Читать книгу What 'Isa ibn Hisham Told Us - Muhammad al-Muwaylihi - Страница 18

Miṣbāḥ al-sharq 31, November 17, 1898

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ʿĪsā ibn Hishām told us: In a dream, I saw myself walking among the tombs and gravestones in the Imam Shāfiʿī cemetery. It was a brilliant moonlit night, bright enough to blot out the stars in the sky; in fact, so gleaming was the light, one could have threaded a pearl and watched a speck of dust. As I stood there amid the graves atop the tombstones, I contemplated man’s arrogance and conceit, his sense of his own glory, his pride, his total obsession with his own pretensions, his excessive desires, his sense of self-aggrandizement, and the way he chooses to forget about the grave. In his deluded arrogance he hoists his nose into the air and endeavors to pierce the very heavens with it. Then he can boast about the things he has collected and use what he owns to claim some kind of superiority. But then Death always coerces him. Once it has enshrouded his artificial splendor and glory beneath its slabs of stone, it uses that very same nose to block up a crack in his tomb.

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Deep in thought I continued my walk. I recalled the words of the sage poet, Abū l-ʿAlāʾ al-Maʿarrī:

Tread lightly, for methinks the surface of the earth

is made only from these bodies.

It would be wrong of us to treat our forefathers

and ancestors lightly even if they lived long ago.

Walk slowly abroad, if you are able,

and do not strut over the remains of God’s people.¹⁹

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So I repented and trod lightly. Among these numerous corpses and remains of the dead there would be mouths. For a single kiss from them, lovers in the past would often have changed course and bartered the very sweetness of Kawthar for their sweet taste. But now they are blended with the dust of the earth, and their teeth mingle with pebbles and small stones.

I also remembered those cheeks the rose so envied that it wept dewy tears, which would arouse people’s hearts to a fiery passion. The beauty spot on their surface looked exactly like the faithful companion Abraham in the fire, or the black-skinned Nuʿmān of al-Ḥīrah in the midst of red anemones. Through them flowed the glow of modesty and youth’s gushing spring, but now fate has folded away their beauty just as one shuts a book; by destiny’s decree they have become a mere layer on the earth’s surface. The lashes of those eyes ensnared mighty kings, so that the rulers of people became the subjects of girls. They bewitched Hārūt and Mārūt in Babel and humiliated the majestic tyrant as he sought some glimmer of approval in their glances. There he stood, crown in hand. Beads of perspiration on his forehead were evidence of his shyness; he was like a beggar seeking alms. These same eyes have now become soil within the tombs; it is as though they had never infatuated anyone. That luxuriant black flourish of hair whose glitter dazzled both heart and eyes to the core has been plucked from its roots by Time’s hand, and from it fate has woven a funeral shroud.

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Those breasts, that once seemed like boxes of silver decorated with pearls or balls of snow with a pomegranate flower at center, now look like leather bags with food for worms in the grave.

How many a maid who withheld her cheek from a kiss

has had her cheek mastered by the earth!

How many a girl whose neck now carries the weight of the earth

used to complain of the unbearable weight of a necklace.²⁰

Those decaying bones, remains of mighty kings who considered the earth too paltry a domain and tried to attain regions bordering the very stars; those chests which contained courageous and prudent hearts; those lips which often uttered orders of war and peace; those fingertips which used to sharpen quills for writing and trim necks with the sword; those faces and heads which enslaved bodies and souls and which were described as full moons at one moment and as suns at another; among the dead, such rulers are peers of the ruled, nor is there difference or distinction between the lowly and mighty.

He is Death for whom rich and poor are both the same;

a man who knows his way is like another who has gone astray.

In his judgment, the warrior’s shield and maiden’s shift are both alike;

an emperor’s dwellings are mere spider’s webs.

Such folk are trodden in the dust, while misfortune rides rampant;

among people fate is still the best rider.

The bier is like a ship casting its contents to drown in the sea of death,

piling up and up.²¹

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As part of such sobering notions, I was considering the remarkable things that happen and marveling at the way in which times change. Deep in thought about the extraordinary things which fate brings about, I was trying to probe the secrets of the resurrection. Suddenly, there was a violent tremor behind me which almost brought my life to an end. In terror I looked behind me. I discovered that one of the graves had opened, and a man had appeared. He was tall and imposing, carried himself with dignity and a majestic aura, and displayed all the signs of nobility and high birth. I felt as stunned and terrified as Moses on the day when the mountain was destroyed.²² Once I had recovered from the shock, I noticed that he was walking toward me. He shouted to me like an army commander issuing orders. The conversation went as follows:

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GHOST Come closer.

ʿĪsā ibn Hishām said: My whole body shook, but I could see no way out, so I obeyed his instructions and moved closer.

GHOST What’s your name and profession? What are you doing out here?

This man must have been interrogated recently by the two Questioning Angels, I told myself; that is why he is using their procedure. I asked God to rescue me from these dire straits and come to my aid so that I could escape the arguments of the Day of Reckoning and be protected from this terrible punishment. Then I turned in his direction and answered:

ʿĪSĀ IBN HISHĀM My name is ʿĪsā ibn Hishām, my profession is the art of writing, and I came here to find some inspiration by visiting the tombs. I find it more effective than listening to sermons from pulpits.

GHOST Well then, secretary ʿĪsā, where’s your inkwell and notebook?

ʿĪSĀ IBN HISHĀM I’m not a secretary in the Treasury or Secretariat, I’m an author.

GHOST Never mind! Go then, my good author, and look for my clothes and bring me my horse, Daḥmān!

ʿĪSĀ IBN HISHĀM But where’s your house, Sir? I don’t know it.

GHOST (in disgust) Tell me, for heaven’s sake, which country are you from? You can’t be an Egyptian. There’s no one in the whole country who doesn’t know where my house is. I’m Aḥmad Pāshā al-Manīkalī, the Egyptian Minister of War!

ʿĪSĀ IBN HISHĀM Believe me, Pāshā, I’m from pure Egyptian stock. The only reason why I don’t know where you live is that houses in Egypt are no longer known by the names of their owners, but by the names of their street, lane, and number. If you would be so kind as to tell me the street, lane, and number of your house, I’ll go there and bring you the things you’ve requested.

AL-MANĪKALĪ (annoyed) It’s clear to me, my good author, that you’re out of your mind! Since when have houses had numbers to be known by? What are they? Some kind of government legislation or army regulations? Anyway give me your overcoat to wrap myself in and your tarboosh and sandals too. Then accompany me till I reach my house.

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ʿĪsā ibn Hishām said: Since it was only my overcoat, tarboosh, and sandals that were involved, it was fairly easy. Usually it is highwaymen who rob passersby, but now here was this ghost, a grave-dweller at that, doing it to me as well.

Al-Manīkalī took the coat and put it on with a reluctant disdain:

AL-MANĪKALĪ Well, “Necessity has its own Rules!”²³ But then, I have disguised myself in even shabbier clothes than this while accompanying our late revered master, Ibrāhīm Pāshā, on the nights he used to spend in the city so that he could see for himself how people were faring.

Īsā ibn Hishām said: We started walking, but then he stopped abruptly.

AL-MANĪKALĪ But what’s to be done?

ʿĪSĀ IBN HISHĀM What do you mean?

AL-MANĪKALĪ I’ve forgotten that it’s nighttime. There’s no one on duty who’ll be able to recognize me in this overcoat. How can we get the gates opened when we don’t have the password?

ʿĪSĀ IBN HISHĀM You’ve just told me, Sir, that you don’t know anything about houses having numbers. Well, I don’t know anything about a “password.” What is it?

AL-MANĪKALĪ (laughing contemptuously) Didn’t I say you had to be a foreigner? Don’t you know that the “password” is a word issued each night from the Citadel to the officer of the watch and all the guardhouses and gates? No one is allowed to travel at night unless he has memorized this word and can repeat it to the gatekeeper, whereupon the gate is opened for him. It is given out in secret to the people who ask the government for it so that they can carry on their business at night. It’s changed every night. So, one night, it will be “Lentils,” the next night “Greens,” the next night “Pigeons,” the next night “Fowl,” and so on.

ʿĪSĀ IBN HISHĀM It’s clear to me that you’re the one who’s not Egyptian. The only use we have for such words is as food. We’ve never heard of their being used to convey permission to travel at night. In any case, it’s almost dawn, so we’ll have no further need of such words or any others.

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ʿĪsā ibn Hishām said: So we went on our way. The Pāshā began to tell me more about himself. He told me tales of wars and battles which he had either witnessed himself or heard about and then went on to recall any number of exploits of Muḥammad ʿAlī and the great courage of Ibrāhīm. We continued in this fashion till we reached the Citadel Square, by which time it was daylight. The Pāshā halted in humble respect, recited the Fātiḥah to Muḥammad ʿAlī’s tomb and then addressed the Citadel:

Hail to thee, source of bounties, treadmill of the violent Mamluk tyrants, haven of sovereignty, fortress of royal sway, source of might, birthplace of power, and height of glory. You are the refuge of the pleader for help, protection for him who seeks it, treasure-house of people’s desires, goal of their aspirations.

O Cairo Citadel, how many people who came to you in search of kindness you have obligated with your charity! How many pompous men have you coerced, and how many swords have you drawn. You combined power and generosity, and could decide as alternatives between life and death.

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ʿĪsā ibn Hishām said: Then the Pāshā turned towards me. “Hurry to my house with me,” he said. “I can put on my proper clothes, buckle my sword, and mount my horse. Then I’ll return to the Citadel and pay my respects to his exalted highness, the dispenser of bounty.”

All this astonished me, and I decided to follow his story to its conclusion.