A Poet of the Invisible World (27 page)

Nouri tried to imagine what would happen if he confronted his desire for Ryka. Would the veil fall away? Or would he find himself twisted up in its folds?

He thanked Sheikh al-Khammas for his advice and took his leave. But for the rest of the day he could not stop thinking of what the Sufi master had said. He walked in the mountains. He sat at the desk in his cell and read the Qur'an. But no matter what he did, he could not wrest Ryka from his mind.

The evening meal brought a host of forgotten sounds to Nouri's ears. The crackling of the fire in the hearth, the burbling of the water as it was poured into the cups, the smacking of the brothers' lips as they ate their food. Throughout the meal, however, Nouri's awareness remained focused on Ryka. They tried to avoid each other's gaze, but this only increased the intensity between them. So when the meal was done and the last call to prayer had been intoned, Nouri gathered his courage and made his way to Ryka's room.

Ryka seemed neither surprised nor alarmed when Nouri opened his door and stepped inside. He could feel his reversed heart beat so fast he thought it would split in two. But he could only remain frozen on the floor—where he'd been sitting cross-legged, reading beside a slender taper—as Nouri crossed the room and knelt down before him.

Nouri's heart was pounding as well, filling his head with blood and making his tender ears burn hot. He searched Ryka's eyes for a sign of protest. But all he could see was love. So he placed his hand on his cheek, leaned forward, and kissed him.

It was gentle at first. A kiss between comrades. A seal of their mutual respect. But the hunger in Nouri was too strong, and it quickly took over. He pressed his mouth hard against the youth's. He grasped his shoulders and pulled him closer. And as the heat flashed through him—clouding his mind and rousing the serpent—he felt Ryka respond.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he said, as he drew back for a moment.

“Yes,” said Ryka.

Nouri wasn't sure himself, but he was too aroused to turn back. So he rose, reached his hand out, and drew the slender youth to his feet.

“Bring the taper,” he said. “I want to see you.”

Ryka stooped down and grasped the taper. He felt as if the ground had vanished beneath him. As if the roof had parted to reveal the sky. He was not sure what Nouri intended to do, but he knew that he wanted him to do it. He was flushed with desire. So he followed him across the room to the narrow bed to see what would happen.

When they reached the bed, Nouri removed Ryka's robe and raised his tunic over his head. Then he loosened the tie at his waist and let his trousers fall to the floor. Ryka's prick sprang upward like a cobra, fat and gleaming in the light. Nouri wrapped his fingers around it and Ryka gasped.

“Are you all right?” said Nouri.

Ryka nodded.

“This isn't too much for your heart?”

“It would be too much for my heart,” said Ryka, “if we stopped.”

Ryka reached out and tugged at Nouri's robe. So Nouri released him for a moment and slipped out of his clothes, until the two men stood naked together. They both noted the differences between them: Ryka was slim where Nouri was solid; Ryka was smooth—except for the flash of curls at his groin—where Nouri was covered with hair. But there was not much difference between the hardness that rose up from beneath their bellies. So Nouri stepped forward, pressing their bodies close, and they kissed again.

Eventually, they lay down upon the small, thin mattress and as they did, it occurred to Nouri that—for all the men he'd been with in his smoke-induced nights—he'd never made love in a bed. He knew that for Ryka there had been no other men. But the light was too dim and he was too inflamed with passion to see that—for the first time in his life—as his body entwined with Nouri's—Ryka smiled.

 

Twenty-Three

As Sheikh al-Khammas moved closer to the precipice between this world and the next, he requested that Nouri become his sole caretaker. The pattern of Nouri's days, therefore, became fixed: rising at dawn to bow his head and fall prostrate for the first call to prayer, eating the morning meal, carrying a bowl of yogurt to the Sufi master's cell and feeding him, practicing
zikr,
bowing his head and falling prostrate for the second call to prayer, eating the midday meal, carrying a bowl of broth to the Sufi master's cell and feeding him, tending the roses, bowing his head and falling prostrate for the third call to prayer, writing in his cell, bowing his head and falling prostrate for the fourth call to prayer, eating the evening meal, carrying a bowl of lentils to the Sufi master's cell and feeding him, reading in his cell, and finally, as the light bled from the sky, bowing his head and falling prostrate for the last call to prayer. His movements were simple. No excess. No strain. Each day was like the day that had come before. At night, however, when the hallways darkened and the brothers retired to their separate cells, Nouri abandoned himself to the constant surprise of being with Ryka.

It was like nothing that he had ever known. The sweetest tenderness. The fiercest passion. The endless unfolding of their bodies as they gave pleasure to each other. At first, Ryka was hesitant. He seemed to vanish into smoke at Nouri's touch. As time passed, however, he became confident in the feelings that coursed through him and he gave himself over completely. And Nouri only knew that—despite the doubts that rose up as he crept from the youth's cell before dawn—he had never felt closer to God than when he was in Ryka's arms.

Sometimes, when the passion subsided and they lay intertwined in the darkness, Nouri would send up a prayer
.

Let me remain here, Allah, and I will never forget you. Not for an instant. Let me remain with him and I will remain with you. Forever and ever.

But the night always passed. And Nouri always had to leave the warmth of Ryka's embrace.

As the days went by, the closeness the two men felt during the night began to spill out into the day. Their heads would tilt close together as they tended the roses. Their fingers would touch as they entered a room. And while these things were too subtle to be perceived by either Abbas al-Kumar or Omar al-Hamid, not a word—not a gesture, no matter how fleeting—went unnoticed by Sharoud.

What surprised Nouri most about his feelings for Ryka was how they changed his writing. His verse became leaner. More muscular. More intense. It also became deeply erotic, for he found that when he raised his pen he could not keep his passion for the youth from pouring out. At times, when he read over what he'd written, he would blush. Yet he could not help feeling that his longing for Ryka was merely an expression of his longing for God.

It wasn't until they'd been lovers for several weeks that Ryka learned what was hidden beneath Nouri's head cloth. He'd not questioned the fact that his head always remained covered, even as they lay in each other's arms. He assumed it was a sign of his respect for Allah and left it at that. One night, however, as they were lying together, Nouri suddenly pulled away.

“What is it?” said Ryka.

Nouri looked deep into the youth's eyes. Then he rolled over onto his back.

“Is something wrong?”

Nouri was silent, his body taut, his breath rising and falling in waves. Then he rose up onto his side and, with an aching slowness, began to unwind his head garment. He remained perfectly still as the strip of pale cloth fell away—like the ashes from a coil of incense—until at last the final layer was removed and his secret was revealed.

For a long while, Ryka neither spoke nor moved. Then he took Nouri's head in his hands and gently kissed each of his ears.

“Allah the Incomparable,” Ryka whispered.

Nouri pressed back the tears that flooded his eyes. Then he and Ryka dissolved in each other's arms.

*   *   *

DESPITE THE CONSTANT CARE
that Nouri and Ryka took to keep their lovemaking a secret, Sharoud had no doubt that they'd crossed that invisible line. He could hear Nouri slip from his cell and creep down the hallway in the middle of the night. He could smell their scent on each other during the day. Before he could bring the matter back to Sheikh al-Khammas, however, he needed absolute proof. So one night, after Nouri had gone to Ryka's cell, Sharoud tiptoed down the hall, pressed his ear to Ryka's door, and waited for the two men to perform their sacrilege to God.

Sex had been repugnant to Sharoud from the first moment that it had entered his awareness. When he was three, he crept into his parents' bedroom one night while they were making love and from the sight of his father's body over his mother's, and the sound of her cries, he could only conclude that he was taking her life. When he awoke the next morning to find her calmly tending the hearth, he was convinced that black magic had occurred, and he could never look at either one of them the same way again. When adolescence arrived, he was so dismayed by the insistence of his erections that he rubbed turmeric on his penis, which—though it burned like hellfire—made it go limp. He repeated the procedure until the poor thing became docile, in which state it remained throughout his time at the order in Tan-Arzhan. Only when he was alone in the desert did it rear again: one morning, a pack of nomads stopped at the oasis to water their camels and while the men rested, the women disrobed and waded into the water to bathe. When Sharoud—who'd taken cover behind a cluster of date palms—saw their soft hanging breasts and their voluptuous buttocks, his forgotten organ sprang to attention like a serving boy at the appearance of the Sultan. He was so transported by the sight of them splashing the cool water on their bodies, he could not keep from taking himself in hand. And though he was convinced that the dazzling pleasure he felt was the elixir of the devil, he could not make himself stop. When he reached his climax and found himself covered in a sea of slime, he was so horrified he took a vow that it would never happen again. And from that day on, there was not a flicker from beneath his robes.

Now, as he listened to the sounds that came from Nouri and Ryka, not only was he repulsed; he was enraged. And when he summoned the courage to crack the door and peer through the inky shadows, he knew that such perversity could not be allowed beneath the roof of a spiritual dwelling. So he closed the door and went to the chapel and bowed his gaunt body in prayer. Then, when morning came, he paid another visit to Sheikh al-Khammas.

When he reached the cell, he rapped loudly on the door. But no answer came. So he pushed it open and went to the narrow bed where the Sufi master lay. The room was so dark it was hard to discern where the bed linens ended and Sheikh al-Khammas began. But his eyes were wide open, and they gave Sharoud the signal to speak.

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said.

“If one is truly inclined toward Allah, one has already been forgiven,” said Sheikh al-Khammas.

“And what if I told you I'd seen something that goes beyond forgiveness?”

“Then I'd counsel you to cleanse your eyes.”

Sharoud hesitated. He knew that he had to be careful. But he felt sure that if Sheikh al-Khammas had seen the foulness he'd seen, he'd condemn it with all his heart. “I know he's dear to you,” he said. “Like a son. But what he and the boy are doing cannot be condoned.”

Sheikh al-Khammas remained silent for a while. Then he parted his withered lips and spoke. “I cannot leave this world while there is discord among you. You must stop this, Sharoud. Or you must go.”

Sharoud was incensed. But he knew that there was no more to say. “I won't speak of it again. I assure you.”

He bowed his head. Then he rose from the stool and left the room.

As he made his way back to his cell, Sharoud vowed that he would not speak of Nouri and Ryka again to Sheikh al-Khammas. But there were other ways to destroy them. And with Allah on his side, he knew that he couldn't fail.

*   *   *

THIS TIME ABBAS AL-KUMAR
wanted fenugreek.

“Nothing stimulates the liver better than fenugreek,” he announced one day over the morning meal. “I'll put some in Sheikh al-Khammas's
khoofteh berenji.
He'll live forever!”

He knew that there was sure to be some at the bazaar, so once again he asked Nouri to travel down the mountain to fetch it.

“Try Aftab Hamiwallah's stall,” he said. “Or if you want the best price, Rashid al-Hamid's.”

Nouri was reluctant to leave Sheikh al-Khammas's side. But if it meant prolonging the Sufi master's life, he would have traveled to Cairo to pluck a hair from the head of the vizier. “I'll set out after
zikr.
”

Abbas al-Kumar nodded and the matter was settled. As they rose from the table, however, Ryka asked Nouri to let him go in his place.

“I haven't left the mountain in months,” he said. “And it would be a gift to be able to help Sheikh al-Khammas.”

Nouri was afraid that the trip would be too hard for his friend's fragile heart. But Ryka was now nearly twenty, and he understood his wish to serve. “We'll go together.”

“No,” said Ryka. “You should stay here.” He reached out and placed a hand on Nouri's shoulder. “I haven't had a spell in weeks. I can do this alone.”

Nouri was not convinced. But he did not wish to undermine the youth's confidence, so he agreed. “Just promise me you'll take your time. And that you'll stop and rest if you need to.”

“I promise.”

So Abbas al-Kumar gave Ryka the money to buy the fenugreek and he set off.

As he started down the mountain, he felt as weightless as a gooseberry husk. The air was fragrant and the sight of the fields in the distance filled him with joy. As he approached the village, he spied the colored awnings and heard the plaintive cries of the bazaar. And before he knew it, he was swept up in the sea of goods. There were tooled leather saddles and beakers of blown glass; there were carpets and caftans; there were reed pipes and inkpots; there was jackfruit and passion fruit and carob fruit and kepel fruit and quince. Ryka wanted to stop at each stall and examine its wares. But he knew that Abbas al-Kumar was in need of the fenugreek for Sheikh al-Khammas. So he continued on until he found an inconspicuous stall that sold the leafy herb.