A Poet of the Invisible World (31 page)

“I make the meals,” said Ali Majid. “Habbib tends the garden and keeps the place clean. If you've nowhere to go to, you're welcome to stay.”

It was clear to Nouri that he'd been drawn back to the lodge in Tan-Arzhan in order to care for Habbib. For though his friend was still able to sweep the floors and tend the garden, he moved so slowly it took him the whole day. So besides the obvious joy that his presence would bring, Nouri could help to reduce Habbib's workload.

Despite the fact that his ears were gone, Habbib could still hear. The sound was muffled, but if Nouri leaned in when he spoke and Habbib cupped his hands around the damaged holes, he could perceive every word. Each night, therefore, before bed, they would retire to Habbib's cell and, by the light of a taper, Nouri would retell the stories that Habbib had so lovingly told to him when he was a child. Like a thread being wound back onto its spindle, each image would rise up as if Nouri had just received it the night before. And Habbib would sit and listen as if he were hearing it all for the very first time.

Time passed and the two friends watered and weeded and swept. Nouri and Ali Majid took turns preparing meals, and Ali Majid sat in the courtyard for hours making music with his
ney.
One day, however, while Nouri was replacing a tile in the floor of the chapel mosque, Ali Majid came to see him.

“I'm leaving,” he said.

Nouri looked up.

“There's still time for me to learn a new song,” said Ali Majid. “Even have an adventure.”

It was only then that Nouri saw that Ali Majid had remained at the lodge all these years to care for Habbib. So he bid the loose-limbed fellow farewell and—after a simple good-bye to Habbib and one last impossibly haunting melody on the
ney
—Ali Majid headed off.

The days grew colder. Then warmer. Then colder again. Nouri and Habbib continued on. Nouri knew that he could not give his friend back his ears or the years that had slipped by, but he could give him his love. And that was all that Habbib seemed to need.

The days grew longer. And shorter. Then longer again. And gradually, like a spring winding down, Habbib began to falter and had to take to his bed. His skin became ashen. His eyes became veiled. Then slowly the illness crept in, sucking the breath from his lungs and wracking his little body with pain. Nouri sat beside him mopping his brow, spooning the broth into his trembling mouth, holding his withered hand.

When the end finally came, there were no words. Habbib gazed at Nouri, and Nouri—his mind empty—his heart full—gazed back. A world passed between them. Then the worn-out lungs took their last breath, and Habbib was gone.

The silence in the room after Habbib died was even greater than the silence that had greeted Nouri after the explosion. But for all the seductive peace that it offered, Nouri knew he could not remain at the lodge. So he gathered up Habbib's lifeless body, carried it out to the garden, and buried it beneath the fig tree that his friend had loved. Then he whispered a brief prayer, retied his head cloth, and headed out through the gates.

 

Twenty-Eight

When Nouri left the lodge, he made his way along the curving path that led to the heart of the city. He had no idea what lay ahead. The future seemed as unreal as the past. After the quiet of his time with Habbib, however, he felt enlivened by the throb and clatter of the streets. So he walked past the public bath—past the countinghouse—past the grand bazaar—and drank in the vivid life that surged all around him. At night, he found a patch of grass in the town square where he could sleep. Then he awoke the next day and continued roaming the streets. Past the schoolyard, where the children laughed and played games. Past the stables, where the horses grazed. Each day the city seemed new, as if it had been razed to the ground and carefully reconstructed while he slept.

One morning, as he was walking through the northeast quadrant, a door flew open and a man dashed out. As he tore past Nouri, another man—dressed in expensive robes and clutching a broom—appeared in the doorway. When the second man saw Nouri, he handed him the broom, ran into the street, and shouted after the first man:

“And don't show your pox-ridden face in my house ever again!”

By the time he'd finished shouting, the fellow had disappeared. So he turned and—still shaking with rage—started back to the house. When he saw Nouri holding his broom, he folded his arms over his chest.

“Can you sweep?”

Nouri—who could only think of Habbib—nodded.

“Can you write?”

Nouri nodded again, and the man took a step closer.

“Can you tell stories?”

Nouri nodded a third time. So the man ushered him into the house and he began his new existence.

For the most part, his job consisted of caring for the man's children. Aban, the boy, who was as frisky as a newborn goat, was eight. Sanam, the girl, who was as plump as a freshly picked fig, was six and a half. Nouri would awaken them and feed them and escort them to school. Then he would return to the house, fetch the broom, and sweep the inner courtyard and the rooms. When school was done, he would fetch the children and then retire to his room while they ate their supper with their parents. Then he would tuck them into bed and tell them one of the stories he'd learned from Habbib
.

No one—either in or outside the household—knew that Nouri was a Sufi. But Nouri knew. Each morning, before he awoke the children, he would sit in his room and affirm his connection to God. Each afternoon, when he'd finished sweeping, he would sit in the garden. And listen. And look. What he was forging inside of himself had no texture, no sound, no scent. But it was real, and it was growing stronger each day.

From time to time, Nouri thought about his ears. They'd marked him as different from his very first breath, but after a lifetime of keeping them concealed, he could only wonder that they'd seemed so important. He still didn't know if they were a quirk of nature or a sign of his spiritual calling. But he knew that without them his life wouldn't have been his life. And since he could not wish away his life—not one moment of it—he could not wish away his ears.

The children grew from eight and six to twelve and ten to sixteen and fourteen. Nouri cared for them and swept the house and communed with God. At times—despite the fact that he was now more than fifty—the old questions would reappear:

Who am I?

Why am I here?

Which of the Nouris is really me?

He knew by now that he was not the Nouri who studied or the Nouri who suffered or the Nouri who prayed. Those were the chalice. The vessel. The shell. The only Nouri that came close to who he really was was the Nouri who loved. That was who would remain when all the other Nouris were gone.

One day, while he was sitting in the garden, he heard a voice:

“The children are old enough to care for themselves now. It's time to go.”

When he turned, he saw his old friend Soledad standing at the entrance to the garden, her hair tied back in a slender braid, her dark eyes shining. He wanted to go to her and enfold her in his arms. But he knew that she was not really there. The following morning, however, he placed a few things in a satchel, left the house, and headed out to the ruined room in the clearing on the outskirts of town where he'd lain, beneath the stars, beside Vishpar, a lifetime before.

When he reached the clearing, he paused for a moment and gazed at the forgotten structure. The crumbling walls were overgrown with weeds, the stone floor had been worn away to reveal patches of dark earth, and the small piece of roof that had framed the night sky that had spat stars over him and his friend seemed to have blown away. He did not know what awaited him in the little room. A flash of lightning? A final struggle? But he knew that, whatever it was, he had to face it alone.

He crossed the clearing and climbed over the wall. He found a place where the floor was still intact and settled himself in. Then he opened the satchel and—one by one—lowered the items he'd brought with him to the stones.

A bowl to catch rainwater.

A blanket.

A knife.

His tattered copy of the Qur'an.

And a sack that held a small stack of paper, a pot of ink, and a pen.

For though he knew by now that words could never enter the invisible world, they could carry him to the threshold. And despite what he'd been through, he still felt the need to praise.

 

Twenty-Nine

Nima could never resist a dare, and no one knew that better than Azad. Whatever challenge Azad, who was twelve, posed to Nima, who was only ten, Azad knew that the boy would embrace it with gusto. Climbing to the top of the Darni Sunim. Stealing eggs from Hasam al-Farid's hens. Jumping into the River Tolna in the middle of winter. Nima would do anything to win Azad's favor. For although Azad was small and possessed of a lateral lisp, he had the combative confidence of a bulldog. With his approval, the other boys moved more freely through the streets, and slept more soundly at night.

It was therefore without hesitation that Nima agreed to head out to the abandoned room by the river and bring something back to prove that he'd faced the spectral figure that dwelled there. Some said he was the ghost of the man who had built the tiny structure. Others said he was a
djinn.
Still others said he was a wandering saint who'd grown tired of wandering. They only knew that he'd been there as long as anyone could remember. And that if someone called out to him, he'd just sit there—eyes open—hands resting gently in his lap—as if nothing had been said.

Nima didn't know which of these theories was true. But he knew that if the fellow was a
djinn
, he was not likely to respond kindly to a visit from a thieving boy. So while he had every intention of meeting Azad's dare, he did not approach it without trepidation.

The night before he was scheduled to set out, he lay flat on his back, taut with excitement
,
until the first glimmer of light traced the sky. Then he bolted up, pulled on a pair of trousers, and headed out into the morning mist. As he made his way along, he tried to press back the thoughts that crowded in of what might happen when he got there. Perhaps the fellow was mad and as Nima drew near he would grab him and slit his throat. Perhaps he really was a
djinn
and would transform him into a toad. It occurred to Nima that he did not have to go at all. He could easily find a cup or a jug and tell Azad that he'd taken it from right beneath the fellow's eyes. Azad would never know he'd been too frightened to see the challenge through.

But Nima would know. So he wiped the remaining sleep from his eyes and continued on toward the clearing.

Nima was going to be a great man when he grew up. He was not sure if he would become a caliph or a magistrate or a judge. Or perhaps even a sorcerer. But he knew there were important things for a man to know, and he was determined to find them out.

By the time he reached the edge of the clearing, the mist had dissolved. So he slowly made his way toward the roofless room, where he found an old man wearing an odd-looking head cloth seated cross-legged on a blanket. To his left sat a bowl and the remains of a small fire. To his right stood a pot of ink, a quill pen, and a sheet of paper folded over into a square. The old man's eyes were open wide, yet he did not seem to notice Nima as he approached. So the boy scrambled over the wall to see what he might carry away.

It was only when he was standing right beside it that he saw the snake. It was a dull brown covered with pale zigzag stripes that seemed to flash through its supple body as it slithered across the stones. And he knew—from the countless lectures he'd been given by Azad—that it was not only a viper, but the deadliest kind.

Nima was well past the clearing and deep into the woods before it even occurred to him that he might have called out to the old man before dashing away. Yet he sensed that—even if the fellow had a hundred ears—he would not have heard him. So he continued running until he reached the safety of his home.

Nima spent the rest of the day hiding from Azad. And that night, just as the night before, he barely slept. He kept seeing the snake sink its fangs into the old man. He kept seeing the old man writhe in pain. But he also kept seeing Azad's face when he went to him empty-handed. So when dawn came, he summoned his courage and headed back to the room.

As he approached the clearing, he pictured the old man lying lifeless on the stones, his skin a ghastly greenish black. When he reached the room and climbed over the wall, however, he found that it was empty. Only the handful of objects strewn about gave any sign that the man had ever been there.

As Nima scanned the room trying to decide what to take back to Azad, his eyes fell upon the inkpot. The pen was also nice: a perfect goose feather, dappled with gray. When he turned to the bowl, however—to his surprise—he saw the viper curled up inside. And since he did not know whether it was sleeping or dead, he thought it best not to go near it.

He turned back toward the clearing. There was no one watching him, yet he felt he was being watched. Then—just as he was about to give up—he saw the small square of paper lying at his feet.

Perhaps the old man had written a message upon it.

A secret.

A spell.

Perhaps when Nima read the words they would change his life.

He knelt down and reached for the piece of paper. A shiver ran through him. Then he slipped the folded page into the waistband of his trousers and hurried off to find his friend.

 

Thirty

The light filtered in through the trees, casting scalloped patterns on the grass, as Azad stared at the sheet of paper he'd just unfolded.

“You don't even have the guts,” he snarled, “to take a dare!”