Layla and Majnun (8 page)

I
t was her father who told Layla of Nowfal’s victory. He came running into her tent, his robes spattered with blood, his turban askew. He was exhausted, of course, yet strangely enough there was triumph in his voice. Layla tended to his cuts and bruises while he told her what had happened.

The old man slapped his thigh and said proudly, ‘What a coup! What a stroke of genius! I have done the impossible: I have tamed this wild creature Nowfal with my tongue; within minutes of the defeat he inflicted upon us, I showed him who the real victor is! And now I have escaped disaster, and all by a hair’s breadth!

‘As for that maniac, that crazed demon Majnun — if he had forced his way in, as indeed he was trying to
do, he would have ruined everything. Never mind. Although Nowfal has won fairly and squarely — and why not, since he fought sincerely in the name of God — thanks to my diplomacy, he has withdrawn and we are saved.’

Layla listened, smiling and nodding in all the right places, but her heart was breaking. She felt that she would die of grief before long, but of course she could not reveal her feelings.

Day in and day out she suffered in silence, feigning smiles and laughter and responding as expected when she was spoken to, but as soon as night fell she would take to her bed and cry, safe from prying eyes, until there were no tears left to shed.

Her parents’ home had become her prison; no, it had become her tomb, for was she not as good as dead? She guarded the secret of her love as jealously as a serpent guards treasure, but secrecy had its price. The fact that there was no one in whom she could confide made her feel like a bird in a trap: she was tired of her suffering and longed for release, even if that release meant certain death.

And while she suffered in silence, she waited, listening to the murmurs of the wind, hoping that it would bring her a message from her beloved.

Meanwhile, Majnun’s sonnets and odes extolling Layla and her unparalleled beauty had spread throughout the land; so famous had his poetry made her that before long, suitors were flocking from all corners of the land to ask for her hand. Some offered orchards and sheep, others gold and silver. Intoxicated by the
very sight of her, they resorted to every trick and stratagem they could in order to reach their goal. Yet, however skilled they were in the fine arts of persuasion, their efforts were all in vain: no amount of land or sheep, of gold or silver, could sway Layla’s father. To him, she was a precious diamond that was to be preserved with tenderness and loving care; to him, she was a casket of gems whose key was not to be given away lightly. Layla, for her part, was touched by his paternal solicitude and showed her gratitude for his concern with smiles and affection. But her smiles were the smiles of a candle that shines through waxen tears; hers were the smiles of the rose that hides its thorns.

News of the comings and goings of Layla’s suitors soon reached Ibn Salam, who was outraged by the thought of so many grubby hands reaching out for his promised jewel. His patience tested and his passion inflamed, he could bear it no longer. With great speed he equipped a caravan worthy of a sultan: fifty donkeys, each loaded with amber and frankincense, musk and myrrh, and enough sweetmeats to feed an entire army. His camels, barely visible under their loads of rich cloth, looked like moving mountains of silk and brocade. Ibn Salam, for his part, was dressed like a King, and as the caravan moved from oasis to oasis, he showered the people with gold.

Setting up camp near the oasis where Layla and her clan had their tents, Ibn Salam allowed himself and his retinue a day of rest before sending his mediator to Layla’s family. This mediator was a man of great eloquence, skilled in the art of rhetoric. He could weave
a spell with words; so effective was his speech that he could melt the iciest of hearts; such was his discourse that he could have raised the dead with the power of his logic and the force of his argument.

Such dogged determination on the part of Ibn Salam’s mediator was hard to resist; even harder to resist was the seemingly endless stream of gifts that Ibn Salam had brought with him. Spices from India, carpets from Persia, rich brocades from China, perfumes from Byzantium — each gift designed, no doubt, to sweeten the bitter pill of Ibn Salam’s request and to help open the lock that was, thanks to the key of his mediator’s sweet tongue, half open already.

The mediator began to charm Layla’s father: ‘Ibn Salam is no ordinary man. He is a veritable lion, the pride of all Arabs! He has the strength of ten of the strongest men and he is the backbone of any army.

‘But he is not only a master of the sword, for wherever he goes he is obeyed. Wherever he steps, his fame precedes him. His nobility is without question, his honour and integrity are without flaw. His wrath is without parallel: if need be, he will shed blood as though it were water. His munificence is the stuff of legends: if necessary, he will shower gold as though it were sand.

‘Can you afford not to accept such a man as your son-in-law? If you are in need of trustworthy men, he will find them for you. If you are in need of protection, he will grant it.’

Like the showers of spring, the mediator’s words rained down on Layla’s father, hardly giving him the
chance to reply. What was he to do? What was he to say?

Had he not already promised his daughter to Ibn Salam? Events were happening too fast and he would have preferred to wait a little longer, but the fact remained that he had made a promise on which he could not renege. He searched for some excuse, some loophole, some way out, but there was none. He was like a man who, suddenly surprised by an enemy, searches in vain for the nearest weapon with which to defend himself, only to find none.

And all the time he was being driven further and further into the corner by the silver-tongued artistry of his opponent. Eventually, he gave in and a date was set for the wedding.

When the wedding day finally dawned, the sun cast its veil of light over the shoulders of night, as one casts a veil over a bride. Layla’s father rose early, eager to set the wedding preparations in motion; by noon, everything was ready.

Ibn Salam, his party and the other guests were led into a pavilion that had been erected specially for the wedding celebrations. In time-honoured tradition, the guests were sitting together, admiring the bride’s presents, throwing showers of gold and silver into the air, enjoying the fine foods and cementing new ties of brotherhood and friendship. Laughter filled the air and all felt at peace with the world.

But what of Layla? She sat in the bridal chamber, surrounded by chattering women and squealing children.

The women had adorned the walls of the room with
silks and tapestries and were now burning frankincense in brass bowls, its bittersweet fragrance filling the room. So engaged were they in their preparations that they did not notice Layla’s tears.

Among all these happy, smiling people, she alone was sad. Icy daggers of loneliness and desperation were piercing her very soul; never before had she felt so terribly alone. How close she and Majnun had been to their goal … and now everything was lost: just as the goblet had touched their lips it had smashed, spilling the wine of happiness on to the sand.

No one could read Layla’s thoughts; no one had the slightest inkling of the storms that were raging in her heart. Can a runner see the thorn which makes him limp? Even if she had dared to reveal the extent of her unhappiness, her family would not have understood. And she was determined to say nothing. What good could have come of it? Those who rebel against their tribe will lose that tribe; a finger bitten by a snake must always be cut off and discarded.

Life is built on the harmony and equilibrium of all its elements: whenever this harmony is disturbed, death creeps in and does its worst. And however happy she tried to appear on the surface, there could be no denying that death had already appeared in Layla’s heart and was now biding its time, ready to turn her soul into a tomb.

T
he ship of night carried its cargo of shining stars down the Tigris river of the sky while the sun pitched her golden tent on the blue meadow of heaven. Morning had arrived.

Ibn Salam, the happiest of men, gave his caravan the signal to begin the long journey home. His donkeys and camels set off at a brisk pace, for they were returning without their loads. And although Ibn Salam had spent a veritable fortune on gifts for his bride’s family, he did not regret it for a second. After all, was not the most precious, the most priceless treasure in the universe now his?

The litter that had been prepared for Layla was as sumptuous on the inside as it was ornate on the outside. Borne aloft by camels and tended by footservants and flunkeys, Layla was treated like a princess: she was
told that during the journey she had only to clap her hands and the caravan would be brought to a halt so that she might get out to stretch her legs; she had only to cough and enough iced sherbet would be brought to quench the thirst of an army; she had only to yawn and a pavilion of pure silk would be erected so that she might sleep. But she desired none of these things.

When they finally arrived at Ibn Salam’s camp, he turned to her and said, ‘Dearest heart, everything here belongs to you. What is mine is yours: my kingdom lies at your command.’

And Layla’s response? Well, suffice to say that her response was such that Ibn Salam’s happiness quickly began to cloud over; his heart, which had once shone like the sun with joy, now became veiled with a darkness that seemed to intensify with each passing day. She would not eat, she could not sleep, and she would not allow him into her bed. What was this? For so long he had pursued her and now, now that the treasure was almost in his grasp, the key to the casket was denied him. His trusted courtiers counselled patience and forbearance. And hope. He tried as hard as he could to please her, if only to understand why she was refusing to please him, but it was in vain. Nothing could be read in his dear wife’s eyes but tears, and each night that fell found him sleepless and alone.

So frustrated did Ibn Salam become that he thought he might even take her by force. After all, he asked himself, is she not my wife? Is it not my right? Who knows, perhaps that is what she expects? And so he stopped trying to win her over with kindness and
resorted to more forceful action. But again he failed. In trying to pluck the fruit, he only scarred his hands on the thorn; in his rush to savour the sweetness, the only thing he was allowed to taste proved more bitter than wormwood. For as soon as he reached out his hand to touch her, Layla sank her teeth into his arm and scratched at his face until both of them were covered in his blood.

‘I swear to God that if you try that once more,’ she cried, ‘you will regret it for the rest of your life — that is, for what is left of your life! I have promised my Creator that I will not submit to your demands. You can slit my throat with your sword, if you like, but you cannot take me by force!’

There was nothing Ibn Salam could do. Deeply in love with her, he did not want to go against her wishes. He said to himself, ‘Even if she is not in love with me, at least she is here in my home. True, I may look but I must not touch. So be it! I would rather be allowed to look but not touch than not have her here with me at all. At least I can gaze upon her beautiful face whenever I wish.’

Then he knelt beside her, took her hand and said humbly, ‘Forgive me, my darling. I beg only to be allowed to look at you; to ask for more would be theft, and I am no common thief.’

But although Layla agreed, allowing Ibn Salam only to look at her whenever he wished, not once did she return his looks. While his eyes sought hers, her eyes sought only Majnun. She listened to the murmurs of the wind in case it brought news from him; she
watched the sunbeams dance in case a single mote that had been in his presence might come her way, bearing his scent. Sometimes, she would throw back the curtains at the entrance to her tent and look out at the night sky; then her soul would escape for a while and she would forget herself. Her hours were filled with thoughts of Majnun and she lived in hope of receiving a message from him. One day soon, she would say. One day soon …

M
ajnun knew nothing of Layla’s marriage to Ibn Salam; even after an entire year had passed, he was none the wiser. Love had turned him into a blind and drunken nomad, stumbling from place to place with no idea where he was going. Sorrow had emaciated him and sallowed his skin, and he grew worse by the hour. But for a sickness such as his — the sickness of love — there was no cure.

One evening saw him lying, exhausted as always, beneath the overhanging blossoms of a thorn-bush. He did not see the rider approach him, nor did he hear the rider’s camel, until he was almost upon him. The rider, a swarthy man in a coal-black cloak, dismounted and stood towering above Majnun like some monstrous black demon. His voice was as intimidating as his appearance. He kicked Majnun in the shin and boomed:

‘Hey, you there! Your idolatry has cut you off from the world and left you unaware of what is happening. But let me tell you this: you have dedicated your heart to Layla in vain. You idiot! Did you really expect her to remain faithful? Did you really think that she would wait? Do you still hope for light where there is only darkness?

‘How you fool yourself! The shining beacon of innocence and love that you think you perceive from afar is but an illusion, a trick of the light. Her love for you exists only in your imagination; in her eyes you are nothing!’

Majnun opened his mouth to speak but the stranger cut in, louder and more harshly this time.

‘You poor misguided fool! Don’t you realise that she has deceived you? You have given your heart to her, and she has given her heart to the enemy!

‘She has forgotten you, Majnun, and she has scattered her memories of you to the wind. For she has been given in marriage to another man — a marriage that she was only too glad to accept. Now her thoughts are all for him, for his kisses, his lovemaking, the warmth of his loving arms, the hardness of his rugged body, the beauty of his hidden treasure!

‘She is forever lost in thoughts of pleasures of the flesh while you are lost in your own grief and suffering. Can that be right? Can that be fair?

‘Look at the ever-widening gulf that separates you and judge for yourself: why should you go on caring for her when it is clear that she no longer cares for you?’

Majnun felt as though a thousand serpents had buried their fangs in his soul. He opened his mouth to cry out for mercy, but the black demon continued.

‘Women are women, Majnun. Did you really expect her to be any different? They are all alike, fickle and capricious, two-faced and duplicitous. She is like the rest of her sex, and the rest of her sex are like her.

‘Yesterday, you were a hero in her eyes; today, you are the devil in disguise! Yesterday, you were her everything; today, you are nothing. True, women have passions as we do, but theirs are pursued solely out of self-interest: there is hypocrisy and deceit in everything they do.

‘Shame on you for trusting her in the first place! Can one ever trust a woman? Trust a woman and she will repay your trust with torture. And you will have only yourself to blame!

‘Why? Because a man who trusts a woman deserves to be tortured; a man who trusts a woman and believes that she will remain faithful is more stupid than she is, and thus deserves to suffer!

‘After all, what is a woman anyway? A woman is nothing but a cesspit of falsehood and vanity, viciousness and mendacity.

‘True, on the surface she is a haven of tranquillity; dig deeper, however, and you find a churning maelstrom of trouble and turmoil. As your enemy, she corrupts the whole world and turns it against you; as your friend, she corrupts your own soul. If you say “Do this!”, you can be certain that she will not do it; if you say “Don’t do this!”, you can be certain that she will go
to the ends of the earth to do it! When you suffer, she is happy; when you are happy, she is in hell. That is how women are, my friend, and you would do well to remember it.’

As the dark stranger’s words came to an end, a terrible moan of despair rose from the depths of Majnun’s soul. He fell back and, as he fell, his head hit a rock so hard that blood sprayed like a fountain and coloured the sand beneath him bright crimson. He lay there unconscious, his lips still rounded in a silent scream.

Whether man or jinn, the rider felt pity for Majnun. Somewhat ashamed of the effect of his words on the madman, he crouched next to the crumpled body until Majnun regained consciousness.

Then, in a voice much softer than before, he started to beg Majnun’s forgiveness: ‘Please listen to me, I implore you! Everything I told you was a lie. It was a sick joke, nothing more. Layla has neither deceived nor betrayed you. And she has most certainly not forgotten you. How could she?

‘As for her husband, well, he is her husband in name alone: they have been married a whole year and not once has she let him near her.

‘Yes, she is married to him, but she remains faithful to you, and to you alone. She has confined herself to her tent and there she suffers, nursing a broken heart and longing only for you. She has no one else in the whole world, and not a single second passes when she does not think of you and your love for her.

‘How could she forget you? Even if you were
separated by a thousand years, she would not forget you!’

Majnun listened with rapt attention to the stranger’s words. But was he telling the truth? They were the very words he wanted to hear, but were they spoken in sincerity? Yet, how they soothed his aching heart!

He began to weep and, as he sat there in the dust with tears streaming down his cheeks, he looked like a little lost boy, like a tiny bird whose wings have been broken by sticks and stones. There was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do. Even the verses that flowed from his lips seemed futile. What good are verses, he thought, when the one for whom they are meant is never likely to hear them?