“There he is,” Umm Kulthum announced proudly. “That’s my heart’s delight.”
Under his father’s influence, Abd ar-Rahman ibn Hamid al-Mufti had been named muderisler, or professor in the medrese, when he was circumcised at the age of twelve. Although, like his father, he could recite the Koran from memory by that age, he was by no means capable of giving lectures on religious law to men of forty. That required grey hairs, or so the saying went. A man more qualified was chosen to represent the boy in these duties for a small salary and, in most cases, that would have been fine.
This boy, however, could not escape a horrible sense of responsibility which by now, after six or seven years of the pretense, was heavily commingled with guilt. There was his father’s name to live up to, as well as a whole chain of older brothers who had attained positions of importance. Abd ar-Rahman was determined to succeed, but full-heartedly and idealistically trusted in study to do it. His brothers had known enough to develop personality and social relations as well as their study. At eighteen, such a life seemed burned from the young man by the white heat of books.
His flesh was as grey as an ash pit, and though it could not be denied he knew much, it was hardly to be called wisdom. When asked what he knew, learning came from him in endless yet disjointed streams that could never be discerned to have anything to do with the subject at hand. There wasn’t the solid base of experience to give flesh and rationality to his comments. When his opinion was not called for—which came to happen more and more frequently as he matured, instead of less—he would sit to one side wearing on his face a pallid yet firm look of superiority: They were all fools basing decisions on no authority, and if they’d only ask, he could set them all straight.
The final outcome was that Abd ar-Rahman was painfully, sometimes viciously, a loner, and proud of the fact. He seemed frail, old, and senile, but had never enjoyed full use of his faculties between this state and the folly of youth.
When the head of the procession could be seen approaching, the other lads called down from the roof of the kiosk to say he had better come up now or he would miss it altogether. To us up behind the second-story grille, this was our first view of the young man on his feet. His mother gave no apology for the sight. Still even she, a strong and robust person herself, could not help but be touched, perhaps even frightened by the thinness of his body as it appeared beneath his festive robes. His body was not the product of a restrained diet forged into strong wiry bands by exercise. It was pasty and unsound, the back and limbs already curled and permanently creased into unnatural shapes by too much sitting and cramped reading. His mother couldn’t apologize. She only let what had been a steady stream of prideful commentary fall into uneasy stillness.
We all held our breath as Abd ar-Rahman made his attempts—at first pitifully abortive—to use the window ledges and railings to climb to the roof. He very nearly gave up the project and used this as an excuse to return to his book. But the others wouldn’t hear of it. Some of them climbed down, and pushing and pulling, they managed to get him up in time for the passing of the two holy camels. We felt at once that the lads would have done better to leave him on the ground. As every other head bowed in wonder before the spectacle, Abd ar-Rahman turned his head in superior disgust. Such ignorant people, bowing before no more than an empty saddle and a garish mound of black and gold! One could almost hear him reciting chapter and verse where the Faithful are enjoined not to add gods to God.
Before our arrival that morning, one portion of my mind had nurtured the hope that a glimpse of the young man would change Gul Ruh’s youthful heart, making any machinations on my part unnecessary. I could see now that that hope must be abandoned. My little monkey who still climbed all over roofs and trees the moment my back was turned—I was to stand by and watch as she was married to that man? He was old before his time, a pale, limp rag such as others use to mark their places in their books when they go off to more important business. I looked down at her protectively then and vowed that it should not be so.
Certainly her mind was filled with thoughts of similar purpose. But as I looked down I noticed something about her determination that disquieted me. It included the thoughtful fingering of the golden hoops she had put in her ears that day.
At last we bade good-bye to the Mufti’s widow, having waded through many more wishes for the joyful union of our households. When we were finally out of earshot, packing up the sedan chair to return home, my young mistress sighed wearily and said, “By Allah, Abdullah, I do hope you come up with something to prevent this.”
“I shall try everything in my power,” I assured her, and she kept her face outside the curtain for a moment to fix me with a look of gratitude. I touched that face, coaxing a brief smile from it. Then I gently, purposely fingered her earring as she had done. “But,” I said, “I cannot even dream of getting you the man who gave you these.”
She looked away at once and closed the curtain with her own hand, which told me I’d guessed aright. Those earrings had come from Cyprus, a gift from Arab Pasha. It was not so much that she was opposed to Abd ar-Rahman ibn Hamid as that she still dreamed of gaining substantiation
