The Forty Rules of Love (26 page)

Desert Rose the Harlot

KONYA, FEBRUARY 1246

Bitter and bleak, the day I left the brothel was the coldest day in forty years. The narrow, serpentine streets glistened with fresh snow, and sharp pendants of ice hung from the roofs of the houses and the minarets of the mosques in dangerous beauty. By midafternoon the chill had become so severe there were frozen cats on the streets with whiskers turned into thin threads of ice, and several ramshackle houses collapsed under the weight of the snow. After the street cats, Konya’s homeless suffered the most. There were half a dozen frozen bodies—all curled up in the fetal position with beatific smiles on their faces, as if expecting to be reborn into a better and warmer life.

Late in the afternoon, when everyone was taking a nap before the hustle of the evening began, I sneaked out of my room. I took no more than a few simple clothes, leaving behind all the silk garments and accessories I used to wear for special customers. Whatever was earned in the brothel had to stay in the brothel.

Halfway down the stairs, I saw Magnolia standing at the main door, chewing the brown leaves she was addicted to. Older than all the other girls in the brothel, lately she had been complaining about hot flashes. At night I heard her toss and turn in bed. It was no secret that her womanhood was drying up. Younger girls jokingly said they envied Magnolia, since she would not have to worry about having periods, pregnancies, or abortions anymore and could sleep with a man every single day of the month, but we all knew that an aged prostitute had little chance of survival.

As soon as I saw Magnolia standing there, I knew I had only two options: either return to my room and forget about running away or walk through that door and bear the consequences. My heart chose the latter.

“Hey, Magnolia, are you feeling better?” I said, adopting what I hoped was a relaxed and casual tone of voice.

Magnolia’s face brightened but then darkened again as she noticed the bag in my hand. There was no point in lying. She knew that the patron had forbidden me to leave my room, never mind leaving the brothel.

“Are you leaving?” Magnolia gasped as if the question scared her.

I didn’t say anything. Now it was her turn to make a choice. She could either stop me in my tracks and alert everyone to my plan or simply let me go. Magnolia stared at me, her expression grave and embittered.

“Go back to your room, Desert Rose,” she said. “The patron will send Jackal Head after you. Don’t you know what he did to …?”

But she didn’t finish her sentence. That was one of the unwritten rules in the brothel: We didn’t bring up the stories of the unfortunate girls who had worked here before us and had met a premature end, and on those rare occasions when we did mention them, we took care not to utter their names. There was no point in disturbing them in their graves. They had already led tough lives; it was better to let them rest.

“Even if you manage to escape, how are you going to make a living?” Magnolia insisted. “You will starve to death.”

What I saw in Magnolia’s eyes was fear—not the fear that I could fail and be punished by the patron but the fear that I might succeed. I was going to do the one thing she had always dreamed about and yet never dared to carry out, and now she both respected and hated me for my audacity. I felt a momentary pang of doubt and would have gone back had the voice of Shams of Tabriz not kept echoing in my head.

“Let me go, Magnolia,” I said. “I’m not staying here another day.”

After being beaten by Baybars and looking death in the face, I felt that something within me had changed irreversibly. It was as if I had no more fear left inside me. One way or another, I didn’t care. I was determined to dedicate what remained of my life to God. Whether this would be for a single day or for many more years to come did not matter. Shams of Tabriz had said that faith and love turned human beings into heroes because they removed all the fear and anxiety from their hearts. I was beginning to understand what he meant.

And the strange thing is, Magnolia understood it, too. She gave me a long, painful look and slowly moved aside, opening the way out for me.

Ella

NORTHAMPTON, JUNE 19, 2008

Beloved Ella,

Thank you for being so compassionate. I’m glad you like my story and that you think about it a lot. I am not used to talking about my past with anyone, and it strangely makes me lighter to share all this with you.

I spent the summer of 1977 with a group of Sufis in Morocco. My room was white, small, and simple. It had just the bare necessities: a sleeping mat, an oil lamp, an amber rosary, a potted flower by the window, an evil-eye charm, and a walnut desk with a book of Rumi’s poetry in the drawer. There was no telephone, no television, no clock, and no electricity. I didn’t mind. Having lived in squat houses for years, I couldn’t see why I shouldn’t survive in a dervish lodge.

On my first evening, Master Sameed came to my room to check on me. He said I was more than welcome to stay with them until ready to leave for Mecca. But there was one condition: no drugs!

I remember feeling my face burn, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. How did they know? Had they been rummaging through my suitcase while I was out? I’ll never forget what the master said next: “We don’t need to look through your belongings to know you are using drugs, Brother Craig. You have the eyes of an addict.”

And the funny thing is, Ella, until that day I had never thought of myself as an addict. I was so sure that I was in control and that drugs helped me with my problems. “Numbing the pain is not the same as healing it,” Master Sameed said. “When the anesthesia wears off, the pain is still there.”

I knew he was right. With conceited determination I handed them all the drugs I carried with me, even my sleeping pills. But soon it became apparent that my determination was not strong enough to pull me through what was to come. During the four months I stayed in that small lodge, I broke my promise and strayed badly on more than a dozen occasions. For one who chose intoxication over sobriety, it wasn’t hard to find drugs, even as a foreigner. One night I came to the lodge dead drunk and found all the doors bolted from inside. I had to sleep in the garden. The next day Master Sameed asked nothing, and I offered no apologies.

Apart from these shaming incidents, I managed to get along fine with the Sufis, enjoying the calm that settled on the lodge in the evenings. Being there felt peculiar but oddly peaceful, and though I was no stranger to living under the same roof with many people, I found something there I had never experienced before: inner peace.

On the surface we lived a collective life where everyone ate, drank, and performed the same activities at the same time, but underneath we were expected and encouraged to remain alone and look within. On the Sufi path, first you discover the art of being alone amid the crowd. Next you discover the crowd within your solitude—the voices inside you.

While I waited for the Sufis in Morocco to safely sneak me into Mecca and Medina, I read extensively on Sufi philosophy and poetry, at first out of boredom and lack of anything better to do, then with growing interest. Like a man who had not realized how thirsty he was until he took his first sip of water, I found that my encounter with Sufism made me yearn for more. Of all the books I read that long summer, it was the collected poems of Rumi that had the most impact on me.

Three months later, out of the blue, Master Sameed said I reminded him of someone—a wandering dervish by the name of Shams of Tabriz. He said that some people regarded Shams as a brazen heretic, but if you asked Rumi, he was the moon and the sun.

I was intrigued. But it was more than simple curiosity. As I listened to Master Sameed tell me more about Shams, I felt a shiver down my spine, an odd feeling of déjà vu.

Now, you are going to think I’m crazy. But I swear to God, at that moment I heard a rustle of silk in the background, first far off, then drawing nearer, and I saw the shadow of someone who wasn’t there. Perhaps it was the evening breeze moving across the branches, or maybe it was a pair of angel wings. Either way, I suddenly knew that I didn’t need to go anywhere. Not anymore. I was sick and tired of always longing to be somewhere else, somewhere beyond, always in a rush despite myself.

I was already where I wanted to be. All I needed was to stay and look within. This new part of my life I call my encounter with the letter
f
in the word “Sufi.”

Love,

Aziz

Shams

KONYA, FEBRUARY 1246

Bidding fair to be an eventful day, the morning proceeded faster than usual, and the sky hung low and gray. Late in the afternoon, I found Rumi in his room sitting by the window, his forehead creased in contemplation, his fingers moving restlessly over rosary beads. The room was dim on account of the heavy velvet curtains being half closed, and there was a strange wedge of daylight that fell upon the spot where Rumi sat, giving the whole scene a dreamy quality. I couldn’t help but wonder whether Rumi would see the real intention behind what I was about to ask him to do, or would he be shocked and upset?

As I stood there absorbing the serenity of the moment, but also feeling slightly nervous, I had a glimpse of a vision. I saw Rumi, a much older and frailer version of himself, clad in a dark green robe and sitting in exactly the same spot, looking more compassionate and generous than ever, but with a permanent scar on his heart in the shape of me. I understood two things at once: That Rumi would spend his old age here in this house. And that the wound left by my absence would never heal. Tears pricked in my eyes.

“Are you all right? You look pale,” said Rumi.

I forced myself to smile, but the burden of what I was planning to say next weighed heavily on my shoulders. My voice came out a bit cranky and less forceful than I intended. “Not really. I am very thirsty, and there is nothing in this house to quench my thirst.”

“Would you like me to ask Kerra what she can do about it?” Rumi asked.

“No, because what I need is not in the kitchen. It is in the tavern. I am in the mood to get drunk, you see.”

I pretended not to notice the shadow of incomprehension that crossed Rumi’s face, and I continued. “Instead of going to the kitchen for water, would you go to the tavern for wine?”

“You mean, you want me to get you wine?” Rumi asked, pronouncing the last word cautiously, as if afraid of breaking it.

“That’s right. I’d so much appreciate it if you would get us some wine. Two bottles would be enough, one for you, one for me. But do me a favor, please. When you go to the tavern, don’t just simply get the bottles and come back. Stay there for a while. Talk to the people. I’ll be waiting here for you. No need to rush.”

Rumi gave me a look that was half irritated, half bewildered. I recalled the face of the novice in Baghdad who had wanted to accompany me but cared too much about his reputation to take the plunge. His concern for the opinions of others had held him back. Now I wondered if his reputation was going to hold Rumi back, too.

But to my great relief, Rumi stood up and nodded.

“I have never been to a tavern before and have never consumed wine. I don’t think drinking is the right thing to do. But I trust you fully, because I trust the love between us. There must be a reason you have asked me to do such a thing. I need to find out what that reason is. I’ll go and bring us wine.”

With that, he said good-bye and walked out.

As soon as he was out of the room, I fell to the ground in a state of profound ecstasy. Grabbing the amber rosary Rumi had left behind, I thanked God over and over again for giving me a true companion and prayed that his beautiful soul would never sober up from the drunkenness of Divine Love.

PART FOUR

Fire

THE THINGS THAT DAMAGE, DEVASTATE, AND DESTROY

Suleiman the Drunk

KONYA, FEBRUARY 1246

Beguiled by wine, I have had many crazy delusions when drunk, but seeing the great Rumi enter the tavern door was really wild, even for me. I pinched myself, but the vision didn’t vanish.

“Hey, Hristos, what did you serve me, man?” I yelled. “That last bottle of wine must have been some mighty booze. You’d never guess what I’m hallucinating right now.”

“Hush, you idiot,” whispered someone from behind me.

I looked around to see who was trying to quiet me and was stunned to find every man in the tavern, including Hristos, gawking at the door. The whole place had plunged into an eerie silence, and even the tavern dog,
Saqui
, seemed perplexed as he lay with his floppy ears glued to the floor. The Persian rug merchant stopped singing those awful melodies he called songs. Instead he swayed on his feet, holding his chin up with the overstated seriousness of a drunk who was trying to appear to be otherwise.

It was Hristos who broke the silence. “Welcome to my tavern, Mawlana,” he said, his voice dripping with politeness. “It is an honor to see you under this roof. How may I help you?”

I blinked repeatedly as it finally dawned on me that it really was Rumi standing there.

“Thank you,” Rumi said with a large but flat smile. “I’d like to get some wine.”

Poor Hristos was so surprised to hear this that his jaw dropped. When he could move again, he ushered Rumi to the first available table, which happened to be next to mine!

“Selamun aleykum,”
Rumi greeted me as soon as he sat down.

I greeted him back and uttered a few pleasantries, but I am not sure the words came out right. With his tranquil expression, expensive robe, and elegant dark brown caftan, Rumi looked totally out of place.

I leaned forward and, dropping my voice to a whisper, said, “Would it be terribly rude if I ask what a man like you is doing here?”

“I’m going through a Sufi trial,” Rumi said, winking at me as if we were best friends. “I’ve been sent here by Shams so that I could have my reputation ruined.”

“And is that a good thing?” I asked.

Rumi laughed. “Well, it depends on how you look at it. Sometimes it is necessary to destroy all attachments in order to win over your ego. If we are too attached to our family, our position in society, even our local school or mosque, to the extent that they stand in the way of Union with God, we need to tear those attachments down.”

I wasn’t sure I was following him correctly, but somehow this explanation made perfect sense to my addled mind. I had always suspected that these Sufis were a crazy, colorful bunch capable of all kinds of eccentricities.

Now it was Rumi’s turn to lean forward and ask in the same whispery tone, “Would it be terribly rude if I asked you how you got that scar on your face?”

“It’s not a very interesting story, I’m afraid,” I said. “I was walking home late at night, and I bumped into this security guard who beat the crap out of me.”

“But why?” asked Rumi, looking genuinely concerned.

“Because I had drunk wine,” I said, pointing to the bottle that Hristos had just placed in front of Rumi.

Rumi shook his head. At first he seemed entirely befuddled, as if he didn’t believe that such things could happen, but soon his lips twisted into a friendly smile. And just like that, we continued to talk. Over bread and goat cheese, we conversed about faith and friendship and other things in life that I thought I had long forgotten but was now delighted to rake up from my heart.

Shortly after sunset Rumi rose to leave. Everyone in the tavern stood to bid him farewell. It was quite a scene.

“You cannot leave without telling us why wine has been forbidden,” I said.

Hristos ran to my side with a frown, worried that my question might annoy his prestigious customer. “Hush, Suleiman. Why do you have to ask such things?”

“No, seriously,” I insisted, staring at Rumi. “You have seen us. We are not evil people, but that is what they say about us all the time. You tell me, what is so wrong with drinking wine, provided we behave ourselves and don’t harm anyone?”

Despite an open window in the corner, the air inside the tavern had become musty and smoky, and suffused with anticipation. I could see that everyone was curious to hear the answer. Pensive, kind, sober, Rumi walked toward me, and here is what he said:

“If the wine drinker

Has a deep gentleness in him
,

He will show that
,

When drunk
.

But if he has hidden anger and arrogance
,

Those appear
,

And since most people do
,

Wine is forbidden to everyone.”

There was a brief lull as we all contemplated these words.

“My friends, wine is not an innocent drink,” Rumi addressed us in a renewed voice, so commanding and yet so composed and solid, “because it brings out the worst in us. I believe it is better for us to abstain from drinking. That said, we cannot blame alcohol for what
we
are responsible for. It is our own arrogance and anger that we should be working on. That is more urgent. At the end of the day whoever wants to drink will drink and whoever wants to stay away from wine will stay away. We have no right to impose our ways on others. There is no compulsion in religion.”

This elicited heartened nods from some customers. I, for my part, preferred to raise my glass in my belief that no piece of wisdom should go untoasted.

“You are a good man with a great heart,” I said. “No matter what people say about what you did today, and I’m sure they are going to say plenty, I think as a preacher it was very brave of you to come to the tavern and talk with us without judgment.”

Rumi gave me a friendly look. Then he grabbed the wine bottles he had left untouched and walked out into the evening breeze.