Chapter 10
Jalal’s family sits comfortably on the floor of their anderun after dinner. A servant clears the bowls as ‘Abdu’llah explains to his wife, Nadja, the episode at the caravanserai.
Jalal’s younger brothers and sisters listen, bursting with laughter at their father’s descriptions.
“I don’t know why we’re sending him to the madrisih,” Nadja says dryly. “He already knows more about Islam than the mujtahid.” She chuckles at the thought.
“Don’t tease him, Nadja,” ‘Abdu’llah says. “He’s had a rough day defending the entire Shaykhi movement.”
Nadja laughs and bows. It is all in good humor. “I will obey my husband—my lord and master. Even though he cannot write a coherent verse without my help.”
“Not everyone is cut out to be a poet, my dear.”
“And not everyone is cut out to be a master cloth dyer.”
The children look at each other. They are quite sure that the parents of their friends do not talk to each other like this. Bibi-Kuchik, Jalal’s sister, rolls her eyes and glances at her siblings.
Her brother, Bahram, is confused. He asks a question. “Father, at the mosque we are told that women should be subservient to their husbands. And that girls should not receive education. Are these teachings wrong?”
‘Abdu’llah’s face grows serious. He turns to Bahram, now just ten years old, and says, “In some areas I disagree with Mulla Ibrahim’s interpretation of the Qur’an.”
“Without thinking much about them, I might add,” Nadja interjects.
“Still, we must live in peace in this hamlet,” ‘Abdu’llah continues.
Nadja needles her husband: “Your father is saying that it’s good for
business
to keep our views to ourselves.”
‘Abdu’llah ignores his wife and says, “You can see what happens when someone, like Shaykh Ahmad, speaks up with a different interpretation. Most people cannot tolerate a difference of opinion when it comes to religion, and in Islam the role of women is a religious issue.”
Jalal speaks for the first time. “But if someone truly believes in something, shouldn’t he speak up? I’m thinking of mother, who is not only educated but a gifted poet. Is she not being hurt by our failing to announce her gift and publish her works? Are not many others being deprived of the beauty and elegance of her verses?”
Nadja beams at this unexpected compliment. She takes Jalal’s hand and squeezes it. Then she smugly turns to her husband for his reply.
“My son, we cannot change our culture or the attitudes of our neighbors by engaging in defiant, even heroic acts. This would serve no purpose, for our neighbors are not ready for change. Of that I am certain.” Like ‘Abdu’llah, Nadja harbors fears of retaliation, false accusations of heresy, religious persecution, even loss of business. “Perhaps when the Qa’im appears he will set the matter straight and we will no longer have to disagree with the religious authorities on these matters. They will be better informed, and women will become equals.”
‘Abdu’llah feels a need to switch topics, so he stands and gestures for Jalal to stand with him. “If I may change the subject… as you all know, in one week I will be taking Jalal to the madrisih in Mashhad. I wanted a special gift to mark this auspicious event. Finally I came up with an idea. I hope you will like it, my son.”
‘Abdu’llah walks to the other side of the large room and finds the red velvet pouch containing the sword. He carries it to Jalal and presents it to him with a slight nod of the head.
Jalal immediately knows what the pouch contains. With eager hands he removes the wooden scabbard from the pouch and marvels at its magnificence.
“Go ahead, remove the sword,” ‘Abdu’llah suggests.
Jalal grips the hilt and pulls out the glinting sword. Stunned at its beauty, he drops to his knees, holding the flat blade across the outstretched palms of his hands. He looks up at his father. “I don’t know what to say. It’s… it’s beyond my imagination.”
“It’s not imagination,” ‘Abdu’llah says. “It’s very real. It was made especially for you.”
“And I will never be without it.”
This is a Persian boy’s dream, to own a sword that will be the envy of all. He wants to take the sword and race to Ali’s home. He wants to share the magic of this blessed gift with his best friend. But he knows that the streets are dark and dangerous at this hour.
He stands, holding the heavy sword gallantly in one hand. And then it happens. His hand begins to tremble—not nerves, or fear, but some tremor erupting from the core of his body. Nadja rises, concern turning to terror as Jalal drops the sword and slowly slumps to the carpeted floor, his whole body shaking. Nadja throws herself onto him, trying to smother his convulsions as if they were flames. ‘Abdu’llah stands there, frozen, watching. The children begin to shout, afraid for their older brother.
Finally the seizure is over. No one understands the epilepsy that has gripped the boy. Pale and perspiring, Jalal takes a deep breath and in a perfectly normal voice says, “Is the sword all right?”
“What?” his mother says.
How can he be worried about the sword?
‘Abdu’llah picks up the sword and puts the hilt in his son’s hand. “No harm done to the sword,” he says.
“I’m all right now.”
Nadja hugs him desperately.
“Probably the stress of the day,” Bahram suggests. But secretly he fears that demons have possessed his brother.
“And the excitement of the sword,” ‘Abdu’llah adds. “I’m feeling shaky myself!”
Jalal sits up, still clutching the sword. “I was afraid I broke the sword when I dropped it,” he says.
‘Abdu’llah kneels beside his son and says, “Don’t worry. This sword cannot be broken. I promise.”
Chapter 11
Bushruyíh is dark, a glowing crescent moon the only illumination. Three hours after sunset, no one is allowed to walk the streets without carrying a lantern. Violation risks arrest by the
gazma,
or night patrol, strict enforcers who carry cudgels and straight swords to aid their mission. The city gates are closed, watched over by the dalandar and several heavily armed guards.
Omar is alone on the street. A dim lantern swings in his hand as he walks from his small home and arrives at the caravanserai. The evening entrance-keeper recognizes him and opens the courtyard gate. Inside, Omar finds six men packing mules. It appears that this small caravan will be leaving in the middle of the night.
Omar speaks to one of the men, handing him a goatskin sack full of coins. “You must be ready in an hour. When you receive word, you must proceed at once to the mosque and wait by the entrance. Be sure you all carry lanterns.”
The man, obviously the charvadar, stares at his feet, then looks up and says: “When will we get the rest of our payment?”
“As I explained, you will be paid at the conclusion of each stage of your journey.”
“This is very dangerous. I’m not sure we’re being paid well enough.”
“The party who commissioned you will pay a handsome bonus when you reach your destination.”
The charvadar nods, accepting the bargain. Omar leaves the caravanserai and walks toward the mosque. From there he can see the kelauntar’s compound and he is just minutes from the caravanserai. It is the ideal vantage point to wait for the signal.
The interior of the kelauntar’s anderun is one of the few Bushruyih dwellings illuminated at night. The warm glow of lanterns flickers on the walls
.
Anisa has received a message that the kelauntar will be paying her a visit this evening. She reclines expectantly on soft cushions knowing that when her husband arrives, with wine on his breath, she must play the game exactly right or the plan will fail.
She thinks about how Ali, now asleep in the birun, had seemed to recognize her metamorphosis during the evening prayer.
How will he react?
She mourns her son’s loss of innocence; she knows that Ali is protecting her secret, though their pact remains unspoken. Ali will not tell the kelauntar about her affection for the Englishman and her conversion to Christianity.
Voices! She hears the kelauntar enter the anderun. It is beginning.
Hasan sees Anisa reclining on the pillows. He is intoxicated, but not as drunk as Anisa had expected.
She rises and walks over to the kelauntar, tracing her long painted nails on the back of his hand and neck.
He shivers.
She is shameless!
he thinks. But he loves her touch. It drives him mad! She is so beautiful, so desirable… so infuriating. Her English blood pulses with an arrogance that enrages him. After all, she is just a
woman!
Yet she has a power over him, the shame of which can only be broken by harsh punishment.
Will he have to punish her tonight?
Anisa pulls him to the pillows, pushes him down until he almost disappears in their softness. She looks him in the eye and then smiles gently. “I want tonight to be special,” she says. “I’ve asked the others to leave us alone. Is that all right?”
He nods
yes
. It will be better that way. This will be their last night together.
“Would you like the kalyan?” she asks. He nods again. “I’ll prepare it for you.”
Anisa appreciates the delights of smoking the kalyan. The perfume of Turkish tobacco relieves the boredom of the anderun and wraps her with sensuality. The fragrant smoke rushing into her lungs can seem like the breath of God entering her body.
She appreciates the kalyan also for its role in her plan this evening. Instead of tobacco, Anisa places a damp wad of opium into the bowl of the water-pipe and tops it with burning charcoal. Then she inserts the end of a snake-like leather tube into her mouth and puffs, making sure the mind-numbing smoke is easily drawn through the bubbling water.
She hands the leather tube to the kelauntar. He inhales, then glances appreciatively at her. He has acquired a craving for the bitter taste of opium. He will indulge himself tonight. Maybe he will put off her punishment until morning.
“Would you like me to tell you a story?” she asks.
He loves the sound of her voice.
Why not?
“This story is called
The Enchanted Horse
,” she says, “from
The Arabian Nights
.” She tells him of the Indian and the enchanted horse, the prince flying to a far-off land. She tells him how the prince returned to his father with a beautiful princess, and how the Indian was released from prison only to kidnap the princess in retaliation for his own inhospitable treatment.
The kelauntar listens and puffs, charmed by the story but slowly drifting into another world not populated by either Anisa or the enchanted horse. Anisa continues to narrate her tale.
The Indian had turned the horse so that it entered a wood close to the capital of Cashmere. Goaded by the Indian’s threats, the kidnapped princess called loudly for help. Her cries were heard by a troop of horsemen.
The leader of these horsemen was the Sultan of Cashmere, and he instantly demanded to know the identities of these two. The Indian said the woman was his wife. “My lord,” the princess cried, “this man is an abominable magician who has this day torn me from the Prince of Persia.” Believing the princess, the sultan ordered his followers to cut off the Indian’s head.
Anisa speaks with great emotion, watching the kelauntar puff on his kalyan. As she narrates the tale, the irony of it strikes her. She may as well be telling the story of her own life—the English orphan captured and sold into slavery by the Turkoman only to be purchased by the nephew of the shah.
The Sultan conducted her to his own palace. Then he bade her repose, saying she should explain her adventures on the following day. The princess fell asleep, flattering herself that she had only to relate her story and then she would be restored to the prince without delay.
At daybreak, however, the Sultan proclaimed that the woman would become his wife. The princess was awakened early by horns, and then fainted upon learning that the trumpets were the start of her marriage ceremony.
At length her senses began to return. Rather than break faith with the Prince of Persia by consenting to such a marriage, she decided to feign madness. She began speaking absurdities and using strange gestures while the Sultan watched her in sorrow.
The kelauntar turns for the first time toward Anisa. His eyes are cloudy and red, but he stares at her the way he does before going into a rage. She grows nervous.
Keep telling the story,
she tells herself.
Give the opium time to work.
The kelauntar’s eyelids become narrow slits, and then close. Is he unconscious? No. He reaches out and takes her hand, almost tenderly, and rubs his thumb gently over it. She continues her tale.
Days passed. At last the Sultan gave orders that doctors were to be allowed into her chamber one by one to attempt a diagnosis. Many foreign professors flocked into Cashmere, but they were no more successful than the local physicians.
The prince, in the disguise of a doctor, was finally brought before the Sultan who led him to the room of the princess. The young man’s heart beat fast for he knew immediately that her madness was feigned, and that it was love of him which had caused her to resort to such a trick. He told the Sultan that the princess’s malady was not incurable, but that he must speak with her alone. Once he was with the princess, an expression of joy overspread her face, such as only comes when what we wish for most and expect the least suddenly happens to us.
Anisa stops, testing for consciousness. The kelauntar opens his eyes, takes a deep puff of the kalyan, and hoarsely complains: “Don’t stop now.” As she continues, he closes his eyes.
The prince returned to the Sultan. “Sire,” he said, “during her voyage on an enchanted horse, a portion of its enchantment has contaminated her and can only be dissipated by certain perfumes of which I possess the secret. Command the horse to be brought into the square outside the palace and leave the rest to me. In a few moments you shall see the princess as sane as ever she was. To make the spectacle as impressive as possible, I suggest that she be richly dressed and covered with the noblest jewels of the crown.” The Sultan agreed and the following morning he arranged for the horse to be brought into the great square of the palace. A large crowd began to gather.
The leather tube falls from the kelauntar’s lips. Anisa takes it in her hand but continues to speak, afraid that silence may awaken him again.
When all was ready, the Sultan took his place on a platform. The princess slowly approached the enchanted horse and mounted it. The prince placed around the horse some large braziers full of burning coals. Into each he threw a perfume.
Anisa puts the tip of the leather tube in her mouth and sucks, inhaling the bitter opium smoke. And then she exhales slowly. The smoke fills the space between her and the kelauntar.
Soon there arose from the braziers a thick smoke which almost concealed both the horse and princess. Springing lightly up behind the lady, the prince leaned forward and turned the peg. As the horse darted up into the air, he cried aloud so that his words were heard by all present: “Sultan of Cashmere, when you wish to marry a princess, learn first to gain her consent.” It was in this way that the prince rescued the princess… and returned with her to England.
The kelauntar is unconscious. Anisa looks around the room. A dozen people are standing behind her—the kelauntar’s other wives, the eunuchs from Zanzibar, the children—all of them with moist eyes.
“You must hurry now,” says one of the wives. “Get Ali and go!” The wives, carrying Anisa’ packed bags, escort Anisa to the birun. The kelauntar’s fourth wife takes a lantern and heads for the roof to give the signal.
Omar can see the waving lantern above the walls of the kelauntar’s compound. This is it! He turns and races from the mosque and enters the caravanserai. The caravan is assembled and waiting, but the men are asleep
.
Omar whistles loudly. The men stir slowly, begin to rise.
“Now! Now!” Omar beckons.
From one of the shabby traveler’s rooms a tall woman emerges wearing a peasant’s chador, the garment worn by Persian women outdoors. Fully veiled by the chador, she walks slowly and awkwardly down the steps into the courtyard and takes a seat on a mule. Omar approaches her and whispers something. Finally the men are at their mules, which stand patiently and fully burdened. The caravan spills out of the caravanserai as Omar hands each of the men—and the one woman—a lantern.
Anisa softly enters her son’s sleeping chamber and approaches him. Her mind is spinning.
How will I explain to him why we must go away?
But as she is thinking, she sees Ali looking at her. He is awake! His piercing eyes cut through her.
“What is it, mother?”
She can’t speak. All this planning, and now she has lost her voice!
“Does father know you’re in the birun? He’ll be angry.”
“My darling son, there’s something I have to tell you.”
Ali’s eyes begin to glisten with tears. “You’re going away with Gordon, aren’t you?”
Dear Allah, he thinks I’m abandoning him!
Anisa reaches out and takes Ali in her arms, hugs him tightly. “I’m not leaving you, Ali. You and I are going away together.”
“But I can’t. I’m leaving for the madrisih next week.”
“Please—I can’t explain right now. But I promise that one day you will go to the finest school in the world. Listen to me now. I know this is frightening and hard to understand, but we must leave right now. There is very little time.”
Ali narrows his eyes. “Are we in danger?” he asks.
Anisa hesitates for moment, then says, “Yes, we are in danger. Will you come?”
Ali looks up, studying her face. He can see fear in it. And doubt. And a mother’s love. Ali looks around the room and sees two of the kelauntar’s other wives staring at him.
“No, I want to stay here,” Ali pleads. “I want to go to the madrisih. This isn’t fair!”
“Ali—I am going to tell you the truth now. I hope you will believe me.” Anisa grabs hold of Ali’s arms as if to emphasize the importance of her next words. “Your father is going to divorce me and make me the vizier’s wife tomorrow. I will be taken away without you. Do you understand? You will never see me again unless you come with me tonight.”
The words stun the boy. But then he stiffens. “This is not true. You are my mother. Father would not separate us!”
“The vizier has given your father no choice. The bargain is already struck. Our only chance is to flee.”
Ali’s mind races. Leaving with his mother means he will never go to Mashhad. He will never see his father again. Or Jalal. It is too much to comprehend.
“If we flee, they will track us down. They will kill you!” Ali says.
“No. Gordon is helping us. He has a plan. Please, Ali… we must go now! We must place as much distance between us and the kelauntar as we can before dawn. It’s our only chance.”
Ali looks around the room. The others are nodding. What should he do? Is this incredible story true? Who does he choose to trust?
And then it occurs to him… yes, his father’s sudden promise to send him to Mashhad. It came out of the blue. Out of guilt, perhaps. A payoff. Recompense for a future loss. It becomes clearer now. And as it does, Ali slumps onto his bed mat feeling the heavy weight of disappointment, the stabbing pain of betrayal. But sorrow quickly gives rise to anger. Only one course of action makes sense now.
Ali quickly stands up. “All right, I’ll come with you.”
He snatches up his Qu’ran then hurriedly begins to search for some personal things.
Anisa stops him. “No, just the Qu’ran. We have everything else you need.”