The Jealous

by Laury Silvers

  She kneeled before the old women, giving each of them a greeting, kissing the hands of those nearest to her. As she went to kiss the hand of Auntie Hakima, instead of pulling her hand away, as was the custom, she let Zaytuna kiss it. Then there was Mustafa’s voice behind her, “Assalamu alaykum, my mothers!”

  Auntie Hakima gave her a sharp look before hailing him in return. Zaytuna was confused and twisted around awkwardly on her haunches to find that Mustafa was standing right behind her. He kneeled down to face her.

  “Walaykum assalam,” she said. “You weren’t here for the last sama.”

  His eyes searched hers. “I’ve missed you.”

  She didn’t answer, not wanting to pick up the rope around his neck, and looked down, realizing too late that her face was burning from being so close to him.

  “I have news. Ibn Shahin has hired me permanently to tutor his children. I am to come everyday now. The children like me, thank God, and he is pleased with what they are learning.”

  She looked up, smiling, her eyes pricking with tears. Her face was still hot, but she didn’t care. This was what he had been working for. A reliable job like this would give him greater freedom to study the sayings of the Prophet. If he saved, it would allow him to travel to memorize and write down hadith of the masters in other cities. He might have the chance to enter into the networked ranks of scholars someday, or maybe be sought out as a master himself. “Mashallah, Mustafa. So no more throwing pots for you?”

  “No,” he said, restraining a grin. “But I spoke to Master Jalaluddin. He told me I can go there to make the jugs and cooking pots for the community whenever I like.”

  “May God bless Imam Abu Abdurrahman al-Azdi. Obtaining that ijaza certificate to transmit the hadith of the Golden Chain has made all the difference.”

  “Amin, he was generous to me. I cannot thank him, or God, enough for it.”

  Nudging him, she teased him, “Come on, give me your chain of transmission for the hadiths of the Golden Chain…what is it?” She looked toward the sky. “Hmmm, Mustafa al-Jarrari, the Potter, the son of Zaytuna, a housecleaner, who heard it from Abu Abdurrahman al-Azdi, who heard it from Abu Ali al-Yamani, who heard it from Imam Malik, who heard it from an-Nafi, who heard it from Ibn Umar, who heard it from the Prophet himself!”

  As she recited the chain, he smiled sheepishly and looked down as if his scholar’s turban were heavy on his head. She knew the gesture well and that he was close to weeping in gratitude.

  Zaytuna looked away to give him a moment and to check if Shaykh Abu al-Qasim was ready to see her. Looking back at Mustafa, she suddenly worried about what his new position would mean. It would bring him into a world of people far from her. Her heart clenched at the thought of him traveling. Mustafa would be gone for months, years when it got to that. She feared, too, that even though Ibn Shahin was a Sufi like them, Mustafa would change. He had already bought all new clothes. Now he would be keeping company with people who would never have spoken to him before. People who would never accept her and he would forget about her.

  But he would not forget about YingYue. She felt sick. YingYue would fit in those circles perfectly. She’ll make him a good wife. Zaytuna closed her eyes and heard the nagging voice within her say, God took your mother. Your brother left your side. Saliha has moved on. Now Mustafa is gone. A hole opened within her, and she feared she would fall into it. Zaytuna remembered the words of the old woman in the cemetery that she must step away from the pain that binds her and pulled herself away from the hole’s edge. It was all she could manage to do. She opened her eyes, now filled with tears to find that YingYue was standing before her.

  “Assalamu alaykum, Shaykh Abu al-Qasim will see you.”

  Zaytuna glanced at Mustafa. His head was down, but she could see he was blushing. She stepped back towards the hole within her, and sorrow turned into anger at its edge. As she stood up, Zaytuna sucked her teeth at him, My God, Mustafa, have some shame.

  She followed YingYue and found her spot before her shaykh on the sheepskin. Abu Muhammad al-Juwayri sat beside him, as usual. She greeted them both, “Assalamu alaykum,” then took Junayd’s hand to kiss. He pulled it away before she could and put his hand on her head instead.

  “Wa alaykum assalam. I’ll be brief. I am putting YingYue in charge of the women of the community. Just as the men must come to Abu Muhammad first, you should go to her first with your questions, then to your Auntie Hakima, then to me, if you need.”

  Zaytuna had not expected this, and she had no defences in place. She spoke back to him, hearing her words as if someone else were saying them, “YingYue? How old is she? I have been in this community longer than she’s been alive. And why her? I should see Auntie Hakima, instead. She teaches the women and even some of the men.”

  He held her eyes. “Do you know what Moses said when he approached God’s throne, and he saw another man sitting there?”

  “No,” she said, sinking down. A story about God’s education of one of the prophets was never a good sign.

  “Moses, may God grant him blessings and peace, saw a man sitting beside the throne of God and demanded to know, ‘Thanks to what is this man sitting there!’ God answered his question, ‘He is there thanks to not envying anyone on account of the favours God has bestowed on them’.”

  The slap of the lesson hit her as surely as if God Himself had reached out and hauled her around as He had done to Moses. Involuntarily, she slapped her own hand, saying, “I am sorry, God forgive me.”

  Junayd leaned forward and touched the hand that had slapped the other. “Not like that.” With his touch, she felt the rush of those oceanic waters flow from him to her, surround her, and her disgust with herself subsided, but she was still stuck.

  She was stuck in-between the sinking shame at her failure to keep up with the most basic instructions he had given her starting out on the path, on the one hand, and rising jealousy that he had compared YingYue to a man sitting beside the Throne of God, on the other. The two pulled on her so that she thought her arms would come right out of their joints. She wanted to scream. She wanted to explain. She did not know what would come out of her mouth, repentance or resentment. Inside herself, she twisted around sharply to loosen their grip, pulling first the hand of resentment free, then the hand of repentance. Zaytuna nearly fell back as she released herself, bursting into tears and moaning in pain before her shaykh and Abu Muhammad.

  Through her tears, she could see Abu Muhammad looking at her with bare-faced concern, then to Shaykh Abu al-Qasim. Junayd signaled him to stop her. She gasped. What have I done? Abu Muhammad got up quickly and knelt beside her. “Zaytuna, all is well. Be quiet and wipe your tears.”

  Junayd said gently, “Zaytuna. I told you it would be more difficult. Everything that has always been wrong will be clearer to you now. You will be no worse than you were, but it will feel worse. Better you are pained by what you see here than in the next world. Sufis die before we die, so that on That Day when your sight will pierce your soul, you will not be hurt by what you see.”

  She wiped her eyes with the heel of her palms, like a child.

  “My daughter.” With those words, she felt his love wash through her, enveloping her, and holding her to him as if she were wrapped in a sling against her mother’s breast. As his love ebbed, she was utterly calm and wept again, but this time soft, grateful tears. She sat up straight, looking at her dear uncle and shaykh, and threw the love she felt toward him with all her heart. He smiled, knowing, and nodded to her that she should go.

  Zaytuna moved to kiss his hand goodbye, but he pulled it away. She got up and looked behind her. Several people were waiting to see him. They looked at her strangely, but she didn’t care. Mustafa was still sitting with the old women, watching her. She reached out to him with the love she felt from sitting with Junayd, the love expanding beyond her. He caught it, bending back just slightly from its force, and smiled broadly. Somehow, even though he had not moved, she saw that Mustafa was restrain
ing himself from holding both arms out to her. She wanted to throw herself at his feet and tell him, I don’t know how, but I can marry you. I will marry you. Then the old pain came back, reminding her that she could not do what would be asked of her in marriage. He is a brother to you only. Crossing the courtyard, she sat near him again, but far enough away that the love she was feeling would not be taken for something else.

  Mustafa did not speak immediately and she was grateful for it. They watched people coming and going, finding their places to sit for the sama. Finally, he asked, “How are you?”

  “The same. I’m alone much of the time. Tein is busy with Ammar. Saliha is busy with her training.” She said, “Alhamdulillah,” without any bitterness or, as she did in her worst moments, sarcasm.

  But he replied as if she had, “If God has given you this trial of being alone, then maybe it’s for a reason. Perhaps you should speak to Uncle Abu al-Qasim about it or Auntie Hakima?”

  Zaytuna scowled at this unasked-for advice. “Thank you, Shaykh Mustafa.” But as she said it, she was reminded that she would not be going to her uncle or auntie anymore, but rather to YingYue for guidance. Whatever peace Junayd had settled on her fled. She couldn’t help but look across the courtyard at YingYue. The girl was in the reception hall helping an older woman walk to the their side of the courtyard.

  Mustafa followed her eyes. “You know her father left his paper company behind in Taraz to find her a shaykh. She had to leave her mother and brothers behind. They sacrificed a lot to be here.”

  “Yes.” Zaytuna shifted uncomfortably. “She and I talked for a long time yesterday.”

  “Really?” His tone changed. He was suddenly eager. “Did she tell you how Abu Muhammad had seen her in a dream? He knew that she was coming. Then they got a letter from Uncle Abu Bakr…”

  Zaytuna felt sick and cut him off, “Mustafa, please. Stop talking about her. It’s enough. I may not be able to marry you, but that doesn’t mean this is not hard on me. Especially now, she is to be one of my teachers.”

  His eyes widened just slightly in surprise, then he said softly, “I’m sorry.”

  They sat in silence a few moments longer. When Mustafa spoke again, it was a question Zaytuna knew was meant as a peace-offering. “What happened with the murder of that poor woman they found.” He swallowed audibly, “The one who was eaten by dogs in the field? God have mercy on her soul.”

  “Oh! I was able to help them identify her.” Zaytuna faced him eagerly. “They never found her head. But they had one of her hands. It was hennaed.”

  He paled at the description.

  Zaytuna ignored his state, becoming more excited as she explained, “This is interesting! Once they found out who she was, it was not long before they found who had killed her.” She sat up on her knees. “It was her neighbour. Her neighbour thought the woman had sold herself for sex to her husband, so she killed her. But the wife couldn’t find a way to get rid of her, so she hired a butcher’s apprentice to cut her up and carry her to the field for the dogs to eat.”

  Mustafa looked sickened. “Jealousy in women’s hands has no good end.”

  Her mood turned. “I see, only you men have the wisdom and strength to transform petty human jealousies into protecting care worthy of God’s own?”

  “Fine Zaytuna,” he sighed. “Women can jealously guard those in their care as well.” He looked away. “But why would the apprentice agree to do such a thing? Where is his fear of God?”

  “Because he is poor, Mustafa. Tein said he was in debt from gambling at a nahariyya. Now you have such lofty employment, you don’t remember what it is like to be without anything? He carried the garbage from the butcher shop out to the field for the dogs. I imagine he thought, ‘Why not this too?’”

  They easily fell back into their old ways. “Zaytuna, you just said he gambled at a nahariyya. Obviously, he was not a good man.” He shook his head. “He deserves what he gets.”

  “That’s a dangerous prayer!” Zaytuna tucked her head back in a gesture of pious censure. “May God protect you from a prayer like that! Imagine, coming before God to get what you deserve!”

  He was wide-eyed with the realization and corrected himself, “God, protect me and teach this man where he has erred so he can repent of his actions before he meets you on the Last Day.”

  “Oh, you have become a scholar now! You cannot even say, ‘God forgive him’.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Zaytuna, my God, please don’t let me become one of them.”

  Realizing she was under the watchful eyes of the old women nearby, especially Auntie Hakima, she did not lean in, but coaxed him back to her with a whispered, “Won’t I always tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t ask how they found her.”

  “Zaytuna, I don’t want to know.”

  She ignored him, “Tein asked the henna artists if they’d ever seen work like this before. It had an odd design, the moon with the face of a woman within it.”

  “My God,” he gasped. “Did he carry the hand to the henna artists?”

  Zaytuna laughed at him. “No, they had someone do a drawing of it.”

  “Of course,” he shook his head. “Had no one reported her missing?”

  “She was a prostitute who worked on her own.”

  “The poor woman, may she be made whole again, and may God forgive her for her sins.”

  “Her sins, Mustafa?”

  “She was a prostitute, Zaytuna.”

  “And how did she end up there?”

  “Women have choices. She could have remained with her family. She could have married for protection.”

  “You know a lot about women, do you?”

  Mustafa fell silent.

  “So pious. You know what Tein is investigating now? The murder of one of you scholars by his slave. Women have choices. She chose to kill him. You can imagine why.”

  Mustafa turned to her. “What? Who was killed? Do you know the name?”

  “al-Qatafi, I think.”

  “Imam Hashim al-Qatafi?”

  Zaytuna nodded. “May his grave be narrow.”

  His eyes widened. “Look at you! You just criticized me…,” then sighed, “I know why she killed him.”

  “Tein told me, but you, how?”

  “Burhan, a fellow hadith scholar,” Mustafa shook his head, “sent by God to test my patience and my control over my anger.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh; her anger towards him passed as quickly as it had risen up in her. “He must be awful to test your patience, I have been training you in keeping patient since you were a little boy.”

  “Zaytuna, this is serious.”

  She turned on him, “You don’t think I know murder is serious?”

  Ignoring her, he said, “He was brutal to her. I don’t want to say. Burhan told me that she complained of the situation to a scholar, Abu Mubarak Sherwan Ibn as-Salah al-Kurdi. Ibn Salah is a good man. He brought the case before the judge in Karkh to stop the harm being done her. He even argued for her release. Burhan’s father was the judge.” He huffed. “With such a son, you can only imagine the father. He ruled against the woman and returned her to the Imam.”

  “On what grounds!”

  “That one cannot,” he looked around to make sure no one heard them, “rape a woman one has sexual rights over. He advised her on how to keep her prayer from interfering with his needs.”

  She whispered, “Mu’mina was right to kill him.” Then she paused, “Tein thinks she’s innocent. What she admitted to wasn’t murder. But I don’t know, Mustafa, she could have done it still. We just don’t know how.”

  Mustafa agreed, “If she did, she had good cause. God forgive her.” He looked around. “I don’t know how I did not hear of his funeral prayer, but I’m glad I missed it. I would have had a hard time praying for him. God help me, it’s going to be bad enough I’ll have to go to the house to pay my respects.” He looked up to the heavens, saying, “God forgive me.”
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  She leaned in and said, “It’s alright. This is a terrible thing.”

  “Have they arrested her?” He asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Tein must have this information, then. It must be taken into account when she goes before the Chief of Police to be judged.”

  “I could tell Tein, but it is better if you speak to him directly. You heard the whole story. Give him everyone’s names.”

  “Yes, I will.” He paused, “Zaytuna, don’t take this the wrong way, but more than the girl’s life is at stake. The reputation of the scholarly community as well. If we do not hold our own accountable, who will trust us? There was some outcry when Abu Burhan sided with Imam Hashim in the case she brought against him.”

  “Take it the wrong way? You must hold corrupt scholars to account!”

  He leaned towards her. “Burhan told me that they ruined the reputation of Ibn Salah’s son, the man who brought her case against Imam Hashim. I think Burhan meant to threaten me with the news.” He sat up straight. “I will not be bowed, Zaytuna. She must get the fairest of trials.”

  “Good!” She smiled warmly at him.

  He sighed in relief. “I will go to see Tein in the morning. May God protect the girl and forgive her for what she was driven to do.”

  Satisfied with this prayer, Zaytuna said, “Amin.” Dawud was giving the call to prayer; young men began laying out reed mats and sheepskins in preparation for it.

  He looked in the direction of the young men, agitated. “I’m upset. I don’t know how I can sit here for the sama. I’ll pray, then maybe I’ll go. I don’t know.”