Judah indicated that he heard. He began to walk toward the front hall to find someone to get the family but then turned back to them after a few steps. Saliha felt her wrap move from where it had pooled around her and she looked up at Judah over her shoulder. His gaze stayed with her as he gently lay the wrap over her head and shoulders so that she would not be so exposed to the men in the ward, then turned and left. Saliha lowered her head, placing her cheek against the woman’s own and rocked her in her arms, but Hanan was getting heavy against her again, and the floor was only getting harder underneath her.
Saliha whispered into Hanan’s ear, “Let’s get up off the floor and find you someplace more comfortable,” but she would not move. Her grief needed to be let go right there in the middle of the room, on the floor, before her husband, who was now lost to her in this world. Saliha sighed and gave in to the woman’s grief, shifting her body behind her as best she could. She did as she should and moaned with her, softly echoing her grief. The men of the ward were watching the spectacle from their beds. But she saw that they grieved with her, silently, as men do. No doubt they prayed that their own wives and family would show them this loyalty and love when their time came.
She snorted without realizing at the thought that she was supposed to have mourned like this for Ayyub when he died. Hanan shifted underneath her at the sound. Saliha raised an eyebrow, thinking, That’s not for you, Auntie. There were tears when Ayyub died, but they were tears of relief at being finally released from the living hell of him. Her own family scorned her for not lamenting his death. She expected it from his people. But her own mother? Her own aunts? Her cousins? She should have known. They dragged her back to him even after she showed them the bruises and after taking her to the bonesetters for a broken arm. “Rebellious woman,” they called her. “Have some shame.” When she turned to the men in her family, they did nothing to protect her. “You need a firmer hand than the one you’re getting,” they told her. When Ayyub burnt to death inside that pit of a house, he got what he deserved. She walked away from them all that day, never to speak to them again. Shame be damned, if shame is being under the hand of a man! Her back shot up at the thought of it, nearly pushing her burden out of her lap. Hanan shrieked. Saliha corrected quickly, stroking her shoulder, cooing, “I’m sorry. Your husband must have been so good to you.” A sharp cry rose from the woman in return.
Saliha pulled her head back quickly so the scream wasn’t directly in her ear. That’s it, she thought. She’s going to have to move. Saliha did not consult the woman this time, but rather pulled herself away from behind Hanan. She inched back to allow her to sit forward on her own power and waited a moment until the feeling returned to her legs so she could stand. She kept a hand on the woman to comfort her as she stood, then bent over to help her, saying, “We need to talk to the doctor.” But Hanan got up on all fours and began crawling towards her husband’s bed. Her wrap got caught under her knees and fell off her, pulling against the kerchief she wore underneath, and, in the process, nearly dragging her niqab off her face.
Saliha bent over to help her stand. “Come now, get up.” She supported Hanan until she was up on one knee, then stood. The woman only took the few steps necessary to throw herself onto the bed where her husband lay. She began moaning, her voice rising to a wail, and saying over and over, “Oh God, what has happened to my love? What has happened to me?” Saliha picked up her wrap to cover her completely. She sat down at the edge of the bed, placing her hand on Hanan’s back, waiting for this to end and for Judah to return.
Finally, Hanan’s breathing became more even, and her moans became murmurs sighed with every breath. Saliha patted her back. “Are you ready to talk to the doctor?”
The woman pushed herself up saying, “Yes.” Her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen from crying, were now hard and intent. Hanan’s back was straight where it had been collapsed. She said with jarring clarity and contained fury, “And we must bring the police. That filthy slave will be executed for murdering my husband.”
Saliha called over an orderly and asked him to find Judah, then turned to Hanan. “Auntie, let’s go sit in the courtyard and wait for the doctor there.”
The woman turned on Saliha, “I will not leave my husband until he is in the care of the washers! And why are you calling me ‘Auntie’, I am ‘ma’am’ to you!”
Saliha held her tongue and looked at the men in the ward. Some had returned to sleep; one man moaned lowly from his own pain, but another was sitting up and staring at them. She decided not to try to force Hanan. The woman had a right to be with her husband. But Saliha worried about the effect it would have on her husband’s soul. She turned to her, saying gently, “Don’t forget, he can still hear you. Remind him of God and his Messenger. Do not give him reason to worry.” The woman looked to her in shocked realization and leaned over to whisper in his ear. Saliha could hear her repeating the shahada over and over, “There is no god but God, and Muhammad is God’s Messenger,” and interspersed with that, “Habibi, habibi.”
Judah was crossing the courtyard to them and Saliha went to meet him. They stopped together at the thick archway to the room, leaning against it, facing each other. They were standing too closely again, and they knew it.
“She wants the police.”
Judah nodded. “I cannot say that the beatings killed him. But who knows what damage could have happened internally. Is she still insisting it was an ifrit?”
Saliha laughed at him, raising her eyebrows. “Christians don’t believe in the jinn?”
A stroke of anger crossed his face at her laugh, but she saw him collect himself quickly. She pulled back within herself, wondering if it was his nervousness around her or a preening manhood that could not stand a tease. The answer to that would matter. She shook herself into awareness. This can’t go beyond a flirtation. He could ruin you at the end of it.
He answered her question lightly, the anger gone. “Of course we do. We leave food out for the jinn and give them their due respect so they leave us alone like everyone else.” Then he corrected her, “I am saying that I do not know that an ifrit killed him. Not when other, more material, explanations might make more sense.” He looked for an orderly. “I’ll send a guard to find a watchman.”
At the word watchman, Saliha realized that Tein would be here before long. After all, the watchman would bring the investigators for Grave Crimes in Karkh. It could only be Ammar and Tein. Not that there weren’t enough murders and assaults to warrant more investigators. Tein had explained that in most cases, the culprit stayed with the body, or so many had witnessed the killing, that they resolved the case within a day of the commission of the crime, sending it on to the Chief of Police for judgment and sentencing. Few killings amounted to a mystery. Two investigators were enough, so Tein would surely come.
Judah’s eyes were soft. “Would you stay here with her until her family arrives? There are female orderlies who could do it.” He smiled. “But, well, it is good to have you here.”
With that one look, she forgot her suspicion of him and wondered if they might find a private place for a kiss after all. If not, then, at least she’d see Tein and he’d see Judah. She thought, Let’s see what comes of that, and replied, “I’ll stay.”
Chapter Two
Zaytuna sat against a pillar in the nearly empty courtyard of Shaykh Abu al-Qasim al-Junayd’s home waiting for him to come down from his family’s rooms to the common areas where the Sufi community of Baghdad gathered each day. It was early still. She kept an eye on a man sleeping in the far corner between the kitchen and the alley door. He had turned in toward the wall and was wrapped in a patched woolen cloak, pulled over his head and body, exposing his leathery feet. She wanted to cross the courtyard and cover them with her own wrap, but she left him to Hilal who surely knew he was there.
She heard the clanging of pots in the kitchen, then a sharp knock on the alley door. Hilal ducked out of the kitchen and stepped over the sleeping man to answer it. A deliver
yman stood outside breathing heavily, wearing only a short sirwal and a scrap of turban on his head. Zaytuna could see his ribs from where she sat. A large sack nearly half his size slumped on the ground next to him. Hilal nodded and gestured to him to wait. He turned behind him and called out, “Abdelghafur!” while leaning down to touch the shoulder of the sleeping man. Zaytuna watched as Hilal woke him gently and helped him get out of the way of the path to the kitchen. Abdulghafur came out of the kitchen himself and hurried to the door, wiping his hands on a square of sheeting tied around his waist like an apron.
Zaytuna smiled at the sight of the boy. Alhamdulillah, she sighed to herself. At that, the boy turned and looked towards her as if he could feel Zaytuna’s tenderness for him from across the courtyard. He grinned and put his hand on his heart, bowing his head to her. She put her hand to her own heart, feeling it beat so strongly she thought it might burst from the force of the gratitude she felt seeing the boy so happy and in place. He turned his attention to the bag slumped by the door and grabbed it, lifting it easily to his great shoulders, and carried it to the kitchen.
Hilal was insisting on something with the deliveryman, who was shaking his head. He finally gave in to Hilal’s urging and took a seat next to the man in the patched woolen cloak. Hilal went back into the kitchen, and before long Abdulghafur came out with two bowls and wooden spoons, then came back again with a red earthenware jug of water and clay cups. He sat down before them, his legs underneath him, poured water for them, then rose to get back to work as the men thanked him and tucked into their food.
If she sat quietly like this and allowed herself to see God as The Provider at work in the food before the men, God as The Caring in Hilal’s generosity, and God as The Just in Abdulghafur’s service, she could almost feel the old oceanic waters of divine love approach her, leaving her assured that all was well. But they no longer came easily to her as they had done when she was struggling to find her way to understanding Zayd’s death. Every day the waters receded from her, bit by bit. Before, the waves would take hold of her, turning her upside down and over and over until her sorrow and loss was swept out of her by its force, leaving her gasping and grateful on new shores within herself. But when the waters returned now, they only came in so far or they reached her in cold, accusing slaps around her feet and ankles that left her trembling in fear.
Zaytuna roused herself from the scene, and the small peace she felt observing it, as she heard footsteps behind her. She immediately stood and turned just in time as Junayd came through the entrance hall into the courtyard. Putting her hand to her heart and bowing her head, she said, “Assalamu alaykum, Uncle Abu al-Qasim.”
“Wa alaykum assalam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuhu, my daughter. You are here early.”
“Is it alright? I wanted to speak with you.”
“I am your uncle, you can come anytime. You know that.”
“It is just that….”
Junayd interrupted her, “Let’s go sit down.”
They walked to his spot against the side wall where he could see the kitchen and back door to his right and the entrance hall to his left. She rushed ahead a few steps. The sheepskins he usually sat on had not yet been put out and she took several from the pile nearby and laid them over the woven reed mat covering the pounded earthen floor. As he went to sit down, he placed his hand on her left arm. At his touch, she felt the old water rush over her, saturating her and turning her heart over and over such that she had to consciously suck in a breath and call to herself to remain standing. She tried to take his hand to kiss it, but he pulled it away so gently she barely felt the cool softness of his skin on her fingers. He placed his hand on his heart again to her and leaned over to bring a sheepskin for her to sit on next to him. She said, “God forgive me,” and took it herself before he could, laying it near his feet, and sat down.
“Tell me, what did you want to discuss?”
“Uncle, you are my uncle. I mean,” she stammered, “I mean, I grew up with you and you have guided me as you would your own daughter. But I think I am ready for more. I want you to guide me as your student on this path. After Zayd, I mean, after what you gave me, I felt that I gained so much peace. I felt that I finally understood and accepted all that had happened to me, Tein, and my mother. I accepted my mother’s life and her death. I was different. Everyone said so. But now, it is slipping away from me. I haven’t really changed after all.”
“My daughter, knowledge that comes in times of extremity has to be put into practice or it is lost, little by little, as the old life and old habits return. Do not think that your path will be easy because I forced you to see the truth. That merely pushed you to this moment. Now you stand before us for guidance. If you do this work well, not a single vein will remain standing in objection, but will bow in submission to God.”
The words of her dear Uncle Nuri, “You are standing before the gate,” said after she had solved the mystery of Zayd’s death, came back to her and she realized she’d got it all wrong. She felt a sickening shame. Where she had felt the peace of divine waters saturating her moments before, now her whole body burned and she could barely breathe. She had thought Nuri, the great Sufi guide, a man as good as a father to her and all the children who grew up in this community, had been praising her. She thought he meant that she had found the sacred ground upon which her mother had stood, that she stood beside her. She had thought he meant that her mother’s hand held her own again. But he was warning her that her hand had only just touched something her mother’s hand had held, and for less than a moment. Woman, what made you think you were worthy of being in your mother’s presence? She loved you as all mothers must love their children, but you share no ground. How stupid you are, how stupid! Zaytuna turned in and folded in on herself, wishing there was someplace she could hide. She pulled her wrap over her face like a child who thinks if she cannot see the world out there, it could not see her in here.
She could hardly hear Junayd speak through the hiss and roar of her self-recrimination, “Stop. My daughter, stop.”
Feeling his hand on her head, the voices soothed and quieted, retreating to their places of hiding within her. She lifted her head, then sat back up on her knees, but could not uncover her face.
“Zaytuna, let me see your face.”
She pulled the wrap aside but kept her eyes down.
“I will guide you.”
Looking up at him, her heart stammered with hope.
“Your spirit and your mother’s spirit are one. You are no more separate from her than you are from yourself. That spirit is God’s reality. How could you ever be apart when all that is, is One? But your soul is distracted by this world of pain, loss, and pleasure. Inshallah, if you do this work, you will know. Will you do this work?”
She nodded and dropped her head again.
“I will guide you as my teacher, al-Harith al-Muhasibi, guided me. The first step on the path is to prevent yourself from giving in to your worst inclinations. You must learn the ways of the lowest part of yourself. You will observe them. You will practice not falling for its tricks. Most begin this path by giving up excess in everything, food, sleep, all the pleasures of this world.”
Her heart hung onto his last words. I can do that, she thought. I’ve done that. I can do that.
“You may feel that you have mastered this part of the path already. You starved yourself and spent long nights in prayer for years. But the lower soul is clever. While it prompts some to gorge on food and luxuriate in comfort, it prompted you to withhold the pleasures of this world.”
She looked up at him. “But…”
He held up his hand. “This path is an art of learning the soul’s parts and habits. Your lower soul does not gorge on food and luxuriate in comfort, but rather on pain and suffering.”
She bit her tongue to keep from objecting, Me!
“I know you will not give in to excesses in the body, but you give in to emotional excesses. Moments before, you were consumed in loss
and shame and now you are consumed by self-righteousness.”
She shook, refusing to accept it.
His voice cut through her, “Uncle taught that each level of the soul has an outer and inner expression. It has always been easy for you to restrain your body’s basest desires, the outer expression of your lower soul. It is far more difficult to restrain the desires of your emotions. You must watch for the inward ways in which your lower soul gets you to do what it wants.”
Her objection, emboldened for having been held back, burst from her, “Being scrupulous with everything I eat and drink and praying all night, praying all night to God because I suffer, is luxuriating in it?” She stared at him defiantly, forgetting herself and that this man, whom she called ‘uncle’ was Abu al-Qasim al-Junayd ibn Muhammad al-Khazzaz al-Qawariri, a teacher sought out by other teachers on the Sufi path for his guidance, a guide of guides.
He did not respond immediately. Then he said, “Restraint is not swallowing your words and letting them fester until they find their way out again in even more harmful ways. Restraint is holding back those words and tracing them to their source in your lower soul’s promptings. For now, you must accept that you give in to these promptings. God is your Lover and you must remain His faithful companion. You must turn toward Him, accepting your faults and asking for forgiveness. Only then will the wounds that lie underneath it begin to be exposed and heal. If you betray him by giving in to that which leads you away from Him, these wounds will only grow.”
She turned her face away from him.
His voice lowered, even more gentle to her ear, but its tone gained in intensity, its underlying frequency vibrating in tune with her heart so that it grabbed hold of it and then pushed it outside the limits she had imposed on it. “You mimicked your mother’s movements like a child learning to pray for the first time. But instead of following her with the love of a child wanting to do as her mother did and so bring you nearer to the truth she embodied, you indulged the pain of not having the mother you wanted with you.”
The Jealous Page 3
