A Poet of the Invisible World

 

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For my beloved friends

 

Celestial light,

Shine inward … that I may see and tell

Of things invisible to mortal sight.

—JOHN MILTON

 

PART ONE

 

One

No matter how tired they were from the week's labors, no matter how dull from too much
baghali polo
the night before, no matter how eager to praise God or make tea or milk the cow, there was no one in the tiny village of Al-Kashir who was not stunned by the news that early that morning, in the slant-roofed shed behind the mud-walled house, Maleeh al-Morad had given birth to a bright-faced, screaming boy with two sets of ears. The midwife was so startled when the head popped out that she simply stood there, dumbstruck, as Bina Mardavi, the fourteen-year-old daughter of Maleeh al-Morad's neighbor, stepped in to assist with the birth. A quick-witted girl with dark eyes and large feet, Bina was not afraid when she saw the second set of ears. On the contrary, she was eager for the child to come all the way out so she could see if it was equipped with two of everything. When it finally sprang free, however, the girl was disappointed. For with the exception of the ears—which were placed side by side, like pairs of matched seashells—the flush-faced infant seemed perfectly normal. As she reached for the sewing shears to sever the umbilical cord, she considered giving a quick snip to either side of the head. What use could four ears possibly be to the child? When he was old enough to speak, he would surely thank her. But since she did not possess the knowledge to stop the blood she assumed would gush forth, she decided to leave him as Allah, in His great wisdom, had made him.

As soon as Bina Mardavi returned home and told her father about the ears, the news spread like wildfire. The fat jelly maker left a bowl of sliced apples to turn brown in the sun as he dashed through the fields to tell the ironsmith's wife; the ironsmith's wife left a large pot of lamb stew to scorch on the hearth as she hurried next door to tell the soap and cheese maker; the soap and cheese maker left his goats to go hungry as he raced through the streets to tell the village schoolteacher, who was instructing the children about prime numbers. By the time the children ran home and told their parents, their parents already knew: Maleeh al-Morad—who had lost her husband only three months before—who had eyes so green they caused people to stare—who made the best poppy seed cake anyone in the village had ever tasted—had given birth to a monster. A reptile. A freak.

“Maybe they'll fall off,” said Shakiba Benoud. “My sister's first child was born with two sets of eyebrows. But on the third day, the extra set fell off.”

“Maybe she can sell him,” said Sepantem Verdat. “My cousin told me that a baby with two heads was born in her village and the Caliph bought him for sixty denars.”

“Maybe it's a sign that we should stop talking so much,” said Abbas Rashad, “and try to start listening better.”

Only Maleeh al-Morad seemed unfazed by the fact of her newborn son's ears. Only she thought the infant a paragon of beauty. A newly crowned prince in her arms. At first she just gazed at him, thrilled by the instant bond between them, lost in the wild love that poured from his eyes. But eventually she reached out her hand and touched the ears. They were perfectly shaped and soft beyond belief. So she began tracing gentle figure eights around their edges—the sign of infinity—delighted at how this made the child coo.

In truth, Maleeh al-Morad had known, long before her child was born, that he would be different from the rest. For on the night before the wheel of her husband's oxcart splintered and he went sailing over the edge of the cliff to his death, Mahsoud al-Morad had awakened from a dream.

“What is it?” asked Maleeh al-Morad, as the large man lay there panting.

“The baby—”

“What about him?”

Mahsoud al-Morad searched the darkness for what he'd seen.

“Tell me!” cried Maleeh al-Morad.

“I can't remember. But I have a feeling we may have to keep him indoors.”

At these words, Mahsoud al-Morad rolled over and returned to the last slumber he would ever know. But as the sorrowful weeks passed by, Maleeh al-Morad felt sure that what he'd said was true: the child inside her was somehow marked and she would only know in what manner when it was born. As the moment drew near, she imagined her baby with a pig's snout, a dog's tail, covered in thick fur. So when Bina Mardavi lowered the infant into her arms and she saw the ears, she felt a wave of relief. At least he would hear her when she called.

She realized, as she held him, that she had to give him a name. She considered Farzad, which meant “a splendid birth,” but it seemed too boastful. She considered Niyusha, which meant “a good listener,” but it seemed too obvious. So instead she chose Nouri, which meant “light,” followed by Ahmad, which meant “praiseworthy,” and then she threw in Mohammad, figuring how could it hurt. This was followed by the
nasab,
ibn Mahsoud, to denote his father, and the
nisbah,
al-Morad, to denote his tribe. Nouri Ahmad Mohammad ibn Mahsoud al-Morad. Regardless of how many ears the child had, it was a lovely name.

At first, Maleeh al-Morad took the villagers' reactions to her baby in stride. Latifeh Rashad, who was pregnant, had her husband, Azim, scatter garlic across their threshold to prevent her from catching whatever had caused Maleeh al-Morad's baby to be disfigured. Farid ben Ismael fell to the ground and shouted verses from the Qur'an whenever he passed their house. But Maleeh al-Morad simply lay in the grass, threading daisies around her baby's ears and singing songs to delight him:

There once was a child with a gift so rare–

O hear! O hear! O hear! O hear!

That the moon and the stars could not compare–

O hear! O hear! O hear!

It was only when she saw the fear in people's eyes when she ventured out to buy cheese or headed off to the mosque that she began to sense he was in danger. It was only when she was reminded of the village baby who'd been born without a tongue and been set on fire that she began to grow alarmed. And it was only when the double-edged dagger came flying through the kitchen window, piercing the sack of lentils that hung above the hearth, that she knew she would have to remove her child from the tiny village of Al-Kashir before it was too late.

*   *   *

THE CITY OF TAN-ARZHAN WAS LIKE
a jewel in the headdress of an Arabian prince. Famed for its great mosque, the Darni Sunim, which had risen to splendor nearly a century before, it had everything a modern city should have: a town square, a public bath, a counting house, a grand bazaar, a public garden (with a running fountain), and three schools, one for each level of education. The layout was square, with four main corridors running from the central axis, and though the northeast quadrant was primarily for the wealthy and the southwest quadrant was primarily for the poor, there was a surprising absence of strife between the classes. Whatever one's lot, life was better in Tan-Arzhan than almost anywhere else. Even the rats felt lucky to roam its colorful streets.

Habbib al-Adib had lived his entire life in Tan-Arzhan. Born in a tiny hovel to an elderly baker and his wife, he'd grown up in the streets, his only education the chores he learned from his father, the prayers he learned from his mother, and the lessons he culled from the twists and turns of the day. He was a happy child, possessed of a sweet, gentle nature. He expected nothing and—with the exception of a leaky roof over his head and three daily meals—nothing was what he got. Like that of most people in the town, his life was set out for him. He would bake with his father until his father was no longer able to bake. Then, if Allah saw fit, he would bake without him.

No one had anticipated the crushing of his hand, which happened on the morning of his twelfth birthday. He'd risen at dawn to help his father with the kneading. Abu al-a-Din—son of Ahmad al-a-Din, one of the richest men in the city—was getting married that day, and Habbib's father had promised to deliver four dozen
naan-e sangak,
six dozen
naan-e barbari,
and as many rosewater-and-pistachio balls as he could fashion between the lighting of the
tanoor
and the chiming of the bells to commence the feast. Habbib's father had never received an order so large. But Mohsen Jawiri, who'd been hired to do the job, had been in bed for six days with a bad stomach flu. So Habbib's father had been asked to step in and he needed Habbib's help.

“Just think of it!” he said, as he roused Habbib in the milky light. “Ahmad al-a-Din has invited everyone to this wedding! If they like what we make, we'll be up to our asses in work!”

Habbib didn't think about the future too much, so his father's words washed over him like the morning mist. And rather than resent having to work so hard on his birthday, he felt that the great outpouring of bread marked the significance of the day. He also knew that his father would set aside a few rosewater-and-pistachio balls for them to have that evening and that if he worked hard he'd be allowed to sleep as late as he wished the next day.

They worked all morning, Habbib kneading the dough and then watching as his father shaped it into rounds and loaves, which he baked to a golden brown in the
tanoor.
Then they loaded up the cart and made their way through the dusty streets until they reached the impressive home of Ahmad al-a-Din. They were led into the kitchen, where a vast team of workers was sweet-braising chicken and pan-frying lamb, then out into the lavish garden that lay at the building's heart. Dotted with cypresses and fragrant lime trees, trimmed with low hedges and graced by a shimmering pool, it would have been enough to take away the young boy's breath. What truly amazed Habbib, however, was the enormous, jewel-encrusted elephant that knelt at the center of it all.