The remaining five months of 806 I devoted entirely to household matters; I worked on finishing them all as though I was going to die the next day. I sold as many of my possessions as possible, and used a legal stratagem to deed my house and its furniture to Sha‘ban. I was equally anxious to satisfy Umm al-Batul’s needs and turned every night I spent in her company into a night of all nights.
Every day I spent in the tender care of my wife, I struggled to rid my mind of the notion that my inevitable death was drawing ever closer. She never lost an opportunity to talk about our daughter and make me long for Fez and a life of ease there. When the time came for her to go back, I accompanied her to Alexandria. With many, many kisses, I said farewell, promising that I would join her in a few months. I then handed her over to the care of the noble families returning by boat to Fez.
In the first week of Sha‘ban in the following year, just as I was putting the final touches to my preparations for departure, I heard that Timur had died. Even so, I did not celebrate. It was at precisely this point that I received a new decree appointing me judge for the fifth time. I had no choice but to accept, all in the hope that I would soon be dismissed. In fact, it was only about four months before I was indeed dismissed yet again. I gave thanks to God and wrote to tell my wife that I would soon be joining her.
At the beginning of Dhu al-Hijja my caravan of possessions — books and clothes — was ready to leave. I thought of asking the sultan for permission to perform the pilgrimage, my intention being to use the return journey as a way of heading quickly and secretly to the Maghrib. However, at this point the winds blew the wrong way, and my intentions were thwarted. I came down with a severe and totally unexpected illness that confined me to bed. The illness was very grave and had a terrible effect on my spirits which were already floundering in a swamp of misgivings and foul odors. But for Sha‘ban who took tremendous pains to look after me, I would simply have given up and waited for the fates to make their judgment.
For the first five months of 807 I kept feeling alternately hot and cold, with permanent pains in my joints. The expressions on the faces of the few visitors I had made clear quite how ill I really was. On such occasions I said very little, but asked them not to spread word of my illness so that God could decide how to finish something that was already determined.
At the beginning of Rajab I received a letter from Umm al-Batul in which she reassured me that both she and our daughter were well and begged me to travel soon. Those sweet, impassioned words of hers were a kind of prelude to a stage when I started to convalesce. Ever so gradually, I started being able to wash myself for prayers and perform them at the right times. My appetite returned, and with it my desire to read. Had I been able to write, I would have noted down all the scattered, incoherent thoughts in my foggy mind about a world as envisaged by a tired and sick old man whose entire universe was bounded by his bed and house. All that was an incipient project that I thought I might compose some time soon, provided time came to my aid and God prolonged my life.
By the beginning of Sha‘ban I could move about and even walk around the quarters close to my house. For an hour or two every morning, I used to walk through streets and markets, looking at people and objects with a kind of curiosity and longing, as though I were rediscovering them after a long, compulsory absence. Sha‘ban would often accompany me to make sure I was comfortable and to give me whatever good advice was needed to ensure my safety. When I felt strong enough, I went to see Faraj and told him of my desire to perform the pilgrimage and my longing for the noble Ka‘ba and the holy places. But the drunken sultan gave a hearty laugh. “You’re clearly unwell, Wali al-Din,” he said. “I want to remove all your worries by reappointing you as judge. Through my generosity your health will be restored. Do not ask me for anything else.” Had he not left immediately, I would have clearly indicated my unwillingness to accept the position and my longing to escape his clutches.
I was born seventy-six years ago, at the beginning of Ramadan, the month of fasting, the month when the Qur’an was sent down. This year, when the blessed month came round again, my illness returned even worse than before. I lost all taste for life and prayed to God to bring me close to Him. I begged for intercessions from his noble Prophet who spoke truly: ‘When Ramadan comes, heaven’s gates are opened and those of hell are closed.’ As my death seemed ever more imminent, Sha‘ban became more and more dismayed. I asked him to send my wife a letter that I wrote, requesting her to arrange my burial in the Sufi cemetery outside the Bab al-Nasr. Then I lay down on my bed, waiting for the arrival of the angel of death who would forever extinguish the residual warmth in my body; waiting too for the hand that would close my eyes with unique gentleness. .
This period of waiting starts with involvement, followed by a recondite, yet stunning plunge into the depths of folly and grief.
This is a wait for the jugular vein and all other pulses and pumps to be severed!
The process of dying, I can confirm, involves an end with neither doubt nor ambiguity. That confirmation comes from an internal voice, one that speaks from the midst of my muscles and limbs, using the language of separation and annihilation.
Ulcers on my legs, like ants, or rather bloody worms that crawl through veins and bones, making their way so, so slowly, and yet beneath the standards of rugged determination.
My head remains feverish; I know it well and its habitation.
The statement of faith before fate snatches me away unexpectedly!
So I muttered the statement of faith over and over again, interspersed with prayers for myself, my father, my family, and all my loved ones who will live on after me. I repeated these entreaties as many times as I could. I expressed the hope that Umm al-Batul, the sweet joy of my spirit, would happily join me in the Garden of Eden after traversing the narrow pathway safe and sound on the Day of Judgment. Then, once my mind started to close down and my tongue grew heavy, my own guardian spirit appeared to me and whispered in my ear, “Release me from these chains. . ”
There is a vague blur in front of my eyes, and I realize that it is Sha‘ban, whom my vision has transformed into a thin, ethereal being like smoke. I feel his presence as he leans over me, shedding a tear as he does so, or tries to feed me some light food. I feel him once again as he wraps my freezing-cold feet in woolen blankets.
Praise to the living God!
My entire life appears before my eyes as an amalgamated series of images, brilliantly lit and in sequence. When I look back on some of them in the light of theories about deserts and cities, East and West, sparks and ashes soon begin to fly. All that remains in my vision is a thick fog enveloped by smiling angels; they may well be the angels of mercy and understanding.
Praise to the living God!
Now the entire lower half of my body is falling apart in preparation for the advent of death. No doubt, it is anxious to liberate the spirit from the pit of decay and disease.
These drunken ravings are what emerges from an obsessive concern with the wait for the final breath or the last, great cry. As the wait spins ever faster and time settles into the great darkness, oh how nightmarish are the fearsome visions.