“Thank you,” he said, “but this is merely a prelude to what I intended to show you.” He bade me follow him into another room, farther in the back. There stood a circular doorway whose massive frame was made of the same polished black metal, mounted in the middle of the room.
“What I showed you before was a Gate of Seconds,” he said. “This is a Gate of Years. The two sides of the doorway are separated by a span of twenty years.”
I confess I did not understand his remark immediately. I imagined him reaching his arm in from the right side and waiting twenty years before it emerged from the left side, and it seemed a very obscure magic trick. I said as much, and he laughed. “That is one use for it,” he said, “but consider what would happen if you were to step through.” Standing on the right side, he gestured for me to come closer, and then pointed through the doorway. “Look.”
I looked and saw that there appeared to be different rugs and pillows on the other side of the room than I had seen when I had entered. I moved my head from side to side and realized that when I peered through the doorway, I was looking at a different room from the one I stood in.
“You are seeing the room twenty years from now,” said Bashaarat.
I blinked, as one might at an illusion of water in the desert, but what I saw did not change. “And you say I could step through?” I asked.
“You could. And with that step, you would visit the Baghdad of twenty years hence. You could seek out your older self and have a conversation with him. Afterward, you could step back through the Gate of Years and return to the present day.”
Hearing Bashaarat’s words, I felt as if I were reeling. “You have done this?” I asked him. “You have stepped through?”
“I have, and so have numerous customers of mine.”
“Earlier you said I was the first to whom you showed this.”
“This Gate, yes. But for many years I owned a shop in Cairo, and it was there that I first built a Gate of Years. There were many to whom I showed that Gate, and who made use of it.”
“What did they learn when talking to their older selves?”
“Each person learns something different. If you wish, I can tell you the story of one such person.” Bashaarat proceeded to tell me a story, and if it pleases Your Majesty, I will recount it here.
There once was a young man named Hassan who was a maker of rope. He stepped through the Gate of Years to see the Cairo of twenty years later, and upon arriving he marveled at how the city had grown. He felt as if he had stepped into a scene embroidered on a tapestry, and even though the city was no more and no less than Cairo, he looked on the most common sights as objects of wonder.
He was wandering by the Zuweyla Gate, where the sword dancers and snake charmers perform, when an astrologer called to him, “Young man! Do you wish to know the future?”
Hassan laughed. “I know it already,” he said.
“Surely you want to know if wealth awaits you, do you not?”
“I am a rope-maker. I know that it does not.”
“Can you be so sure? What about the renowned merchant Hassan al-Hubbaul, who began as a rope-maker?”
His curiosity aroused, Hassan asked around the market for others who knew of this wealthy merchant and found that the name was well known. It was said he lived in the wealthy quarter near the Birkat al-Fil so Hassan walked there and asked people to point out his house, which turned out to be the largest one on its street.
He knocked at the door, and a servant led him to a spacious and well-appointed hall with a fountain in the center. Hassan waited while the servant went to fetch his master, but as he looked at the polished ebony and marble around him, he felt that he did not belong in such surroundings and was about to leave when his older self appeared.
“At last you are here!” the man said. “I have been expecting you!”
“You have?” said Hassan, astounded.
“Of course, because I visited my older self just as you are visiting me. It has been so long that I had forgotten the exact day. Come, dine with me.”
The two went to a dining room, where servants brought chicken stuffed with pistachio nuts, fritters soaked in honey, and roast lamb with spiced pomegranates. The older Hassan gave few details of his life: he mentioned business interests of many varieties, but did not say how he had become a merchant; he mentioned a wife, but said it was not time for the younger man to meet her. Instead, he asked young Hassan to remind him of the pranks he had played as a child, and he laughed to hear stories that had faded from his own memory.
At last the younger Hassan asked the older, “How did you make such great changes in your fortune?”
“All I will tell you right now is this: when you go to buy hemp from the market, and you are walking along the Street of Black Dogs, do not walk along the south side as you usually do. Walk along the north.”
“And that will enable me to raise my station?”
“Just do as I say. Go back home now; you have rope to make. You will know when to visit me again.”
Young Hassan returned to his day and did as he was instructed, keeping to the north side of the street even when there was no shade there. It was a few days later that he witnessed a maddened horse run amok on the south side of the street directly opposite him, kicking several people, injuring another by knocking a heavy jug of palm oil onto him, and even trampling one person under its hooves. After the commotion had subsided, Hassan prayed to Allah for the injured to be healed and the dead to be at peace and thanked Allah for sparing him.
The next day Hassan stepped through the Gate of Years and sought out his older self. “Were you injured by the horse when you walked by?” he asked him.
“No, because I heeded my older self’s warning. Do not forget, you and I are one; every circumstance that befalls you once befell me.”
And so the elder Hassan gave the younger instructions, and the younger obeyed them. He refrained from buying eggs from his usual grocer, and thus avoided the illness that struck customers who bought eggs from a spoiled basket. He bought extra hemp, and thus had material to work with when others suffered a shortage due to a delayed caravan. Following his older self’s instructions spared Hassan many troubles, but he wondered why his older self would not tell him more. Whom would he marry? How would he become wealthy?
Then one day, after having sold all his rope in the market and carrying an unusually full purse, Hassan bumped into a boy while walking on the street. He felt for his purse, discovered it missing, and turned around with a shout to search the crowd for the pickpocket. Hearing Hassan’s cry, the boy immediately began running through the crowd. Hassan saw that the boy’s tunic was torn at the elbow, but then quickly lost sight of him.
For a moment Hassan was shocked that this could happen with no warning from his older self. But his surprise was soon replaced by anger, and he gave chase. He ran through the crowd, checking the elbows of boys’ tunics, until by chance he found the pickpocket crouching beneath a fruit wagon. Hassan grabbed him and began shouting to all that he had caught a thief, asking them to find a guardsman. The boy, afraid of arrest, dropped Hassan’s purse and began weeping. Hassan stared at the boy for a long moment, and then his anger faded, and he let him go.
When next he saw his older self, Hassan asked him, “Why did you not warn me about the pickpocket?”
“Did you not enjoy the experience?” asked his older self.
Hassan was about to deny it, but stopped himself. “I did enjoy it,” he admitted. In pursuing the boy, with no hint of whether he’d succeed or fail, he had felt his blood surge in a way it had not for many weeks. And seeing the boy’s tears had reminded him of the Prophet’s teachings on the value of mercy, and Hassan had felt virtuous in choosing to let the boy go.