The next morning Sufyan brought
breakfast to the Poet and told him what he would have to do– as a slave. Then
he took him on a tour round the master’s house. The Poet discovered that the
house was not as small as it had looked at first glance. In fact there were
three adjacent small houses that made up something of a compound. There also
were wells nearby and what looked like a plantation around the whole block.
There was a big shed for cattle and sheep and a stable for horses and mules.
“Your work will be mostly
outdoors,” said the boy. “And Hind will be doing the other, indoor small jobs.”
As the days wore on the Poet
found himself doing little hard work. He brought water from the wells, watered
the cattle and sheep, fetched firewood, and so on. The thing that occupied most
of his time was pasturing the cattle and sheep on nearby lands. But he expected
harder and strenuous work once the hot season was over.
Sufyan was often with the Poet.
They chatted (with some difficulty because of their different respective
vernaculars); they played together… But the Poet needed most the company of a
woman. So far, he had seen only Hind and a very young girl who looked after her
parents’ sheep and goats on adjoining lands. He could approach neither of them.
And to fill this void he contented himself with thinking of his wife Sultana.
Curiously enough, he no longer thought of Yamna as much as he had done not a
long time ago.
During these first days the old
man –whose name was Assem– very seldom talked to or sat with the Poet. Even at
prayer-time they would not meet. And the
Poet would perform his prayers only when Assem was around. And days went on
like this until one morning a few weeks later. On this morning Sufyan joined
the Poet in the pastures and told him that Grand-father wanted him. The Poet went
back to the compound, thinking on the way. He found Assem in the guest-room.
“Sit down,” said Assem. The
Poet sat down.
“Tell me your life story
again.”
The Poet mastered his
confusion, then began the narration. When he finished, the old man stood up and
signed to him to follow. Both went out of the house and headed toward a shed at
the back of the compound.
“Here,” said Assem, pointing to
the shed, “you’ll find all the materials you’d need to set up a tent. I want
you to pitch one there.” Assem pointed to a spot at the extreme rear end of the
plantation. The Poet nodded approvingly and asked, “When?” “Today,” replied
Assem. “But now come along with me.” They went back into the house. They sat
side by side in a room unknown to the Poet. The Poet had a feeling of awe as he
entered this room. On one side of the room there was a huge book-case crammed
with books of all sizes. Close to the book-case was a big, rectangular table
with a few books on it. The Poet was now amazed and happy. Amazed because he
had not expected this, and happy because he liked educated people.
“Now,” said Assem in a scholarly manner, “I have a few
questions to put to you.”
“I will be happy to answer you,
sir.”
“First, why did you ‘gall’ your
amir?”
“Believe me, sir, if I did
anything of the sort that was unwittingly.”
“He did wrong to your wife.”
“Yes, but–”
“You rebelled.”
“No, no, sir!”
“You meant to!”
“No!”
“How did you look on him?”
“Not good.”
“Why?”
“He did not implement the Quranic
teachings.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, and that’s it!”
“If you don’t know, I’ll tell
you. It’s because you don’t know anything at all! You’re an absolute idiot.”
The Poet blushed and gaped. “You are a false poet. You’ve wasted your time on trivialities.
Suppose you had a chance to kill your amir, would that bring about any change
in Lehreem? Suppose he stayed alive and liberated your wife, what good would
that bring to Lehreem? Tell me, how many of you there were good Muslims? How
many read the Quran and the Hadith? How many understood the Quran? How many
could exchange ideas with the Amir?
Tell me!”
Hot sweat trickled down the Poet’s neck. He felt
ashamed. He could not answer.
“And what about you personally?” Assem went on. “What do you
know? What do you say in your poems? What’s your vision of the world? Why do
you live? What’s freedom for you- what’s manliness? Tell me!”
The Poet just listened, with
downcast eyes. He found no words to speak.
“I have brought you here to
look for the answers in these books,” Assem resumed, pointing to the books in
the book-case and on the table. “I want you to wash your brain and your heart
and your soul. And I’ll be waiting for your answers. Now, get up! Go back to the
pastures. And after lunch do as I bade you: pitch the tent where I showed you.
Now go!”
The Poet left for the pastures,
bewildered. He could not understand what Assem was aiming at. On arrival at Kufr-Hanoon
he had been received as a guest. And now he would perhaps have free access to
Assem’s library. Why all this? The Poet did not know, but he was happy.
After lunch the Poet, helped by
Sufyan, pitched the tent on the allotted spot. He furnished it with a mat, a
mattress, a small carpet and a few blankets and pillows. And he went back to
the pastures. In the evening Assem told him that he would thenceforth live in
the tent. The Poet was happy with this, because it would give him an
opportunity to lead a life of his own. Three nights later Assem called upon the
Poet in the tent. He brought with him Sufyan and three books. The Poet was all
smiles. He could not conceal his glee.
“How did you find this home,
Our Poet?”
“Nice. It suits me very well. Thank you, sir.”
“And what about Sufyan?”
“He is kind. I like him.”
“Good! Now, Our Poet, look at
this.”
Assem opened one of the three
books and moved it close to the Poet.
“Read!” said Assem.
The Poet looked at the book
briefly and said:
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It is written in a language I
do not speak.”
“And this one?” Assem opened a
second book and handed it to the Poet.
“I think this is another
language, sir. I can’t read it. I’m sorry.” The Poet felt deeply ashamed.
“And this one?”
The Poet looked at the third book
for a good while, then he raised his eyes and said, shyly:
“This is Turkish. But I don’t
understand anything.”
“Great! You don’t speak
Persian; you don’t speak Greek; and you don’t understand Turkish. What a
shame!”
Then Assem turned to the boy
and said in a disappointed tone, “Sufyan, get up! Let’s go!”
Both Sufyan and Assem stood up
and left the tent. Assem had not even said good night. All the Poet’s joy
vanished at once. Assem had addressed him as ‘Our Poet’, which he always preferred to ‘Salman’. Assem had held
him in high esteem… And now, all of a sudden, everything crumbled to pieces.
Why? He spoke neither Persian nor Greek. Nor did he understand Turkish. What a
pity!… But why was Assem so angry? What was the Poet to him? Why did he want
the Poet to learn all these languages? Was this part of a slave’s work? But
since he himself –Assem– knew all this, and he had all this rich library and
all this keen anxiety for knowledge… why had he chosen to live in this
isolated, forbidding part of the world? Why hadn’t he gone to Cairo or Baghdad
or Fez, or anywhere else? This was hard to understand.
That night the Poet could not
have the heart –or the face– to go to the compound and ask for his dinner. So
he just arranged the three books which Assem had left in the tent on one side
of the carpet, put out the light and went to sleep.
The next morning the Poet was
in the pastures. He was in no mood to chat or play with Sufyan as he used to.
He was deeply absorbed in thoughts about Assem’s gesture on the previous night.
Assem was right… This was a golden opportunity to grasp at urgently. But how?
Would Assem be ready to teach him these tongues? Would he still be willing to
put his library at the Poet’s disposal?… What would happen?…
For days the Poet’s questions
went unanswered. And each time he returned to his tent in the evening, he would
open the books and contemplate their yellow pages sadly. He tried his hardest
to understand something from the Turkish book, but in vain. Sometimes he grew
so sad that tears welled up in his eyes. To add to the Poet’s misery, Sufyan
was no longer allowed to go to the pastures. And the Poet began to wonder
whether Assem was going to be cross with him. And again he began to give
prayers to God for deliverance.
Not until three weeks later did
the Poet begin to see light at the end of the tunnel. He was in the pastures when Sufyan came, sauntering, to say
that Assem was waiting in the guest-room. Sufyan stayed at the pastures and the
Poet sped to the compound. In the guest-room, he found a fifty-year-old man
with Assem.
“This is Salman, my new
servant,” said Assem to his guest, indicating the Poet. “He’s a poet.”
The guest, who was wearing a
black vestment and a silver cross on his chest, nodded, glancing at the Poet.
“And this is Boutros, my
Christian friend.” Assem indicated the Priest. The Poet noticed that the
Priest’s cross could be seen only if he turned his head one way or the other,
because his beard fell to his chest and it hid the cross.
“Sit down, Salman,” said Assem.
The Poet sat down at a respectful distance and lowered his eyes.
Then Assem switched to another
language, probably the same in which he and Boutros had been talking when the
Poet came in. And both went on with their unending dialogue. At first, the Poet
listened intently just to see whether he could guess in what tongue the two men
were speaking. It was not Nubian, the Poet was sure. Neither was it Turkish. So
was it Persian or Greek? Or some other language? The Poet could not tell. And
as he listened –without understanding anything– his mind flew to Lehreem… The
Poet had had a home, a good pile of books… Yes, books. There had been too many.
But he had not– (The Poet sighed.)… The two men went on talking. Maybe of
religion, the Poet thought briefly. But what really struck the Poet was this
mutual respect with which the two men spoke to each other. They must be real
friends, then… The Poet’s mind went back to Marqus… Where was he now? Was he
still free?… And Yamna? And Haroon? And Sultana…? (The Poet sighed again.) “Oh,
Sultana!” he thought ruefully. “Were it not for you, why should I be here ? But
shall I see you again?” The Poet sighed again and again. And Assem –who must
have noticed this– glanced at him from time to time. But Assem was apparently
more interested in his talk with Boutros than in the Poet’s moods.
Assem and Boutros’ talks lasted
up to lunchtime, when Assem turned to the Poet and said (in Arabic):
“You can go now. Go and ask
Hind to give you your lunch and then go back to the pastures and send Sufyan to
lunch.”
The Poet stood up diffidently
and bowed as he left the room.
