For the Poet some of Assem’s actions were good and necessary. But the
reason he behaved so remained an unfathomable mystery. Very often the Poet
compared his master with his former mistress Yamna. And he thought of this,
now, so much that in the end he found himself thinking more of Yamna than of
the master. And not without reason. With Yamna he had had moments of
unspeakable joy– which he now lacked awfully. That was, perhaps, why he had
paid much attention to Boutros’ daughter. (By the way, the Poet had now learned
her real name: Mariam.) Even now he thought of her, since he could not see
Yamna. And even though he resumed his nightly readings he did not give up
playing on the flute while he was with the herd. And to master his passions he
tried as best he could to focus all his attention on what he said while being
at prayer. And to change the routine he would, from time to time, go swimming
in the lake. But all this did not make him happy. His wild instincts had surged
again within him, probably more violently than ever. Even Sufyan, who now spent
most of his daytime with the Poet in the woods, and sometimes they dined or
lunched together in the tent, could not make the Poet happy. In truth, Sufyan
himself was now a nuisance. For he now often wore light clothes and sometimes
the Poet felt uneasy in his presence. And he constantly recalled Assem’s hardly
veiled warning, “Next time you’ll do it to my maid or –who knows? – to my
grand-son!” …But how long would the Poet resist?
The Poet took care not to
mention this matter to anyone and bore his sufferings patiently long days on
end. One after another these days brought more and more sadness to the Poet.
And he hoped earnestly that Assem would understand, one day, and give him a
cue…
Now, on his way back from the
woods, the Poet was surprised to hear
Assem reading the Quran in the tent. Assem’s voice and reading were so
beautiful that the Poet preferred to stay out and listen for a while. Assem was
reading from the Sura of Yusuf (Joseph) and…really his voice and reading would
move any good Muslim to tears. The Poet was thoroughly enthralled and he wept.
He stayed out until Assem had finished the Sura of Yusuf. Then he stepped into
the tent, greeted his master and sat beside him on the carpet. After a moment’s
silence, Assem spoke.
“How are you, Salman?”
“Fine,” the Poet replied with a
sigh.
Assem turned and gazed at the
Poet for a while, and then looked away from him and said:
“Fine people do not sigh.”
The Poet let out a deeper sigh,
and kept quiet.
“What’s the matter with you?”
Assem said in insistent tones.
The Poet braced himself and
replied with a gulp:
“Sufyan.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
The Poet hesitated, and then
said, “I feel Satan is stronger than I am these days, sir.”
“I see.” And after a pause,
Assem broke out laughing.
The Poet gazed at him in
amazement.
“Surely,” said Assem amid
laughter, “surely you would have stayed happily married –you and Sultana– hadn’t you lost your heads. Your foolishness
has driven you asunder!”
“I don’t regret it.”
“Ah, that’s great! Wonderful!
Fantastic!” And then silence.
Suddenly, Assem looked up at
the Poet and said:
“Tomorrow I’ll take you to
Asswan.”
“Insha Allah.”
“You know what for?”
“I’m your servant, sir.”
“I shall sell you.”
The Poet’s heart jumped. He
lowered his eyes and remained speechless. Assem too said no more until he rose
to go, after a while. He then said, without looking back:
“Good night.”
The Poet’s night was not good.
He could not sleep. His heart kept beating painfully. His head ached too much.
His mind reeled. He had now got the feeling that he was suddenly wrenched from
all his roots. He could not visualize a life without this wonderful man– Assem.
Sometimes he looked a very bitter man, but he wasn’t such a bad sort, after
all. In truth, the Poet loved him. He respected him both as a master and as a
man… These thoughts brought tears to the Poet’s eyes… And he prayed…and waited…
The next day Assem and the Poet
were on the way to Asswan. Assem rode a white horse and the Poet a black mule.
Assem acted as though he was not going to sell his present slave. Indeed, both
were chatting (about trivial things)…as if they were only going to do some
shopping. And the Poet tried hard to conceal his qualms, hoping that the worst
should not happen.
It took them two days and a half
to reach Asswan. They had spent the two previous nights in the homes of two
friends of Assem’s. And all the while the Poet thought and prayed. When they
finally arrived in Asswan they headed straight toward the slave-market. It was
very hot and the marketplace was not full. A man emerged from the crowd and
rushed to Assem and embraced him. After long greetings, Assem said, pointing at
the Poet:
“I want to sell this lad and
buy some other creature.”
“Right,” replied the man,
eyeing the Poet from head to toe. “What do you want for him?”
“Let people bid first and I’ll
see!”
“Right,” the man said to Assem,
and turned to the Poet and said, “Come along!”
The Poet held back his tears
and followed close on the heels of Assem’s friend. He was led into a group of
slaves and stayed there waiting. A girl from the group was sold at twenty
dinars. The Poet wondered who would buy him now and at what price. Assem looked
at him from a distance. The Poet was now quite sure he would never be back to Kufr-Hanoon.
He waited anxiously, his heart aflame with passion. Now a boy from the group
stepped down and followed his new master. Very soon after, a man of fifty stood
in front of the Poet and contemplated him. Then he turned to the slaver and
asked the price. “Twelve dinars,” replied the slaver. “Twelve dinars!” jeered
the other. “What’s in him that’s worth that much? Does he lay golden eggs?” And
he moved away. The Poet sighed and glanced at Assem– who was now straining his
eyes to see what was going on. Another man came later on to ask the price for
the Poet. The slaver said, “Ten dinars, sir.” That man too scoffed and moved
away. Another lad, lithe and handsome, was sold just now at fifteen dinars! The
Poet felt small and worthless. His mind wandered back to his lost, happy days
with Sultana…to the high esteem he had been held in at the Palace…to his dream
nights with Yamna… He tried to forget all about this market and these foolish
people around him… But his flight did not last long. A man agreed to pay six
dinars for him and he had only to see what Assem would say to that. Assem’s
friend, who had brought the Poet into this group, led him out and signed to the
interested man to come along. All three joined Assem, who was standing alone on
one side of the market.
“This man wants to buy your
slave at six dinars,” said the friend to Assem. “What do you say?”
Assem turned to the man and
said, trying to stifle a smile:
“I ask for more.”
“More ? How much ?”
“Sixty dinars !”
“What ! Sixty dinars ?” the man
screamed. “Even the best of all the maids displayed over here is not worth that
price !”
“Either you pay sixty dinars or
you go in peace.”
“Ah, I thought you were just
joking. Since you’re that serious, then I’ll go ! Peace be with you, old chap !
and upon…your pearl !”
Assem said nothing and the man
moved off. Then Assem took his friend aside and whispered something to him.
Then they embraced, shook hands and drew apart. Assem walked back up to the
Poet, stared him in the face for a while, and said at length:
“Let’s go !”
“Where ?” the Poet asked
hesitantly, looking at the ground.
“Back to Kufr-Hanoon, of course
!”
The Poet raised his eyes and a
beautiful smile wiped all the gloom off
his face. Indeed, his face quickly turned aglow with pleasure.
“Won’t you sell me ?” he asked
happily.
“At sixty dinars yes, at six no
!"
The Poet bent over to kiss his
master’s hand, but the master withdrew his hand and opened his arms to wind
them round the Poet…
Three days later the Poet was
back to Kufr-Hanoon. Assem granted him a
day’s rest. The Poet spent much of it in worship and penitence. At night, he
dined and read a few chapters of the Quran, and then slept the sleep of
unworried children. The next morning he was with Sufyan in the woods. He then
paid little attention to Mariam, for she now held little attraction for him. At
sunset he led the herd back to the shed and returned to his tent.
As the Poet was heading toward
the compound to get his dinner that evening, he was startled to see a woman
coming toward him holding something in her hands. The Poet was startled because
he had not seen here any woman as tall as this one. She looked taller than
Hind, and probably than himself. And this woman’s walk was not familiar to him.
So he stood and waited for her to come nearer.
“Is it you Salman ?”said the
woman as she stood in front of the Poet. She spoke Arabic with a foreign
accent.
“Yes,” replied the Poet
curiously. “Who are you?”
“My name is Suzana, but you can
call me Sawsan . I’m Sir Assem’s new maid-servant. Take. This is your dinner.”
The Poet held out his hands to
take the tray. “Thank you,” he said, as Sawsan turned to go back into the
compound. The Poet too turned immediately and walked back toward his tent. He
feared that Assem should be lurking somewhere around and watching.
Sawsan ! Suzana ! The Poet was
bewitched by the name. His heart had roared for her, and it was still burning
for her. The night was long, too long. The Poet prayed and prayed and yet there
was too much time left… When he awoke at dawn he found himself still
thinking…and dreaming of her. Suzana! Sawsan ! This name made him forget all
about other names. In the woods he sang for her. Sitting, walking, praying, he
thought deeply of her. And he waited…
Day by day Sawsan crept an inch
farther into the Poet’s heart. And the Poet contented himself with musing and
dreaming and fantasizing about her. And when she brought him his meals he
looked at her tenderly and smiled his thanks to her. But it seemed as if he
were just pouring water in the sand. Sawsan was solid rock... Her greetings
were cold. Her looks were blank. She did not smile at all… And yet the Poet
sank deeper and deeper in her love. He could not but sit back and shut his eyes
and think of her azure eyes, thin lips, small nose, plump cheeks and sweet
voice. He could not but love her at a distance…and wait.
A week later Assem asked the
Poet to pitch another tent, next to his
own. From Assem’s looks and tone the Poet deduced that there was something in
the wind. The tent was pitched and furnished. And right from the next day the
new tent became Sawsan’s new home. And the Poet could not sleep that night and
the next. By day he looked uneasy, and his neighbour kept unmoved. In the
following few days he angled for her attention, but all to no effect. The Poet
was at the end of his patience. And yet, even when Sawsan handed him his meals,
he could do nothing. He only sighed wretchedly.
But the Poet could not wait forever,
so he made up his mind to tell his master. And so it happened that he jumped at
the first opportunity that offered, and
that was when he and Assem were riding to a nearby market…
“…Sir Assem, may I ask you a
question?” said he hesitantly, but with great care.
“Yes?” Assem laughed quietly.
“How much did you buy your new
maid?”
“Guess!”
“Sixty dinars?”
Assem burst out laughing. Then
he said:
“What, sixty dinars? Oh, no!
Does she cost as much as sixty dinars?” He paused. “I bought her at twelve
dinars.”
“She looks worth more than
that.”
“Maybe.”
After a moment of silence,
Assem spoke again.
“How is she with you? Is she a
good neighbour?”
“Well, she’s good. But–”
“But what?”
“I–I–I wish she lived far away
from me!”
Assem laughed and said:
“Why?”
“I don’t want you to–”
Assem guffawed:
“You don’t want me to cut off
your head?”
“Em…you know–”
“This maid is yours!” Assem
said abruptly and gravely.
Startled, the Poet turned and
gaped.
“Mine?” he puffed out at
length.
“Yes,” replied Assem. “Don’t
you deserve her? Or you don’t want her?”
The Poet dropped his eyes and
unchained his imagination. Was he going to have a woman of his own at long
last?..
“This woman is Christian, you
know,” said Assem suddenly. “She’s from Bulgaria. Her Arabic is shaky. But I
think you can understand each other. I like her, and I chose her for you.” The
Poet kept quiet, and listened. Assem paused and then went on, “Sawsan will be
your wife.”
“You said my wife –although a
Christian?”
“And what’s wrong about it? It
all depends on you!”
“Well, sir,” the Poet replied
with a blush, “I can’t find words to thank you, sir.”
“It’s I who should thank you,
Salman!”
The Poet turned and listened in
amazement. Assem went on speaking, almost to himself:
“Yes. It’s I who should be most
grateful to you. I’ve failed with my own son. I’ve failed on all counts. I’d
dreamt of a son completely different from the one you’ve seen. And I’ve had to atone
for that. I’ve had to bring up men like those I’d dreamt of.” He sighed deeply,
paused, and resumed, “Several of my attempts have gone awry. But I’ve,
nevertheless, won a few. I hope you’re one of those few I’ve won.”
“I think I’ve done what I ought
to have done. I hope that others will make their own contributions toward the
fulfillment of my cherished dream. But truly I count on you personally. From
now on, never lean on anybody for advice. Think and think and think and then
decide and you’ll be a true man. Marry and beget children and teach them if you
can.”
“I shall!” the Poet replied in
a tremulous voice, trying to hold back his tears. “I promise.”
“Then, now…you are free.”
“Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you
very, very much!”
“No! I don’t mean that you’re
no longer my servant, my slave,” Assem said. The Poet stared and his heart
throbbed. Assem went on, “You are! You’re still my servant. When I said ‘free’,
I meant that you’d feel the real, the true freedom within yourself. Do you think
my son is free? I’ll say not. He’s not free. He’s the slave of money, of
prestige, of abundance. He’s the humble slave of the affluent society. He’s the
tame slave of his wives’ wishes and whims. He’s in sum the slave of Satan. A
truly free man is a slave of God. And that’s what I wish you to be like: a
slave of God and a king of yourself.”
“Insha Allah.”
“Now, give me a song.”
And the Poet burst into song.
At night the Poet was happy. He
heaved a deep sigh of relief. At long last he would be a true man. A man with a
manly heart. He would think and decide and act. That was the secret he had long
wished to ferret out. He would read more and more so that his thinking would be
right. He would go on trying to swim better, to hunt more easily, to have a
good seat… He would have to learn how to grapple with his own problems, how to
fend for himself.
And soon –very soon indeed– he
would have a wife. A beautiful wife: Suzana! Oh, what a beautiful name!…He
would marry and beget children and teach them. This was the tip to take… “No,”
the Poet muttered to himself. “I’m not naïve. This is not naivety. This is a
good lesson.”…So he thought…and waited, calmly.
The wedding day fell on a
Thursday. The ceremonies took place in the compound. The women gathered in one
house, and the men in another– in the usual guest-room. Boutros and his elder
son were among the men-guests present. Several other friends of Assem’s family
were there too. A group of three singers with their musical instruments sat on
one side of the room and went from one song to another while some of the others
present clapped their hands and repeated refrains. And some of them encored
this singer or that. The Poet could not know what happened in the other house.
But he knew that all Hassan’s wives and maids as well as other women from the Kufr
and elsewhere were there, around Sawsan. Besides the singing, rich meals were
served to the guests and everybody was happy…
At night the bride was waiting
in the Poet’s tent. She was wearing a white, frilly dress with a light-green
stole over the shoulders. Her fair hair hung down in ringlets. The Poet entered
diffidently, greeted his bride respectfully and sat at her side on the
mattress. As soon as he had sat, the bride moved a few paces aside. After a
moment’s hesitation, the Poet turned and asked in a tremulous voice:
“Why are you departing from me,
darling? Don’t you want me?”
Sawsan kept quiet. The Poet
moved close to her. She did not move away. The Poet raised his hand and rested
it against Sawsan’s cheek. Sawsan pushed the Poet’s hand, without uttering a
sound. The Poet pondered for a while. Then he rose to his feet and turned
round. He lay on the bed and kept looking at his bride’s back silently.
Suddenly, Sawsan dissolved into tears. The Poet let her sob her heart out. Then
he rose and sat upright just behind her back. After a bit he said, somewhat
confidently:
“Why are you weeping,
sweetheart?”
“Shut up!” Sawsan said in a low
voice. Then she sobbed a long while, before she began to speak.
“Damn!” she snarled. “As always
I fell just where I didn’t want to be. How unlucky I am! Damn!”
“I don’t understand,” said the
Poet a little bit coolly.
“I myself don’t understand
anything,” said Sawsan between tears. “I was happy at home. And all of a sudden
I became a slave-girl. And a slave of whom! O Lord! Instead of leading me to an
amir my destiny has thrown me into the hands of people– Oh, my lord! Why? What
have I done to deserve such a fate!…”
The Poet moved a few paces
backward and lay on his back. His mind flew to his first wedding night. Sultana
too had wept. But the tears Sultana had shed were clean and beautiful. She had
shed tears of joy. “I feel as if I’ve been born again, Salman,” she said. “With
you, you know, life will wear another look…” After less than an hour in bed, in
utter darkness, he and Sultana had gone out and spent the rest of the night in
the open, in the moonlight. They did not embrace there. They just roamed about,
hand in hand, or sat side by side under a palm-tree. And they talked…
“Sultana, do you love me?”
“Yes. I love you with a quarter
of my heart!”
“Only? And who has got the
honour of filling the three quarters left?”
“Allah.”
The Poet’s heart then throbbed,
and he wept, happily…
