The Lover

by Laury Silvers

  “Oh?”

  “My mother, Yasmina, was a treasured slave in the harem of the caliph al-Mu’tamid and gifted by him to my father. Do you think that she considers the daughter of a hadith scholar who teaches the children of a minor dignitary in the court for his coin good enough for me? If this gossip got out, she would not permit this marriage.”

  “How is it going ahead at all without her approval?”

  “It is only that my father likes the idea of our household having scholarly attachments. I have many elder half-brothers and I am not his favoured son among them, despite his infatuation with my mother.”

  “I see.”

  Adam grasped the edge of the table where they were sitting and nearly begged him, “Please. It is only that I truly love her. The Imam encouraged her to come out from behind the screen when the other students were not there, so I could see her. She was without her face veil. He did it so that I would want her. He has promised her to me.” Thinking of his future father in law, his officious tone returned, “Such a tedious man, only doing it to raise his own reputation. If it were not for his collection, I would not even have been there to study with him in the first place. Now I am there for her alone.”

  Ammar prompted, “What drew you to her?”

  He softened at the question unable to help himself, “She is beautiful, but there are beautiful girls everywhere. She is a brilliant student. A brilliant mind. I love her. But I loved her even before he showed me her face.”

  “Does she love you?”

  Adam cocked his head as if he did not understand the question, then answered, “Did my mother love my father when she was given to him?”

  Ammar didn’t need to know the answer. There wasn’t a lot of difference between slavery and marriage when it came to what women wanted and what men got. He ignored the comment, saying evenly, “What do you think happened to the boy?”

  He said with confidence, “He walked off the roof while asleep, as the housekeeper said.”

  Ammar pushed lightly, “I have to ask, my apologies. But this will keep me from having to discuss this any further. Where were you that night?”

  Adam balked at the very thought of it, “Do you think I sleep at my teacher’s house!”

  “No, I don’t. But you see, I have to ask.”

  Adam stiffened, but Ammar saw him thinking. Adam relaxed slightly, asking, “Should we walk to my father’s home? You can question our guards. They can be counted on for their discretion, especially if you make it sound like it is concerning a night of carousing or some such.”

  Ammar sighed. He considered what would happen if he asked the guards. They would only answer in a way that would please this son of his father’s household. He forced himself to consider the logical possibility of this ass of a boy killing Zayd, worried about reputation or not. If Zayd were murdered, which he did not believe he was, Adam would only have to arrange to have Zayd beaten to death in a street scrap over nothing. It wouldn’t cost much. His household guard hands a few fals to a couple of toughs who need a meal. Done. As much as he sorely wished it in this moment, he didn’t see Adam hiding out overnight in his teacher’s house waiting for Zayd to go up to the roof so he could push him off of it. And he didn’t see how he could have had been there overnight casually for what would have been more likely a crime of emotion and opportunity. No, he thought. He didn’t do it.

  Ammar said, “Thank you for the offer, but there’s no need to ask the guards.”

  Adam asked, “Can I count on your discretion for the girl’s sake?”

  Ammar put his hand on his heart, but did not vow on God’s name, “Yes.”

  Relieved, Adam said, “You never asked me how you hoped I could help you with what you needed from the Imam.”

  “Actually, our conversation covered it. I have one more witness to question, unrelated to anything to do with the girl, so, for your concerns, you can consider the case closed.”

  Adam shook slightly at the suddenness of being released, not realizing fully that he’d felt so completely trapped until that moment. Ammar saw it and took pleasure in that, at least.

  Ammar stood and bowed slightly, his hand over his heart again, “Thank you for your help, Assalamu alaykum.”

  Adam placed his own hand on his chest and nodded toward him, not getting up, “Wa alaykum assalam.”

  Ammar left Adam at the table and felt for the hilt of his sword to steady himself. He went to look for Tein, thinking, Be honest, now. If you were a true man, true to your love of the Prophet’s family, true to God, then you wouldn’t dance around these rich fools. You’d leave the outcome in God’s hands. Would Ali, would Husayn let this go? Answer me, man! Another thought spoke through, answering his demand. You got everything you needed, for God’s sake. He told himself sharply, You would have shown the boy your sword if you had to do so. You are a ghazi! You didn’t need to threaten him to get what you wanted.

  Angry with himself still, he reached the square but Tein was no longer there. He must have gotten inside the mosque. Ammar, settled down and assured himself, I’ll question Yusuf, and if there’s nothing there, then we’re done. It was an accident, as I suspected from the start.

  He made his way to the mosque door and pushed it open, enough to get inside. He saw Tein walking to him from the back of the mosque with the Imam, near what must have been the Imam’s quarters.

  Tein called across to him, his voice reverberating through the mosque, “Nothing here. The Imam let them out through his door.”

  Ammar said, “We’ll have to write this up. You’ll have to name the man who helped him get out. What was his name, again? Another Sufi?”

  Tein said, “Just because he counts some of the Sufis as friends doesn’t make him a member of that community. You have no friends outside the police or military?”

  “But what he was saying. That sounds a bit like Sufi talk to me.”

  “That’s how little you know. Is everyone who talks politics in government? Are there no regional governments acting on their own terms?”

  “Point taken, Tein. Maybe we’ll make you our special investigator for Sufi matters.”

  “It’s not funny. That’s why I worry about the community. Because people like you cannot tell the difference.”

  “No, none of this is funny. Unfortunately, we have to head back to the office to deal with this mess. More to write up. Thank God, no one died. As it is, I’m going to have to explain why I didn’t just arrest al-Hallaj for fomenting a riot before it got started.”

  Tein changed the topic before he could ask again for Ibn Ata’s name, “Did you get what you needed from Adam?”

  “Yes, we’re done with him. I’ll explain later. But because of this mess, we’ll have to put off interviewing the other servant until tomorrow. I have to get another witness statement for a different killing in al-Anbariyya, so it makes sense to go when we’ll have time to do both. A drunk old ghazi killed a man, he’s in a holding cell until I can clear this up.” He eyed Tein, “Just like you in about thirty years time. He stabbed a thief who thought he could roll the old man for some coin. The thief didn’t count on him being a tough old warrior of the Frontier. We need the shopkeeper’s testimony who saw the whole thing. Ibn Marwan talked to the Chief of Police about it. The Chief is prepared to judge the case as self-defence once we have all the evidence ready to submit to his court. I’ve got to go interview the shopkeeper, then get him to come in to make a statement.”

  Ammar looked around the square, “As for this riot, let’s see how far we get with the paperwork and then hand it off to Ibn Marwan. I’ll get a scribe in. In any case, I think you can tell your sister, as far as she is concerned, the case is closed.”

  Tein cocked his head, “Closed?”

  “I don’t think the interview with the servant, Yusuf, is going to change anything. Just let Zaytuna know.”

  “No details for her?”

  Ammar turned on him, “She doesn’t need any details. Were you getting drunk over
there?”

  Tein laughed at him, “Two cups of nabidh, brother. You think cider has any effect on me? Two cups of wine wouldn’t have done it, either. I am decidedly not drunk.”

  “Don’t do it again.”

  “Maybe this job isn’t for me, Ammar. I’d rather carry bags of grain up from the canal on my back than put my hands around another man’s throat again.”

  Ammar scoffed, “Is that what this is about?”

  Tein looked at him sideways, “What? Because I’m not enjoying brutality anymore?”

  Ammar shook his head, “If that’s how you want to put it. But I didn’t ask you to throttle that man. You did that.”

  Tein looked down, “I know.”

  “You’ve been an ass all day. There’s more to this than your sudden shame over your gift for violence. Let me throw this at you. I’m not sure that you accept how this job works. Your family, your friends. This comes first. Those who joined Husayn at Karbala understood the sacrifices necessary to enact justice in this world.”

  Tein was still staring at the ground, so Ammar did not see his eyes widen at the idea that somehow working for the Baghdadi police was akin to standing by the Prophet’s family on the battlefield. Although Tein had no time for religion, he loved Ali. He’d imagined himself more than once as the Lion himself to get up his courage to face the enemy. This, to him, was not that. Tein only said, “Again, I’d rather carry bags of grain.”

  “You let me know what you decide. In the meanwhile, don’t drink on the job again. Not even nabidh.”

  Tein didn’t object further, saying “Front me some coin. I can’t wait until the treasuries get around to my pay day. I need to find a place to sleep and I need to eat. And we never did get any food.”

  Ammar pulled a few coins out of his sleeve pocket and looked at them, pulled out two dirhams and handed them to Tein, “Tell your sister it’s done. And buy yourself some black cloth for a turban.”

  Tein didn’t reply.

  “Let’s get back to the scribe and get that report down.”

  Tein looked down at the coins in his hands and tucked them into his sleeve, “I liked you better when you weren’t my boss.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Zaytuna made her way off of Basra Gate High Road without seeing the streets she walked through, winding her way through this alleyway and that. She found herself at the entrance to the Shuniziyya graveyard, looking for her mother, needing her comfort and guidance. Standing before the thick walls of the cemetery and looking at the long line of burrows that some of the poor had dug for shelter, she saw a woman’s cracked and callused feet sticking out from under a lean-to, a simple reed frame of woven palm leaves, protecting her burrow from the sun. The woman had not set out her cooking pot by the road like everyone else so that someone might drop a coin in, some bread, or a small sack of grain or beans. There was always something given, even by the poorest of the poor to those poorer than themselves. Zaytuna approached, crouching down until she could see her face, “Assalamu alaykum, Auntie.”

  She saw the woman shift inside, but she did not move to meet her. She called out, “Wa alaykum assalam. What can I do for you my daughter?”

  “Nothing. I was wondering about you. I saw you don’t have your pot out, do you have something to eat?”

  “I’ve eaten plenty.”

  “Today?”

  “Every day.”

  “Auntie…”

  The woman sighed. Then she rolled slightly to get out of the burrow and pushed her lean-to out a bit so she could sit up and face Zaytuna. Zaytuna took the lean-to, set it aside, and sat back on her haunches before the old woman, her knees coming up nearly to her chin. She had an old Arab face, the kind you only saw on the tribal women, and she looked at Zaytuna straight on. Her brown eyes were bright, shining out from her weathered skin, burnished by the sun to the colour of toasted wheat. She was not angry with Zaytuna for making her shift from her place, but she was not curious either.

  Zaytuna asked the old woman, “Is this enough for you?”

  The woman smiled, replying in the formal Arabic of the tribes, but Zaytuna couldn’t tell which one, “Is this not plenty for someone who’s dying?”

  “Oh Auntie, are you dying? There must be something I can do for you.”

  The old woman tipped her chin up at her, “You might work more at dying to this world yourself. Look at how you cling to it! Every misery you hold dear to you like a suckling baby, refusing God’s love because He did not consult you first in His just design.”

  Zaytuna fell back off her haunches as if the woman had pushed her.

  The woman laughed as Zaytuna righted herself, then said, “I can tell that you know better, so why are you resisting?”

  Zaytuna sat before her, knees tucked underneath her, but the heat of the day was bearing down and she did not know how long she could stand it, nevertheless she waited silently for the woman to speak again.

  The old woman saw she was ready to listen, so she repositioned herself with her back against the wall and said to her, her hand on the lean-to, “Come here. We can use this to cover us both. By God’s grace, there’s room enough for the two of us in this shade.” Zaytuna shifted and shuffled herself forward to sit next to her. She pulled the lean-to over to cover them both. She had to fold herself up, slumping down, her knees to her chest, her arms holding them in, and her chin tucked down, nearly resting on her knees. The woman saw and nudged her slightly, saying, “Lay your head in my lap, you’ll be more comfortable. The woman held the lean-to steady as Zaytuna shifted her body on the gravelly dirt, her qamis grinding into it, until she was curled up on her side, her head in the old woman’s lap, her sandaled feet sticking out in the sun. The roughness of the woman’s wool garment scratched her face and smelled like clean, warm dust and comforting wool. Zaytuna exhaled deeply and every muscle in her body relaxed. The gravel underneath her hip and the sharp edge of her thigh softened such that she felt as if she were lying on layers of sheepskins, and her feet felt as if they were in shade. The old woman put her arm over Zaytuna’s shoulder, pulling her in just a bit, and said, “That’s better, yes?”

  Tears came to her eyes in the sheer tenderness of it, “Yes, Auntie. That’s better.”

  “Why do you concern yourself with suffering, girl? You only tie yourself to its dungeon walls by winding your miserable thoughts around yourself like a chain, over and over and around again. You’ve wound yourself up so, that even when God Himself has given you the key, you stay there as if this were the nature of things and there is no escape.”

  “How do I escape, Auntie?”

  “By trusting that there are no chains, that there is no cell, no walls, and no dungeon. First, give up the chains. Walk toward the cell door, step by step. Walk as if there were no chains holding you to the cell wall. You will feel the pull of the chains. They are heavy still and you will feel them pinch and even cut. But you step forward. Observe how, with each step some small thing, a tiny thought, an infinitesimal matter, that you believed to be true, just as true to you as you knew this ground underneath you is as hard and sharp as stone and rock should be, is in fact, false.”

  Zaytuna felt herself drop even more softly into the ground, it holding her in its embrace, and she paid attention to it.

  “With each step, you will feel your muscles soften little by little under the weight of the chains. These kinds of chains cannot hold a soft body. They rely on tension to keep them taut. So as you soften and loosen under them, the chains will slip from you, link by link. And as each link falls, a thick humming will begin to resonate within you. Just a trace at first. But do not dismiss it. When you feel it, know that this is a bodily symptom of love. You will object, I do not feel love, because you are simply unused to it. You have turned from every love granted to you, finding each offering lacking, as they are partnered, always in this world, with suffering and loss.

  “Here you have a choice. Either pick up the chains around you and pull them back over yo
ur shoulders and around your throat, turn back to the wall, and say, if there is suffering in it, then I will suffer alone, without love, in my own peace. Or you can open your heart and hold onto every shred you feel, risking what comes, for the chance to feel love’s touch again. You will begin to recognize love even in unfathomable places. Choose love and you will, with time, tremble so under its caress that it will shatter every last link that binds you. But listen to me, girl, at times you will go back. It’s inevitable. Simply go forward more than back. And take care, each time you go back, losing further ground can get easier and easier, and you may find yourself chained to the wall again.

  "If you choose love, look down, and you will find its key in your hand and the cell door before you. Place love’s key into the lock and turn it. The cell door will open, and fall away behind you. Then step through the threshold beyond it and let the cell recede into the darkness you are leaving. Then you must climb the dungeon steps, one by one. And this will not be easy, either. Each step will disappear as your foot lifts from it to take the next one, so there is no turning back at this point. If you do, you will step back into the nothingness you have left behind.

  "Soon, you will see sunlight shining through the door at the very top. The sunlight will begin to shine so brightly that you will no longer see the walls of the staircase you had been climbing or the steps under your feet. There will be nothing but light. Step out into that light and turn around. The dungeon of your suffering will have disappeared. You will have arrived at the fortress of God’s help. And, my sweet, if your fortress is God’s help, then, just as the Prophet found when he and Abu Bakr hid in the cave to escape the bloodthirsty Meccans, even a spider can be your gate-keeper.”

  Zaytuna lifted herself from the old woman’s lap, pushing the lean-to back as she sat up. The midday light and heat fell on them. The old woman shielded her eyes from it, squinting, and looked up at Zaytuna now sitting before her, but ready to stand. She asked Zaytuna, “So what will you do, my daughter?”