Tansholpan regained her balance and considered Ammar. “Afraid of me? You should be. Why do you think no one in that neighbourhood would give me up?” She spat on the ground in front of him. “No one but that pig of a grocer who can’t keep his hands off the women in the neighbourhood.”
Ammar ignored her and walked ahead of them at a fast pace, leaving Tein to bring her in. Ammar was sitting in the office by the time they came through the door. The old woman didn’t wait to be told what to do, she found a spot she liked and sat down. It was an awkward position to Ammar; he’d have to move from where he was to question her. She picked a few of the pillows off from the low couch and propped them behind her, leaning back into them and making herself comfortable. She said to Ammar, “I could use some water.”
Tein poured the water for her.
She addressed Ammar, “I didn’t ask him, I asked you.”
“You are not in charge here.”
Tein handed her the cup of water and watched Ammar try to sit so he could face her rather than get up and move on her account.
Ammar finally asked, “Why was the grocer willing to turn you in?”
“Uff, that piece of filth. If the girls in the neighbourhood only listened to their mothers, they’d have kept a wide circle around him. He knew how to charm them. That’s not his second wife in that store, that’s his seventh. Why has no man in the neighbourhood killed him?” She turned to Tein, “You answer me that!”
Tein shrugged.
“One after another, he agreed to marry the girls to save the families from the shame. One after another, they left him, divorced like his mother’s backside to him. They were ruined for a good boy, but at least free of him.” Tansholpan said proudly, “It was me who got each one of them out of there.”
“With curses?” Tein asked.
“Not everything is done with curses. No, by speaking to the girls and talking their families into taking them back. But that last one, her family didn’t want her. They were getting their vegetables for free from him in payment. Them? Them, I threatened with a curse if they wouldn’t take her.”
Ammar asked, “Why didn’t you curse the grocer?”
“I did. Can’t you see how unhappy he is? And who buys from him but passersby? What did he have out front but rotten onions to sell?”
Tein sat down. He could see why old Yulduz liked her. Zaytuna would like her, too. He was looking straight at her as he thought, And Saliha...
She raised an eyebrow to Tein. “It won’t be long.”
Tein gave her a look, not understanding.
Ammar asked, “What won’t be long?”
She smiled at Ammar, gesturing to Tein. “He knows.”
Tein held his hands up. “She’s trying to play us.”
Tansholpan shot back, “You’re the one playing yourself, not believing in God.”
“She got you there.” Ammar laughed.
Tein gave Ammar a tired look. “She collects information on people and uses it on them. She knows a lot about me.”
“From Yulduz?” Ammar asked, “The one you mentioned before?”
“My sister’s neighbour. It seems Yulduz tipped off Tansholpan that we were coming for her.”
Ammar’s look made it clear he was not pleased.
“Saliha talked about what happened at the hospital,” Tein explained.
Ammar held up his hand. “Fine.”
But Tein couldn’t let it drop. “Saliha didn’t know that Yulduz and Tansholpan knew each other. It was a hard day for her. You know women. They talk to feel better.”
“I said it’s fine.”
Tansholpan looked between them. “Can we get on with this?”
Ammar faced her. “You wrote the talisman that killed Imam Hashim al-Qatafi.”
Sticking her hand out to make her point, she said, “Yes. But she didn’t want to kill him. She wanted me to shrivel his penis.”
“So why did you write a talisman to kill him?”
Tein cut in, “Do you intervene on behalf of all the women in the city?”
Tansholpan shot back at him, “What are you doing to protect them!”
Ammar gave Tein a look for interrupting, then said to Tansholpan, “You didn’t answer me.”
“I don’t have to answer you,” she said. “I did it. She didn’t. Let her go.”
Tein waved, his palm up. “That’s that, then. Mu’mina didn’t do it.”
Ammar turned to Tein, “We need Ben Hadad to take down her confession.” Tein stood up to go get the scribe, but Ammar insisted, “No, I’ll do it. I’ve got to speak to Ibn Marwan about this.”
No, you’re scared to be alone in the room with her. Tein sat back down.
Ammar walked out, leaving the door open. The two of them sat in silence, watching as streams of people passed by the arcaded offices.
Tansholpan let out a deep breath and settled back into the couch again. “The girl didn’t kill him. I made a talisman for her freedom. I knew what was best for her, even if she could not see it herself. These stupid girls never do!” She nodded firmly with pride, “God answers my prayers.”
Tein stood up and crossed the room to her. “I know she didn’t do it, you ignorant woman. You can’t kill a man with a talisman!” She didn’t cringe from him, but sat up straight, the look on her face daring him to hit her. He saw what he’d done mirrored in her defiance and retreated to the other side of the room. “I hope what you said is enough to stop this. But I don’t know. She could still be in danger. I need time. I can find out who killed him.”
“You’ll do your part.”
“Stop trying to play me.” He wanted to grab her but forced his hands to stay loose by his side.
Ammar walked in with Ben Hadad beside him, saying to Tein, “I need to talk to you outside.”
The scribe came in with paper, a pen, and an inkwell case and sat behind Ammar’s desk. Tein heard him say as they walked out, “What is your full name?”
“Only Tansholpan.”
Once out the door, Tein burst out in frustration, “She told me that she didn’t write a curse to kill him at all. I don’t know what she’s doing.”
“You’re right that she’s playing with you.” Ammar looked inside. Tein followed his gaze. She was speaking, her attention focused on the scribe. “She knows how to get under people’s skin.”
They stood in silence as the scribe did his work. Tein looked back at her again. She was staring at them this time. The scribe had finished.
He met them at the door. “I have her confession.”
“That was fast.”
“She didn’t have much to say.” He handed Tein a second document, the jail intake.
“Thanks.” Ammar nodded to Ben Hadad.
The scribe bowed his head and walked past them, down the arcade to Ibn Marwan’s office.
“Take her to the cells, Tein. Put her in with the girl.”
“Why won’t Mu’mina be freed? Tansholpan admitted Mu’mina is innocent.”
Ammar deflected, “Her situation will be addressed by the Police Chief.”
Turning back into the office in frustration, he saw Tansholpan was already standing. “Are you taking me to the girl?”
Tein jerked his head toward the door, and she fell in behind him. He was too angry to walk beside her, and he knew she wasn’t going to run. Tein stopped to wait for her before Solomon’s Gates. He stood next to a wide bricked archway tall enough for a horseman to ride through, stave up. When she reached him, they walked through it together.
The road split ahead of them, to the left were a series of other archways leading to walled-off neighbourhoods nestled between the encircling walls of the city. In the old days, the whole city of Baghdad was here within the Round City. The wealthy, the courtiers, the grand administrators, great military families had their homes in these neighbourhoods, even the poor and the markets were within the walls. These days some families remained, mainly military people, but most had been turned into garrisons. The g
reat families, including the caliphs themselves, had long moved onto estates built up around the old Round City and across the Tigris, the grand homes and palaces lining its banks.
They took the road on the right. It had an easy angle so that horses could walk up from the yards and stables below. The garrisons and stables were ahead, the jail around the corner, built into the walls below the arcade. Tein shivered at the locked iron gate as the chill and damp coming from the cells hit him. He yelled for the guard. A large man emerged from the jail halls. Taller and broader than Tein, he wore a leather cuirass big enough for a bull. He had a ring of keys on one side of his belt and a sheathed dagger on the other. He took the keys off the hook on his belt, unlocked the gate, and pulled it open. Tein addressed him, “She’s to be held with the girl I brought down yesterday.”
“That one’s been throwing up,” the guard replied, not moving.
Tein pushed past him. “Come on, let’s go.”
The guard held him back with an arm. “Paperwork.” Tein thrust at him the intake that Ben Hadad had given him. The guard took it from him and set it into a shelf along with a pile of others without looking at it, then walked them through the passageway past cells holding men. Some of the men were seated, others sleeping on pallets wrapped in blankets. One stood up, shedding his blanket to the floor, and walked casually to the bars. “She’d be a dry fuck, but I’ll take her all the same. Put her in here for a moment, won’t you?”
Tein lunged at the bars, thrusting his hand inside to grab hold of the man, but the inmate stepped back out of reach as casually as he had come forward and laughed. “Not today, then?”
The guard shook his head at Tein. “If you want to waste your muscle, I’ve got some cells that need mucking out.”
“Get us to the women’s hall.”
Tein gestured for Tansholpan to walk ahead of him, making sure she was in the centre of the passage so no one could grab her.
They turned a corner into a passageway that was a solid wall on one side and cells on the other. They walked by two empty cells. The third held a pale woman with long, greasy red hair. She was sitting on a pallet and had pulled her thin bedroll around her for an extra layer against the cold and damp of the weeping walls. Tein confronted the guard, saying through his teeth, “I told you to get more blankets yesterday.”
The guard stood toe to toe with him as not many men could. “I put in for them. They’ll come when they come. If you are so soft on these women, get them yourself. I won’t stop you from handing them out.”
Tansholpan hissed at Tein, “The girl!”
Tein stood back. The guard led them past another cell in which three women were held together, huddling against the cold, then just beyond them, Mu’mina. She was retching into the latrine sluice in the corner of the cell. The guard took his keyring out too slowly for Tein’s liking. Tein barked, “Hurry up,” at which the guard slowed his movements, but finally got the door unlocked. Tansholpan pushed past him into the cell.
The guard stood back. “Never seen one eager to be locked up!”
Tein went in behind her. Tansholpan kneeled beside Mu’mina and held her forehead with one hand and put a hand on her back with the other. The girl retched one more time, bringing up nothing but bile, and gasped, breathing into the space between heaves. She retched one more time, then stopped.
Tansholpan looked at Tein. “Water.”
The guard leaned against the bars and pointed to one corner. Tein wanted to punch him, but he got the bucket for her instead. Tansholpan unwound the sash at her waist and soaked the end of it in the water, then used it to wipe the girl’s mouth. She spoke to her quietly. Mu’mina nodded, took some water in her hand, and rinsed her mouth.
Tein moved back near the door and looked away to give Mu’mina some privacy but saw the guard was staring right at them. He pointed outside the cell. “Come on, let’s go.” They stood outside while Tansholpan and Mu’mina spoke quietly. After a few moments, Tansholpan got up and came over to him.
“Does she need a doctor?” Tein asked.
Tansholpan looked up at him. “More like a midwife, but I expect she’ll be fine and doesn’t need one. It’s only the normal sickness that comes with pregnancy.”
Tein shot his head back, his eyes wide.
“Yes. Make sure she’s getting decent food.”
She returned to kneel beside Mu’mina again, and said to her, loudly enough that Tein could hear, “Don’t be afraid. This man here is going to get you free. And from that baby in you, if we can get it born alive, you’ll be a slave no more.”
Chapter Eleven
Zaytuna checked Layla’s writing tablet to make sure she’d washed it. She tucked the tablet behind her box, putting the pen and ink beside it. She shook her head. That girl, she’s here too much. She has Maryam to care for her. It’s good she wants to learn to read and write. Since Salman won’t teach her hadith, walla, if she wants to, I’ll make Mustafa do it.
She stuck her head out through the curtain to check the sky. There was some time yet before sundown prayer. Still, she hurried, wanting to get to Uncle Abu al-Qasim’s home early for the sama. No, she corrected herself, Shaykh Abu al-Qasim’s home. She pulled on her clean qamis and sirwal over her everyday ones for extra warmth. She got her good wrap out of the box where she kept her things, saw the tablet again, and muttered to herself, “I’ll speak to Mustafa tonight about her. But that girl is mistaken if she thinks I’m going to be some kind of mother to her.”
She poured herself a cup of water from Mustafa’s jug. “Bismillah.” Despite her hurry, she crouched to drink it, like the Prophet, in three sips, willing herself to feel Muhammad’s presence in doing as she did. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed out, “Alhamdulillah.” She stood and pulled her good wrap around her, draping it over her head wrap. The shape of her mother’s colourful beads, threaded through her one long matted strand of hair, stuck out through the fabric. She touched them as she prayed, “Lord, help me on this path. I need You,” and stepped into the courtyard.
Saliha came out. “Off to your Uncle’s?”
“Yes.” She took Saliha’s hand. “Won’t you come with me? Today is the sama. You don’t need to take part. You can sit back and just listen to the music and the recitation.”
“I need to sleep.” Saliha squeezed her hand. “See you in the morning, inshallah. And Zaytuna?”
“Yes?”
“Pray for me. Your fool of a friend.”
“Inshallah.” Zaytuna let go of her hand and left, ducking through the passageway and into the alley wondering if it would be faster to go through the square or the lanes surrounding it. She thought of Salman sitting in front of his tavern with his smug smile and having to stop and greet him. She muttered, “God protect me from that man,” and went around the back way.
As she arrived at Junayd’s home, the door had just opened for three men. She hurried to follow them in so she wouldn’t have to knock for the door to be opened for her as well. She slipped past the young man holding the door. “Assalamu alaykum, Ziri.”
He bowed his head. “Waalaykum assalam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuhu, Zaytuna. I was told to tell you that the Shaykh Abu al-Qasim wants to speak with you.”
She froze for a moment. Why does he want to see me? It had to be her impatience with YingYue yesterday morning. Or maybe he wanted to commend her for struggling with it successfully? No, it can’t be good. She held her voice steady, “Is he downstairs?”
“Yes, he is seeing people now.”
She peeked around under the stairs in the reception hall, as she always did, and was happy to see a young seeker tucked in underneath deep in contemplation as Junayd and others had done themselves early on the path. Zaytuna had played there as a child, mimicking their movements and voices until one of the seekers came to take her place. She wondered if she had the right to sit in meditation there now. The main hall was already filling with people greeting each other and catching up on news as the always did. She
grumbled to herself at the noise that they were making, thinking it unfitting on the night of such a ceremony, and wove through them out to the courtyard where the remembrance ceremony would take place.
Woven reed mats covered with sheepskins were laid out along the walls and extended into the courtyard itself, open to the sky, leaving an empty space at its centre. A young man was lighting the lanterns hanging from the archways and those nestled in niches in the wall. When night came, the flames would flicker through the cut metal lanterns sending elaborate patterns moving along the walls. To her, it was as if the light itself became a body moving in ecstasy along with those swaying as they chanted from their places seated on the mats and those who rose to dance and turn as the ritual overcame them.
Dawud was readying the drums for the night, correcting their tone in the kitchen by the fire. She was eager for the sama to begin and pull her away from the voices in her head that nagged her all day. The music and poetry opened a door onto a part of her that knew some peace with God and invited her to sit with it for a little while. Everything was easier for her in the days after each gathering. There was a way to bring bread to the broken beggar children in the street without causing a scene or cursing the man that ran them for money. She didn’t feel abandoned by Saliha. Mustafa’s face became a light to her. Tein could not irritate her. Salman’s greetings could be returned without insulting him. Then it would fade, and her dark view of the world would find its way back to her.
Shaykh Abu al-Qasim was busy speaking with people. She gestured to Abu Muhammad al-Juwayri, Junayd’s closest companion and the assumed inheritor of the community upon Junayd’s death, to let him know she was here. He nodded to her, then she went to sit with the women gathered near the kitchen. She looked for Uncle Nuri. Or should I call him “Shaykh” now too? He and a few of the other older uncles—who had been in this community since before they used the word “Sufi” to describe their all-encompassing love of God—usually sat near the old women, long on the path themselves. The old friends of God, men and women alike, would chat together and distract the children who were playing and making noise but who would, eventually, fall asleep on the sheepskins to the sound of the drums. Mustafa was there, sitting with the men, but talking with Auntie Rahiba just on the edge of the women’s section. He didn’t notice her. Zaytuna was pulled toward him, her stomach fluttering. Then the image of Mustafa as a donkey on a rope that Tein had thrown in her face hit her. Scolding herself, Let him go, woman, she sat as far away from the men as she could.
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