The Book of Saladin (24 page)

“Since the birth of her son, something has transformed her completely. She behaves in a strange fashion. She shuns my company. She listens to the ravings of superstitious old witches whose only task is to frighten us into submission. Amjad tells me that some of the old maids in the harem have filled her head with nonsense of every sort. He says that they told her that the Sultan favoured her son over my boys; that her son could become Sultan one day, but only if she broke away from me. They told her that I was a malign influence, that I had led her astray, away from the true path decreed by Allah and his Prophet. They filled her ears with falsehoods about my past. All this Amjad told me, and his sources are always accurate.

“Halima has begun to believe that the world is full of demons. The other day I heard her anxiously asking a maid whether the
udar
ever attacked children. Do you know what the
udar
is supposed to be, Ibn Yakub? It is a creature the Bedouin invented centuries ago to frighten away their rivals in the desert.

“The udar is supposedly a monster who rapes men and leaves them to roast in the desert, but only after he has made sure that worms have built nests in their anuses! If an uneducated person believed in all this rubbish I would simply laugh, but I have spent months teaching the finer points of philosophy to Halima. I thought she understood. Instead she now thinks that the
udar
is real and Ibn Rushd and Ibn Sina are false. It is as if her brain has been eclipsed by a dark cloud, which refuses to be blown away.

“When I try and speak with her she looks at me with fear-filled eyes, as if I was a demon or a witch. She refuses to let me pick up her child. She will not let me touch her. Three nights ago she told me that everything we had done together was evil, sinful and repulsive. She said that Allah would punish us by throwing us to the mercy of djinns and other demons. I wanted to scream at her, to pull her hair, to shake her roughly till she saw sense again, but I contained myself, trying instead to understand what had happened to her.

“Only once, when I surprised her alone in the bath, did she seem like her old self. She was on her own and I, too, slipped off my clothes and entered the bath beside her. Neither of us said a word. I took a piece of cloth and began to gently massage her tender, slender shoulders. It must have stirred some memories.

“For the first time in months, she turned round to look at me. Then she smiled. Her teeth were gleaming like polished ivory and her face lit up again. It was the old Halima. My heart melted away and I stroked her head, before lowering my arms and rubbing her breasts.

“Then it was as if she had been struck by a thunderbolt. Her entire demeanour changed. Her face grew stern. She glared at me with anger, removed herself from the bath and fled. She screamed for her attendants, who rushed to her side with towels. I sat in the bath, Ibn Yakub, and watched silently as my tears increased the volume of the water.

“Now I am broken-hearted and distressed beyond reason. Yes, beyond reason, and that hurts me for I feel that I, too, am being dragged away from calm, rational, elevated thoughts, and from a love whose purity is deep.

“She was my closest friend. We talked about everything, including Salah al-Din’s weaknesses in the bedchamber. Now that I am estranged from Halima there is nobody with whom I can discuss matters that are close to my heart. I thought of you, because you were once her friend. She spoke well of you and told me that you were a good listener. To find an intelligent listener these days is not easy, especially if you happen to be married to the Sultan.

“How do you explain Halima’s evolution? Surely, Ibn Yakub, it could not simply be the outcome of childbirth. I have provided Salah al-Din with two sturdy boys, with no such effects. How is it that she can live in a world totally composed of fantasy?”

I was shaken by Jamila’s story. It was difficult to believe that Halima, a free spirit if ever there was one, a woman who the Sultan once described to me as being strong-willed as a pedigree horse, could be the frightened, pathetic creature of Jamila’s description. A thought flashed through my head. Perhaps Halima had decided to end her unnatural relationship with the older woman, and the only way she could do so was by rejecting not just Jamila, but everything associated with her, everything she had taught and everything she stood for in this world. If that were the case, however, surely Halima would not need to descend so low as to believe in monsters and evil spirits. Or again, was she putting on an act to convince Jamila that everything was over, and that she Halima had changed for ever? Aloud I said:

“I was deep in thought, Sultana, trying to fathom the mysteries of the change you have described. To me it appears unreal, as if Halima were in a trance. I do not think it has much to do with child-bearing, but it could be that meddlesome women, jealous of her friendship with you, have sought to poison her ears.”

“That was tried in Cairo as well, Ibn Yakub, but she scattered the troublemakers with words so rude that they must have scorched their ears. So why should she be more vulnerable in Damascus? I wrote a great deal for her. Stories, poems, letters to express my passion. In return I received but one little piece of paper a few weeks ago. It contained these words: ‘I am what I am. I wish you another, who is better than me. I no longer deal in happiness like a trader in a caravan. I love only Allah and I follow the way of his Prophet.’

“Does this make any sense to you at all, Ibn Yakub? Nor to me. It is like being stabbed in the heart and hearing her voice say ‘Die!’

“I have a request to make of you. Will you please speak to Halima, and see for yourself whether or not I am mistaken? Perhaps where I have failed, you might succeed. The Sultan does not object to either Halima or myself meeting with you as often as we like. This is a well-known fact, there would be nothing secretive about such a meeting. If you have no objections, I will arrange it. Amjad will fetch you at the agreed time.”

Before I could agree to her proposal, she swept out of the chamber. It was not a request, but an instruction.

For a week or more I walked about in a daze. It was almost as if I had been infected by Jamila’s sadness. Her words had left a deep mark on me, yet I could not believe that Halima’s transformation could have been as profound as she had suggested.

I waited impatiently for Amjad the eunuch, and one morning he came to fetch me. His smile always irritated me, but I noticed that he could not help himself. It was a sign of nervousness on his part. I followed him eagerly through a long corridor to the same antechamber where I had met Jamila several days ago.

Halima was already seated on a large cushion draped with brocades. She saw me and managed a weak smile. I was stunned by her appearance. Her face was pale and the life seemed to have gone out of her eyes, which appeared hollow. Her voice was subdued.

“You wished to see me, Ibn Yakub.”

I nodded in silence.

“Why?”

“I wanted to congratulate you on the birth of your son and to inquire as to your own thoughts and preoccupations. If I may be so bold, can I ask why you appear so changed? Was the birth difficult?”

“Yes,” she replied in a voice so soft that I had to strain to hear her words. “It was very difficult. They put a special stone in my hand to ease the pain, and wound a snake-skin round my hips to speed up the birth. You ask whether I have changed, Ibn Yakub. I have. My son was born healthy only because of three spells that were written by a man of medicine. These involved a renunciation of my entire past and especially my relations with Jamila. The birth changed me completely. Even if the spells had not been cast, I would have wanted to thank Allah for giving me a son by not deviating from the path he has determined for us through our Prophet, may he rest in peace.

“It was not easy for me. As you know, Jamila and I used to spend all our time together. We used to joke, laugh and blaspheme in the same breath. If I were to tell the Kadi some of the things she used to say about our Prophet, peace be upon him, the Sultan himself would not be able to save her neck.

“Everything she taught me was false. She wanted me to doubt the word of Allah. She said that the wisdom contained in the writings of al-Maari, Ibn Rushd and Ibn Sina far exceeded that contained in our Holy Book. Allah forgive me for listening to such dangerous rubbish. I have repented, Ibn Yakub. I am no longer a sinner. I pray five times a day, and Allah will forgive me and protect my son. As for Jamila, I wish we did not have to stay in the same quarters. Her presence is a constant reminder of my sinful past. I know this will shock you, but I wish she were dead.”

All this had been uttered in a listless voice devoid of passion. Even her last sentence was spoken in a melancholy whisper. The change in Halima went very deep. I could see that now, and it upset me greatly. I had been wrong to doubt Jamila. This was not just a case of Halima deciding to break her friendship. She had turned her entire life upside-down. I made one last attempt.

“Lady Halima, if someone else had told me that you had undergone such a complete change I would have laughed in their face. Surely you must accept that not everything the Sultana Jamila taught you was evil. Did she not teach you to appreciate poetry? Are the songs that I heard you sing in Cairo defiled because she taught them?”

For a moment her face softened and I caught a brief glimpse of the Halima I had once known. But her features quickly hardened again.

“Her influence on me was evil. I thought she loved me, but all she wanted was possession. She wanted me to belong to her and to nobody else. I must belong to myself, Ibn Yakub. Surely you can understand my desire to become myself again.”

“You forget that I knew you before you met Jamila. Have you forgotten Messud? Can you not remember the way you spoke to the Sultan when the Kadi brought you to the palace in Cairo? It is true that you had not then been subjected to Andalusian philosophy, or to the erotic poetry of Wallada, but your mind was ready for a leap. Jamila, too, noticed that and helped to show you a new world.”

“Jamila played on me as if I were a lute.”

This was a travesty of the truth, and I felt constrained to defend the motives of the Sultana.

“Even though I resented her power over you, she played well. The music that the two of you made together was the envy of the palace. The eunuchs talked about you all over the city. They talked of two queens who cared for nothing but the truth. They described how your eyes were like a furnace when you denounced those unfortunates who believed in djinns and other imaginary creatures. Your fame spread everywhere. That was a kind of freedom, Halima. I say that to you as a friend.”

“You talk like a fool, scribe. True freedom lies in the commands of Allah and his Prophet alone. Why should we be so arrogant and assume that we alone, a tiny minority, speak the truth, while a majority of Believers who refuse to doubt are, by virtue of this refusal, prisoners of prejudice? Let me tell you something. I now know that Jamila’s blasphemies were like a breeze from Hell. You look shocked, Ibn Yakub. I should not be so surprised. How could a Jew ever understand the ways of our Prophet?”

I looked at her face. She averted her gaze. Everything between her and me ended at the moment. She had fallen for the honeyed words of false prophets and the bitterness of those who make a living by casting spells.

I rose, gave her an exaggerated bow and left the chamber. I was angry. Halima was a lost soul. Now I understood Jamila’s despair. It was not simply the sorrow of a forsaken and rejected lover. Jamila was sad not just because of the gulf that had now opened up between them, but because, together with their entire relationship, the knowledge and understanding of the world that she had so patiently imparted to her friend had also been rejected. Something terrible had happened. Both Jamila and myself had recognised the change. Halima’s thirst for understanding had disappeared. Birds were no longer singing. Flowers died.

I reflected on that conversation for several days. Her words swirled through my mind continuously and, in my head, I argued with her over and over again, to no avail. Halima was a ship that had sunk to the bottom. I reported my distress to Jamila, and a bond that had been lacking in the past grew between us, a closeness brought about by a common sense of loss, a bereavement for a friend in whom wisdom had petrified. She was surprisingly philosophical.

“I have been thinking a great deal on this matter, Ibn Yakub. I have come to the conclusion that the loss of a close friend, with whom one shared everything and in whom one had complete trust, is a far greater blow than being deprived of physical contact. Even as I say this to you, I ask myself whether I really believe this or whether by telling you I am trying to convince myself that the love between friends is of greater value than erotic love. There are times, increasingly few, when I believe the exact opposite. Times when it seems that my mind is on fire, and the flames must spread to my body. Times when I would sacrifice friendship for just one last passionate embrace.

“You see, Ibn Yakub, how even someone like me, strong and sure of myself, can be afflicted by love. It is a terrible disease which, as our poets never cease to tell us, can drive us insane. I know that you, too, were once in love with her. Is that why a veil of sadness covers your face as well?”

It was not the memory of Halima, who I pictured at her strongest, defiant in her love for Messud, her eyes blazing with passion, as she confessed her adultery to the Sultan in the presence of the Kadi, that had come over me. I felt troubled by the sight of Jamila, who was anxiously awaiting my reply to her question.

“It is seeing you in such a dejected state that makes me unhappy, O Sultana. My own passion for Halima did not last long. It was a childish desire for something unattainable, not uncommon in men of my age. It faded many months ago. What I do ask myself is why you remain unhappy. Anger, bitterness, desire for a cruel revenge, all this I could understand, even though it would be unworthy of you. But it does not behove a woman of your intellect to mourn for someone whose transformation is so complete that it makes one question one’s earlier judgements and ask whether this was always the real Halima. Was what you and I once saw simply a mask, designed above all to please you, not unlike those deployed by the shadow-puppeteers in Cairo?