4

The City of Prophets
Ramadan 2, ah 402; March 28, ad 1012

After three days’ walk from Bosra to the west, there appeared close by us a great mountain with peaks and valleys, set in a tangle of shrubs and bushes, dotted about with minarets and church spires. “Praise the Lord!” called the caravan leader. “It is the Mount of Olives and the City of Prophets.” We were almost at Jerusalem, on the second day of Ramadan.

The Muslims called out “Allahu akbar!” while the Christians wept and sang melancholy hymns. The camels slowed as the road sloped uphill to the gates of Jerusalem. I dismounted from Shubra, who was close to collapse from fatigue, and we headed for the gate known as the Damascus Gate, on the northern side of the walls of Jerusalem. A great many caravans were clustered there, the camels of travelers and pilgrims seated all about; the bleating of sheep mixed with the braying of donkeys, and everyone racing to drink from a well surrounded by rectangular rock pools, filled up from the well for those arriving.

It was the end of the day, and I was exhausted and thirsty, waiting for the sun to set so I could break my fast: I delayed entering the City of Prophets until the morning. I needed a safe place for the box of books, and the place around me was teeming with travelers.

When dawn came, I let Shubra go to graze in the grassy, green environs: the hills around us were covered in dark red flowers with a powerful scent like that of the earth after rain. Beasts of burden were not permitted to enter by the Damascus Gate; therefore, I left my crate with the guard of the caravan, entreating him to care for it in exchange for a bountiful sum. His naive, imbecilic face reassured me that he would not lust after a pile of books.

I went into Jerusalem with a group of merchants. The air of the city bore the sounds of beating wings. Were they the wings of birds, or were the angels familiar with the city?

The crowding at the gate was intense. When we entered through the doorway, we found a broad, paved road running from north to south, which seemed to divide the old city into two halves. On both sides of the main road were towering buildings constructed of white rock, with stained glass windows.

The style of the buildings did not resemble the ones I had seen in Baghdad: some were still occupied, while some were abandoned, their doors and windows fallen off and grass growing beneath their walls. They called them the Umayyad palaces. I would have liked to stand there for a long time, staring at a kingdom that was now in ruins, but I was obliged to quicken my step to keep up with the group of merchants who appeared familiar with the city and knew the way. I gave my ears over to what they spoke of and pointed at; they thus gave me the keys normally denied a gawking visitor looking around the squares and talking to the silent walls.

The path sloped uphill, leading to spacious, carefully paved squares, located southeast of the city wall. Next to one of the mosque walls, a marble tablet was inscribed: “This Mosque Was Renovated in the Time of Caliph Ibn Abd al-Malik.”

The merchants said, “We have arrived at the Aqsa Mosque! Greetings to you, first of the two destinations for pilgrims!”

On a small elevation was an octagonal mosque topped with a gilded dome, to which we mounted on broad steps. They said it was the Dome of the Rock, and there they parted ways. Some went to the Qibli Mosque to pray, some to the Marwani Mosque, and some went straight into the Aqsa Mosque, at whose door I stood awestruck, listening to the beating of wings in the air. It was from here that the Prophet, the best of all men, rose on his journey to Heaven.

Inside it was dim, and I could barely make out the rock in its center. It was like a great table, chest-high, as long as it was broad. I stood transfixed, staring at it, listening to one of the merchants of the caravan calling out, “Allahu akbar! This stone descended from Paradise and remained suspended in the air and has never rested on the ground. When it falls, that will be the sign of Judgment Day. It is blessed, brought from Heaven with the Black Rock at the Kaaba, and we shall be reborn and judged around it on Judgment Day.”

Another was pointing out the irregularities and protrusions on its surface. “Look! Here is the footprint of the Prophet. Next to the footprint, here is another place where his turban fell when his magical mount, Buraq, began to carry him up on his journey through the heavens.”

I stared at the smooth rock, feeling its slippery surface. I could not find the footprint or the location of the turban, but took to contemplating it. When it fell from Heaven, had it witnessed the mysterious longings and passions in Adam’s breast as he walked around that exalted garden, isolated and lonely, before his wife sprang up out of him? Had Eve stood upon it one day, her feet anointed with the musk of Paradise, the loveliest of all the women God had created? Had this rock heard the conversation between the Lord God and the rebellious Lucifer before he was cast out of the Divine Kingdom?

I was overcome by the loneliness of Adam, our father. My feet were weighted with the ponderous awe of the place and the hunger and thirst of fasting. The group of merchants milled about with quick, impatient movements. Out of their pockets they produced long chains of prayer beads that hung almost to the floor, their faces turned to the ceiling, contemplating it. Meanwhile, I wondered what suras the Prophet Muhammad had recited to the other prophets as he led them in prayer in this place?

I walked slowly through the markets and alleyways: the paved pathways and stone walls were not unlike the city of Bosra, but these were wider and the air was purer. In the squares and culs-de-sac were orange trees bearing early blossoms, for it was still chilly around us. The folk of Jerusalem were mostly Arab and Surianese, though there were others whose provenance I could not make out; at any rate, they did not resemble the folk of Baghdad. Their faces were ruddy, their features finer and more delicate, and their movements more graceful and smoother. No one paid any attention to me. The city was packed with pilgrims, and it appeared that they were accustomed to seeing strangers here; or perhaps it was my mean and poor appearance after a month on the back of Shubra that made their eyes look through me. Even the store owners did not cry their wares when I passed; they turned away from me carelessly. “I must do something about my appearance,” I thought.

I went to a barber and asked him to cut off my two long braids. It was no easy decision: I felt shorn, as though I were cutting off Shammaa’s braids. My mother always took care of my hair, perfumed it with nutmeg, and braided it with powdered cloves. All the people of al-Yamama wear their hair in braids. In Baghdad, I wore them rolled up under my turban to avoid mockery. After the barber cut them off, I took my braids, dug a hole in a corner of the city, and buried them in the same place as the graves of the prophets, muttering wryly, “Perhaps my braids will help me on Judgment Day; they say that those buried in Jerusalem will never be damned.”

I had my beard and mustache trimmed, relieving them of the repulsive unkempt look they had acquired, keeping only enough for a manly appearance without looking like a wild man or a Bedouin. From the roofed-in marketplace, I bought a new shirt and pantaloons, and went into a bathhouse in the market whose steam seemed to penetrate to the bottom of my lungs. It was built upon a spring that gushed hot water without ceasing.

When I finished, I put on a few drops of the Byzantine rose perfume that the owner of the caravan had given me: thus I was ready to meet Amr al-Qaysi as a well-groomed bookseller from Baghdad, not an unkempt desert Arab who had leapt out from behind some sand dune and landed in Jerusalem. After I emerged from the bathhouse and donned my new clothes, my movements suddenly became more graceful and my voice lower. My steps grew slower and smoother, and when I sat, I did so with some fastidiousness, so as to avoid the places that might tear or stain my new clothes.

I went to the Great Mosque of Umar for the afternoon prayers, in search of the discussion circle of Amr al-Qaysi. I approached the attendant, or perhaps it was the muezzin—I could not tell, for he wore a bright white turban and a green caftan. I greeted him carefully and asked, “Are you from this city?”

He answered me readily, courteously, with no trace of wariness, “From the moment I opened my eyes. We trace our ancestry to the Arabian tribe of Kalb, which came and settled in the Levant, its origins being from the Peninsula.” He added, familiarly and a little proudly, “We are the uncles of Yazid ibn Muawiya, on the mother’s side. His mother is Maysoon, daughter of Bahdal, from the clan of Kalb.”

The minarets of Jerusalem pray the Shiite prayer for the Prophet’s descendants, while this muezzin prides himself on being related to the enemy of Ali ibn Abu Taleb, Yazid ibn Muawiya. I sensed that his world was limited to the confines of this mosque. At that time, I was not yet accustomed to the nature of the Levantines, who were open and friendly with foreigners and expansive with strangers. I had learned from my stay in Baghdad that a stranger had strict limits, beyond which one was expected to hold one’s tongue, for you never knew what you might say that would result in a dagger being brandished in your face.

He adjusted his turban, then raised his white eyebrows and said as though just remembering, “Where are you from?”

I said shortly, “I am a Hanafite Sunni from al-Yamama.” I paused to see the effect of the name on his expression. Would he recite the black list that they always teased me with: kin to Musaylima, horn of the Devil, and so on?

But his face showed no indication of having ever heard of it. He only said, “Oh, you have journeyed a long way. Are you a student or a merchant?”

“Both,” I responded.

His simple demeanor and clear responses allowed me to look my fill at the beautiful colored ornamentation in the colonnade and its pillars and arches. He kept talking, not realizing my distraction. After some hesitation, I asked, “Do you know Amr al-Qaysi? I was told that he holds his discussion circle here.”

His smile made three deep vertical lines in his cheeks. “Why, whom should we know but Sheikh Amr al-Qaysi, God bless him? He is our sheikh and speaker and the preserver of our knowledge, a good man and devout, full of inexhaustible wisdom.” I had clearly sparked his interest with my question about the sheikh: he appeared to have a great deal to say. “Tell me about the way you took, and the caravan you went with.”

“I am a bookseller,” I said shortly. “They told me that Jerusalem is thirsty for books.”

He puffed up with the air of one with pretensions to knowledge. “Who does not love books? Show us what you have, Arab of the desert. Are there any true God-fearing men who are not men of knowledge? We Jerusalem folk are fond of learning, and students always come to us: they all say, in praise of the city, ‘I would fain be a straw in one of the mud bricks of Jerusalem.’”

His expansiveness did not sit well with my wary and cautious nature. Quietly, I said, “God willing, I shall bring some of them here.” I added hurriedly, “But where can I find Amr al-Qaysi?”

He pointed at the gravelly floor where he stood. “Here,” he said. I stared at him, astonished. He went on, “He has held a discussion circle here after the afternoon prayers daily since he arrived in Jerusalem.” Before I could ask, he went on: “But I could not tell you where he lives, as he prefers not to receive visitors in his house.”

I guessed deep within me that he had said this so as to watch my meeting with Amr al-Qaysi and find out what I sought. He added, “Everything in the pot comes out with the ladle. Just wait until the afternoon prayers.”

I found his expression to be in poor taste.

When I concluded my prayers, I looked about me in search of the muezzin to point out Amr al-Qaysi’s discussion circle to me. However, I did not require much assistance, as it was the only circle with four large circles of students around a sheikh, who I guessed was he.

I approached the circle hesitantly. I found a place by a marble pillar so that I could watch him without being observed; but the sheikh still glimpsed me as I stepped in carefully.

Beams of colored sunlight spilled in through the stained glass windows of the mosque to form a pool of light on the gravel floor, making it look clear and glistening like the bottom of a brook. I scrutinized the features of Amr al-Qaysi, or, as his students called him reverently, “Our sheikh al-Qaysi.” His face was long and sharp-boned like the faces of the folk of al-Yamama. He was light-skinned, and his features still had the look of youth about them. His beard was coal black; he had wide shining eyes of a deep black, curled lashes, and amid all this, a big nose overpowering all his other features.

When he invoked the name of God and called down blessings on the Prophet to begin his lesson, a sense of security filled me at the sound of his voice. Was it his confidence, poise, and clarity of diction? He was like those men who appear all of a sudden to repair what is broken and settle matters, whose word is his bond, whose speech comes without hesitation; one of those who make the rules, and leave it to others to argue the details.

He was speaking about the names and attributes of God, a subject it was forbidden to even touch upon in Baghdad. “‘There is nothing whatever like unto Him,’ says the Qur’an: that is to say, God transcends names and descriptions, for He is above earthly imperfections.”

It is not in my nature nor part of my instinctive reticence to address strangers, but I know not what, at that moment, moved me to say, “This is what the Mutazilites say, our sheikh!” I was mortified the moment I blurted it out: I appeared like an idiot student who draws attention to himself by his mischief.

He sat quietly for a while. Everyone in the circle was silent, every head turned toward me. Staring at me, al-Qaysi
said, “You mean the Just Monotheists, who hold that God does not create evil or cause it to occur; for if He did, and then punished us for it, it would be unjust, and the Lord our God is a just God.”

I saw clearly that Amr al-Qaysi had no qualms about announcing he was a Mutazilite in front of witnesses. Maybe he was far from Baghdad with its quarrels and insults and accusations of heresy and swords poised to strike and spill blood, or maybe these dark clouds had not yet arrived in Jerusalem.

Seeking to pass a covert message to him in my reply, thus paving my way to him and what I had come for, I said, “Yes, our sheikh. The circles of Baghdad and the gatherings of Basra have taught me that. They are the Just Monotheists and their five pillars are as follows: justice; monotheism; promises of reward and warnings of punishment; a status between two statuses; and finally, to preach virtue and admonish vice. They are devout and God-fearing folk, despite the doubts raised around them.”

All heads turned toward me once more. Unheeding, I went on, “But until now, I have not understood the meaning of the phrase ‘a status between two statuses.’” I said it slowly, enunciating carefully and clearly like one engraving the words deeply into rock.

Amr al-Qaysi fell silent. He looked so hard at me that I began to quail. I could barely swallow. Then he half closed his eyes, as though in ecstasy, and looked at me through his long eyelashes while the students in the circle looked from one of us to the other, awaiting what would become of this contentious interloper of a student come to snatch away the water their sheikh was pouring into their cups.

The muezzin was sitting close by Amr al-Qaysi, facing the students as though indicating that he occupied a position higher than them. Suddenly he let out a great yell that split the silence: “Ah, Hanafite! Welcome to the circle of our sheikh, who lights up the minarets of Jerusalem with his presence!”

Without looking at him, al-Qaysi held up a hand to silence him. “Hush.” The muezzin snapped his mouth shut and went back to what he had been doing: scratching behind his ears, staring at everyone’s faces, watching anyone who came in, and looking around the mosque with thick, sleepy eyelids and a bored expression, uncaring of what went on in the circle.

Al-Qaysi looked down for a long moment. Then he said, “A status between two statuses. Well. Abd al-Jabbar ibn Ahmad says that the origin of the phrase is to be used for something that falls between two others, each of which attracts what resembles it: that is the meaning in plain language. As for the idiom, it is the knowledge that a sinner has a name between two names, and a judgment between two judgments: he is not called an infidel, nor a believer, but is called a sinner; and if a believer dies while insisting on sinning, he is not punished, but rather referred to the Lord God. If He punishes him, that is His justice; if He forgives him, that is His mercy, of which no mind or religious law can disapprove. That said,” he concluded in the customary manner, “only God is all-knowing.”

As he said this, he looked from one attendee to the other; when he came to me, he planted his eyes on my face as though he wanted to find out what lay behind my silence. I was astonished by his immediate response to my interruption, for in Baghdad the students of a circle do not interrupt their sheikh, instead waiting until the end of the lesson for questions and discussion, at which time the sheikh would offer only unintelligible answers and mutterings. I had not yet heard a sheikh say “only God is all-knowing.” But al-Qaysi had expanded and explained and clarified, which emboldened me to give him more of my doubts and worries: “What has he done to be eternally damned?”

“Because he has free will,” al-Qaysi said. “Did not God say that He ‘hath shown him the Two Ways,’ in verse ten of the Sura of al-Balad? He knows the sin, and yet commits it: knowledge is the cornerstone of judgment and responsibility.”

The time for the sunset prayer approached and everyone left Amr al-Qaysi’s circle to eat and drink for iftar, but he stood there staring at me, and I divined that it was time to approach him. I approached haltingly; I wished to begin by reassuring him. “Our venerable sheikh,” I said, “bless your knowledge, which dissipates the darkness around our hearts. But,” I asked, “is morning not nigh?”

He said only, “You are right. Come with me to my house for iftar.”

We walked with slow steps on a paved road parallel to the covered market. Weakened by hunger and thirst, we passed through the city. Amr al-Qaysi remained silent, his prayer beads running through his fingers. I walked alongside, not breaking the reverence of his silence. I contented myself with looking at the façades of the houses, surrounded by pots of flowers and climbing plants, and listening to the sounds of the folk of Jerusalem preparing their iftar. The air still hummed with whispers and murmurs like prayers or hymns. From time to time, the smell of burning wood would strike us in the face. Sometimes we passed through streets crowded with Christian pilgrims, their possessions piled high upon their backs, their eyes staring and thirsty, some ringing bells they held in their hands and singing hymns. I was torn between staring at them and following the steps of Sheikh al-Qaysi. Perhaps noticing my astonishment and perplexity, he motioned with his head at a group of Christian pilgrims and said, “Palm Sunday is nigh. It is the seventh Sunday of the last and greatest fast before Easter Sunday. The week it starts with is called Holy Week, which it is claimed is the anniversary of Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, and we call it the Sunday of the Palms and sometimes of the Olives, because the folk of Jerusalem received him like a conqueror with palms and decorated olive branches. The palm fronds and decorations are reused in most of the churches to celebrate this day.”

Suddenly he slowed his pace. He was walking more comfortably and less stiffly the farther we went from the mosque, not appearing as severe as he had in the center of his students and disciples. “How is Baghdad?” he asked in his melodious voice.

I responded immediately: “I left it in an unhappy condition. Prices were rising and calamity reigned.”

He held up a hand. “My boy, I am not asking you about the marketplaces. Tell me how the Voyagers are, the Just Monotheists.”

Oh Lord! I only knew al-Hashimi and Seraj al-Furati, and perhaps Abu Abbas the blacksmith. I knew that he had asked this question to test me, that he might trust me. How should I answer? Trying to avoid answering the question as much as possible, carefully so as not to arouse his suspicion, I said, “They are well. Or shall we say, they are in a status between two statuses.”

He burst out laughing and patted me on the shoulder. “You cannot be in a status between two statuses unless you are a sinner! Heaven forbid they be sinners!” He went on, “How is al-Hashimi? Has he settled in Baghdad, or is he still running about planting God’s green earth?”

I responded more confidently, “I left him planning his departure and preparing for it. I doubt that Baghdad is a suitable place for him to remain.”

“Baghdad is angry,” he muttered as if to himself. “There are coals burning under the ashes. The Bouhi soldiers are unhappy with the caliph. The people are unhappy with the soldiers. When tensions are high, there can be no prosperity, and everyone will remain afraid of what tomorrow may bring.”

“You are correct,” I said. “I have seen many hungry and homeless folk there, and the Ayyarin gangs prosper and proliferate under the eyes and ears of the guard.”

He laughed bitterly. “The Ayyarin. The alleyways of Baghdad spoke the names of their leaders with terror: Aswad al-Zubad, Abu al-Arda, and Abu al-Nawabih.” I guessed then that he was well acquainted with Baghdad. I did not wish to press him with questions: he appeared preoccupied, and weakened with fasting. He added, looking down, but with a great deal of eagerness and curiosity, “Are al-Qadir’s men still persecuting those they call Mutazilites and heretics?”

“I could not see anything clearly,” I said. “All I could see was that the police and guards were trying to prevent fights breaking out in mosques and discussion circles, to avoid bloodshed between the Sunnis and the Shiites. Fitna is still afoot after Sheikh al-Isfaraini burned the Shiite copy of the Qur’an that they say belonged to Abdullah ibn Masoud.”

“That is an old fitna!” he said. “I mean, has the caliph announced his document that he set out to cut short those he calls ‘the contentious and argumentative folk’?”

Before I could tell him what I knew of this matter and what I had seen at the sultan’s procession in the marketplace of Karkh, two young passersby who appeared to be his students stopped us and kissed his head.

The road soon turned to the right, bringing us to a garden with a low wall of large and sturdy stones, the gathering dusk darkening the trees, twittering birds thick on the branches. The evening breezes were spreading the smell of fresh-cut foliage. A gate opened onto a garden path leading to a two-story house with a great green wooden door with two leaves; most doors I had seen in Jerusalem had only one.

It appeared that the birds had betrayed our arrival: before we arrived at the door, it opened with much noise and creaking. A slight boy in a clean blue caftan looked at me warily out of narrow blue eyes beneath a protruding forehead. He ran to Amr al-Qaysi, saying, “Welcome home, Master.” He took his master’s turban and caftan and hung them on the nearby stand.

“Tell the family to lay the table for iftar, Abdullah,” said al-Qaysi, “and prepare a place for our guest to sleep tonight.”

His hospitality took me unawares. Grateful, I turned to him and said, “Heaven reward you, but I shall not be a burden. I must return to my camel and my crate of books, for they are still outside the city walls. All I wish for is a safe place for my books—” I caught myself. “I mean the books in my possession, until I find a room in a boardinghouse for my stay in Jerusalem.”

“Fear not,” he said. “It is difficult to find a boardinghouse or a room at this time, for Jerusalem is overrun with pilgrims, but be glad. Tomorrow I shall find a place for you and your books, and you shall sell them carefully, at your leisure.”

With a deep sigh, he walked farther into the house. I followed him. “Although you are young,” he said, “a father’s love for his children has not yet robbed you of your sleep. Choose for your books the best buyers and owners that you can, as though you were choosing a husband for your daughter, and be as careful of them as you would be careful where you sow your seed.”

My eyebrows rose at the odd comparison, but he merely went on: “Mazid. You are a Voyager now. A Just Monotheist only accepts money that is pure and without taint, rising above the greed and insistence of merchants, who lie in wait like vultures awaiting a carcass. Voyagers are falcons perched on the highest peaks, rising above the seeds scattered about for the common folk and the riffraff.” He smiled as we mounted two steps into a spacious, high-ceilinged reception room ringed with couches and pillows, faced entirely in bookshelves. “This is especially true as you are a bachelor, and have not suffered the hunger of another’s stomach.”

I looked at him, finding his words strange. “I mean,” he explained, “you do not have offspring to feed.”

His serving boy, Abdullah, came in just then, bearing a tray laden with various types of food, which he laid down between us before going to fetch a low table placed behind the door. The boy spread this with a clean cotton cloth, then placed the tray atop it, saying, “Eat, good sirs.”

The banquet was prepared with love. I had not a moment’s doubt that the one who had laid out the slices of lime, poured the soup, put out the dried fruit dipped in honey and butter, and set the spoons in a row was sending a letter of love to Amr al-Qaysi. This was certainly a wife who had awaited him the length of the day. How wonderful to come home to a house with a woman who has been all day awaiting your coming, where the very walls sing to celebrate your return. Her refreshing breath pours over your pillow every night, your feet touching soft, warm feet in your bed.

The minarets of Jerusalem rang out with the sunset prayers, as though the same cup of the river Kawthar in Paradise had been poured over them all at once. Amr al-Qaysi stole glances at me, in an attempt to divine what had distracted me for these few moments. “Come,” he said, “let us eat. Tomorrow will come soon.” He added, “Remember what I have told you. Be diligent and only sell the books to those who will hold them in their deserved esteem. You will have no trouble finding buyers in Jerusalem, especially as it is the season of Christian pilgrimage, and their priests and monks are eager for books and pay the highest prices for them.”

There came to us the incessant noise of children from within the house. A small boy with a blond shock of hair and two missing front teeth poked his face around the door, then ran in and buried his face in the folds of Amr al-Qaysi’s robe. He held him and inhaled the child’s scent. “This is Qays, the apple of my eye, and the first of five children borne to me by Nour Dana, my Circassian slave girl, now the mother of my children.” With a broad smile, he said, “I have followed the Prophet’s saying and not married a cousin, as many do. There are none weaker than the children born of relatives, none stronger and better than the children of those who bear you no relation. The Arabs say ‘Cousins are more patient,’ but women not related to you bear better fruit.”

He paused awhile, sipping a sweet drink smelling of flowers. He bowed his head. As though telling me a secret that was trying for him to tell, he said, “Nour Dana is a younger sister of Tamani, the mother of Caliph al-Qadir. But I have never tried to exploit my marriage to worm my way into the caliph’s court. The day I signed the Mutazilites’ petition, I could have spared my pen and myself; the caliph holds his late mother Tamani in high esteem and makes much of her memory. But being a Mutazilite is a charge I deny not, and an honor of which I am unworthy; and I shall not betray the Covenant of the Voyagers.”

Qays tugged at his father’s robe, and his father pushed him away and dismissed him from the room. “All that is desired is chosen,” he said, “but not all that is chosen is desired, like beating a bright boy or drinking bitter medicine.”

My hunger was sated, my thirst quenched, and the feebleness of my limbs from fasting reinvigorated. It was clear to me that al-Qaysi was a brilliant Voyager; his speech was articulate, steeped in wise sayings, proverbs, and valuable observations. It was rare to find a man with such wisdom so intertwined with his heart, mind, and tongue.

When we had performed the sunset prayers, I resolved on emptying my pockets of the last pieces of news I had that might interest my host. I said to him, “Baghdad is still abuzz with the news of Caliph al-Qadir bi-Allah bringing together the wise men, the clerics, and the eminent men of the sects of the Mushabbihah, the Shiites, and the Mutazilites. He held a banquet for them at his palace and brought out the sword and the leather beheading sheet. He laid out the banqueting tables in his court; then he prepared a document commanding them to relinquish and recant all their beliefs—and the sword and beheading sheet were the reward for whoever should refuse.”

To my shock, al-Qaysi’s face crumpled suddenly as though in pain or disgust. He choked out, weak and grieved, “That night, the beheading sheet was crimson leather, edged with wool. The executioner was masked. A smell of rot and decay came off him: I knew not whether it was the leather or his body that gave it off. It disgusted me so that I could not eat of the banquet.” He was breathless, a slight tremor deep in his voice. “Perforce, I signed the document of repentance. And that was something I shall not cease repenting all my life.” He sighed. “A group of preeminent Voyagers signed with me. Caliph al-Qadir was filled with rage against the Mutazilites that night, for the preachers of the court, to relieve the monotony of their idle existence, had gathered about him and told him, ‘The Mutazilites are saying that good Muslims are infidels! They call them sinners and transgressors! They have ruled that good Muslims belong in Hellfire with the distorted logic of their twisted minds,’ whereupon he instructed his ministers to start preparing the al-Qadir document for them and those like them. I would ask: Has it been issued to all and sundry, or not yet?”

I responded immediately: “They are passing around passages and lines from it, and are threatening people that it will be issued soon, and speak of it incessantly, but it has not been issued yet.”

He contemplated the ceiling, running his hands through the hair at his temples. “I signed that night,” he whispered, “having drunk a bowl of milk that the serving boys of the palace were bearing around over our heads, in the stead of the wine we were accustomed to being served in the palace. And I breathed not a word.”

The wounds of Baghdad seemed still raw in al-Qaysi’s breast: he expanded on his subject like a lion whose claws have been torn out and roars all the more fiercely. Where al-Hashimi had evidenced a nonchalance born of despair and a desire to depart, al-Qaysi’s coals still burned bright, unquenched. I could see my fate starting to move in a direction from which I could not free myself.

“That night,” he resumed, “when al-Qadir bi-Allah saw my silence and my frown, he concocted a scheme against me. He announced my appointment as the overseer of his stables: this would allow him to keep me under observation, while conveying the impression to me that he had privileged me and admitted me to his inner circle. But he was at bottom humiliating me: for the overseer of the stables, or what they call in Baghdad ‘the Hoof and Trotter Club,’ is responsible for every animal in the royal stables: horses, stallions, workhorses, mares, mules, donkeys, and camels, as well as overseeing the camel drivers and jockeys and giving them their pay.

“I spent a week in this position. When it concluded, I left the Circular City having resolved to leave; I quit Baghdad under cover of night, and never looked back. A few months later, I was followed by my family and my children. I settled here in Jerusalem under the wing of the Fatimids, where I intend to remain to the end of my days.”

He dragged in a deep breath and turned to me with a weak smile. “I must cease. I have spoken too freely. A Voyager must be wary and not babble or chatter.” He appeared to be attempting to dispel the melancholy that had overtaken him and filled his eyes, I could see, with tears. “Well, tell us, how many books are in your possession?”

I said haltingly, “I do not know precisely, my sheikh, but they must surely number from forty to sixty books and manuscripts, the preponderance of them from the House of Wisdom.”

He nodded admiringly. “You have done well! Have you ventured to bear this quantity of books alone? Why, when I left Baghdad, the people of that city were cursing the Voyagers and the Mutazilites, saying, ‘God damn the Mutazilites, for they muddy the waters and rend the tenets of religion!’ Did not that quantity of books alert the guards as you left Baghdad, or provoke their curiosity? Did it not surprise the folk of the caravan that brought you here?” He did not wait for an answer. He merely smiled as he clapped me on the shoulder. “Al-Hashimi knows whom to choose, indeed! The sons of the desert are brave of heart!”

I bowed my head, looking at the floor. This was not out of modesty, but from a fear that he might see, deep in my eyes, a cowardly bird that quailed at the sight of blood. However, Fate was clearly pushing me down this path, and I could not escape it.

The birds were now asleep. The garden was quiet. Through the windows, the scent of flowers and rain-dewed leaves wafted in. An ecstasy flowed through my veins, whether from the spiced food I had consumed or from this brilliant man’s conversation I knew not. I felt that I was embarking on a hard and troublesome road alongside him, leading up to a falcon’s nest.

The room they had prepared for me was a small, elegant guest room by the entrance. We stood at the door, and
al-Qaysi said, “You will spend the night here.”

Red-faced, searching vainly for words of thanks, I said, “Sir, I know not how—”

He interrupted me, laying a hand on my shoulder with a friendly smile. “Did they pass on the seven commandments to you?”

“Yes, yes!” I said enthusiastically. “Seraj al-Furati passed them to me.”

He held up a hand to stop me, looking deep into my soul. “Do not tell me. The commandments are never the same for any two people. You must remember yours. See what answers they bring you.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Good night. I shall wake you for suhour.”

After the suhour meal, we went to the mosque for the dawn prayers. At the gate, I heard the beat of wings approaching. The mosque attendant was putting out the lamps; inside the mosque, a group of men who had been up praying all night were gathered in a dhikr circle praising God, swaying this way and that as they repeated, “Glory to Him who never sleeps and never ends! Glory to the Self-subsisting Sustainer of All, Glory to the Ever-living, Glory to the King, Glory to the Most Holy, Glory to the Lord of the Angels and of Souls, Glory to Him in the highest.” As the air vibrated with their voices, I heard again the rustle of wings.

Outside the mosque, on our way home, the roads were subsumed in the deep blue of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Amr al-Qaysi’s voice sounded deep and melodious in the valley of dawn, like a hymn. “I will go now and see to some affairs of mine. In the fullness of the morning, a Christian priest will come to you, and you will go with him and stay in a room prepared for you at his house.” Before I could ask him why he had chosen this priest, he said, “Jerusalem is bursting with Christian pilgrims at this time of year. The Byzantine soldiers protect the passage of the caravans from Byzantium; there is food and water along their paths; and so there are rarely any dangers for those caravans, except for the inclement weather on the Anatolian Mountains. Others come from Macedonia or from Rome. There are huge numbers of caravans, and Jerusalem can barely hold them all.”

He went on: “They are claiming that the millennium has turned, and they believe that Christ will appear to the faithful; and, so thinking, great hordes of foreigners have commenced pouring into the Holy Lands from Byzantium. The pilgrims do not wish only to visit; some have resolved to remain in Jerusalem until their death and be buried here.”

He fell silent for a while, then resumed. “The burning of the Church of the Resurrection, site of the Holy Sepulcher, by order of the ruler of Egypt, has only increased their conviction that Christ will rise again soon. It is said that they number seven thousand men and women—and some say ten or twelve thousand.”

He added in a whisper, “In the midst of all of this, you can sell your wares easily—” He broke off suddenly, as though he had been about to tell me something else, but stopped himself. “Goodbye, then,” he said, taking the garden path leading away from his house.

My she-camel, Shubra, paid my arrival no heed; she turned her face away from me as though repulsed by my arrival, which reminded her of fatigue and suffering. She chewed her cud, ruminating nonchalantly. I nobly endured her lukewarm reception of me, undid her reins, and set her free. “Go,” I said. “I hereby free you: you are at liberty. You have the right to live the remaining years of your life free from the humiliation of slavery.”

A gold dinar summoned those who would help me carry my crate of books to the house of Amr al-Qaysi. “Truly,” I muttered to myself, “people gather around those who have gold!”

No sooner was I alone with the box in my room than I rushed to examine the books. They were stacked in tight piles, holding hands and terrified like small, hungry grouse chicks seeking shelter from the beak of an eagle.

God’s Locusts

The house was quiet, the cries and giggles of small children reaching me from afar. I was only interrupted by the serving boy, Abdullah, who poked his big forehead into the room from time to time to ask me if I needed anything, to which I shook my head with a grateful smile. I spent the morning looking through Amr al-Qaysi’s library. On a shelf to the back, I found some manuscripts, half worn away: they were pages from Aristotle’s Organon. I decided to copy it out again and edit it according to the copy I had in my possession, and present it to al-Qaysi.

There were collections by al-Mutanabbi, Abu Nawas, and others, and some works, such as al-Isfahani’s Aghani and Abu Hayan’s work, which I had read in Baghdad but felt an overwhelming desire to reread. A bizarre ecstasy filled my body, the tremor that customarily overcame me in the presence of books. They seemed to me like unopened jars and welling springs: perhaps it was this passion that steered me away from adventures in moneymaking or trade or even dalliances with women, keeping me chaste and careful. My lusts were packed away in a concealed pocket in my mind, coming to me only in my most secret dreams. It was only Zahira who had shaken me to the core and scattered my composure to the winds; the rest I could keep at arm’s length, immune to their temptations. Was I chaste and virtuous, or was it merely that I had yet to enter the demons’ battlefield?

What book should I give to Amr al-Qaysi? His generosity and hospitality left me tongue-tied. Or should I let him choose? Should I give him a translated work, although these were the most expensive and doubtless the most sought-after by the Christians, or a work by al-Kindi? I had a valuable manuscript by Ibn al-Haytham about music, which I had acquired from Sheikh Zakir in Basra. It would doubtless capture his interest. Finally, I settled on giving him the book of the Brethren of Purity, although they were garrulous and a great deal had been attributed to them that they had not said, and they said a great deal without evidence or proof. Finally, they hold that their imam is rationality, though often they deride the rational mind and mock it. But perhaps Amr al-Qaysi would approve of what they said: “There are rational people who will not accept imitation, but require proof, reasons, and truths.” Al-Qaysi would no doubt like this, in addition to the copy of his book of Aristotle.

In any case, I had only looked so far into the top layer of the box of books, and I knew not what lay concealed at the bottom: as I fell deep into the ecstasy of turning pages, I heard Abdullah saying, “Samaan, the priest, is at the door waiting for you.”

I adjusted my appearance and hurried to the door to greet him. I found a venerable gentleman standing a few paces away from the entrance, underneath an apple tree in the front garden, hands clasped in front of him, head lowered, in the black garment of a monk with a yellow patch the size of a man’s hand on his robe and a wooden cross hung around his neck. I ran to him and greeted him. But for a smattering of white hairs in his beard, his broad-browed face had not lost its freshness. He had delicate features and a ruddy tint to his face.

It became clear to me from the first glance that his eyes were filled with a weighty sorrow, so that one might think he was coming from a graveyard or a funeral. Sorrow shone in his eyes, accompanied by a degradation that was painful to see in such a man. I greeted him and clasped his hand in both of my own. He was looking at me hard and deeply. To cut short the inevitable embarrassment and diffidence that must exist between two strangers, I said, “I shall bring my effects from within and accompany you.”

*

I followed him as he walked quietly and smoothly through the city paths. We passed through archways, stone gateways, and paved squares. We took the path leading down from the Damascus Gate and headed north through the fabric market, then the spice market, then the meat market, then the cotton market, and the goldsmiths’ district, followed by the carpet weavers’ market, until I thought we should reach the end of the world.

Before the priest turned into a side street and began to walk faster with his hands behind his back, we entered a clean, bright street whose folk had arranged pots of flowers and myrtle outside their homes. They gave Samaan the priest a friendly greeting, smiling at him and calling him “Father.” The press of Christian pilgrims around us grew thicker, waving palm fronds and chanting sweet, melancholy hymns, sometimes stopping the priest to kiss his hand. I divined his high status among them, which only increased my respect and veneration for him, belying the meek and broken look he had on al-Qaysi’s doorstep. This, however, disquieted me: he was a man whom many knew and many sought out, and had numerous visitors, which might draw attention to me and the books in my possession.

The path opened out onto a circular plaza surrounded by houses. In the center were some blossoming orange trees. In a corner of the plaza, Samaan stopped at a door in the front of the building and pulled a key out of his pocket.

With our first steps into the house, a breeze wafted over us bearing the perfume of a fragrant plant with a spicy scent not unlike that of the Mount of Olives. We sat upon wooden seats in a passageway by the door, with cushions of a delicate white fabric with worked edges. We had barely sat down when Samaan tore off his cross and sighed deeply. He stretched his head and neck as though to get the stiffness out of them, then disappeared into the house.

I took to looking at my surroundings. A blooming oasis, where everything was dewy and refreshing, as though an aquatic creature lived here, making it cool and moist. I recalled the words of my sheikh, Muhammad al-Tamimi, about Christians: how they were unclean and did not wash their private parts with their left hand, as they should, and did not bathe after lovemaking, as they should. The only good thing about them, he said, was that their women, especially the Byzantines, were fertile, with childbearing hips.

Samaan returned with a brass tray laden with a glass jug and some glasses, his broken demeanor quite gone, as though his soul had been set free upon his arrival in the house and his removal of the heavy cross around his neck. He poured a drink for me with the same sweet smell that filled the house. I asked him what it was, and he said, “Anise.”

“Can I keep the glass with me,” I said, “and drink it at iftar?”

With a friendly smile, he said, “Of course. I shall have them put it in your room. May the Lord bless both our fasts,” he continued, since in this millennium, the seasons of fasting for Muslims and Christians coincided. As he spoke, my attention was caught by his beard: it was squared off carefully and his nails were clean and neatly trimmed. As he spoke, he brushed down his sleeves to ensure they were smart and in order. “Amr al-Qaysi tells me of your valuable collection of books,” he said. “I doubt that we will have trouble finding a safe place for them in our house.” With an abrupt laugh, he said, “Perhaps we can buy some from you. The pilgrims will definitely take many of them.”

“My main concern,” I said pleadingly, “is to conceal them in a safe place, away from prying eyes and the curious folk of Jerusalem.”

“We pray to the Lord to preserve them,” he said in troubled, choked tones. “We managed to rescue some of the books from the library of the Church of the Resurrection before it was burned down, and they were distributed among people’s homes. We prefer that they should stay there until we gather enough funds to rebuild it. But for now,” he concluded, “it is sufficient to pray.”

I know not why, but he seemed wary when speaking of the Church of the Resurrection: he was not forthcoming with details. But I felt that it was the source of the grief at the bottom of his soul, although not the only one. He had a chestful of sorrows.

I excused myself, saying I would return before sundown. “With the sunset prayers,” he said politely as he withdrew, “we hope you will share our ascetic, simple table, as simple as that of Christ. We are also fasting. Your room will be ready.”

I resolved to go to the market and buy a bag, then go to the box of books and begin to move them into the house gradually; a great chest carried through the streets of Jerusalem would naturally arouse suspicion.

It was clear from Samaan’s speech that he was extremely respectful of the books in my possession, and he hinted that he would pay a goodly sum for them. Still, I was full of restlessness and unease. Despite this, I desired to set my affairs in order so as to attend the afternoon discussion circle of Amr al-Qaysi. I had a room in the Christians’ Alley for the duration of my stay in Jerusalem, a pleasant heavenly blessing that would keep suspicion away from my books.

When I entered the mosque, al-Qaysi’s discussion circle had commenced. His deep voice was ringing out, filling the curves of the stone archways. His tones were careful and measured, only entering your mind with the greatest certainty. I stood waiting in that mysterious status between certainty and doubt, between the Unseen and this world: it seemed that my perplexity would abide forever, in a status between two statuses.

When I approached the circle, I found an argument brewing between al-Qaysi and two young men in his circle, one with a thick red beard and the other young and devoid of facial hair. The latter was frowning and saying, “The Christians are like locusts! Jerusalem is teeming with them! They gnaw on everything! They have raised prices, devoured our stores, filled our streets, scattered their debauched women with their rippling flesh all about, and settled in our city’s houses, following the mumbo jumbo of their holy men who tell them it is the year Christ shall appear now that it has been a thousand years since his death. They are waiting for him to rise again!”

“Jerusalem is ours!” said the owner of the red beard. “It is where our Prophet walked and ascended on his journey to Paradise. They are nothing but heretical polytheists. Although the Fatimid caliph, may God grant him long life, destroyed the Church of the Resurrection and burned it down, they still walk around drunk and pray with their crosses, ringing their bells and filling the air with their incense and their wailing!”

Someone spoke from the circle—he was hidden by a pillar so that I could not see him. “Where are you, Muslim clerics? Where is your role, now that Jerusalem is being ravished by Christians? Where is the purification of the whitest seat of religion, now that Aleppo has fallen, and they are approaching like locusts, and those we see around us crowding the streets are naught but spies for their armies? Expect the armies of Byzantium to attack us at any moment!”

This was the ball of fire that they flung into the hands of Amr al-Qaysi. But his voice did not change; his tone was the same. He turned to the youth with the red beard. “Do you say that they entered Jerusalem,” he asked, “or that they were already here? This is where our Prophet was born, and their prophet, Jesus. Here he is buried; from here he rose again. They have been here for hundreds of years. There is naught between us but the Pact of Umar, which protects their persons and their moneys and their places of worship. Do you pretend to be holier than the caliph Umar and think yourself better than he?” His tone sharpened. “Beware contention, my boy. Too much argumentation is a sign only of weakness.” He added, “There is no absolute right, nor absolute wrong. The Prince of the Faithful, Ali ibn Abu Talib, has said, ‘A part of this is taken, and a part of that is taken, and they are thus mingled.’”

The muezzin of the mosque, in his usual spot next to Sheikh al-Qaysi, did not miss his opportunity to interject something or other he felt would please the sheikh, or air some of his scarce knowledge. He added mockingly, “You are playing a game of one-upmanship with the Holy Qur’an itself! Does not God say in verse eighty-two of the Sura of al-Maida, ‘Nearest among them in love to the believers wilt thou find those who say, “We are Christians”: because among these are men devoted to learning and men who have renounced the world, and they are not arrogant.’ Also, they are bound to us by a treaty and they are dhimmi, and the Prophet has said, ‘He who murders a dhimmi shall never see Paradise.’”

Despite the tone of reproach in the muezzin’s voice, I was confident that he would have quite a different opinion if Sheikh al-Qaysi contradicted him; it appeared that the awe-inspiring presence of the sheikh had affected the muezzin, for he always agreed with him and seized the smallest chance to praise every word he said.

Amr al-Qaysi motioned to me to approach where he sat. I was flustered: I had no desire to attract attention and arouse curiosity, nor to be roped into the task of the notetaker that had enslaved me in Baghdad and kept me from the joys of contemplation and meditation by listening to the conversations in the circles around me. I wished to be calm and retiring in my stay here, like the wary and fearful cranes by the river walls.

It would appear that all discussion circles are alike: here, in Baghdad, and in Basra. There are brilliant students and common folk and riffraff, all congregating around their sheikh to hear what they want to hear. But let the sheikh say something unfamiliar to them, and they burst into a frenzy; therefore, he must be armed with knowledge and arguments, and prepared to throw the stone of proof at the head of the troublemaker.

It appears that when the student is ready, the teacher comes to him. I was the first one in need of that stone, to silence the whispering doubt inside me about the uncleanness of the houses of Christians, their food and drink, and my unease about the time I was to spend in a Christian home.

Amr al-Qaysi said to me as we were leaving the mosque, “Those young men are ruled by the common law, their anger, and their lusts, more than evidence, proof, and argument. Therefore, they are ruled by predestination rather than free will, and will remain followers as long as their minds are inactive.”

I arrived at the priest’s house as the sun was seeking a path to descend behind the mountains. When I made to knock at his door, I found it standing ajar. He called to me from within. I went into a courtyard with two olive trees in the center; at the farthest end beneath its wall, a table had been set up next to the mouth of an oven blazing merrily in the wall. By it stood a thin woman baking, trying to force a smile onto her disgruntled face. The table was set with round earthenware plates filled with broad beans, olives, black-eyed peas, garlic steeped in vinegar, olive oil, and hot loaves.

Samaan gestured to the woman: “My sister, Zulaykha.”

Zulaykha’s cheeks were sunken and her nose hooked. She resembled the women who had been with us on the caravan coming from Baghdad: withered, nothing like the women of Byzantium with the great hips that the sultans chose to bear them boys. But Zulaykha’s food looked delicious: and her figure like a dry stick, and her severe temperament, were no doubt what had made this house so fresh and welcoming. By her side crawled an infant that she gave a piece of dough with which to amuse himself. He tired of it and took to crying; she placed some loaves in the oven, picked him up, and held him, gave him her breast for a while, then rushed back to her loaves.

The sun had not yet set. They were waiting for the sunset so that I would be at liberty to eat with them. The silence at the table was uncomfortable, so I told the priest the story—in a disapproving tone—of what had taken place at the mosque. “Pay them no heed,” he said jocularly. “If they tasted the wine in our cellars, they would forget their evil in an instant. Have you not heard the verse: ‘They asked, “Are you a Muslim?” I said yes, on the outside; / But with my gullet full of wine, a Christian inside.’?”

I was delighted at this playful, even impish, side of the sober Father Samaan. And to think I had been nervous about living in a dark room in the house of a stern priest who, I thought, would make my life miserable.

After the Christian banquet, he led me up to my room, then took his leave, saying he must be up early the next day. The pilgrims were due to carry an olive tree from the Church of St. Lazarus to the ruins of the Church of the Resurrection, which were a long way apart. They would sing hymns and say prayers all the way, carrying the cross, and he must be with them to protect them from any would-be troublemakers who sought to block their path. “If you require anything, you may ask it of Zulaykha, and she will bring it to you. Forgive her for not smiling: she is a grieving widow. She lost her husband in the clashes, which still continue, between the Christians and the Fatimid soldiers. These confrontations have never ceased, not since they tore down the Church of the Resurrection and defiled the grave of the Son of God.”

My Heart, Speak to Me of God

The streets were packed with pilgrims. Most were on foot, a small number on donkey back. Most of them, especially those from Byzantium, wore odd clothes and robes: pantaloons topped with shirts, coats of leather or fur, and wide cotton gallabiyas topped with embroidered caftans, all without a turban. The women’s heads were covered with thin veils.

The beauty of the Byzantine women stole my breath. Their fine features, their radiant complexions . . . when they were next to me, I wished to dip my fingers into their cheeks, which shone like springs untouched by heat or dust. Each group of them was preceded by a man ringing a bell, whereupon they would sing their hymns behind him, tears of deep grief in their eyes. They waved palm fronds and olive branches; sometimes they suffered a small boy to sit on the trunk of the olive tree, whereupon the rest of the little ones would cry and squall and complain, asking for food and a respite from the long walk.

My room was full of books. My head was filled with the command of Seraj al-Din al-Furati: “Beware of selling them to those without the sensibility to grasp their worth, without the intellect to plunge into their oceans. Do not cast your pearls before swine.”

The way was crowded with pilgrims, which forced me to take a serpentine path, brushing shoulders with all, careful to keep the orange plaza behind me and my face north, toward al-Qaysi’s house. I began to feel reassured, for in this great press of bodies, footsteps, and noise, none would concern themselves with a desert Arab carrying a bag filled with books. “Hallelujah!” they cried, and chanted Surianese and Arabic hymns in melancholy tones. The current of pilgrims embraced me: they drove me to whisper along with them, as if wrapped in the warmth of a great abaya that enfolded me.

I listened to the man chanting in the front: “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.”

With my bag stuffed with books and manuscripts over my shoulder, I suddenly recalled the warning of Amr al-Qaysi: “Beware! Do not take them to the common market or to the booksellers’, for the spies of the Fatimid caliph are everywhere in the marketplace.”

The hymns filled the path with a sense of security. Was it a true security, or the shock of being struck in the face like the overpowering silence of a disaster? The air sang with the voices of the pilgrims: “Hallelujah.” The Christians of Jerusalem had gone to bed one night and awoken to find their church, the Holy Sepulcher, the tomb of their prophet, burned to ash. I looked at the sky over our heads. Clouds had begun to gather, portending heavy rain. Jerusalem was a city shadowed by clouds of discontent: no sooner did a cloud disperse than the horizon grew thick with another, raining blood and tears onto its streets.

As I was transferring another load of books from al-Qaysi’s house, I hardly recognized the house of Samaan but for its bright green windows, so crowded was the plaza outside with a group of pilgrims just arrived. They were babbling in foreign languages, calling to one another, and unloading their belongings and supplies from mule-drawn carts and setting them out before the house of Samaan. I was unsettled: what should I do? Should I advance, or draw back?

Samaan, who was standing at the door with a small but welcoming smile, appeared to catch sight of me. He waved a hand and motioned me closer. “You can go up to your room, Mazid,” he said. “These are pilgrims just arrived from Antakya.”

I picked my way through their effects with difficulty, without raising my eyes to them. I walked with my head down, listening to them talk and make noise in a language that sounded familiar. It was not the Arabic spoken by Samaan, but it sounded similar: I managed to make out some words. As I followed him through the inner courtyard of the house, Father Samaan said, “My aunt, her husband, her son, and two daughters. You are fortunate in that your room has an outer balcony with stairs leading directly into the street: you can come in and go out without the embarrassment of passing through the house.”

I could tell that Father Samaan was implicitly conveying to me the bounds I should keep to when moving around in the house—I could not walk about the house freely. This pleased me, for I too required some liberty, and I did not wish to be embarrassed by having to pass among their womenfolk and their rooms. Besides, Zulaykha’s brow was always furrowed against me: whenever she saw me going upstairs, she fixed me with a scrutiny that bore slight disapproval. I would nod to her respectfully, but she never responded.

On my way inside, I caught a fleeting glimpse of them as they attempted to find a comfortable spot for a crippled boy sitting on a chair borne by two men. When I arrived in my room, the noise beneath the house continued for a long while, until I finally leaned over the balcony. I could not see the gate, for it was concealed by the western wall of the house, while the branches of the orange tree all but covered the inner courtyard before me. The scent of the orange blossoms was everywhere, overpowering. It penetrated my soul, and filled me with simultaneous pain and ecstasy. Through the branches, I spied the crippled boy seated on a chair surrounded by pillows. A fair-haired girl was placing a small table before his seat, and as I watched, she lifted his legs and placed them upon it. I could not make out his features from where I stood, but his golden hair was parted in the middle and hung down to his shoulders. He spoke in a loud voice I could hear from above: perhaps it was a recitation of some sort. Zulaykha approached him with a small tray bearing food. “The Son of God,” he cried out. “Man does not live by bread alone!”

I know not why he said this, when he was gobbling up the loaves on the tray with gusto. Perhaps he was expressing his joy at arriving at the City of God—or the Son of God. I knew nothing of Christian heresy. I must find out from Samaan their disagreement with the Nestorians over the two natures of Jesus Christ—his humanity and his divinity. I had not grasped the finer points of their disagreement in the books I had studied in the khan. Those who reported them had always made light of the whole affair.

Although the room Samaan had prepared for me was no larger than my room in the Khan al-Hashimi in Karkh, it was clean and bright, like sleeping in the heart of a jasmine blossom. In addition, it opened onto a balcony that formed part of the rooftop of the house: it overlooked the inner courtyard on the east, and to the north of the balcony were stairs leading onto the street. The room was simply furnished, with nothing but a wooden box to hold possessions, a strong, narrow bed with cotton bolsters, and a lantern in a triangular stone-framed alcove. The great advantage of the room was the large window overlooking the balcony and a grapevine. This window must bring the morning in early in all its awe-inspiring glory. If the sun did not wake me, the cooing of the doves would surely accomplish it.

I sat and placed the bag of books in my lap to see what I had brought from the box: I had just grasped at whatever I could reach. There was Hippocrates’s On Regimen in Acute Diseases; The Humors by al-Kindi; al-Farabi’s critique of Aristotle’s Metaphysics; Aristotle’s Ethics, translated by Hanin ibn Ishaq for the House of Wisdom; Physics by the same author; and Yahya ibn Uday’s translation of Aristotle’s Poetics. Finally, there was Ibn al-Muqaffa’s translation of Kalila wa Dimna. Each of these was a treasure in its own right, and I had no intention of leaving more than this in Jerusalem.

I was glad I had found Ethics among these, so that I could start to copy it. Every day I would copy five pages; I would then have it bound and would give it to Sheikh al-Qaysi to replace the tattered copy in his library.

How would I sleep in a room where my only coverlet was a cloud of perfume, and my companions great Arabs and prodigies of Greek wisdom?

Before sundown, I heard a swishing and whispering at the door to my room. Was it birds or cats? I opened the door a crack, and waited awhile before looking out. Two girls, ten arm spans from the door to my room, were hidden in the branches of the orange tree. The sunset light had spilled over their hair, turning it the bright gold of chrysanthemums. They wore bright cotton clothing. One was fair-skinned and a little taller than the other, who was barely out of childhood. Both had delicate fingers that were plucking orange blossoms from the branches of the tree overhanging my room.

When they glimpsed me, they drew back shyly. Then the lighter-skinned one said, “I’m sorry! Did our talking disturb you? We’re just trying to pluck some flowers. We’ll make sweets with half, and the other half we will carry home. We have a small soap-making workshop there.”

From her halting speech and many pauses to remember words, I could tell that she spoke Arabic with difficulty. But the girls were like two radiant streams sparkling in a grove, or like angels from my dreams that had landed on the balcony. I thanked the Lord that I had cut off my braids and trimmed my beard so I didn’t frighten these two doves!

I approached them. There was a pile of blossoms in the corner, conveyed there by the evening breeze. I scooped up a double handful and carried them over to the girls: when I drew near, I could see that the fairer-skinned girl’s face shone like a loaf of bread on hot coals. With naive softness, she said, “We shall repay you with the jam we make to celebrate the end of our long fast.”

It was several days until I tasted the jam. I spent those days going to and fro between the house of Amr al-Qaysi and the house of Father Samaan to move all the books and stack them in their boxes. I placed some of them in the alcove and gazed at them with pride. That was before the light led me to the church of the Christians.

The Saturday of Light

I woke with the dawn mists to the sound of footsteps rushing hither and yon beneath me in the house, water being poured, furniture being moved, and women calling to one another. I leapt out of bed and hurried outside, looking discreetly through the branches of the orange trees to see what was taking place below. The women had emptied the courtyard of furniture and were pouring water and soapsuds onto it, scrubbing the tiles and the fountain. Then they poured more water and swept it out of the courtyard with brooms of straw; they beat the rugs and draped them over the edge of the fountain and trimmed the plants around the orange tree.

They seemed to catch sight of me, and I retreated quickly to my room. I heard a knock on my door like the beating of wings. The younger of the two girls was holding a hot fresh loaf. There was nothing more beautiful than this loaf, save the smile she wore. The fairer-skinned girl was carrying a plate of the orange blossom honey and a glass with some drink in it. She whispered, still shy and hesitant, “Blessed Resurrection. This is sage, the drink of the Virgin: it clears the blood and the mind.” Then she held out the plate. “Your share of the orange blossom honey.”

I had no idea what to say in response in order to make her stay as long as possible. Her eyelashes were thick, I saw now, in the light of the morning sun on her cheeks. When I remained silent, staring at her, smiling like an idiot, she went on, saying, “Father Samaan says that we are all going to mass now. If you want anything from the house before we lock the outer door . . .”

I finally came to myself and said, “To which church are you going?”

“The Church of the Resurrection,” she said. “It’s the Saturday of Light, and the sacred flame will come out of the Holy Sepulcher and light up the world, and the candles in our hands, too.”

Meaning to correct her naive beliefs, I said, “You mean you will light candles at the Holy Sepulcher.”

“No!” she said. “Each of us will bear an unlit candle, and when we go around the Sepulcher, they will be lit by the light of the Lord!”

I nodded, unable to argue with these two radiant doves. All I said was, “When will the door be locked?”

Putting a hand on the shoulder of the younger girl to go, she responded, “We’re only waiting for the men to help us carry Hamilcar’s chair to the church.” I guessed that Hamilcar was her crippled brother.

I retreated inside and placed her gifts aside for my breakfast. Such joy surged through my blood that I could not stay in the room, so I went out onto the balcony. The morning touched all things and made them unfurl: breezes sighed like the breathing of a great and magnificent woman passing through Jerusalem, carrying the spring in her wake. Doves fluttered, murmurs sounded, the smell of bread filled the air, horses neighed from the nearby fields: it was the Saturday of Light. What light engulfed the place! She said that they saw a flame coming out of the Sepulcher that became light. There was no reason I should not go with them and watch the sacred light illuminate their candles. I resolved to go. I would spend my morning with them and see the mumbo jumbo of the Christians for myself.

Their brother needed men to carry his chair. I would be one of them.

I washed and prepared myself, then hurried down the stairs for fear they would leave without me. Their chants and hallelujahs reached my ears: “This is the day that the Lord has made! Let us rejoice and be glad in it! Your light is the Light of the World! Light of creation entire!”

When I arrived downstairs, they had gathered in the courtyard of the house, wearing brightly colored clothes, with silk sashes around their waists. The women had adorned their hair with flowers and the men had waxed their mustaches and turned the corners up. I barely recognized Zulaykha: she was a changed woman. It was then that I realized makeup could turn a barn owl into a woman.

I hesitated, not knowing what to say, then repeated what the girl had said to me: “Blessed Resurrection.”

They smiled in response, looking at each other as though watching a performing monkey. I offered to help them carry Hamilcar’s chair: the priest was delighted, and brought a small chair made of wood and ropes and asked me to sit upon it until they completed their preparations. They were unhurried, occupied in discussing a recipe for some remedy for the cripple—a poultice of powdered sage, the Virgin Mary’s plant, mixed with the milk of a mother whose infant was about to walk or was taking its first steps. The mother was saying, “After this recipe, the Lord sends the angels of walking. They surround a person to lift them from the baseness of the ground to the dignity of standing erect.”

It appeared that they had prepared this recipe, and Zulaykha was walking around them proudly, carrying her infant who had been taking his first steps in the courtyard, while Hamilcar’s knees were wrapped in the poultice, covered with green silky fabric. Hamilcar was sitting among them, fresh-faced and radiant, his blue eyes of startling clarity, so transparent that I had at first thought him blind. His face was cheerful, resembling the images of Jesus hung up in their churches. His mother was dry and withered, all beauty gone from her face. He leaned his head and shoulders against her. I gazed at her, astounded that the womb of this ugly creature could have produced the two doves and Hamilcar as well. I thought of Hassan, who always said, “Do not be deluded by the beauty of Byzantine women in the first flush of youth: they age early.”

It appeared that everyone had surrounded Hamilcar and was preoccupied with him, except for the father, who had slumped over a nearby chair, complaining of continual weakness and thirst, until Samaan turned to him and said, “You have the symptoms of sugar in the blood.”

The father responded, barely able to speak: “I know not. Possibly. My heart beat faster after eating the orange blossom jam.”

“All last night he was weak and sleepless,” the mother said. “He sweated without cease, and went to urinate constantly. Be with us, Blessed Virgin!”

Father Samaan rose and said, “We shall see.” Asking the father to accompany him, he exited through the rear door to the barn behind the house, which supplied the house with milk and eggs and chicken. He was absent for a while. Suddenly we heard the priest calling loudly, “Come and see!”

Unable to contain my curiosity, I rushed with the others to find that the ants had collected around a mound of sand damp with the urine of the ailing father. Proud of the accuracy of his diagnosis, Father Samaan said, “This is the sickness of sugar in the blood. A strict regimen is necessary, that your blood may not consume you.”

I never imagined that the pile of sand damp with urine would one day confer upon me a doctor’s degree.

Samaan preceded us to the church. Two carriages stopped outside the door, each drawn by two powerful mules, one to convey Hamilcar and the other for the women. They mounted, carrying white candles garlanded with myrtle and ornamented crosses. Zulaykha was smiling, her resentment dissipated: she had brought baskets of bread stuffed with boiled eggs, carrots, and other vegetables, a small jar of olive oil, and some herbs. The two doves wore garlands of flowers on their heads, making them shine and take flight like birds of good omen. When our carts passed each other on the road, the fair-skinned girl would smile and wave at us, filling my heart with childlike joy.

The entrance of the street was decorated with wooden arches adorned with garlands of jasmine and leaves, hung about with colored kerchiefs. Everyone passed beneath them singing hymns: “The Redeemer hath returned . . . He hath risen again.” They rang the bells they held in their hands, as the spire that had held the church bells was now burnt to the ground.

Today their Redeemer returned. I recalled the folk of Baghdad, also still waiting for the Mahdi who had gone into the cave to come out . . . everyone was waiting. I knew not if either of these dear departed had resolved to return.

Amr al-Qaysi had told me in secret two days ago to be careful in the Christians’ Alley, as they were justifiably resentful, and often lost their composure when they looked at the charred remains of their church. When I arrived, I could not but sympathize. The sight of the ruined church was indeed enough to make anyone lose his wits. The church had no roof, and some of its walls had been destroyed. What had been the floor was covered with charred wood and shattered glass, swept to the sides; some of the mothers had leapt over the stones of one of the demolished walls into the interior of the building, carrying their children on their hips for fear their tiny feet would be cut by the stained glass shards.

Samaan saw me looking at the ruins in dismay and immediately pushed his way through the rows of people to me. “Welcome to the Church of the Lord, Mazid,” he said. “I wish you had seen it in a better state, before it burned down.” Then he became occupied with trying to clear a space for the chair of the crippled boy, whom I could barely make out among the crowds pouring into the church, its walls, and its soot-stained stones. Through one of the gaps, the Mosque of Umar could be seen.

*

We placed Hamilcar’s chair close to one of the priests, a man wearing an imposing robe and a giant headdress that set him apart from the rest of the holy men. He knelt and sang by the entrance of the sepulcher, sobbing and wailing so violently I could barely make out his voice saying, “A single drop of Christ’s blood is enough to make me pure; a single touch of Christ’s hand is enough to set me free!”

He appeared to be an important personage, surrounded by a group of priests who protected him from the press of people around. He stopped weeping suddenly and sprang to his feet, then strode toward what was left of a dome inside the church with steps leading deep into the earth, which was the sepulcher. This behavior seemed tantamount to announcing that it was time to pray: a great murmur went through those assembled in the church and they all raised their hands, palms open, looking at the sky as though waiting for the light to rain down upon them.

All around the opening of the tomb there were murmurings and hymns: the priest went down into it, and there was a press of bodies like the waves of the sea, raising their candles on high, awaiting a light from a great candle three arm spans tall, which the high priest had taken down into the Sepulcher, and would come out lit with his light. The smell of the tallow candles and some unfamiliar herb . . . I stayed close to Hamilcar, fearing that his chair might be overturned in the crush. His face was shining and his eyes, filled with tears, glanced about him as he clutched his knees tightly. Suddenly he motioned to me to come closer and whispered in my ear, “Now a great light shall come out of the Sepulcher. Only pray. Pray with all your heart.”

I was at a loss for words in the rush of that moment, but I found myself murmuring with them:

A great light shall burst forth from the Sepulcher of the Lord Jesus;
Shine, O Jerusalem, shine with a great light!
Shine with fire, shine with the Lord’s flame so bright;
Kyrie eleison.

Suddenly it was as though two flashes of lightning met above our heads in a line whose arc extended from east to west. I trembled and my knees all but gave way. I looked around me, shivering: the candle of the high priest glowed softly as it glided out of the Sepulcher, alight with a burning flame. He raised it up high, pale and bewildered with joy.

The crowd burst into a frenzy, pushing and shoving, all holding out their candles to receive the light, to light their candles with the Lord’s holy flame. Samaan had a long candle with him, lavishly decorated and ornamented and wound about with myrtle, which he extended and managed to set alight. He then lit the candles of those with him. As I had no candle, the fair-skinned girl gave me a white one. “Pass your fingers over it,” Samaan said to me. “Its flame gives light but does not burn.”

I did so and felt no heat: my fingers came back unscathed. I murmured verse sixty-nine of the Sura of al-Anbiya: “Allah said: O Fire, be coolness and safety upon Abraham.”

Samaan heard me: for the first time, I saw a brightness in his eyes that broke through his sorrow and broken demeanor. He said to me with conviction, “It is not fire, but light.”

The two sisters’ faces were red and their eyes swollen with tears as they swayed and repeated with the others, “Christ is risen again. . . . Kneel in joy, he is risen again!”

Those with bells rang them loudly as everyone prayed. They prostrated themselves on the church floor carpeted with shards of stained glass. I feared to refrain from following suit lest I appear like the Lucifer in this gathering: I prostrated myself; not knowing what to say, I muttered, “Glory to God in the highest.” I repeated it, but God did not respond. I repeated it a second time, but He paid me no heed. Then I whispered resentfully, “If you hear me, O God, forgive me and have mercy upon me, for all I do brings me in the end to You.”

As I raised my head, Hamilcar’s toes were moving before my eyes: his legs were trembling all over. For a moment I did not realize what was happening, preoccupied as I was with calling for God. But that morning, I recalled, his legs had lain as still as sacks of sand. “Christ is risen!” the girls cried out. Hamilcar’s mother was shaking in a paroxysm of weeping, her tears mixing with her mucus, and she poured water perfumed with orange blossoms over his legs, saying, “This is water from Siloam, where the blind man saw again, and where Mary washed his clothes as an infant!”

His feet shook harder. Suddenly I saw his hand grasp at the hem of my garment. “Help me,” he said. “Christ is risen.”

I put my hands under his arms. I lifted him up. He stood. His mother and sisters were gasping with sobs. “Hamilcar walks!” they cried. “Hamilcar walks! May the spirit of the Lord bless him! Christ rose again and healed him!”

All the while, Hamilcar was clutching me with a pained smile. He was hunched over, not walking straight, but he was taking steps. He took about six steps away from the chair, clutching at my robe. I tried to return him to the chair, but he begged, “Let us go to the Light of the World! Let us walk to the sepulcher!”

What have you done to yourself, Mazid? What has planted you here among their crosses and bells? But Hamilcar was walking, and he whispered into my ear, “Jesus bless you, Arab of the desert.”

For a while, I saw the church rise from the ashes, solid stone again thanks to their prayers and hymns. The stones rose up all around the pillars, light spilling forth and the marble shining. Doves fluttered over it. It was then I knew it had not been destroyed: it stood tall in their souls.

I glanced down at Hamilcar. His face was so near mine that I could see the depths of his irises, no longer blue but green. He said slowly, like a man transported and raving, “Do you know the secret of those doves flying up there?” I shook my head. He said calmly, “It is the Holy Ghost. It is with us now.”

In my room that night, I felt that beings of light were gathered around my bed. This talk of flame and of light, who had whispered it in my ear before? Without hesitation, I went to the folder bearing the commandments and took out the papers. The third commandment unfurled:

Third Commandment
The world is light, and it is flame: drink from the cups of the sunlight of knowledge without being burned by its fire. Your greatest aspiration here is to be saved.

Knowledge is light, while certainty is a fatal flame of delusion. It traps the spirit in its folds until its edges disintegrate. O God, bless me with the ever-renewing flood of your light and glory!

The crowds slowly dispersed from the streets of Jerusalem as the pilgrims commenced their return journeys. Hamilcar did not walk with the same vigor he had shown on the Saturday of Light, but he could now stand and leave his chair to walk a few paces, holding on to the walls. I had managed to sell some of the books in my possession: a priest from Antakya had purchased al-Kindi and Hippocrates. He had come to visit Hamilcar’s family to congratulate them on the miracle of Christ that had touched their son. Samaan whispered in his ear that I had some books, so he waited until I returned from the circle of Amr al-Qaysi. I found them awaiting my arrival, Samaan anxiously wringing his hands and the priest from Antakya sitting in the courtyard, in his hand a long rosary of yellow beads that he was running through his fingers. His hair hung to his shoulders, pure white like cotton. Zulaykha had brought out what seemed like the entire contents of her kitchen to welcome him.

He did not ask me to show him the remainder of the books, as is customers’ wont: he merely placed the books carefully in his sleeve, paying me handsomely for them. Before he departed, he told us there would be a meteor shower tonight after sunset, which they said were the angels sent by the Lord to prepare the earth for Christ’s return.

Hamilcar and his sisters were eager to see them. I invited them to come up that evening to the balcony adjoining my room to watch the angels dressed as meteors.

There was a low stone seat along the wall embraced by the branches of the orange tree: the sisters furnished it with a carpet and pillows to form a comfortable seat for Hamilcar, propping up his feet on a rattan chair. Then they ran downstairs to get some bread and the cakes they baked for Easter to eat on the roof at sunset. As they came and went, I quelled the desire that had stayed with me, to dip my fingers into the spring of their rosy cheeks.

Hamilcar was excited, his face no longer pale. He said loudly, “Your face shall ever remind me of my steps by the Holy Sepulcher, and the happiness I felt when the blood rushed through the veins of my feet!”

I seized the opportunity of his sisters’ absence to ask, “Would it please you that I recite some of our Qur’an over you to bolster your recovery?”

His eyes shone. “I entreat you! Do so before my sisters return and betray it to my mother!”

I recited the Fatiha, al-Falaq, and al-Nas, and breathed, “When I sicken, it is He who cures me,” and recited verse 255 of the Sura of al-Baqara, known as the Verse of the Throne. I raised my hands to the sky and whispered, as my grandfather used to when I had a fever or trouble breathing, “God, do away with illness, Lord of All. Heal, for you are the Healer.”

At that moment, the meteors began shooting down powerfully in mighty showers, so bright that they lit up the darkness of the eastern horizon. The rest of the family ran up to the balcony to watch with us.

After the Night of the Meteors, Hamilcar and his sisters, the two doves, often came up to my balcony. The older girl was named Elissar and the younger Hanna.

In front of the orange tree, Hamilcar told me the secret of his unusual name. “My father dreamed,” he said, “that I would be a great general like Hamilcar Barca the Carthaginian, but as ill luck would have it, I became a cripple.”

His sisters were accustomed to these sorrowful moments from him, so they hurried to praise his intelligence and beauty, and rub his legs, and tell me of impressive things he had done when he was a little boy, such as committing to memory everything he heard. “Why, he spoke fluent Arabic at six!” one sister said, giving me to understand that this was before the fever that had crippled him. The girls were
convinced that part of their duty in life was to make Hamilcar happy.

Elissar leapt up. “He reads! He is wise! He reads in Surianese and Arabic, and all in Antakya bring him their letters to read for them.” She entreated, “Will you permit me to bring him a book from your room, that you may hear him?”

Without waiting for an answer, she bounded out of her seat and disappeared into my room. She found only the books arranged in the alcove, as I had locked the others securely in the crate. She returned with al-Muqabasat, a copy I had acquired for a paltry sum from an indifferent merchant who had placed it under his water jar. Hamilcar took the book and reverently turned it this way and that in his hands, while his sister lifted the lantern by his head.
He began to read Malik ibn al-Rayb’s poem in sweet, haunting tones:

If only I might pass a night in Najd!
To my camel I lament with all my might;
If only the caravan had not left Najd;
If only Najd could walk with us by night.

He read fluently and well, despite lacking the lilt of the Arabic verse meter of al-raml. His melodious voice and the light of the lamp spilling onto his face made him seem like a priest speaking a prophecy. Hamilcar, the miracle of Christ, with his great soul unfurled over the world. We spent several nights going over what Hamilcar read and studying it together: I could see a depth of awareness in him and a rare talent, one I had never before seen in any student.

It did not require a great deal of thinking on my part to resolve to pass the torch of the Voyagers to him, and let him take the book to Antakya. Although I was busy with discussions and conversations and revising books and preaching to Hamilcar that he might be a secret crane in Antakya, there was another who had me in his sights and for whom I was the subject of his preaching.

After the event at the church, Samaan came up to me more frequently, perhaps on the pretext of bringing food, perhaps to ensure that the door was locked from the inside. Each time, he brought me small porcelain icons of Christ and Mary, then thanked God for Hamilcar’s recovery, and told me how he had seen the face of the Lord shining in mine when we were in the church, and how the Kingdom of the Lord had opened its doors to admit me. He repeated, “When one forgets the Lord, the Devil takes his place, for the human soul is a house, and if it be not inhabited by the Lord, the Devil shall make his home there.”

I sat with him and listened without attempting to silence him. I enjoyed the soulful, slightly idiotic gaze he fixed on me and wanted it to continue: I wanted to let him enjoy the pride of being a missionary in return for his friendly and thoughtful hospitality. I had no desire to tell him that this talk was soporific, that there was a great deal of what he said in my own religion, and that I was still examining it in my own head. How, then, should I make the leap and become a Christian when I had not yet settled matters in the faith into which I had been born?

Still, he was relentless in his invitations to the Kingdom of Christ, so much so that he sometimes knocked on my door in the middle of the night, asking me to wake and look at the face of Christ in the moon.

I decided at that juncture to be somewhat unpleasant, that he might stop. “I am unconvinced by the doctrine of atonement: how can one bear the sins of all? In our religion”—and here I quoted verse thirty-eight of the Sura of al-Najm—“‘no laden one shall bear another’s load.’”

But it appeared that my question only kindled an unquenchable passion in him to tell me repeatedly that the Son of God is as meek and mild as a lamb: he told me that Christ did not ask for even bread or water when they were withheld from him. “The Son of God will save us, along with God’s mercy and His vast kingdom that embraces all.”

Two days later, Samaan sat with us—Hamilcar, his two sisters, and I—on the balcony, although it was his custom at that time of day to accompany Istafan, the monk, to pray at the ashes of the church.

Istafan had been one of the monks of the Church of the Resurrection before it was destroyed. He could now be seen by its ashes, perpetually kneeling. His face was sunken and pale, lost always in prayer, while some old women who passed by combed his unruly hair and gave him food to eat and rubbed his chapped feet with olive oil and perfume. He told the story of the night of the fire to all who passed: curious pilgrims, itinerant vendors, the stray cats, and the birds of the sky. He repeated it in every detail and word for word, and concluded, “And so the Fatimid caliph al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah commanded that the Church of the Resurrection be torn down and the Holy Sepulcher sabotaged. It was leveled to the ground, and this was on the second day of the imprisonment of the Coptic pope Zacharias. His uncle Armia, the Orthodox patriarch of Jerusalem, was also summoned, and the Fatimid caliph had him beheaded.” And between the gasps and wide-eyed glances, he would mention that it took fifty-four buckets, which he had carried on his own from Siloam, to extinguish the blaze.

With every sunset, Samaan would go to the monk Istafan and kneel by his side before the ruins and ashes, and they would pray together: “The lion cub is imprisoned, who can sleep? Can any believer in Christ close their eyes thinking of the humiliations heaped upon Christ, bringing Him to stand like a criminal before criminals when He is the embodiment of compassion, ruling that He should die when He is life and the giver of life to humankind? His followers escaped that the proverb might be true: ‘Strike but at the shepherd and the sheep shall scatter.’”

Many pilgrims and the denizens of Christians’ Alley would join them in prayer: “Strike but at the shepherd and the sheep shall scatter!” Their voices reverberated through the streets.

But this was one of the rare nights when Samaan abandoned this practice, leaving Istafan the monk in favor of bringing me into the Lord’s flock. How I wished to whisper to him of my bitter struggle with my demons and the heresies of philosophers and the sacrilege of al-Farabi, that he might cease this suicide mission! In an attempt to acquaint him with the abyss of my demons—for then perhaps he would be silent and only pray for me—I asked him, “What is the secret of the conflict between the Christians at the Council of Chalcedon on the nature of Christ?”

He blinked hard and stuttered. I went on: “Some say the Lord will rule over humanity on the Judgment Day in his human form, because He appeared in human form before creation, and some reject this.”

Samaan looked at me silently, brow furrowed. He seemed to sense that it was time to retreat and regroup. However, nothing would dissuade him from his attempts to convert me, despite the way I stared at him, trying to infuse a measure of idiocy, and my heretical questions about the nature of Christ, which roused his ire. He ceased his ascents to my room for a number of days; perhaps he was absorbed in aiding the many pilgrims leaving Jerusalem.

We met every evening. Elissar and Hanna would prepare Hamilcar’s seat, while I brought my collection of books, and we would start to read them. The girls would sit with us for a while, listening silently without remark; soon tiring, they would slip like breezes into my room and impose order on my scattered things. They arranged my pens in rows, washed my clothes, filled my jug with flower-scented water, and set out some cakes for me. Then they left, filled with gratitude for the joy that shone on the face of their brother in my company.

The scent of orange blossoms never left the folds of their clothing. The scent made me melancholy and filled me with yearning, and I imagined them sleeping by my side every night.

Christ had awoken, and the world with him: the bells of spring chimed and the cats yowled their mating calls and the demons stirred in the depths of our minds. I wanted to tell Samaan, “The demon inside me is now whispering with desire for Elissar and Hanna together; the demon wants them together. I am captivated by their beauty and naiveté, their mouths half open with all the lustfulness of a bunch of grapes.”

I preferred not to tell Amr al-Qaysi of Samaan’s proselytizing forays, and his attempts to bring me into the fold; I could see that they shared a profound friendship and a great deal of mutual respect and affinity. I did not wish to ruin it, being merely a passing guest who would soon be gone.

However, in the end, when Samaan began to ask me to come with them to mass on Sunday instead of going to Amr al-Qaysi’s discussion circle, I hinted to al-Qaysi about this. With a sly smile, I said, “It appears I am an uncommonly welcome guest in Samaan’s household.”

Al-Qaysi was undisturbed, merely nodding. “What else did you expect from a man of God? This indicates that you are now dear to him: he hopes to make you one of his flock, fearing for you and wishing to grant you this gift.” He tilted his head. “Do you and Hamilcar not spend long hours in discussion? Are you not attempting to bring him nearer you, and grooming him to become one of the Voyagers’ cranes in Antakya? Just so, Samaan wants you in the flock of the Lord’s sheep.” He smiled. “Fear not. Be glad. Whatever is set before you, subject it to the judgment of your mind. If your mind accepts it, then take it; else, reject it. A Voyager has no truck with the faith of sheep. While with them, pluck the best fruits only from the orchard; discard the rest.”

He fell silent. Then he put a hand over his mouth as though remembering something. “In any event, we Mutazilites, men of science and monotheism, have a great argument with the Christians. The first to challenge the Qur’an, to say that it is created and not eternal, was John of Damascus, called Saint John by the Christians, who presented the argument to the Muslims of the Levant: ‘Do you say in your holy book that Jesus is the Word of God to Mary and part of His spirit?’ And when the Muslims responded in the affirmative, John of Damascus said, ‘And you say that the Qur’an is the Word of God, not created but eternal, on the Preserved Tablet?’ And when they said, ‘Yes,’ he then said, ‘Then Jesus is a God eternal, not created.’”

Al-Qaysi raised his long-lashed eyes and blinked several times. “You see, Mazid? It is a marketplace for answers. Each displays his own wares. Cleave to that which your mind tells you: it is that which will tell you what is good and what is evil, and you can then make your choice.” He nodded. “This earth has been trodden by a great many prophets. Each of these leaves behind people, Paradise, and Hellfire, in addition to a disciple who weeps over his grave.”

He rose, performed his ablutions, and led us in the evening prayers.

Customarily, before the Ramadan dhikr circles, a number of preachers come to recite the stories of eminent men’s lives, of conquests, and of tales from the lives of the prophets. They exchange seats until the prayer of qiyam, of those who sit up all night to worship. But what piqued my curiosity and left me astonished and openmouthed were their tales of the history of Jerusalem. Whence had they come by all this information? Or had apocrypha crept in? They sat cross-legged, closed their eyes, and, their faces filled with a kind of delight, recited reverently: “This is the House of Prophets, the Place of the Righteous, the Home of the Abdal, and the destination of the virtuous. It is the first of the two Meccas, as we call the holy pilgrimage sites; it is the site of the Resurrection and of the Prophet Muhammad’s ascension to Heaven; it is the Holy Land; it is where the virtuous soldiers of the Lord never sleep; it bears the glorious caves and the noble mountains; here Abraham came and was buried; here Job lived and kept his well; here were David’s altar and his gate; here were Solomon’s miracles and his cities; here Ishaq and his mother are buried; here Christ was born and raised; here were Saul’s village and his river; here David slew Goliath; here Jeremiah was imprisoned; here were Uriah’s mosque and his home; here were Muhammad’s home and his gate; the Rock of Moses; the hill of Jesus; the altar of Zacharias; the battlefield of Yahya; the tombs of prophets; the villages of Job; the home of Jacob.”

He paused for breath, looking around to see the effect of his words on the assembled faces, then resumed: “The Aqsa Mosque. The Mount of Zeta, also known as the Mount of Olives. The city of Acre. The tomb of the Siddiq Abraham; the tomb of Moses; where Ibrahim lies; the city of Ashkelon; the Springs of Siloam; the dwelling place of Luqman; the Valley of Canaan; the cities of Lot; the place of divine gardens, the mosques of Umar, and the endowment of Uthman; the location of the two God-fearing men who came out to Moses, and the meeting where the two adversaries met; the dividing line between torment and forgiveness; the location of Baysan; and a portal placed on Earth by the Almighty.”

And so the preacher continued until he felt the listeners had tired of his speech, at which time he would tear off his turban and make the rounds of the attendees that they might place whatever sum they wished into it. I would sit there openmouthed, perpetually stunned. Once I whispered to Amr al-Qaysi, “Is all this information true?”

“If it is, he’s a wonder.” He laughed. “The words of preachers and biographers are filled with Israiliyat.” I nodded, knowing that this meant false information from a foreign source, not necessarily Israelite.

From that day on, whenever I passed through the streets of Jerusalem, I looked about me in search of the ruins of the things the preachers had described: I found naught but a grieving city, its air now bearing the scent of orange blossoms, now the smell of burning.

I was unhappy, even grieved, to learn that Hamilcar and his sisters were returning to Antakya. They were preparing to leave in a matter of days. This meant that I too must go. It was time to dismantle the tent of friendly company and talk and the wisdom of the ancients that had been set in motion by the shower of meteors and the wings of angels upon the balcony overlooking the courtyard, which I had once thought would last forever.

Hamilcar no longer needed to be helped up and down the stairs, for he had a stick upon which he leaned, and ascended, albeit slowly, catching his breath at each step. But he arrived in the end, and hurried to my room, looking around in its corners for a manuscript or book that I might have forgotten to pack away in the chest. That evening they prepared a light supper for us: loaves sprinkled with thyme and olive oil. Elissar brushed each of these with a spoonful of buttermilk before pouring olive oil over it and handing them to each of us.

I was accustomed to concealing my grief behind a veil of mystery and silence. But that night, it was as though I wished to stand and mourn over ruins like the ancient Arab poets, and the words escaped me perforce. “I am overcome with sorrow at your departure,” I confessed.

They responded with sighs and sadness equaling or passing what I felt—words of regret and tear-filled eyes. We dried each other’s tears with promises to meet the following year. And so we filled the breaches of parting with wishes that we knew would not come true.

Suddenly, after a moment of silence in which our food stuck in our throats, Hanna whispered, in her girlish voice like the cooing of a dove, “There is something I wish to ask you, but I fear it may disturb you.”

I wondered what she wanted. Had Samaan told her something of my heretical ramblings? Or had she sensed something of my thoughts about her? I nodded. “What is it?”

“Do you desert Arabs really eat lizards?” she blurted.

Her sister kicked her under the table; Hamilcar burst out laughing and roared with mirth for a long time. I looked at her face, bright red with embarrassment, and thought, “What an enchanting girl! Her beauty is ruinous! Did she see the remnants of a lizard’s tail on my mouth, I who spent many nights longing to pluck the grapes from her lips?”

I laughed along with them and said proudly, “I am Mazid, Mazid of Najd, al-Hanafi, from al-Yamama. My land has flowing springs and blossoming date palms. My homeland is like a stunning beauty covered in a burka, who is savage and wild to strangers, but once she trusts you, takes off her veil and shines. Her springs burst forth with meteors and honey—honey that has been stored in her hidden places since the time of Tasm, Jadis, and all the extinct tribes that are no more.”

They left the balcony, going downstairs, the sound of their laughter and chatter lingering. Hamilcar’s transparent eyes, filled with wonder; Elissar’s and Hanna’s hands that made everything they passed over shine; their delicious, satisfying meal steeped in the perfume of the fields of wheat. I resolved to leave Jerusalem, having left a scrap of myself here, on this balcony. I had stuffed my pockets with knowledge and pages turned to ash; I had poured into my heart that mysterious thing that keeps you on the banks of the river of speech, unable to scoop any of it into the pots of language.

With care, I had passed three books to some pilgrims who I had sensed would keep them well, on the shelves of respect and veneration in their homes or at the book market. I had also finished copying out Aristotle’s Ethics. I must prepare to depart, I could not remain standing and staring at ruins, listening to the reed flute of sorrow until the last breath. I should gather my things and flee. I would give the requisite respect to grief; I would not begrudge it. I would feel its pain, and be a good host. But afterward, I would wash myself of its dark discouragement, and would carefully take down the lesson it bore me. I would close the ledger and go. The grief of Jerusalem still settled in my breast and held sway over me. It had its own sly methods, slipping in whenever evening came and Canopus shone again, or when the doves cooed by my window.

But I must go. If water does not flow, it stagnates. I would go. It was no lie when I said that my heart longed to see Egypt.

*

I could not sleep that night. I left my bed and climbed down the outer stair to the street, feeling my way by the light of a sleepy slip of a moon and the far-apart torches on the winding stone walls of the alleyways. I would tell al-Qaysi that I was going to Egypt, and he would certainly tell me the name of the Voyager I should visit there.

I had chosen Hamilcar to be the repository of the Voyagers’ torch. He had a brilliant intelligence and a spirit eager for knowledge, and was a voracious reader. In the libraries of Antakya, he could found an active cell of Voyagers. I would copy the seven commandments and pass them on to him. I knew not how they would appear to him: most importantly, Samaan must not see them, for fear he think I were proselytizing to him.

The street was quiet but for the sounds of the insects of the night and the crowing of confused cockerels thinking it already dawn. I arrived at a spring pouring out of a wall, forming a clear pool in a basin. I plunged my hands into it, scooping out a double handful, and drank and drank. I washed my face, feeling my worries fall away with the drops of water. Then, fearful of losing my way in the dark, twisting alleyways, I decided to turn back. But suddenly I heard the sound of footsteps approaching.

I trembled. What had brought me out now, so close to dawn? Then I saw the shadow of someone approaching from the end of the street. It was either a night watchman, who would be suspicious of one walking alone at this hour, or a robber or member of the Ayyarin, who would steal my garments and leave me naked. I froze and stuck close to the wall, not making a sound, hoping he would not see me. But to my astonishment, when the owner of the footsteps approached, I could make out a woman with her hair loose. Oh God, was this the ogress of children’s stories?

When she drew level with me, I made out that she was wearing a fur garment and a head covering of sheep’s wool. She was muttering, “How narrow the way if You are not one’s guide; how terrible the loneliness if You are not one’s companion.”

She would have left me behind and walked on had I not whispered, “What keeps us from God, then?”

She turned her face to the sky and responded without looking at me, “The love of the world. There are those whom God has given of his love to drink; these are so consumed with passion for Him that they love none other.”

“And what is the path to Him, sister?”

Then she turned to me. Despite the dark, I could see tears in her slightly protuberant eyes: her glance was sharp, plunging deep into my chest and taking my breath away. Then she said, “Some carry understanding to those who understand better than they. Your answer you shall find always in your heart.”

As though handing her some of the stones that weighed heavily on my heart, I said, “But what of the whisperings and mutterings of the Devil?”

I could hear her saying as she walked on and left me standing there, “Sometimes the soul feels tightness and darkness; sometimes it feels free and light. Follow your own light, young man, follow your own light.”

Afterward, I ran to my room with the fourth commandment reverberating in my head.

Fourth Commandment
Erect no dam, raise no veil between yourself and the truth. If it cometh in the shape of a person who claims to possess the truth in its entirety, remove him far from your path, for this is nothing but his own truth. If it cometh in the form of certainty, purify it with the water of questioning and doubt; if it cometh in the form of a mountain, climb it to seek what lies behind that mountain. Do not hand over your mind to any creature who seeks to direct or lead you on the pretext that they alone have claim to certainty: in so doing, you become like the donkey who gives its reins to a thief to steal it.

I remained staring at the wall, unable to think clearly, until morning came.

The next morning, Samaan was standing at the bottom of the stairs, still smoothing down the hems of his sleeves with his clean, neat fingernails. He told me that a group of Coptic priests would be visiting him within two days, and that he wished to show them some of the books I had acquired. With a sad, wry smile, he said, “They say that the Egyptian caliph has established a great library comprising many varied texts in the sciences and arts, and appointed skilled copyists to replicate them; they would like to select some of your valuable books to sell to the library. They will pay great prices for them.”

I fell silent. I could feel that Egypt awaited me: it was I who would pass the books on to the library.

I could not sell all my books here, for I must pass the seeds of the Voyagers to many cities, and I must keep some books in my possession for Egypt, and, if I were blessed enough, the libraries of Cordoba, where the learned folk would no doubt receive them eagerly. “I have only a few books left, mostly books of poetry and quotations from the ancients, which I doubt will interest the priests as much as the House of Wisdom translations in the sciences, but in any case I will see what remains.”

I paused awhile. I wished to ask him about the woman I had encountered the previous night, but feared he would ask me why I had left the house before dawn, so I was silent, looking around at the white gypsum walls of the houses, embracing windows adorned with flowers, and listening to the bleating of sheep and lambs in the fields and meadows around the city walls.

I bought a handful of green almonds from an itinerant vendor and nibbled at them eagerly despite their acidic tang. Jerusalem had no running water or canals like Baghdad: its water came from wells. But it had the best fruit of any city. The folk around me walked slowly, secure now that the bustle of pilgrims had abated from the streets. How had things fallen apart so drastically for me that none of the stories I was told answered my questions? The flood of facts had burst forth, destroying the architecture of my mind. I had not one room left in which to take shelter. How had al-Qaysi’s structure remained standing and stable, with light in his face and peace in his heart and tact in his conduct, while I was being pecked at by the birds?

I had settled upon giving Amr al-Qaysi Kalila wa Dimna instead of Ikhwan al-Safa. Not only was it bound splendidly and intact, it was entertaining and exciting and good for both adults and children. As for Ikhwan al-Safa, the copy I had not only appeared to be by Ikhwan al-Safa, but it had many additions and errors introduced in copying, and included sections on astronomy, alchemy, magic, and talismans, sciences I needed to read about and explore their mysteries. One is greedy at heart, after all.

I had completed Aristotle’s Ethics. I would take it to the paper market to have it bound, knowing for a certainty that al-Qaysi had read it before. But a Voyager must have a book by Aristotle in his collection, and a scale that allows a mind to weigh pros and cons.

I was distracted as I walked: my feet led me to Istafan the monk, still kneeling in the ruins of the church and praying: “O Lord Jesus! You who said, ‘Come to me, all you weary, who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,’ I am coming to you. I place all the burdens of my life at your feet, for I believe you will carry them for me, today and every day, as you once carried the cross.”

Istafan’s face was tanned and leathery and cracked by long exposure to the sun in his long prayer. Around his neck was a large wooden cross, as big as the one hanging around the neck of Samaan. I pitied him. The cord of the cross had rubbed the back of his neck raw. I tried to move the cross to relieve the pressure, and it left a perfume on the tips of my fingers. “Is this sandalwood?” I asked.

He did not look at me, merely murmuring, “Perhaps.”

I left him, asking myself the secret of this refreshing, wonderful smell around Istafan. Was it the perfumed oils with which the old women anointed his hair, hands, and feet? But they too said that this smell was from the sacred dust stirred up by the beating of angel wings and the soles of the feet of the prophets who walked around this saint.

When the afternoon prayer call sounded, I went to the Mosque of Umar to pray with Amr al-Qaysi, bend my knee at his discussion circle, and drink my fill of his wellspring: perhaps it might quench the fire of the questions burning within me. Perhaps I would tell him of my desire to leave for Egypt.

I arrived at the mosque as Amr al-Qaysi was shaking the ablution water off his hands. We prayed together. His discussion circle was not held immediately: some Catholics and their great priests were paying a visit to the mosque, and had obtained the wali’s permission to enter the mosque that they might contemplate its construction and architecture from within. I was joyful, for I should be in al-Qaysi’s presence and obtain a private audience with him until such time as the Catholics’ tour of the mosque was concluded. I gained knowledge and learning every time I found myself in his presence; I still stammered before him and became an overawed student searching his brain for some observation to make his teacher think him bright. But instead, I found myself telling him what occurred on the Saturday of Light: how I had gone there to assist the crippled boy on his journey to the Church of the Resurrection, and seen with my own two eyes the flame that shone out from the sepulcher to light the candles. Disapprovingly, he responded, “That is what led to the destruction of the Church of the Resurrection and the site of the Holy Sepulcher: someone told the Fatimid caliph, al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah, of the flame that comes out of the sepulcher. His opinion was that this filled their minds with idolatry and their hearts with doubt, and drove them to light lanterns at the altar and resort to ruses to bring the light to them, such as dipping them in elder oil, which is flammable when mixed with oil of lily, and burns with an intense and dazzling flame.”

My eyes widened in wonder. “But the Christians have been doing this for dozens of years, nay, hundreds! How could he embark upon such a course?”

Shaking his head, he whispered, “He is an unstable leader, of unsound mind, and disturbed. Ever since he ascended the throne, he has been seeking an opportunity to harm them, although his mother is a Christian, and he was raised by his maternal uncle. That may be the reason, we know not.” He sighed. “The wali of Jerusalem showed me a letter he received from the caliph saying: ‘Undertake the castration of the Christian priests in Jerusalem.’ The city fell into an uproar, stunned and disturbed at the cruelty of such a command. When they remonstrated with him, he said that he had said, ‘Undertake a census of the Christian priests in Jerusalem,’ and that flies had muddied the ink to change it to ‘castration,’ or so he claimed!”

He took a deep breath. “He has perpetrated bizarre deeds upon the people of Egypt. He has made it a crime to sell dates, and had a great quantity of them collected, which he burned. He prohibited the sale of grapes, and destroyed the date harvest that the Christians might not turn it into wine. He has gone so far as to compel Christians to wear a cross about their necks weighing a pound and a quarter by the Damascene scale, like the cross you see on the neck of Samaan. He also compels the Jews to wear a piece of wood around their necks weighing fully as much as the cross, in a reference to the head of the calf they had worshipped, and to wear black turbans only. Christians and Jews must wear the cross and the piece of wood even in the bath. It is said that in his Cairo, he created special bathhouses for them that they might not mingle with Muslims. Therefore, when news reached him of the flame that emerges from the sepulcher, and the customs of the Christians every year, singing hymns and waving palm fronds and olive branches, he wrote to the wali of Jerusalem commanding him to demolish the Church of the Resurrection.”

He gestured with his head to the men going about the church: “Imagine that you have come from far away to perform a pilgrimage, only to find that the Holy Kaaba had been demolished. Not only that: you are prohibited from circumambulating it as usual. You would be bound to feel that the world has been shaken to its foundations. That unbalanced boy on the throne of Egypt has done to their church what the infidel Abraha dared not do to the Holy Kaaba. And as though that were not enough, he commanded in the same year that the churches of Egypt be demolished into the bargain.” He lowered his voice and looked about for fear of being heard by one of the Catholics walking nearby, contemplating the walls and ceilings, impressed, their embroidered silken robes making them appear like proud cockerels. “They have a base title for the Church of the Resurrection: they call it the Church of the Refuse to further demean and degrade it!” He shook his head. “This despite the fact that you will never find a prouder people than those of Jerusalem. You will not see a drunkard here; the traders do not cheat in their measure; there are no houses of ill repute, in secret or in public, but it has a rash and reckless ruler. It is said that he hated his Christian teacher, who humiliated him as a child, so that when he grew up and wished to take vengeance, he visited the teacher and mocked him, saying, ‘The lizard has become a dragon.’ Then he had him killed.”

After hearing this news of Egypt, I thought better of telling my sheikh al-Qaysi of my desire to go there. Perhaps I would tell him the following day.

*

Not long after, the Catholics quit the mosque. Al-Qaysi accompanied them to the gate out of respect and shook their hands warmly. Then he returned to us to hold his circle.

Some of the Christians had lingered, obtaining al-Qaysi’s
permission to listen to him. They clustered around his discussion circle next to his students and disciples, rubbing shoulders with them. He called out, “Thanks be to God, and prayers and peace upon the Prophet. Prayers and peace upon the One who hath made the good and righteous man, Jesus, peace be upon him, and empowered him to hold prayer. Our Qur’an calls peace and prayers upon Jesus, upon the day of his birth, the day of his death, and the day he is resurrected to live again.” He quoted hurriedly from the Sura of al-Ghashiya, when he perceived that heads had begun to turn this way and that in curiosity: “‘Remind them, for thou art but a remembrance; Thou art not at all a warder over them.’ The Just Monotheists follow the path of rationality. Rationality is their imam.” His eyelids drooped for a moment, his long lashes casting a shadow over his cheeks, as was his wont when struck by inspiration. A faint smile of ecstasy played about his mouth. “When we just folk seek to speak of language, we find that it is formed by rules and practice. It is a pure creation of humanity; it developed together with history, and in accordance with the changes in time and place. Our wise man, Abu Ishaq al-Kindi, says that there is nothing more important to a student of Right than Right itself. Islam is a structure, built upon the five pillars. What lies within this structure is yours: you have the free will to build and establish your life with what choices you will.”

“If I had said this aloud in a mosque in Baghdad,” I thought to myself, “I would fear that the mosque would be brought crashing down around my ears! But,” I mused, “it appears that the City of the Prophets is more tolerant of a little heresy.”

*

On my way home, I entered the covered market adjoining the western side of the Mosque of Umar. They said that it was the gate the Prophet Muhammad had entered by on his journey up to Paradise. It was packed with close-set stalls, the floor paved with great, ancient flagstones, smooth with curved edges, and before each stall stood the vendor crying his wares. The seller of rosaries waved two of them, crafted of perfumed wood; the spice trader sang the praises of a powder that would return an old man to his youth; the seller of caftans called out that he had robes just arrived from Byzantium. Everyone was crying his wares, each roaring loudly so as to drown out his neighbor. It was a battle of voices all around me. But they knew full well when to cease their shouting so as not to escalate into a physical altercation; long neighborliness had created tacit boundaries between them, which they respected. Each of them displayed his wares, and the market was for everyone: just as a prophet appears at the head of every nation, allowing whoever wishes to believe or disbelieve the freedom to do so. Why was it not so outside the marketplace? In Jerusalem, in Iraq, and in al-Yamama, rivers of blood flowed between the adherents of every prophet; and in the Agate Cities, steeped in blood and screaming, the poem was recited that al-Qaysi was ever repeating to me:

Jerusalem’s folk, with all their might,
Quarrel ’tween Muhammad and Christ.
Some ring the church bells day and night;
Some cry to prayer as to a fight;
Fain would I know, for ’tis a blight,
Just who is wrong and who is right!

At that moment, I was fiercely resentful of al-Qaysi: he had thrown me into my own perplexity, and escaped unscathed himself.

Zulaykha’s Spring

In my final days in Jerusalem, Zulaykha’s treatment of me changed. She was more pleasant and less forbidding. This pleased me. I had a fondness for her, and a deep respect that made me seek her favor, hoping that her resentment of Muslims, whom I embodied, would fade. I had had no hand in her husband’s murder.

She smiled at me, her yellow eyes glowing like a cat’s. I had always wished to voice my admiration of her housekeeping and how well the house was managed: this grim figure, with her hooked nose and sunken cheeks, had spread the perfume of flowers about the place like a garment adorning her home. Her children played about her, fresh-faced, clean, and well-dressed. She pushed some logs and wood scraps into the oven, and in a twinkling set the table with food and delicious bread. She scattered sprigs of mint and thyme over the dishes, dividing the food among those who lived there, and prepared glasses of anise or sage. She brought water from a basin beneath a spring that flowed from the wall of the house, and poured it equally among small pots on the balcony and in the rooms after mixing it with drops of orange blossom water.

Her skill at cooking was the talk of the neighbor women: on that day when the Egyptian priests had visited us, she made for them a small roast pig, adorning it with fragrant herbs and orange slices. They cleaned their plates so thoroughly that there was not even a scrap left to give to the hungry men of the church!

Before Departure, after Posterior Analytics

Ishaq ibn Hunayn’s translation of Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics was the book I had decided to bring to meet the Egyptians who had congregated in Samaan’s house before I showed them my collection. My keen interest in meeting them lay not only in the sale of my books; the main source was my desire to accompany their caravan to Egypt and learn about their country from them.

There were four men. They sat in a row in the sitting room, imbuing it with a heavy masculine scent mingled with the smell of their sweat and the sandalwood I customarily smelled in churches. Three of them had taken off the crosses about their necks and placed them in their laps. The fourth, who seemed to be their master, sat among them, leaning back in his seat, while they sat politely on the edges of their chairs and looked at him to show respect and obedience. When he spoke, they all fell silent; at a movement from his hand, they rushed to fulfill whatever command he had given.

The leader was slight of stature, with an incongruously loud, hoarse voice. Perhaps its imposing nature lent strength to his feeble physical presence, swimming in his loose ecclesiastical garment. But a look at his glittering eyes made you recognize that within the folds of the black garment lurked a wily fox, skilled at making his way through the twists and turns of life to achieve his ends. His piercing gaze scrutinized me, making me fall silent at first.

To break the stillness, Samaan extended his hand to the book I held. “This is Mazid,” he said, “a bookseller from Baghdad. He says that he has a goodly collection of
the translations of the House of Wisdom.” Then he rose from his seat and presented the book to the wily fox with a slight bow.

I had not missed the implicit ridicule in Samaan’s tone as he introduced me. It was as though he were saying, “Well, and something may come of the desert Arabs yet: wonders will never cease!”

He called the small priest “Father Basilius.” Without bothering to look at me, Basilius responded as he turned the book over in his hands: “The market is filled with books copied from Aristotle, especially his Ethics, and Plato’s book on politics. Not every book is trustworthy. It might be filled with apocrypha from copying: scraps and lines from here and there, unrelated to the original book. I previously bought from a charlatan bookseller a collection of Pythagoras, Empedocles, and Themistius, or Euphrades as he is sometimes called.”

I took umbrage at his belittling tone and the weighty names he dropped as though to intimidate me. How was I to gauge his veracity? I rose with alacrity and plucked the book from his hands, returning to my seat. “In matters of buying and selling, if the buyer has no desire for the goods, he is under no obligation to acquire them.”

He stared at me, slack-jawed. It appeared he had thought that his old man’s bargaining tactics, which rely on denigrating the wares being sold, would garner him the best offer. “Where are you from, young man?” he asked.

His tone reminded me of Hassan the Egyptian. They sounded extremely alike, as though they had lived together in the same house. His r and l sounds mingled in the same manner. Hassan’s presence, suddenly there between us, softened the harsh moment, at least to me. “I am Mazid,” I responded, “Mazid al-Hanafi, from al-Yamama. I was educated in Najd, and I have a degree from some imams of Baghdad in grammar, the Prophet’s tradition, and Qur’an recitation. I frequent the discussion circles of Amr al-Qaysi, the sheikh of the Mosque of Umar.”

“My ear is never wrong!” he boomed, his voice still filled with arrogance and disdain. “You buy and sell books of philosophy, when your sheikhs say that philosophy is heresy, and brand those who choose it as a profession as apostates from Islam? What have you to do with books of philosophy?”

The provocative question caught me by surprise. I could find nothing to say. Naturally, I could not use philosophy to argue with him: he was a cleric, and the Church has always burned books of philosophy. I could not respond to him in kind and say, “And what have you to do with them?” The three men around him were staring at me with narrowed eyes, awaiting their master’s command to know what to make of me. But I shall not deny that I was pained.

I contented myself with saying, “None rejects philosophy but a narrow-minded fool, be he a Muslim or a Christian priest.” I added, “The Just Monotheists have a long and profound connection with philosophers.” I took a deep breath, holding Aristotle’s book tightly in my hands. “Al-Kindi, the Arab philosopher and sage, says we must elevate that which rationality elevates and denigrate what it denigrates. The philosophers did not only stay with the Arabs in the House of Wisdom in Baghdad; they visited our caliphs in their dreams. Have you not heard of the dream of Caliph Mamoun?” Without waiting for his answer, I went on: “Aristotle often visited Mamoun in dreams. In one of these, Mamoun asked him, ‘What is beauty?’ He responded, ‘What the mind finds beautiful.’ Mamoun asked him, ‘And then what?’ Aristotle said, ‘The best of religious law.’ Mamoun pressed him, ‘And then what?’ Aristotle answered with finality, ‘There is no more “then,” unto infinity.’”

“Then,” the wily old fox snorted, “we had best wait for a visit in our dreams from Master Aristotle!”

I was gathering the sharp barbs of some conclusive retort from all about my head, when suddenly glasses of honey-sweetened sage tea were being handed out by Elissar. Still uneasy, I was obliged to look down; however, I caught the fleeting wink she gave me. That was odd: what did she want?

“But that is a time long past,” said Basilius. “Now, books of philosophy are burned or thrown into the river in Baghdad. Use your eyes: but for the Christians’ tolerance, you would not be in the house of a Christian priest in Jerusalem, nor indeed I in the house of Samaan. The priest of the Church of the Resurrection should be appointed by the Metropolitan Bishop of Alexandria, but in Jerusalem they seized the Metropolitan position. The Lord says, ‘From Egypt I called my son.’”

He seemed to have directed his attack at Samaan. I turned to the latter: he was swallowing and blinking hard. Just then, Hamilcar appeared in the doorway, leaning on his cane with his left hand and on his sister Elissar’s shoulder with his right. I understood then the secret of Elissar’s wink. I ran to assist him and prepared a seat for him. Elissar whispered, helping me pile pillows behind his back, “When I heard the conversation, I wanted Hamilcar to be here: he will no doubt enjoy it.”

I returned to my seat. I must not fall silent or appear retiring before my student, the Voyager-to-be: he must be impressed by his teacher. Craning my neck as though we were standing at the gate of philosophy itself, I said loudly, “Philosophy is wisdom: our prophet, Muhammad, has said, ‘Wisdom is the ultimate goal of any believer.’ The theological sciences in Islam are naught but an attempt to reconcile rationality with inherited sayings. Texts, as you know, may have many interpretations. Our sage Abu Ishaq says, ‘Nothing is dearer to the seeker of truth than truth.’”

“What is this wisdom of which you speak, young man,” Basilius retorted, “when the heads of Copts are being mounted on the Fatimids’ gates?”

Sensing that the conversation might devolve into an argument and a fruitless exchange of accusations, I turned to Samaan in hopes that his cool temperament might calm the heat of the moment and asked, “Why do you think the Egyptian caliph ordered the destruction of the Resurrection, although Caliph Umar never touched a single stone of the church when the Muslims took Jerusalem, instead writing the Pact of Umar that makes much of the dhimmi and all they hold sacred?”

Basilius interjected, voice rising and eyes reddened. “The caliph commanded that the church be leveled! He called the patriarch Armia, the patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church, to Egypt—his own uncle!—and had him beheaded with a sword.”

One of the priests with him looked at the floor and shook his head. “We still do not know where he is buried.”

Why did they all repeat the same story? Was it the truth, or had they heard it from the monk Istafan? I feared to fall victim to the grief of a pilgrim whose Mecca has been destroyed with a breast full of hatred, especially seeing Samaan’s face darken and his lower lip tremble slightly. Evasively, seeking safer ground, I said, “Philosophy is a just scale by which right may be measured. Bless the soul of Ishaq ibn Hunayn the Surianese, who translated Aristotle. Aristotle says that virtue lies between two vices: courage lies between impetuosity and cowardice, and generosity lies between miserliness and extravagance. This golden mean has reached Islamic jurisprudence, even the jurisprudence of the monotheist Mutazilites: they built for the sinner a new world between Heaven and Hell, named ‘a status between two statuses.’”

My display put paid to my disgruntlement, and it seemed to have calmed the room somewhat. Basilius fell silent and one of the priests next to him said in a ringing voice, as though preaching a sermon, with tears in his eyes—from anger or eye trouble I knew not: “The Lord waited not to punish the sinners of that time! The wrath of God descended upon churches because of them! They were dismissed from the churches because they had become like the current walis who persecute holy men, finding excuses to collect money on any pretext, trading in the churches of God, and selling indulgences for money, handing over the Church to whoever paid them an additional dinar; men unfit to serve or work for the Church: this was why the Lord set upon them the lizard that grew into a dragon, and leveled their churches.”

Basilius looked at him sharply, as if to say that this was not the time nor place to insult the mourning Christians, and that this kind of talk should be between themselves, not in the presence of this Arab would-be logician and Samaan, who had disobeyed the Church of Alexandria. “O Jesus,” he said in a dry voice and with a stiff tongue, “we were lost sheep and are returned to the shepherd of our souls.” Then he said to me, “Show us what books you have, Arab, that we may see if there is anything worth spending the money of the Church on.”

From my first step into Basilius’s company, I had disliked his manner. He had the air of a lizard that had not turned into a dragon, but remained a lizard. He felt like a vacant vessel: there was no one in our gathering he had not attacked. His knowledge was like rain that falls on desert sand, bringing forth no fruit or flower, merely soaked up by the passageways of his empty soul. I contented myself with waving Posterior Analytics at him, resolving to demand such a hefty sum that he would be unable to pay it. Suddenly, for the first time since he entered, Hamilcar spoke, as though he were speaking a prophecy. “Your Eminence Father Basilius,” he said, “I have spent long nights reading Aristotle, and I doubt that I have understood but a fraction of it. But in my understanding, it makes the attainment of truth or wisdom contingent upon following proofs and extrapolating what is unseen from what we can perceive. As I read it, he uses a greater and lesser premise, and via these, he arrives at a result that proves the truth of what he says.”

All heads turned to him like the heads of the family of Mary saying, “How can we talk to one who is a child in the cradle?”

Unperturbed, Hamilcar continued: “I shall take an example from our conversation. The greater premise: the Lord lost patience with the actions of his flock in that time. The lesser premise: the keepers of churches sinned. The result: God unleashed his anger upon all churches due to their actions.”

A deep silence fell over those assembled. Then I glimpsed Father Basilius swallow in preparation to speak. I feared that he might say something to break down Hamilcar’s as yet unsteady steps into philosophy; I feared he might steal away the joy of a month of miracles, philosophy, first steps, and the conversations beneath the orange tree that had brought Hamilcar to his recovery. I burst into speech, I know not how. “O God!” I slapped my forehead as though I had forgotten something. “Forgive me, Hamilcar! I completely forgot that you have already bought Analytics!” I turned to him, my face radiating sincerity. “Forgive me for putting it up for sale! O Eminence Father Basilius, forgive me! The book is Hamilcar’s! I doubt that I own any more books by Aristotle.”

I was overwhelmed with relief, as if a great weight had been lifted off me. I had no wish to further embarrass Father Samaan; I also had no wish for the people of Jerusalem to bruit it around that the desert Arab had in his room manuscripts worth their weight in gold. I took the book and returned it to Hamilcar. His face had lit up and his eyes were shining. He wriggled his toes in delight.

I was aware that Hamilcar was not in the least crippled—had never been a cripple. When he leaned on me in the Church of the Resurrection, in the press of bodies and the frenzy of emotion, he had walked like a normal man. I had no sense that I was holding him up at all: in that moment, his feet barely touched the ground when he was walking straight and steady. However, I know not the reason he had chosen to live as a cripple. Was it rebellion against his father, who had wanted him to become a general? Did his father bring him little lambs to slaughter, then slap his face if he refused to kowtow? Was it a rejection of his father’s fate, forever stooping? Did he wish to lift his face and stare at the higher kingdom of the Lord, sending his sisters every Sunday morning to the church library to return to him with a goodly collection of books without rebuke for being absent from the fields? This is the nature of Voyaging Cranes: they are born with wings that it is nigh impossible to muddy.

I handed him the book: his handsome face was shining and his neatly combed hair gleamed on his shoulders. Deep within me, I knew that I had only placed the book in the best location possible, in the possession of this boy who had willingly cut off his own legs, sprouting great wings in their place, formed from the pages of books. This was how I would remain faithful to the tenets of the Voyagers. I had planted this book in a sunny field, rather than in a dark and moldy storehouse of books within Basilius’s house of worship.

Once the rich feast was over and Basilius’s belly was full of roast pork, he forgot about everything, including his desire to acquire books. He even told me, scraps of bread and fat still clinging to his beard, how to find a caravan of pilgrims due to go shortly to Egypt.

Hamilcar was among those standing and waving to me as I left for Egypt. I had sold some books to the priests returning to Damascus and Byzantium, and Hamilcar’s father had introduced me to a deacon who worked for the patriarch of the church in Konya, who had bought from me three books with gold dinars.

I passed one of the dinars to Zulaykha: she was truly a sprig of sage that overflowed with refreshing bounty from morning to night. As I was preparing myself for travel, she presented me with two jars of water and a bag she had filled with dried meat, hard cheese, jars of olive oil, and wheat cakes. My room and my balcony, where the stars came out, were hidden behind the branches of the flowering orange tree.

I wrote out the seven commandments and passed them on to Hamilcar. His path toward the Voyage of the Cranes was smooth and verdant: it had never passed beneath the Document of al-Qadir, or the blades of swords; he never had to know that the head of the Persian blacksmith had rolled onto the floor in his store like the head of a camel.

I performed the dawn prayer with Amr al-Qaysi, who recited verses one and two of the Sura of al-Najm: “By the star when it setteth; Your comrade erreth not, nor is deceived.” We could barely make out the columns of the mosque in the morning mist. He stood tall and imposing, as befitted a Voyager, wearing a black silk abaya and turban. He laid a hand on my shoulder. “Mazid,” he said, “of all God’s gifts, he is least generous with certainty. Hold to the vocation of the Voyager like a burning coal, as they once told the early Muslims to grasp their faith in their hands though it burned them, and leave it not.”

I could say nothing; the words stuck in my throat for sorrow. “Al-Jahiz has divided up every country,” he said by way of comfort, “and says that they are ten: industry in Basra, rhetoric in Kufa, kindness in Baghdad, treachery in Shahr-e Rey, envy in Herat, coldness in Nishapur, miserliness in Merv, chivalry in Balkh, and trade in Egypt. Pray to the Lord to bless your business, Voyager, as you go to Egypt.” He departed, leaving me behind him, repeating, “Go with God, al-Hanafi, go with God.”

I made my way to the caravan stop, rebuking myself. How feeble I had seemed, fighting my tears in front of Amr al-Qaysi like a child leaving its mother! Jerusalem held the cloisters of prophets and the fluttering of angels and the beating of the saints’ feet in its streets.

The caravan was headed southward. Warm breezes surrounded us; bells were ringing out from some mysterious, faraway place, filled with a sweet, sad melancholy.

Come to Egypt

I left Jerusalem in the company of the Coptic pilgrims’ caravan. I left Jerusalem in pain and bleeding: my songs and recitations were not needed, for they were going home, ringing bells and singing a melancholy song: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

Although I was bereft at quitting my companions in Jerusalem—a grief that would remain in my chest like a wound—when I embraced the journey, I was alert and watchful, entranced by a new beginning. I seemed to plunge into a spring that washed away all that clung to me: fatigue, disappointment, and the tedium of custom. At the fabric market in Jerusalem, I had managed to acquire a length of fabric, the edges embroidered with scarlet thread in the form of tiny crosses that came together to form the shape of posies of flowers. It appeared to have been a tablecloth or an altar cover. I had bought it and made of it a cover for my box of books, to protect it from both dust and prying eyes.

The caravan was so long that I could not see its end. Its camels were energetic, with massive feet. We came out of Jerusalem, or Bayt al-Maqdis as it is known, as the stars were still whispering to each other in the sky. When I had left Baghdad, it had been torn apart by swords and harsh words, filled with sinners and poets and the hungry: a ruby steeped in blood and the struggle for dominance. Today, as I left Jerusalem, angry bees were buzzing around al-Aqsa. There were unquenched coals beneath the Church of the Resurrection, rage on resentful faces against the Lord’s locusts who had defiled the churches and courtyards of Jerusalem, and more resentment within the hearts of the pilgrims who had climbed the cold mountains and crossed the ice-capped hills and freezing valleys only to find the Holy Sepulcher had been leveled.

Jerusalem was beginning to recede behind us, a red halo surrounding it. Was it the line of dawn breaking? Or was it the suffering of a city within whose walls there had been enmity and fighting since the beginning of creation?

The returning pilgrims’ caravan took the route known as “The Path of Ancestors and Kings” back to Egypt. It passes through the central mountains of Palestine, and they say it is the path taken by all the prophets. I was overcome by this thought, and by my camel’s side I heard the echo of their footsteps in their simple leather shoes and sensed their breasts burdened with a dream of delivering humanity from sin and damnation. Moses of the bulrushes, striking the earth for the first time, causing twelve springs to burst forth, and striking it a second, causing the Red Sea to part. Bright Joseph, whose face lit up the pit, yet cast no light into the dark faces of his brothers. Jesus and Mary, followed by the stars and the kings. Who else? How great this path was! Peace be upon them all.

We moved on in slow stages: first we came to Bethlehem, where the pilgrims stopped for some days to pray in its churches and visit its shrines. Then on to Galilee, where we spent two more days. The caravan then went on in fits and starts, not picking up a steady pace until we arrived at Rafah.

The sale of books had given me some dinars around my waist, but I must remember always that I was a Voyager, my primary task to place the books where they belonged, not to trade in them. This time, I had managed to buy a strong camel: I had not let the trader choose for me and take advantage of my naiveté and ignorance, as when I had bought Shubra, my old camel, whom I had set free to live out the remaining years of her life grazing around Jerusalem. I had bought a saddle with many straps from a pilgrim arrived from Byzantium, upon which I could set all my things, including the box. It was sturdy, of strong leather, adorned with silver scrolls—all this in addition to a young, well-behaved mule that carried the rest of my things.

When we arrived in Arish, the entire population seemed to have come out of their mud-brick houses to stand in a line with their baskets, waving to the pilgrims, offering them carpets, baskets, and early crops of dates. I noted that many of the pilgrims bought the dates, hiding them beneath their things and in hidden pockets upon their camels, to bring back as gifts from the Holy Land. I knew not the secret of their eagerness, until they told me that they could not display the dates before the guards and spies now that the caliph of Egypt had commanded that all the crops of dates and grapes be burnt that year: they were now sold in secret at astronomical prices.

For all this, I felt a desire for some dates. I am from al-Yamama, after all, and the first thing in my stomach, even before my mother’s milk, had been a date from the palms of al-Yamama that my grandfather had let me suckle on. My mouth watered for a date between my teeth. I stopped by a thin date vendor, a frown on his dark face. His wife stood by him, face covered by a burka. She had beautiful hands painted with henna. He was displaying his wares some distance away from the line of date vendors: he also sold the dense dried yogurt known as jamid, animal fat, and small baskets woven of palm fronds. I bought some of his concealed supply of dates, and jamid. The taste of the latter in my mouth filled me with longing. Ignoring his disgruntled face, I asked, “How does the Arabian Peninsula?”

“Well,” he said indifferently. He was looking at me disparagingly, thinking I was a Christian pilgrim. I attempted some pleasantries, but he coldly rebuffed me. As the proverb says, “Moving mountains is easier than bringing hearts together!” Our wars with the Byzantines had left no room for affection.

As we were on the outskirts of Egypt, one of the priests, who had ridden on his donkey all the while, said, “We shall tread the path of the Holy Family! I would not have endured riding this slow animal were it not to imitate the Holy Family.”

I heard one of the pilgrims by my side mutter to him, “And are you riding a donkey to emulate Jesus and his mother when they fled to Egypt, or because the caliph of Egypt has forbidden Christians from riding on horseback?”

He trotted away from us at that, still astride his she-donkey, muttering, “The Lord Jesus was riding on the back of a speedy cloud: he came to Egypt, and its graven idols trembled with the light of his face, and Egypt’s heart melted therein.”

Cairo of the Caliph al-Muizz
18 Dhu al-Hijjah ah 402; July 11, ad 1012

Not only had Amr al-Qaysi confided in me the name of one of the Voyagers of Egypt, but he had written out a document for me to facilitate my passage and the sale of my books in the climate of that country, filled with suspicion and teeming with spies.

We continued our path southward, the breezes becoming warmer but not losing their freshness. We arrived at a small town on a hill among green fields and palm trees, called Tal al-Zagazig. There were simple mud-brick houses, their fronts shaded with palm fronds, surrounded by fruit orchards and fields of barley. There was a crowded market whose folk were delighted to see us and examined our wares with curiosity, seeking all that was fit for sale. On the outskirts of these were abandoned graveyards and the idols of extinct peoples.

Most of the pilgrims had separated, and the long caravan had split up into smaller ones, the travelers getting rid of what raisins and dates were still in their possession before arriving in the caliph’s Cairo. Four pilgrims who had been walking alongside me all the while cautioned me against openly selling the dates and raisins I had bought: the buyer might be a spy for the chief of police or the ruler. I was, they said, to be subtle about it. “How?” I asked. “I do not mean to sell them. I only mean to eat them.” I thought of feeding the dates and raisins to my camel, or giving them to the first hungry man I came across, but before I could announce my intentions, one of the four pilgrims, whose camel had a large nose ring and whose woolen saddle was decorated with brass rings of the same type, and who seemed to be the master of the group, offered to buy them from me for a paltry sum, claiming that he knew where to sell them without
arousing suspicion.

“That is even less than what I paid for them,” I said.

“As you wish,” he said, shrugging, and left. At that point I realized that the story of the police spies and the caliph had all been part of a complex setup: eager eyes keeping track of what I had bought in secret. In the end, I submitted to their wishes to rid myself of my burden: I kept only two containers of raisins and one of dates, pretending to be the innocent Joseph who had believed his brothers’ lies. Why not? It was not unlike the idiot’s smile I feigned when I preferred to distance myself from some disagreement.

The four men, whom I dubbed “Joseph’s brothers,” paid me four Fatimid dirhams, with the inscription “Ali is God’s steward” on one face and the name of al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah, the Fatimid caliph, on the other. It was the first time I had held one of these in my hand: in Palestine and Bosra, the Abbasid dinar and dirham still inspired confidence in the marketplace. But who knew with Joseph’s brothers? The dirhams might be forgeries, and might prove to be made of dates if I put them in my mouth.

We walked on through great farmlands traversed by canals with tree branches and feathers and dead rodents floating in them, the smell of plants and animal dung clogging the air. The size of the tree trunks nourished by Nile silt astounded me: if five men attempted to hold hands around them with their arms fully extended, their hands would not touch. There were boys playing in their branches, and energetic peasant women walking beneath them in colorful clothing that clung to their curves, with swaying steps and flirtatious smiles. They bore earthenware jugs of water on their heads like an adornment that only enhanced their beauty.

Finally, the town of Ain Shams came into view as the sun was setting. I asked after a place where I could rest, pass the night, and feed my mounts. A farmer volunteered the name of a boardinghouse a little way outside the city called the Travelers’ House, and before I could ask him for assistance, he took the reins of my camel and walked me there.

My crate made my movements heavy and my travel hard; I feared that it might be lost and I also feared prying eyes. I always needed to keep it beneath a safe roof. My journey to the boardinghouse did not inspire confidence or security, but only pride in myself and disgust for the mean clothing and cracked bare feet of the man leading my mount. “Lord,” I prayed, “let not vanity find its way into my nature.”

Outside the boardinghouse was an old woman selling bread and stuffing sugarcane and tree branches beneath a hot iron plate, baking large loaves that she then steeped in fat and sugarcane syrup. I bought a delicious hot loaf from her. “Don’t you want two more for tomorrow?” she asked. “After a full night in the fat and sugar, they are even more delicious.”

I bought the extra loaves, but ate them before I fell asleep: they were, no doubt, the reason for the wild dreams that came to me with the murmuring of the river in my veins as the Egyptian women brought water from it in their round pots.

We continued our journey at dawn from Ain Shams to the walls of Cairo. There were houses and civilization everywhere around us; only a limited number of the original caravan remained, between seven and ten men. At noon, we saw the wall of Cairo of the caliph: towering, sturdy, well guarded, more impressive than the wall of the Circular City in Baghdad, as though the djinn and the spirits had erected it. Around the wall, it was crowded with people and caravans, and vendors crying their wares sold exotic fragrant fruits. I left my camel and mule and my belongings with the caravan guard without yet paying him the fee he had stipulated when we were in Jerusalem. He had begun to make the rounds of the travelers, seeking his fee. When he arrived at me, I placed the reins of my camel in his hand, saying, “I shall go to pray at the al-Azhar Mosque. I shall not be long, and then I shall return to give you your money.”

At the gate, the Fatimid guards stopped me—those whose power and savagery had been the talk of the caravan. They were brought in, I had been told, from the desert mountains, so that they had the endurance of a camel, and its cruelty. Dark-skinned, they wore heavy white turbans and held long spears in their right hands. They spoke broken Arabic. One of them looked closely at me. “I am a student,” I said to him, “coming to al-Azhar.”

“From where do you come?” he asked.

“I come from the Arabian Peninsula. Al-Yamama, from the clan of Bani Ukhaydar, the pure descendants of the Prophet.”

I had my doubts that he had understood all I said. He spoke in Berber with a group of guards at the gate, and I heard them repeating, “Student.” They soon opened the gate for me, although their faces did not soften.

Despite the scowling guards, after I’d taken a few steps inside, Cairo appeared to shine with the proud glow of a new city. There were wonderfully ornamented buildings, most three stories tall, with carved wooden windows. There were plazas with pots of flowers and fountains, and paved aqueducts filled with water running beneath the walls of the houses. On the walls were brass lanterns set with colored glass. By every mosque was a place for ablutions and a charity fountain from which pigeons and doves drank.

All the roads of Cairo curved to eventually lead out onto a long street they called al-Muizz Street. On both sides of it were collections of shops and stalls, and it was clamorous with the voices of itinerant vendors. I walked down this street, looking at the shop windows, my stranger’s face attracting no one’s attention. It appeared that they were accustomed to strangers in this city, especially students attending al-Azhar.

At the end of al-Muizz Street, to my right, were one-story buildings set close together that opened onto a pale courtyard in their center: this appeared to be a barracks, for I could see groups of soldiers standing in the square on parade. In the sun, their helmets, swords, and shields gleamed. Their flags were white with a gold crescent, and within every crescent a lion executed in red silk. I could hear their yells and the tramp of energetic, unyielding, grim marching. I trembled. These, then, were the ones who were fighting with the Abbasids for power.

But the awe-inspiring nature of the soldiers was swiftly forgotten when I stood at the steps of al-Azhar, at the end of al-Muizz Street. High minarets called to me, towering over heavy domes set with mosaics. I entered the mosque from the eastern side, immediately finding myself in an inner courtyard with a roof inlaid with gold. From this courtyard five colonnades branched out, supported by marble columns topped with intertwined, colorful garlands, beneath which the discussion circles were held. Perhaps this was the courtyard angled toward Mecca that was known throughout all the lands, whose fame had reached Baghdad. I spent a long while staring at the decorations above me, overcome by a moment’s fancy that they were birds whispering to one another.

I faced the east and prayed two prostrations. As I was concluding my prayer, I looked around once again at the ornamentation of the structure and the ceiling. Suddenly I felt a presence next to me, staring at me deeply without blinking. I startled and quickly finished praying.

I trembled when I laid eyes on my neighbor, not only because he had surprised me, but because of his odd appearance and his round, startled eyes. Although his unkempt hair was white, his face was still young. In his eyes was the odd glitter of madness. He wore a loose, ragged garment, but it smelled of luxurious rooms in a well-kept home, and not the rottenness of someone who slept in alleyways. He motioned with his hand to the garlands adorning the ceiling of the mosque, whereupon I looked up at them again. In a deep voice he interrogated me: “Gardens and paradises with nobody in them. Where are their inhabitants?”

His question startled me. I shook my head. “I do not know.”

In a voice that seemed not to come from him, he said, “These are the scenes of empty paradises that burn with longing for those who shall live there.” Then he leapt up from my side and walked away. He appeared to walk with difficulty: he had a wooden cane with a silver head in the shape of a lion. My eyes followed him as he walked through the arches and pillars of the mosque and disappeared into the light like a spirit.

I had to return to the city wall now, where the camels were. The books were there, and I needed to find a safe place for them, for now I was like a jackal hunting with her pups on her back. I was in need of a house in some discreet and far-flung location. While matters had proceeded smoothly in Jerusalem, with the great crowds of pilgrims awaiting the resurrection of their Christ at the turn of the millennium, it was a different matter in Egypt, for I could see fear and caution on everyone’s faces and in the way they moved. Some spoke in low, choked tones. The vendors shouted heedlessly, but if a soldier passed, their voices stopped in their throats and they bowed their heads and only whispered in the ears of the passersby.

I could rent a house as a visiting merchant: I would not go to the Voyager whose name Amr al-Qaysi had given me until I settled down. I had been told in Jerusalem that the rulers and princes here had religious endowments to support the students of al-Azhar, and to grant them room and board. If they found no room there, they took them in to spend their nights in rooms set aside for students in the gardens of their mansions. But that was the last thing I desired here—me and my box of controversial books! A fellow student might betray me there, and my head would soon roll beneath one of the many gates of Cairo.

I resumed my search for shelter, not knowing that my shelter was also searching for me. After my exit from the mosque, I took to walking through the maze of streets around it, crowded with houses and stalls and the large collections of stores, called wikalas, with great wooden doors. It seemed to me that the best people to ask after a house to rent would be the itinerant vendors and the water carriers, for they were walking the streets all day, gathering news. Next to the northern gate of the mosque, I found a vendor selling prickly pears. He stood at a wooden cart piled high with them, hoarsely crying out as though it had been his habit all his life.

I stopped at his cart. With his rough hands, he deftly plucked up the prickly pears, peeled them, and then presented them to his customers, still calling out. My foreign accent piqued his curiosity, and he burst out in a chatty tone, “I thought you were from the Levant! Some of the best and brightest students come from Damascus.”

I cut off his babbling. “What is the best and closest place where I can rent a room?”

“The students are many,” he said. “Why not go to the housing for the students of al-Azhar?”

Instead of answering directly, I said evasively, “I am a man who stays up all night reading the Qur’an and saying prayers; I would disturb my companion or roommate.”

He remained unconvinced: I did not look much like an ascetic. Nevertheless, he jerked his thumb at a path to my right. It was an alley slightly elevated from those around the courtyard of the mosque I stood in. “You might find what you want with them.”

“Whose house is it?” I said, looking in the direction he’d indicated.

“The owner is a good and devout man, a descendant of the Prophet. He has a large retinue of servants who, I think, will take care of matters. His treasurer is a man named Yunis. You can rent a room in that house.”

As I had been chattering with him, he had peeled a number of prickly pears for me, and when I told him that this was too many and that I only wanted two, he was incensed. He turned to a comrade of his, close by, selling green pulses of some sort, and began to insult him with great depravity. I understood that some of these insults were meant for me, as I had not bought all he had peeled. With difficulty, I refrained from answering, and left without thanking him. The long time he had spent in the company of prickly pears had made him spiky as well.

I went into the alley indicated by the prickly vendor with wary steps. In Jerusalem I had slept in the heart of a jasmine blossom. I hoped that Cairo would be so kind to me. What if the house were narrow and dismal? In fact, its outer appearance was as harsh as the prickly fellow who had pointed it out, but once I stepped over the threshold, I found some details that encouraged me to rent it. By the entrance there was a little room that seemed to have been used to store wood by its previous inhabitants, as its walls were covered in shelves of gesso, and the door had a sturdy lock—a perfect place for me to store my books and bring in some of my would-be buyers without attracting attention. The upper room was sunny and fresh, adjoining a wide roof that overlooked the roof of the house next door, separated only by a low wall.

The boy they sent in with me to open the doors was thin and energetic, leaping up the stairs three at a time. He wore a cap with a bobble on the end: it looked new and he seemed rather proud of it, as he never ceased tilting his head this way and that to make it move and shake. Still, he remembered to tell me all about the walls that had been freshly whitewashed and a spring where I could wash myself without needing to go to the public baths. He apologized for the narrowness of the staircase.

The upper room was furnished with a carpet and a straw mattress, a cotton coverlet and worn pillow atop it. It had a small window with a pot on the sill, full of water, cool and damp. I took it up and drank several gulps, moistening my throat and reviving my spirit: I could feel it enter every corner of me. I knew then that the waters of the Nile taste like nothing else.

I rented the house, which appeared to be a section of a larger dwelling, taking up the entire end of the alley. Perhaps it had been a room for a servant or groom. However, the boy told me that it had been set aside for the teachers of the boys of the house, and had recently been put up for rent with the influx of students to al-Azhar.

It was time to bring my chest of books. I exited by the southern gate and went around the wall to where the caravan was. On the horizon, I could see clusters of close-set buildings, almost on top of one another. They were quite close by. Their windows were narrow, and they were built of red brick. Some of them had many stories—up to eight—so that I thought they were minarets at first glance. I went southward to look at them and stared up at them from nearby, stunned. I only learned that it was the old city of Fustat when I drew near. This was the city originally built by Amr ibn al-Aas: its streets were narrow, crowded with passersby and vendors, refuse and broken pottery. Its doors were low and battered, and thick weeds grew beneath its walls. From time to time, beasts of burden stopped and ate a mouthful. Was it because I was coming here from Cairo that I perceived it as so ugly and repulsive, the faces of the people there so disgruntled and lacking in joy? They had none of that smiling nature of the Egyptians in their fields and farms embraced by the Nile.

I was fatigued and sleepy, and could not stay long. I turned and went back to the walls of Cairo to bring my things from the caravan owner. I feared that my long absence might have incensed him, but quite the reverse: he had made use of my absence to find a place for my camel and mule at a camel trader’s at the entrance of Fustat, who pledged to take the camel and mule out to pasture and care for them in return for two dirhams per week, on condition that if the camel became pregnant—for it was a female—he would keep the calf.

I scoffed inwardly at the bargain, for a camel remains with child nigh on a year, and I would only remain in Egypt for a matter of weeks. There was an odd look in the people’s eyes here, and they never stopped looking around them.

It did not occur to me then that Egypt would embrace me for two years, during which time I would see wonders that would add years to my life, and white hairs to my head.

A porter approached me with a she-mule pulling a rickety wooden cart, and offered his assistance in moving the pile of boxes and crates at my feet. He wore a monk’s habit with a patch on it, and had a large cross hanging from his neck. His cross was unlike the one worn by Samaan, or even Istafan, and some of the pilgrims: it was closer to two tree branches he had lashed together with cord into a crude cruciform on his chest. He offered to convey my things to my preferred destination. “I am going to Cairo,” I said, looking at his mule with the air of one doubtful that she could carry my things.

In the sprightly, fluid tone of the Egyptians, he said, “Fear not! I will call a comrade of mine and we will divide up your effects!”

“No!” I motioned to him, afraid to attract attention by appearing so rich that I required two carts to carry all my things. “I entreat you. I have no desire to parade into the alley where I am staying like a bride carrying a trousseau.”

Fearing to lose a customer who had not haggled with him over price, he said, “Fear not; I shall take you first, then return to bring the remainder of your things. Do not pay me until you have all your things with you.”

“What are the few dirhams I owe him,” I thought to myself, “in comparison to the great chest of books, if he were to take it and run?” I was exhausted and in no mood for more negotiation, especially now that we were surrounded by a great crowd of porters waiting for our deal to fall through so as to snatch up a customer.

I looked into the face of the porter, trying to gauge his honesty. He was sad and serious-faced, dark-skinned, with a straight nose and thick lips. His features sat together trustingly, with that air of nobility possessed by devout men who have managed to tame their desires and look upon the world from the high window of decency, purity, and the type of dignity that is too proud to ask for alms.

He loaded my crate and some of my other things onto his cart and we set off, moving parallel to the city wall. He drove along paths where Fustat and Cairo appeared to intermingle, while on the horizon, a group of buildings appeared beneath a great mountain he said was called al-Qatai. I had started my conversation with him with a little lie to pique his avarice: “I am an Arab trader who travels often between Egypt and the Arabian Peninsula,” I said, “and if you do your job well, I shall ever be your loyal customer.” But he made no response to my lie, only walked on in dignified silence. It appeared that my attempt at ingratiation had failed and my lie had not made him avaricious, but rather the reverse: it had made him draw back out of fragile pride.

I wished he were more pleasant and informal with me, so that I might draw him out on what still remained mysterious to me in the affairs of Egypt, and inquire about the sword that clearly hung over their heads and made people’s faces so wary and fearful, especially in Fustat.

When we entered by the southern gate, he turned to me coolly. “Where to?”

His question took me by surprise: I knew not the name of the quarter, nor the alley, where I had rented my house. “Al-Azhar Mosque,” I said.

“Which gate?”

“The northern gate of the mosque,” I said, and added in an attempt at levity, “The one with the prickly prickly pear vendor.”

We went through the streets of the caliph’s Cairo, the Coptic porter and I and the box of books, which I had decided to start with, leaving the remainder of my effects with a companion of his whose trustworthiness he vouched for. They spoke among themselves in a strange tongue that was certainly not the Berber spoken by the guards at the door. I could almost make out the meanings of some of the words, but they slipped through my fingers: I was so overcome with curiosity that I asked them, “What language are you speaking?”

“Egyptian,” they said. “Coptic is Egypt’s original language.” I was silent: it is unbefitting of a stranger to scrabble at closed closets.

I was overcome with relief when the minarets of al-Azhar appeared before us and I could make out the location of my home. I motioned to the entrance of the alleyway. When he approached it, the Coptic porter shouted, “Ah! It is the Madman’s Alley!”

I whirled to him. “Yes,” he said, “that is the name they give it.” His face was still sad, glancing about him with a reserve that spoke of his unwillingness to enter into conversation. When we arrived at the gate, I found the boy, Mabrouk—for that was his name—waiting for us, eyes alight with pride at his achievements and expecting his reward, for I had asked him to clean the house from top to bottom of the dust of abandonment and scatter water about, and also to bring me some food.

Together, we brought in the heavy box of books, and the porter whispered to me, “Well, I shall go to bring the rest of your things before night falls; the daylight has eyes, as they say.”

Evening came without my realizing it, so engrossed was I in emptying the box of books and removing the dust that clung to them and setting the books upon the gesso shelves. The minarets called us to the sunset prayers with sweet melancholy, the sound pouring down over the ear like water after thirst. It stirred my longings, and I missed my grandfather’s room, always filled with treats brought from unknown places. But where was the porter? He had not yet appeared, and the paths of Cairo were dark now and the guards were due to close the gates. Had he decided to steal my things? But there was nothing within them worth the gamble. My most valuable possessions were my books, and here they were, upon shelves in the shadow of the minaret of al-Azhar. My money hung about my waist; the rest was but the scattered effects of a traveler.

How stupid I was! The Christian had tricked me and taken advantage of my ignorance. The Devil had whispered in his ear, “He is nothing but a naive Arab.” I had trusted him, and he had thrown that trust away. But I should pay that no mind, after all: it was but some garments and carpets and bottles of perfume, an astrolabe, and a compass that always pointed to the North Star, the last two of which I had exchanged with a trader from Byzantium for a book by Galen of Pergamon. But the original manuscripts of the House of Wisdom were safe on the shelves before me.

There were also some utensils I required in my travels and where I settled: a gourd for water, two plates, two bottles, the raisins and the dates, and some bags of dried sage, chamomile, and thyme given to me by Zulaykha; their scent made me think of Elissar and Hanna. I should sleep this night, then search for him tomorrow; the daylight has eyes, as they say, and I was all but dropping with fatigue. I had not slept between four walls for close on a month.

With the break of dawn, I washed myself and prayed. Then I rushed out of the city walls by the north gate, where the porters congregated, looking around me all the way in hopes of catching a glimpse of him in some alley or other. I caught sight of his companions walking in groups with their shaved heads, leading their mules or donkeys, and wearing the heavy wooden cross, but he was not among them. I feared to ask after him so as not to arouse curiosity and make tongues wag; instead, I preferred to go to the exact spot where I had met him yesterday.

The place was even more packed than the previous day: a caravan had just arrived from Andalusia. Camels, horses, mules, men on horseback and on foot, masters and slaves, all poured in. My things had disappeared from the place where I had left them, and the porter with them. I began to look from one face to another, trying to make out the Coptic porter among those who had gathered about us, awaiting the travelers from the Andalusian caravan; but in vain. I could not find him. I remained there, tired and hungry, until after the afternoon prayers.

Warily, a porter approached me. “Are you looking for Zacharias?”

“The porter with the wooden cart is named Zacharias?” I replied eagerly.

“Yes.” He nodded. “I saw him yesterday moving your things.”

I grasped his hand, saying pleadingly, “Yes.”

Even more warily, looking right and left, he said, “The police took him away last night, him and his mule.”

“And my things?” I cried.

“They are on his cart,” he whispered.

Stunned, I breathed, “Why did they take him away? Is he a thief?”

“No!” The man shook his head violently. “It is a long story: in brief, the cross about his neck does not conform to the regulations set out by the ruler concerning shape and weight.”

“Whatever is happening in Egypt?” I thought. “The weight of the cross?” Out loud, I said to my interlocutor, “Where is your police headquarters?”

“Most probably in Cairo,” he whispered. “The guards have a place where they gather, by the entryway of the northern gate. Go to them and ask after him: you might find word of him there.” Then he hurried off, as the porters were dividing up the Andalusian caravan’s things among them.

I went to the place he had pointed out. I found a section beneath the gate roofed with palm fronds, enclosed with low mud walls, strewn with gravel and a few poor mats. Inside, gathered around a dish of dried figs, were the guards. I approached them and they took to scrutinizing me. They were dark-skinned and long-limbed, like the men I had seen yesterday. I greeted them; they responded only with murmurings and more staring. But I plucked up my courage and said, “I have lost my things, which were with the porter Zacharias.”

They appeared indifferent. In an accent that was clearly foreign, they asked, “Where are you from?”

“I come from Baghdad,” I said.

“And what do you want here?”

“I am a student at al-Azhar. But when I came here I rented a cart . . .” and I told them the story all over again.

They spoke among themselves in a foreign tongue of which I understood nothing. But one said to me, “What does the porter look like?”

“I know not how to describe him,” I said, “only that he is dark of skin, tall and thin, and his name is Zacharias.”

“Ah!” he said through a mouthful of figs, and nodded. “We arrested him. He is now in the police headquarters behind the mosque in the caliph’s Cairo.” He added hurriedly, seeming to want to get rid of me—after all, I had spoiled the enjoyment of their figs—“Go to him there.”

I was overcome with the desire to rain down invective. “Shame on you!” I would say, perhaps, and “You threaten the very folk you are pledged to protect!” But the foreigner’s tongue is short and his hands are tied, as they say; so back I went to Cairo, doubting that I should regain what I had lost.

After losing my way in the streets several times, and needing to ask the prickly pear vendor for directions twice, I arrived at the police headquarters. I did not recognize it as such at first: it blended into the soldiers’ barracks facing al-Azhar, a great, spacious structure with a high, solid wooden door, ringed by a low mud wall around a neglected garden at the end of which the house stood. The inner door stood open, flanked by two red-faced saqaliba. I tried to speak with them, but their mouths were stopped by their foreignness: they could not make out what I wanted, save for some motions and gestures that gave me to understand that their chief was absent, and that I should come back the next day. Well, why not? I had come this far.

I walked around the building on my way home. Behind it was a barn where some horses and other beasts of burden were gathered, and there I saw Zacharias’s mule, head lowered, the flies collected about her ears, but without the cart or my things. I decided to come back the next day: the daylight has eyes. I passed a bakery thronged with people and bought hot, puffy loaves of bread, not thin like those of Jerusalem, but thick, with black seeds sprinkled over the top.

The doves cooed, opening the gates of evening. A guard with a torch was lighting the lamps of the streets leading away from al-Azhar, while everyone’s feet headed for the mosque. When I was nearly at the house, I saw a light shining from beneath the door. I was immediately disquieted. But the key to the storehouse was in my pocket. I hoped my books were safe!

The light turned out to be a simple lantern held aloft by Yunis, the manager of the house. “Welcome to our new guest,” he said. “I hope you are comfortable. I am here to reassure myself of your well-being. Has the boy Mabrouk prepared the place and done his duty toward you?”

Yunis had round eyes that darted about slyly, although the remainder of his features resembled a child’s. I did not think he was a servant: he might be a steward. He was smartly dressed, and the silk belt about his ample paunch was carefully tied. I understood from his tone that he was here to receive the rent in advance, as I had agreed with him yesterday. “Do come in and share my supper,” I said, as politeness dictates. He demurred, but I insisted: a stranger must pave his path with friends.

I spread out a mat I had found rolled up behind the balcony door at the top of the stairs, and we sat sharing bread and honey and careful conversation. The atmosphere between us was more friendly: Yunis excused himself for some time, then returned with a special oil from the main house that would light the lamps of the house without leaving soot stains, along with more rugs, couches, and pillows. “These are for if you would like to furnish your balcony to receive guests,” he said.

The space he called the balcony was outside the small room with steps up to it, leading onto the roof of the main house. “This place,” said Yunis, “was the quarters of a private teacher my master brought in for his sons. When they grew older and began to go to the discussion circles of al-Azhar, it remained abandoned or used for storage. We revived it and began to rent it to the students and sheikhs of al-Azhar: and it fell to you.”

His air as he said the last words gave me to understand that I should pay now. “How much do you require?” I asked. “I will only rent it for two months, as I know not how long I will sojourn in Cairo.”

With a false smile, he said, “Sir, we only rent by the year, or six months at the least, no less. Payment is to be made in advance.”

I had no choice; out of my meager purse he took three gold dinars as six months’ rent. Although I found the sum exorbitant, the advantages of this house would not be easily found again: being part of a great house gave me a secure cover and dissuaded prying eyes, and I had no wish to arouse suspicions about myself with more traveling about Cairo in search of a new home.

He took from his sleeve a sheaf of papers. “What is in the head must be set down on paper.” He quoted verse 282 of the Sura of al-Baqara, “O ye who believe! When ye contract a debt for a fixed term, record it in writing,” and then started writing, while I consoled myself that I had a great many books that I could sell and make up my losses. I was so tired and sleepy that I could not haggle with him, and I gave him the three gold dinars, my head seeking my pillow.

Suddenly we heard a noise in the road close by the gates, and the sound of muttering and cries, and a man loudly reciting the Qur’an. When we rushed to the gates to see what the matter was, we saw a shadow staggering through the dark, waving a flaming torch. By the light of his torch, I could see it was the madman who had told me the day before at the mosque about the paradises awaiting their denizens. But that was not all. Yunis ran toward him, lantern swinging, then took the madman’s hand and kissed it. He took the torch from him, saying, “Come, Master. Let us go home.”

My jaw dropped. So this was his master? The passersby were walking past them uncaring, merely greeting them, some stopping to kiss the hand of the madman before going on their way; some clucked their tongues and shook their heads, muttering the proverb “When the world is kind to a man, it gives him the attributes of others; when it is cruel, it robs him of his own.”

Yunis headed back into the house, leading his master by the hand. They went to the great wooden gate that formed the end of the alley. This madman was Yunis’s master? The man he was speaking of, and in his name, concerning renting houses and teaching sons? Was this the madman the alley was named for? I was not certain, but that day I had learned far more than enough for the curiosity of a stranger on his first day.

The Woman of the Eggplants

The cries of the river birds and the breezes that reached me in my upstairs room; the small well beneath the house; a safe place for my books: all of these made of this house a little oasis. Despite its modest size, its stairs led to a space that opened docilely onto the sky, where I would spend many nights watching the stars.

I had a great desire to visit a bathhouse, for it appeared I would have a long day. A good breakfast; a bath, lather, and steam—these might return my vitality to me and the vigor to demand what was rightfully mine. The alley was quiet with morning breezes and the footsteps of serious-looking students hurrying to the circles of learning, as they call them in al-Azhar. I was burning with desire to attend the circles of the sheikhs of al-Azhar and hear their words tempered with the waters of the Nile. I am Mazid al-Hanafi of Najd, on the banks of the Nile, performing the traditional rain prayer that it may quench my deep-seated thirst, born of the desert I belong to.

Only a few sheikhs had captivated me after Grandfather’s passing, among them al-Hashimi and Amr al-Qaysi. Both Voyagers: was I predestined to become one of them, to admire them and be captivated by their deductions and interpretations? I could have been in the mosque of Baghdad even now, at the right hand of my sheikh al-Tamimi, taking down what he said with reverence and veneration, if my head had not been turned by the booksellers’ wares, if varying opinions and leanings had not snatched me away, if I had not been bitten by the lust for knowledge. My sheikh Muhammad al-Tamimi had possessed no knowledge to outstrip my grandfather’s. He had exhausted himself with the arguments of the circles and the accusations of embodying God. He had chosen the path of Iraq to reach God. Each of us performs the task he is created for; my place was not there at his side.

On my way through the market to the bathhouse, I passed many porters, Copts leading their donkeys, or water carriers conveying water to the various houses. Around each of their necks hung a heavy wooden cross approaching that worn by Samaan and the Christians of Jerusalem.

When I came out of the bath, restored and reinvigorated, I decided not to ask Yunis to accompany me to the police headquarters. I had no wish to arouse his suspicions, and decided instead to solve my problems myself, only asking for help if I ran into some obstacle.

As luck would have it, this time I was told at the gates that the chief of police had arrived and was inside; he had not gone out on his morning rounds yet. Then the two guards pointed out a gate at the far end of the garden leading to a long, dark colonnade. I had walked only a few paces through it when I froze. I had heard wailing that was more like an animal howl: it was a woman, screaming and begging for something, I knew not what. I thought of fleeing, but kept pushing myself forward.

The colonnade led me to a wide, sun-drenched passageway with a roof open to the sky, the right side supported by columns surrounding a great chair like a throne. Upon this, a large-headed policeman sat erect, surrounded by pillows of crimson silk, wearing a turquoise-studded brass helmet that seemed jammed onto his big head. His complexion was dark. Upon closer scrutiny, he looked like the bull that stands at the gates of Hell. His men stood around him, their heads lowered. His awe-inspiring impression, though, faded a little when you approached him and found that he was barefoot, that there was no small amount of vacuity and stupidity in his face, and that, furthermore, he did not understand what was said to him the first time, but needed it repeated over and over.

My new clothes that I had bought to replace those I had lost, in addition to the hot bath, appeared to bolster my appearance as a man of high standing, making him leap to his feet in welcome. “Have a seat,” he said, “while I finish with the whore,” as he called her. The woman continued her wailing, clutching at one of the columns of the colonnade and beating her head against it until her forehead bled, blood dripping down over her face. Her veil fell away, and the things she had been carrying in a bag in her right hand were scattered about.

“I swear by God, three times,” she cried, “I never walked in the marketplace! The seller is a low man and chooses the worst eggplants to give me! I went downstairs to select them myself when your men arrested me on the charge of speaking with men!” She tore one of the bracelets from her hand and rushed to the seat of the chief of police, falling at his feet and crying out, “My children have been alone in the house since the morning! My husband is a tanner! He will tan my hide and wipe the stable floor with me if he finds out!”

She was shrieking and crying and beating her face with her hands. The chief of police looked from the bracelet she had left on his boots to the one still on her wrist and said, “The crier has called it in the marketplace dozens of times: any woman walking in the market will be imprisoned and punished. But you women are like Potiphar’s wife: you would tempt any man to sin, and are impelled by your natural inclination to seduction.”

She cried out again and beat her head against the column, more blood oozing out. Suddenly, I knew not why—perhaps her screaming had disturbed him, or perhaps as part of a tacit agreement among everyone that the chief of police always softened before a woman’s wailing—he reached out with a rattan cane and took up the bracelet with it. He turned it this way and that in his hands, then quickly stung her thick buttocks a few times with the cane as she writhed at his feet. “Return her to her home,” he said. “As for the vendor who sold to her, take his wares for yourselves today as a punishment for him.”

Before I could fully overcome my shock, he turned to me with his great head and flaring nostrils like a bull’s. “What’s your story?”

I did not know how I found the halting words and breath to tell him the story of the porter and my things.

“Ah!” he interrupted me with a voice that resounded from the depths of his great belly. “So you are the man who came here the other day. We would have returned your goods to you, if we had not found magic and sorcery in them, and plants with a bizarre smell.” Before I could open my mouth to explain, he said, “Yesterday we arrested the Coptic porter cheating on weight: he disobeyed the sultan’s orders and removed the cross weighing a pound and a quarter, which bears the hallmark of a workshop that makes them for the Copts, assuring us of their proper weight, and donned a light one of tree branches in its place. He must be punished. You will not get your goods back until you tell us the secrets of these tools and plants.”

What was I to do? How should I deal with this man whose tongue was a whip and whose hand was a scourge? Should I tell him that these tools were the pinnacle of human invention from the House of Wisdom, and the compass and the astrolabe for the stars and planets? I guessed at that moment that I must lay something at his feet to liberate my things, but feared to misjudge matters or underpay him. I found it prudent to draw back until I had asked someone how to deal with this matter.

Meanwhile, two men embroiled in an altercation had come in behind me. The first said the other had split his head open, while the second was yelling and swearing that he had not; indeed, he claimed, the first man was the one who sold dates in secret outside the door to the mosque. The chief of police’s nostrils flared anew. “Come closer!” he cried, and the colonnade was in chaos once more. While the policemen reprimanded the adversaries, shouting at them to be quiet, I saw my chance and slipped away without being noticed.

I stopped at the gate, in search of a guard who spoke good Arabic to ask him how Zacharias the Copt was faring. I finally found Zacharias in the stable room behind the neglected garden of the police headquarters, shaven, with wounds and raw places on his scalp. He gave me a somewhat foolish smile. “Zacharias is well,” he volunteered. “His people have taken up a collection for him and he shall be set free. God has liberated him. The chief of police is kindhearted and forgiving, unlike many chiefs of police. Some of those who have arrived from Damascus say that his counterpart in Damascus ordered a Moroccan man be paraded around on a donkey and publicly humiliated, then had him beheaded.” When he saw the shock and horror on my face at his words, he added smugly, “That is the reward of those who love the Sunni caliphs Abu Bakr and Umar.”

I recalled the document Amr al-Qaysi had prepared for me, addressed to an Egyptian Voyager called Rashid ibn Ali, who lived in the city of al-Qatai below the Muqattam Mountain. I had thought to land on his house like a voyaging falcon, flying high and above all want, but circumstances had dictated that I come to him bearing a sack of troubles.

Coming and going between Cairo and Fustat remained tricky, always arousing suspicion and questions. My third day in Egypt dawned and I still had not visited their great river and greeted it; I had not gazed my fill at the boats sailing upon it and the flocks of birds flying above it, but instead had wasted my time parleying with policemen.

The skies of Egypt were filled with birds migrating from the north. Was this their season? I was no hunter, for I had slipped on the first line of a book and couldn’t get out. The reeds clogged the riverbanks, thicker than those in Basra. Golden, shining reeds tangled, taller than a man, interlaced like the bars of a cell; but as they swayed they revealed a winding path along which I picked my way carefully.

Suddenly, in the middle of this swamp, there appeared a cluster of houses fashioned of cane and reeds—clearly huts constructed for fishermen. They were spreading their nets wide, washing their clothing and hanging it out on the reeds to dry, and cooking their food on the banks of the river. As I passed, they stared at me in a friendly manner and entreated me to share three grilled fish from their table. I thanked them and retreated hastily: I am a man of the desert, and fish is pungent and repugnant to my nostrils. Although Hassan the Egyptian in Baghdad had often tried to make me learn to like it, he had never succeeded. I had eaten rabbit and dried meat, yet I could not stomach fish. Did not Jurayr al-Tamimi of Najd say of pure Arab women: “They live not with Christians, desert-bred; / They never ate of pure fish yet.”

The fishermen had set out their baskets and their catch the length of the riverbank. The fish in the baskets stared at me from the bottom of the well of death with round eyes like the eyes of my pet Shaqran; when I slit his throat, his eyes had stopped pleading and only stared at me.

The sun’s heat was blistering, shining over the river with the ripples of calm, sweet waves. The slight mist of high noon turned the river into a shattered mirror whose every shard told a story. I wished then that I could know where Moses’s mother had set the papyrus basket afloat bearing her infant, and the location of the great clumps of sedge where the basket had run aground. The Qur’an says in verse seven of the Sura of al-Qasas that Moses’s mother was inspired to place him in the basket and was told, “We shall restore him to thee, and We shall make him one of Our messengers.” But who had told her that? Was it God who had spoken to her directly? That would make her a prophetess. Had He sent an angel to her? Had he breathed it into her soul?

Who lets himself question will ever fall prey to suspicion and remain in eternal doubt. There was a fertile and delicious thing between the reeds the length of the riverbank: the soul of everything that grows awakens what lies slumbering within one’s veins. How tempting is Egypt, the repository of history and the mermaids’ playground.

I felt hungry. I turned and headed for the Muqattam Mountain and al-Qatai. I would go to the market and eat before commencing my search for Rashid ibn Ali. Egypt was now divided into three cities: Fustat built by Amr ibn al-Aas, Cairo built by al-Muizz, and between these, al-Qatai built by Ahmad ibn Tulun and embraced by the Muqattam Mountain. Each leader, drunk on victory and domination, builds a new city in his own image. Ibn Tulun had come to Egypt as a wali before deciding to secede as a princedom. These were the flags of the victorious and the rule of armies: Egypt had tempted conquerors throughout history. From the north, over and over, a victorious conqueror would come and claim it as his own.

Al-Qatai

I waited until the noonday heat had cooled, then walked through the streets seeking Rashid ibn Ali. Finally, one passerby asked, “You mean the carpet dealer?” as though he found it strange that I was asking directions of one who was himself a landmark.

A carpet dealer! Was the Voyager hiding behind carpets, then, and camouflaging himself in their patterns? I had thought the Voyagers were only crafters of sentences and sciences.

A great many neighborhoods in al-Qatai were all but abandoned, but the neighborhoods beneath the Muqattam Mountain were still populous, comprising a tanners’ market and a spear makers’ market. Al-Qatai and Cairo were much like two wives: the former older, abandoned, and neglected, those in power turning away from it and toward the caliph’s Cairo, fresh and charming in her youth. The houses of Cairo were built of sparkling stone, with spacious balconies and steps leading up to them at a distance from the public street. There were gardens separating them, and they were more spacious, and the marketplace was at a distance from al-Azhar Mosque and School out of respect and veneration for the latter’s status. But in al-Qatai, there were still the remnants of some of its ancient glory in some of its neighborhoods, especially those next to the Ibn Tulun Mosque. The mosque itself still preserved some of its luster: in the center of its courtyard was a dome held up by ten marble pillars. Beneath it was a fountain overflowing with sweet, cool water.

I felt my way forward, asking and guessing, delving deeper and deeper into al-Qatai in a westerly direction, heading for the Muqattam Mountain, until I reached the outskirts of a market selling leather goods and carpets. On the corner where two streets intersected was a grand store selling carpets, the size of three of its neighbors put together. Inside were vast rolls of carpets and fabrics, both silk and wool. Some of the carpets were rolled up in rows in corners and against the walls, while some valuable silken pieces were hung up prominently. The air was full of the smell of wool.

I stood at the door. The shop was crowded with elegant men who had a supercilious air. They seemed familiar to me. Their clothing was clean and their features well-washed; their perfumes were overpowering, and they spoke with quick, leaping phrases, unlike the speech of the Egyptians. Before I could step inside, I recalled where I had seen them before: they were members of the caravan that had arrived from Andalusia and settled by the walls of Cairo the day before. They clustered about their master, following him with respect: because he was fat, with a great paunch, the shop attendant had brought him a chair upon which to catch his breath, and was now displaying his carpets in the man’s hands and at his feet. The shop boys spread out the carpets, and he fingered them dubiously and turned them over to examine them. “Ah,” he would say, “this is Samarqand wool,” or “Chinese silk,” then gesture to another of the carpets hung up. “Bring me that Persian rug hanging there.” Those around him seemed disinclined to offer any opinion that differed from what their master said. The group of men around him: were they his guards? They wore ribbed belts and silk turbans with shining jewels on the front. They smelled of perfume, and their eyes glittered. They say that their eyes are not afflicted by weakness or blindness because they are always looking at green pastures. Bless you, Andalusia! When shall I lay down my wandering staff on your shores?

Eventually, one of the carpet trader’s men noticed my presence as I stood at the door, stunned by what I saw. He hurried toward me from the other end of the store. “What can I do for you?”

I cut him off. “I’m here to see Rashid ibn Ali,” I whispered.

He fell silent at first: he had been engaged in divining my nature and class so as to seek out the best manner to sell me a carpet, but I had cut him off, breaking his train of thought. I was definitely a foreigner, not an Egyptian: my clothing did not indicate that I was a poor man seeking work, but it was nowhere near the extravagant beauty of the Andalusians.

Just then, a white-haired, bearded man came over, clearly making an effort to appear friendly while attempting to retain his dignity and maintain a respectful distance between himself and his many shop attendants. It appeared that it was his custom to intervene when some matter arose that was beyond the shop attendants’ abilities. I repeated my request to see Rashid ibn Ali. His eyes did not widen in surprise, but he did say politely, “The man you seek is not here now. Whom shall we tell him asked, when he returns?”

I slumped. With some hesitation, I said, “Mazid al-Hanafi. Kindly tell him I want carpets for my house, which lies in a status between two statuses.” And I left.

Ah, this phrase that opened all doors for me; it had not let me down yet among the Voyagers. When I returned the following morning, the shop attendant received me eagerly. “Where did you disappear to, man?” he asked. “Our master Rashid ibn Ali has been waiting for you since yesterday.”

The man with the white beard ushered me into a room at the rear of the shop. I thought I would meet Rashid there, but it was an entryway to a great red room. All the furnishings were red. The ceiling was ornamented with gilded miniatures and there were wooden closets along the walls carved with curlicues and intricately formed branches, the height of two men and perhaps five arm spans across. The table was piled high with books and ledgers.

In the center of the room sat a man engrossed in a book. He only looked up when we were five paces away, and even then he could barely tear his eyes from the page. He planted his eyes on my face. A silence ensued which I felt must have been long; he had uttered nothing but mumbled to return my greeting. At first he appeared distracted and absent: I could tell that he was still lost in the book he held in his hands. He stared at my face as though emerging from underwater and seeing the world for the first time. He was swarthy and had coarse features, but there was a quiet manliness in his look and an air of nobility in his demeanor—that of a man whose essence is held up on pillars of wisdom.

He motioned to the shop attendant to go, and I remained there, observing him. His face was not that of a merchant, with their greedy, grasping mien concealed behind a pretense of decency to draw you in. He was not wearing his turban, only a striped caftan over which was an abaya of the well-made, expensive silk that, in Baghdad, was brought in from villages in the mountains of Surian. On my way there, I had vacillated: should I give him the document al-Qaysi had handed me or content myself with the “between two statuses” I had conveyed to him the day before? He cut my thinking short by handing me a book by al-Kindi that had been in his hand and commanded, without inviting me to take a seat, “Read the last two lines.”

I took it from him and murmured, “Philosophy is unattainable if one does not know mathematics. Mathematics is unattainable without the science of logical deduction.”

When I finished, he said, “What is your opinion of this?”

I was shocked by this sudden test, and knew not what to do. Inspiration struck, however, as it had been wont to do of late. I recalled what Amr al-Qaysi had discussed in his circle, and recited, “With the advancement of humankind and the wars that require justice in dividing up the spoils and equal numbers in the ranks of an army, they used the sexagesimal system: sixty signs as the base, before the Ancient Egyptians developed the decimal system currently in use.”

I looked into his face, hoping my response was sufficient. But I was struck with fear to see a thread of mockery lifting his lower lip. “Also,” I said, catching myself, “al-Kindi employed mathematics in creating the Arab musical scale, as mathematical truths are immutable and precede all their counterparts in the world of the senses. The mathematical method requires rational proofs.”

“Good,” he said carelessly. Then he gestured to a book on a shelf, covered in red leather. “Bring that book, and let us see what Abd al-Jabbar ibn Ahmad has to say about this.” I rushed to the spot he had indicated, asking him the name of the book. “It is on the second shelf. It’s called The Classes of Mutazilites.”

I handed it to him and it fell open to a specific page, as though the book was opened to it habitually, and he read in a deep, hoarse voice: “There are three types of evidence: the evidence of the mind, because it weighs pros and cons, and because it knows that the Holy Book, the Prophet’s tradition, and any matter upon which the four imams agree are
all sources.”

My heart beat faster. I could no longer hear what this venerable man was saying: I recalled that, one day, my sheikh al-Tamimi had cursed Abd al-Jabbar and called him an infidel, and said it was a sin to stand behind him in prayer, and if the latter had not been living in Rayy, under the protection of its ruler, al-Sahib ibn Abbad, he would have called for his death.

When Rashid ibn Ali saw that I had fallen silent and become distracted, he surprised me with the question: “And how are the Voyagers?”

“The Voyagers of Baghdad,” I said, “repeat this verse by a blind poet with a great insight, who visited the city. His name is Abu al-Alaa al-Maari. He says: ‘Young man possessed of intellect, if you be sound of mind, / Know that each mind a prophet is, and follow on behind.’”

It was as though this verse had rained down flowers upon the face of Rashid ibn Ali: the sun rose in his face and his garden blossomed. “We Just Monotheists,” he said, “have no guiding light but our intellect. Bless you!”

He cleared a space for me to sit by him and asked me my background and where I was from. My reserve fell away, and I took to chattering in comfort and security. “My name is Mazid al-Hanafi . . . al-Yamama, Basra, Baghdad, Jerusalem . . .” and so on. Mazid, the voyager through the Agate Cities and the uncharted lands of knowledge, who knows more keenly every day how much he does not know.

He asked me how Amr al-Qaysi was and about his affairs. He did not ask about al-Hashimi or Seraj al-Din al-Furati. I guessed that most probably, in the secret laws of the Voyagers, no disciple knew more than one person in his voyages, to break the chain and keep their story from spreading. In Egypt there were many Voyagers, but Amr only knew Rashid ibn Ali. Or perhaps, for some reason only he knew, he thought that Rashid had the water that would quench the thirst of my parched soul. That seemed to be why a disciple arriving in a country only knew the sheikh he was going to, and the one he had come from.

My sheikh in Egypt, whom I had come to, seated me close to him and resumed his perusal of his book. He raised his head. “Where are you lodging?” He went on, “Beware of renting a lodging in the alleys where the police are quartered: you will be placing yourself under suspicion and many eyes will spy on you. When Jawhar al-Saqilli, who built Cairo, finished building the Eastern Castle and the mosque, he divided his soldiers among twenty alleys, and named each alley by the name of the tribe that settled there: there is Zuweila Alley next to Zuweila Gate, Barqiya Alley, the Byzantine Alley, Kutama Alley, and so on. Now, as you see, Cairo has become a military encampment. Al-Qatai and Cairo are practically interconnected. If you go out of the Zuweila Gate you immediately find the Ibn Tulun Mosque. Therefore, choose for yourself a room or boardinghouse next to the mosque, one devoted to students.”

I told him the tale of my arrival and the rental of my house, deferring the story of my confiscated articles. Now I understood the confident unpleasantness of the soldiers I passed by at the exits of the alleys as I came and went: I was nothing but an interloper in what was effectively a military barracks. “Have you started to attend the discussion circles of al-Azhar?” he asked.

“I am following them,” I replied, “so as to find someone worthy of bending my knees to sit in his circle and place myself in his hands.”

“Do not expect to find Voyagers only as theologians and clerics in these circles,” he said. “They are everywhere. Their light moves in their hands, and I was careful to surprise you with a question about al-Kindi and the intellect so as to put you on my path and see where you would tread. I placed you upon my scales to see which of the balances would descend.”

The ease with which I had joined the path of this imposing, suspicious giant of an Egyptian emboldened me to say, “Since I am upon your path, I wish you might permit me to avail myself of the paradise of your library when I desire.”

I said it and immediately fell silent, afraid I had overreached. But he laid his hand on my shoulder in a friendly manner. “It is yours.”

At this juncture, I informed him of the book collection in my possession, and asked as to the ideal method of distributing them. “I will be straight with you,” he said. “In these dark days that Egypt is experiencing, you will not find a thriving book market. However, books are still like gold: their price multiplies with age and provenance, and they will not remain without buyers.”

I felt I must leave, since after saying this, he had returned to his book. Head bowed, I said, “There is one last thing.”

He raised his eyebrows curiously. Only then did I take note of his large, slightly protuberant eyes.

“What is the best way to get my things back from the chief of police?” I asked.

He blinked. I told him the story of Zacharias and his cart. He shook his head sorrowfully. “Come by tomorrow for the midday meal, and I will have obtained the answer in relation to your possessions.” He went back to reading. “Close the door behind you, and call Yakout in to me.”

I exited with alacrity and no little joy, my path paved with rubies. In a short interview, I had been given the right to visit an astonishing library and gained a promise of my things being returned to me!

I went out into the shop, looking at the shop attendants, searching for Yakout, who was, as I had expected, the polite white-haired gentleman. I told him that his master wanted him, then added a question before I left. “I would like to take a tour of al-Qatai,” I said, “and perhaps go a little way up the Muqattam Mountain. Is there any danger in it?”

His eyes gleamed. “No. But be careful, and do not investigate too thoroughly or linger in abandoned places, where thieves hide. Also, the caliph’s guards, informants, and spies are all about the place to organize a safe passage for him.” He lowered his voice and said with wry derision, “In recent times, our caliph, who has set himself up as the Imam Who Can Do No Wrong, has taken to leaving the palace at night on his donkey and going to read the stars and interpret their signs on the summit of Muqattam. And because he refuses the company of any of his guards, the captain of the guard, who is responsible for his safety, is obliged to scatter his soldiers about the path in the guise of informants or itinerant vendors.”

*

It was not an easy thing to forget Rashid ibn Ali once you were out of his company. The way he raised his eyes from his books and fixed them on his interlocutor; the way he paused between sentences to choose his words; in a word, his presence impressed itself upon me as the other Voyagers’ had. The coarse features of his face; his neck, thick and veined like a tree trunk; his curly hair shining with perfumed oil, shot through with white; and the library he proudly displayed . . . what manner of books lay in it? I must not be too hasty in seeking answers nor tear them open too roughly. Answers lie dormant like butterflies in their chrysalises: when they are complete, they flutter free to perch on your finger.

My heart trembled as I walked, knowing that this was the path taken by the caliph every night on his way out of his palace. I glimpsed around me ruined mansions and abandoned houses, whose inhabitants had left them empty to be taken over by some shepherds and their handfuls of sheep, and a few water carriers: these sat, smiling and friendly, outside houses with the windows taken out, the doors broken in. I was certain that if I entered the house of any of these men, they would share their supper with me.

On my way back to Cairo, I walked along the Water Carriers’ Alley, so as not to become lost in the many streets. The water carriers of Cairo had their own streets, through which the camels and mules, gourds and containers of water on their back, came and went from the Nile. They were always squabbling with the passersby, either because the water in their gourds had splashed on someone’s clothing or because they insisted on being paid in advance: half a daniq, which is one-sixth of a dirham, for every floor ascended in someone’s house.

I must return to my home now. I had asked Mabrouk to purchase for me some mugwort and sweet basil and plant it in pots around the circumference of the upper balcony and throughout the house, for the mosquitoes had given me great distress the previous night, especially with our proximity to the river. My “blood was sweet,” as Shammaa had told me when the mosquitoes bit my face as a child.

Shammaa of the House of Wael! Her memory was like a needle pricking at my heart. I thought of her headscarf with its yellow flowers: she always bought a new one from the pilgrims returning from Mecca. In the evening, when she slept, she removed it and washed it, then undid her long braids and let her hair hang loose over her back. The next morning, when it dried, she would wrap it up and place dried lavender in it, so her hair would smell of lavender all day. I would not remember her too vividly, for my heart ached.

The scent of mugwort and basil was powerful at the entrance to my house. Although it was tempting to remain beneath these shelves reading the books, I must not give in to this desire. I must join the discussion circles of al-Azhar. If I lingered here reading only, it would no doubt give rise to suspicion.

It was not the sound of the evening prayers that brought me out of my house, but the sound of screaming, almost yowling. I could not find its source until I approached the door and it sounded again. “The Lord is everywhere! He speaketh all tongues! He manifests in every person!”

The voice was coming from the main house at the end of Madman’s Alley. I recalled then that my search for Rashid ibn Ali and what remained of my things and the porter had kept me from asking about the madman and his relation to Yunis. I opened the door and looked around, seeking the source of the sound. Despite the dusk starting to descend on the alley, Yunis was attempting to pat the madman’s shoulder in a calming manner as he led him into the house, lifting his hand and kissing it from time to time. From behind the gate of the house, women’s hands protruded, some bearing glasses of a drink they were trying to hand Yunis to give the madman, some catching at his sleeve to pull him inside. The madman himself had his eyes fixed on the sky and cried out, “The Lord is everywhere! He speaketh all tongues! He manifests in every person! Glory be to Him who has no equal, nor companion on His throne!”

I retreated into the interior warily, sensing Yunis’s embarrassment: he surely had no wish for me to see, as I had, this man pushing him, kicking him, and throwing his turban to the ground. But a strange tremor went through me, making me leap up suddenly. I felt that I was being watched in secret.

I closed the door of my house, overcome with loneliness. Egypt does not go to bed early. There are voices everywhere. I felt that every voice had its own secret, quite unlike its fellow. That same night, the sound of some string instrument being plucked descended upon my rooftop, ruinous to the soul on account of its great beauty. The music was enthralling and sweet, as though the musician had plucked the melancholy and longing of every migrating bird over Egypt that year and poured it over the strings.

I woke on Friday morning with the melodies still in my head. Foreigners always tread lightly, walking by the roadside and leaving the center of the road to others, and they do not beat about the bush in conversation; they make way for others; they are never expansive in their conversation; and they are careful to avoid confrontations, be it with a vendor or a chief of police.

I passed by al-Azhar for Friday prayers before going to Rashid ibn Ali. Before I went inside, my attention was caught by an opulent carriage pulled by an extraordinarily dapper mule, its saddle adorned with silver; a group of mosque attendants had gathered around it, in their center a black-skinned beardless man, well dressed, with a magnificent turban. He turned his nose up at those passing by. His appearance suggested that he was a palace eunuch. I heard him speaking to someone in a commanding, impetuous tone: “Bring the stamp from the imam to indicate you have received the mosque’s supplies from the palace!”

An attendant rushed inside, while others took to enumerating the various supplies sent from al-Azhar in loud, pompous voices. “Four mats from Abdan; four plaited mats; Indian oud; musk, one month’s supply; wax and wicks for lanterns and coal for burning incense; four ropes; six buckets; ten baskets; two hundred brooms; earthenware water jars and their stands; fuel oil; a silver chandelier; twenty-seven silver lanterns. . . .” He repeated them as though going over supplies, but it soon became clear to me that he was taking advantage of the crowds coming in for the Friday prayers to show off and boast of the supplies sent by the palace to al-Azhar.

The sermon that Friday was on Islam’s benefit to every nation, the justice of the Almighty, and returning power to the Prophet’s descendants—namely, those who ruled Egypt.

After prayers, the discussion circles were held. Although I was hurrying to the house of Rashid ibn Ali, I could not keep myself from a circle I passed; I heard the sheikh saying, “Why is a verb formed from a noun without the element of time?” The students around him were either African or foreign. I guessed that this lesson was a review session before the students began their examinations to earn their degrees. I recalled with pride, in the mosque in Baghdad, how my sheikh, al-Tamimi, had always chosen me to go over lessons for the foreign students from Persia and Sindh. That pride drove me to yell from where I stood in the outermost circle: “Because time is always present. A verb is meant to indicate a meaning: since verbs are finite but time is always present, nouns are what we must take verbs from.”

Every head turned to me, while the sheikh of the circle stared at me in silent surprise. I suddenly feared that what I had said might be a Mutazilite belief that had stuck in my head, but the sheikh smiled. “Well said, young man. What is your name?”

As my grandfather always says, “A man is judged by what he says, not what he wears.” My words about the sources of verbs had opened the gates to me: I walked out of the mosque with information about most of the sheikhs’ discussion circles, the times they were held, the place where I should set down my name tomorrow, and the identity of the treasurer of the mosque who bestowed the palace’s monthly stipend upon the students.

Al-Qatai was teeming with people that day: some itinerant vendors had even laid out pumpkins, Armenian cucumbers, and garlic among the ruins. I had barely arrived at the carpet store when I found it closed and shuttered. I was overcome with disappointment. What had happened? Should I go back, or seek some other door?

I did not have to search for the door, for it sought me out. One of the boys who worked in the carpet store, whom I had seen inside yesterday, waved to me from across the street, telling me to follow him. We walked down a paved street. On both sides, houses had sprung up with high walls and wooden windows that protruded like boxes. At the end of the street, we went through a passage that led into the same red room where I had met Rashid ibn Ali the day before; we had entered by the large south gate.

Rashid was at the head of his gathering, surrounded by his guests, looking quite different from the day before. He was in full finery—a caftan and a silk turban—and tall, bright-faced young men were sitting on either side of him, although they appeared bored and lackluster, looking about the guests’ faces. As soon as one of the young men spotted me at the door, he leapt up to welcome me with a warm smile on his face. “Is this why a verb is formed from a noun?” he asked.

His energetic welcome tied my tongue. He led me to greet Rashid ibn Ali, saying, “I am Ataa, son of Rashid, and I heard you today at the circle in the mosque. I am in the habit of frequenting discussion circles.” With a chuckle, he whispered in my ear as we walked to his father, “But many of the circles in the mosque go beyond charlatanism to sheer quackery.”

I liked the light of fun and mischief in his eye, and hoped to speak more with him. As soon as I greeted Rashid ibn Ali and sat close by him, I heard him commanding one of his boys: “Bring Mazid’s things.” The boy rushed off and, after a short absence, arrived with the rest of my bags and boxes, dust and all, that the chief of police had confiscated on his shoulders.

I was embarrassed by my humble belongings making an appearance in this opulent company, with the towering ceilings, the gilded ornamentations, and the couches that embraced you like a mother. I feared he might open them up in front of everyone, revealing my herbs and old sandals with goatskin straps, which I still kept with me from my time in al-Yamama. “Please,” I said to the boy, “put them somewhere close by, and I will take them when I leave.”

“We liberated your things!” Rashid ibn Ali called from where he sat at the head of the table. “We also interceded for the Coptic mule driver. He promised to hang a cross around his neck of the required weight, but he had no money to buy it. We paid for his cross and his fee in one.”

I tried to ask him for more details, but was interrupted by a group of boys coming in with trays bearing glasses of a sweet drink with a wonderful scent. The boy who gave me a glass saw my confusion and hesitancy, and said, “This is made from dried apricot. In Egypt, we call it qamar al-din.”

At that time, the assembly was abuzz with the story of an Azharite sheikh who had been found with a copy of the Muwatta Imam Malik, the earliest written collection of the Prophet Muhammad’s sayings, compiled by Imam Malik. The Shiite rulers had had him whipped and paraded around on a mule for fear that the School of Imam Malik might spread among the Egyptians. Rashid ibn Ali looked at me meaningfully, as if to say, “See?” Then he introduced me to his assembly: “Mazid al-Hanafi, a student from al-Yamama.” He immediately gestured to the young men on either side: “My sons, Ataa, Abd al-Jabbar, Ibrahim, and Idris—in honor of the prophet Idris, who was the first to write and settle in Egypt.”

The glances of mischievous youth and the natural pride of nobility were in his sons’ eyes. Their bright garments and silk turbans suggested they were young men who had never yet suffered; the greatest challenge they had faced was shooting down a wild goose with their arrows. Did they swagger along the Nile, followed by girls staring and women sighing? I, too, sighed deeply. Is this envy, Mazid? Have you lost the pride you felt in the al-Azhar discussion circle a little while ago?

I drove these thoughts from my head and took to observing Rashid ibn Ali, surrounded by his sons, of whom he appeared as proud as a peacock fanning his tail this way and that. My father had not been proud of me. He thought that my long sojourn at my grandfather’s side, my face buried in a book, had made me soft. He made me suffer under the lash of hard tasks, cutting up dry palm fronds and turning waterwheels and carrying water. When my grandfather stopped him, telling him I had an extraordinary talent for reading and writing, he would lose his mind, sending me away to the camels’ grazing ground for a week at a time. I would return with my feet full of cactus spines; Shammaa would anoint the soles of my feet with flaxseed oil to draw them out, quarreling with my father all the while.

My father wanted his sons to be a collection of fighters on horseback: strong, powerful men. But when he grew old and sick, and his sons were scattered about every land and valley, he would find none to tend his weakness but some of his women and his daughters: they alone would sit by his head when he died, and mourn and bury him, wailing at his grave.

The sons of Rashid ibn Ali had bright faces, pleasant demeanors, and features that had never known privation or hunger. He appeared to have forced them to attend this gathering to bolster his own pride. He went on by way of introduction: “I named Ataa after Sheikh Wasil ibn Ataa, one of the heads of the Just Monotheists, who left Imam Hassan of Basra and let his intellect be his imam. In the second and third—Ibrahim and Abd al-Jabbar—I brought together both names of the Judge of the Mutazilites, bless his intellect and rationality.”

It appeared that Egypt would not brandish its knives in the faces of Mutazilites as yet—or was it just that Rashid ibn Ali trusted his assembly? Most of the men there appeared to be merchants, distracted by moneymaking from science and contemplation; they were discussing the affairs of the market as they enjoyed their qamar al-din.

Soon, however, Rashid ibn Ali turned to his son Idris, as though continuing a conversation they had started before my arrival. His eyes fixed a little above his son’s face with a half smile, he said, “My question is, was the Holy Qur’an created in the time of the Prophet and concordant with the events that happened then?” Idris lowered his head in silent confusion. His father added, “Or is it as the folk of Basra say, that it was created with Life itself, and preserved in the Tablet?”

Idris appeared to like the latter answer, as it seemed to give more dignity to the Qur’an’s eternal status. He responded quickly, as though afraid that someone else would beat him to it, “It is eternal, in the Preserved Tablet!”

His father smiled triumphantly, as though he had won some contest and was now leading the conversation in the direction he pleased. “Well, if that is the case, what of verse one of the Sura of al-Masad, which says, ‘Perish the hands of Abu Lahab! Perish he!’ Is Abu Lahab’s infidel nature born of the moment, or old as eternity?”

He looked at the faces around him, victory in his protuberant eyes. But everyone around him was silent. “Abu Lahab cannot have been created an infidel,” he explained. “The evidence being that the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, called upon him to believe, and was insistent in his preaching. There was a possibility that he could have become a Muslim, like the uncles of the Prophet, Hamza and al-Abbas. But he did not. And the Qur’an descended with the verse that described these events. Therefore, the Qur’an is created and not eternal. The Divine Meanings lie not in the letter of the words, but in what they engender in ourselves and the ideas they inspire in the mind.” He paused, gauging the effect of his words on the faces of those around him. He shook his head, “This is the reverse of what the Hanbalites say, that one must judge by the general intent of the text, not by the specific occasion.” He immediately turned to me. “What do you say to this, Mazid?”

I had already divined that he had embarked upon this topic that I might empty my mind’s pockets in his gathering, and also to get the merchants to quit their discussion of the wheat caravans on their way to Hijaz. I racked my brain in an attempt to recall a few lines from the discussion circles of Baghdad on this subject. I sought something impressive, awe-inspiring, even if I did not understand some portion of it; something by means of which I could outstrip these young men born in the lap of luxury and make them feel inferior in the presence of my vast knowledge. I said, “God has described His own book as created, for he says in verse two of the Sura of al-Anbiya: ‘Cometh unto them a new message from their Lord.’ There is nothing eternal in this world but God.”

I saw Ataa’s eyes sparkle, not with jealousy but with warmth. Even his breast was pure and free of envy, radiant as his face. The assembly whispered and chattered about the Preserved Tablet and the preservation of the Qur’an. Rashid ibn Ali pressed his thick lips together, clearly afraid that the chatter would devolve into an uproar, and pushed the boat of the conversation far from the Preserved Tablet. He turned to me. “Have you seen the giraffe and the elephant of al-Ikhshid?”

I gaped. What was he speaking of? His sons laughed. “The giraffe and elephant of al-Ikhshid have an interesting story that everyone who visits Egypt must know. Al-Ikhshid looked at his minister Kaffur one day, the day they brought in a giraffe and an elephant from the land of the Negroes. All the servants and slaves tilted their heads to look, but Kaffur’s eyes never left al-Ikhshid, for fear that he might call on him only to find him distracted. Al-Ikhshid and Kaffur long gone, the elephant and the giraffe remained, handed down to generations of the stable boys of al-Ikhshid, who cared for them on a farm not far from Fustat, and people began to go there to see the animals and wonder at them. They were cloistered away from people, so that you could not see them without paying a dirham. When the giraffe died, they sent for another from the land of the Negroes, and brought back two; a space was cleared for them next to where the rams and cocks fight, and the people go to see them every week.”

I feared that this talk of the giraffe and the elephant meant that he was making light of me, and that I was still viewed as a naive disciple in the caravan of the Just Monotheists, although deep down I resolved to seek out the giraffe and the elephant.

Suddenly Rashid ibn Ali rose and gestured to us. “Lunch is served; step this way.” We rose behind him, surrounded by his sons: I could see that the races had mingled, manifested in Rashid’s dark skin, compared to his fair-skinned offspring.

Atta approached me and whispered, “I’ll see you tomorrow in al-Azhar after the noon prayers.”

Suddenly Rashid ibn Ali stopped and looked at us, as though remembering something. “What affirms that the Qur’an is created,” he said, “is that the Divine Meanings lie not in the words, but in what they engender in ourselves and the ideas they inspire in the mind. Therefore, each of us creates and understands them according to where he is on the journey of his own mind.”

My heart beat so fast that I tripped over the edge of the carpet. I would have fallen on my face if it hadn’t been for Atta, who grabbed me and asked, “Are you all right?”

Rashid ibn Ali had raised me to the fifth commandment on my ascent:

Fifth Commandment
Monotheism is an unattainable goal: each one finds it through his mind according to his ability.

Had he meant to say it, or was it the machination of Fate to build steps leading each disciple to a higher place in his ascent?

On my way home, Rashid ibn Ali asked one of the grooms to accompany me. I placed my things on the horse’s back and we walked alongside the animal until we were through the gates of the walled city. We made our way to the narrow alley where my house lay: he stopped there and swiftly carried my things inside on his shoulders. As I did not have any dirhams to give him, out of gratitude, I took loaves with black seed from the bread basket and presented them to him. In retrospect, this was probably ill-considered of me, given the lavish banquet served to us in the house of Rashid ibn Ali: mutton, duck, spiced soup . . . But he responded with a polite slap in the face, saying, “Thank you. It will make a good meal for the horse.”

Embarrassed, I blamed myself, as I was still dealing with the world through the memory of hunger and thirst.

I undid my packages. My things appeared untouched: nothing was missing, even the compass and the astrolabe, although the chief of police had showed a keen interest in them and turned them in his hands, and I doubt anyone could have blamed him for taking them. But the power and influence of Rashid ibn Ali appeared to have ended the matter.

I spent the rest of my day at home, filled with contentment and a sense of security, thanks to my ascent in the journey of the Voyagers and a full stomach. I spent the evening with Hippocrates, translated by Hunayn ibn Ishaq. He mentions in his preface that, according to Galen of Pergamon, “Hippocrates compares the human being to a small concentration of the big world, because to care for the human body is to care for the world.”

I performed the dawn prayers at al-Azhar. The gifts of the palace had begun to appear about the mosque: the place for prayer was perfumed, and the lanterns had imbued the air about me with a pleasant purplish hue. I spent the morning and early afternoon there, moving from circle to circle, observing the teachers who might grant me a degree. Ataa accompanied me—or perhaps I accompanied him, although he was three years younger. Ataa was still at the stage of playing and having fun, swaggering around with his spear-straight figure and elegant clothing. The world had not spilled its dark liquid on him. He did not care to attend all the circles and told anecdotes about the sheikhs. If their talk bored or disgruntled him, he rose and found another. Despite this, he was my guide through the colonnades and gates of the mosque: he crept with me to a row of windows in the northern cellar of the mosque, saying with a sly laugh, “If we listen closely, we can hear the girls’ discussion circles from here. If we set up a ladder, we might catch a glimpse of them.”

We did not stay long there, for fear of being spotted by a guard, and went to the library instead. Finally, he led me to a row of discreet columns in a far corner of the mosque where one could lie down to snatch a nap. In one of the discussion circles, I maintain that I saw the madman, with his wild hair, the silver lion on his stick, rushing down the corridors: I guessed he had managed to escape that day from Yunis and from the hands that dragged him inside.

That day, I had been looking forward to an intimate evening with a book I had borrowed from the al-Azhar Library, the book compiled by al-Sharif al-Radi of the sayings of Ali ibn Abu Talib and named Nahj al-Balagha. Here was a book worthy of solitude and contemplation.

That was what I thought, but then my evening took a turn for the bizarre.

I had just finished the sunset prayers and was heading for the gate of the mosque, when I found the madman standing before me. I jumped and trembled to hear his voice. “Deeds never end,” he said. “They last; they stay. The wounds in the heart bleed, taking your soul and your heart’s light
with them.”

His voice and appearance froze the blood in my veins. He had followed me without my sensing it. This was all I needed—a madman following me! I stopped, wondering if I should humor him and lead him back home, but at that moment Yunis arrived in a rush. He bent over the man’s hand and kissed it, grasping his stick. As though speaking to a small child, he commanded, “Come, master, to the house.”

Suddenly the madman became a respectable master: he raised his chin and asked Yunis in a calm tone accustomed to giving orders, “Have you prepared Lamis to come to my room tonight?”

Yunis hesitated, flustered. The madman screamed in a voice coming from the depths of his soul, “Have you dressed Lamis in her finery to come to my room tonight? Or is the she-devil still pinching her hands and fingers with pins heated on the coals of my heart?”

By the time the screaming started, Yunis had already been careful to lead us into Madman’s Alley, away from the passersby. The madman turned to me and whined, “Lamis’s hands were like white jasmine. They were tiny. Shining. But they were disfigured with heated needles, until she grew angry with us and left.”

“Lamis is waiting for us now,” Yunis said, embarrassed.

The madman’s eyes bulged. “Silence, filthy slave! You are nothing but the cur of your she-devil mistress!”

With these revelations and mysteries, I saw Yunis’s face freeze. I started to withdraw and head for my own dwelling. “Please stay,” Yunis whispered. “Help me walk him to the house. Master appears especially agitated tonight. I fear he may run off to the top of Muqattam, or into the desert.”

I walked with him. The whole way, the madman complained to Yunis and insulted him. But I had not the courage to ask what had occurred. It was the first time I had approached the great gate in which the Madman’s Alley ends: sturdy and wooden, it was studded with nails and decorated with brass crescents and stars, with a great padlock the size of a camel’s head. It was a nobleman’s house and no mistake. You could tell from the spacious halls with their high ceilings and columns, couches and furnishings, the fire in the brazier, and the cloud of Indian incense over all. “Stay,” Yunis entreated, “and recite some Qur’an for him. You are an Azharite: your recitation will bless the house.”

The madman was calm and pliant in my company. Yunis ran to get more mastic and Indian incense for the censer, muttering, “Life has taught me that it holds many lessons.”

“The Qur’an heals people!” I heard a suffering female voice cry. I raised my head, and saw a woman waddling toward us like a dignified goose, rustling in her flowing garment of silk that she drew along behind her. She had a diaphanous, silken face veil the color of wheat. Every time she moved, her bracelets and finery jingled and whispered. “In the name of the One who heals all . . .”

When she reached us, I heard the madman mutter, “You are what ails me, she-devil!” She retreated to a corner by the door leading into the house, covered her face with her veil, and started weeping.

Mabrouk and another boy brought a low table and placed it between me and the madman. They set out a meal upon it under Yunis’s instructions. At the same time, I had the powerful sensation that there were eyes watching me from some hidden corner. The goose woman waddled away from us, wiping away her tears and overseeing our hospitality. When she removed her veil, wet with her tears, I looked at the floor politely so as not to stare. “Witchcraft,” she lamented, “and what it does to people! May that day never come again, the day that Berber girl came to our house!”

The madman surged up. “Silence, she-devil!” he roared, spittle flying from his mouth. She fell silent immediately, tilting her head to the side. Yunis leapt in to smooth matters out, pouring a drink into a cup and offering it to me.

It appeared to me that the woman was still clinging to her fading youth. There was still something of it left, however: a pair of beautiful eyes surrounded by thick kohl, and a complexion like honey. Her worry and disquiet could not hide an attractive hoarseness in her voice, which matched the wringing of her beringed and bejeweled hands as she spoke. She ran her hands over the parting of her thick black hair, which hung in a braid down her back. Her beauty still tugged at the edges of her face and collected around her enticing mouth. She was afflicted: she sighed deeply and called down God’s help, beating her hand against her thick thigh, soft as a feather pillow. Her eyes never left the madman. The food was set out on the table, but no one touched it. Although I was hungry, I was embarrassed to start when no one else was eating. My feeling of being watched only grew stronger.

At that moment, I felt it was absurd to keep up the pretense of the stranger, the neighbor who had been dragged into this tale by chance, especially as it seemed that there was a sense that I would save them—that everyone in the room was helplessly looking to me for some nonexistent protection. “Would you recite some verses of the Suras of Yasin or al-Rahman to bring him peace?” the woman entreated.

I wished I could tell her, “Your presence has only agitated him; please leave,” but that would have overstepped my position. I could not leave without giving them some sort of assistance, even if it involved feigning knowledge. I recalled Galen of Pergamon’s explanations and his addenda to Hippocrates: it was just what they needed in this congested room. I lowered my head and took to recalling the words I had read. “There are two causes for illness: remote causes, caused by the atmosphere and the climate or the foods eaten by the patient, and proximate causes, caused by the imbalance or predominance of one of the four humors of which the body is composed.”

After I had said my piece, they all craned their necks toward me, as though I were waving a lantern for a caravan lost long ago in the desert. Perhaps I enjoyed the attention; or rather, was reassured by the deep reaction that had spilled over into this large, comfortable reception hall. I continued: “Therefore, diseases must be cured by means and methods that lead to the maturing of humors and extracting them from the body.” I breathed in deeply: seeing them still stunned, staring at me, I continued: “When the humors are well mixed in manner and measure, the body remains in good health. We are now in fall, which does to the body as it does to the leaves of the trees: the air makes a man lonely and melancholic, and affects the liver and the gallbladder.” I turned to Yunis. “Make sure he does not sleep directly under the sky and the stars.” Then I asked, “Is there a bathhouse you can take him to?”

His eyebrows raised in surprise, he said, “Sir, my lord is a nobleman and cannot visit the baths of the common folk. We have his own private bath in the house, for which we have brought in a special aqueduct from the Nile.”

In a tone so calm and confident that I half imagined Galen of Pergamon would chuckle to hear it, I said, “After he has bathed and his humors are in balance—air, water, fire, and earth—in the bath, we shall give him raisin water to drink.”

The woman was shocked and cried out, “But there are no raisins on the market!”

I did not answer her and turned to Yunis, getting ready to leave the house, “Do not forget what I asked of you. When he is done with his bath, pour water with sweet basil over his feet: the vapors of evil leave through the feet, and his humors will then be in balance, and he will sleep deeply. I shall come to see him after evening prayers.”

I left with the sound of the muezzin calling for the evening prayers, great waves breaking on the shores of the Nile, as though it were calling for an absent lover. The sound echoed through the passages and colonnades, erasing the fatigue of the day.

I went to my house and took the raisins and sage out of my bag. I prepared the raisin water in a small jar. Then I prayed at the mosque, returned home, and read some Galen. Did madmen have humors of black bile? Galen quotes Hippocrates in saying that they are melancholic, with dark hair, and their bloodstream sluggish, especially in the fall. He did not think that bloodletting was the best cure for them, but rather expelling impurities from the stomach.

I took the raisin water and the sage—it is said that they are laxatives—and hurried to the home of the madman. He had calmed down after the bath, and his face was tired and drowsy. His unkempt hair had been smoothed down with perfumed oil, and he wore a white cotton garment with an olive-colored wool caftan over it. I handed him the jar: Yunis rushed to pour some of it into a glass for him. The smell of sage was so powerful that I felt Zulaykha might step through the door at any minute.

The sense of being watched this time returned to me insistently, before I raised my head to see a girl at the door staring at me with a smile on her face. She shone so brightly, as if made of pure gold, that I was speechless. Her skin was like gold dust; her eyes were glittering amber. She was walking toward us slowly, her mischievous eyes fixed on me. She paid no attention to Yunis, as though he were not there. When she reached us, she approached the madman and whispered, “Master,” then ran her henna-dyed fingers through his hair.

His head had been bowed: now he raised it, put his arms around her waist, seated her in his lap, and buried his face in her neck. He kissed her lips chastely, as if she were a cat that one might pet in passing. She responded, pliant, as if it were an action repeated dozens of times a day. She kept watching me intently, as though planning something.

To conceal my embarrassment at this turn of events, I announced, “It appears that our master is well now. I wish him a peaceful night. If I am able, I will come by tomorrow and bring him another draft.”

On my way home, I was filled with an alchemist’s joy. The madman had calmed down. But who was this girl of gold? Was she one of his slave girls? Her eyes stayed with me. When I arrived at my house, I resolved to go out and buy some of the herbs mentioned by Galen, marjoram and cumin, which he said were intestinal cleansers.

A doctor takes on some aspects of a god: he encounters people on the battlefield of hope and prayer. After disease has sapped their strength and removed their fangs, they eagerly await the path back to life, guided by a superhuman doctor who will pour life down their throats once more.

Should I become a physician by profession? It would abbreviate years of my suffering in life, and spare me having to introduce myself to the Egyptians I met now as a merchant, now as a vendor, now as a student. A doctor is allowed access to the most closely guarded houses, all doors are opened to him, and all veils are lifted from him; he sits at the head of the table and the choicest morsels are presented to him. I took up another handful of raisins, put them in a cup, and set it aside. Grapes are mentioned eleven times in the Qur’an: I would take the drink tomorrow to the madman of the black humor, to see what would become of his case.

Between sleeping and waking, I heard the strings of the lute. They were still sad, suffused with longing and the song of migrating birds.

I went to see the madman the next day after sundown. I knocked at the door and the boy, Mabrouk, opened it, welcoming me warmly: he appeared to feel that now there was something that brought us together, over and above my being a mere visitor to their master.

He let me into the reception hall. The goose woman, or “mother of the children,” as they called her, was at his head, smoothing his wavy hair and anointing it with sandalwood and jasmine oil, as he lay on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling as though avoiding her gaze.

When he heard my voice, his face split into a great grin. He sat up and said, “Welcome to the one God has granted wisdom and given the answers! Al-Jahiz was right to say that wisdom descended from the sky to three of the denizens of the earth: the Greeks in the head, the Chinese in the hands, and the Arabs in their tongue! I had such a deep sleep last night as I have not enjoyed in ages.”

I was astonished: he appeared well-balanced and dignified. I gave him more of the raisin drink and said, “This is your dose tonight.”

The mother of the children was pleased at his joy and said, “If only you would live next to us for always, Mazid! He has been so much better since yesterday. If you were a slave, we would have bought you from your master, and if you had been a master, we would have asked you to stay.”

Her words disturbed me. She would buy me? It appeared that my face showed something of what I felt, for the madman snapped, “As the proverb says, they fall on their tongues because of their tongues. You have ever been foolish, and speak foolishly.” Then he quoted the verse: “You have no horses nor money to give; / At least speak no ill as long as you live.”

Why so much hatred between them when they still lived together? What had she done to him that he held so much resentment for her?

To lighten the embarrassment that filled the room, I said, “Be sure to drink the raisin water tonight. The Prophet, prayers and peace be upon him, was fond of raisins, and said that they were good for the nerves, lighten affliction, quench rage, sharpen the taste buds, remove phlegm, and improve the color. Imam Ali says that one who eats twenty-one red grapes a day will never fall ill. Not to mention the poem that says,

The grape is the king and sultan of all the fruits;
Its moisture and sweetness render all things moot.
Each other fruit has something of which to boast;
But no book could grapes’ virtues adequately host.

It appeared that my words were his cure, not the raisin water. He raised the glass and drained it, and then chewed on the raisins. When he finished, he lifted his head to Yunis and asked him to take down everything I had said.

Yunis disappeared for a moment, then rushed back, bearing a pen, inkwell, and papers, and asked me politely to write down what I had said to his master about grapes, for he had not followed it accurately. I wrote it down carefully, feeling the amber eyes on my face again like burning coals.

Tomorrow would be the second Friday I had spent in Egypt. Rashid ibn Ali sent me an invitation via his son Ataa to lunch after Friday prayers. His youth was no impediment to the deepening of our friendship: Ataa said to me playfully, quoting Abu Nawas, “You desert Arabs are nothing in the eyes of the Lord!”

“The Egyptians worshipped their kings,” I shot back. “According to the Qur’an, Pharaoh said, ‘I am your Lord, Most High.’”

Ataa’s vigor made one think he was preparing for a great vocation. He was quick-witted and a voracious reader, but not enslaved and controlled by books like I was: he made surprise forays into them, devouring them and reading an entire book in a day and a night. Afterward, he might cease reading for close to a month and absorb himself in hunting or sitting with the guests at his father’s gatherings or cantering about on his horse in al-Qatai, knowing that many eyes were watching him and many women wanted him.

I felt secure in his presence: he was my eye on Egypt, and he kept my path open to Rashid ibn Ali. I told Ataa of the madman’s vacillation between absent rambling and keen observation. “It is not strange,” said Ataa. “I have seen him do worse. Many say that he is feigning madness, because the caliph would have forced him to take on the job of a judge, which he loathed. He says in his private meetings that theologians will be resurrected with the prophets, while the judges will be resurrected with the sultan’s men!”

I had not attempted to sell any books until now. I was still fearful of prying eyes. Amr al-Qaysi had said, “Voyagers’ books are their mind, their ancestry, their seed, so be careful where you deposit them.” Rashid ibn Ali told me, “There is nothing wrong with demanding a high price for them: that will keep them out of the hands of the common people, and place them with noblemen and the highborn. He who wants them will give anything for them. Beware of selling them to pay for your own needs; find a profession that will protect you from want and asking for charity.”

Although I now received a stipend from al-Azhar, riches are, as they say, company in a strange land; and the proverb says: “He who asks for alms shall never live with dignity.” I must find a profession to support myself, and to guarantee my daily bread. I had hired the boy, Mabrouk, to take care of my home in exchange for a small sum every month.

That day when I went out for Friday prayers, I found a great marquee erected before the gates of al-Azhar, with boys and slaves crying loudly, “General Zaffar al-Islam, His Majesty the Caliph’s general, was blessed with a boy last night, whom he named Husayn! Pray to him for long life!”

The faithful were crowded in the marquee, with tables set out with bowls of the sweet pastry zalabiya, glasses of rosewater, and dishes of fish. It is the custom in Egypt to spread out a shade or sail at the time of the sermon, which the preacher started that day by saying, “Prayers and peace upon the Prophet, and Imam Ali, and the Prophet’s daughter Fatima the Pure Worshipper, and Hassan and Husayn, the Prophet’s grandsons, whom God has raised above all sin, and purified; and pray for the pure imams, the fathers of the prince of the faithful, our caliph, al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah.”

Would the list of the Prophet’s descendants be crowded with more names year after year? If so, the imam would be reciting their names from one Friday to the next. It was the custom of the Fatimids when they went to war to take the coffins of their ancestors with them. How foolish they were.

Then I realized that my thoughts were transgressive: I asked God for forgiveness and protection from the Devil. O Lord! Ever since I became involved with the Voyagers, I have only to set foot outside the mosque to question all I have heard and everything around me, breaking it down into little pieces crowding into my mind—and now my doubts and fears were following me into the mosque itself. God help me!

I found Rashid ibn Ali’s gathering, as usual, packed with the eminent men and great merchants of Cairo, the sound of discussion and heated back-and-forth within the hall louder than my first visit. The caliph had issued an edict that an inscription be placed on every mosque cursing the Prophet Muhammad’s caliphs Abu Bakr, Umar, and Uthman, as well as the Prophet’s wife Aisha, and Talkha, al-Zubayr, Muawiya, and Amr ibn al-Aas—in other words, every Sunni descendant of the Prophet’s lineage. A toothless sheikh sitting by Rashid ibn Ali said, “We used to curse the Nawasib from the pulpit only after the Friday prayers. But for this to be inscribed on the walls of mosques! It is a great sin, and will be accompanied by lethal fitna. The people of Egypt are new to the Shiite sect.”

Another toothless man by his side said, “Are we to curse the two of them when Abu Bakr was with Muhammad in the cave, side by side, as they were fleeing the infidels? Are we to curse Aisha, Mother of the Faithful, when the Prophet died in her lap?”

One of the sheikhs of the discussion circles, whom I always observed beneath the pillars of al-Azhar, said, “We know not what lies in wait for us after this, nor where these boats shall take us. The Christian king of Ethiopia now collects jizya taxes from the Muslims there, as we do from the Christians here. And the greatest blow is that the burning of the Church of the Resurrection has driven the monarchs of Europe to sound the trumpet for a holy war.” He went on: “The king of the Bulgars and the king of Byzantium have joined forces in defense of the Christian holy shrines, chiefly the church that we now call the Church of the Refuse, although it holds the Holy Sepulcher where Christ is buried and rose again.”

I shrank in the presence of this overpowering resentment and unconcealed ire. Was this assembly safe from spies? Our host made no reply, merely shaking his head as he listened attentively. I was somewhat reassured that he would not notice my presence in the crowd, but it appeared that he had, for in a moment of silence he asked me, “What is your opinion, Mazid of Najd?”

“You and your ‘Mazid,’” I thought resentfully, “as though there were none but me in this hall.” I knew not how many spies were hanging on my every word, and there was still a great deal of my life that I wished to live: I had no desire to be stabbed on my way home, or have my head roll off the summit of Muqattam. But I must say something worthy of this learned gathering, not reflecting cowardice and apathy. I must earn the trust my interlocutor had placed in me by asking me out of all the others. “Metaphor and metonymy,” I thought, “were created for moments like this. I shall speak in a manner that may be interpreted in any fashion, and thus not fall into error.” Aloud I said, “Prayers and peace be upon our Prophet Muhammad, and his noble and good descendants. Humanity was created to people this earth and carry out the great ends of religious law, we must not insult one another and so scatter our efforts to the wind, whomever the Lord fills with unbelief cannot be brought to the right path, whomever He fills with belief cannot be brought to the path of perdition; human instinct is monotheism and justice. In conclusion, thanks be to God, the Lord of both worlds.”

I glimpsed a small smile on Rashid ibn Ali’s face, making light of what I had said. He invited us to finish our conversation over a meal: the conversation subsided and became more pleasant, filled with joking, laughter, and good cheer, especially as the dishes on the low tables were filled with goat meat, chicken breast with vinegar and eggplant, chicken boiled in pomegranate sauce, grilled goose with lime, wheat cakes with sugar, and sweet, delicate, puffy khushkanan pastries stuffed with almonds. The toothless old man said, “Faced with such a banquet, Ali and Muawiya would become brothers and give up insults and fighting—they would only fill their plates and their stomachs!”

After our meal, the gathering of Rashid ibn Ali usually dispersed, whereupon Ataa and I would go on a walk on the banks of the Nile or around Fustat, sometimes taking a boat to the island in the center of the Nile, returning with the sunset prayers.

That night, the lute played again, crying and bereft, as though the brides of the Nile—virgins whom legend has it are sacrificed to the river to make it flood—were all sitting in a row, mourning their stolen youth swallowed up by the river, reducing them to wandering spirits fluttering over it.

I no longer saw a great deal of the madman at the mosque; when he needed me, he now called for me. One day, I found Mabrouk waiting for me at the stairs to my house. “My master wishes to see you.”

I accompanied Mabrouk to him, filled with apprehension. In his house, I always saw something that left me speechless for a week. This time did not disappoint. He was sitting with his golden slave girl in his embrace. She had papers in her hands, and an inkwell and pen close by. I bowed my head and took a step back at the sight of her, but he called me forward. Then he said, “Mazid, I would like you to give your seal of approval to these words we have copied from yours, and make sure that they are accurate. Read what you have written, Kahramana.”

Kahramana? So her name meant amber. Before I could pursue these musings further, she raised a sheet of paper with writing on it and read in a sweet voice with a crack in its depths: “The Prophet, prayers and peace be upon him, was fond of grapes, and said that they are good for the nerves, and lighten affliction, and quench rage . . .” and so on, reading in a playful voice with a hint of flirtation in it what I had said about grapes that night.

Sometimes she would break off her speech and look at me, licking her lips lustfully, whereupon her master would nudge her and say, “Read on.”

“But,” I remonstrated in surprise, “the words are not mine; I copied them from some—”

The noble madman interrupted me: he seemed at the height of wisdom. “Be that as it may. But all we need to hear about the benefits of grapes, prohibited by the tyrant, are set down therein.”

I was stunned to find that they had prepared dozens of copies about the benefits of grapes, carefully rolled up till they were no thicker than your ring finger, tied up with woolen thread, and carefully stacked on the low table.

I returned home with the certain knowledge that this noble house was drawing me in, day after day, and calling me to its deep waters; I knew not that this very night I should drown.

After evening prayers, I was accustomed to go out onto the balcony that formed part of the roof, eavesdropping on the conversations between the stars and the caliph’s Cairo, and waiting for the sound of the lute that would pierce my evenings like a meteor of joy. I listened for the river birds that refused to nest and remained circling on high, crying mysteriously. I was accustomed to devoting this time to reciting some of the poems I had memorized for fear of losing them to the slippage of memory. I started with one by Umar ibn Abu Rabia:

The eldest sister asked,
“Know you the boy over the dune?”
Said the middle, “It is Umar.”
Said the youngest girl, who loved me,
“We know him: who can hide the moon?”

The upper room and its balcony were separated from the rest of the roof by a low mud wall, upon which Mabrouk had set out the pots of sweet basil. This wall separated me from the rest of the madman’s house.

In the night, things begin to move beneath the cloak of darkness, creeping out of their holes. Cats meow, crickets chirp, leaves rustle on the trees, spirits come out of hiding. Suddenly a gigantic cat crashed onto the roof. The sound was coming from the low wall between my roof and the noble madman’s. I froze, trembling. At last I stood, looking at a dark shape padding quickly toward me. I feared it was one of the demons afflicting the madman’s mind, but when it was ten arm spans from me, two amber eyes shone in the darkness. She whispered, “Did I startle you?”

She drew near. Her breath smelled of cloves. “How goes your evening, Arab of the desert?”

I took two steps back. Before I could stop her or rebuff her, she let her abaya fall. There was nothing underneath but her body, the light from the slip of a moon spilling over it, turning it the color of apricots. Here was someone who had made up her mind.

We wrapped ourselves in her abaya. When she saw how disturbed I was, she held me and said, “Let us start by drinking from the spring before we go for a swim.” I knew not what she meant to signify. But she seemed to sense my greenness and inexperience, so she guided my hand beneath the darkness, and together we went to the river.

I feared the thing that burst from me then, the thing that set me all aflame. She was laughing, perhaps at my unschooled enthusiasm and passion, or at my greedy mouth that bit her and drank the nectar from her folds.

Suddenly she opened her palm to reveal a red silk kerchief. “Put it in,” she said, “for I still fear the punishment of the Lord for sullying or mingling bloodlines.” I know not where I put it in, or if I put it in at all! She was leading me seductively, and I was drinking of her like a stallion after a thousand days’ thirsty journey.

I could not say when she left. I was like one drugged. But I thought I heard her rustling by my side at dawn.

*

Her presence had been a flood that subsumed me, a wave that drowned me. When the light dawned, I took to wandering the alleyways of Cairo: through the gates I went to the river, perhaps to gather the threads of my mind that were scattered through the air. I remained distracted until the sun was sinking, the late-afternoon sun spilling jars of gold into the river. There were many fishermen, people taking the air, and some boys crowding and splashing in the water, swimming and trying to catch fish with small, tattered nets, while the fishermen reproached them for frightening away the fish.

Though the ruler had made a law prohibiting outings by the riverbank, he had not been able to keep the Egyptians away: the Nile remained their father and their lifeline, without which they would shrivel and drop off the tree. All they did, when they heard the police passing, was hide among the tall reeds by the river, or behind the large mimosas whose branches trailed into the Nile. Flocks of cranes landed on the water and swam around fearlessly, accustomed to the gentle nature of the Egyptians.

“And flesh of fowls that they desire,” says the Sura of al-Waqia: if I, from the Arabian Peninsula, ate the flesh of cranes, would it benefit my body? According to Hippocrates, the sick are healed by the drugs of their own land: I hoped that the raisins I had bought from Arish would be a good cure for the madman.

It was as though I had confessed my worries to the universe. A group of boys approached me, passing a piece of paper among themselves and tossing it about wildly. One of them came up to me and said, “Do you read, sir?”

I nodded. He held out the paper to me. To my surprise, it was none other than one of those written out by Kahramana yesterday about the benefits of grapes. I paled. Who had brought this paper here? What was I to do with it? The boys had seen my confusion and perplexity, which only caused them to come closer. In a panic, I told them, “Beware. It is a wicked spell from the time of the Prophet Moses. Anyone who recites it turns into a river hog.”

They drew back, frightened. “There are many of them all over the city!” they cried.

I tore it up immediately and threw the pieces into the river. Full of ire, I rushed to the madman’s house, seeking answers. Was it true what the boys had said, that the papers about grapes were everywhere? I glimpsed one on a windowsill, another at the threshold of a mosque, and a third with the prickly pear vendor. The benefits of grapes filled the skies of the caliph’s city, in defiance of the orders of her ruler, who had outlawed them. I plucked up two and secreted them in my sleeve, then rushed to the Madman’s Alley.

What was happening here? The caliph had issued an edict banning grapes, and the papers extolling the benefits of the fruits of the vine were fluttering in every alley. All that remained was for it to appear on the walls of the police headquarters. What kind of challenge was the madman undertaking?

When I arrived at his door, I knocked. Quickly, as though he were expecting me, an albino boy opened the door. He was white down to his eyelashes, with red eyes like a rabbit’s. I drew back slightly, frightened by his appearance, but I managed to control my reaction so as not to wound him. I recalled Anas, the son of one of the farmers in al-Yamama: he had been similarly colorless, as if washed clean. The other children refused to play with him, and called him “leper.” They said the Devil had urinated on him because he had gone to bed without washing himself or praying, so he had lost his color, although they all knew full well that he had been born this way, and was a decent and well-mannered boy capable of outstripping them in a footrace. Still, they insisted on mocking and making fun of him, especially as he preferred to sit in dark, cool rooms because his skin and eyes were irritated by the sunlight. “He prefers the dark,” the boys whispered, “so that he can be alone with his father, the Devil.”

God help you, al-Yamama of Najd—how cruel you are! Anas died young. At his funeral, his mother wept and said, “Heaven forgive you all! My son died of the malice and spite with which the boys of al-Yamama beleaguered him!”

In low, polite tones, the boy at the door said, “There is no one at home.”

“What of Yunis?”

“He is out too, with my master,” he said, “and they have not yet returned.”

I was overcome with apprehension: where was I going? What lay behind the walls of this house of mystery? Where could Kahramana be? Had she gone with them?

I withdrew. When I was nearly at the door to my house, I heard footsteps hurrying behind me and a voice saying, “Doctor! Doctor!”

The albino boy, his face bright red from running after me, said, “My mistress, the mother of the children, wishes to speak with you.” I made my hesitant way back. I almost made some flimsy excuse to protect me from delving deeper into this bizarre family, but the albino boy said to me, “She says it is of the utmost importance.”

It was important, so important that it confirmed my suspicions: the mother of the children told me that it was her husband who had written these pamphlets, spending the nights copying them out, and whenever he ran out of paper and ink, he yelled to the household to bring him what he needed from a storeroom on the other side of the house. When the morning came, he rolled them up into scrolls and placed them in his bag, then went to scatter them throughout Cairo. He added that he planned to distribute them throughout Fustat and al-Qatai to foment revolution, so people would challenge the rule of the tyrant on the throne of Egypt.

She bowed her head and half covered her face with her veil, overcome with sobs. “You know that the streets are filled with spies and informers: any whisper of betrayal in the ear of the wild boy”—she meant the caliph—“could have him beheaded. Not only that: they will seize and confiscate his properties, and annex them to the treasury.” Slyly, she added, “His vengeance may even reach you. You are, after all, the one who told him of the benefits of grapes.”

Was she trying to frighten me, or win me over to her side? In any case, she was overcome with distress and despair. “Since he drank the raisin water, he has been improving, especially because in this season, no farmer in Egypt dares grow grapes, not after last year’s harvest was thrown in its entirety into the Nile, and the vineyards all set alight, on suspicion that wine was being prepared there. The caliph cared nothing for the protests of the growers, and never repaid them for their losses.”

Suddenly the albino boy spoke from where he stood by the door: I had forgotten he was there. “Also, mistress,” he said, “in the market yesterday, I found that they were no longer selling mulukhiya leaves or catfish, on the caliph’s orders.”

She dusted off her hands in a gesture of astonishment. “Good heavens! Lord, have you set this ruler above us to expiate our sins? Why, he passed by a women’s bathhouse, and when he heard them laughing within, he had the door to the bathhouse bricked up with the women trapped inside.” I recalled hearing this story from Hassan the Egyptian when we were in Baghdad. How I missed him! I wished he were here with me in his homeland: things would be clearer and make more sense in his presence.

The mother of the children looked down and fell silent; now she broke into loud sobbing. “O God, what shall I do?” Through her sobs, she told me that her cousin and her young daughter had been among the women in the bathhouse. “I had to go to offer my condolences in secret,” she confessed, “dressed as a servant woman, for the caliph has forbidden free women to walk in the streets.”

I froze, remembering the eggplant woman at the police headquarters. What did the Egyptians eat, then, when the caliph took it upon himself to select what should be placed upon their tables? The mother of the children had stopped sobbing: she raised her head, contemplating the colored light pouring in from one of the windows onto her face. It made her beautiful, despite her kohl smudged from weeping. Distractedly, she whispered, “After the death of his slave girl Lamis, who was bearing his child, his health has deteriorated. I have often guided slave girls into his bed, telling him that they are Lamis’s sisters; he will not believe it, and remains steadfastly searching for her. When he is himself,” she continued, “and in his own mind, he speaks with a wisdom that the greatest sheikhs could not match. In a moment of clarity, he copied out the grape pamphlets, secreted them in his clothing, and went out at dawn, waiting for no man. His previous distracted air has returned after the slight improvement in his condition brought on by the raisin water you brought.”

This was the side of the story told to me by the mother of the children. But the tale told to me by Kahramana a few nights later, as she lay in my arms, the bed around us bursting into flame and subsiding to ash, then bursting into flame again, was quite different. Or was it Kahramana’s sweetness that made it more palatable?

“Lamis,” she said, “was Master’s favorite slave. Al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah presented her to him in this very house when Master arrived in Egypt in obedience to his summons. The caliph, you see, sought to bring more Shiites into Cairo to bolster his power and advise him. Even now, the servants and the household speak in wonder about Lamis the nymph, with her swaying gait and her melodious lute. Our master fell passionately in love with her, and spent long hours in her company, missing the dawn prayers and arriving late to mosque on Friday. In the evening, she would prepare a couch for him upon the roof and start to play. Silence fell and a hush came over the city, all listening to her. Cairo would await the nights when the slave girl Lamis played her lute. All the while, my master’s passion for her only increased.”

She went on: “Lamis had a strange habit: she plucked the petals of irises and placed them in her mouth, using them as a whistle to produce a sweet sound. The mother of the children said she used them to summon the demons who had captivated the mind of our master. They did indeed, for he was captivated with love for her. When the old harridan, the mother of the children, saw how enamored my master was of her, she was careful to make her drink neem with barley every night, to keep her from becoming pregnant and bearing an heir that might share her sons’ inheritance.

“When my master found she was slow to become pregnant, he swore a holy pact to take her on a pilgrimage to Mecca and pray to the Prophet Muhammad, the best of all men, to unlock her womb. When the season of pilgrimage arrived, the clarion call to Mecca sounded and the caravans formed. The mother of the children was insistent on going with them, but my master refused, on the pretext that the pilgrimage was unsafe, and that she must stay behind with their children. The Arabs were split between Sunni and Shiite, and he knew not for whom the preacher in Mecca would pray that year in his sermon: with so many people there, it might well devolve into chaos. Well, when Lamis ceased drinking the neem with barley, she returned from Mecca pregnant, as the reward for her pilgrimage. The mother of the children lost her senses: her pregnancy meant that there would be a brother to vie with her sons and share their birthright. So she made the poppet.

“Mabrouk says that they are poppets made by the mother of the children from scraps of cloth and remnants of wool. At midnight, she brought out the poppet and pricked it with pins, calling down maledictions on Lamis without cease. Lamis contracted smallpox. Some said she caught it on her pilgrimage to Mecca; some said she had drunk polluted water. But Mabrouk says that the smallpox pustules on Lamis’s body were the same in number as the pinpricks on the poppet. She rotted away and died, and they buried her in a faraway grave after covering her body with ashes.

“They left the house and stayed in one of my master’s estates outside Cairo, a day and a night’s journey away, until the house was cleansed of the remnants of smallpox. Mabrouk and Yunis stayed behind, burning mugwort and purifying the house with its smoke, washing the floors with Nile water, and setting the furnishings out in the sun; they also burned all of Lamis’s clothes, until the house was cleansed. All came back to the caliph’s Cairo, but my master’s sanity never returned. He was a body without a soul, the shell of a man. He heard nothing but the music of Lamis, her lute and her poetry. He saw nothing but her shadow all about him. At first, he would sit at the door as if in a trance, refusing to bathe or perform ablutions. Afterward, he took to walking through the streets and alleyways, refusing to stay at home.

“My mistress was obliged to send Yunis to Andalusia and the Maghreb to find girls to entertain him and quench his passion. They bought a slave girl for a thousand dinars, but all she found was the shell of a man: he would not touch her unless she braided her hair into four braids and put on a turban with silver dinars, letting its end hang over her brow as Lamis had done. In the dark, she pressed close to him, whispering, ‘My master, light of my heart,’ which was what Lamis used to call him. Whereupon he would pat her on the shoulder, kiss her on the cheek, and fall into a deep sleep, hoping to meet Lamis in some passageway of his mind.” She sighed. “The mother of the children insisted on the drink of neem and barley, and the red kerchief.”

I was astounded. Was she speaking of herself? I was overcome with the desire to hold her closely and hide her beneath my ribs, far from the drinks they forced her to consume, and from the mother of the children and the pins and the smallpox. But Kahramana, mischievous girl, wanted more. She wanted to play, and laugh, and drag the stallion to the river.

The Skinned Wolves and the Tales of the Quraysh

I regularly attended the gatherings Rashid ibn Ali held behind his shop, for every scrap of news passed through it, if it did not actually originate there. The men who frequented it called it the Saqifa, after Saqifat Bani Saida, the place where the Prophet’s disciples congregated, and where they had pledged allegiance to Abu Bakr to rule after Muhammad’s death; the name embarrassed him, though, and he entreated them not to use it in case it should find its way back to the caliph, who might think the Quraysh were raising the flags of war against his rule.

That day, they were speaking about the skinned corpses of wolves that they had started to find strewn about al-Qatai, a terrifying spectacle. Who was it that skinned them, took the heads and skin, and left the corpses? It was clear that the perpetrator, whoever it was, was performing some kind of dark demonic rite, like the rites performed to vanquish their enemies by the idolaters who lived in southern Egypt.

I sometimes glimpsed the idolaters of Egypt in the road: dark-complexioned and tall, they walked through the streets of Fustat, barefoot and naked but for a loincloth, bizarre turbans on their heads formed of shells or animal skins or birds’ feathers. The folk of Fustat whispered fearfully that the caliph hosted them in his palace, where he had signed a pact of brotherhood with the Devil under their guidance. It was he that the caliph went to meet every night on the summit of Muqattam, wearing the head of a wolf or lion on the recommendation of sorcerers from Sudan, who promised him the courage of a leopard, the cunning of a fox, and the submissiveness of his subjects.

Such was the gossip abroad in the streets; and here it was, come to the house of Rashid ibn Ali. When the man himself felt that it had gone beyond the bounds of reason and common sense, he changed the subject and asked me to recite some poetry.

Rashid ibn Ali had not indicated any book buyers to me so far: should I await him, or commence my own search for purchasers?

When He Loves, He Becomes More Pleasant

Ever since Kahramana had started creeping into my room, I had become a regular at the neighboring bathhouse, careful to emerge with my nails trimmed and my hair combed. I completed my finery with new clothing, which Mabrouk pledged to wash and care for. Nothing tames a wild man like the seduction of a beautiful woman. My grandfather always quoted the desert Arab who, it is recounted, was told “Your son is in love.” “What of it?” the desert Arab said. “When he loves, he becomes cleaner and more pleasant.” I swear, O Arab, you spoke only truth.

I now returned home eagerly. The stranger’s shyness had left me. My breast had absorbed the Egyptian air and my blood had mingled with its Nile. I no longer merged two prayers together, or prayed fleetingly like a passing traveler, and I swear if the bugle call had sounded to defend that country, I would have gone out to fight with her people!

Ataa and I attended one of the mosque’s discussion circles together. The sheikh who held it was teaching from the book of Islamic history by al-Tabari. Whenever mention was made in the book of al-Hassan and al-Husayn, or any of the line of Umaya, he cursed them, following up his curses with “Upon them and all who follow them,” and a hard stare into my face and Ataa’s, lips pursed. So as not to permit him to drag us into an argument, we would remain steadfastly silent. Perhaps the constant company I kept with Ataa made the sheikh think I was one of the Nawasib: the clan of Rashid ibn Ali was one of the well-established merchant families in Egypt. Their great-grandfather had come to Egypt with Ibn Tulun as the captain of a military company; Ibn Tulun had made him a gift of a plot of land, where he had settled and set up a business that was later passed on to his descendants.

The sheikh of the circle continued, digressing and expanding and nodding and winking at us, until he came to the story of the monk and the bird. “The great astrologer Ibn Yunis says: One day we were visited by an old monk who had been in the city of Silvan, and told us that he had abided in a monk’s cell in his youth. One foggy day, a bird alighted where he could see it, bearing a piece of meat in its beak. The bird left it there, and returned with another, until he had returned with many pieces that came together in the shape of a man. Then the bird came up to him and pecked at him and tore him up and ate him, as he cried for help. Said the monk, ‘When I saw him, I cried out to him, “What is your story, O man? What is this I see befalling you?” And he responded, “I am Abd al-Rahman ibn Muljim, who murdered Ali ibn Abu Talib, peace be upon him, and the Lord has set this bird upon me to exact the vengeance you see, moving me from place to place.”’ The monk said that when he saw what had befallen the man, he left his cell and converted to Islam.”

The sheikh was telling the story with great confidence, describing the pieces of meat that came together in the air with his hands. At this juncture, Ataa began whispering jovially in my ear, “It’s lunchtime, and I can see somebody who wants meat for lunch! He probably made the whole thing up to get a stray hand or shoulder from this Ibn Muljim!” When we felt that our giggles might start to become audible and disturb those around us, we slipped away quietly, as Ataa said, “Let’s go before he finishes off what’s left of our sanity.”

*

The house of the madman formed part of the eastern wing of the palace. My daily rounds rarely deviated from the house and the mosque, while Ataa’s constant company kept me in contact with Rashid ibn Ali, who still warned me against selling my books in al-Azhar, as it was, he said, full of spies.

However, these spies remained unaware of a Persian sheikh of al-Azhar by the name of Dia al-Din al-Karamani, who taught the fundamentals of Qur’an recitation using al-Farabi’s book on music. He talked freely and expansively, while his circle grew ever larger. Perhaps al-Farabi had only been declared an infidel and a heretic in Baghdad. We were astounded: who had given al-Karamani permission to teach in the hallowed halls of al-Azhar? He was not old in the least, the blood of youth surging through his veins. He had the eyes of a hawk and an aquiline nose. Despite his foreign origins, his proficiency in Arabic was matchless. His words flowed, as he said: “There can be no recitation without a musical ear, and music is divided into notes and pauses. It is like the colors you see with your eyes. You recognize red, blue, and white. Musical keys are the same. You cannot recognize them without listening to them and knowing their character.” He then read from al-Farabi’s book: “Rhythm is moving from note to note in strictly calculated time.” He tapped the armrest of his seat, saying, “The lighter version of the verse meter al-raml is composed of two light beats, ta, ta-tum, ta, ta-tum: one strong beat, ta, then merge the letter n with the letter before or after it, and emphasize it, then a light ta, ta-tum after it.” Then he burst into a recitation of the Sura of al-Rahman, pointing out the pauses and beats of silence, while the mosque settled into an awed hush, listening.

Although it was now fall, Cairo still had days when it was hot and stifling, making for sleepy, sticky discussion circles in the mosque: you could see nothing but the fly whisks waved about by the sheikhs of the circles to flick away the flies and keep away sleep. Then Ataa and I would go to the banks of the Nile, to a place close by the island in its center, where there was some farmland owned by his family, the clan of Ali. When the fisherfolk glimpsed Ataa, they would cheer joyously and hurry to prepare a seating area for us. They spread out a carpet, two boys would hold up sunshades, and the fisherman’s wife would bring us stalks of sugarcane, washed and cut up.

No one went swimming on that side of the river, for there were whirlpools and crocodiles. However, they gave us ropes to tie around our waists, and we paddled and took a quick plunge into the river to cool our bodies from the sweltering weather. When we came out, they would have grilled fish ready for us from their baskets, while our wet clothes would have us shivering with cold, forgetting the heat.

We were refreshed and fed, and that is ever the moment when humankind starts to turn its nose up at its own good fortune, delving into a discussion of truths and certainties, and chatter that verges on heresy. Ataa and I whispered about his great love for the knowledge of the Greeks. “Do you recall,” he said, “Theaetetus’s dialogue with Plato in which he denies fixed knowledge?”

“If you remind me,” I said, “I shall recall it.”

“He said, ‘Does it not occur that the same breeze will make one man shiver, but the other not? That one man will perceive the wind as violent, and the other not? What is that breeze in itself? Are we to say that it is cold, or that it is not cold? Or shall we admit that it is cold for the one who shivers, but not for the other?’ If that is so,” he went on, his voice dropping, “there is nothing that is One, in and of itself.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “that is why Eastern philosophers have called it Subjectivism, denying fixed realities and saying that things are to me as they appear to me, but to you as they appear to you.”

*

The scents of the thick and intertwining plants; the cries of migrating birds; the storks and pike in the river; the flocks of cranes; the croaking of the frogs as they leapt about; the clouds above our heads, each with its own story; the cloud above me thick and white, but not weeping as yet. He was holding the rope, sometimes pulling me close, sometimes letting me go far, the water rocking me—I splashed it away, and it rushed back playfully. The rope that bound me to the shore, I thought, was like myself. It kept me from being swept away by the currents of thought. No sooner did I quit Aristotle’s heresy than I ran to prayer, pressing my forehead to the dusty ground in the hands of my Creator. Perhaps I was, after all, a coward: I could not swim without a rope.

Ataa was lying on his back on the mat, looking at the running water. “Look at the river!” he called to me from the bank. “Heraclitus says you cannot go into the same river twice.”

I emerged, dripping. “Times change, nothing is eternal. It’s a river, after all.”

“Did you hear what al-Karamani said today in the recitation lesson about al-Farabi? I feel he is a heretic. He is trying to worm al-Farabi’s sayings into his teachings whether they belong there or not. He jumped from music to al-Farabi, saying, ‘God is One, there is no difference between Himself and His intellect. He is the Mind, He is Sanity and Reason, he is Knowledge, He is the All-Knowing and the Known.”

I sat down, crossing my legs. “But, let me tell you, Ataa. He gave me an answer to something that had been giving me sleepless nights. Namely, that God is eternal, but the world is changeable; and what is changeable cannot be created by what is unchanging.”

He sat up. “Do you mean the issue resolved by al-Farabi by the idea of Divine Inspiration and Godly Light?”

“Yes.” I frowned. “That could be an answer, but I fear that talk of divine inspiration is nothing but the heresy and blasphemy of foreigners and Persians. When I was in Baghdad, they dared not speak of such topics unless it be in whispers.”

He craned his neck toward me, eyes shining. “It is not heresy! It protects you from heresy, it urges you to think. Al-Farabi says that the existence of things for God is not the same as their existence for us: things appeared from Him because He Himself is Knowledge, He is the impulse of goodness in the world. Therefore, ten intellects emerged from Him, the last of which is our human intellect. And now I find that a great many sheikhs of al-Azhar are speaking of the Ten Minds.”

“I don’t know.” I felt that his speech was too pat and readymade an answer. It might be enough for this young boy, secure in his certainty, with a great urge for contention and winning an argument. Or it might be the world seen through the eyes of a pampered boy who had never known hunger or fear. According to the fifth commandment of the Voyagers, each one finds monotheism “through his mind according to his ability.” That is when it becomes a sacred journey: no one can give you the map of the way. You must take the path alone, guided by the lantern of your mind and the whispers of your heart.

On rare occasions, Ataa and I would take a boat to the opposite bank of the river, then walk until we were nearly at a collection of great stone structures, larger than mountains, which the Egyptians called the Pyramids of Giza. I felt heavyhearted at the knowledge that they were tombs of their bygone kings. We climbed their stones and sat there, looking at the caliph’s Cairo, Fustat, and the Nile from above, as seen by the gods. With the sunset, we would make our way back, the sky filling with birds. Great flocks passed over our heads, coming from the north, calling out among themselves as they headed southward.

Ataa said that the change of seasons was their time: they came from the north, bringing the cool air in their beaks.

“They seem to me,” I said, “to be pained and frightened.”

He smiled. “Have you read the tale of the Greek monarch and the cranes?”

“I think I may have seen something of the sort. Remind me of it.”

“They say that one of the Greek monarchs asked the poet Quintus to supply him with a store of philosophy books. Quintus packed his books into a crate and set off for the king. However, a band of robbers lay in wait for him and made to kill him. He entreated them to take his money and spare his life, but they refused. At a loss, he looked right and left, seeking assistance, but found none. He lifted his head to the sky and saw cranes circling high overhead. ‘O cranes!’ he cried, ‘the Almighty has abandoned me! I call on you to avenge me!’

“‘This is a feebleminded man indeed,’ said the robbers. They murdered him and took his money, then divided it up and returned to the city. When the news reached the folk of his city, they were sad and outraged: they followed the tracks of his murderers, but it came to nothing. The nation of Greece all came together at his funeral—including the murdering bandits, who mingled with the other folk and feigned sadness at his death. The cranes flew overhead, crying out to each other. The thieves raised their eyes and faces to the sky: the cranes screamed, flew, and blocked the horizon. They laughed and said to one another, ‘They are calling for the blood of the ignorant Quintus,’ and took to mocking him. Those close by heard them. News reached the monarch: he took them and questioned them. They confessed to his murder, so he had them executed, and thus the cranes avenged the poet.”

The evening fell like sobs. My heart was still heavy and my chest tight, here by the tombs of the god-kings and the snorting of exhausted camels. The place was desolate, echoing with the tale of the murdered poet avenged by the storks.

On many occasions, Lady Justice comes too late. But she always comes. I still did not know then that she might come to betray the murderers in the shape of a fairy with enchanting beauty.

I went to Fustat when I was in the mood for loaves with syrup on hot iron plates, or sometimes baked in ovens built into walls by the women who made the bread. They pulled out the hot loaves, steam rising, poured dark syrup over them, rolled them up, and handed them to you with a merry smile. Their flirtatiousness had struck Amr ibn al-Aas speechless; but I had never found anything to turn my head like Kahramana’s body. She blossomed and opened like a lily over the darkness of my soul.

The folk of Fustat were more cheerful and friendlier than the military men in Cairo. Although there was still worry and disquiet in the streets, watching and waiting for the commands of the Caliph Who Can Do No Wrong to settle upon their heads like a renewed bolt from the blue—or, more accurately, from the royal palace east of Cairo—the people in Fustat sang, laughed, gossiped, and secretly named their four-footed animals after their ruler and his men.

Ataa sometimes chafed at his father’s and uncles’ insistence on remaining in al-Qatai: its eastern half had been in ruins for nearly a hundred years, destroyed by the Abbasid wali, Muhammad ibn Sulayman, who had demolished and sabotaged it until it was nothing but ruins inhabited by robbers and stray animals. Still, a great many of its buildings were still standing on the western side of the city. According to Ataa, “The estates and mansions of my family are built around the mosque of Ibn Tulun. That is why they are still standing, along with some paved plazas, bathhouses, and shops. They say,” he went on, “that they survived thanks to a clever stratagem on the part of my grandfather against the army of Muhammad ibn Sulayman. When the Abbasid army besieged al-Qatai, one of my grandfather’s slaves, disobedient filth, slipped out under cover of night and betrayed his masters. He told the enemies the locations of the gates, the number of guards, and even the locations of the women’s quarters! But,” he added, “God punished him for his treachery by afflicting him with whooping cough on the way back, and they found him dead outside the gate at dawn. However, my grandfather saved the day. He held a banquet for the Abbasid army, and all and sundry ate their fill. This saved the family from the demolition. After that, the family motto became, ‘Be careful the company you keep: in times of trouble, you find out a man’s true mettle.’”

We arrived at the houses of the clan of Ali from the western side. They were like great locked fortresses, but they flung open their gates when they saw us coming at the end of the road. The gates parted to reveal orchards of orange trees with a long stone wall the height of four men.

Everything in Egypt was generously and readily available. Rashid ibn Ali finally asked me to write down a list of the books I possessed, and start showing them to those I trusted, or to people he recommended to me. There was no need for anyone to know, he said, where the books were kept in my house, lest the fires of suspicion turn them to ash.

Still, when I saw the library of his house, and examined its contents and titles, I learned that my feeble crate was but one shelf of his library. It was a library that I would not have believed could be amassed by a single person: generations, it appeared to me, had handed down these rows of books and set them out by subject: sciences, translations, biographies, books of quotations, and poetry. I began to see things with more clarity: Rashid ibn Ali insisted on keeping the knowledge of the Voyagers alive between the lines, seeing to the spread of their books, and attracting followers; he had no interest in my books. I must pass on the great secret to someone in every city in which I alighted, and plant the seeds of rationality in darkened minds. I had not found someone to select as a disciple until now. In Jerusalem, it had been Hamilcar. But what about Cairo?

On occasion, I met some Andalusians at the assembly of Rashid ibn Ali whom I had previously seen at the carpet store; they had not only bought the most expensive and best of the carpets, but they became regular visitors to Saqifat Bani Saida, paying special attention to knowledge and the sciences. When Rashid spoke, they craned their necks toward him, listening reverently. Only these were highly recommended to me by Rashid ibn Ali as suitable buyers: they held science in high esteem and thirsted for knowledge. The books would travel with them to Andalusia. One Friday, therefore, I showed them the lists of the books I had. Before they made their decisions, they gathered around their portly master, stealing glances at me from time to time, until I began to worry. My palms sweated; I thought to slip away. Then, a boy with them, who appeared to be their servant, came and whispered in my ear, “My master wishes to acquire the original manuscript of Galen of Pergamon, a copy of Ikhwan al-Safa, a copy of Ibn Wahshiya’s Nabatean Agriculture, and al-Kindi’s A Treatise against Alchemy.”

They agreed to the exorbitant price I demanded: a thousand dinars for each book, the price of a young slave from the slave market. I rushed home and came back with them tucked into the folds of my clothing. I watched them leafing through the books I had brought with curiosity and interest. They had large, round, fair faces and thick necks, and their clothes were perfumed. I compared them with the pitiable booksellers of Fustat: lean, dark-skinned, smelling of alley sweat. The soldiers and guards had not been kind to the people of Fustat, keeping all of Egypt’s riches for themselves and leaving the common people nothing but scraps.

Most of the Andalusians’ interest and eagerness lay in the Greek translations. They were insistent that they be the originals, scrutinizing them and examining them carefully, as copies and bastardizations had proliferated among the booksellers of Baghdad and Cairo.

The assembly that day was discussing predestination. The portly master of the Andalusians patted his stomach as he chuckled to Rashid ibn Ali. “Away with you! We are only following what is written; or else what would make us pay such exorbitant sums for books and carpets?” He frowned in concentration. “And you say you have nothing other than free will, when your choice has alighted upon these books, with full awareness and true desire? If you cared nothing for them, you would have passed them by, as you pass by pebbles and cow pies. Men of Andalusia, you came here to exchange your darkness for light. The believers in predestination are the meek, those who bow their heads, the fuel of tyrants who use their bent backs as a step to ascend their thrones.”

As they made to leave, the portly Andalusian, the one who appeared to be the master, approached me. “These books are enough for us now,” he said, “but perhaps you will bring the rest to us in Cordoba, Mazid.”

That phrase was the trap that drew me in and remained within me until, one day, I found myself on my camel, with my crate of books, on my way to Andalusia. Was I predestined, or was it my choice? Or did I lie in a status between two statuses? Each of these answers bore a measure of right and a measure of wrong: our fates merely knock upon the doors, and we choose to open the door to them or reject them.

Lo! We Have Given Thee Abundance

Kahramana still crept in to me, and I drowned in my desire for her. How terrifying were the pleasures contained within that body! I would spend my days in a trance, remembering our nights together. At the discussion circles, I felt her breath around my face and her lute with its melancholy strains would mingle with her luscious moans in my ear. Ataa noticed. He asked, “Why are you sometimes so distracted? Do you eat too many figs? They say that eating figs softens the heart. Or do you listen to music habitually? Music not only pleases the ear, but fills the heart with melancholy. Your sighs are weighty as rocks.” He added with a sly grin. “What is it? Are you burdened with something . . . or are you in love?”

I was so taken aback with his question that I could not take up the cheery thread. My flustered mutterings must have confirmed his suspicions. “Who?” he asked. “And where?”

I evaded his question. “Did you believe that? Who could capture the heart of Mazid al-Hanafi? Why, I am a Voyager in the Flock of Cranes!”

How had the terms “Voyager” and “Cranes” slipped out? Had love made me loose-lipped? But Ataa did not react at my reference, although he was sharp-witted and missed nothing. It seemed that it was he whom I would choose to carry the torch of the Voyagers in Egypt. But I must introduce him to it quietly and smoothly: the boy’s heart was still buffeted by high winds, and his ship had not yet settled on the shores of certainty.

That day, as soon as our discussion circle was over, he repeated his debauched desire to visit Shaaban, the slave trader in Fustat. “He is a shrewd trader,” he said. “In front of his house is a courtyard where he displays his slaves, but he keeps a garden behind his house with rooms in it, and in every room there is a slave girl like a hidden jewel.” He took to describing them like a hungry man dreaming of a banquet. “There is an Indian woman with a lovely figure and great beauty, with clear creamy skin, a wonderful flavor, and a pliant disposition . . .”

I raised an eyebrow. “You have tasted her?”

He replied airily, “Lord, forgive us the venial sins.” He went on: “There are women from Kandahar, who are always virgins no matter how many times they make love. There is a woman from Sindh, small-waisted, incredibly beautiful with long hair . . .” He trailed off as though he had recalled something. “Oh! He has a girl who says she is from Medina, bringing together sweetness of speech, fullness of figure, beauty, and coquetry.” He slapped his forehead. “And the girl from Mecca! She is a nymph with her broken speech and her soft wrists. She is white with tanned skin, voluptuous and shapely. The slave girls of Shaaban the slave trader have pure, cool mouths and soft, drowsy eyes . . .”

“Enough, Ataa!” I cried. “I am not myself with your talk! Look above you! We are beneath the dome of the mosque.”

He bowed his head in mock modesty. “Heaven forgive me!” The corners of his mouth turned up. “Lord, forgive us the venial sins.”

Kahramana’s visits were irregular: she made them when she was not being watched. If Yunis or her mistress were not monitoring her, and her master asleep, she crept out to me. Sometimes she would come three nights in succession, reducing my soul to a ruin in her hands, but sometimes it would be a long time between visits, filling me with overpowering desire for her. Cairo would fall asleep, and only I would remain awake, alongside the brass pots of beans simmering in the coals to provide breakfast for the city. When morning came, I would almost go to the madman’s house to catch a glimpse of her. I tried to learn of her from Mabrouk, but he was tight-lipped and careful not to let out the secrets of his master’s house. “In winter,” she said, “it will be hard to slip out to you.” This was because her master slept in the eastern room giving onto the roof. Sometimes I would wake at dawn to find that she had placed a plate in my room with three apples bearing the marks of her teeth: I would tear into them, enjoying her apples.

We lived like this for a long time. I was unmade, and had no desire to leave Cairo for more cities to distribute the books of the Cranes. There I stayed, desiring to remain by her side, until we quarreled and the thread between us was broken. I had teased her the previous week, saying, “How many hands have plucked this low-hanging fruit, and how many thirsty men have drunk at this spring before me?” She was clearly adept, knowing where to guide my hands, and laughing at my inexperience on some occasions. That night, despite the still and reverent darkness, she sat up in the bed as though stung, and slapped my face.

“I thought you respected this gift and the risk I am taking,” she wept. “I have always preserved my virtue, and that through the slave markets where girls and boys are sold. Covetous eyes, wandering hands, depraved words—I resist them all, only to come to you and have you describe me as a debauched strumpet? Your eyes betrayed your overwhelming desire, so I sought to give you the ultimate in pleasure, that your desires might not stand in the way of my path to your heart. I refused to play the coquette and pretend to rebuff you in order to heighten your longing, as is the way of all the women of the world. I wished to cut short this eternal dance and lie in your arms until dawn. There is nothing between us but two souls that have clung together; I have placed no traps or snares in our path in the form of false rejection. It was my wish to smash the urn that springs with desire between a man and a woman, to traverse that field between mare and stallion!”

She was gasping, tears pouring down her face, her chest rising and falling so violently that I thought she might choke. I made to hold her and comfort her. I swore that I should not touch her that night, only recite the poems of Imru al-Qays or the line “Have you left me to punish me, or out of tedium?”

But she shoved me away from her and disappeared into the curtain of the night. When I heard her footsteps on the roof, leaping over the wall of mugwort and sweet basil, I felt such a desolation and a longing for her that my heart constricted with grief as it had the day of Grandfather’s death.

A week passed in which I did not see her or even hear her playing. Was she still incensed?

It appeared that my trouble was not with Kahramana, but with myself. I was even now unable to translate the feelings of love into words. And was what I felt for her love, or a flood of desire and the snare of youth? In al-Yamama there was nothing more than a ripple of flirtatious laughter quickly hidden behind a burka; in Baghdad, I had only thought of Zahira, who was a shining star to be seen and not touched ere she disappeared on the horizon. I rejected all the offers of Hassan the Egyptian to go with him to the tavern for fear it be said that Sheikh al-Tamimi’s scribe frequented bars. In Jerusalem, the beautiful Surianese women had tempted me, as had the freshness of Elissar and the meekness of Hanna, Hamilcar’s sisters, who were so soft that it seemed a spring had just flowed into their faces. But that charm was like lightning that flashed and disappeared with storm clouds that briefly appear over desert dunes. Kahramana, though, was like a fever that had overtaken me and eaten me up. She had introduced me to worlds suffused with rainwater, perfume, and melody. The texture of her tight, hot body; the wellspring within her . . . she was a kind of madness, a fairy who had taken me by the reins like a lost camel and led me to a fertile field where couples roamed joyously. Kahramana! With her, I seemed to be rolling atop a mountain made of butter.

I did not know what was happening, but she had been silent for days and not returned. She had given up playing the lute.

At night, I blundered between the balcony and the door. In the end, I prepared the sage drink and took it to the madman, although I had vowed to myself never to visit him again after the grape pamphlet incident, as I had taken to calling it. But longing drove me to his house like a sheep.

I found him lying on a couch, staring at nothing, running a miswak around his teeth. Whenever he saw me, he brightened, and this time was no different. He drank what I brought him straight away, and asked me to recite some verses of the Qur’an to him, or the epic poem of al-Asha. Then he asked me, “Who is the caliph who says, ‘I have had so many women that I no longer care who comes or goes; I have eaten delicacies until I can no longer tell sweet from sour; I have no pleasure left but knowledge and the company of learned men?’ One tires of everything but knowledge: the more there is, the sweeter to the soul. Keep me company, learned man.”

“You have spoken nothing but truth, wise man,” I responded, thinking, “But who will tell this to Kahramana’s body, bubbling and boiling over like a pit of flame!”

I glimpsed her coming and going and bringing this and that. I was careful not to let our eyes meet, for a lover’s eyes betray him, and Yunis was extremely observant. He availed himself of my visit to sit on the couch with his turban pushed back, his belt undone, and his paunch hanging free, even dozing off from time to time as I entertained his master, knowing he was in no need of direct attention and was tamed by my presence.

I had not known that Yunis was a eunuch until Kahramana told me. He always sat with me and the madman, and appeared a man of full virility: his voice, his aspect, his firm handshake, none of these evidenced the softness, effeminacy, or cunning of eunuchs. One day, with the beginnings of dawn, when Kahramana had been readying herself to leave, and taking up two dishes of sweetmeats she had brought, she had said, “I must leave now before the eunuch comes to wake my master.” I thought she meant Mabrouk. But she winked. “No. The old one. Yunis, the foreigner who has accompanied my master since the dawn of his youth. But I do not know when they castrated him.”

I pulled her to me hard, jokingly, not wishing her to leave. “How do you know he is a eunuch?” I asked. “Did you go to him seeking something and not find it?”

She playfully batted at me with her fists. “Ah, you desert Arabs! Always thinking the worst!”

She had ever been cheerful, with a ready wit: she had always joked along with me. Why had she left me and gone away?

The madman asked me to recite some of the Qur’an, but no sooner had I recited the first few words of a verse than he finished it for me. I turned to the Prophet’s sayings, and he recited these one after the other, without missing a word. Indeed, he took me down twists and turns of interpretation of which I had not been aware. As though sharing great news, he said, “Did you know, Mazid, that there are seven ways of reciting the Qur’an? There is Sheikh Tamim’s method of kashkasha, as when, in verse twenty-four of the Sura of Mary, instead of, ‘your Lord has provided beneath you a stream,’ he says, ‘your Lord hash provided beneath you a shtream.’ Or the istintaa of the tribe of Hadheel, who, instead of, ‘Lo! We have given thee Abundance,’ say, ‘No! We have given thee Abundance.’”

His Qur’anic recitations baffled me—he was dragging me to a place I knew nothing of, and in which I knew not what was safe and what was dangerous. “Yes,” I said, feigning knowledge, “also, we are from Hanifa and we and the people of Tamim use kaskasa, which is changing the letter k to the letter s when speaking to a woman.”

What I said appeared to please him: he nodded and talked on until I was dizzy. He was trying to gather the threads of his memory, now speaking of the position of judge he’d rejected, now of some new pamphlets he wished to distribute in secret by way of rebellion over the caliph’s injustices. When I announced my wish to go to the mosque, he kept me back. “Where would you go, in unjust Egypt? Have you not heard al-Mutanabbi’s verse: ‘Egypt’s guards sleep; the foxes hunt their fill; / But still her vines hang heavy, bountiful’?”

I pleaded with him not to distribute the benefits of grapes again in secret. He laughed at me and said, “We shall see.”

My heart beat fast and my eyes remained glued to his face. At that moment, I realized that this man would not cease to distribute writings against the ruler.

The Doctor Who Heals

The books of Hippocrates and his student Galen of Pergamon had passed the scepter of medicine on to me in Egypt: I became a false physician to whom people constantly came for treatment. I know not who put it about, but in all probability it was the garrulous mother of the children. My fame slowly began to spread: some students at al-Azhar came to me complaining of a change in their innards, or a weakness in their bodies, or flatulence. I would tell them to boil their drinking water and purify it with slices of lemon, and clean their pots and steam them with mastic before storing water in them, “to cleanse your liver and return the color to your faces.” Sometimes the sheikhs of the circles would come to me complaining of joint pain from long hours sitting with their knees bent: I would tell them to heat castor oil and rub it into the afflicted joints, then crush fenugreek into a powder and make a poultice to wrap around their knees, “which will heal you with God’s help.” I was careful to conclude all my advice with verse seventy-six of the Sura of Noah: “Over every possessor of knowledge, there is One more knowing.” This, I felt, preserved a face-saving escape when they discovered that I was a pretend doctor, an interloper.

However, with God’s help, their bodies responded. When they took the medicine with the intention to recover, recover they did, and their afflictions disappeared. Our bodies are created to recover, to cast aside their poisons and pollutions. If the humors are in balance, we eventually achieve what Galen of Pergamon called “well-being.” Most of the mumbo jumbo I prescribed, which I enjoyed and in which I indulged until I almost believed it, was the law of resemblance. The Greeks said that every ailment had a cure of the same genus, or something similar to it; therefore, if someone came to me complaining of a headache or poor memory, I prescribed walnuts, because they resemble a brain. If someone came to me complaining of a pale or sallow complexion, I prescribed beetroot to strengthen the blood. Ear complaints received a prescription of broad beans, because they resembled an ear. Then I would nod, feigning wisdom, and say, “Resemblance and similarity are half the cure, as the father of medicine, Hippocrates, tells us.”

But my greatest surprise as a false physician was when Ataa’s mother—the wife of Rashid ibn Ali—called me in to cure her. I was visiting Ataa, when he said without shame, “My mother wants to see you, O great physician.”

I paled. He had never spoken to me of a mother: I had never seen nor heard the women of the household on my visits, except for a slave girl who saw to our hospitality. I fell silent. What if that lady had a serious illness that I could not cure? I tried to think of a way to avoid the summons, but he had already stood and was saying, “Come with me and I shall take you to her visiting room.”

We exited the library and walked around the house, heading for the southern gate that led to the rest of the orchards and gardens that adjoined their fields and lands. In a colonnade inside sat a luminous woman, a slave sitting below her rubbing her feet with oil. She had removed her face veil and was looking to the ceiling, in obvious pain. Her face lit up to see Ataa. Seeing me behind him, she said, “Come closer! You are like my son, Ataa, and I need not wear a veil in front of you!”

She had a strong foreign accent. When I drew near, I realized why Ataa had not mentioned her: a woman with this many sons, at such an age, and still possessed of such radiant beauty, must not be spoken of lightly to strangers for fear of the Evil Eye. She was bright and smiling, with parted blond hair, a shadow of Ataa on her features while the rest of her face was pure Byzantium. No sooner had I stood before her than she began to complain to me of the attacks of mosquitoes upon her body, whose bites sometimes became enflamed and occasionally afflicted her with fever. “Twenty-five years in Egypt,” she said, “and her mosquitoes have not had their fill of my blood yet!”

She was clearly Circassian, or perhaps of the saqaliba. I had not seen among the Surianese such whiteness—so pale the veins showed beneath—and such transparent blue eyes. I bowed my head without daring to stare at her. “My lady, your blood is sweet. The bites go beneath the skin to create inflammation. Your cure lies in a paste of basil and marjoram leaves with rosewater, applied to the exposed areas of your body.”

To tell the truth, this was what I used myself. This was no recipe of Galen’s, but the recipe of Shammaa of the House of Wael, with which I had resisted the fierce mosquitoes of the Nile. When Kahramana had expressed her approval of that scent on my bed and my clothing, I put it on every night. I turned to Ataa, addressing myself to him out of modesty rather than speaking to his mother: “I shall make some of it and bring it to you. If it pleases you, I shall tell you the quantities for the recipe that you may yourselves make the mosquito paste.”

Ataa laughed. “Use Mazid’s paste, Mother, and if it doesn’t work, I’ll feed him to the crocodiles.”

The fall passed. Egypt and her people were busy with the harvest and preparing the fields for the new season. The days were starting to grow shorter, while the flocks of birds migrating from the north filled the air with the deafening din of their cries, spreading their longing over the rooftops. I ached, remembering the rooftops of the houses of al-Yamama. By now they would be laden with bunches of dates in preparation for pressing, so that the syrup would drip out. There was a special tower of our house dedicated to preserving dates. It smelled sweet, like honey, all year long.

I recited the verses of the desert Arab Maysoon, daughter of Bahdal, of the clan of Kalb, when she left her childhood haunts in the Arabian Peninsula and moved to the Levant as Muawiya’s wife:

What is the fault of a desert Arab
Cast into a place she never knew?
Her only wish: sheep’s milk and a tent in Najd,
But that wish was not to come true.
She cried out in pain to recall the sweet water
Of Uzayb, and its cool gravel at night’s end;
But for her cries of pain, this Arab daughter
Of the desert would go mad and never mend.

Homesickness scatters you. It divides your soul between two places. Egypt was generous as its Nile . . . until the Day of the Doll.

The Day of the Doll

The Day of the Doll has been told in many different fashions, and different historians set it down differently. Later, I found out that in the history of Egypt in the era of al-Hakim, there was not one doll but many, for the people had made many dolls demanding their rights.

When I visited Ataa’s family home, we almost always sat in one of two places: we either haunted his father’s library late into the night, or, in the daytime, enjoyed the garden that lay between their house and the northern wall. This appeared to be the private garden for their house, separate from the adjoining gardens of his paternal uncles. If I stayed up late enough at Ataa’s, he asked me to spend the night, as the way to Cairo could be dangerous after dark, and the Zuweila Gate was closed and guarded by the worst and most belligerent guards. Sometimes I insisted on going home, afraid that Kahramana might creep in and I could miss a night with her; other times I spent the night in the house of Rashid ibn Ali, Ataa tempting me with a new book his father had acquired or with some of the exquisite sweetmeats they made. Still, I missed Kahramana. I felt that I should not spend too many nights there, as I did not know Rashid’s feelings about it. Did it please him, or was he secretly put out and only acquiesced because of his son’s persuasions? Therefore, quite often, I would put on my turban and walk through the streets leading to the western gate, ignoring Ataa’s pleas to stay and play a game of chess. In Baghdad, they were leery of the game, calling the pieces “the Devil’s soldiers.” But here, strangely enough, although grapes and raisins were forbidden, I often glimpsed chessboards in people’s hands and in the windows of some shops.

“I do not wish to spend our time in frivolous pursuits,” I said one night. “Have you not heard Galen say, ‘Enjoy nothing that is not useful to others’?”

I said this in hopes that he would invite me into his father’s library, for I never tired of sitting in it and smelling the Chinese paper and Khorasan leather, softened with the scent of papyrus. But it seemed that he had found an irresistible way to keep me there that night: as I moved away, he called after me, “Do you want to see the Devil?”

Although Ataa’s insistence could be relentless, this time he had given me pause. I turned. “What do you mean?”

He muttered in a low voice, to draw me nearer, “Our Caliph Who Can Do No Wrong often passes this way on his journey up the Muqattam Mountain. He goes through the winding mountain paths on his gray donkey to the summit to practice magic and theurgy, and observe the planets. If tonight the star he awaits has risen, you will see him riding by the wall with his retinue.”

Sensing my curiosity and seeing my eyes widen, he said, “One of the western rooms of the house overlooks his accustomed path. We often see him through the windows on his way to his spot on the mountaintop. They say that he has a high degree of accuracy in astrology.” He made his voice tempting. “A dark night; a new moon; the Devil is expected to show up any minute. Let us wait in the western room, play chess, and wait for him to pass.”

I recalled my long talks with Father Samaan by the orange tree, Samaan trying to convert me. When the perfume-laden breeze sprang up, he would say, “When the angels flutter around us, you are surrounded by peace and the scent of flowers. When demons come, they announce their presence with a repulsive smell, and you hear the clopping of hooves.”

That night, waiting for the Devil, I heard and smelled nothing. Just before midnight, when sleep was beginning to play around my eyelids, the sense of a presence came over me strongly, and Ataa lifted his eyes from the chessboard, listening. We heard the clopping of hooves and the neighing of horses in the distance, followed by the clangor of weapons. Ataa grasped my shoulder powerfully and whispered in triumph, “Shh! It seems the Devil has arrived.”

My stomach seized in fear. We put out the lantern that had stood between us. We hung the feeble, fading light on the wall, and crouched behind the carved shutters.

A loud procession was approaching, four soldiers walking before it, each bearing a blazing torch like the flames of Hell (I never would have imagined at the time that those tongues of flame would one day burn Cairo to ash), their silken abayas shining with the fire’s glow. Behind these were a group of mounted horsemen, helmets gleaming and horses whinnying. On their horses, they seemed like stone statues, never moving their necks or their bodies. When they drew level with the wall, we managed to make out their features, lit by the flames. They were definitely soldiers from the tribe of Kutama. Then we glimpsed him in their midst.

He rode a great gray donkey with tall, erect ears and large hooves, moving haltingly amid the group of tall, neighing horses. Why had he, the leader of the caliphate, chosen this irritable mount? As he passed close by, we held our breath. I trembled to see him surrounded by blackness, lit only by the torches. Upon his head, he had placed the head of a tiger, jaws agape. Its skin fell down his back all the way to his donkey’s haunches. I know not whether some demon had whispered to him of our presence or if we had made some movement that drew his attention, but he suddenly raised his face to us and fixed his eyes on the window where we were hiding. When the guards slowed their pace in response to their caliph’s pause, he motioned to them with the scepter in his hand to resume. His face shone among the light of the torches: a young, healthy face with round eyes and thin lips, incongruous with the jaws of the tiger upon his head. But there was a savage, fearsome glitter in his eyes, telling you that nothing, nothing, could stand in their way.

That fleeting glimpse of his face froze the blood in my veins, and made me realize that he was the descendant of some strange inhuman line. He quickly forged ahead into the darkness, the saddle of his donkey bulging with scrolls and papers. The horsemen with their torches kept pace with him, lighting his way. We froze, limbs stiff, watching him as he moved toward the mountain. When he reached the foot, he raised his scepter in a command for his men to turn back. Alone, he ascended into the shadows of the paths leading up into the Muqattam Mountain.

I spent the night in perplexed contemplation, turning the matter this way and that. It refused to make sense. What had raised this man up to sit on the throne of Egypt? Egypt, with all its learned men, clerics, and theologians bowing their heads under the wings of this boy who wore a tiger’s head for a turban and spent his time in a cave in the Muqattam Mountain. I found the answer spread out on Rashid ibn Ali’s breakfast table the following morning in a brief phrase: “Tyranny, the ecstasy of sovereignty, and a winner’s power.”

“Is it true,” Ataa whispered as he scooped up some honey with a piece of bread, “that he had the teacher Bragon, who raised him, executed?”

Rashid raised his head and stared into space. “Bragon was a noble Copt, the regent, and he was a man of plain and honest speech, but careful with his words. None could have served this caliph but a debauched dissembler, a man who achieves his ends through dishonesty and escapes his wrath through obsequious flattery—or else a fool who could arouse the envy of no one.”

Rashid ibn Ali was not alone in bearing the answer to my questions: the weeks that followed also provided some answer, in the form of new taxes being levied on the harvests of wheat, barley, and corn, which inspired a great wave of public discontent that started in the alleyways of Fustat and culminated in setting up the doll.

It was a gigantic doll, fashioned of the remnants of old clothing and papers, and it resembled the scarecrows of the field. They set it up in the path of the Caliph Who Can Do No Wrong on his nightly trek to Muqattam. They hung a sheet of paper on its hand bearing curses against the caliph, his ancestors, and his rule, shaming him for his Christian mother and accusing him of being illegitimate: such behavior, they said, such injustice, and such tyranny could only come from a bastard. It concluded by saying that they would soon storm his palace, tear him to pieces, and scatter them to the lions and birds.

People hurried past the doll, fearing to approach it for fear of the obscenity of the words on the sheet. Yet, by evening, every limb of the doll had some complaint affixed to it. Its hair was a long scroll of goatskin hung there by the Coptic Christians, split into two, half bearing the names of their demolished churches, and half bearing a list of the Copts killed and dismissed from their professions after their churches had been torn down. The scroll was so long it reached the ground.

Fearfully, I recalled the grape scrolls. Had the madman done it again, and set up this doll?

I left my discussion circle: we had all been told to leave early that day, and vacate the interior halls of the mosque, because the sultana, the caliph’s sister, called Sitt al-Mulk or the Lady on the Throne, was to be there that evening to award prizes and rewards to the women graduating from the discussion circles of al-Azhar. If only she could, with her power and authority, lift the caliph’s sentence of women’s perpetual imprisonment in their homes. By now, no shoemaker was permitted to make women’s shoes in Cairo. And yet the women’s discussion circles were alive and well in al-Azhar. How did they get there? Did they wrap their feet in fabric? Or perhaps they took refuge in the power of Sitt al-Mulk, whom it was said the caliph revered. There were discussion circles for women here, which I had not seen in Baghdad or Jerusalem. Even in al-Yamama, where my mother adored learning, she was only permitted to listen in secret to my grandfather’s circle and learn from him, proudly repeating what she had learned among the other women.

I left the mosque and hurried to the madman’s house. He was not there. “He’s out,” Mabrouk said shortly. Kahramana would definitely know whether he had something to do with the doll. If only she would come tonight and repair the rends in my heart!

The madman’s house had experience in making dolls. I always found small poppets in colored costumes with staring eyes, lying on shelves and scattered around. The mother of the children told me that she made them for her little girls to play with, but Kahramana gave the lie to her words, saying, “She’s an old witch. She makes them to bring calamity down on her enemies. She repeats the names of her enemies while breathing into her poppets, poking pins and needles into them until her enemy dies.”

By evening, the doll of the Zuweila Gate had been plucked from where it stood and brought to the Caliph Who Can Do No Wrong. The guards not only brought it to him, but copied out some of what was written on the sheet to show to their superiors. I knew full well that the guards of Cairo eagerly awaited the day that the caliph would give them permission to do their worst to the folk of Fustat for what they saw as their unruly and insubordinate nature, their mutinous responses to the guards, and the way they named their beasts of burden after them.

The mysterious scrolls extolling the virtues of grapes—the fruit banned by the caliph—flooded Cairo once more. All this was a few days before the great horror that broke out on a Wednesday night.

Those who witnessed it say that the caliph himself, on his way to Muqattam, returned the doll to its spot and set it alight. Some say that he had the commander of the armies do it. The moon was in its first quarter when the Caliph Who Can Do No Wrong instructed his soldiers to set fire to the alley opposite the place where the doll had been planted, and the alleys around it. He told them to make a list of all those who could write in those alleys, and cut off their fingers.

Everyone cowered in their houses like the tribe of Thamud after God’s punishment of them for hamstringing the Prophet Salih’s camel. On the wind, there came the smell of roasting flesh and the sounds of screaming, wailing, roaring, and howls barely recognizable as human.

By dawn, everyone had fallen silent, all except the muezzin of al-Azhar calling out for the dawn prayers. No sooner had the madman heard him than he burst out into the street, screaming the verse: “Yazid! Cry, threaten as you might, / Your threats and taunts give me no fright!”

Everyone cowered in their homes for three days, unable to pluck up the courage to go out even to bury their dead. I stayed in my room, shaking with the beginnings of a fever, and when I managed to gather myself and rise, I pulled out my compass and astrolabe and turned them in my hands all night, attempting to calculate the location of the stars, obscured now by a great pall of smoke that had hung over Cairo since the night of the fire. The human remains remained by the western gate, no one daring to approach them but the madman, who sought out any door that was ajar to slip through and scream, “Yazid! Cry, threaten as you might, / Your threats and taunts give me no fright!”

Ataa said to me that Egypt remained silent, afraid to move, until his clan, the clan of Ali, came out with buckets and pots of water and challenged the guards by putting out the fire, on the pretext that it might spread to their estates and fields. At the sight of this family, other people plucked up the courage to leave their houses with utensils and gourds of water to put out the fire. When everyone looked into each other’s faces and saw the toll taken by terror, panic, and sleeplessness, a number of Egypt’s notables resolved to go to the caliph and beg his permission to bury the human remains and dismembered corpses so that Cairo might not be overrun with rats and plagues. They promised him that they would investigate the matter of the doll and find out who had dared so to disrespect the majesty of the throne. They must be, they said, some of the riffraff from Fustat, not members of the inner circle.

When the burials started, it was said that there were 1,300 dead Christians and 1,500 dead Muslims; however, a great many of the corpses were unidentifiable because they had been scalped.

*

The Agate Cities: cities steeped in blood and screaming. All that remained to me was to spend days and nights in prayer and contemplation of the stars. I no longer heard the lamentations of the lute or the cries of the cranes and the storks over the Nile. Occasionally, someone knocked, but I never answered. I never knew whether it was one fleeing persecution from the soldiers and knocking at any door for sanctuary, a patient looking for the pretend doctor, or the police, for the killing had spread to “suspicious characters” and itinerant vendors from Fustat.

If only Kahramana were here! I used to reproach her for her daring in coming to me; now I wished to catch even a glimpse of her. Why was she absent? I no longer saw her in the madman’s company, only Yunis. His master called him “harbinger of joy” and thought him a bringer of good fortune, for it was Yunis who had led him to the slave trader who had sold him Lamis. But I recalled Kahramana telling me brokenly that they called her “harbinger of doom” because when she had arrived, her master had lost what remained of his sanity and taken to wandering in the streets. Her defeated demeanor and her breath, which smelled of apples, made me melancholy: I embraced her and drank of every part of her—even her face, which they thought to be a harbinger of doom.

It took the caliph’s Cairo months to lick its wounds and gather itself together. The blood dried in the streets and doorways, and dried up in the veins of the dead. The sheikhs of al-Azhar, in their Friday prayers and the discussion circles, warned us ceaselessly against the seditiousness of disobeying the ruler, and impressed upon us the importance of obeying him, to prevent bloodshed and violation.

After the burning of the doll, the Royal Palace acquired a new habit: before the noon prayers, four Nubian slaves would arrive from the eastern palace bearing a great pot filled with rice and lentils, and every student or one of the faithful leaving the mosque would receive a ladleful. Most people took to bringing a bowl with them in anticipation of the ladleful of rice: those not in the know lifted their garments and received their portion of rice therein, then left praying for long life for the caliph.

Was it time for me to depart? I had spent a year and three months in Egypt, and sold a small number of books. Many people in this land appeared to have no desire for reading: they were confused, distracted, as though awaiting the parting of the clouds of misery. But could I bear to leave Kahramana?

I remained silent and pensive that day. I had no wish to pass through the gate of lentils and rice, scattered into people’s stomachs as folk scatter seed for hungry birds to fight over.

Ataa told me that his father wished to see me. I went to him immediately: I had not seen him since the incident of the doll, and I wished to inform him that my sojourn in Egypt had drawn to a close. I must leave for Cordoba.

But it remained to hand the lantern of the Voyagers over to Ataa. His dissolute urges notwithstanding, aptitude and intelligence lay behind his bright brow. My final, important need, which I could not leave Egypt without accomplishing, was to meet Ibn al-Haytham, who remained imprisoned in his own house, by order of the Caliph Who Can Do No Wrong. If I left Egypt without meeting him, speaking with him, and learning from him, it would leave a mark upon me, and my knowledge would be the poorer for it.

Perhaps Rashid ibn Ali might find some way to let me see him. But all these preparations aside, could I endure parting with Kahramana, who had disappeared into the darkness of the balcony never to return?

We exited through the Zuweila Gate, heading for al-Qatai. The guards still subjected all who entered and exited to suspicious scrutiny. I searched their eyes for gloating and the hubris of triumph, but found nothing but fatigue and tedium. They were leaning back against the wall by the gate, which was still sooty and half demolished by the flames, polishing their shields with dirty rags they handed to each other.

Beyond the walls, the fishermen had slipped back again to the banks of the Nile, glancing about them cautiously. Some itinerant vendors had resumed pushing their handcarts with cautious steps. They no longer cried their wares in lighthearted, melodious tones, but wandered aimlessly with their carts as though at a great funeral.

I had never seen Rashid ibn Ali’s face as dark and grim as I did that day. He was alone in his reception hall but for two of his sons, his bookkeeper, and Yakout, who worked in his shop. He was not holding a book, as was his wont; his head was not held high as though he were about to impart some great news. He was merely looking about at those around him. Drawing closer, you could make out red lines in the depths of his eyes, which reflected the shattering blow.

He was not wearing a turban, and I kissed his bare head. He began to mutter, “They said only a descendant of the Prophet could be caliph, even if he burned the city down around our heads. Is this caliph, this imam, the only way to manifest Divine Will on Earth and prevent fitna? And is there any greater fitna in the world than the horrors that Egypt has witnessed, leaving behind burned houses, bereaved mothers, and orphans?” He drew in a shuddering breath. “The soldiers he set upon the folk of Cairo wreaked havoc upon everyone. Everyone. They sought to punish the Copts for the crime of being Copts—”

“What of it?” the bookkeeper on his right burst out. “What crime did they commit? They are only dhimmi, after all.”

“Do not say dhimmi!” Rashid ibn Ali burst out. “That only demeans them, makes them ever inferior and subordinate. They are human, nothing more. God has granted them dignity on land and sea.” He shook his head unhappily. “Al-Basti writes,

You who ask me of my creed,
Ask my methods and my deeds.
Justice, self-control: my vow.
Would you my method disallow?

Rashid ibn Ali turned to me, his head seemingly too heavy for his shoulders. “Do you recall the porter who brought your things and ended up in prison?”

I nodded.

“They killed him.”

I gasped.

He went on, “He used to be a priest in Alexandria. They pulled down his church, and he refused to leave for Byzantium: he stayed on in Egypt, reluctant to leave the land where his ancestors had lived for hundreds of years. He worked in the basest jobs, accepting the lowest payment, so that none would find out that he and his family were now mendicants. Most of them live as day laborers, or by what skills they have, now that their churches are demolished.”

Ataa went on in a low voice, respecting his father’s sorrow. “This garden of ours, which you have long admired, is kept by a Coptic gardener and his family. They care for its plants and birds with contentment and all they say is, ‘Happy are they who know their way to the Lord.’”

To reassure him, and to keep up my end of the conversation, I said, “There is something similar even in Baghdad. When the people revolted against the Christians in Baghdad, they looted their church in Qatiyat al-Daqiq, and then burned it down. It fell on some people and they died.”

There was a guest of Rashid ibn Ali, an older man with two pendulous double chins, whom I always saw but knew not his identity. “They say that the Coptic women have a great deal of freedom,” he said in a seeming attempt to smooth out the atmosphere. “Some say it is because when the men drowned with Pharaoh, there were none left but the slaves and the day laborers. The women had no patience for a world without husbands: each woman freed her slave, then married him, with the stipulation that none of them could do anything without his wife’s permission. They agreed, and thus Egypt’s men obeyed the commands of their womenfolk.”

This light anecdote fell flat. Yakout, the shop attendant, said, “Textile manufacture in the Nile Delta is a cottage industry. The Coptic women spin linen thread, and the men weave it. The fabric merchants pay them daily. But they can only sell to the middlemen appointed by the government, and a weaver makes very little, no more than half a dirham, not enough for the bread they eat; but the price of a piece of fabric is high due to levies and taxes. They never see any of it; it is swallowed up by the middlemen.”

I know not why, at that moment, I sensed that Yakout was a Copt, for his words were heavy with great trouble. I recalled what Amr al-Qaysi had always said to me: “If you wish to gauge the sweetness and lightness of the water of a land, go to the fabric sellers and the spice traders and look them in the face. If you see the freshness of the water in them, know that it is as sweet as they are fresh. If you find them like the faces of the dead, with bowed heads, make haste and hurry away.” Now there were only the faces of the dead left in Egypt.

When the tray of food was laid out, it was sparse, unlike the opulent banquets that Rashid ibn Ali had offered to reflect upon his generosity and hospitality. Bread with butter and molasses of the type sold in Fustat, and milk with black seeds, plus some slices of watermelon. Everyone muttered, “We should not fill our gullets, I swear, now that there is a bereaved mother or an orphan in every house.”

After the afternoon prayers, the mood of the gathering began to change. The chief cleric at al-Azhar arrived and gave a sermon on the benefits of charity and zakat. A group of merchants and nobles began to arrive, pledging to take up a collection to rebuild houses, cure the injured, and feed the hungry. Ataa whispered in my ear, as the servants came and went to prepare the sheikh’s circle, “They say that one of the reasons the ruler was angry is that he sent a letter to Mahmoud, the ruler of Ghazni, to annex his land; but Mahmoud tore up the letter and spat on it, then sent it to the Abbasid caliph, which drove our Fatimid caliph out of his mind.”

“Bless the ruler of Ghazni!” I smiled.

The Azharite sheikh began to clear his throat and quote the Qur’an and hadith that urged Muslims to be charitable so as to allay the wrath of God. He ranted and raved, and spoke without end, but still, the basket that Rashid had brought to collect his guests’ charity was less than half full.

When evening came and I prepared to return home, I divined that this was the best time to confide in Rashid ibn Ali that I intended to leave Egypt. No sooner had I told him this than he asked me to take a seat by his side. “Do you know,” he said, “that before you leave Egypt, you must prepare a disciple to ascend the path of the Voyagers?”

“I have found him,” I said.

He tilted his head questioningly. “Oh?”

“And who better than the son of a noble house?” I made a discreet gesture to where Ataa sat.

He lowered his head. The ghost of a smile played upon his face in tacit agreement.

The world around me was packing its bags. I must leave. But not before I passed the torch to Ataa. He had a lightness and impulsiveness about him that might have disqualified him from the Voyagers’ vocation, which required discretion and patience. It would be no easy task to convey the commandments and instructions to him, so he must absorb them by degrees. He had a good knowledge of philosophy, logic, and history; I would not impress him with my knowledge of these subjects.

In any event, despite the difficulty of the task, it would not be harder than the task of Abu Abbas the Persian blacksmith, may he rest in peace, who had first called me, all unwitting, to the path of the Voyagers. How often had I made light of him! How careless I had been, to the point of derision! I imagined his great head, severed and rolling on the floor of his shop like the severed animal’s head around which the flies had swarmed in Basra. That head had been as a mirror reflecting the Unseen to me. I should have thought to be cautious and circumspect then. But the mirrors of my soul had been dark: they could not see, nor could my soul comprehend. I must not only enlist Ataa, but swear him to secrecy as a member of a secret society of which some aspects would always remain mysterious. Even its members did not know one another. A great body it was, extending over deserts and different lands, its head indistinguishable from its corpus.

My grandfather always used to say, “Wisdom is like an antidote. If you take it all at once, it will kill you. Wisdom is best imbibed drop by drop. Examples, inferences, and metaphors must be carefully chosen according to the listener. If he be a tailor, speak to him of needle and thread, the needle’s eye, and the scissors. If he be a shepherd, speak of his staff and his flock.” Ataa was keenly intelligent. How should I introduce the subject to him?

When Ataa invited me to stay at his house that night, I accepted without hesitation. A conversation in the library would open up many paths to us. I refused his offer to lie in wait for the Devil’s procession, saying instead, “He will definitely be bent on evil and vengeance now that Cairo has burned, and be prepared to do away with anyone whose face he sees in passing. He sees in the dark like an owl. He still rides that donkey with the gilded saddle up to Muqattam.”

“My father always says that a gilded saddle will not make a horse of a donkey,” Ataa whispered mockingly.

And, because wonders always take us by surprise without asking our permission, forcing us to call them “strange coincidences” or “fate”—or perhaps it is the will of the universe that manifests in glances and gestures—Ataa whispered, staring at me, “If only we could see him without him seeing us! If we only had the camera obscura of Ibn al-Haytham, we could see him without moving from our spot.”

I turned to face him. “What is the camera obscura of Ibn al-Haytham?”

“They say that he has a darkened room from which light spills out. The demons permit him to see what lies outside it.”

I swallowed, seeking to conceal my overwhelming eagerness to be introduced to Ibn al-Haytham. He spoke of him so lightly, like one speaking of a lunatic. “What do you mean?” I pressed.

“I heard them speaking at my father’s assembly of his dark room filled with demons. They claim that he is mad. This is why there are guards around his house and he may not set foot outside without the permission of the caliph.”

Feigning apprehension, I said, “But what if he is in fact a lunatic and murders those who visit him?”

Ataa pouted pityingly. “No. He is a poor unfortunate, like a bird fallen into a dragon’s claws. The donkey driver on the throne brought him in from Baghdad when he said he had a solution for the annual flooding of the Nile. But when he had spent several months here and built several wooden dams and waterwheels, through which he tried to divert the Nile waters, he failed at preventing the flooding. Fearing the vengeance of the ruler, especially as he had spent the annual revenue from Damascus for that year on his projects, he feigned madness, and now makes his living copying books. It is said that he received seventy-five dirhams for the copy he made of Euclid’s Optics, a sum that could sustain him for six months.”

I caught Ataa’s wrist. “Is there a way to see him?”

“What has come over you?” Ataa burst out. “I tell you the man feigns madness! He is heavily guarded! And you ask to see him?”

In a low voice, I said, “If we can convince the guards that we are students from al-Azhar sent to recite some Qur’anic verses to cure his madness, we may be permitted to see him.”

How wonderful it is to have an impulsive friend who looks not before he leaps. He will respond immediately to all your ill-considered ideas. Ataa smiled immediately and said, “We shall see.”

And so I took to dreaming of the camera obscura of Ibn al-Haytham. The proverb says, “He who hath a need must find it.” And he who is addicted to knocking at doors must enter.

The path to Ibn al-Haytham was not as simple as my dreams desired, especially now that we were moving in the tense space between the caliph’s men and the populace. The people were resentful and the soldiers were angry. It was no longer confined to sour insults where the townsfolk named their donkeys, mules, and dogs after the caliph’s men; the soldiers now found their animals poisoned, or human waste strewn outside their headquarters. The tradesmen in the stores refused to sell to them, on the pretext that their goods were old. If forced, they hid away their best wares. As for the tyrannical chief of police, whom all of Egypt feared, he woke one morning to find a dead donkey tied to the door of his house.

In this space filled with suspicion, vitriol, and insults, how were we to reach Ibn al-Haytham? Ataa said to me flippantly, strutting along as he always did and picking up the hem of his garment from the dust of the road, “Never you mind! Perhaps this rift between the people and the guards will create gaps through which we can slip and reach Ibn al-Haytham.”

I had not chosen wrong in selecting Ataa as the next Voyager. I found out in that moment that my jealousy of him lay not in his intelligence, his bright face, or his noble family, but precisely in this free spirit that soared above all cares and obstacles, and this recklessness that made a falcon of him, flying high above the problem, then diving to snatch it up with great skill and ease.

That was exactly the case when I saw him the next day in the mosque. His eyes were sparkling. He motioned to me slyly with his head that he had something in mind. This resourceful young man—nothing could stand in his way!

The sheikh’s circle broke up early that day because the sheikh was afflicted with a sudden cough. Sheikh Abd al-Wahid was teaching us The Mufaddaliyat, a collection of poems compiled by al-Mufaddal from the golden age of Arabic poetry. Our Azharite sheikh was not possessed of eloquence: the words did not trip smoothly off his tongue. His pronunciation was too melodious, more like the Qur’an than poetry, and he made errors in meter. He had the halting tongue of a country boy, his lips stiff despite the spittle that flew from them. We were rescued from him by the cough that came over him, and only ceased with the call to the noon prayers. As we walked out through the place for ablutions, Ataa whispered to me, “Before the caliph placed Ibn al-Haytham under house arrest and seized his fortune, he worked in the treasury. The man who has taken over his job is named al-Manqari. Do you remember him from my father’s gatherings?”

“Your father’s gatherings are always packed. How should I remember him?”

“The tall, thin man like an ibis. He is always at my father’s house. He has a cunning face and wears odd, colorful turbans.” I pretended to remember the man so as not to dampen Ataa’s enthusiasm. He went on, “We will go to him and borrow some files from the treasury, and tell him that we are training to organize them on my father’s orders. These files bear the stamp of the treasury and the seal of the caliph. Then, posing as employees of the treasury, we will take them to the house where Ibn al-Haytham is imprisoned. We will say we wish to revise some records we found dealing with mansions that were his domain when he worked there.”

He was speaking quickly, his eyes darting this way and that for fear of being overheard. His plan appeared to be in place: there was nothing for me but to nod in acquiescence. I was willing to accept any path he devised that would lead to Ibn al-Haytham. “The ignorant, illiterate guards at his door will doubtless be impressed by the stamps and seals and open the door forthwith. They will not concern themselves with examining the details within.”

I was overcome with fear. “And if they suspect us?” I asked, hoping he had prepared an avenue of retreat.

But as usual, the impetuous Ataa said, “Let us try. We have nothing to lose. We wish only to know that his mind is still intact: they say they hear his ramblings as he chases his shadow through the passageways of his home, or his prison. They also hear him in the middle of the night shouting that he is turning the grinding mill.”

We stood in a row for the noon prayers. Ataa said, “I will finish the prayers and run straight to Mr. Manqari the Ibis. If he gives me the files, we can head directly for Ibn al-Haytham’s house tomorrow.”

It appeared that divine will was on our side: the doors opened to us, one after another. The next day at sunset, when our shadows were disappearing, we stood before the house—or the prison—where Ibn al-Haytham was under house arrest.

We had disagreed before we arrived: should we tell him our real names, or merely that we were students? “Patience,” I said. “It is the state we find him in that will dictate how we speak.”

As luck would have it, the guard at the gate was sleepy and lethargic. He turned the files over in his hands without looking too hard at them, then asked us to wait. Listlessly, he pulled a bellpull that hung by him, and we heard a ringing in the bowels of the house. Moments later, the creak of the wooden door opening reached our ears, and the guard was motioning with his head for us to enter.

We ascended three stone steps. The door opened, revealing a man in his fifties with a pointed gray beard, his face pale with astonishment, his eyes fixed on our faces. He didn’t step aside to let us in. Ataa stood straight like a nobleman. “Is Hassan in?”

The man nodded. He wore a light cotton garment and a broad belt around his waist, nothing like the garments of the men of Egypt, but more like the garb of the servants I used to see in Jerusalem and Bosra. Affecting the same supercilious air, Ataa said, “Tell him that we are from the treasury.”

Good lord! What was Ataa doing? He sounded like one of the forty thieves at the mouth of the treasure trove! The man swung the door wide open. “Come in.” He gestured to straw seats in a row in the inner hallway of the house, then disappeared down the corridor.

We were in a wide colonnade surrounded by a pleasant passageway. This must have been the house of some notable or nobleman, but now it was lonely, the hall deserted. Strewn about in the corners were rolls of rope, pieces of wood, and linen bags filled with odd-looking stones, in addition to hammers and nails of various shapes and sizes. It was an oppressive, abandoned place, not lightened by friezes of swaying ladies and leaping children on its walls. “What are we to say to him?” I asked Ataa. “How are we to earn his trust, he who it is said feigned madness to evade retribution?”

“Nothing,” Ataa responded. “We will await what he says. Then we’ll see how to enter the madman’s cell. They say his awareness has left him and he raves incomprehensibly; but my father swears his mind is intact, and he is but protecting himself from vengeance.”

We fell silent, discovering that our voices were echoing loudly in the stone arches above us. We heard murmurings and approaching footsteps before two men appeared at the end of the passageway. One was the older man who had opened the door, and the other approached us slowly enough for me to contemplate him as he paced among the columns of the colonnade, between light and shadow. He was slight of build, in a green cotton garment with a red silk abaya atop it, which completely swallowed up his small figure. When he drew near, we stood and smiled at him. He slowed his steps, perhaps disquieted by the mention of the treasury. He jammed his turban onto his head: it was slightly squashed, forming three parallel lines on his forehead over thick eyebrows and reddened eyes. Their depths glimmered with that light of genius that is but a pace from the land of madness—a light not dissimilar to that in the eyes of the madman. How many fugitives in Egypt had fled the land of tyranny for the land of insanity?

He paused roughly five paces from us, ignoring both of our hands extended to shake his. He only raised a hand in greeting and said, “The sun does not shine with the light of a lamp.”

This told me that our task would not be easy, and that the man was wandering down the paths of madness. Ataa, with his Egyptian tact and smoothness, overcame the awkward moment. “Good evening, al-Hassan ibn al-Haytham, our revered inventor and the author of Model of the Motions.” When he received no answer, Ataa said, “We are here from the treasury, from al-Manqari. We wish to ask you about certain details.” Ibn al-Haytham did not move; he merely muttered and looked down. “Be at your leisure, eminent scholar,” Ataa continued. “My master Mr. Manqari is in no rush. Here is the ledger. We shall return in three days to see what has transpired.”

I had slipped a note into the book in my finest hand, in black ink, with the following:

My Dear Sir, Eminent Scientist, Learned Inventor,
Peace be upon you. We would be delighted to enter the gardens of your knowledge, drink of the fount of your science, and learn of your wide reading, may the Lord always guide your words and your path.
Allow me, sir, to introduce myself: I am Mazid of Najd, a bookseller, and possessed of an abiding curiosity to contemplate God’s creation. It is He who has given humans intellect and set us apart on land and sea, and made us stewards.
Sir, I shall not waste your time. I am now in a status between two statuses: either to enjoy your company, or to return disappointed and empty-handed.
Best and warmest greetings,

Mazid al-Najdi al-Hanafi

I know not what mad impulse drove me to write this letter, which I had set down the day before and slipped between the covers of the ledger. I had left Ataa out of it so as not to involve him: this letter would either grant me an audience with Ibn al-Haytham or lead him to betray me to the guards and so to severe repercussions from which even my powerful mentor, Rashid ibn Ali, would not manage to liberate me, for I had seen his helplessness in the face of the ruler’s vengeance in the matter of the doll. Not only this, but I had mentioned the password of the Voyagers in the message, assuming that he was one of them. Even if he were, he might suspect me, for Voyagers usually had their own discreet passageways, never bursting into others’ dwellings so rashly. I knew not; I simply thought it the only path to Ibn al-Haytham’s magical, supernatural world, floating between the ships of light and the rivers of darkness.

Three days and nights I spent in a state of perturbation, moving from the circles of the mosque to my house and back again. I had not even seen Ataa since we parted at Ibn al-Haytham’s gate. The letter that I had slipped into the treasury ledger completely stole my thinking: would it open the secret, magical cavern of Ibn al-Haytham to me? Or would it send my head rolling into the Nile to feed the crocodiles?

The morning of the fourth day, I washed and dressed, and was preparing to go out to the mosque, when I heard a fierce knocking on the door. “Coming!” I called. “Coming!” I tried to calm my fears, telling myself it was probably the mosque attendant, whom the sheikh often sent to rebuke the students who had been late for the dawn prayers. But I heard Mabrouk calling me. I hurried down to the door, and when I opened it, a policeman stood there, his shiny helmet obscuring his eyes.

I leaned on the doorframe for fear I should fall. The police had arrived. Should I step back or flee? But where to, when “Egypt’s guards sleep / The foxes hunt their fill”?

In his slow, slightly stupid way, Mabrouk said, “This guard says that the chief of police is ill, and he requires your services, doctor.”

I sighed with relief, as though the Muqattam Mountain itself had just been lifted off my chest. “I shall accompany you forthwith,” I said. The truth was, I required some time to calm my breathing and subdue my trembling. I took a few gulps of citron water, it being good to clear the liver, as Galen, the great physician, says to Mazid, the pretend physician.

We moved through the paths and alleyways. People on their way to their daily labors stared curiously at the man walking alongside the soldier. Eventually, we arrived at the eastern wall. There was a great house surrounded with palm trees, two guards at the gate. They motioned to me to enter. In a corner of the house’s courtyard sat a weak, thin man like a starved cat, propped up on worn velvet cushions and pillows. I only recognized him when he stood up to greet me: it was none other than the rude bull-headed fellow who had seized my possessions and had the Coptic porter thrown into prison because the cross around his neck did not make the weight or size decreed by the Caliph Who Can Do No Wrong—an arm span long, as I recalled, and five pounds in weight, and stamped with lead.

Mr. Bull’s Head, who had afflicted every one of Egypt’s homes with a calamity, had been consumed by illness. His face was pale, his shoulders drooping. He had a pot of water in his hand, and was drinking from it and complaining, “My thirst is never quenched. I am always parched. My tongue is dry as a bone. It is as though pins and needles are pricking at my extremities. I am weak.”

Was it divine vengeance, high time for the Lord to scourge him with disease? But this was no time for naive gloating. This thin face staring at me was expecting a cure: although it was much faded, cruelty and savagery could still be seen there. Every symptom he had mentioned matched what the priest Samaan—and Galen—had described of the illness of sugar in the blood, which eats at the body and shrivels it up, robbing it of freshness and vitality. I approached him and took his hand. His pulse was regular and he was free from fever. Softly, with some hesitation, I said, “Is there an anthill here?”

They looked about them oddly, thinking that this was the esoteric request of a charlatan. But I repeated it to them in a tone I attempted to keep steady. The chief of police jerked his head at a boy next to him and said, “Do as you are commanded.”

The boy disappeared briefly, then returned, gesturing to the roof. The chief of police leaned on his shoulder and we mounted the stairs to the roof. It was spacious, surrounded by chicken coops and dovecotes. We stopped at a mound of sand in which ants dwelt. When I asked the chief of police to urinate on it, he glanced about it and quoted from the Sura of al-Naml, “O Ants! Enter your dwellings.” I almost burst out laughing. Was he shy?

Commandingly—for I had discovered that the medical profession had granted me some power before this ox—I said, “Cease addressing the ants! Only urinate upon it.”

We let him have what remained of his dignity and retreated to the other end of the roof until he had finished. Hearing his returning footsteps, I looked up. Seeing him weak and thirsty, almost falling, I asked his boy to take him downstairs, while I went to investigate the anthill. Sure enough, circles of ants had started to form around the damp sand. I thanked God that it was the sugar sickness: at the very least, if I prescribed some cure, it would heal him.

I descended the stairs, proclaiming confidently, “It is sugar in the blood. If he does not follow a strict regimen, it will consume him. Diet is his only cure. Your food shall be your medicine: eat little. The origins of this disease lie in too much eating. Also, worry weakens the body. Citron water will purify your blood and cleanse it of impurities.”

He appeared comforted, as though my visit in itself had resolved his condition and snatched him back from the brink of death. I could see the blood returning to his cheeks. I asked his boy to prepare him a soup of Egyptian pulses: they are sacred, mentioned in the Qur’an. I then recited verse sixty-one of the Sura of al-Baqara: “So call upon your Lord to bring forth for us from the earth its green herbs and its cucumbers and its garlic and its lentils and its onions.” Feigning erudition, I added a passage from Nabatean Agriculture, which I felt would confer an air of the knowledgeable physician: “Do not mix fish and pulses. They weaken the mind and spoil the humor of the stomach. Do not eat too many pulses: Hippocrates says, ‘Less of what is harmful is better than more of what is good.’” At the exit, the guard gave me a small bag of coins, which I did not open or even look at, merely taking it while appearing above such sordid matters as money.

Some soldiers stopped me as I exited. One of them showed me an open sore on his wrist, within which worms could clearly be seen squirming about. “There is nothing for it but cautery,” I said. “Find someone to cauterize it and you shall heal, with God’s blessing.” Another showed me his swollen stomach; I could see yellow in the whites of his eyes. I could see that it was the laziness of the liver that was so common among the folk of Egypt. I knew of no permanent cure for it, so I advised him to drink citron water. I knew that the latter helped to enhance virility, and it was my guess that lust is one of the most prominent signs of health, and returns the desire for life and procreation to a man, so that if it did him no good, it would at least do no harm. I liberated myself from their company before they could discover the false physician, and headed back before the afternoon prayers, fearing that the entire population of the alleyway might come out to stand before me with their ailments. Today was the day Ataa and I were due to go to Ibn al-Haytham, and I would not have anyone exhaust my vigor and concentration. Much would happen there.

The house where Ibn al-Haytham lived sat alone on a hill not far from the center of Cairo. When we approached, my heart started to beat faster, and I told myself that what I had done had been reckless in the extreme, a step that might disrupt the fabric of the Voyagers and betray them. They had strict rules of secrecy, after all. However, I calmed myself with the thought that if Ibn al-Haytham was not one of them, he would not understand my meaning, and if he was, he would use his head and appreciate the desire of a student thirsty for his knowledge and erudition.

When the guard saw us coming, he shook his head mockingly. “Your comrade disturbed our sleep yesterday asking about you, and asking me to bring you to him. He pretends he has the ability to see in the dark.” Then, showing a row of yellowed teeth, he added mockingly, “He is nothing but a charlatan.”

“They spoke truth when they said not to cast pearls before swine,” I whispered to Ataa through gritted teeth. “He knows nothing of the mind of that great man who lives inside.”

Before we reached the three stone steps leading up to the house, the door swung open and his servant came out, holding three books. But when he saw us, he stopped short and looked inquiringly at us. We told him of our wish to see his master. He said not a word, merely retreating into the interior and closing the door. After a while he returned and said, “Wait here. He wishes to see you as well.”

A book lover like myself could not miss the titles of the books in his hands: Euclid’s The Elements on geometry—I had wished to give him the same book, and I knew not if this were the translation of Hanin ibn Ishaq or another copy—Ptolemy’s Almagest, and the third I had not managed to see, but the leather cover was that of the House of Knowledge library in al-Azhar. What was it doing here, in the home of this imprisoned native of Basra?

The library of al-Azhar was, to say the least, magnificent. It was open to all freely, on condition that no book, manuscript, or even a sheet of paper should be borrowed unless they were absolutely certain it would be returned to its shelves safe and sound. It maintained its dignity and position, untouched by fire or sabotage. Their demon had occupied himself with women’s shoes, dolls, and banning jute leaves, and left the theologians to their silent study in the House of Knowledge, far from his interest or attention.

The servant returned and opened the door for us. “I was on my way to the library of al-Azhar to return these books my master borrowed,” he said. “He devours books in a most extraordinary fashion. He is forever sending books back and receiving others, but in all the days I have served him, I have not seen him so cheerful as with your arrival. I am almost certain he will ask you to stay for dinner, and I must return quickly to prepare it for you.”

I might have said to the servant, “We did not ask you for all this information, and we did not ask you to make us dinner,” but we saw the imprisoned man hurrying toward us with both hands extended to shake ours. I was waiting for my eyes to meet his: the first glance would tell me everything about where he stood, his madness, and whether or not he knew about the Voyagers. But he was careful not to meet my eyes. He only said quickly, “Welcome to you both! Come upstairs, for I have prepared the ledger of the salaries for the treasury and gone over it.”

We said nothing. We now knew that he had divined our intent, and was complicit with us. No sooner were we halfway down the colonnade than he turned to us, whispering, “Leave the ledger with me tonight: it will give you an excuse to come tomorrow morning. I will show you the ghosts of the camera obscura then, as the sun has now set.”

With that, we took our leave.

The Ghosts of the Camera Obscura

The next morning, we encountered virtually no difficulty in entering the home of Ibn al-Haytham. Instead of casting pearls before swine, Ataa placed two dirhams in the hand of the guard. He bestowed a smile upon us and opened the door. It appears that everything loses its rough edges when tamed by familiarity and custom.

The morning had lifted some of the gloom from the colonnade: the smell of fresh bread filled the room. The bread was set out on a low table with dishes of honey and butter and some radishes and Armenian cucumbers. Hassan was still glad, all but jumping for joy at our company. His vivacity returned as we shared his breakfast. “You do not seem like an Egyptian,” he said, “although your accent is close to Baghdad. Where are you from?”

“I am Mazid. Mazid al-Hanafi from Najd, a student of knowledge.”

He kept staring at me until I could see the red veins in his eyes. “Knowledge? Ah, the flames of thirst for knowledge, which cannot be quenched by all the rivers of the world, driving their owner almost to ruin.” Leaning over the table, he whispered, “Come with me: I will show you wonders.”

Why had he not mentioned a status between two statuses? Was he not aware of what it meant? Or was this warm welcome inspired by that phrase?

He walked with us to the end of the corridor and opened one of the doors leading onto it. His voice trembled slightly as he said, “The guards made a hole in this room to watch me as I slept, for fear I might feign sleep and escape over
the rooftops.” He patted the hole. “From this hole, the
cone of light forms.” His thin, veined hand indicated the opposite wall. “It expands to form a circle of light, bearing its secrets within.

“In the early days of my imprisonment, I was terrified, jumping at every sound. One morning, I sat for a long while contemplating the line of light. It was my only link to the outside world, before I discovered that it had had pity upon me, and conveyed to me the images of the things that passed in the street, only inverted.”

His eyes bulged with a kind of triumph. He swallowed and continued like a prophet recounting his revelations. “It was here that my journey started, as I followed the light through thick mediums and thin.” His room was dark, lit only by the sharp spark of his eyes tinged with a kind of mania. My skin crawled. I was overcome with a sense that the room was filled with mysterious spirits and an awe-inspiring presence, although there were only the three of us there. He closed the door, whispering, “Welcome, Voyagers.”

I trembled. It was as I had suspected: he too was a Voyager. I feared that Ataa would ask him what it meant, but he had not noticed. Ataa, for all his keen intelligence, was as usual occupied with the best way to impress Ibn al-Haytham with his knowledge and prowess.

“Have a seat,” Ibn al-Haytham said, indicating a mat on the floor of the dark room with the covered windows. He laid a finger to his lips: now the demons would appear. I trembled and pulled my knees up to my chest, and sat waiting. Silence fell, and three men watched in stunned wonder as a thin thread of light came in through the hole and expanded on the wall.

At first, I saw nothing but specks of dust swirling lazily in the beam of light. However, before long I saw tiny things flickering, like a mirage; then their details became clearer, resolving into images, until we saw the blurred image of a cart, a donkey, and two men. We sat there, staring at the wall, until we discovered that this was none other than the shadows of the old servant with the green turban, who had gone out into the street and was standing at the cart of a vegetable seller: it was his cart and donkey that we could see, and he appeared to be haggling with the vendor over price. They waved their hands about for some time before the servant took what he had bought and went on his way home.

Suddenly, Ibn al-Haytham leapt up from his seat like a courageous cat, ripping the covering off the window and flinging open the door. We saw the servant coming in through the main door, carrying Armenian cucumbers and other vegetables. Ibn al-Haytham’s turban had slipped back halfway over his head: he was openmouthed, a look of bewildered triumph on his face. I was terrified that his madness had chosen this moment to return, but he only hissed, “Do you see what light bears within? The world entire. It bears every shadow that passes through it. Only prepare a space for it, and permit it to pour the world onto your wall.” Then he added, nodding, “Only this interplay of light and shadow has lightened the burden of imprisonment and the pain of being in a foreign land.”

I was jumping for joy with him, seized by a strange ecstasy. When we left the dark room, he took up a stick and drew in the dust of his courtyard a cone with the lens of an eye at its top. “Look,” he said. “This, thus, is the light in the books of the Greeks.”

Impressed, I asked him, “But this is what the Surianese translated into Arabic, and what they, in their turn, copied from the Greeks: the Surianese stand between us and the Greeks. What say you of meanings that have changed in translation from the ancient Greek language that has long been dead, and its folk extinct, and all those gone who used to speak it?”

Ibn al-Haytham straightened with alacrity. “We have minds that think, better than they. Our eyes do not emit light, as they imagined. The proof is that we cannot see in the dark. There is no light emanating from us.”

Ataa, who was a great defender of the Greeks, responded, “Although Greece and its language are extinct, translation has preserved its aims and conveyed its meanings and remained true to the facts.”

“True,” Ibn al-Haytham conceded. “Although, you see, the Greeks were in error when they claimed that the source of light was the eye. Knowledge and translation are like a torch. If there is a torch lighting the caravans of those who travel through history, every caravan will fear that it may burn out: whatever the source of the oil that will keep it burning, whenever the torch passes by a people or a group, they will pour some of their own oil onto the torch to keep it alight.” He nodded. “Yes. The main thing is for it to remain lit, lighting up the paths of the caravan of humanity.

“The Greeks spoke of things in their science; I built upon what they said, and added what was missing in their work with what intellect God gave me; there will come after me those who will add to what I have said and build up the earth. Why, then, do we concern ourselves with the kingdom of the heavens, when before us lies the kingdom of the earth? There lie injustice, tyranny, bloodshed, and absolute power wielded by the rulers over all!”

This last line appeared to have exhausted him and summoned his fears anew. He sat down and fell silent. He did not speak after that.

*

We kissed his head and left. I said to Ataa, “What that great man from Basra said is the sum of all: he summarized everything, and he spoke truth. This is the wisdom of the Voyagers.”

On the way home, I was overcome with a strange ecstasy. Was it the wonder of learning that shook us to the core, or because I had learned that the Voyagers were only joined by the rare great men, and God had given me the honor of being one of them alongside the master of light and shadow, Ibn al-Haytham?

Ataa was as stunned as I. He had quite abandoned his flighty manner and seemed deep in thought. This would make it easier for me. He asked me to walk awhile toward the river. I walked by his side, the universe opening doors. No sooner had I said to him, “Ibn al-Haytham’s torch does not belong to him alone; it belongs to all the Just Monotheists, to those who have purified their minds of endless quotations from the ancients, and think for themselves.”

Ataa smiled slyly. “Do you mean the Voyagers, who are in a status between two statuses?”

I stopped walking, like a man caught naked. Ataa patted my shoulder, having burst into a wide grin. “Oh, Arab of the desert! You exchange the secrets and affairs of the Voyagers with my father, when they are always at my father’s gatherings. You jealously guard your books as though they are your infant daughters. And you expect me to remain like an ignorant babe, knowing nothing?”

I only stared. He went on, “You were not the first, and will not be the last, of the Voyagers who have passed through our house, Mazid. But what brought us together is friendship and familiarity, the blandishments of youth and the thirst for knowledge. You are my friend and companion and a bright mind in the darkness of my questions and my confusion.” He laughed out loud and started walking again, causing me to scurry after him from where I stood openmouthed. “No matter, Mazid. I shall be the disciple you bring into the secret society. It is not a thing I would wish to happen soon, however, because that would mean that you shall leave us.”

I shook my head in wonder, breaking into a smile of my own. A flock of cranes flew over our heads.

Just then, I missed Kahramana intensely. I wished to hold her until she broke down and the wall between us disintegrated.

I took a sheet of paper and inscribed upon it the verses of al-Mutanabbi:

Love makes tongues silent and broken;
The sweetest love remains unspoken.
If only my love would stick as close
as the frailty I feel in absence’s throes!

She had gone too far in being distant. I would storm her gates, which she had always warned me against doing for fear of prying eyes, but she must know that I would shadow her and follow her wherever she went. I boiled some sage and other herbs the spice trader had told me were efficacious against headaches, poured them into the pot I used for Turkish coffee, and hurried to the madman’s house.

The boy, Mabrouk, met me at the door and told me that his master was not at home. He might be listening to one of the mosque’s circles; he might be roaming the streets of Cairo; he might be standing at the Zuweila Gate watching the comings and goings. Mabrouk added, “Yunis has gone out to find him. They will surely be here after the evening prayers, when Master goes to bed.”

Out of politeness, Mabrouk invited me in, but I was honor bound to refuse, for it is not done to enter a house whose master is absent. I hoped that the mother of the children would hear my voice and invite me in to chatter with her or perhaps convey to her some feminine recipes for beauty, but it did not come to pass.

Before I left, I was overcome with the sensation of being watched. I looked about me; then I heard the wood of the upper window creaking above the door to the house.

Mabrouk brought a cup into which I poured the sage for his master. When I made to leave, I lingered, sipping the remnants of the sage in the coffeepot, stealing glances at the window above me. I saw nothing but shadows, and heard nothing but the creaking of wood.

I went back from the alley to my house, my chest pierced with longing. I had lost the delight of the demons moving on Ibn al-Haytham’s wall. Had the realization finally dawned that I had always deferred and buried in the dust of deliberate disregard? Was this the end with Kahramana? Had she decided to disappear? How should the air make its way into my breast without her flirtations, her laugh, her perfume? I had thought her available, always there, like a spring that never runs dry. But why had she closed her window in my face and plunged into darkness?

How lonely Cairo was! I began to smell dead bodies and blood all about!

That day also, they kept us out of the mosque. Sitt al-Mulk, the caliph’s sister, was holding a mass funeral for the dead, and would hold a banquet for all the inhabitants of Cairo. I sometimes caught a glimpse of her close by, veiled, exiting her sedan that came from the Eastern Palace; but the few who had had the honor of being in the mosque in her presence said that when she revealed her face, the radiance of her beauty spilled out among the pillars and domes like a tree of light. She paid no heed to the laws banning women from going out at night or revealing their faces at funerals.

According to Ataa, she was the only one who kept the scales balanced for the ruling family. “She sent her ministers and criers to the nobles and notables of Egypt to tempt them with promises and bequests. She pressed her Christian uncles to remain close to the Copts, mended their pride, salved their wounds by granting them high positions and gifts, and spread glad tidings that the dark cloud was soon to be dispelled. If not for her promises that something would soon change, a violent revolution would have broken out.” He added slyly, “It is said that she is the lover of one of the ministers of the state, and that she has allowed him into her bed. He is her hidden hand, and they rule Egypt together.”

That evening, after Sitt al-Mulk had left the mosque, I watched the crowds of women and children leaving the mosque in her wake, as they do on feast days, their hands full of silver dirhams and almonds and apple slices dipped in honey. The scroll of al-Mutanabbi’s poems was still in my pocket, and loneliness was eating away at me. I remained in the library downstairs, for I feared the upper floor, where the pillows and couches lay in wait for me, teasing me with what remained of Kahramana’s scent. I could not bear it; my heart would break. I needed to seek out the books by Ptolemy and Euclid on vision, which included their theories about vision and how it comes about as a result of a ray of light from the eye to the object of vision. I wished to follow Ibn al-Haytham’s theories disproving this, and examine it tomorrow at the House of Knowledge in al-Azhar. But where could I find light in the painful darkness of my heart? I would invite Ataa to my house tomorrow and show him my book collection. He could see what he wished to acquire and what he wished to add to it before I left.

But what if Kahramana saw him while he was there; saw his fair face, fell in love with him, and redoubled her absence? He would place 1,500 gold pieces in a silken bag and she would be his. The madman did not notice her presence around him, and the mother of the children would not hesitate to sell her. She would cover their expenses for a year, including a pilgrimage to Mecca and rebuilding the water tower in their house.

I broke out of my thoughts, discovering that love can take you to the brink of folly. I would let jealousy eat away at my breast, and bear it as stoically as a lion bears the bites of a jackal, never showing my suffering. Jealousy is unbecoming of a Voyager; at any rate, that was what I would attempt to show in front of Ataa.

Egypt is forgiving, and washes itself clean of its sorrows. A light drizzle was falling, and the sky had more lying in wait, so that we were obliged to perform the evening prayers in the inner colonnade—an early winter. In al-Yamama, these early clouds were called the Wasm Storm. In Egypt, the rain fell on the alleys where blood and terror had spilled, washing them clean.

I went to my house with Ataa. I had planned to go and buy dinner for us, but Mabrouk had appeared at the door, bearing bowls, saying, “This is a gift from the mother of the children: rice and lentils, which she is giving out to the neighbors in celebration of the rain. To you alone, she has also sent fig jam and sugared meat with rice, or jawazib.”

I was pleased. Was this a prelude to a visit from Kahramana tonight? I did not like to ask him. I asked Mabrouk to prepare our seating area, and lit the lanterns, letting Ataa look over the shelves. I said to him in a jab at the Greeks, hoping to hear some of his brilliance, “This is mostly Greek work, translated by the House of Wisdom. But Greek metaphysics are atheist in nature, believing in the death of the individual and the eternity of the genus.”

“Do you mean,” he asked, “what our sheikh said about al-Farabi?”

“Well, no,” I said. “Al-Farabi speaks of divine inspiration and the ten intellects of the universe. But the Greeks exchanged heaven on high for well-being.”

He smiled slyly. “Each of us cleaves to the tale that suits him best.”

Ataa needed no companion or guide, for he ascended the path of the Voyagers like a brilliant steed. I was leaving him in Egypt in the company of three pyramids: Ibn al-Haytham, Rashid ibn Ali, and his father’s library. All that remained now was for me to slip him a copy of the seven commandments.

The Amber Bird’s Lament

Ataa left when the rain ceased. I could not keep myself from the childish disappointment that seized me when Kahramana failed to creep in. I wanted to show her off to Ataa: “Look, my flighty friend! This beauty loves me!”

I went up to the roof to find that the carpets on the balcony were wet and the pillows soaked with rainwater, making the entire roof smell of straw. I gazed at the wall over which she used to leap, coming toward me filled with longing; it looked back mockingly. Only the gutters dripped the last of their water into the street.

We stole another visit to Ibn al-Haytham, but he was in a foul humor, and showed us none of the welcome he had given us previously. He might have been working on a new invention and not been in the mood for interruptions, like an eagle on a mountaintop listening to the universe breathing around him.

Ataa and I now spent a great deal of time at my house, but Kahramana never appeared. Had she slipped through my unlucky fingers?

My longing made me so brave in my questioning as to be foolish. One evening, keeping my face down, I asked Mabrouk as he was clearing away the dinner dishes, “How is Kahramana?”

A sly smile crept across his face, mixed with surprise. “Who is Kahramana?”

Was he concealing her from me or was I starting to imagine things?

I recalled that she had never told me that her name was Kahramana. It was her amber eyes that had made me call her that. Kahramana, her eyes like a tiger’s, and her essence like grapes with honey, the red kerchief in the folds of my bedding. My astonishment drove Mabrouk to lay a solicitous hand on my shoulder. “Sir, are you well?”

“Is your master’s slave girl called Kahramana?” I whispered.

The veils fell as he spoke. They disappeared and faded, and the tale took on another complexion. My knees gave way as I listened. I sat and asked question after question, while Mabrouk took off his turban and scratched his head, his mocking smile never leaving him. But he did say in surprise, “The woman you are describing is none other than Lamis, may she rest in peace. There is no one with my master now but the mother of the children.”

Was Lamis–Kahramana the manifestation of a call for vengeance which never dies, like the cranes that flew above the murdered man in the story, to avenge him? But how could this be? Kahramana, the fountain of sugar, the scent of her dew dissolved in lust, the perfume in my bed . . . none of this could belong to a ghost or a spirit. Was it possible that she could come to me across the isthmus, then depart once more? I fumbled at my body. Was I really here? Had the mother of the children slit her throat and thrown her down the well of the house, and threatened the servants that they would meet her fate if they betrayed her secret? Where was she?

I must leave. I knew not who would be the next one thrown into the well—the well of sweet water in the center of the madman’s house. The fourth commandment commands me to consult my heart and mind, and both of these call on me to depart. It had been no hallucination. Who had opened the isthmus and brought Lamis crying out to me like a flock of storks, betraying her murderers?

So as not to be accused of seeing things, or madness, or communing with spirits, I must remain silent and hold the burning coal tight, as they used to say in the early days of Islam, and quell my longings. Our inner kingdom is what we experience, and we contemplate it, our souls saturated with the pain of loneliness. They enjoy being chosen, like a beautiful dream that is ruined on contact with light. But where had Kahramana gone?

It required several visits to say goodbye to Rashid ibn Ali in order to gradually loosen and dislodge the bonds of affection and friendship from within myself and depart for Andalusia, leaving behind the pains of separation. At the door, I would make many promises to return. I would definitely be back; I might even settle in Egypt . . . all the promises customarily made by those on the thresholds of parting, usually never kept.

On my last visit, I slipped Ataa a copy of the seven commandments, while Rashid ibn Ali passed me a letter written in an elegant hand on Samarqand paper, secured in a shiny, ornamented cylinder of brass, and told me briefly, “Hand this to Bahaa al-Zaman in the Great Mosque in Cordoba.”

The books that Rashid gave me were not many, but they were valuable, the most important among them being Thabit ibn Qurra’s translation of Ptolemy’s Almagest. As to Ataa, he would certainly find a guide. His father was pleased with my performance in Egypt: I had sold thirty books and saved forty more from burning at the booksellers’ stalls in Fustat. With the chaos brought on by the fire, the soldiers had threatened to burn the “books of heresy,” which had “brought sin and evil down upon Egypt.” On the strength of this, I had managed to acquire a complete collection of Hippocrates from the paper traders in Fustat, which I had secreted in a greengrocer’s cart beneath the onions, cucumbers, and bunches of mint, and smuggled into my library in Cairo. My treatment of the chief of police had granted me some power, which allowed me to free some of the unfortunates who were rounded up in groups and thrown into prison for no crime other than living next to the wall where the doll had been erected. From the sheikhs of al-Azhar, I had earned degrees in Qur’an recitation, elocution, Arabic language, and Arabic literature. I had no desire to stay until the end of the year, at which time it was said that the Caliph Who Can Do No Wrong would hold a ceremony for the graduates and bestow gifts upon them. Remembering his face and the tiger’s head he had worn on his way up to Muqattam, I recognized that leaving was my only salvation.

I went home that day to find the place like a tomb, as though I were only now discovering how small the rooms were, how low the ceilings, and how uneven the staircase. Only Kahramana had spilled her soul into the rooms and lit them up. The caravan was leaving at dawn, and there was one last thing I needed to do: the coward’s note, penned as usual with my left hand. It read:

If you wish for justice to be done in Egypt, search the madman’s well that lies in the center of his house, and ask the mother of the children about the sorcery that killed Lamis.

Then I rolled it up carefully to the size of my ring finger and stuffed it into the seam between the outer gate and the stones of the wall.

Egypt now lay behind me. I moved forward, with my beasts of burden and my crates of books. I no longer parted with them, feeling they were part of me, like a hump on my back.

Each morning, the caliph’s Cairo opened its gates to admit the folk of Fustat and the peasants from the surrounding hamlets to toil and strive among its opulent streets, letting the city absorb their essence and energy, expelling them in the evenings and closing the doors against them. Egypt was still washing itself of its wounds. Its skies glowed crimson. Its monarch still went up the Muqattam Mountain to consult the stars. The demons of Ibn al-Haytham danced on the walls each night; the lethal dolls were there; Rashid ibn Ali stood firm like one of the pyramids, keeping Egypt from sinking; and in a well in the house of the madman, a girl of gold had drowned because she knew too much. Egypt was receding behind me, leaving only the glow of amber.