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.
“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.
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.”