for a long time. Long before Salah al-Din came here. The stories he used to tell, Ibn Yakub. Allah protect me, I cannot bring myself to repeat them, even to you. Perhaps if you had been a eunuch, but that is foolish. Forgive me. I had no right to speak like this to you.
Ilmas was really a poet. I still don’t understand what devil possessed him. Why did he write that shadow-play? He was killed for telling the truth, for in the last act which you were too cowardly to watch—or was it your seventh sense that warned you it might be dangerous?—Ilmas described the love of one inmate of the harem for another. The love of a concubine for one of her maids. I think he had Mansoora in mind, because the lute figured prominently. He certainly could not have had me in his mind. I have not moved in that direction yet, though if I did it would be Jamila’s warm embrace that would comfort me. A sign to her that I was ready to take such a step would be to stop removing my body hair. I am close to a decision. Misery-laden days are about to end.
Look at your face. Do I detect disgust? Surely a man of the world like you, Ibn Yakub, is not shocked by such details. Cairo and Damascus, not to mention Baghdad, are full of male brothels where beardless youths satisfy every conceivable need and desire of those who visit them. This is tolerated, but mention women smelling the musk of each other’s bodies and it is as if the heavens were about to fall.
I think I should stop. You look as though you’re about to choke on your own anger, and your friend Ibn Maymun would never forgive me if I was responsible for making you ill.
I’m disappointed in you, scribe. I don’t think I shall summon you again.
Before I could reply, Mansoora had ushered me to the door and straight into the courtyard. I turned back to catch a last glimpse of Halima, but there was no sign of her. My last memory of her remained a strange, obstinate, half-contemptuous gaze which was her farewell.
I walked into the street, upset and disoriented.
Eleven
Shadhi and the story of the blind sheikh; Salah al-Din tells how he overcame his rivals
MY CLANDESTINE MEETING WITH Halima had shaken me to the core. I felt abused, though when I recalled her exact words there was nothing in them to upset me. I suppose I was taken aback by her decision that henceforth all men, except Messud, were out of bounds. My reaction was nothing personal. I was shocked on behalf of all males, or, at least, that is how I consoled myself.
Shadhi was not so easily convinced. He was waiting for me anxiously at the palace. The Sultan was back, but would not be able to see me till later in the afternoon. Shadhi wanted to hear of my meeting with Halima and so I obliged him. He was not in the least bit perturbed.
“I could tell you stories of harems which would make you die of shame on their behalf,” he chuckled. “Not that I ever died. I have lived long enough to know that of all Allah’s creations, we human beings are the least predictable. Do not plague your heart with the problems of women, Ibn Yakub. Leave Jamila and Halima to be happy. They will never be as free as you or me.”
I was astonished by Shadhi’s carefree attitude, but also relieved. I had told him everything. If the Sultan ever discovered our secret, both of us would share the blame. My fear, which had given me a sleepless night, evaporated and I became cheerful again. I saw Shadhi laughing to himself. When I inquired as to the cause of his merriment, he spat loudly before speaking.
“There is a blind sheikh, who preaches his nonsense a few miles outside the Bab-al-Zuweyla. He’s the sort who makes a living out of religion. He uses his blindness as a pretext to feel every part of the men with soft voices, all the time reciting the hadith. People leave him gifts of food, clothes, money and sometimes jewellery. Six months ago a trader brought him a beautiful shawl to keep him warm during the evenings. The sheikh loved this shawl. He would put one end of it through a tiny ring and then pull it out with one sharp tug, to show his disciples the unusual character of the wool. One evening, just after he had finished his prayers, a man entered his house. The sheikh was seated on a rug on the floor playing with his beads and muttering invocations and prayers and whatever else these charlatans mouth to gull the poor.
“The man who entered muttered a few prayers and placed a little bundle at the feet of the preacher. Pleased with his present, he asked the stranger’s name, but received no reply. For a while they prayed in silence. Then the stranger spoke.
“‘Tell me something, learned teacher. Are you really blind?’
“The sheikh nodded.
“‘Completely blind?’
“The sheikh nodded more vigorously, this time with a touch of irritation.
“‘So, if I were to remove the shawl from your shoulders,’ the man’s voice was gentle and reassuring, ‘you would never know who I was?’
“The sheikh was amused by the suggestion and smiled, while the enterprising young thief lifted the shawl and calmly walked from the house. The holy man rushed out after him with his stick. The mask disappeared as he began to scream abuse at the thief. Mother-fucker. Sister-fucker. Twice-born-camel-cunted-son-of-a-whore. And worse, Ibn Yakub, words that I would not want to repeat to you. Later it was discovered that the bundle which the thief had left for the sheikh consisted of three layers of pigeon shit covered with straw!”
Shadhi began to laugh again. His laughter was infectious, and I managed a weak smile. But he could tell that I found the story only mildly amusing. This annoyed him, and he spat in an elegant arc over my head to express his disapproval. Then stared into my eyes and winked. I laughed. Peace was restored.
It was late in the afternoon when the Sultan deigned to notice my insignificant presence. He was in good spirits, and when I inquired if his trip with the Kadi had been successful, he sighed.
“Convincing people to pay taxes to the state is not one of my duties, but al-Fadil insisted that my presence was necessary in the North. As usual, he was not wrong. My being there had the desired effect. In two days we collected taxes that had not been paid for two years. So, let us continue with our story. Where did we finish?”
I reminded him of how he had become the Vizir of Misr.
I had been worried that the Sultan Nur al-Din might have been misled by the behaviour of some of the Damascus emirs. They scarcely bothered to hide their envy and contempt for me. I had sent Nur al-Din a message, and now eagerly awaited his reply. It came after a week. The form of address he had chosen revealed his nervousness at my elevation. I was still the Emir Salah al-Din, Chief of the Army. I quickly sent another message stressing that he, Nur al-Din, was my Sultan and I was obedient to his instructions alone. I also requested that my father Ayyub, and the rest of our family, might be permitted to come and live with me in Cairo. Without them I felt lonely and homeless. After several months, this request was granted. I had not seen my father and mother for nearly a year. Great was our mutual joy at the reunion decreed by Allah.
I told my fath
er that if he would like to take the position of vizir, I would immediately transfer my position and power to him. He refused, insisting that Allah’s choice had fallen on me. It would be wrong to tamper with his will. I did, however, persuade him to become the Treasurer, a key position. Without control of the treasury, it was difficult to wield real power.
The Caliph of the Fatimids and his courtiers were enraged by this decision. They had chosen me to be the vizir because they thought me weak and unprepossessing. Now they realised that power was slipping away from their hands. The Caliph al-Adid was a weakling, manipulated by eunuchs. One of these creatures, a Nubian named Nejeh, with a complexion as black as his heart, was a particular favourite of al-Adid. It was Nejeh who supplied his master with both opium and false reports.
The Caliph had harboured ambitions of becoming the vizir himself, but had felt it would be easier to retain power in the court by acting through me. The spies put in place by al-Fadil reported one evening that the Nubian eunuch Nejeh had sent a secret messenger to the Franj. The Caliph pleaded with them to attack Cairo as a feint. He knew I would ride out and give battle to the occupiers. Then, once I was fully distracted, Nejeh and his Nubians would thrust their daggers in our back.
On the advice of al-Fadil, I decided that Nejeh had to be dispatched as soon as possible. It was difficult to do this while he was in the palace without provoking a full-scale war. You must realise that tens of thousands of Nubians followed Nejeh as if he were a god. But we discovered that he had a male lover. He used to meet him regularly at a country house far from the palace. We waited for the right moment, and then, when the time had come, both Nejeh and his lover were consigned to hell.
