Inside a chest that had been thrown into the sea, the caliph, with his vizier and his servant, found something terrible— a girl’s body. Who had killed her? And why?

NIGHT 20

THE TALE OF THREE APPLES

aliph Harun al-Rashid was walking with his vizier Ja’far and his servant Masrur when they came across a fisherman so poor his bare feet bled.

Pity stirred in the caliph’s chest. “Cast your net in the Tigris River. I’ll pay a hundred dinars for whatever you catch.”

The fisherman ran to the river. His net brought up a chest, which Masrur carried on his shoulder to the palace. Inside that was a palm-leaf basket stitched with red yarn. Inside that was a scrap of carpet. Under the carpet was a cloak folded in four. At the very bottom was the body of a dead girl.

“Ja’far!” shouted the caliph, “find the murderer or I will have you and 40 of your kinsmen killed.”

Ja’far didn’t know how to find murderers. He went home and hid. On the third day, the caliph had Ja’far brought to him for hanging with his 40 kinsmen.

As Ja’far stood despairing, a young man emerged from the crowd. “I murdered that girl,” he said. “Hang me instead.”

An old man stepped forward. “No, I murdered her. Hang me.”

Ja’far kissed the ground at the caliph’s feet seven times and presented the two men.

“Which of you murdered the girl?” asked the caliph.

Both said they did it—alone. But the young man must be guilty, for he knew of the basket, the yarn, the carpet, the cloak—all the details of what was in the chest.

“But why?” asked the caliph. “Tell what happened.”

The girl was my wife and the daughter of this old man. She bore me three sons. Then she got gravely ill. One day she craved a bite of apple. But the market had no apples. Nor did the orchards. I had to travel a week to Basra to buy three apples. In my two weeks’ absence, my wife had worsened. She couldn’t look at apples, much less eat them.

Soon after, a servant passed my shop holding an apple. He told me his lover gave it to him. “Her stupid husband traveled a half month to buy her three.”

I rushed home and asked my wife where the three apples were. One was missing! That servant had told the truth! In a rage, I killed her and threw the chest in the Tigris.

When I got home, my son was crying. He’d stolen one of his mother’s apples that morning and brought it to market where a servant snatched it. He told the thief how his father had traveled half a month to Basra and back just to fetch that apple and two others for his ailing mother. My son pleaded for the apple. The thief laughed. The boy hid till night, then came home.

“So,” said the young man, “I murdered my beloved wife. Hang me.”

“No,” said the caliph “I will hang the thief. Find him, Ja’far. Or it’s you I’ll hang.”

Ja’far had no idea how to find the thief. He went home and hid again. On the third day, the caliph’s messenger came to fetch Ja’far for hanging.

Daylight dawned. “The loyal vizier doesn’t deserve to die,” said the king. “I must know what happens. Finish the tale in the coming night.” Scheherazade would live another day. The east wind bore the fragrance of cloves. Scheherazade had stayed away from her mother these past 20 days to spare her extra pain. But today she would visit and bury her face in her mother’s clove-stained hands. For she sorely needed her help.