Today is my birthday, or the birthday of the man I used to be, Ismail Khan claims a date that means nothing to me. I am a man in my forties. When my father was this age he was expanding his farm, growing his trading business, watching his sons become men. My life is the inverse, the perverse of his. I have contracted the physical and emotional confines of my life so that almost all of my imagining happens within the little domain of my courtyard. The jasmine covers the walls so that I might imagine I am in the setting of some Rumi poem.
Zaid, my assistant knocks on my door to bring me dinner, rice and meat curry cooked elsewhere in the compound.
“Come and sit with me tonight,” I tell him before accepting the food as I usually do.
Even though he has grown into a man, he hesitates like the boy he was when I first came here.
“Sit. I would like some company.” I motion him to the chair next to me. “Tell me stories of your children.”
I attended Zaid’s wedding a few years back. He has brought his children to me to receive my blessing.
He smiles ruefully. “They are a gift from Allah, though my wife complains often.”
“The oldest is a girl?”
“Yes. The other two are boys, al-hamda’allah.”
He twists in his chair, looks toward the door as if he would like to return inside. I have taught him much of what I know. He could go out and start his own shop, he could leave me and start another life. But this is not the Pakistani way. Zaid is loyal to me. I wouldn’t dare to call it love, but at least a deep familiarity.
“Maybe you could come for a meal with us outside?” he asks.
“Now? You’ve already brought the food.”
He stands up. “Maybe after Friday prayers sometime.”
“You don’t want to stay.”
He twitches his head. “Brother,” he says respectfully, “there are ghosts in this courtyard.”
“You mean djinns?”
“No, ghosts. Maybe they come with the broken cars. I don’t know, but they aren’t from here.”
I look around seeing only the same courtyard I have seen these many years now. “So where are they from?”
He shakes his head. “Just somewhere far away. They are angry for being killed, for not being allowed to finish their journey here on earth.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve encountered lots of ghosts here in the Sheikh’s compound. They get trapped in the inside rooms, especially where there’s only one door.” He takes a step to leave. “Some of the servants blame the Sheikh’s work. I don’t know about that. I just know he’s a good Muslim and he’s always taken care of me and my family. Anyway, you should spend less time here. And be sure to clear out the spiders webs. The ghosts get tangled in the silk.”
He leaves me alone with my food.
I think, as I have so many times, about calling Kathryn, reaching out in some way. Would she remember today is my birthday? But I have nothing to offer her, don’t yet have the savings or the savvy to arrange a place for us in Morocco. Would she really come even if I did? What would I say to her if she answered?
I eat only half my dinner, cover the remainder with a pot lid to protect it from the flies and rats.
I take the straw broom from just inside the door and return the few steps to the far end of the courtyard. I sweep out the cobwebs in the corners from the ground to the top of the wall. I can’t shake the feeling of a chill as I lie down on my cot to sleep earlier than usual.