“O Sultana, what a fine start this is!” the Poet moaned as he flew through the corridor leading back into the courtyard. One of the dogs outside the front door was barking. The Poet rushed to see who was there. He peered out of the door but saw nobody. There was nothing but the dog’s bark and the beautiful scent given off by the flowers. So the Poet turned to go and fetch the tools for the sweep. As he went past the fountain he heard a slight cough emanating from the room where Haroon had been before. The Poet turned quickly and his heart leapt with fear as he saw at the door of that room a young woman –surely the one who had appeared fleetingly behind Haroon. The woman was wearing a white frock rich in purple ornament. Her snow-white arms were naked, for her sleeves were rolled up. Her smallish hands were decorated with henna drawings. Her dark forelock was naked. The Poet tried to look this woman in the eye but she just quelled him with a glance. He rushed upstairs and cried in a low voice: “O my God!” He strove to reach the tool-room as quickly as possible. He fetched a long broom, a small shovel and a big sack, and set to work.
He started from the remotest
corners of the balcony, next to the tool room. With trembling hands he dragged
the broom awkwardly and with a shattered mind he thought of that awfully nice
creature on the ground floor who had dislodged his heart. He had seen several
beauties before, but this one was unique. His heart was beating with fear,
beating very, very hard. It looked as if it was going to burst at any moment now.
And yet the Poet couldn’t stop working.
When he reached the end of the
first balcony-corridor, he was already panting– as if he had just run two miles
nonstop. He wanted to lean up against the pillar on the right angle of the
balcony and rest his arms for a while on the small balcony wall, but he dreaded
punishment. So he just shuffled onward, dragging the broom wearily and moving
the sack and the shovel from spot to spot. What flustered him even more was
that there was virtually nothing to be swept from the floor– apart from
handfuls of dust.
As the Poet was nearing the
door of his room, a manly voice rising from below gave him a jump.
“Hey you above there!” Haroon
called.
“Here I am, sir!” the Poet
yelled shakily and dropped the broom and rushed downstairs. He flew to where
his master was standing, by the door of that notorious room on the ground
floor. Haroon was not alone. The young woman was standing beside him with a
reed basket in her hands full of metal dishes and cutlery. A yellow towel hung
on one side of the basket. The woman’s face was illuminated by a flickering
smile and a golden glint wavered in her eyes.
“Shalom, Shalman!” said the
young woman in a bewitching voice.
“Shalom, madam!” replied the
Poet, who was still panting. He glanced at Haroon and gaped at his demure
smile.
“Take!” said the woman, handing
the basket to the Poet. “Go and wash this at the well. Use the lucerne I’ve put
in there. And be quick!”
The Poet took the basket while
he bowed deliberately. He relished every bit of word that came out of the young
woman’s beautiful mouth. He glanced again at Haroon’s face and turned to go. He
flew to the stairs and went up carefully. He put the basket down at the head of
the back-stairs and went down to open the rear door. Then he returned to take
the basket and descended carefully. He put the basket beside the well and
stepped back to shut the door. Only then did he throw the pot into the well and
draw water. He was aware that he had to make no mistake. And thus he was very
careful when he removed the dishes and cutlery from the basket to wash them
piece by piece. When he sat and began the washing, his mind went back
immediately to the young woman. He had so far failed to find words to describe
that creature. He couldn’t even describe his feelings toward her. It was she
who had made him pant. Before now he had thought that he had had eyes for no
one but Sultana, although he had always admitted that Sultana was less
beautiful than Ida. Ida was slim. And he liked slim people. But this young
woman here was peerless in beauty. His heart was still beating for her,
although he had just stopped panting.
What was this woman doing here
if she was not Haroon’s wife? The Poet’s heart told him that the woman was
Haroon’s wife. But such a wife should have more than one man- or woman-servant.
So far the Poet had seen no other woman in this palace of a house. But when he
had first arrived here he had seen by the door a sad-faced, young black man. He
didn’t know where he had gone after that. Surely the house was too big to be
kept by just one servant. And what about the times when Haroon had to be away
for some affair or other? Who would stay here during his absence?...
The Poet also noticed that
there were no pigs in this house; that Haroon’s food had a special flavour and
a special smell, new to him; that Haroon himself looked rather indulgent… Two
more things puzzled the Poet. There was no water in the fountain, nor were
there children in the house… Also Haroon had referred to boys. The Poet could
make nothing of all that.
The Poet knew that his mistress
was waiting for the dishes. So once he had washed and wiped them all he put
them again in the basket and took it to the mistress. As he reached that open
door, he put down the basket and coughed politely. This time he was not
panting. At least, until the young woman appeared again, with a grin on her
face.
“Shalman, is it you?” said the
young woman in a maddeningly cheerful voice.
The Poet just bowed and lowered
his head . His heart was loosed free again, but he was still aware that he had
to stifle all his passions, even if they happened to be kindled by this queen
of beauty. The woman stepped out of the room and turned right, saying: “Come
along!” The Poet took up the basket and followed on the heels of the woman as
she walked somewhat provocatively. She was not speaking. Her body spoke for
her, and the Poet understood easily. A fire had just broken out in his heart.
The woman stopped at the door of the room next to the one below the tool room.
She opened the door and drew the yellow curtains to one side and said:
“This is our kitchen.”
The Poet bowed, and was about
to take the basket into the kitchen when the woman grasped his arm and said
gently:
“Wait! The servants don’t get
into our rooms. I’ll take in the basket myself!”
The Poet ran his hand over his
burning arm, the one that had just been grasped by the young woman, and waited.
He was about to glance at Haroon’s room when the mistress came out of the
kitchen, holding a small earthen brazier in her smallish hands.
“Take!” she said, handing him
the brazier. “Go to the cooking-house behind the sheds and make a fire for me.”
The Poet bowed as he took the
brazier. He was deeply relieved to see a few reddish embers protruding from the
ashes. He walked away and vanished through the corridor.
When he reached the
cooking-house, he put down the brazier carefully and opened the wooden door.
Then he took the brazier and stepped into the cooking-house. He looked about to
see where to sit. He was deeply struck not by the usual stale smell of such
places but rather by the tidiness of this attractive, little place. The thick
pieces of wood were piled on one side, the thinner pieces on another side. The
stove was kept clean a little way on the right of the entrance. It consisted of
a small, circular succession of melon-sized stones with a low bed of grey ashes
in the middle. A few fire-irons lay by the stove. And on the left of the
entrance there was a small oven of red earth. And a small earthen jug was
isolated in a rear corner. The Poet put down the brazier beside the stove and
moved to see what was in the jug. He dipped his forefinger into the jug and
withdrew it, wet with a viscous liquid. The Poet smelled the liquid and knew it
was olive-oil. So he simply took up the jug and stepped back to place it beside
the brazier. Then, he fetched a handful of thin sticks and sat beside the
stove. He broke the sticks into small pieces and put them aside. He blew the smoldering
embers with his breath until they grew redder. Then, he poured a spoonful of
oil on them and covered them slightly with the thinnest pieces of wood and blew
again and fanned till these pieces caught fire. And so the Poet went on with
his work patiently until a good, small fire built up in the brazier. He tidied
the place and left with the brazier, after having shut the door carefully.
As the Poet went past the
sheep-and-goat shed he heard a flow of shrill goat-bleats and his mind went
immediately to his homeland. His heart leapt as Sultana’s undying smile flashed
in his eyes like an autumn lightening. Quite instinctively, the Poet knew that
there was nothing for it but to rush back to the mistress.
He stopped by the kitchen door
and coughed politely. He then put down the brazier and waited. Sultana had not
left his mind. His heart throbbed. The mistress came up to the door, holding a
small knife in one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other. “Thank you,” she
said, bending down to take up the brazier. And when she rose up and turned to
go into the kitchen she added, “Wait!” She then came back with a balloon-shaped
earthen pot with a lid and a small basket.
“Get me water in this pot and
tomatoes, mint, thyme, fruits, flowers and eggs in this basket,” the mistress
said smilingly.
“Excuse me, madam,” the Poet
asked politely but in a shaky voice. “How many eggs and what fruits and what
flowers?”
“Four eggs and four flowers and
two fruits from each tree you’ll find there, right?” the mistress said.
“Right, madam!” the Poet
replied listlessly as he bowed and moved away with the pot and the basket.
The Poet felt that his heart
was about to split in two. He had now taken a closer look at his mistress’ face
and made sure he had never seen such a beauty before. But Sultana had yet a
peerless smile. And it was this deathless smile which could blur his eyes at
any time. And here was Sultana’s smile pursuing him again. “I’m not finer than
you are, O Sultana!” he thought sadly and sighed. “I fought for you. And here I
am paying for it!”
The Poet placed the pot beside
the well and went toward the fruit-trees, absentminded. And as he stretched his
arm to pick the first apple he heaved a deep sigh of sorrow. He remembered Abu Sufyan’s
palace. At that moment he felt the fragrant smell emanating from the various
plants of this little orchard. He picked two apples and moved on to the next
tree. He picked two pears, and as he reached the fig-tree his eyes fell on a
young red-throated bird lying on the ground. He bent down and picked it up. The
young bird was dying, so the Poet simply placed it gently in a hollow space
between the thickest boughs of the fig-tree, and picked two figs and moved
toward the flowers. He culled four flowers, and sighed as he rose up and
muttered to himself: “Here I’ve lost everything. But for Sultana I had nothing
that required me to gall the Amir. But what to do now? May God keep us!” He
then went into the henhouse and made his way through the cackling chickens,
looked about him in search of the eggs and he picked up four eggs, as the
mistress had bidden him, and went outside. He shut the door of the henhouse and
made to go. But he realized he had not picked the tomatoes. So he turned to
take some. He picked six tomatoes, put them carefully beside the other things
in the basket and moved away.
He went back toward the well, with a head and a heart full of
Sultana. Her face, her smile, her body, her movements and her words and every
piece of her were now clearer in his mind. She was still the mistress of his
heart, to be sure. No beauty would ever be enough to erase the image of Sultana
from his mind. For he had not loved her only for her beauty but also for her
soul.
The Poet put the basket down
beside the well and stepped towards the mint- and thyme-beds. He cut a good
bunch of mint and another of thyme and moved back to put them in the basket. He
then drew water from the well and filled his pot and took it up and moved
toward the block of rooms. He went through the rear door, up the back-stairs
and put the pot down at the head of the front-stairs and went back to bring the
basket. When he brought it he went straight to the kitchen. He coughed politely
and put the basket down at the kitchen door and moved back to bring the pot of
water. He returned quickly, with a bowed head.
“There’s yet another chore for
you,” the mistress said, bending down to pick up the pot. “Wait!” Again, the
Poet’s heart jumped in alarm. The mistress’ beauty was irresistible. Her
slightly joined dark eye-brows, her intensely white and deep-black eyes, her
innocent, childish smile and her silver voice –all these conspired to bring him
back to reality. His heart began to throb ruthlessly. “What’s this?” he
thought, bewildered. “It seems you’re gone, Sultana!”
The mistress came back and
fastened her eyes on the Poet’s face. The Poet lowered his head to hide his
blush.
“Where are you from?” the
mistress asked gently.
The Poet raised his eyes
without any apparent haste and said with a sigh:
“I’m a Saharan. I’m a Berber, madam.”
“You look unhappy,” said the
mistress dryly. “Now go back to the cooking-house. I forgot to ask you to build
a fire in the oven. Wait! I’ll bring you a wick.”
She went into the kitchen and
came back with a copper bowl in which there was a lit wick soaked in oil. She
gave the bowl to the Poet and said:
“Be quick! The dough has
risen.”
The Poet bowed slightly and
went toward the cooking-house.
Things were now only too clear
to the Poet. This scoundrel mistress here really meant to torment him. He was
sure his face had betrayed all that he had tried to hide when the mistress had
stood eyeing him. He believed he could only be wild about such a beauty. The
goat-bleats again filled the air. But the mistress’ beauty filled the world.
And there couldn’t be in the world a weapon more redoubtable than such a
beauty. It would compel even the Amirs to surrender. And he simply was not the
one to remain calm in the confusion of battle. The Poet was now in the cooking-house
busy making the fire in the oven. But his mind was away. Alone his heart stayed
with him. He could feel it was still in its place because it was burning his
chest. And his mind reeled again when he recalled Sultana. He sighed deeply.
The mistress had relieved him of the only heart he had, the heart he had
selfishly reserved for Sultana. One could well say the mistress had already
buried him alive and sat atop his grave.
But there was still something
of him that moved about on earth. When the fire was ready he went to tell the
mistress.
“And now,” the mistress said,
“you have to throw the rubbish away.”
She brought him from the
kitchen a big pot full of brown water and a bag full of rubbish.
“You know where to throw the
rubbish?” the mistress asked.
“Yes madam,” the Poet replied,
taking the pot and the bag.
“So go.”
And the Poet went by the way of
the stairs. “O Mother!” he thought as he moved on and sighed. “Why can’t I
harden my heart? Why? The fire in my heart is fit to roast a bird!”
The place where the Poet went,
behind the washing-place, wore a neglected look. There were three big heaps of
manure close to one another. A few trees unknown to the Poet stood here and
there. Quite a big, but shallow mass of rubbish lay between the trees. A few
birds, like larks and robins, flew from one side to another– warbling all
along. Beyond the trees lay an unimpressive stretch of shrub-covered country
interspersed with a few poor meadows and three isolated houses. The Poet
glanced again at the space between the heaps of manure and thought that he
couldn’t find a better place for a toilet. But this time he had to be quick. So
he just poured out the waste-water and emptied the bag and flew back toward the
kitchen, with a mind full of the mistress and a heart full of fire.
The mistress seemed to have
been waiting for him. A doom-palm tray lay on the ground at her feet. The Poet
knew at first sight that the tray contained the bread to be baked in the oven.
Now the mistress looked even more beautiful than when the Poet had last seen
her. As soon as he had caught sight of her again, on his return from the
rubbish-place, his heart roared once more. Her gentle look had the effect of a
glare and her cheerful smile was incomprehensibly unbearable. “D’you you know
what you’ll be doing now?” the mistress said, still smilingly. “You’ll take
this tray to the cooking-house. I’ll bake the bread.” The Poet bowed and picked
up the tray with trembling hands and set out for the cooking-house with the
mistress following closely on his heels. And on the way there the Poet sighed
three times but the mistress said nothing until both of them stopped at the
door of the cooking-house. The mistress then faced the Poet and said as she
took the tray from him:
“Now go to your room, fetch the
bowls which Haroon gave you, wash them at the well and take them back to the
kitchen. Then go upstairs and resume the sweep. And when you feel I have
finished baking the bread come to take it to the house.”
“Right, madam,” replied the
Poet, moving away with a trembling body.
The Poet felt slighted. To be
ordered so bluntly by a woman was an unprecedented event in his life. His mind
flew back home. He again remembered Sultana’s beautiful smile and gentle voice.
Sultana used to say to him, “Do as you like!” This mistress here seemed to say,
“Do as you are bid!” But such was life. He was but a slave. He sighed. Ida came
to his mind. “You will see!” she had threatened him. And he had already seen
too much. “O Salman! Try to forget!” the Poet advised himself ruefully. “Don’t
worry yourself to death!”
The Poet washed the two bowls
and put them down at the door of the kitchen, before he went upstairs to resume
the sweep. The sun was about to set. When the Poet was nearing the other end of
the balcony, he started at the sound of a man’s sneeze. The wooden door of the
room whence the sneeze had come was closed. The Poet could not open it to see
who was in there. He remembered that the mistress was waiting for him at the
cooking-house. So he dropped the broom and went wearily toward her. And on the
way his mind travelled quickly over the recent events. After all, he thought,
his life had run quite smoothly up to now. The worst that he had dreaded after
the trial, namely castration, had not yet happened.
“Excuse me, madam,” the Poet
asked his mistress as they were coming from the cooking-house, with himself
carrying the tray close to his chest, “I heard a man’s sneeze upstairs?”
The mistress smiled and said:
“That’s the old slave. He’ll be
gone by nightfall. I see you are a coward. But I don’t see why you should fear
us. We are not ghouls, I suppose?”
The Poet couldn’t find the
right words to reply. So he preferred silence.
“Have you been married?” the
mistress asked, suddenly.
“Yes, madam,” replied the Poet,
surprised by his mistress’ question.
“What was your wife’s name?”
the mistress asked again, looking curious.
“Sultanana!” the Poet replied
with a sigh. He waited for other questions, although he couldn’t understand
what the mistress was aiming at. But there were no more questions. “Go to your
work,” the mistress ordered him as they reached the kitchen.
The Poet now recalled words he
had heard from his deceased father and had intentionally tried to stow away somewhere
in the remotest parts of his mind. “You need not only to make a good poet,” his
father had warned him. “You’ll have to be a true man. And not a man with a
womanly heart… ” The Poet felt deeply ashamed. He knew all through he was an
out-and-out coward. But he didn’t know how to acquire a manly heart. In a
sense, he blamed his father, who had not taught him how to acquit himself like
a true man in such a situation… As night was falling, the Poet was getting into
a muddle. He had done the balcony and begun the courtyard. But this was absurd
to him. Who in the world would sweep a floor in darkness? It was not dark yet,
but the light was beginning to fail and it would be dark soon, very soon! In
his heart of hearts, the Poet was willing to explode. But what for? No, he
thought, this was still really ridiculous. He should not be a man with a
womanly heart. Why not go and ask the master what to do? He hesitated. This was
not easy to do. Suddenly, he burst out: “I swear by Allah I shall go, cost
whatever it costs!” This was the first step. He could not go back on his word;
otherwise he would have to fast three days. He mustered enough courage and went
forth. He stopped by Haroon’s door and coughed once. His heart beat violently
as he waited. He coughed again, louder. “What do you want?” the master
thundered. The Poet was thrilled with horror, but his back remained glued to
the wall. The master came out to him and growled: “What do you want?” “I only
meant to ask you, sir, whether I’ll do this floor tonight?” the Poet stuttered,
shivering. The master’s immediate reply was a buffet with the palm of his hand
on the Poet’s forehead. “Go back to your room, you wretched creature!” the
master scoffed. “And don’t sleep before you shut the front door. And never come
again to disturb me in my room. Go! Go to Hell!” The Poet bowed and flew away,
with a shattered heart. He gathered up the sweeping tools, took them back to
the tool room and returned to his room.
It took a while before the
Poet’s anger subsided. What Haroon had done was galling. But the Poet had not
gone as far as to invoke vengeance on his master. He had blamed his own
incredulous, ingrained cowardice. That was the real responsible for all his
misfortunes. But for it he wouldn’t have lost his wife, his home, his family
and his freedom.
The Poet was fearfully tired
now. He was about to succumb to sleep when a loud, vibrating bell-ring and a
flow of wild barks startled him. He remembered what the mistress had told him.
The time had probably come for the old slave to go. Now, he was sure. He heard
neighs and a male voice other than Haroon’s, calling across the courtyard.
“Water, please!” it said. Then there was perfect silence for a moment. The Poet
was at a loss. Should he go out and have a look? Or stay in his room and wait?
His heart throbbed. So far he preferred staying. “What if I went out only to be
slapped?” he thought. His fears increased with each passing minute. The night
was dark and cold. Although the Poet had never been gregarious, he now began to
resent loneliness. He needed someone just now and here to tell him what to do.
Things would have probably been easier for him had he found before him a large
staff of servants. He again recalled his father’s advice, to which he had paid
scant attention. Once upon a time, he had been showered with praise. Now, he
was but a miserable slave… Would he go out now? He thought and decided. No, he
wouldn’t leave his bed. The barks came back. “No, I won’t go out,” he insisted.
“In either case I can’t predict where my safety is,” he thought. His mind
wandered back to what had happened to him in the last few weeks. He had always
known that he was a coward. But he had never imagined that his cowardice would
one day lead him to such a state. He had suddenly realized that he had been
leading a life of smug respectability. He had enjoyed fame and money. But that
had now proved not enough.
Now, the Poet rose suddenly. He
would go out. This time to close the front door, as the master had bidden him.
He mumbled a few prayers and left the room, bare-haired. There was perfect
silence. There was nobody by the door. The Poet went downstairs. His heart
throbbed. He glanced at Haroon’s room and saw a light stretching a little way
round the doorway. The room’s windows were shut. The Poet looked up at the
balcony on his left then right, and then he walked slowly toward the door. He
glanced at the kitchen-door. It was closed but a faint light could be seen from
under the door. The Poet reached the door and found it closed. So what had the
master meant by ‘closing the front door’? Should he go again to ask the master
what to do, how to close the door? No. The master had warned him. So he just
turned and faced the direction of Haroon’s room and stood thinking. The first
thing that came next to his mind was the mistress’ face and body. His loins
burned alongside with his heart. He felt a strange envy of Haroon. His back
bent to lean against the door but he remembered suddenly that he had to decide.
“I should go back to my room,” he thought. And he moved immediately back toward
his room. But as he was nearing the stairs he heard the mistress calling
loudly: “Wait!” He waited. The mistress appeared at the door and the Poet
tottered over toward her. For him, she was but a specious person– like her
husband. But her imposing beautiful face so dazzled his vision that he couldn’t
know what side of his mind he should believe or what voice of his heart he
should hearken to. In any event he couldn’t shut his eyes to such a beauty.
This beauty was enough to make him bear no rancour against either the mistress
or her husband. And he knew this was wrong with him. But this was not the right
time to put himself through a self-analysis.
“What were you doing here now,”
the mistress asked, after she had stood eyeing the Poet for a while.
“Mr Haroon had asked me to
close the door before I go to sleep,” the Poet replied shyly. “And I went to
close it, but I found it closed.”
The mistress grinned and said
gently:
“Yes, it’s closed. Go to your
room and after an hour from now come down to get your dinner.”
The mistress grinned again, and
the Poet shuffled away toward his room, with a calmer heart. He had appreciated
the mistress’ reply. She had not scoffed at him and she had promised him a
dinner.
The Poet had been awed by the
mistress’ tone and words when he last saw her. He was now lying in bed thinking
of nothing but that strange woman. Strange because she looked too kind for a
mistress and too hard to be trusted. Her beauty alone would have been enough by
far for her to be a thought harder than that. And she was the mistress, too!
But she was kind at moments. The Poet noticed that this woman had pronounced
the s
sound more than once. Probably that was normal for some Jews. But what
he couldn’t understand was her questions about his own origins and his wife’s
name. Maybe he would know later on. But how long would he stay here? And why
had he been chosen to replace that old slave? Questions. His heart didn’t want
questions now. The darkness made him think of something else. He had never seen
such a beauty before. And now she was downstairs, in Haroon’s room. He tried to
imagine the scene. Somehow he wished the mistress’ charm had been one of his
own wife. Sultana! He sighed. His mind went back home. He remembered his nights
with Sultana. He sighed again. But soon his mind returned to Haroon’s house. To
Haroon’s room. To his wife. He tried to imagine the future. But what he
imagined was impossible.
As the time passed, the Poet
found himself fighting on two fronts. He had to fight down both sleep and his
own concupiscence. In the meantime, his mind went constantly from the mistress
to his wife and back to the mistress. In a way, the cold had helped him stay
awake so far but it, at the same time, stirred his fierce concupiscence. So
instead of surrendering to the powerful Sleep and the uncompromising
Concupiscence, the Poet preferred to pull out. He went out of the room and
waited in the balcony until the hour appointed for the receipt of his dinner.
When the hour came, he went downstairs and stood near Haroon’s room. He waited
for the mistress to appear at the door. But it seemed she had forgotten all
about him. She was still laughing and chatting amiably with her husband. The
Poet was growing green with envy. But he couldn’t dare get closer to that
notorious door. He couldn’t cough to indicate his presence. He couldn’t go back
to his room. He couldn’t run away. So he waited in the cold. At long last, the
mistress appeared at the door with a bowl in her hands. “Come,” said she. The
Poet flew to her. He took the bowl which his mistress handed to him without
speaking a word, and he went back to his room. He sat on the mat and put the
bowl in front of him and began to eat from it in complete darkness.
After dinner, the Poet nestled
in his bed and wrapped his shivering body in the three sheets available. He was
exhausted. A few thoughts about the mistress, the master, his homeland and his
wife followed on the heels of one another in his mind but he soon yielded to a
deep sleep. His sleep was indeed deep and well deserved. But it did not last
long. The mid-night cold was strong enough to rouse him. And as he woke up, he
found himself thinking of Sultana. There was only another thing, one more important
thing, that occupied his mind now. He wanted to go out to relieve himself. This
was utterly urgent. So urgent that he wouldn’t even need a permission from his
master. Even the thought of Sultana was evanescent now. He thought again and
again about the consequences of going out without permission. But compared to
what he had done in his cell in Lehreem, going out now would be by far more
reasonable. So he could not but choose to go. He rose from the bed and felt
about for his shoes and stood up and left the room. He tried to master his
fear. He stood in the balcony until his heart became a little hardier. Then he
thought it necessary to go downstairs first to make sure that the master was
sleeping. He went downstairs and tiptoed discretely to Haroon’s room. His heart
throbbed. He stopped by that room’s door and listened. There was perfect
silence. So he tiptoed back toward the stairs and went up and descended the
backstairs and opened the rear door carefully. “What if the master caught me
down there?” he thought. “Phew! Am I not a man like himself?” He stopped at the
well and sat on its coping. It was cold, but this didn’t matter now, since he
could still master his bowels for a few more moments. He wanted to feel
freedom, the freedom he had lost three weeks before. “I shall not stay like
this,” he muttered. “I am sure. One day I shall be free again. No. I won’t run
away now. This is a good chance for me to make a change. I am now a slave of
fear, of beauty, of my past. This must not continue like this. Oh why? Why
should I at the age of thirty behave like a boy of thirteen? Where’s what I
talked about in my poems? No, I must make a change.” When the Poet was
muttering these words to himself his heart was burning like a wick at the head
of a lit candle. “Now,” he thought soon afterwards, “I should perform my
ablutions.” And he sighed. It was quite a long time since he had not performed
his daily prayers. So he rose up and drew water from the well and filled a
small pot and moved cautiously toward the rubbish-place.
The world outside Haroon’s
compound was full of freedom. The temptation to abscond was fierce but the Poet
resisted. He thought it was too early to run away now. True, the nearby town
must be inhabited mainly by Muslims. But the Poet now no longer trusted
anybody. After such quick thoughts, he went into the space between the heaps of
manure and relieved himself. He used some of the water and left the place. He
returned into the compound and performed his ablutions in the washing-place. He
remembered he was still in a state of major ritual impurity. But it didn’t
matter. He would perform the tayammum.
After the ablutions, the Poet
hastened to get back to his room. He was shivering with cold. Now, he did not
waste time. He performed the tayammum and began his prayers. He said
only the five prayers of that day and went back to his bed to warm up his body.
In bed, he thought for a while but he was soon asleep.
