One Thousand and One Nights (13 page)

He bowed to the mistress of the house, who told him, “Stroke your head and go.”

But the third dervish said, “By God, mistress of the house, grant me permission to stay and hear the tales of these merchants.”

“You may stay, I have no objection,” she told him.

A few seconds passed, and then minutes, and not one of the three merchants came into the middle of the room, but instead whispered among themselves. When the mistress of the house cleared her throat impatiently, one of them came forward.

have been sitting here, listening to the dervishes spilling, much like a running stream, their life stories with great honesty, and I have decided to remove my mask and reveal my true identity. I have never been a merchant, nor have I ever lived in Mosul, as I claimed to the honourable lady who opened the gate to the three of us, inviting us to be guests in this house. Exactly nine days ago, we walked disguised through the city, so my Master could witness the welfare of his subjects with his own eyes and hear the complaints of those treated unjustly. We saw an old man carrying a fishing net in his hand and a basket on his head, sighing a deep sigh which had no beginning and no end.

My Master asked him, “What has happened, old man?”

“I am a fisherman, sir, fed up with life and living. I’ve been trying my luck since midday but my net has caught nothing but water. For God’s sake, sir, can you tell me what I can do for my hungry family? I return home each night and see them with open mouths.”

Hearing this, my Master said to the fisherman, “Come with us to the river and try your luck once more. I will give you one hundred dinars for any catch you get, even if it is only small fry.”

Greatly relieved, the old fisherman walked with us down to the Tigris and threw his net into the water. When he gathered the ropes and pulled the net in, we discovered that he had caught a heavy basket made of palm leaves secured with red woollen thread. To our horror, we saw a slain girl inside, hacked into many pieces.

At these words, the listeners whispered to each other as realisation stirred among them. Only the porter remained entirely bewildered. The third dervish held the hands of the other two in mortification. Ignoring the reaction of the gathered company, the merchant went on with his story.

When my Master saw her face, which was as beautiful as the full moon, a deep sadness overtook him. So deeply did he mourn her fate that tears fell down his cheeks. He turned to me, saying furiously, “Is it possible that our subjects are slain in Baghdad and thrown in the river beneath our very eyes? I want you to find me her killer. I want to avenge this girl. How else can I stand before my God and Creator on judgement day?”

As he continued, anger sparked from his eyes. “I will give you one week, no more, to find her killer. If you do not, I will hang you—as sure as you are Jaafar the Barmecide, my Vizier, and I am the Caliph, Haroun al-Rashid, Commander of the Faithful.”

The whole company rose to their feet in amazement, apart from the porter who became increasingly frustrated, demanding of the others, “What’s going on? What’s got into you all?”

The merchant who had been so impatient to understand the reason for the strange behaviour of the women of the house, and whom the others addressed as “Master,” stood and removed his turban, revealing his white complexion, which shone like silver,
and a tall figure which inspired fear and respect. Now there could be no mistake: all in the room realised that they were before the Caliph Haroun al-Rashid in his sublime silk attire, imported for him from far-off China by his wife, Lady Zubeida. The merchant telling the story also shed his outer clothes to reveal the elegant form of Jaafar the Barmecide. Stunned, the three dervishes and the three equally astonished ladies bowed their heads in supplication. “Pardon us, pardon us, Commander of the Faithful, for the despicable and disrespectful way we have treated you.”

The shopper grabbed the porter and threw him to the floor, face down. Haroun al-Rashid turned to Jaafar, and said, “Well, you lucky old dog of a Vizier, it looks as though the merciful one has shown you special kindness. What a remarkable coincidence. But do not rejoice quite yet. There’s still the matter of the accursed slave, who was the cause of this calamity. You will be off the hook only when you bring him to me.”

“Commander of the Faithful,” Jaafar replied calmly, “if I might ask you to be patient and listen to the rest of my tale, I can guarantee you that it contains a more remarkable coincidence even than the revelation as to the killer before us now.”

Haroun al-Rashid turned in surprise to the third dervish, who remained silent and simply shrugged his shoulders.

“You may continue,” said the Caliph.

After the Caliph had given me a week to find the killer or die, I returned to my palace, and resigned myself to my fate. For three days I told myself repeatedly how impossible it would be to find the killer even if I were a magician, for how can one find a mustard seed in a dense forest? The feeling of frustration and sadness grew in me with every moment.

I confined myself to the house, awaiting my fate and the will of God. On the sixth day—this very day—I witnessed my last testament in the presence of judges and witnesses and then I gathered my family and bade them farewell, taking special care over my beautiful youngest daughter. This girl is like a shining star, so attached am I to her, and she loves me in return with the innocence and naivety of a child. She would often say to me, “Oh father, how I wish you were so small that I could put you in my pocket and take you out each time I missed you.” I felt agonised at the thought of being parted from her, and I longed, in return, to become small enough to hide in her pocket.

At this bleak hour a messenger appeared, with a summons to see the Commander of the Faithful.

I was confused by this urgent summons, since I had one day left before my deadline. I feared that the Caliph was hastening the time of my execution. I reached for my daughter one last time. Squeezing her to my heart, I lifted her up, wishing that I could hold on to her until Doomsday and not part from her that night. As I did so, I felt something protruding from her pocket.

“What is that in your pocket, my darling child?” I asked.

From her pocket she took an apple and showed it to me. “Look, father, the name of our Master, the Caliph, is written on it and Rayhan our slave sold it to me for two dinars.”

Everyone in the hall gasped, while Vizier Jaafar continued.

At the time, I didn’t give the apple another thought but left my home and family with the heaviest of hearts. I went to prostrate myself before the Commander of the Faithful, knowing full well that he never goes back on his word and fearing his terrible
justice. When I arrived before him he was sitting drinking wine and conversing with the wonderful comic poet, Abu Nuwas. This confused me, for he calls for Abu Nuwas when he yearns for distraction and relief from his worries. Abu Nuwas turned to me, cup in hand, with a playful smile and recited …

The third merchant stood for the first time and slowly revealed his true identity: he took off his coat to reveal his young and slender form, and golden locks beneath his turban, which he put back on his head as he recited:

Overcome by emotion, the third dervish cried out, “God is most great!”

Jaafar continued:

“My poor Jaafar,” the Caliph said to me. “You have served me well for many years, how can I let you spend your last night on this Earth alone and full of the anticipation of death? Come, let us disguise ourselves as merchants and walk the streets of my city and see how the people live. It may comfort you to see the misfortunes of others, and who knows, we may chance upon a final adventure through which we can remember you with joy.”

It is the Caliph’s habit to walk Baghdad’s streets in disguise, and we have experienced many extraordinary evenings in this way—but none more so than tonight. Our stroll had been uneventful and even rather melancholy, until we passed your mansion and heard voices and music and saw the lights burning so warmly. We knocked, hoping for diversion. We had no inkling that, thanks to the will of God, we would stumble upon the answer to both mysteries in one place. I trust, madam, that this fulfils our side of the bargain and that you will now pardon myself and my two companions?

The mistress of the house lowered her head in deep discomfort and Haroun al-Rashid laughed out loud.

“Now, Jaafar, you may be in the clear but please don’t gloat at the embarrassment of others. You’ll recall how you objected to knocking at the door, fearing that the people within were intoxicated and might insult me. How pleased I am that I insisted we enter, with Abu Nuwas, and that once inside we interfered in that which didn’t concern us, despite your urging me to the contrary! We were threatened with death, but luckily for you, the third dervish, whose eye wound has not yet healed, confessed to his crime with great simplicity and courage. I have one more important matter to deal with, for which you remain responsible. Where is Masrur?”

“Your executioner is, as usual, at the gate waiting for your orders, Oh Commander of the Faithful.”

He clapped his hands and in one second Masrur the executioner entered and bowed at the feet of the Caliph.

“Masrur, hurry and bring me Rayhan, the slave of the Vizier, as quickly as a flying bird.”

As soon as Masrur left, the poet Abu Nuwas stood and bowed to the Caliph.

“Oh, Prince of the Faithful, may I recite a poem?”

The Caliph agreed with a gesture.

The Caliph was quiet for a while and then he said, “Your poem is not appropriate, Abu Nuwas. Remember the apple led to a woman, in the prime of her youth, being slain!”

“Murder is evil; poetry divine. Good deeds chase away the bad,” was the poet’s reply.

The Caliph nodded in appreciation, and Abu Nuwas returned to his seat as Masrur the executioner came in, leading Rayhan the slave by the hand. Masrur bowed to the Caliph and made the overwhelmed and stunned Rayhan follow suit by pressing him down.

“Did you sell an apple to the Vizier’s young daughter with my name carved on it?”

The slave’s head was nearly touching the ground. Masrur lifted it up, and Rayhan, still kneeling, answered in a faint voice.

“Yes, my Lord and Master.”

“Where did you find it?”

“I shall tell you the truth, my Master, because it is always safer and better than telling a lie, even though a lie might save me. I swear by God Almighty and his Prophet that I didn’t steal the
apple from the Vizier Jaafar’s palace, nor the palace of the Caliph. I saw it in the hand of a young boy, and snatched it from him even though he pleaded with me to return it, running after me and telling me how his father had travelled two weeks in order to get his sick wife three apples.”

“Go on with your story and don’t stop,” the Caliph commanded.

Shakily, the slave continued. “The boy followed me, begging me to give back the apple, and wouldn’t give up until I threatened him. Later, when I was in the market, tossing the apple in the air and catching it in my mouth, a carpet seller asked me where I had got it from. Without knowing why, I lied and told him that my lover had given me the apple instead of eating it herself, even though her husband had travelled for two weeks to get it for her from Basra.”

At this, the Caliph cried out, “Damn you, slave! Are you aware that your wicked lie branded an innocent mother of two young boys as a treacherous adulterer, and that she was hacked to pieces by her jealous husband, the carpet seller, who asked you where you got the apple? You lied to him, and in doing so ended her life while she was in the bloom of youth, leaving two boys motherless and casting him into such despair that he plucked out his own eye? Can you see that you are the cause of all of this? What will you do to atone for your sins?”

The slave cried and sobbed, and shook and trembled.

“Well, you can be sure that I will make sure you pay for it!”

The Caliph asked the third dervish to come forward. The third dervish bowed and kissed the ground before the Caliph, then remained on his knees.

“You have heard me tell the slave that he caused a woman to be slain, but this doesn’t mean that you’re relieved of responsibility for killing your wife in cold blood, without giving her the
benefit of the doubt. You didn’t even ask her if what you had been told was the truth, nor did you give her the chance to defend herself before ending her last moments on Earth. You slayed her like a butcher slays a beast and chopped her to pieces. And now I hope to avenge this woman who was in the bloom of her youth, by putting one of you to a worse death. And in doing so, I will quench the thirst for vengeance.”