They reached the door of Sharafuddin’s family’s apartment. Sharafuddin opened a small door in a long wall and ducked inside. They kicked off their sandals quickly and walked through a long hallway past the kitchen where Sharafuddin’s mother and sister were busily preparing trays with their housekeeper to serve to the great Imam and guests. They slowed down and stepped carefully into the large, open room lit by oil lamps with some light shining in from high smaller windows that opened onto the mosque courtyard. Richly woven and embroidered carpets covered the floor from one end of the room to the other with layers of sheepskins set out around the walls to sit on and pillows made from fine, old carpets and embroidered linen to lean against.
They bowed their heads as they entered the room, each saying “Bismillah,” stepping first with their right foot, then their left. Sharafuddin pulled them to the left of the room where he saw the elderly scholar seated consciously away from what would have been the place of honour, his legs tucked under him, his shoulders stooped, and his robes pooled around him.
Abdelmalik nudged Mustafa, saying under his breath, “Imam Ibrahim is the one sitting between Imam Abu Abdelrahman and Sharafuddin’s father.”
Mustafa said, disappointed, “And there is Burhan’s father, in his tall judge’s cap, on the other side, and Burhan tucked in right there. Why do I wonder at these things, Abdelmalik?”
Abdelmalik replied, “You have to get used to how things are, my friend. Being well-connected, making money, it doesn’t make you a bad man.”
Mustafa whispered, “Making money off the Prophet’s words, God protect us from evil things.”
Abdelmalik laughed under his breath, “There’s my Mustafa, the Purist.”
Mustafa shot back, “If you were raised in Baghdad, you’d not say that.”
Abdelmalik poked Mustafa in the arm, “Look, Amina is here with her father. Maybe Sharafuddin will get a chance to talk to her today. We’ll be hearing about that all week!”
Sharafuddin gestured to them that they could come forward to greet Imam Abu Abdelrahman. They kneeled before him and each took his hand to kiss, in greeting and in respect. As each put their head down, the Imam pulled each one’s hand toward him, turning it over so that he might kiss the back of their hands instead. Mustafa blushed deeply at the gesture and began to stand to find a place to sit in the now crowded room, when the elderly Imam spoke to him, “Are you a scholar and a potter, my son?”
Mustafa looked at him with shock, and then shame. “Yes.”
Mustafa heard Burhan tittering at his response, taking pleasure in the meanness of his employment being pointed out by the Imam. He refused to look, instead setting his eyes to the ground before him.
“Most of the scholars I meet in Baghdad have some other work they do, but typically it is administrative work or they educate children. It is a city rich in scholars, but I hear not in opportunities to be paid to teach from your years of study.”
“No, but I’m grateful to have plenty of work with my hands.”
“And what do you make?”
“Cooking pots and jugs, whatever the master requires.”
“What have you made that was the most important to you?”
Mustafa felt like he could see Burhan laughing at him as this scholar asked him questions that he would a child. Not the sort of conversation the Imam must have been having with Burhan and the others before he came in. The shame gripped him as he thought of how he would have to answer that question, if he answered it honestly, and sadness overcame him. His eyes pricked with tears and he felt even more embarrassed.
No. He thought of Zaytuna who would not be ashamed. He would feel no shame for himself, his family, his people. He told the Imam the truth. Whatever came of it was meant to be, “An earthenware jug and cup I made for my cousin, well, not actually a cousin, but just the same to me. She collected the clay from the banks of a dried-up canal not far from the tomb of Maruf al-Karkhi. As I threw the clay, I said ‘Allah’ with each breath. Then I sent them to be fired reciting God’s words, We created humankind out of ringing clay from black mud, transformed.”
The Imam nodded and asked, “And who were your teachers?”
“Abu al-Faraj al-Ibari and Idris Muhammad al-Habashi. I attend the circles of hadith whenever I am able.”
“Who else was your teacher?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You mentioned your cousin took the clay for the pot from Maruf al-Karkhi’s tomb.”
Here it comes, Mustafa thought. He knew he was about to hear the criticism of his Uncle Abu al-Qasim and the Sufis. He wished he’d not have to learn about the prejudices of this scholar he so deeply admired. He answered, “Abu al-Qasim Junayd who continues to teach me the inward path of the Prophet.”
The Imam nodded, “Do you know how I knew you were a potter?”
“No.”
“There are bits of clay on your turban from where you wrapped it today. I surmised you wrapped it right when you came from work.” Then the Imam lifted his hands to the sides of his own turban, carefully removing it, the skull cap underneath coming with it, exposing his bald head, setting it into the hands of Imam Ibrahim sitting beside him. The room grew quiet. Mustafa was paralyzed at this show of profound humility. Here he had thought so ill of the man just a moment ago, and now he was, in effect, stripping himself of his status before them all. Mustafa looked at the ground out of respect, staring into the sheepskin before him, seeing every hair, which one curled, which grew straight, breathing as best he could, not knowing what to do next when he felt his own turban lift from his head.
He looked up into the eyes of the Imam, seeing the gentleness in them, as the Imam took Mustafa’s turban and handed it to Burhan’s father to hold. Burhan’s father took it, but visibly did not like it. The Imam then turned to Sharafuddin’s father and took his own turban, removing his skull cap, and placed it over the skull cap on Mustafa’s head, saying, “Please take my turban as a gesture of thanks and recognition of your devotion to the Prophet’s words despite the hardships you endure. Nothing could be closer to the Prophet’s own example than hard work wedded to such devotion.”
The Imam put on his own cap, then turned to Burhan’s father and took Mustafa’s turban from him and, pulling at it slightly to loosen it, placed it on his own head. He said, “I will be honoured to wear your turban today as I recite the eighty hadith from the Golden Chain.”
Mustafa felt the heaviness of the Imam’s turban on his shoulders and did not know if he could stand up from the weight of the gesture and began to shake. Sharafuddin and Abdelmalik saw and each took him by an arm and led him to the other side of the room where he sat in silence, gratefully between his friends, as Sharafuddin’s mother and sister came in bearing trays of sweets and fruited drinks for the Imam and the guests.
Sharafuddin leaned over and whispered to him, “Please look at Burhan. I know you are overwhelmed right now, but you cannot miss the obsequiousness on his face.”
Abdelmalik leaned in, replying, “I think he’s about to tell the Imam he is a canal worker…”.
Sharafuddin interjected, “No...” laughing quietly, “...a garbage picker.”
But Mustafa could not look. He kept his eyes down, only looking up long enough to take the sweets offered to him from Sharafuddin’s sister without knocking her tray.
Abdelmalik nudged him, “Take a bite of that faludhaj then tell me, why are you interested in Imam Ibrahim?”
Mustafa said, “It’s just, well, a friend was asking about him. A boy died in his household. A servant. There was some question about what happened and my friend, well, my friend wondered if I knew anything about it. I said I would ask.”
Abdelmalik and Sharafuddin leaned in to him, Sharafuddin saying, “A servant died? Then this is a matter for the police. If anyone knows anything they should speak to the police about it. Are the police involved?”
Mustafa answered, “Yes, they’ve questioned everyone in the household already.”
Abdelmalik said, confused, “If the police have already handled it, then this sounds like indulging in dangerous gossip, Mustafa. That’s not like you. Who is this friend?”
“No one you know. You’re right.” He knew he had tried to dissuade Zaytuna, the same as his friends were trying to dissuade him right now. Mustafa looked around the room. He couldn’t very well ask which of the students here were Imam Ibrahim’s now, could he? He felt like he had to have something to tell Zaytuna. He wanted badly to give her something, some news, that would please her and make her pleased with him. He looked down again, sullen now, rather than sweetly humbled by the Imam’s gesture.
After a time, they filed out and into the front of the mosque where spaces had been saved for the guests of Sharafuddin’s father. Mustafa looked over the crowd taking up every inch of the mosque. Repeaters stood along the walls to make sure that everyone even at the very back could hear every word of every hadith Imam Abu Abdelrahman would recite that day. There were so many men there they had spilled into the women’s section such that any women who may have risked the streets to be there would have been pushed out of the mosque. Zaytuna would have had something to say about that. He wished he could pull the women back in and push the men at the back out, but this is the way things were.
Any female scholars and students, at least, would be here with their own teachers. They would have been given a special place; he was sure of it, well he hoped. Mustafa looked around but he only saw Amina, without her teacher, sitting just inside the door to the family apartment with Sharafuddin’s mother and sister. He pushed his discomfort with it away, thinking, Maybe they did not want to come, and turned to sit down with his friends.
Imam Abu Abdelrahman finally came in, Mustafa’s clay-stained turban on his head, and stepped halfway up the minbar so he could be seen and heard across the crowd. The Imam opened with the basmillah, recited prayers on the Prophet, his family and companions, and began the recitation of the first hadith. He gave the chain of transmission in a clear voice that carried easily to the first repeaters, “Abu Ali al-Yamani heard it from Malik ibn Anas who heard it from an-Nafi al-Madani who heard it from Ibn Umar who heard the Prophet Muhammad, alayhi salam, say…” The repeaters called out the chain of transmission, each in turn, until it had reached the back of the mosque and outside to the courtyard. The Imam waited until there was silence, then recited the hadith itself, “Ibn Umar who said, ‘Men and their wives used to do their ritual ablutions together when the Messenger of God was still alive.’” And the repeaters turned to the back and recited the hadith until everyone had a chance to hear it.
Afterwards, as the people filed out, Sharafuddin left them and went with his father and the Imam back into the house. Mustafa and Abdelmalik made their way to a pillar and sat down. Mustafa took the Imam’s turban off his head, and pulled his cap out from underneath, putting it back on his head and placed the turban next to him. A few of their friends came forward from where they had been sitting toward the rear of the mosque to sit with them.
Abdelmalik said to them, “Sit, sit! You have to hear about this!”
Mustafa’s hand clamped down on his, begging him, “Please no.”
Abdelmalik rolled his eyes, whispering to him, “They’ll find out anyway.”
“Not now, please.”
“Alright,” and turned back to the others when Sharafuddin came out of the door to his family’s apartment back into the mosque whisper yelling, “Mustafa, Mustafa!”
As he reached them it came tumbling out, “The Imam decided to stay here a bit longer and hold some private classes. He specifically wants you to come to visit him starting tomorrow to copy down the eighty hadith with an ijaza certificate verifying you to teach them from him!”
Abdelmalik said, “Mustafa! Subhanallah! Hey, wait, what about me?”
“Ha! You too, but he asked for Mustafa specifically. He said he hoped you would find time to make him a jug and a cup like you did for your cousin before he goes.”
“Unfortunately, Imam Ibrahim’s students and Burhan will be there. But you cannot have everything.”
Abdelmalik teased Sharafuddin, “Will Amina be there?”
Sharafuddin blushed, “Insha’Allah.”
Mustafa got up. Sharafuddin said, “Where are you going?”
“To collect the clay and make the Imam his jug and cup, of course!” And, to tell Zaytuna. She’d be so happy for him. But more than that, he’d be able to tell her that Imam Ibrahim’s students would surely be there tomorrow and he could talk to them for her.
Chapter Sixteen
Salman sat slumped on his stool in front of his shop, alone. His body was tilted at a strange angle, his shoulder propped awkwardly against the outside wall. As people crossed the square, noticing him, they walked as far away from his shop as they could. Red liquid had soaked into the ground around him, turning dark brown as it mixed with the dirt. His clothes were soaked through with it. Saliha and Zaytuna could just see him in the last bit of the day’s light as they turned into the square on their way home. The red stains stood out, stark against his white qamis. Saliha grabbed Zaytuna’s arm and pulled her, saying, “He’s hurt.” They ran to him until the smell of wine hit them.
Zaytuna stopped running at the smell of it and tried to pull Saliha back, “It’s just wine.”
Saliha pulled her arm free from Zaytuna and kept going, turning back to her with a look that said, “And?” She reached Salman and knelt down before him, her qamis dragging in the wine-soaked dirt, asking, “Salman! What happened? Have you been hurt?”
He lifted his head, partially straightening up, he answered, “They kicked me, yes. But not hurt, I think.” He sighed, “The wine, though.”
“Who?”
“Religious scholars. I don’t know them. I just saw white turbans, they wrapped them like Hanbalis, twisted under the chin they way they do. But which of them would do this? I kept my wine out of sight and they pretended not to know I served it.”
Saliha looked back at Zaytuna, who had stopped at the edge of the shop’s tables, then turned to Salman, saying, “Two men, one older, one younger, not even old enough to have more than a few beard hairs?”
His eyes opened wide, “Yes!”
Saliha said, “Bar Bar something’s followers. Zay, what did Mustafa call him?”
Zaytuna stepped in a bit closer. “Barbahari, I think.”
Saliha said, “That’s him.”
“Mustafa warned something like this would happen. He said they were out of control.”
Saliha asked, “Zay, what if there had been a crowd of them?”
“Just what Baghdad needs, more pious riots,” Salman managed a laugh.
Saliha said, “Good, you’re laughing. That’s our Salman.”
Zaytuna raised her eyebrows at that.
Saliha didn’t see it, she was looking over Salman, but not touching him, “Where did they kick you?”
“I’m afraid in the ass,” he laughed, ashamed. “As I ran out the door of the shop…leaving them in there with my inventory.”
Zaytuna pulled out a stool and sat down, tired, saying, “At least your ass is ample enough to cushion the blows. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
Ignoring Zaytuna, he said to Saliha, “I should have stood up to them. The customers scattered when they saw them heading towards the shop. These men were determined. They had iron rods.”
“Iron rods! There is nothing you could have done to stop them, Salman.”
Salman finally turned his attention to Zaytuna, “This must bring you some satisfaction to see this ‘grandson of a traitor’ humiliated so.”
Saliha looked at Zaytuna as if to say, “You’re on your own here,” and got up to go inside the shop and see the damage.
Heat rushed up from her gut to her head and right over her. She was satisfied. Her mind grasped at justifications so she would not have to admit to herself that she was the kind of person who would take petty satisfaction in the attack on him. He sells
wine, what did he think would happen to him? As for the insult, she was angry at being caught out at that as well. She scrambled inwardly, not sure how to recover the situation other than just walk away or insult him further. It occurred to her that she could admit to something. After an uncomfortable pause, she settled on admitting to the insult alone, saying, “You’ve heard me call you that.”
“Everyone calls me that.”
“God forgive me.”
“I’m sure He does.”
“And you? Would you forgive me?”
Saliha called out from inside the shop, “They really did destroy all the wine. Too bad, you could use a cup right now.”
Salman simply stared at Zaytuna, not offering the obligatory response that he accepted her apology.
Zaytuna felt it as if the hand of God Himself had slapped her. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment, desperate for a way to correct what she’d done. She tried, “Let us help you clean this up.”
He looked her in the eye, “No, leave it.”
“It won’t take long,” Zaytuna continued, ignoring him. She got off her stool and joined Saliha inside to pick up the broken pieces of clay jars and lay them outside the shop near the street to be taken by the garbage pickers another day.
He slumped further forward on his stool, elbows on his knees propping up his head. Sore assed and useless. Now women were going to clean up the proof of his cowardice. “The boys will be here tomorrow to help. There’s no need,” he nearly begged them.
Saliha heard the tone in his voice from inside the shop and stopped Zaytuna, taking the pieces of clay out of her hands and putting them back on the floor. Zaytuna objected, gesturing to Saliha, “Please, let me do this.” Saliha ignored her and turned her around, walking her out the shop ahead of her.
“I need to help!”
Saliha whispered over Zaytuna’s shoulder into her ear, “Not like this. This isn’t helping.”
Saliha pushed Zaytuna out towards the tables and stools and stopped before Salman, considering him. Not at all the type of man who held her interest, but he needed some of his confidence back and she needed what she needed. She nodded to herself inwardly, decided, then said to him, “I’m sure you can take care of it. But please go change, we’ll wash that qamis for you.” Then, winking just a little, “Put on that dark green one that you look so handsome in.”
The Lover Page 13
