“But these last few months, chased by the demons of that first dream—that of my own death—and by the revelations of the black goddess—I have no longer had the wall to stop this vision. And so I have seen how it continues.
“She reaches for me, trusting, longing...what she longs for neither of us knows. Or rather, we think we know, but we are fooled by the images of love the world has wanted us to believe all our lives. Slowly, as I touch the golden flame of her hair, I realize that she has had all the mere beastly copulation a woman could ask for. Yes, but it is love she seeks, love she ever sought when she sought power and wealth. It is a different kind of love than that the world will sell her for her golden hair and her golden coffers, however. It is a love that will finally, finally let her rest.
“As my hand runs down the alabaster of her body, gently begins to knead those breasts, I feel it so strongly beneath the coolness of her exterior. It is a heat that has all but consumed itself, a lamp that sputters and longs to be extinguished quickly and not be left to die a long drawn-out death of more and more the same. So I reach over her to the niche and catch the wick between two love-wet fingers. Then, while my hand is behind her head I reach in the darkness for one of the pillows. Gently, slowly, like a caress, I draw it up and over her face. I press down. I hold it there.
“And you know, she doesn’t struggle. Her hand is on my arm until the last and she doesn’t once sink her nails into me, as she could so easily do. Not even in pain do they clench me. But they continue to caress me as in gratitude, growing weaker and weaker until peace is hers at last.
“That is the love of a eunuch—that peace at last. Perhaps there is no greater love...Anyway, that is what I’ve dreamed. And every day, every hour, it seems more real...”
The light coming through the tree had gained a red tint now, as if the light of spirit had gained blood and needed only that elusive quality of flesh to make it material. Ghazanfer rose, wished me luck and blessings with my pilgrimage, and I returned the wish. Then he was gone; business in the belly of the palace called him. And suddenly I knew, too, that what had begun so long ago in a convent garden, a glimmer of lust for power, was about to be snuffed out.
I sat a long time beneath that tree, looking at the shapes of light upon the ground. Then I followed the branches up and saw how low and strong and inviting to climb are the limbs of a fig. Before I half knew what I was doing, I had answered that invitation and found myself seated in a crotch some five or six feet off the ground. It was not a climb such as I had once made many years before when rigging was my home and long robes only for old men’s ceremony. But I was well reminded of that day I first saw her, the convent garden, the golden hair wanton from her coif. The bawdy song she whistled came once more to my lips.
But instead of the little chapel and the refectory, through the trees, over the wall now I saw a street of weavers. And I saw they were making were the trappings for the pilgrims’ caravan, the heavy brocade for the two lead camels, the new black curtains broidered with gold for the Ka’ba. They worked furiously and their work was nearly finished. Soon it would be time for us to go. I gently touched the parchment now inside my robe.
I sat in the tree and remembered and thought. I thought about all Ghazanfer had told me and wondered what Allah’s—or God’s—will would be in all of this. I thought of that one mistake in trusting judgment that had so ruled all our lives. I wondered how often such things happen—perhaps every day—-and then I wondered if it really mattered in the end where there were truths and where lies. Other things were more important. Other things caused more joy and life.
Finally I turned all this wondering upon myself and said, “You lived your life convinced what the knife had done to you was the greatest of evils and that you could never recover from it and know joy. But was that a mistaken judgment after all? Was it mistaken, meant by God to be mistaken because otherwise you would have been too careless with those good times He did give you and always be waiting for the better?”
I thought some more and wondered until I heard a little voice from beneath me. “Ustadh? Ustadh? What are you doing up in that tree?” And the little boy laughed aloud.
I climbed down rather sheepishly, and to hide that sheepishness, I turned sternly to him and demanded to hear what he had been learning. He would not let me get the better of him here and recited most plainly:
“In the Name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful:
Verily, man is insolent
Because he sees himself possessed of riches.
Verily, to your Lord is the return of all.
Adore and draw nigh to Allah...”
I poked him fondly in the belly (that belly that the grace of God had spared the midwife’s hand) and gave him the end of my sherbet and some more pistachios as a reward.
Then, as I took him by the hand and entered the house, I called him “Biricchino.” That was my special pet name for him. It is Italian. It is what my old nurse used to call me.
GLOSSARY
Agha—A
