“Is all this mine?” he asked.
As a test he seized Aisha by the hand and pulled her toward him. She didn’t resist.
Right after her, Leila snuggled up to him.
“Get him drunk, charm, seduce him,” Fatima was telling the girls in a whisper.
The wine gradually went to his head.
“By the beard of the martyr Ali!” he exclaimed. “Sayyiduna was telling the truth. He really does have the key to the gates of paradise.”
He hugged and kissed them all, one after the other.
“I just hope I haven’t died,” he suddenly worried.
“Don’t be afraid,” Fatima reassured him. “Tomorrow you’ll be back at Alamut serving Sayyiduna.”
“Do you know him too?”
“We’re in paradise!”
“Then you also know that we gave it to the infidels this morning?”
“Of course we know. You pursued the Turks and ibn Tahir seized the enemy flag.”
“Allah is great! If I told this to Naim or Obeida, they’d laugh in my face.”
“Is their faith so weak?”
“By the beard of the Prophet, I wouldn’t believe it either, if the two of them told me something like this. Where are ibn Tahir and Yusuf?”
“Also in paradise, like you. Once you’re back in the other world, you can meet and tell each other what you’ve seen and experienced.”
“It’s true, in Allah’s name. Strange things can happen to an honest Muslim.”
Feeling pleasantly tipsy, he began to tell them about Alamut, about his teachers and comrades and about that morning’s battle with the Turks.
The girls sat around and listened to him, their hearts smitten. His was the first manhood they had felt in these gardens, and he was a magnificent boy, on top of it all. One after the other, they each fell in love with him.
Fatima sat down with her harp and began plucking the strings and humming softly. Now and then she cast a loving glance at him.
“Fatima is composing a poem,” Khanum whispered.
Halima was hiding behind her. She had her fingers over Khanum’s shoulders and stole a glance at Suleiman from time to time. She liked him very much. His confident storytelling, his forthright, hearty laughter, his boldness—all of this charmed her. She was angry at herself for it, but she was already quite bedazzled.
From time to time as he spoke, he caught the admiring look of her eyes. Besides that and the fingers on Khanum’s shoulders, he couldn’t see a thing. He thought for a moment and realized he hadn’t touched her yet. He already knew Fatima, Sara, Zainab, Aisha and Leila by name.
“Who’s the little one hiding behind your back?” he asked Khanum.
“Halima.”
They all laughed.
Suleiman looked around in confusion. The fingers and big eyes had suddenly disappeared behind Khanum.
“Come closer, Halima,” he said. “I haven’t even seen you yet.”
Khanum, Shehera and some others grabbed her and pushed her toward Suleiman. Convulsively, she clung onto carpets and pillows and dragged them all with her.
“Is the little scamp still so shy?”
“Yes, she is. She’s even afraid of lizards and snakes.”
“But you won’t be afraid of me, will you? I’m not a Turk or some other infidel. They’re usually the ones who are afraid of me.”
He tried to kiss her. But she slipped away from him and stubbornly hung her head.
“What does that mean?” he was perplexed.
Fatima made some noise in the corner. Halima at once put her arms around his neck and hid her face on his chest.
“I can’t stand having them around me,” she whispered.
“All of you go join Fatima,” he ordered.
How wonderfully alluring she is, he thought.
Her arms clasped onto him tighter and tighter. Her face was as hot as forged iron.
“O Allah, how sweet she is,” he whispered and pressed her close.
Then Sara offered him wine. While he drank, Zainab quickly changed the pillows.
“It’s strange, none of them has been this lovely or this sweet,” he murmured.
Halima crept off into a corner and buried her face in some pillows. She dropped off to sleep immediately.
Fatima cleared her throat.
“I’m going to sing a song about this evening,” she said with a charming smile. Dimples showed in her cheeks.
“Excellent!” Suleiman approved. He stretched back on the pillows, cradling his head in his hands.
“Now listen!”
Fatima began, to the accompaniment of her harp.
Suleiman gray falcon
Came to paradise,
Caught sight of fair Fatima,
Could not believe his eyes.
He wrapped himself around her
Like a brave white swan,
Took all she had to offer,
Became her only one.
Then came sweetest Aisha
Ready to make love,
She steals Fatima’s husband,
Now Aisha is his dove.
Leila becomes heartsick
Seeing Suleiman,
So she leaps upon him—
Now it’s her he wants.
But then Turkan sees this,
And she’s in his lap.
She’s a girl who pleases,
He’s not one to nap.
And then yet another
Wins his fickle heart.
This is dark-skinned Sara
With her lustful art.
Enough of sultry beauty,
Enough of darkened hues,
Zainab brings a new thing,
Zainab’s eyes are blue.
Allah gave Halima
Long legs and slender hips.
She’d be a prize for the sultan,
The boy is drawn to her lips.
Khanum and Shehera together
Stretch out their arms for him.
One takes him by the shoulders,
One takes him by his limbs.
Meanwhile poor Fatima
Keeps plucking at the strings.
She watches her faithless sweetheart,
How painfully it stings.
Then Suleiman comes to her,
How handsome a hero he is!
He kisses her eyes in contrition,
For Fatima it’s sweetest bliss.
Then all the girls together
Dance around him in a ring.
They chant aloud in chorus,
In unison they sing:
Heaven wasn’t much until we met
This noble Pahlavan.
So let’s call out together now:
Long live our Suleiman!
Shouts, laughter and loud acclaim greeted Fatima’s song. The girls drew Suleiman toward the center and began dancing around him. They called out to him and cheered him.
He was barely able to get away from them. He ran over to Fatima and hugged her exuberantly.
“What an excellent song!” he said, smiling. “You have to write it down for me. Will Naim and Obeida ever be impressed.”
“But you can’t take anything with you from paradise,” Fatima cautioned. “You’ll have to learn it by heart.”
The noise finally woke Halima. She looked around, puzzled.
“What happened?”
“Fatima composed a song,” Sara replied. “And you were in it.”
“Then it must be silly.”
She burrowed into the pillows again and tried to go to sleep.
Then Suleiman spotted her. He came up and shook her by the shoulder.
“How can you sleep when there’s a guest in the house?”
He sat down beside her and she snuggled up to him. He could feel the pleasant warmth of her breath, and its rhythmic regularity soon put him to sleep.
“How adorable they are,” Aisha said.
“Let’s let them rest.”
Fatima called to Zainab.
br /> “Let’s compose a song about them,” she suggested quietly.
The other girls drank up and continued having fun. They danced, jumped into the pool, cracked jokes, and laughed.
The song was ready, and Fatima told the girls to wake Halima and Suleiman. Both of them opened their eyes at the same time, saw each other, and laughed.
“Boy, if old Yusuf could see me now!”
Suleiman was enormously happy. The girls offered him more wine. He refused a cup and drank straight out of the jug.
“There’s no sultan that has it this good!”
“Now listen, you two! Fatima and Zainab are going to sing you a song.”
He lay back on the pillows and drew Halima toward him.
Fatima and Zainab began.
Of all the houris in heaven,
Halima least mastered the plan.
She’d scowl at sixes and sevens
If anyone mentioned a man.
She fled from serpents and lizards.
What she thought of them wasn’t wise:
That Allah had made them to slither
And eat up little girls alive.
At times she cast furtive glances
At the eunuchs’ ludicrous ploys.
At night she’d secretly wish
That they could be real boys.
And barely had Suleiman entered
Than her heart felt in heaven at last.
She lost her head, time expanded,
And the days of her childhood were past.
When Suleiman stretched his hands out
Toward her maidenly breasts and waist,
She moaned so softly and sweetly,
And her breath was taken away.
She lowered her eyes and she trembled,
And she practically fainted away.
She longed, she desired, she resisted,
And she even blushed red with shame.
Secretly she may have figured
That she might not suit his tastes.
Whatever she’d learned she’d forgotten,
And that could mean total disgrace.
And yet, when the thing finally happened
That is wont at these times to occur,
Her face and her eyes shone resplendent
With a happiness totally hers.
The girls laughed. But Halima was all red with shame and anger. Suleiman was grinning in satisfaction. He was already so drunk that he could barely have gotten up.
“I’ll throw these pillows at you if you don’t keep quiet!”
Halima shook her tight, little fist at them.
Then, in the distance, a horn sounded gloomily. Once, twice, three times. The girls fell silent. Fatima went pale. In secret she prepared a pellet for the wine.
Suleiman listened too. He rose with difficulty. He could barely stay on his feet.
“What does that mean?” he asked, perplexed.
He walked toward the door, as though meaning to leave the pavilion.
“One more cup, Suleiman.”
Fatima could barely conceal her worry.
The drink was ready. The girls drew Suleiman back onto some pillows.
“What are you going to tell Naim and Obeida about your experiences in paradise?” Fatima asked, to deflect his attention from more dangerous thoughts.
“Naim and Obeida? Oh, those Turks won’t believe me. But I’ll show them. Just let them doubt! I’ll shove this in their faces.”
He showed them his clenched fist. Fatima offered him the cup to drink. He emptied it as an afterthought.
A heavy drowsiness came over him right away. He tried to resist it with the last of his strength.
“Give me something to take as a keepsake.”
“You can’t take anything with you.”
He could see he would get nowhere with Fatima. His weakening right hand instinctively felt for Halima’s wrist. A gold bracelet slipped into his palm. He hid it beneath his robe and then fell fast asleep.
Halima didn’t betray him. How could she have? She had fallen in love with him with all her heart.
There was complete quiet in the pavilion. Fatima silently took the black coverlet and spread it over the sleeping youth.
They waited.
“It’s not things in themselves that make us happy or unhappy,” Hasan told his friends in his observatory when they lay back down on their pillows. “It’s rather the thought, the conviction that we have about them. Take an example: a miser buries a treasure at a secret location. Publicly he gives the impression of a pauper, but in private he enjoys the knowledge that he’s a wealthy man. A neighbor finds out about his secret and takes his treasure away. The miser will continue enjoying his wealth until he discovers the theft. And if death comes to him before that, he’ll die in the happy knowledge that he’s a rich man. It’s the same with a man who doesn’t know that his lover is betraying him. Provided he doesn’t find out, he can live happily his whole life. Or take the opposite situation. His beloved wife could be the model of faithfulness. But if some lying tongues persuade him she’s been unfaithful, he’ll suffer the torments of hell. So you see, neither things nor actual facts decide our happiness—or unhappiness. Instead, we’re completely and exclusively dependent on our notions, on our perceptions of them. Every day reveals to us how false and error-ridden these perceptions are. What frail legs our happiness rests on! How unjustified our grief often is! Small wonder that the wise man is indifferent to both of them. Or that only simpletons and idiots can enjoy happiness!”
“Your philosophy is none too much to my liking,” Abu Ali commented. “You’re right, we’re constantly making mistakes in life and we’re often the victims of wrong beliefs. But does that mean we have to forego every pleasure because it’s based on false assumptions? If a person were to live by your wisdom, he’d have to spend his whole life in doubt and uncertainty.”
“Why did you get so upset earlier at my sending the fedayeen into paradise? Aren’t they happy? What possible difference is there between their happiness and the happiness of somebody else who is just as ignorant of its true foundations? I know what’s bothering you. You’re bothered that the three of us know something that they don’t know. And despite that, they’re still better off—than I am, for instance. Imagine how any pleasure would be ruined for those three if they even suspected that I’d deliberately drawn them into something about which they had no knowledge. Or that I knew something more than they do about everything that’s happening to them. Or if they sensed they were just playthings, helpless chess pieces in my hands. That they were just tools being used in some unknown plan by some higher will, some higher intellect. I’ll tell you, friends, that sense, that sort of suspicion has embittered every day of my life. The sense that there could be someone over us who surveys the universe and our position in it with a clear mind, who could know all sorts of things about us—maybe even the hour of our death—that are mercilessly veiled from our intellect. Who could have his own particular designs for us, who perhaps uses us for his experiments, who toys with us, with our fates and our lives, while we, the puppets in his hands, celebrate and rejoice, imagining that we actually shape our own happiness. Why is it that higher intellects are always the ones so hopelessly dogged about discovering the secrets of natural phenomena? Why is it that wise men are always so passionately committed to science and racking their brains about the universe? Epicurus said that a wise man could enjoy perfect happiness if he didn’t have to be afraid of unknown heavenly phenomena and the mystery of death. To subdue or at least explain that fear, he devoted himself to science and the exploration of nature.”
“Very learned,” Abu Ali remarked. “But, if I understood you right, your philosophizing could be abbreviated to this assertion: you’re secretly hounded by the fact that you’re not Allah.”
Hasan and Buzurg Ummid both laughed.
“Not a bad guess,” Hasan said. He stepped up to the battlements and pointed toward the part of the sky where it was dark, fro
m where a thousand tiny stars intensely shone.
“Look at this limitless vault of heaven! Who can count the stars scattered across it? Aristarchus said that each one of them is a sun. Where is the human intellect that can grasp that? And still, everything is efficiently arranged, as though it were governed by some conscious will. Whether that will is Allah or the blind operation of nature is irrelevant. Against this limitlessness we are ridiculous invalids. I first became aware of my smallness in comparison with the universe when I was ten years old. What haven’t I experienced and what hasn’t faded since then? Gone is my faith in Allah and the Prophet, gone is the heady spell of first love. Jasmine on a summer night no longer smells as wonderful, and tulips no longer bloom in such vivid colors. Only my amazement at the limitlessness of the universe and my fear of unknown meteorological phenomena have remained the same. The realization that our world is just a grain of dust in the universe, and that we’re just some mange, some infinitely tiny lice on it—this realization still fills me with despair.”
Abu Ali leapt up on his bowed legs and began thrashing around as though he were defending himself from invisible opponents.
“Praise be to Allah that he made me modest and spared me those concerns,” he exclaimed half in jest. “I’m more than glad to leave those things to the Batus, the Mamuns and the Abu Mashars.”
“Do you think I have any other choice?” Hasan replied with a kind of headstrong irony. “Yes, Protagoras, you were great when you spoke the maxim that man is the measure of all things! What else can we do, after all, but make peace with that double-edged wisdom? Limit ourselves to this clod of dirt and water that we live on and leave the expanses of the universe to superhuman intellects. Our domain, the place suited to our intellect and will, is down here, on this poor, little planet. ‘Man is the measure of all things.’ The louse has suddenly become a factor worthy of respect! All we need to do is to impose some limits. Exclude the universe from our field of vision and be content with the terra firma we stand on. When I grasped that intellectually—do you see, friends—I threw myself into reordering things in myself and around myself with all my might. The universe was like a huge, blank map for me. In the middle of it was a gray spot, our planet. In that spot was an infinitely tiny black dot, me, my consciousness. The only thing I know for sure. I renounced the white space. I had to delve into the gray spot, measure its size and count its numbers, and then … then gain power over it, begin to control it according to my reason, my will. Because it’s a horrible thing for someone who’s competed with Allah to end up on the bottom.”