A Poet of the Invisible World (13 page)

Nouri, who ached with exhaustion, tried to respond. But Leisha simply rambled on.

“I think you're a spy! An enemy court planted you here as a tea boy to win our trust. But you're gathering information to help them overthrow the Sultan!”

Nouri shifted his body and felt the cool air swirl about his head. “It's true,” he said. “And what's more, they want me to find an accomplice. Someone who can help me to get top-secret information. And I've decided that you're the perfect candidate for the job!”

Leisha was silent. Then she reached for a clod of earth and hurled it at Nouri. “Very funny! Now tell me what you're
really
doing!”

Nouri hesitated. He did not wish to speak about his spiritual practice, but he knew that Leisha would not let him sleep until she discovered the truth. So he brushed away the crumbs of dirt that sprinkled his chest and said, “I'm striving to become a Sufi.”

Leisha furrowed her brow. “A what?”

“A spiritual being. A servant of God.” He paused again. “The Sufi tries to free himself from the material world. From the tyranny of thought. His goal is to experience the divine in all things.”

Leisha tried to piece together what Nouri was saying. “You mean you're studying with that crazy loon who came to town last month?”

“He's a remarkable teacher. I'm lucky to have the chance to be his
murid.
”

“His
what
?”

“His disciple,” said Nouri. “His student.”

Leisha was silent a moment and Nouri waited for her to begin laughing or to throw something harder than a clod of dirt at him. Instead, she rose and moved through the shadows to where he lay.

“How thrilling!” she cooed. “I've never been with a
murid
before!”

Nouri looked up and saw that her eyes were filled with hunger. Without saying more, she began to loosen her robes, exposing her soft flesh to the night. Nouri had never seen a girl without clothes and he was curious to know what a pair of breasts actually looked like. When they swung into view, however—ripe as a pair of sun-kissed melons—he felt no impulse to reach up and take them in his hands or lean forward to place his mouth over their nipples. He only lay there, staring at them with a curious disinterest. And Leisha, inflamed as she was, understood.

“You're not normal!” she hissed. Then she gathered her garments and ran off into the night.

Nouri lay back and looked up at the stars. He did not know what it meant to be normal. He only knew what it meant to be Nouri.

Who had four ears.

And was far from home.

And was trying to find his way back to God.

So he rose from the bench and made his way to his room, where he finally gave over to his crushing fatigue.

*   *   *

NOURI RESTED THE SHOVEL
against the wall and wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. He'd been digging for over an hour and his head cloth was soaked with perspiration, yet he knew that he had no choice but to continue on. The ground was rocky and unyielding and it would take a miracle to make a garden take root. But Ibn Arwani had instructed him to do it. So he raised the shovel, ran the back of his wrist across his forehead one last time, and continued digging.

He'd been coming to the simple rooms of the Sufi master each day for almost six months now. And though he was grateful to have found a teacher again, it took time for him to adjust to Ibn Arwani's ways. Where Sheikh Bailiri had been loving, Ibn Arwani was strict. Where Sheikh Bailiri had been patient and reassuring, Ibn Arwani was confrontational. When Nouri said that he wanted to be with God, Ibn Arwani said:

“First you must learn who ‘you' are. Then you must learn what it means to ‘want.' What it means to ‘be.' Then you must learn what ‘God' is. Otherwise, it's just a game. A pretense.”

When Nouri said that he wanted to know the truth, Ibn Arwani said:

“You must suffer a great deal to know the truth. You must be crushed into powder. People always say they want the truth. But they really want lies. The truth requires sacrifice. The truth requires work.”

When Nouri said that he wanted to become a servant, Ibn Arwani said:

“First you must become a warrior. Only with your sword raised high can you become a servant of God.”

Nouri listened, and tried to understand. But the image of a raised sword only brought thoughts of the attack at the lodge in Tan-Arzhan. So he focused his energy on the morning
zikr
and the various tasks he was given to perform each afternoon. At times they were pleasant: chopping the walnuts for the
ranginak
or trimming the wicks of the evening tapers. But they were often exhausting, like the labor he was engaged in now. In this case, the grueling task was his own fault. A few days earlier, as he was waiting to be dismissed after washing the tea bowls, Ibn Arwani had said: “What do you think of our gathering place, Nouri?”

Nouri looked around the spare dwelling where he and the others came to pray. “It's nice,” he said. “There's lots of room for remembrance.”

“So you don't think it requires any improvement? To be more pleasing to Allah?”

Nouri was silent. He knew that part of being a Sufi was to accept each thing, no matter how simple, for what it was. But he also knew that Ibn Arwani's questions were always a test. And as he looked out through the window at the land that sat behind the two rooms—neglected and overgrown with weeds—he could not help thinking of how a garden would inspire Ibn Arwani's disciples to open their hearts to God.

“I think it would be nice to have some roses,” he said. “And maybe a small fig tree.”

Ibn Arwani thanked him for his advice. And on the following day he handed him a shovel and told him to begin digging. Nouri found the job rather daunting, but he did his best not to complain. Instead, he tried to picture the fragrant flowers that would bloom when his efforts were through.

Now he was so focused on his labor, he did not even notice the terrible thirst that gripped him. So he was startled when he heard a voice and turned to see Ibn Arwani standing beside him with a pitcher and a cup.

“You look as if you need a bit of rest,” said the Sufi master. “Let's sit for a little while.”

Nouri rested the shovel against the wall again and then followed Ibn Arwani across the yard to the small patch of shade that the house cast upon the ground. He waited for the Sufi master to sit. Then he seated himself beside him.

“It's a pleasant day,” said Ibn Arwani. “Don't you think?”

Nouri hesitated. It was an extremely warm day, especially for digging up rocks. But he knew better than to contradict his teacher. “Quite pleasant.”

Ibn Arwani reached for the pitcher and poured a pale liquid into the cup. Then he raised the cup to his mouth and drank.

“A few of the others have offered to help dig.” He paused a moment, the soothing beverage perched in the air between himself and Nouri. “But I thought that would rob you of the pleasure of doing it yourself.”

He took another sip of the liquid and Nouri felt his throat constrict. He hadn't expected Ibn Arwani to be so severe. He could feel that the Sufi master was quite advanced, yet he could not help but chafe at his methods. Before he could protest, however, Ibn Arwani spoke.

“The part of you that wants to know God is very small. You must strengthen it if you wish to master the part that fears. That desires. That thirsts.” He was silent a moment, his eyes boring into Nouri. “The beast or the master. You have to decide which one you wish to be.”

At the moment all Nouri wished was a drink of the cool liquid in the pitcher. But he did not say this. Instead, he said, “I should get back to work.” Then he rose and went to fetch the shovel that he'd laid against the wall.

He was just about to pick it up when Ibn Arwani called out to him: “By the way—”

Nouri turned.

The Sufi master held out the cup. “Would you care for a drink?”

Nouri felt his tongue rake over his parched lips. Then he nodded.

Ibn Arwani rose, raised the pitcher, and poured more liquid into the cup. Then he crossed the yard and offered the cup to Nouri. It was stronger and more tart than Nouri had expected. But it quenched his thirst. So he handed the cup back to Ibn Arwani, reached for the shovel, and continued digging.

*   *   *

IT WAS EARLY MORNING.
Nouri had just returned to the palace from his morning
zikr
with Ibn Arwani when he was stopped in the garden by Little Ahmed.

“
The Right Hand is asking for you!”

“But his tray isn't due for nearly an hour.”

“Well, if I were you,” said Little Ahmed, “I'd go to him now!”

Nouri could not imagine why The Right Hand wished to see him. But he thanked Little Ahmed and headed to his chamber. When he reached it, he found the door slightly ajar. So he pushed it open and stepped inside. The
ney
player was just removing his flute from its silken wrapper and The Right Hand's attendant—a tall boy with long curly hair—was drawing the drapes to let the morning light tumble in. The Right Hand, as always, was seated on the divan, and when he saw Nouri enter, he turned.

“There you are!” he shouted. “Come! Sit beside me!”

The words seemed more a command to Nouri than an invitation. So he crossed the room, lowered himself to the pillow that lay on the floor beside the divan, and—while the
ney
player began an insinuating tune—waited to learn why he'd been summoned.

“The air is so sweet before dawn. So full of possibilities.” The Right Hand looked into Nouri's eyes. “Don't you think?”

Nouri nodded.

“Yet there must be something quite special to make you rise so early, and wander away from the court!”

It was clear to Nouri that The Right Hand knew quite well where he was going when he slipped off each morning. And though it was equally clear that he did not approve, Nouri knew there was no point in lying about it.

“I participate in a morning
zikr
,” he said
.
“I hope that doesn't displease you.”

The Right Hand smiled. “And how could I be displeased by a morning
zikr
?”

The
ney
player turned to The Right Hand to seek permission to begin playing. The Right Hand nodded. Then the music rose up and The Right Hand closed his heavy-lidded eyes.

“I simply wish to protect you.”

“From what?”

The Right Hand opened his eyes and turned to Nouri. “You realize you have a gift, don't you?”

“A gift?”

“You're a poet! It's a talent that's not given to very many.”

Nouri said nothing.

“It would trouble me a great deal to see you waste it.”

The Right Hand was silent a moment. Then he rose from the divan, went to the large carved cabinet that stood in the corner of the room, opened it, and removed a small book. Then he headed back across the room to where Nouri sat.

“Your gift was given to you by Allah. He wishes you to use it. Not sit in a trance and whisper His name over and over, which anyone can do.”

The Right Hand held the book out to Nouri.

“I propose we make a collection of your verses. We'll have the court calligrapher copy them out. We'll have the court illuminator embellish them. Then, when it's finished, we'll present it to the Sultan himself.”

Nouri gazed at the slender book. Its cover was made of rich brown leather and its spine was embossed with suns and moons.

“Would you like that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if we're to do this you'll need to devote yourself to your writing. There'll be no time for
zikr.
Or any other activities outside the court.” He gazed into Nouri's eyes. “Do you understand?”

Nouri could not imagine turning away from his spiritual practice. But the thought of the Sultan reading his poems was too enticing. Perhaps a short break from his studies would let him digest what he'd learned. He could always return in a few months, when the book was done.

“I'll do my best not to disappoint you.”

The Right Hand's eyes flashed with pleasure. “You won't disappoint me,” he said. “I'm certain of that.”

Nouri wished that he could be as sure as The Right Hand of his success. But the most he could do was wait until he gave him leave to depart, and then race to his room and get to work.

 

Eleven

When Nouri told Ibn Arwani that he would be taking a hiatus from his practice, the Sufi master shrugged. “There is no break from practice,” he said. “One is either with God or one is not.”

Nouri wanted to explain that it was only a temporary measure, but he knew there was no point in trying to defend his position. So he thanked Ibn Arwani for his help and headed back to the palace.

As he made his way along, he tried to consider what lay ahead. To compose a few lines of verse for The Right Hand's tea was one thing. To fill an entire book to be read by the Sultan was another. So he searched the streets for the telling image that might inspire a new poem. The man with the sunken eyes carrying the pig to slaughter. The girl lifting her skirt as she stepped through the mud. The light slicing down between the rooftops. The squashed banana. The broken jug. He knew he would need to go further, and deeper, than he'd gone before. Only perfect dedication would allow him to pull it off.

So the veil fell again, and this time with a thud. Nouri was released from his duties as a tea boy. He was supplied with a thick stack of paper and endless pots of black ink. And he was expected to write. From the first strangled cry of the cock to the evening's last guttering candle, he'd conjure up images and weave what he saw into words. He tried to extract meaning from each bud. Each breeze. He tried to experience the simplest object with a sense of wonder.