Beast (12 page)

I open the book. Even in this cold it falls open easily, thawed by the heat of my mouth. I read eagerly. But my eyes have trouble finding the words, staying on the page. I force them. This is nourishment for my soul at last. Work for me, my eyes. Please, please work for me.

I read of a
qadi,
an Islamic judge, drinking wine with a lover, murmuring words of desire about the sun and the moon and the pearls of the ocean. They pass the night in lovemaking, only to be discovered by the king in the morning. But the
qadi
wins the king's pardon through a witty defense.

The words run together again. I want to know more, but I cannot read. These eyes will not work
right. I slap the book shut with my paw, throw my head back in frustration, and open my jaw. I stop myself from roaring only at the very last moment. My roar would terrify all of Tabriz.

I close my eyes and wait. When they feel rested at last, I open them and force them to read again. The book has fallen open at a new place. The poem before me sings of a soul in a beautiful man's body, now in a woman's body, now a mouse, now a tiger. Always dancing, knowing love everywhere, moving through the infinite, through the breath and laughter of the Merciful One. Saadi's verses whirl with passion; they take flight in a divine madness. They say love is the water of life.

I turn my head to the left and say those words again, so they will be impressed upon my heart: Love is the water of life.

And I am laughing myself, in my crazy leonine way. Laughing. For I know now. The
pari
said only the love of a woman could undo the curse. Oh, yes, it's true. For through the love of a woman, I can know the love of the Merciful One. Passion leads to compassion.

Thank you, Mother. Thank you. Thank you, Saadi. Thank you, Merciful One.

What a mistake it was to go to India. I know now my true course. The French grow roses. And Frenchwomen
give the perfume of roses—that's what the Frenchman said to Father years ago. So they must love roses the most. The woman I will love, the woman who will love me, lives in France. Somehow I must find her.

That whisper in my head, that whisper of roses, was the seed of a plan I cannot yet comprehend, but in which I place all my trust.

I take the book in my jaws and head north.

I
trot night and day, up into the Alborz Mountains, then west, on and on into the Caucasus range. Winter winds blow bitter here. Holding the book in my mouth becomes a torment; icicles form from my drool. I trot more slowly, week in, week out. I stop only to raid the animals of the tiny settlements that litter these mountains. I sleep only when I drop from exhaustion. Still, I cover so little ground.

The northern coast of the Black Sea finally guides my path truly to the west. While the coast offers easy terrain, my frustration mounts every time I come to a cove that I know I could swim across more swiftly than run around. But I cannot figure out how to swim and still keep my
Gulistan
dry. The Sea of Azov, which connects to the Black Sea, practically breaks my spirit; swimming the strait would have saved me
weeks of travel. But, then, the cold of the sea might have killed me. So perhaps this book saves my body, as well as my soul.

Spring comes, with drenching rains. I form lairs for myself under the lowest branches of towering spruce. The rain wouldn't harm me, of course, but it would destroy my heart's last remaining treasure. I lose so much time waiting for the rains to stop. My impatience prickles the skin under my thick winter coat, which sheds in clumps.

Sunny days return with greater frequency, and I trot again, once more through mountains, now the Carpathians. Mountain travel is slower than travel on level ground, but safer because of the infrequency of other travelers and the abundance of caves to hide in. And now that it is summer, the mountains are not as hot as I imagine the valleys to be. These are strong advantages.

Still, by the time I reach the end of this mountain range, autumn has given way to winter again. The advantages of mountain travel must be foregone in the interest of speed. I head not southwest for the Alps, as I had originally planned, but, instead, directly west across the rolling lands into the lush forests of Germany. France is not far now. My legs trot with renewed energy.

I follow roads, ears alert. At the slightest noise that
hints of humans, I race into the woods. Sometimes my fear clutches so strong that I keep running for days. Such behavior thwarts me, for when I panic like that, I lose my sense of direction and set myself back in this endless journey. But I am unable to suppress these episodes of terror, and with reason. What remains of human knowledge in me recognizes the brutal truth: Every town presents mortal threat. Indeed, every stranger happened upon in a bend in the road is a potential enemy. All of them carry pistols.

At night I see men on the roads get robbed, sometimes by marauding soldiers. I grow thin and anxious. After I see a man shot for his purse, I hide in the woods. My pacing wears a smooth, deep path in front of the hole I have dug to sleep in. This journey is surely ill-fated. I cannot face the road again. I pace.

But the promise of roses finally lures me. I erase the image and sound of pistols from my brain. All that matters is motion. I go onward into this wet cold that enters my bones, and onward through a spring of noisy farmers, a summer of adventure-seeking wanderers, an autumn that opens with dangerously frequent markets.

Trotting forever, my
Gulistan
between my jaws.

The leaves are dry and falling again by the time I reach France, by the time I finally, finally rest.

I
've been sleeping among my roses. A small garden yet, but one I treasure; each rosebush cost me dearly. I prowled the countryside for flower gardens, all of which have roses. I dug up the smallest bush in each garden, the one that was least likely to be missed, and carried it home gently between my teeth to replant here. All at night.

This is my garden. My pleasure.

The Frenchman who talked with Father was right: France has the best roses in the world. Indeed, it seems this part of the world grew from my heart, for roses and jasmine are undoubtedly the most popular flowers. Their sweetness saturates the night air.

Night comforts me, offers me protection. Few humans walk the roads at night hereabouts, and those who do are often intoxicated—and easily dodged. And
no humans wander off the roads into the countryside at night.

During the day I stay at home.

Home is an abandoned castle yet a luxurious one—it even has glass window panes. My knowledge of its history came piecemeal and remains fragmented. Early one evening, only days after I had moved in, a pair of young lovers came sneaking through the brambles and overgrown wisteria that form a natural barrier around the castle grounds. They entered through the front door.

I watched from the upstairs hall that overlooks both the entranceway and the interior grand staircase. She was bareheaded — face and hair, as is the crude habit of the women here. He was clean-shaven and wore no hat — a peasant youth. They undressed and lay in each other's arms, offering my eyes the intimate curve of their bodies, the generous heat of their affection.

A moan escaped my lips.

They grabbed their clothes and ran.

I didn't know if they had seen me. But I needed to know. For if they had, I would have had to abandon this most perfect dwelling.

The young couple ran to the road, where she mounted a horse and left. He raced off across the meadow on foot.

I followed him, rather than her, for the horse she rode got skittish at the whiff of me, and I knew he'd give me away. But the meadow foiled me—there was no cover in the evening light. So I had to stick to the woods at the meadow's edge, taking the long way around at the fastest lope I could manage.

The man finally cut through a stand of evergreens and came out at a house on the edge of a farm. Two other youths sat behind the house, drinking from jugs and talking loudly. My man ran up to them, grabbed a jug, and took a swig. Then he spoke, and, though his words were in a variety of French that differed much from the Parisian I once studied, I could understand at least the gist of it; he told of going to the castle — of my moan.

I stayed in a crouch, hidden by shadows in the undergrowth, while they talked of the ghost that inhabits my castle. A few years back the castle was abandoned in great haste after a terrible tragedy. The ghost reigns still. It took several minutes for me to realize they attributed my moan to that ghost.

Since then, all winter long and into the start of this spring, no one has come through the brambles.

Oh, a boy child came nosing around a couple of weeks ago. But I gave a small growl from behind a tree, and he screamed,
“Fantôme!”
and ran so fast, he slipped and tumbled.

I haven't seen evidence of the infamous ghost on the castle grounds, but I am ready enough to play ghost. And I am grateful that the mysterious world of spirits benefits me in at least this way, after all the harm the
pari
has done me.

No one must come until I am ready.

The rest of my knowledge of this castle stems from the library, within which is volume after volume in French, as well as Latin and Greek and Chinese, but also rolled maps of the world and of France and of this locality. The castle is in the southwest of France, not more than a days journey from the sea. I have no desire to travel to the sea or anywhere else. My travels have ended. This castle is my refuge.

And a well-stocked refuge, thanks to the fear of the ghost that keeps would-be thieves at bay.

I am in control of my life here. I need no one's help.

I look beyond my rose garden to what was once a flamboyant arrangement of flower gardens circling cherry laurels and silvery olive trees. All is edged by cypress that stay fresh year-round, so thick that the castle is invisible from the road below. Much of the gardens revived with my care. The roses didn't come back, though. That's why I had to gather them from others' gardens.

Autumn is a tricky time to transplant rosebushes. I pruned away only injured branches. Then I dug generous
holes and spread the roots carefully within. I covered each plant halfway up the main stem with a mulch of twigs. With the help of the lucky rain that comes almost daily, they strengthened. A month ago I cleaned away the mulch for the start of spring.

The rosebushes bask in the morning sun on the southeast side of the castle. By afternoon, they are in shade. This is what I want, for roses that stand in filtered shade have a longer flowering season and give blooms of richer hues. I cannot see the hues, of course, but their beauty is an important part of my plan.

The drive from the road to the main entrance is on the north side. It is completely blocked by the brambles I've encouraged to spread. To the left stands a dovecote with an exterior rotating ladder and nesting places for eighteen hundred birds. I counted them, as I clung to the ladder and cleaned the perches. When I first came, there were only a couple of hundred birds. Now the nests are all full. Sometimes in the morning when they're warbling loudest, I close my eyes and feel I'm back in Tabriz, in the men's pavilion, not far from the pigeon tower.

A massive gate leads into the courtyard, which is protected by a wall and reinforced by a moat. The moat had gone dry; leaves and sticks and the debris of storms had clogged the large aquaducts from the
stream beyond the woods. It was easy to clear out and adapt for my
wudhu.
At first I thought I might swim in it, too. But this body I inhabit takes no joy in swimming.

I stand now and stretch, letting my nose press forward into a cluster of rosebuds that already perfume the air in the most delicate of ways. Hunger excites me. I haven't eaten for four days — not because of lack of food. The countryside around here has abundant hares and hedgehogs and foxes—all easy prey given the hunting skills I've gradually acquired. But I prefer to take down larger animals, eat until I can hardly move, and then sit digesting for days, getting up only for a drink or to wander a bit or to pray. Usually by the third or fourth day, I feel energetic enough to work on preparing the castle and expanding the gardens—a task I perform assiduously.

All as part of my plan. I began gathering rosebushes to make this garden for my own solace. But as I read more and more of Saadi's verses, I realized that this garden holds an even greater hope. I must make the garden inviting, enticing. Then I will lure a woman here. And she will walk through the rose garden on her own. She will run. She will dance. She will love my
gulistan.
And then she will come to love the other gardens. And the dovecote. And the castle. She will love the whole magical world within the perimeter of brambles.

And she will love the creator of this magic.

I will win the love of a woman and undo the
pari's
curse.