A Poet of the Invisible World (14 page)

The Right Hand was pleased by Nouri's devotion to his task. He gave the boy new clothes and had trays of food brought to him while he worked. After weeks of constant writing, however, it was clear that the youth needed a break. So one morning, The Right Hand went to the Court of the Speckled Dove and invited Nouri to go riding with him in the mountains.

“It will do you good! Bring some fresh air into those scholarly lungs!”

Nouri knew better than to refuse The Right Hand. But in truth he quite liked the idea of riding into the mountains. He felt sure that the adventure would yield a poem, or even a few. So he put aside his paper and pen and he and The Right Hand set off.

It was a brisk day, so they hardly broke a sweat as their horses climbed the mountain path. The Right Hand did not say a word, yet Nouri could feel the pleasure he took from the ride. Nouri took pleasure from the silence, which seemed to grow deeper as they went higher, and which soothed his beleaguered ears. Only when they reached a plateau did The Right Hand slow to a halt and speak.

“Magnificent!” he whispered. Then he turned to Nouri. “Don't you think?”

Nouri looked out at the snow-capped peaks that rose in the distance. “Magnificent,” he repeated.

“They say that on a perfectly clear day you can see the four corners of the realm.”

Nouri knew that this was impossible, but he did not say so. Instead, he tried to press the beauty and grandeur of the landscape into his heart.

“I was thinking that you might enjoy a new room,” said The Right Hand. “Something with a more inspiring view.”

“I like my room,” said Nouri.

“Well, what about a girl, then? Tell me what you like! Large-breasted? Slender? A nice firm ass? I can have whatever you wish sent directly to your room!”

“No, thank you.”

The Right Hand threw back his head and laughed. “It's a strange lad who'd refuse such an offer! When I was your age I was on fire! I couldn't wait to find a place to shove my prick!” He was silent a moment. Then he turned to Nouri. “Are you a virgin?”

Nouri said nothing.

“Well, the sooner you let the serpent strike, the better! Otherwise your balls will become inflamed! And you may have trouble pissing!”

Nouri could feel his blood rise at The Right Hand's words. He awoke every morning with “the serpent” stiff and throbbing against his belly. Sometimes it even exploded while he slept, leaving his bed a sticky mess. He knew, however, that he did not wish to lie with a girl. So he thanked The Right Hand for his advice and they said no more.

The weeks sped by and Nouri gave no thought to either his studies or the spiritual labor he'd turned his back on. It was as if an invisible wall had been erected around Ibn Arwani's dwelling, a fog of forgetting more impenetrable than the battlements of the palace. Only now and then did the sound of the
santur
or the setting sun evoke the flashes of grace he'd experienced with the Sufi master. Then a feeling of uneasiness came over him. His room seemed too grand, his clothes too ornate, the cakes too sweet upon his tongue. The feeling only lasted a moment, however. Then he'd reach for the quill and return to the refuge of words.

*   *   *

WHILE NOURI WORKED ON
—the verse pouring like clarified honey from his pen—the artisans began to prepare the book for presentation to the Sultan. Each poem, when it was done, was given to the court calligrapher, who painstakingly copied it into the leather-bound book. Then the court illuminator would embellish the words with tiny scallops and arabesques, enclosing the title in a cloud band of shimmering gold. Each step in the process took hours to complete, not to mention the time required to make the title page, which was carefully inked in saffron and moonstone, and the borders, which were lovingly decorated with lapis lazuli, cinnabar, and jet.

For the most part, Nouri was oblivious to these efforts. Yet he found that—when he wasn't writing or riding or sitting on a satin cushion at The Right Hand's feet—he could not stop thinking about how the Sultan would react to his verse. He'd never had any real contact with the man. He'd only seen him sweep by, surrounded by bodyguards, his robes flowing like freshly poured cream from his massive body, his turban gleaming like snow atop his regal head. He envisioned himself being summoned to his chambers and told how deeply his words had touched his soul.

“Such imagery!” the Sultan would say. “Such feeling! You possess a remarkable gift!”

Nouri would blush at this praise, half-forgetting that he'd imagined the entire thing in his head. Yet he could not help feeling that his whole life was about to change.

Despite the sweet tenor of the time, now and then Nouri would dream of the ferocious creature he'd dreamed of on the morning of his seventh birthday. It always appeared out of nowhere—its eyes gleaming—its teeth bared—and followed hot on his heels. Nouri always awoke in an icy sweat before it managed to reach him. But he was aware that with each successive dream it was getting closer.

One morning, as Nouri sat writing in his room, The Right Hand paid him a visit.

“I've asked the court painter to paint your portrait,” he said. “On the final page of the book!”

Nouri worried that he was going too far, yet he could not find the strength to refuse. “It will be an honor.”

“I've arranged for him to meet you this afternoon in the Court of the Speckled Dove. He'll be waiting for you after the midday meal.”

So that afternoon Nouri put on his new clothes, wrapped his head garment around his head with extra care, and went out to his favorite spot to have his image laid down.

When he reached the courtyard, he found the court painter—a large fellow with a bulbous nose and a wild black beard—preparing his easel. A small boy was seated behind him, his head on his knees, fast asleep.

“Welcome!” cried the man, as Nouri approached. “It's time to commit you to eternity!”

Nouri crossed the courtyard to the wooden stool that had been placed beside the fountain and sat. Then he drew himself up very tall and nodded to the painter to begin. The fellow worked intently, with great zeal, and every so often he would call out to Nouri:

“Imagine you're on a boat on the open sea!”

“Imagine you're in a sunlit meadow!”

“Imagine you're on an elephant storming through the jungle!”

Nouri didn't see how he could be on a boat, in a meadow, and on an elephant all at the same time. But he tried his best to relax and let the court painter paint. For the first hour or so, it was easy to sit still. Nouri placed his attention on his breathing and took pleasure in the court painter's focus and concentration. Eventually, however, the sun caused beads of sweat to trickle down his neck. Then an insistent mosquito appeared, which made it difficult not to squirm. So he was grateful when at last the court painter lowered his brush and announced that the portrait was done.

Nouri was eager to see the finished work. But before he could go to it, the court painter clapped his hands and the small boy sprang up and scurried to the easel. He waited as the court painter removed the clips that held the book in place. Then he lowered the book into the boy's hands and he carried it to Nouri.

When he reached him, the boy held the portrait up like a mirror before Nouri's eyes. And Nouri was startled by what was reflected back to him.

His chin was lifted in pride. His mouth beamed with self-satisfaction. And his eyes, though dark and glistening, seemed covered by a veil.

“A perfect likeness!” cried the court painter. “Don't you agree?”

As Nouri gazed at the portrait, he was suddenly reminded of Ibn Arwani and the spiritual struggle from which he'd turned away. But no sooner did the thought rise up than it vanished again. So he turned his eyes from the portrait and nodded.

“Perfect,” he said.

The boy lowered the book and carried it back to the easel. Then Nouri headed to his room to finish the poems.

*   *   *

NOURI LAY ON HIS BACK,
on the floor, his knees raised, his head on a pillow, waiting for the final image to take shape. He was describing the faint swirls of fog that nestled in the mountains before dawn, and he knew that when the image was perfectly clear he would know how to express it. He closed his eyes. He listened. Then, when the words finally came, he sat forward, reached for the pen, and scribbled them down. When he wrote the last word, a strange quiet came over him. Then he took the poem to the court calligrapher to be inscribed in the book and went to tell The Right Hand that his work was done.

When he reached the familiar door, he knocked.

“It's Nouri!”

There was a long silence. Then The Right Hand called out: “You may enter!”

When Nouri pushed open the door and stepped into the room, he found that it was unusually still. There were no servants to be found, nor any sign of a musician. Only The Right Hand, stretched out on the divan, his eyes balanced between thought and sleep.

“What brings you?” he said, as Nouri approached.

“It's done.”

“What do you mean?”

“The book.”

“The book?”

“It's finished. I've just taken the last poem to be inscribed.”

The Right Hand was silent. Then Nouri's words penetrated the fog. “The book!”

Nouri nodded. “It's done!”

The Right Hand combed his fingers through his luxurious beard. Then he clapped. “We must celebrate!”

He gathered his loose robes, slipped his feet into his slippers, and rose from the divan. Then he crossed the room to the large cabinet from which he'd fetched the leather book and removed a glass bottle and a pair of silver cups. He placed the cups on the desk that stood beside the open window that looked out over the city. Then he removed the curved stopper from the bottle, poured a dark amber liquid into the cups, and offered one to Nouri.

“To your achievement!”

Nouri gazed across the room at The Right Hand. He'd been in his chamber many times, yet he had never seen him like this. His eyes glittered and a heat rose from his body. Nouri wondered what he would say when he introduced him to the Sultan. Perhaps he would be made a member of his circle and be asked to recite for him each day, as he had done for The Right Hand. At the moment, however, The Right Hand's arm was outstretched. So Nouri pressed all thoughts from his mind, crossed the room, and took the cup from his hand.

The Right Hand reached for the other cup, raised it to Nouri's, and drank down the liquid in a single gulp. Nouri drew the cup to his lips and did the same. Then The Right Hand turned to the open window.

“Look at the city, Nouri! Perhaps someday everyone out there will know who you are!”

Inflamed by both the liquor and the praise, Nouri lowered his cup to the desk, moved to the window, and looked out past the weathered ramparts and the rain-washed towers at the tumult of the streets beyond. He felt a deep urge to describe what he saw. To compose a true hymn to the city. But before he could even frame the opening words, he felt The Right Hand move close behind him.

“It's exciting, isn't it?”

Nouri felt his heart begin to pound. Then The Right Hand parted the curls that hung down from his head cloth and pressed his lips to his neck.

“Have you taken care of that problem we spoke about?”

At these words, The Right Hand reached around Nouri's body and grasped the serpent. Nouri recoiled. But the serpent, stirred by the contact, began to stiffen, which only emboldened The Right Hand.

“There are many ways to deal with these things,” he whispered.

He kissed Nouri's shoulder. And then his back. Then he pressed him down against the frame of the window and tore open his trousers.

“All things,” he whispered, “come at a price!”

It wasn't the first time Nouri had experienced staggering pain. When he was six, he had found a wasps' nest in the grass and when he carried it through the garden to show Habbib, he was stung, sixteen times, on his arms and face. When he was ten, while he was helping Salim Rasa prepare some
khoresht annar-aveej,
he had sliced off the tip of his left thumb. But what was happening now so stunned him he could not actually believe it was occurring. His mind dissolved. His body became a field of flame.

Somewhere, from deep within the pain, he felt The Right Hand reach beneath him and grasp the serpent again. He resented the delicious tremor that shot through him. It brought pleasure into the bargain, which only confused him more. As he lay there, pinned between the heated body and the cool marble ledge, he saw Leisha walking by on the path below. He wanted to cry out to her, but he could not make a sound. So he watched as she moved on, unaware of the outrage that was happening a short distance over her head.

The Right Hand drove on. Nouri felt as if the breath had been expelled from his body and his blood had turned into dust. He could not imagine it lasting much longer, but as The Right Hand's passion approached its peak, he began thrusting harder. Nouri was too consumed with pain to see that, in his fever, his assailant had wound his fingers into his head garment and, in a moment of fury, had torn it off. Only when The Right Hand's groans rose into a furious wail did he realize that his ears had been revealed.

“Demon!” cried The Right Hand, as he reared back. “Spawn of Satan!” He reached out and squeezed Nouri's ears to be sure that he was not seeing double. “I'm fucking a goddamn monster!”

Nouri gripped the ledge, grateful for the sudden interruption of his abuse. He knew that what was likely to come next was his demise, but to his surprise, The Right Hand reached neither for an inkpot to crush his skull nor a dagger to pierce his heart, but instead began pounding him even harder. Nouri wondered if this was how he intended to kill him. But then, like a lightning-struck ox, he suddenly spasmed, and collapsed on top of Nouri's battered frame.