“Don’t be so critical, Master! Just sit back and enjoy it.”
The group now started singing:
When I knocked on the door of the tent, she asked: “Who knocks?”
“One bewitched by beauty, “I replied, “no thief or robber. “
She smiled, revealing a set of pearly white teeth.
Drowning in the sea of my own tears I staggered back in disarray.
The members of the group took turns reciting the two verses, each in their own way, then they were joined by a beautiful young man whom they let sing a solo while they accompanied him on their instruments:
Oh how long, how long have I loved your lashes,
Yet you have no mercy, no heart that softens,
So now, because of you, you can see how my heart
Has become like a ploughshare in smiths’ hands.
Tears drop and flames leap high,
Hammers fall to left and right.
God has created Christians to be raided,
But your raids are against lovers’ hearts.
This time I gave him my opinion without being asked. “That young man is from the Andalusian Maghrib for sure,” I said. “Al-Jubani’s son, did you notice how the singer put so much extra expression into the performance. Muwashshahat and zajals are part of his regional heritage. The very best ones of all I have heard only in Fez and other places influenced by Andalusian culture.”
As the troupe made its way off the stage to another storm of applause, I murmured:
Is the gazelle of al-Hima aware that it has enflamed the heart
of a lover where it has made its dwelling place?
Inflame and lightning flash it behaves like
the East wind toying with the firebrand.
Once the stage was empty, someone piped up with the following anecdote: “When your favorite buxom wench comes to see you, tell her this joke. It comes from one of the two great authorities, either Ibn al-Jawzi, or else Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziya in his Meadow for Lovers: A wife and her husband had a falling out. So he started having sex with her a lot. ‘God take you away!’ she told him. ‘Every time we have an argument, you come at me with a mediator I can’t repel!’’’
Everyone in the tavern let out a lewd guffaw. I realized that the level of debauchery was rising rapidly. As I was making ready to leave, a waiter leaned over and offered me a glass of wine — compliments, he said, of some toffs in the tavern to the great Maliki legal authority, Ibn Khaldun. I stood up, told the waiter to take the glass back to its owners with clear instructions to the effect that I only take legitimate drinks. I said a rapid farewell to the astonished young man and hurried toward the exit. Behind me I left the dancer gyrating and soaring with every limb in her body.
“The tavern’s your own place, revered pilgrim. Daytime’s for legal affairs and teaching; nighttime’s for enjoyment and deceit!” called the tavern owner.
I chose to ignore this leering suggestion and rushed away in the hope of safeguarding my reputation. Once safely out of the way and close to my house, I told myself that I had gone to the tavern to offer condolences, but I allowed myself to forget what the original purpose actually had been. Now my antics would be a free gift to my enemies, who would make a mountain out of a molehill. So, Umm al-Banin, for the remainder of the night you can be my covering and I yours.
The following hadith comes from Jabir via al-Khatib: The Prophet of God (may God bless and preserve him) said: ‘Do not have sex before foreplay.’ Well, it was clear that Umm al-Banin rejected both. She was extremely annoyed that I had stayed out till early morning. At lunchtime on the following day I had to invoke all my persuasive powers to convince her of the veracity of my account of what had actually happened the night before. In such matters it was intention that mattered, not missteps on the way. Even so, it was only when I had sworn a solemn oath that I had neither disgraced myself nor had sex with anyone that I managed to dispel the suspicions in her mind and persuade her to return to her normal smiling self. Actually I was secretly happy that she was jealous. I surreptitiously congratulated myself and thanked the devil for putting suspicions into her head.
One thing that the previous night’s adventure did for me was to arouse my dormant infatuation with poetry. In the evening I now started spending many hours reading the Mu‘allaqat, the principal collections of poetry — prime among them being the Book of Songs of Abu al-Faraj al-Isfahani, and the poetry of al-Mutanabbi and al-Ma‘arri. But, every time I traversed the territories of these great texts, I became ever more aware of my own inability to compose poetry and my feeble talent on that score. I would make do with muttering to myself, “Everyone possesses the talents he has been given. I must content myself with what I have.”
3. The Journey to Timur Lang, the Scourge of the Century
My revered shaykh — may God have mercy on his soul — was Muhammad ibn Ibrahim al-Abili, a truly masterful intellect in his own right. Whenever I asked him about Timur Lang or discussed the Mongol chieftain’s campaign with him, he would always reply, “He will soon be coming to our region. Should you live so long, you should certainly meet him.”
Among the people eating was the chief judge, Wali al-Din [Ibn Khaldun]. All the while Timur Lang kept glaring at them. For his part, Ibn Khaldun was looking at Timur. Whenever Timur looked in his direction, Ibn Khaldun would lower his eyes. Once the stare moved elsewhere, he would look at Timur once again. “Great leader,” Ibn Khaldun shouted after a while, “Praise be to God Almighty! With my very presence I have given honor to rulers of peoples; with my works of history I have revived eras that were left for dead; among kings of the Western realms I have seen So-and-So and So-and-So; I have met this sultan and that; I have visited the countries of the East and West; and I have consorted with rulers and deputies in every region. Even with all that, I acknowledge the boon that God has provided for me by keeping me alive and prolonging my existence in order that I may see one who is indeed a king in every way. In lawbooks about genuine authority, the role of kingship is evaluated by modes of conduct. If the food offered by kings is to be eaten to stave off perdition, then that which is now offered to us by our lord, the great commander, achieves that and more. It grants us all honor and prestige.” That speech made Timur positively quiver with pleasure; he was almost dancing for sheer joy.
In his spare time the master used to play with his little daughter; her favorites were tickling and playing horsey. One time, when he was getting ready to put her on his back, he suddenly realized to his horror that the worst thing that could possibly happen would be for his wife and child to be exposed to some danger. Thereafter, as he was busy studying and writing, he kept asking himself whether there could possibly be any danger worse than that posed by Timur ibn Chaghatay ibn Genghiz Khan. From Turkestan and Bukhara beyond the River Oxus, terrifying stories kept arriving about the brutal raids he had been conducting for the past seven years — as far as the gates of Baghdad itself! Had he not been forced to return to his homeland to put down a rebellion, Baghdad would certainly have faced the very same fate it had suffered at the hands of Hulagu Khan’s hordes a century and a quarter earlier. People only sit up and take notice when confronted by imminent danger. But, as far as our historian was concerned, by far the most serious danger at that time was the brutal and rampant tribal spirit among the Tatars. As day followed day, he became ever more aware of the need to investigate their background and the reasons behind their strength. He regarded a Tatar attack on Mamluk territory as an unstoppable certainty.