The Prophet's Ladder (2 page)

Chapter 2
 

Ali rang the buzzer to Amina’s parents home at eight o’clock. The blue metal door swung open after a time and a young six-year-old boy gestured for him to enter, a broad smile on his face. “
Ahlan
, Ali!” said the boy with a cheerful tenor. Mohammed looked up to Ali both literally and figuratively, especially since Ali often watched some of the same cartoons that Mohammed enjoyed.

Amina’s family’s house was spacious and accommodating. Located on the outskirts of the new city in Tunis, it resembled not at all the cramped quarters of his family’s apartment in the old medina. Though the outside of the house might be considered austere by western standards, the inside was another thing entirely.  The walls were made of beautiful glazed ceramic tiles in intricate, geometrical patterns. Classical Arab stucco decorated the molding of each room. In the living room where Ali was invited to sit, a large gold Hand of Fatima hung prominently above the couches and flat-screen television. Beautiful Moroccan carpets covered the floors of each room in sumptuous colors, and even the furniture was clearly imported hardwood. Ali was reminded once again that he was trying to date above his station; Amina’s father was a banker, and this home was but a fraction of his wealth.

Amina and Ali had met at Tunis University several years before, right before graduation. He was there on a literary studies scholarship, she taking classes with the fine arts department. Why her father didn’t deem it necessary to send her to a school in France or the United States he would never know; nor would he ever ask.

“Ali! Good to see you again young man!” said her father, Hassan, as he strode into the living room. “How is the journalism business?” He was dressed in a button down shirt and still wore his checkered tie; seemingly just returned from his offices in the financial district.

“Very well sir, thank you.” Amina had wisely not told her father of his decision to leave a steady paycheck behind (for now). “And how are you? All is fine? Life is good and the sky is clear?” An old Maghrebi turn of phrase.

“Yes, yes. All is well, of course, thanks be to God. Najwa! Coffee for our guest!”

Amina’s mother, Najwa, carried in a tray of glasses and a silver pot containing spiced coffee. She smiled at Ali but said nothing, and placed the tray on the table between the two men. He thanked her with a nod, and she left without looking at her husband, returning to the kitchen where the smell of chorba and couscous wafted invitingly.  Najwa was a terrific cook and a kind woman, eternally friendly and patient with Ali and her family both. She was also quite intelligent and terribly witty, much like her daughter. These were traits Ali admired in anyone, man or woman. Now, however, was not the permitted place or time for him to engage in discussion with Najwa.

“And how are your parents, my boy? Are they doing all right? Making do in the walled quarter still? How cramped it must be there. Not like here!” Hassan gestured casually around the air with one hand as he poured the coffee.

“They are well sir, though my mother still has a cold, as before. I may take her to see the doctor before long if she doesn’t feel better soon.” Ali accepted the coffee gratefully, and sipped it. It was extremely hot and spiced with cloves, ginger, and cinnamon.

“Well, were you true family I would offer to have my daughter take your mother to the clinician's, just around the corner. Any more thoughts on that front?”

“Of course sir. Once I am able to afford my own place…”

“Well I’d help out in that respect, it goes without saying,” replied Hassan, a rapid-fire response.

“Thank you sir. That is very generous of you.” Ali noted that Amina's father was in a congenial mood this evening, mercifully.

The two men continued to talk and sip their coffee for another thirty minutes or so, speaking of Tunisia’s performance in yesterday’s CAF Confederation Cup football qualifier and of the recent tragic industrial accident in Turkey, the second in several months. Finally, Amina and Mohammed entered the living room carrying a washing bowl, a towel, and a pitcher of water so those partaking of dinner could rinse their hands before eating. Najwa entered then with the couscous and soup bowls carried on a small, round, knee-high serving table.

Ali washed his hands and greeted the rest of the family. He turned to his beloved.

“Hello Amina. Peace be with you.” She smiled as he spoke; she was always so beautiful, and she looked at him with an amused, penetrating light in her eyes.

“Yes indeed.” Hassan turned to his daughter. “Ali and I were just discussing the matter of your impending matrimony.”

“Dad! You were speaking of nothing of the sort!” Amina replied as her father laughed. “I could hear you both from the kitchen.”

Hassan's laughter was contagious, and soon everyone was smiling and laughing along with him. They all partook of the delicious vegetable couscous, using spoons to eat out of the communal central dish. The family inquired about Mohammed's schooling, and Amina's newest graphic design work for the bank.

As the evening wore on and various individual conversations were taking place across the table, Amina asked Ali if he had worked at all on his blog. "Yes, a little this morning," he replied cautiously. Amina's father pounced on the subject immediately. 

"What's this about a blog?" Hassan asked.

"Oh, it's nothing. Just a side project. I've been working analyzing historical trends in North Africa, that sort of thing. Nothing that exciting." Ali equivocated.

"Really?" Hassan's eyes probed Ali's face. "Well I hope it isn't anything too inflammatory. This country barely survived the
ar-rabīˁ al-ˁarabī.
You were both teenagers then. You don't remember what it was like."

Amina protested. “Dad, Ali and I were both nineteen then. Of course we remember. We marched and protested along with lots of our friends.”

Hassan continued to probe Ali about his blog. “Ali, you aren’t writing anything, heretical are you? I remember that column you wrote about that Imam several month’s back…”

“With respect sir, that gentleman was embezzling funds, charitable contributions from the faithful.”

Amina’s father’s voice took on a darker tone. “I don’t recall anything ever being proven in the courts concerning his alleged abuses. Just you be careful. Not all Tunisians are as understanding as Najwa and I when a man goes and questions God’s will. Perhaps I will read up on this ‘blog’ of yours.”

The dinner took on a muted tone, and the family finished their meal in moody silence. Ali thanked his hosts and bade farewell to Amina before beginning his long walk home. He felt embarrassed and slightly ashamed. He’d done his best to be cheerful and gregarious: a suitable fiancé for Amina, and he’d practically ruined the dinner.
Why did I have to go and challenge Hassan? I need to learn to just shut up every now and then.

It was a moonlit night, and Tunis was still alive with activity. The streets were full of shoppers and youthful couples daring to hold hands in the darkness of a shady street corner. Men crowded the cafes watching footballers or the evening news. A number of foreign tourists could be seen: Europeans, Americans, even a few Chinese walking down the main boulevards, some led by tour guides pointing out the various attributes of the ancient city.

Ali arrived at his family’s apartment after winding his way through the gates of the old medina and its narrow alleyways. The cramped home was dimly lit, in stark comparison to Amina’s family’s bright house. The place was ancient, built many centuries ago and modified and rebuilt several times since then. The cold stones and brick of each room echoed with the history and stories of old Tunis, of generations of family who were born, lived, and died within the walls of his home. Ali loved it here, and would not move for all the world. And yet, tonight it appeared more drab, more run down than usual. His mother coughed from her corner bed, a harsh, bilious sound.

“Mother, how are you? Are you feeling alright?” Ali approached her form, frail, desiccated. It wasn’t a simple cold, as he had told Hassan. She was dying, and had thus far refused treatment despite his protestations.

“Praise be to God, I am well enough my son.” She looked up from her bed, her eyes slowly focusing on Ali. “Your father is at the
Jamea,
praying. He will be back soon. I am sorry I did not make anything for dinner…”

“Mother it is alright, don’t worry. I have already eaten with Amina’s family.”

“Ahh, how is lovely Amina? When will you be married?”

“Not soon enough for your liking.” Ali smiled at his mother. A lifetime of manual labor coupled with the birthing and raising five sons had made her look far older than she was, a woman of fifty. She was a devout woman, so proud of her children. She did not understand Ali’s work, being illiterate, but she had clipped and saved each piece Ali had written for the newspaper, and would always show off the scrapbook to her friends, commenting on each editorial and column as if she were an expert.

“Mother I am going to go write on my computer now. Do you need anything?”

“No my son, thank you. I am going back to sleep.” Her frail form rolled ever so slowly to one side and her breathing slowed. Ali crept away and picked up his laptop from his room. Once he had shared this room with his three older brothers, but they were gone now. Two had moved out after marrying; they continued to work the
hanut
shop with his father. Another had signed up with the army and was stationed in the south on the Libyan frontier.

He turned on his computer, a ten year old laptop that he had refurbished in his spare time, and logged on to his blog. The number of subscribers had upticked slightly since he’d last checked, which was good news. He wondered if Amina’s father would carry through with his threat of reviewing the blog; he had never known the man to even look at a computer, let alone browse the internet for a specific website.

The comments on his most recent post were a mixture of rabid support, trolling, criticism, and dismissal. He had expected as much. One post in particular alarmed him; the author was clearly a Wahhabist, an Islamic ‘fundamentalist’, and he had threatened painful deaths both for Ali as the author and his family for begetting him, in addition to their assured, everlasting damnation. Ali ignored the comment and pushed on. He had set up everything using a pseudonym, so there was no real danger. Some of his long-time subscribers had posted more nuanced critiques, and these were much appreciated.

A few hours passed as Ali checked the news outlets, agglomeration sites, and his social media accounts. His eyes strained and he shut his laptop, hands rubbing his face. His father had not yet returned home
.
The man had probably finished his devotions and had stopped at a friend’s house or the cafe; he was rarely at home with his wife, preferring to ignore the truth rather than face her impending passing. Ali sighed and retired to his sleeping mat; he wished things had gone differently at Amina’s house tonight.  Would Hassan permit their marriage if he saw what he had written?

He fretted for an hour, unable to fall asleep. Finally, in order to sooth his frayed nerves he reminded himself of a favorite verse from the Quran: “
O you who have believed, seek help through patience and prayer. Indeed, Allah is with the patient.”

He repeated the line to himself until he drifted off. His father hadn’t come home.

****

670 CE, North Africa
 

The army’s march across the untamed wilderness had slowed to a crawl, its vanguard having chosen a copse of palm trees, a break in the vast range of brittle thicket, wherein the animals might graze and the men find shelter for the evening. To the south of the encampment there was a dry riverbed, the banks to either side were steep, with the bed itself consisting of a multitude of pebbles and smooth rocks.  Dusk in the desert was brutally cold and the men lit dung fires to warm themselves, their tents and banners flapping as the wind picked up. They were five thousand strong, cavalrymen and retainers, bowmen and spearmen, scribes and cooks, and the camp quickly swelled to an impressive city of cloth and rope. The army was far from any known trade route; this was the true country, which Allah had sent his faithful to traverse. Westward, ever westward, he led them. Emissaries of the Umayyads: the true believers.

General Uqba ibn Nafi sat and watched as his men roasted game caught in the wilds: hare pierced by arrows, wild birds snared with nets, other creatures of the desert. The men did not waste any water to cook, as the region they now traversed was barren and dry; any water they possessed was kept in sealed skins and reserved for drinking.

One man, a cavalryman of a low station, barely above the infantry in esteem, was leading his horse to a large boulder that served as a windbreak. Uqba started as the horse seemed to stumble, almost falling and crushing the dismounted rider. The beast recovered, and Uqba strode over to assist the man, who knelt to inspect the ground beneath his mount’s legs. Suddenly the rider leapt back and shouted with amazement.

“Merciful Allah, what is this?” The cavalryman lifted from the sand beneath him the object his horse had stumbled over; it was a cup of radiant gold, seemingly glowing in the dim light of dusk. Uqba and his men stared in amazement. Who had left such a priceless treasure in the middle of the desert?

The General approached the man who held the cup at arms length, and asked kindly if he might inspect it. The soldier bowed with deep respect and handed Uqba the artifact. Upon the rim of the vessel was inscribed one sentence in his own native language: “
drink that you might persevere.”
The general with sudden insight recognized the cup; it had belonged to the Caliph Muawiyah, a relation to the Prophet himself, peace be upon him. He had heard complaint of this cup, a treasure beyond compare, having gone missing some years before in Mecca.