When Nouri left the lodge, he made his way along the curving path that led to the heart of the city. He had no idea what lay ahead. The future seemed as unreal as the past. After the quiet of his time with Habbib, however, he felt enlivened by the throb and clatter of the streets. So he walked past the public bath—past the countinghouse—past the grand bazaar—and drank in the vivid life that surged all around him. At night, he found a patch of grass in the town square where he could sleep. Then he awoke the next day and continued roaming the streets. Past the schoolyard, where the children laughed and played games. Past the stables, where the horses grazed. Each day the city seemed new, as if it had been razed to the ground and carefully reconstructed while he slept.
One morning, as he was walking through the northeast quadrant, a door flew open and a man dashed out. As he tore past Nouri, another man—dressed in expensive robes and clutching a broom—appeared in the doorway. When the second man saw Nouri, he handed him the broom, ran into the street, and shouted after the first man:
“And don’t show your pox-ridden face in my house ever again!”
By the time he’d finished shouting, the fellow had disappeared. So he turned and—still shaking with rage—started back to the house. When he saw Nouri holding his broom, he folded his arms over his chest.
“Can you sweep?”
Nouri—who could only think of Habbib—nodded.
“Can you write?”
Nouri nodded again, and the man took a step closer.
“Can you tell stories?”
Nouri nodded a third time. So the man ushered him into the house and he began his new existence.
For the most part, his job consisted of caring for the man’s children. Aban, the boy, who was as frisky as a newborn goat, was eight. Sanam, the girl, who was as plump as a freshly picked fig, was six and a half. Nouri would awaken them and feed them and escort them to school. Then he would return to the house, fetch the broom, and sweep the inner courtyard and the rooms. When school was done, he would fetch the children and then retire to his room while they ate their supper with their parents. Then he would tuck them into bed and tell them one of the stories he’d learned from Habbib.
No one—either in or outside the household—knew that Nouri was a Sufi. But Nouri knew. Each morning, before he awoke the children, he would sit in his room and affirm his connection to God. Each afternoon, when he’d finished sweeping, he would sit in the garden. And listen. And look. What he was forging inside of himself had no texture, no sound, no scent. But it was real, and it was growing stronger each day.
From time to time, Nouri thought about his ears. They’d marked him as different from his very first breath, but after a lifetime of keeping them concealed, he could only wonder that they’d seemed so important. He still didn’t know if they were a quirk of nature or a sign of his spiritual calling. But he knew that without them his life wouldn’t have been his life. And since he could not wish away his life—not one moment of it—he could not wish away his ears.
The children grew from eight and six to twelve and ten to sixteen and fourteen. Nouri cared for them and swept the house and communed with God. At times—despite the fact that he was now more than fifty—the old questions would reappear:
Who am I?
Why am I here?
Which of the Nouris is really me?
He knew by now that he was not the Nouri who studied or the Nouri who suffered or the Nouri who prayed. Those were the chalice. The vessel. The shell. The only Nouri that came close to who he really was was the Nouri who loved. That was who would remain when all the other Nouris were gone.
One day, while he was sitting in the garden, he heard a voice:
“The children are old enough to care for themselves now. It’s time to go.”
When he turned, he saw his old friend Soledad standing at the entrance to the garden, her hair tied back in a slender braid, her dark eyes shining. He wanted to go to her and enfold her in his arms. But he knew that she was not really there. The following morning, however, he placed a few things in a satchel, left the house, and headed out to the ruined room in the clearing on the outskirts of town where he’d lain, beneath the stars, beside Vishpar, a lifetime before.
When he reached the clearing, he paused for a moment and gazed at the forgotten structure. The crumbling walls were overgrown with weeds, the stone floor had been worn away to reveal patches of dark earth, and the small piece of roof that had framed the night sky that had spat stars over him and his friend seemed to have blown away. He did not know what awaited him in the little room. A flash of lightning? A final struggle? But he knew that, whatever it was, he had to face it alone.
He crossed the clearing and climbed over the wall. He found a place where the floor was still intact and settled himself in. Then he opened the satchel and—one by one—lowered the items he’d brought with him to the stones.
A bowl to catch rainwater.
A blanket.
A knife.
His tattered copy of the Qur’an.
And a sack that held a small stack of paper, a pot of ink, and a pen.
For though he knew by now that words could never enter the invisible world, they could carry him to the threshold. And despite what he’d been through, he still felt the need to praise.