The Lover

by Laury Silvers

As they came into the courtyard, he saw Uncle Abu al-Qasim look over at the two of them and smile. He thought first the look was for him, but then realized Uncle Abu al-Qasim recognized the Imam. His heart sunk at that but then rose again in pride to be seen with him. He caught himself. Look at what your soul is up to, Mustafa! God guide me from its promptings, its risings and fallings.

  Uncle Abu al-Qasim looked at him and nodded, not in greeting, but rather in acknowledgement of his self-correction. Junayd began to stand and Abu Muhammad rose quickly to stand next to him. They walked together to the centre of the courtyard. Junayd took the Imam’s hand. They bent over to kiss the back of each other’s hands, each pulling their hand away from the kiss. As they straightened they drew each other into an embrace, as old friends do. Abu Muhammad put his hand over his heart and bowed toward the Imam and reached for his hand to kiss. The Imam pulled his hand away and kissed Abu Muhammad’s turban, as he had with Mustafa.

  Mustafa stood back as Junayd and the Imam spoke quietly to one another until Junayd withdrew and reached for him. Mustafa inclined his head and placed his other hand over his heart in greeting as he stepped forward to take his uncle’s arm. Abu Muhammad nodded to him, giving him his place walking beside the great shaykh. They all went back to where he had been seated against the far wall with sheepskins laid out on the reed mats. Junayd gestured to the Imam to sit in his place. The Imam bowed slightly, but stood beside Junayd until he was seated again in his proper place and then sat down to Junayd’s right.

  Junayd nodded to Mustafa and said, “My son, come sit on the other side of me.” Abu Muhammad moved to stand on the other side of Mustafa, waiting for Mustafa to sit down next to Junayd. Mustafa bowed slightly and waited, like the Imam had done, until Abu Muhammad sat down, but, as the shaykh had requested, leaving space for Mustafa next to Junayd.

  The long reed mats were laid out around the courtyard walls as usual but on nights of sama, more of them were brought out and rolled out in rows extending the seating area into the courtyard and then covered with sheepskins, leaving a circle of empty space in the centre under the stars. Lanterns were lit and hung from the archways and here and there a floor lantern stood by a pillar sending warm light flickering from its cut metal designs across the walls. Mustafa took in the smell of burning oil in the lanterns mixed with the scent of wool from so many sheepskins placed out and the fresh night air. He closed his eyes, and was feeling at peace.

  Others began arriving in greater numbers. Each made their way first to greet the shaykh before taking a spot on the floor. Mustafa looked toward the kitchen and saw the drums laid out. Dawud, charged with the task of keeping the drums, took them one at a time into the kitchen to correct their tone; he used water to loosen the skin, and heat to tighten it. Mustafa could hear the sounding of each drum until its beat resonated, travelling through his heart. He longed to hear the poetry captured by ecstatics in their reveries sung to the beat of the drum until it took him over and he would sway, his heart lost in its song. He relished the repose that came afterward with the recitation of the Qur’an. He loved the opening and sealing of the ritual with prayers on his beloved Prophet, Muhammad, the Chosen One.

  As Dawud came out of the kitchen with one of the drums, a long-limbed man ducked out behind him. Warmth rushed through him; it was Uncle Nuri. A little girl sitting with her mother nearby broke free of her arms and rushed to Uncle Nuri demanding to be held. He crouched down and took the girl in his arms. Mustafa had been the same as a child.

  He remembered when he was six or seven he had found a thick thorn bush branch. It was oddly shaped, long-necked with four short stems on one side that looked to Mustafa very much like legs. It was an animal, certainly. But what kind? He searched out Uncle Nuri and sat in his lap to discuss it. They considered each possible creature until deciding, finally, that it was a donkey. Uncle Nuri asked him if he would like to name the donkey. Mustafa remembered it perfectly, he said, “She’s such a beautiful donkey. Don’t you think she is pretty? Her name is Zaytuna.”

  His Uncle sent him on his way laughing, saying, “Let’s keep her name between us, though. It’ll be our secret.”

  Mustafa told Zaytuna anyway, proudly showing her the donkey, and she hit him.

  Junayd saw him looking over to Nuri and said to him, “Go greet your uncle.”

  Mustafa got up slowly, despite wanting to rush, and walked toward the kitchen.

  His Uncle Nuri kissed his cheek once he got him into his arms and then pushed him away to look at him, asking, “When are you marrying Zaytuna?”

  “Uncle,” he looked down, “How could we marry if she doesn’t love me?”

  His uncle looked at him as if they had had this conversation too many times and he was nearing the end of his willingness to repeat it, “The love is there, I’ve seen it.”

  “You always say that, but I never see it.”

  “I think there’s been a change.”

  Mustafa pulled back, “What do you mean?”

  “It seems that your Uncle Abu al-Qasim has gotten involved and pushed her head under, forced her to taste God’s love rather than wait for her to work her way through to it.”

  He realized then. She was eating meat. She was enjoying her food. Maybe she was leaving her ascetic life behind and might consider marriage. Maybe she was letting her pain go. This had to be for the good if this was Uncle Abu al-Qasim’s doing. He said, his chest tightening and eyes filling with tears, “God willing.”

  He said, “Come and sit next to me, Mustafa. I have my corner here beyond the old women. I want to hear all your news.”

  Mustafa wanted to sit next to his Uncle, thigh to thigh, until listening to the sound of the drums and the poetry and his own breath chanting “there is no god but God” turned into nothing but atoms moving through them all. But he said instead, “Uncle Abu al-Qasim has asked me to sit next to him for the sama.”

  Uncle Nuri pulled a face, then smiled, and pushed him off, “Go then.”

  Mustafa embraced him again and returned to sit next to Junayd.

  Junayd turned and said to Mustafa once he was seated again, “God has brought our friend Imam Abu Abdelrahman to sit with us tonight. He is a great friend to the Knowers of God. We met on my first hajj when I went to Medina to give my greetings to our beloved Prophet.”

  The Imam laughed, “We were younger men then, we could sit like this well into the night and not be tired the next day. I still invite the Sufi travellers to my home for sama when they find their way to me. But,” he laughed, “I confess I fall asleep on my sheepskin if it goes too late now.”

  “Masha’Allah, you were a kind host to us. May God always fill your house with remembrance of Him.”

  Gesturing toward the Imam, Junayd turned to Mustafa, “I had hoped to introduce you, but he says you have already met. I have told him all about your mother, may God be well pleased with her, and how you were born among us and grew up among us.”

  The Imam spoke up, “I recognized him as one of yours right away.” Raising one eyebrow, he added, “Very unlike some of the other young men there.”

  Mustafa pretended he didn’t hear it, but he felt the pleasure in what the Imam said deep in his gut and he wondered immediately if Junayd was aware of it.

  Junayd asked Mustafa, “Who else was there when you met?”

  Mustafa’s face burned, he didn’t want to say. His gut pulled him, wanting to hear what the Imam thought of Burhan and the others. Maybe even Uncle Abu al-Qasim would have a criticism for them. If he said it, he’d get what he wanted.

  Junayd repeated himself, “Tell me Mustafa, who was there?”

  “I’m sorry. Sharafuddin, Abdelmalik, some of Imam Hamdan’s students including Burhan, and three students of Imam Ibrahim.”

  Junayd nodded, “Trust your heart’s knowledge when dealing with these people, Mustafa. Do you think that I am beyond this stage? None of us is. In fact, it gets more dangerous as one progresses. Walk away from those who cause your heart to constrict wh
ile you are in their presence. If I want something that causes my heart shame, then I pay attention to that and leave whatever it is. You do the same. Leave the doubtful desires of this world for the certainty of God’s guidance. Do not indulge in their talk.”

  Mustafa nodded in return. He always felt like a child with Uncle Abu al-Qasim, petulant, objecting. He wanted to say that it wasn’t as easy as all that, but did not.

  Junayd replied anyway, as if he had heard him, “I know it can be difficult interacting with these people. You forget I studied law and I still act as a jurist when needed.”

  “Yes, Shaykh,” He tried not to say more, but it came out anyway, “But Shaykh, what do I do when I know something bad about someone and bringing it to light may help some people but hurt others?”

  Junayd spoke, “You must weigh the harm and the good that you can see coming from it and consider the avenues of resolution. Sometimes dealing with a problem privately is appropriate. Other times, you must stand and give witness publicly. The most vulnerable need the most protection and you are required to take the greatest risks for their sakes. But you must also consider the truth of all the claims being made. At times, we get swept up in righting a wrong and no longer have a grasp on the truth. You must not oppress even in the name of seeking justice.”

  The Imam nodded to Junayd, then asked Mustafa, “Do you mind me asking about the problem? Your shaykh and I have seen a lot in our old age. It may be that we’ve crossed this road before and can help.”

  Mustafa could hear Abu Muhammad shifting next to him. He didn’t know whether or not he should answer. He didn’t want to act as though Junayd’s answer was not enough for him, but he also did not want to be rude to the Imam. And he did want to talk about it. Mustafa looked at Junayd who nodded his head.

  Mustafa said quietly, “It’s a hadith scholar. I heard that he plagiarized his collection.”

  The Imam sat up at that. Junayd leaned back slightly to give the Imam the space to speak. The Imam said, “A hadith scholar? If you know anything, you must say so. The reliability of the Prophet’s legacy, our practice, our faith, depends on being honest about the character of the transmitters and scholars.”

  Mustafa stepped ahead onto uncertain ground, “There is more to it than that. He may have hurt someone to hide the fact.”

  The Imam replied, “Hurt someone? This is even more serious, Mustafa. Please tell us.”

  Mustafa turned to Junayd saying, “Zaytuna was here the other day. You mentioned the children involved. A boy died.”

  Junayd said, “Ah. I understand.”

  He turned to the Imam, “Mustafa’s cousin, a daughter of our community, is heartbroken over the child’s death.”

  The Imam asked, “Mustafa, who is the scholar involved?”

  “Imam Ibrahim al-Silafi.”

  “Just so. No need to say anymore. I know the gossip about him. It is just that, gossip. I have first hand knowledge that he collected the hadith as he claims. There is no plagiarism. I taught him some of those hadith myself and certified him to transmit them. I know personally two of the scholars from whom he transmits and that they gave him certificates to do so. Further, there is no Ibrahim Ibn at-Tahir al-Naysaburi as people claim. The man was concocted out of thin air to persecute Imam Ibrahim.”

  Mustafa was hit with shock at the news, “Subhan’Allah! Why would people make that up about him?” Then the shame hit him. He had found it easy to believe it. Worse, he was willing to think he could have murdered a boy because of the lies.

  The Imam said, “Seeing a person whom they hate destroyed is more precious to them than bearing up under the burden of truth. Those who repeat the story without trying to ascertain its veracity are not worthy of the name ‘scholar.’ To suspect him of harming someone, a child at that. May God forgive them.”

  Mustafa could not speak. He could not say, it was me who thought that, not them.

  Junayd waited a moment until Mustafa had taken a breath and could hear what he had to say, “The burden of truth requires becoming familiar with your own jealousies, resentments, and assumptions, Mustafa. Examine all the good that God has bestowed on you and then examine your own weaknesses. I promise you that you will feel ashamed. These weaknesses should be the object of your criticism. Do that and you will find little time to criticize others.”

  Mustafa felt the sting of his uncle’s correction and began to tremble, saying to himself over and over, “God forgive me and make me familiar with my own weaknesses. God forgive me…” until the trembling subsided and he could hear conversation taking place over him.

  Imam Abu Abdelrahman was saying, “...Of course there is a great deal of hypocrisy in it, people who dislike Imam Ibrahim and speak ill of him have their own connections to the court. Some of these themselves have even willingly accepted positions as judges.”

  Abu Muhammad replied, “The Baghdadis don’t forgive and forget easily. I’m afraid the inquisition is still felt here as though it happened yesterday. Anyone who accepts patronage from the court is seen as a collaborator.”

  The Imam replied, “In practical terms, it always makes the most sense to be independent of a caliph’s interests. You never know what will be demanded of you or what will happen to you should one caliph fall and his rival take his place.”

  He turned to Junayd, “I defer to you, shaykh. Would you say that only a great man could resist the temptations of caliphal power, the money, the circles of influence?”

  Junayd said, “One of our friends found his way into these circles and we are seeing the results. He is beyond temptation. I do not mean to suggest otherwise. But the risks go beyond what you have mentioned. God protect us from spiritual states that make us so reckless so as to expose our secrets to the uninitiated.”

  Mustafa gasped. He was talking about al-Hallaj.

  The Imam replied, “If I know who you mean, he was in Mecca and Medina not long ago. I understand from my colleague, the judge Abu Umar, that he’s returned to Baghdad and is speaking publicly here.”

  Abu Muhammad confirmed, “Yes,” and said no more.

  The Imam knew this could mean trouble for his Sufi friends. al-Hallaj’s street preaching and political interests would come crashing down on them as well. He felt for Junayd having to steer this community through al-Hallaj’s ecstatic shudderings. He had only spoken publicly a few times while in Mecca and Medina and it moved the people in ways that frightened him. The poor were easily stirred up against the hypocrisy and too often dissolute behaviour of the caliph’s people and their hangers-on. He would have to speak to Abu Umar about it and make sure he knew the difference between an al-Hallaj and an al-Junayd. His gaze drifted across the courtyard where it fell on Nuri chatting with Ibn Ata. He hoped they would keep circumspect during this time. He shook his head, perhaps Nuri could refrain from smashing the Caliph’s wine jars again until the danger passed.

  “May God protect you and keep you out of sight of anyone who would bring you trouble,” the Imam said, reciting, “We have put a barrier before them and behind them and covered them so that they cannot see.”

  They all responded to his prayer, “Amin.”

  Mustafa hung his head. Sitting with Uncle Abu al-Qasim was exhausting, you could hide nothing from him. He looked up at Uncle Nuri and longed to sit next to him. There was no hiding anything from him, either, but he would know he’d already been corrected and let him be for a while.

  Junayd turned to Mustafa, “You haven’t seen your Uncle Nuri in a while, why don’t you enjoy the sama with him for now. Perhaps you can walk Imam Abu Abdelrahman back to Sharafuddin’s father’s home tonight, so he won’t have any trouble in the street.”

  Mustafa started to get up, ashamed again because he knew Uncle Abu al-Qasim had heard his complaint. Junayd put his hand on his arm and made him turn to look at him. He looked up at his uncle and felt his love, felt his embrace and calm wash through him. Uncle Abu al-Qasim said to him, “We’re very proud of you, Mustafa. You must recite the Golde
n Chain hadiths for us when you are certified.”

  Mustafa blushed, his head dropping again at the thought of it. He took his uncle’s hand and kissed it before Junayd could pull it back, placing it to his forehead, and said, “Insha’Allah.”

  He got up and picked his way through the seated crowd now filling the courtyard to Uncle Nuri and took a spot near him and Uncle Ibn Ata just as one of the musicians picked up a drum and tapped a few beats. Everyone settled down and became silent. The head reciter called out, “Bismillah ar-rahman ar-rahim, wa salat wa salam ala seyyidina Muhammad. In the name of God, The Merciful, The Compassionate, and blessings and peace on our Master Muhammad.”

  The Fourth Day

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Mustafa arrived at Zaytuna’s not long after he left the mosque from performing his dawn prayer. The sky was just bright enough now to see through the streets and alleys without torchlight. He needed to tell her it was done. There was nothing left to investigate. He placed his hand on the wall of the passageway leading to the courtyard. He took up his resolve, practicing, saying aloud, but quietly, “Zaytuna, you must let it go.” He stepped into the courtyard only to see Saliha coming out of Zaytuna’s room nearly yelling, “I’ve had enough of you,” her hand waving back at Zaytuna, still in her room, in a gesture of dismissal as if a wasp were hovering nearby her waiting to attack.

  Mustafa rushed forward. He tried to peek into Zaytuna’s room but the curtain had closed and it was still too dark outside to shed any light into it. He turned to Saliha, “What was that? What’s happened?”

  “She can be so selfish. Walla!”

  “What?” He looked back to see if Zaytuna was coming out, if this argument was going to spill into the courtyard.

  Saliha said, exasperated, “The other day, when we were at the mosque and she was questioning the housekeeper, she also talked to one of the corpsewashers. I ended up talking to the other.” She looked towards Zaytuna’s room and said loudly, to her, “I was only pulling the other Washer aside so Zaytuna could question hers.”