She looked up, desperately wanting to turn away and unable to do so.
“You made the pain of this world your Kaaba. You still circle it and kiss its stone. You are like the women who chain themselves to the ramparts of God’s House in Mecca so no one can tear them away from their Lover. But their Lover is God and yours is pain.”
As he pushed, she shifted, and finally what she had done consumed her. Just a few months ago he had held her head under the surface of the oceanic waters of God’s oneness. She died to herself in that singular moment and was revived to the knowledge that the only existence was God’s existence, and that existence was love. He pulled her out, but it only left her gasping for her old life. She clutched at the shreds of herself wanting to unsee, to unknow, that she had been worshipping the god of her own pain. But the fact remained before her, wherever she turned, as she unravelled the mystery of Zayd’s death; there was the face of God. She had begun to accept it. She looked up at him, questioning, how had she forgotten? How had she turned away?
“Zaytuna, my daughter, you are feeling God’s jealousy. You are between pain and love. Once you have been alone with your Lover, even for just a moment, if you look away from Him, choosing your loss over His love, He gives you what you want in a way you never wanted. He is a jealous lover, guarding you from straying. You chose forgetting over remembering, and so you slipped away.”
Shifting with the shame, she lost her balance, falling, somehow, while still sitting on the sheepskin, into a chasm that suddenly surrounded her. She looked up at Junayd, desperate. He threw her a rope. The rope wound around her body and into her palms for her to grasp and whispered to her, Hold fast to the rope of God. She held on and jerked to a sudden stop. But the weight of her soul kept tugging at her, pulling her down, bit by bit. Her hands, calloused as they were from washing clothes, burned against its fibres. She closed her eyes so she could not see the abyss below, and moaned, “Help me.”
He called down after her, “Zaytuna, you will listen when I, or one of your Aunts or Uncles, speak to you. I love you and will always remain family to you, but you will not count me as your teacher should you continue to object.”
She tried to say, “Yes,” but could not. Her throat was dry. Her tongue was swollen. She said it again, silently, this time to herself, Yes. The rope dissolved in her hands and the ground became firm beneath her. Her eyes were still shut, afraid of the chasm that might still be around her.
“Zaytuna, look at me.”
She forced her eyes open. She forced herself to lift her head. She forced herself to look in his eyes. A gentle wave washed through her, taking with it the thumping and rumbling, and the prickling sweat, but it left her in confused, grasping need.
“This is harder than you can imagine.”
An objection rose from her again, even in agreement, saying, I know! Then, a voice from somewhere else within her scolded, My soul, will you ever stop!
“My daughter, you will fail again and again. Uncle al-Harith taught me to examine my soul each night. You remember that he was called al-Muhasibi, ‘The Accounter’, because his path demands this precise and difficult work. Before you sleep each night, go over your day and make an accounting of your impulses.”
As she listened, her breathing began to calm.
“Do not turn away from what you find, rather turn to God with it and ask for forgiveness. To repent is to turn to God, my daughter, so turn and keep turning.”
She repeated, breathing through the word, “Turn.”
He said, “It gets easier with practice. As you begin to understand how your soul’s lowest inclinations work on you, you will shrink from them while you grow in love and affection for God. That which bars you from God will begin to irritate you, and that which opens the way to Him will be more desirable. As you become more cautious about your soul, over time, your eyes will seek your Lover alone and you will grow in tranquility with Him and His will for you.”
He paused. “Zaytuna?”
She nodded, wary of what would come next.
“Will you do this?”
She heard the question like a balm; each word soothed her with his love for her and his confidence in her. He would not ask if he did not think she could. Quieted, for a moment, like a child in his arms, she said, “Yes.”
Junayd smiled, his eyes brightening at her choice.
She had only just rested in his smile when she was disturbed by shuffling behind her. They both turned to look. A young Chinese woman with her much older father had come in. Both bowed to Junayd with hands over their hearts in greeting, then to her, and sat down by the far wall to wait.
At the sight of the girl, irritation bit at Zaytuna’s throat. She did not bow in greeting to them as well. She did not turn away, either. She gave YingYue the hardness she suddenly felt, saying to herself, Can’t I be with my Uncle without your intrusions? You’ve taken my Mustafa. Must you have everything of mine?
Zaytuna looked away from them, her irritation rising to anger. My God! does she pinch those round cheeks to pink them like some vain fool? Not very becoming a woman on the path. Did my mother care about her looks? No, she answered herself. She cared only for God. Zaytuna looked at the skin on her hands, calloused, ashen, wrinkled old woman’s hands. She nodded to herself, More fitting. She looked up at Junayd.
He was looking at her without expression. It wasn’t cold. It was impassive, giving her nothing.
She froze. She tried not to think of anything at all. If she just stopped thinking, maybe he would look away. He did not and said nothing, his silence an excruciating rebuke. She had never felt the brunt of his silence in all the years leading up to this day, no matter how she had acted in his presence.
Within herself she heard his words, “You will fail,” and “Turn,” and she scrambled to turn on her thoughts. She pushed up against them. Turn! Turn! But they would not retreat. They stood before her in a wide-legged stance, saying You will fail. You will fail. You will fail.
His voice broke through to her, “Turn to God, Zaytuna, not yourself. You will fail. God will not.”
She nodded, then muttered, “God forgive me.” She turned to God within herself and held her thoughts out to him like a squirming, screaming child she wished would be taken out of her hands and away from her until it could learn to behave. He did not take it. It didn’t feel like He took it. Did He take it? She dropped her arms, exhausted, then, heard herself say, Forgive you for what, Zaytuna? For disliking that pink-cheeked girl who has your Mustafa so tied up in knots? For elbowing in on your family? Zaytuna said aloud again, “God forgive me.”
Zaytuna could not read Junayd’s expression. He looked from YingYue to Zaytuna and said, “Go to her. I want you two to get to know each other. Tell her father I would like to speak to him.”
She stood, desolate, and faced YingYue. She made herself walk across the courtyard, leaving her uncle behind her, saying to herself, I can’t do this. She turned toward God, again, pleading, Help me now! I have to talk to this girl. What wrong has she done me other than love my Mustafa? I cannot have him. Why shouldn’t they love each other? God, I resent her! Help me!
She reached YingYue and her father having no idea if the turmoil inside her was on her face. She tried to pull herself together, saying as evenly as she could manage, “Assalamu alaykum. Shaykh Abu al-Qasim would like to speak to you, Uncle.”
The old man nodded and got up awkwardly. She could see that his joints hurt him, but she did not step forward to ask if he needed help. She knew from Tein not to offer men a hand in front of others. But YingYue was staring at her with plain accusation as she herself scrambled up to help her father, putting her hand out to help him stand. But her father slapped her hand away. She pulled it back, hurt, and Zaytuna sniggered to herself, her turmoil easing with silent laughter. YingYue glanced at her. Zaytuna did not try to pretend she hadn’t seen it and give the girl some peace. She looked openly at the pretty girl from Taraz who made Mustafa blush. Her father finally mana
ged to stand on his own and bowed his head to them both before turning to walk stiffly to where Junayd was seated. Zaytuna, still staring openly at YingYue, said, “The Shaykh suggested we talk.”
Chapter Three
Judah leaned against the archway of the men’s ward, standing too close to Saliha, and she was enjoying every bit of the delicious tension between them. He was still talking, but she had stopped listening. She admired the arch of his eyebrows, the long line of his nose, the rich sesame tone of his skin against, the dark luxuriant waves of his beard until the word “police” broke through her reverie.
“They’ll be here soon,” he said, “I should complete my examination of the body so I can give them my full findings.”
Tein, she thought, He’ll be here soon. She sighed at the thought of him. Judah’s eyes widened reading her sigh as desire for him. She saw his mistake and let it go, stepping away from the archway to put some space between them. Straightening her wrap over her head and covering part of her face, she said, “I’ll watch Hanan while you look him over.”
They returned to Hanan who sat, slumped over her husband’s body. She sat down beside her, putting her arm around her. At her touch, the woman heaved out a quiet sob.
“We need to step away for a moment so Doctor Judah can examine your husband for the police.”
Hanan looked distraught and did not move.
“It’ll be for just a moment.”
Judah gave Saliha a look as if to say, “Leave her,” then said to Hanan, “Please. You can sit at the end of the bed.”
Saliha helped Hanan move and leaned in to comfort her while Judah called over an orderly to help him turn the body.
It wasn’t long before Saliha heard a booming voice coming through the front hall, “Where’s the body?” Judah stood up, gave instructions to the orderly, and hurried to greet the police.
“Ma’am, the police are here.” Saliha asked, “Can you sit up?”
Hanan jerked up, nearly hitting Saliha on the head with her own, tugged her niqab straight, and arranged her wrap. She held the wrap closed under her chin with one hand from underneath and moved back to her spot beside her husband, placing her hand across his chest again.
Saliha stood as they walked in, adjusting her wrap as well, but she let hers fall loose, just slightly, so she could pull one edge across her face and cover her body. Judah came in with Tein and a short, bull-faced man, red-cheeks spotting his pale almond skin, wearing a black turban and leather cuirass with a sword at his belt. That must be Ammar. Tein pulled up short on seeing her standing there. She smiled. “Assalamu alaykum, ya Tein.”
He nodded his head, and she thought she saw a smile in return, but he replied curtly, “Wa alaykum assalam.”
Ammar turned to Tein, without greeting Saliha first, “Who’s this?”
Judah looked from Tein to Saliha and back again, his cheeks flushing. He asked Saliha with a tone that suggested he had a right to know why she was so familiar with this large and undeniably handsome black man, “You know each other?”
She watched as Tein raised one eyebrow appraising Judah, and hoped it would spark some jealousy in him. Tein turned away from Judah to answer Ammar, “She’s my sister’s friend, Saliha. They live in the same house.”
Ignoring Judah, Saliha spoke directly to Ammar, “I am an apprentice corpse washer here at the hospital. I was here when the man was brought in.” She put her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I stayed here with his wife, while Doctor Judah,” nodding toward him, “cared for the man.”
Ammar said to her, “We’ll need your account of what you saw. Don’t leave.”
She mocked him lightly, eyebrows raised, “That’s why I’m still here. I would have gone home long ago if not for that.”
Ammar raised his eyebrows at her in turn and said to Tein, “Definitely your sister’s friend.”
Tein smiled this time and nodded to Saliha who tipped her head to him.
Judah tried to interject, “I…”.
Ammar ignored him, walking past him to the bed, Tein right behind him. He placed his hand on his heart, bowing slightly. “Assalamu alaykum. May God have mercy on your husband’s soul. I understand you think your husband was murdered.”
Hanan nearly sprung off the bed in response to the word “think,” and pushed her hand against her husband’s chest as she did so. She suddenly pulled her hand back in horror, then just as quickly she turned on Ammar as if he had brought all this on, “Think! I know he was murdered. And I know who did it! That slut, Mu’mina, his slave.”
Ammar lowered his voice to reassure her, “Thank you, ma’am. That is helpful. I will need to hear everything you know and how you know it. But I need to speak to the doctor first. I will be with you shortly. Is that alright?”
She tugged at her wrap, clutching it harder under her chin, and nodded firmly. “Yes. I will be here.”
Tein watched Ammar for what he should do. Should he stay with the wife, and Saliha, or go with him to question the doctor? Ammar motioned to Judah and Tein to follow him to the courtyard. Tein walked just behind them, then stood too closely on the other side of Judah in a subtle but threatening gesture. Judah looked up at him awkwardly, alarm spreading on his face.
Ammar rolled his eyes and called Judah back to his attention, “You attended the man?”
Judah turned to him, “Yes. . .yes, I did.”
“What happened?”
Judah looked up again at Tein, then back to Ammar, and said, “I’m sorry. Yes. His wife brought him here in great distress. He could no longer walk. He was brought in a donkey cart and died soon after he arrived. He presented with contradictory symptoms. His face was flushed, yet his skin was cool and clammy, a light sweat; his pulse was weak; his eyes dilated; he vomited as we were moving him and had great pain in his chest and left arm.”
“What killed him?”
Tein watched Judah shoot a quick look over at Saliha, his face reddening. She was speaking with the man’s wife and Tein could see the relief in the doctor’s face. Did he not want her to overhear him? Tein shook his head and laughed under his breath, saying to himself, Oh, she has this one well tied up.
Judah turned back to Ammar and said more confidently, “I cannot say for certain. Overall, the signs presented as a deficiency of yellow bile. But there is something else. He was hallucinating. He said that there was an ifrit sitting on his chest causing the symptoms I described to you. Hallucinations would be an excess of yellow bile, rather than a deficiency. So you see, I cannot offer you a conclusive account.”
Ammar interrupted, ignoring everything else, “An ifrit?”
Ammar’s voice, ever so slightly betrayed his fear. Tein had known him since they were teenagers who had run off to war against the Byzantines. Ammar had always left a small piece of bread for the jinn under bridges or outside small caves near flowing water. Tein teased him about it, but jinn were serious business for everyone. Everyone except him.
Judah objected to Ammar’s question. “The presence of a jinn is not a medical diagnosis. Some believe they cause certain illnesses; I understand that, but I can only tell you what symptoms I observed.”
Tein considered Judah. Maybe he was not the only one who thought the jinn were not real. He waited to see how Ammar would handle it. He took note as Ammar replied defensively, “Our investigation requires gathering all the details.”
Tein decided to redirect the line of questioning, and couldn’t help bringing a small humiliation to his phrasing, “So, you mean to say, Doctor Judah, that you don’t know why he died?”
Judah put his thumbs in his zunnar belt and threw his shoulders back, which Tein noted did not make him any taller. The doctor said, “He died too quickly for me to make a clear diagnosis. Some conditions are terminal. Nothing can be done. This was one.”
“The wife thinks he was murdered.”
Judah was curt, “Again, I can only tell you what I observed.”
Tein shifted his body toward him just enough to ma
ke the doctor feel a touch of menace. Ammar noticed the move and stepped back, giving Judah some room to escape Tein. Judah gratefully stepped into the breach.
Ammar asked Judah, “Ifrit aside. What else could cause those symptoms? A poison? A scorpion or a spider?”
Judah’s eyes widened.
Tein thought, Hadn’t the good doctor considered that?
Judah recovered immediately, returning to his pedantic tone, “A widow spider bite would cause one’s yellow bile to decrease. This would explain some of his symptoms, but not others. Hallucinations are a result of a burning yellow bile.”
Ammar asked, shaking his head in confusion, “What are we supposed to take away from that?”
Tein interrupted, “And poison?”
Judah stepped back again to look up at Tein and answered, this time without looking away, “Yes, any number of substances could cause these reactions. Balancing the humours is not a simple matter of addition or subtraction, many factors come into play, including balancing the medicines or surgical techniques we bring to bear on the imbalance. We compound substances for their effect on the humours, to increase some just so, while decreasing others. It is complex work. All to say, yes, a grouping of substances could cause a decrease of yellow bile, followed by a sudden increase. I will consult the pharmacist on what may be at work here, and if necessary,” he said with pride, “the head physician of the hospital, Doctor Abu Bakr al-Razi.”
Ammar nodded, but Tein knew he didn’t understand this medical talk any more than he did. “When do you think you will have it?”
“I should have the information for you by tomorrow. But sir, there is one last thing. The man has been beaten regularly. His bruises are old and new. He has a broken rib that healed recently.”
Ammar said, “We’ll need to get his wife out of the way to see them.”
Judah looked at the woman, lying over her husband’s body and said, “That’s not necessary.” He added in a high tone, “My trained observations should be sufficient.”
The Jealous Page 4
