Sunday went by uneventfully. On Monday, the Poet made a decision. He
decided to enjoy his life by day and think about it by night. Although he had
been a frequent guest at Abu Sufyan's palace, which was often full of people,
he had not really been a sociable man. He would shun society whenever he could.
Now, he would be forced to deal with people. He had to be affable, beloved by
all. If the mistress smiled at him he had to smile at her, too. If the boys
played with him he had to play with them, too. If the Jew fumed at him he had
to bow and be quiet. If the Christian teased him he had to put up with him. And
this was exactly what he did on Monday and the following days.
As early as this, the Poet learned
that the mistress was named Sarah; that he would have to clear the sheds on
Thursdays; that the boys came to take the cattle and sheep out to the pastures
everyday except on Fridays; that two milkmen came every Tuesday to milk the
cows and that they sold the milk in town; that this town was called Tlemsen and
ruled by the Turks. But up to now, until this time, the Poet had no idea what
Haroon's job was. Also he could not understand why his mistress was called
"Sarah" and not "Sharah".
Day after day and night after
night the Poet strove to teach himself how to be a good slave. Within a few
weeks of his arrival at Haroon's home, the mistress said to him: "You're
the best servant we've ever had!" The Poet appreciated that. Indeed, he
appreciated everything Sarah had done and still did. Sarah had suddenly become
used to giving him an apple every day, to his great delight. Sometimes, when
she handed something to him or took something from him, she intentionally
allowed her tender hands to touch his. And this thrilled him. Not only their
hands touched. Their bottoms, too. Sometimes the Poet himself sought for such
occasions.
By night, the Poet would
reminisce about what happened by day. Although he often thought of Sarah, his
mind would now and then go to Sultana, Ida, his brother, Marqus, the head in
the box, and so on. Very seldom would he think of Haroon or Abu Sufyan. Sarah
seemed to have hit upon the right path leading to the hidden caverns of his
heart. Wasn't she a witch? But this might endanger the Poet's life. And he was
aware of that.
If the Poet's attraction to
Sarah was somewhat involuntary, his admiration of Marqus was rather
spontaneous. Marqus was a strapping, brawny-armed man. And the Poet was jealous
of him for that. He wished he had been as strong and healthy. Although he
himself was tall, he now looked rather small by the side of Marqus. But that
was not all. Marqus' piercing, guttural voice and dour looks, which were
abominable to the Poet, were largely offset by his liveliness and jerkiness.
These last two qualities often made the Poet blush, because he saw in them the
virility he had always lacked. Indeed, Marqus was a good example of man. He was
not a coward. He was at times hard and domineering, but not aggressive. He
seemed to be white at heart. All these virtues fanned the flames of envy in the
Poet's heart.
Fortunately, the Poet did not
live all the time with Marqus. So far, he had seen him several times. When they
were together the Poet would not only seek to learn Turkish but also to learn
how to be a man with a manly heart. Marqus often scoffed at him, but this
hardly rankled in his mind. A good pupil should not be angry with his teacher.
Three weeks after the first meeting with Marqus, the Poet seemed quite to have developed
some sense of self-confidence.
And thus everything ran rather
smoothly until a Friday morning, about two and a half months after the Poet's
arrival. On the eve of this day, nobody hit, barked or jeered at the Poet. It
would not be an exaggeration to say that the Poet was happier here than in
Lehreem. Even Haroon was no longer a problem. Marqus was now so friendly that
the Poet just opened his heart wide to him. The boys were frolicsome and
respectful. Sarah was a very sympathetic, good-hearted woman. The climate,
which had not agreed with the Poet two months ago, was now milder. So what
happened?
Sarah. She and the Poet were
alone in Haroon's house. Sarah was wearing a light, transparent yellow robe
girt up at the waists with a silver belt. Her hair was flowing down her back.
She was wearing gold rings round her fingers. A gold necklace glittered at her
throat and gold earrings swayed under her ears. She was sitting halfway
upstairs when the Poet was coming from the direction of the cowshed. The Poet's
heart roared. Not because Sarah was sitting there. That was not the first time.
What made the Poet's heart roar was the sight of a long rope which Sarah was
holding in her hands.
"What about playing in
this beautiful morning, Shalman?" said the mistress as the Poet stopped at
the foot of the stairs and gaped.
"Playing?" the Poet
thought. He smiled uncertainly, but only in an attempt to conceal his
confusion. He knew what Sarah wanted to play. She was fond of swinging. But
Haroon was not at home now. The Poet himself had brought him a horse from the
stable and he rode away. And Sarah had never had a swing during her husband's
absence.
“Now?” asked the Poet, rubbing
his nape.
“Yes, why not? Let’s go!” said
Sarah as she rose and picked up a small pillow she had been sitting on and went
upstairs, signing the Poet to follow her.
The Poet had always dreamt of
this occasion. He had always been filled with envy whenever he saw Haroon
pushing Sarah while she sat on the swing. Now the occasion had come. The Poet
was happy, but afraid. He followed the mistress as she pranced on her way
toward the orchard. There, the Poet took the rope from Sarah and fastened its
two ends on a bough coming from the trunk of a huge fig-tree. The mistress was
smiling, the Poet trembling. Now, Sarah placed the small pillow on the swing
and sat on it. “Push!” she said. And the Poet pushed her forward. His
heartthrobs were now ruthless, but he was happy.
“Push! Like that! Once again!”
These were the same cries the Poet had heard before. And his heart had jumped
within him at each cry, out of envy of Haroon. Now it was the Poet himself who
was pushing this queen of beauty. And yet his heart still jumped violently
within him, this time out of fear of Haroon. The door was ajar and Haroon could
erupt at any moment now. The Poet was in great suspense. On the one hand, he
wanted to enjoy these happy, transient moments with Sarah. On the other hand,
he dreaded what Haroon might do if he caught him there. Sarah, who had probably
been aware of his uneasiness, was now filling the air with joyful cries. Not
only that. She deliberately sought to touch his hands, which were clutching the
rope. She even asked him to push her on the back. Sometimes her snow-white arms
and legs slipped out of her robe, and the Poet took notice of everything. After
some time, Sarah said:
“Now slow down the pace! Push
gently!”
“Right, madam!” replied the
Poet, wondering what Sarah would do next.
Then Sarah coughed twice and
said in her usual bewitching voice:
“Are you afraid of Haroon?”
“Ye-es,” the Poet replied in a
hesitant tone.
“He’s away. Don’t be afraid.
Tell me, how have you found us?”
“Kind people.”
“Really?” Sarah paused, and
then said, “Shalman, you said you’ve been married. Can I know when and where?”
“In my homeland,” the Poet
replied hurriedly. “Three years ago.”
“You were both of you slaves?”
“No. My wife had been one of
our Amir’s maidens and he gave her to me and I married her.”
“He gave her to you? For what?”
“I was his favourite poet.”
“Ah then you are a poet!” Sarah
roared with laughter.
“I was, madam!”
Sarah stopped laughing
suddenly, and said:
“And what happened next?”
“Well, my wife chose to be a
good Muslim woman. She gave up all her past habits. Only she, perhaps, pushed a
little too far.”
“How?”
“She began to advise some of
the women in the neighbourhood against letting the Amir take their daughters
away from them. For the Amir used to take away all the most beautiful girls he
clapped eyes on.” Sarah did not laugh, contrary to what the Poet had expected.
She only listened attentively as he went on speaking like a sleep-walker: “The
Amir didn’t like that and he imprisoned my wife. I tried to persuade him to
liberate her, but in vain. Three years after that, I could bear no more. And so
it happened that I galled the Amir during a party and he dismissed me from the
palace. Then he tried me. I was sold into slavery. And here I am a slave of
yours.”
“Did you have children with your
wife?”
“She was pregnant when the Amir
imprisoned her and I don’t know what happened afterwards.”
“Don’t worry! Now, push! Push
hard!”
And the Poet pushed hard.
Sarah’s joyful cries came back and filled the air. When she had swung enough,
she cried: “That’s enough!” And then she put her feet to the ground and swung
round and asked the Poet to unfasten the rope. He unfastened and carried it
with the pillow in his hands. In the meanwhile Sarah picked figs and then gave
two to the Poet. He took them with a trembling hand as he glanced at Sarah’s
glowing face.
“Do you have figs in your
homeland?” Sarah asked, chewing.
“We have dates,” the Poet
replied in a tremulous voice.
“And figs?”
“The Amir and his richest men
have some.”
The mistress turned aside and
went toward the flowers. She bent down to smell some and, as she rose up,
glanced back at the Poet and said:
“And flowers, don’t you have
them?”
“The Amir and his richest men
have some.”
Sarah laughed. She picked a red
rose and stepped back toward the Poet, who was leaning his back against the
trunk of the fig-tree.
“See?” Sarah said, looking at
the rose and then at the Poet’s face. “What’s the red for you, you poet?”
“I like it.”
“What colour was your wife?”
Sarah asked, fingering the rose-petals.
“Brown. She had black eyes and
brows. And a red mouth and white teeth.”
The Poet could not quell a sigh
as he said this. Sarah understood. She turned and began to go toward the well
but she halted and beckoned the Poet to come and go at her side. The Poet was
by her side in a flash. He was still carrying the rope and the pillow. Sarah
resumed her sprightly walk and was soon sitting on the coping of the well. The
Poet stood in front of her. From time to time he glanced round at the rear
door. Although he felt somewhat happy in his heart, his eyes were now sad and
pleading. The head in the box had come to his mind and he wondered how he
couldn’t have the same destiny if Haroon had to come in just now. Sarah seemed
to have read all these feelings on his face and probably had deliberately kept
quiet for a moment to see how he would react. Apart from flickering blushes and
uncertain frowns the Poet’s face did not show much signs of alarm. But at the
sound of the first dogs' piercing bark he started up and leapt round to glance
at the rear door. Sarah laughed. And then she said, swinging her legs against
the coping of the well:
“I said Haroon is away! Simmer
down! Don’t you believe what I say?”
“I believe you, madam. Only I’m
not accustomed to such situations.”
“I’m surprised to learn that
the favourite poet of an amir should be frightened so easily!”
The Poet felt deeply ashamed.
And confused. His illusive, transient happiness had gone altogether. He did not
know what to say or do. The mistress spoke in his place.
“Last time you told me you are
a Saharan,” Sarah said sarcastically. “It seems there’s no Saharan blood in
your veins at all!”
The Poet kept unmoved. His mind
wandered back to the day he and Sultana were heading for Bani Abeed. That was
the first time he had plunged into the desert without the company of another
man. And that was only a little more than three years ago. Sultana had asked
him to take her to Bani Abeed and have their wedding there and he could not say
no. He had already fallen deeply in love with her and was then ready to die
with her in the desert. He had heard stories about wild animals sowing terror
in some parts of the Sahara and yet he had gone. Sultana had perhaps sensed his fear and did
all she could to encourage him. The Poet still remembered up to this day that
his heart had begun to throb violently as soon as they had left Lehreem and it
had not calmed down until they reached Bani Abeed.
“I see your mind has gone
somewhere,” Sarah said abruptly.
“Eh?”
“I said, what were you thinking
about?”
“Nothing.”
“How nothing? Weren’t you
thinking of something just now?”
“Eh? I was thinking of my
wife.”
“Your wife! Emm! Your wife!
Which woman in the world would wish to be your wife? I can’t believe you’ve
ever had a wife!”
The Poet raised his eyes and
looked at the mistress dumbfounded. He spoke no word. He only waited for her to
finish speaking.
“Just let’s suppose you had a
wife,” Sarah said unmannerly. “Have there been any other women in your life?
Don’t say there have!”
The Poet, whose feelings were
deeply hurt by Sarah’s unexpected acerbities, stalled a moment before he spoke.
“Yes,” he said in a rather
defiant tone. “Several ones.”
Sarah roared with laughter, and
said:
“Several ones, indeed? If I can
believe you, these must be certainly prostitutes who wouldn’t be taken even for
free!”
What the Poet had said was not
a lie. He had had access to several maidservants, by permission of the five
Amirs. He had also meant Ida. And yet he was more incensed than surprised at
Sarah’s latest remark. He had just bowed his head and kept quiet. For he was
too angry to speak. So it was Sarah who spoke next.
“Just tell me one, only one of
your several stories?” she challenged.
The Poet’s patience and
endurance had now really been exhausted. He could burst out at any moment now.
He had just failed to understand what the mistress had to do with his own
life-story. What would be the difference to her if he had had a wife or not, if
he was a coward or a brave, or if there had been women in his life? He was
really worked up. Yet, he found Sarah’s latest question worth an answer.
“Our Amir had many maidens but
only one wife,” the Poet said, staring Sarah into the face. “This woman
proposed to marry me.”
“The Amir’s wife proposed to
marry you?” Sarah screamed. She then burst into laughter. For a few moments her
sides kept shaking with hysterical laughter.
The Poet was infuriated by
Sarah’s impudence. He felt a satanic impulse to push her into the well but he
resisted it just in time. He paced a few steps backward and shouted:
“Your remarks have hurt me
deeply, madam!”
Sarah jumped to her feet and
shouted back:
“You shout at me, you nasty
donkey!”
As soon as Sarah had finished
those words, the Poet frowned at her and hurled the rope and the pillow to the
ground and swung round and flew to his room. He jumped onto his bed and lay
full length. Anger and fear shared his heart between them. In no time Sarah
barged into his room with a stick in her hand, shouting madly:
“What do you think you are, you
nasty, stupid donkey?”
She did not wait for an answer,
for she had already lammed into him and begun to hit him hard blows on the legs
and arms. The Poet just jumped out of the bed and began to dodge about in the
room as Sarah pursued him, brandishing the stick and snarling:
“Tell me, you son of
prostitution! Do you think I was bantering with you? Eh? Where would you escape
now? Today you’ll see the real Haroon! The Haroon who will gouge out your
intestines! If only he came back just now!...”
Suddenly, the Poet burst out in
a shaky voice:
“I’m not a nasty donkey! I’m
not a son of prostitution!”
And he flung himself on the
mistress and pulled the stick out of her hands and broke it across his leg.
Both he and the mistress were now panting. The mistress then just leant her
back against the wall and stood speechless, but kept glaring at the Poet’s red
face with her fiery eyes. As for the Poet, he darted a last glance at his
mistress, and then he buried his face in his hands and blundered towards the
bed. He sat on the bed, rested his elbows on his knees and burst into sobs.
Soon afterwards, Sarah pouted and flung out of the room, shouting:
“If only Haroon came back just
now!”
About a quarter of an hour
later, the Poet was resting in bed thinking of what had just happened. Fear had
petrified him. He thought of running away, but the remembrance of the head in
the box in the other room was strong enough to dash all his hopes. Also the
boys had told him at the pastures that all the outskirts were infested with
Turkish patrolmen. And now time was running out. Haroon could erupt into this
room at any moment now. And with him death. For the Poet no more questioned
this eventuality.
He remembered Sarah’s latest
red face and baleful looks and then the head in the box and then he simply
stopped thinking.
Like someone who suddenly
emerged from a long-time coma, the Poet stirred on his bed nearly half an hour
later. He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands and rose up, sighing. He
glanced at the two pieces of the broken stick lying on the floor and moved
toward them. He bent down and picked up each piece with one hand and wore his
shoes and left the room silently. He glanced onto the courtyard and at the
kitchen door, but saw nobody. His heart throbbed. He ambled toward the
backstairs and then went down into the backyard. He went straight toward the
rope and the pillow. He picked them up and drew near the rear outside wall and
threw the two pieces of the stick in the direction of the heaps of manure. Then
he had a walk round the house and put the rope and the pillow down beside the
kitchen door, and coughed. He waited a few moments. The door was open. And so
was the door of Haroon’s room. The Poet waited and waited but no one came or
spoke to him. So he simply turned round and went back to his room. He lay down
again in his bed and began to wait impatiently for Haroon’s return.
Night fell and Haroon was still
away. The Poet, who had not been able to stay all the rest of the day in his
room, had had several strolls both in the courtyard and around the backyard.
The mistress had merely disappeared. Until nightfall the rope and the pillow
were still by the kitchen-door. The Poet didn’t know what to do with them. So
he left them there. At this time, he had closed the front door. But the doors
of the kitchen and Haroon’s room were still open. The Poet could do nothing
about them.
Although the Poet had given up
his five daily prayers for months now, he had always resorted to deep informal
prayers whenever he found himself in a difficult situation. So today again he
prayed. And his prayers were the only comfort to him on this black day.
Unfortunately, his fear was tremendous. He did not want to die young. So his
most recurrent prayer was, “O God preserve me!”
After long hours of weary,
hopeless waiting, the Poet decided to go back to his room and not get out until
cock-crow. So he lay in bed hungry and profoundly apprehensive of Haroon’s
return. Haroon, for some affair or other, had spent many nights away in the
past. But even if he was absent this night too, the unhoped-for battle with the
mistress was not yet over. The Poet’s thoughts were, therefore, far dimmer than
ever before. These thoughts followed one another in his mind until he fell
asleep, some time in the middle of the night.
