Fruit trees blossomed and braziers were no longer necessary indoors. My heart was in my mouth all that time, though Abu el-Kasim cheered me, saying, “Ah, Michael, danger is the spice of life! How soon we weary of a quiet, comfortable existence. Nothing in the world gives a man so good an appetite or such sound sleep as approaching danger. Only then does a man fully appreciate the days remaining to him.”
No doubt he spoke in mockery, for I continually cried out in my sleep, and an unpleasant sensation in my throat had bereft me of all desire for food. But when the soft spring wind brought the scent of blossom to my nostrils I could find comfort from time to time in thinking of all the poor and oppressed people whom we should now be able to liberate from tyranny. And ever more eagerly I awaited the hour when Giulia would become my slave.
I was working outside the shop one warm spring day when I saw a strange youth approaching our house. As he walked one heard a pleasant jingling sound, for he wore a short tunic with a silken, tas- seled girdle to which silver bells were fastened. Below his knees he had bound silken ribbons with similar bells, and over his shoulders hung a lion skin, its forepaws crossed upon his breast. His well-kept, curly hair waved over his shoulders, he wore nothing on his head, and his black beard gleamed like silk. He carried a book bound in soft leather and as he paced along the street he opened it now and again and read, seemingly oblivous of all that went on around him, twirling the tassels of his girdle abstractedly, so that the bells jingled in time with his steps.
He was indeed the handsomest youth I had ever seen. When he drew nearer and I noted his beauty and his graceful, dignified bearing, I was filled with envy. He paused before me and addressed me in carefully articulated Arabic, “I have been told that Abu el-Kasim the drug merchant dwells here. If you are his son, Allah has indeed blessed him!”
My clothes were dirty and my hands stained with dye, and feeling exceedingly inferior in the presence of the stranger I replied abruptly, “This is Abu el-Kasim’s shop, but I’m only a slave. My name is Michael el-Hakim and I can’t invite you into the house as my master is out.”
The stranger surveyed me with his brilliant eyes and exclaimed, “Are you Michael el-Hakim? I’ve heard of you. Never have I beheld such beautiful eyes, such rosy cheeks, and such admirable hands as yours.”
He bent to take me in his arms and kissed me on both cheeks, so that I had difficulty in disengaging myself and began to have grave suspicions of him. When my dog saw me in this fair youth’s embrace he began barking and sniffing at the hairless legs. So the stranger released me, but whistling softly he bent to stroke Rael and spoke to him kindly in Arabic, Persian, and Turkish, thus revealing himself to be a man of education. So friendly was he to my dog that my hostility melted away, and I asked what he wanted of me. He answered, “I’m a wanderer for my faith, Michael el-Hakim, and I belong to a brotherhood of wanderers, a Sufi sect known by some Mussulmans as Love’s Beggars. My name is Mustafa ben-Nakir and I’m not of humble origin, though I call myself son of the angel of death. My lot is to wander from country to country and from town to town; as I go I read Persian poems to rejoice my heart.”
He opened his book, jingled his bells, and in a musical voice read aloud to me a few verses of Persian poetry, which were certainly very pleasing to the ear, though they meant as much to me as pearls mean to a swine. He evidently belonged to some sort of sacred brotherhood within Islam, but in contrast to most dervishes he glorified the pleasures of this life by the studied perfection of his appearance. I could not resist his attraction, and said, “Mustafa ben-Nakir, son of the angel of death, I’ve given much thought to death and your coming is timely. Yet you must be a great liar, for what should you know of me, a slave? Come in, however, and let us see if we can find a piece of bread and some dried figs. When my master returns you must vanish, for he’s an irascible man and won’t tolerate strangers in his house.”
Mustafa ben-Nakir needed no second bidding, but stepped indoors and looked so keenly about him that I hid the jar of small change. I took him into the inner room and there poured water over his hands, and he told me he would now perform his devotions. His clear eyes and beautiful voice enchanted me during the prayer, and I could have believed him to be a real angel had he not been carrying that book of Persian poems. As I set food before him I asked him about his faith, and he said, “I was born in Istanbul, that most lovely city where the two halves of the world meet. My father was a wealthy merchant and my mother a Greek slave. They hired a wise Arabian tutor to instruct me in the true interpretation of the Koran, and a Persian poet to teach me versification. I listened to the most eminent teachers in the mosque school, but when I was seventeen I received a divine revelation, The forms of prayer and the letters of the Koran became as an empty husk. Nor was I the only one to be thus awakened; many another rich man’s son wearied of the luxurious life we led, and of the empty letter of the law. And so we joined this mendicant brotherhood, to sing and dance in the streets to the music of our bells, until we wearied also of this, and set forth on journeys to foreign lands to observe all the forms and customs with which men fence in their lives. I’ve seen Bagdad, Jerusalem, and Cairo, and have never repented my impulse to exchange a life of luxury for one of danger and hardship. I live in poverty, gaining the necessities of life from the liberality of devout women. Never yet have I had to go hungry.”
His story enchanted me, though I suspected that pious imams and faqihs could hardly approve his doctrine. I asked him further questions, but regarding me with his limpid, angelic eyes he said, “The profoundest element of my belief is complete freedom, admitting neither law nor formula. The dictates of the heart form the only rule for one of my fraternity. All I possess I carry upon me, so that when I see a caravan move off I can join it, should the whim take me. But then, if a strange bird flies across my path, I can turn aside and follow it, and in the wilderness devote myself to solitude and meditation. If in some port the sail of a vessel is hoisted I may take it as a sign and go aboard. And when a white hand appears behind a lattice to throw a flower at my feet, I follow that sign too, without misgivings.”
Mustafa ben-Nakir went on to speak at great length of his singular doctrine, until I came to feel that nothing in the world was so essential to a man as sitting idly and passing the noon hours in lofty conversation. Abu el-Kasim’s arrival took us altogether by surprise, therefore, and he exclaimed aloud in his wrath. But Mustafa ben-Nakir rose and greeted him with the deepest respect, touching forehead and ground with his hand. To my amazement he added, “I’m told that the Deliverer comes from the sea at the next new moon, and will land his forces when he sees the signal fires. Under cover of darkness they will approach the city and march through the open gates at dawn.”
“
Mustafa looked at him in bewilderment and replied, “I have brought you the message, and have no more to do than to follow my own will. I leave you therefore to the protection of Allah, and will go to some hospitable house where poetry is understood.”
He prepared to depart, but Abu el-Kasim restrained him, saying, “Don’t leave us, bringer of good tidings. Let us rather converse together confidentially, for you are certainly more than you seem. Advise me, for many difficulties remain.”
“Allah, Allah!” said Mustafa. “All happens in conformity with his will, and he has chosen a most auspicious time for action. The Spanish Emperor’s armies are shut up in Naples, besieged by the superior forces of the French King. The imperial navy is defeated, and Doria, who’s in the French King’s service, has blocked the harbor. And so the Emperor has other things to think of than Algiers.”
I could hardly believe my ears, and cried, “How is this possible? Less than a year ago I was with the Emperor’s army at the sack of Rome, and all Italy was then in his hands.”
Abu el-Kasim silenced me and said, “Let us put our faith in the Deliverer. If he chooses to hasten matters he must have good reason. The new moon is the day after tomorrow, so you had better say your prayers, Michael el- Hakim, and prepare yourself for your task.”
I was astonished at his words, and said, “Have I not carried out your orders to the best of my ability? What more do you require of me, dear master Abu?”
Abu el-Kasim surveyed me coldly.
“At cockcrow the day after tomorrow,” he said, “we must carry Selim ben-Hafs’s head to the Deliverer on a golden platter. It’s only fair that we should divide this work between us. You, therefore, will get his head, and I on my part will provide a most magnificent dish.”
My heart flew into my mouth and despite the heat my teeth chattered. Mustafa ben-Nakir, son of the angel of death, regarded me with sympathy and said, “Drink a little water, Michael el-Hakim. And have no fear, for I’ve been told that a
