One Thousand and One Nights (25 page)

Innocent Baqbouq smiled and returned to his chair beside the lady, who hit him twice more, before her slaves joined in too, as the lady congratulated the beautiful slave, saying, “Good girl, I’ve never seen anything better than this one!”

Eventually Baqbouq couldn’t take the violence any more, and fainted. The lady ordered her slaves to sprinkle him with orange blossom water and to burn incense. When he came round, the slave said to him, “My lady was testing your patience. Now she knows that it is as great as a camel, she has decided to reward you.”

With that the lady gave Baqbouq a brief, quick kiss near his mouth, which made him spin around like a dog chasing his tail. “I am your slave, my lady,” he told her, “do whatever you want with me.”

“Let my slave dye your eyebrows and pluck your moustache,” the lady said. But Baqbouq objected strongly, “It’s all right to dye my eyebrows, but plucking my moustache is going to be too painful, and I couldn’t endure the pain.”

“God created me with a huge appetite for fun and to be merry, and whoever joins in with me will ultimately win my heart and body.”

“But I’m scared. My moustache has lots of hair.”

The slave whispered to him, as she gave him a cup of wine, “Be patient, soon you will take everything you wish and desire of her; if you’re not patient, you’ll lose everything you’ve endured already.”

Baqbouq accepted reluctantly, closed his eyes and pressed his two hands to his chest, sobbing, even before the slave had touched him. When she did, he cried out in pain and fright and didn’t stop till she’d finished plucking his moustache. Then she dyed his eyebrows while he sat, happy as a clam, counting the seconds before he could be with his lady.

Finally, the lady sat beside him and pretended to kiss his reddened eyebrows. “But where has your moustache gone?” she asked.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already that it was plucked out, didn’t you hear me cry like a bull?”

The lady laughed and giggled. “Oh yes, I remember now.”

Then she stroked his beard, and sighed. “How I wish that you could get rid of your beard, so that your face is as smooth as a plum.” Baqbouq was annoyed, but excited by her touch at the same time. “If I get rid of my beard, everyone in the market will laugh at me,” he said. “No, no, I’d better not.”

But the lady held his hand and stroked her own face with it. “Can you feel how delicate my skin is—like a rose petal? It scratches very easily, even when the soft breeze touches it, so you can imagine what will happen if your beard rubs my face when we are kissing, licking and embracing.”

Baqbouq looked at her with love, infatuation and, above all, lust, but remained silent. The slave whispered, “Are you mad? Don’t you see how passionately my mistress is in love with you? Be patient, you’re nearly there, you’re about to have her and in a day or two your beard will grow back. Now lie down for me and
don’t think about anything except the blissful time you will have with my lady.”

So trusting Baqbouq put his faith in her and in God, and let her shave off his beard with a knife. Then, feeling something on his face, he asked, “What are you doing?”

“Applying an ointment to help your beard grow tomorrow,” she answered.

She took him by the hand, back to her mistress, who, when she saw his painted face, laughed and giggled, saying, “I am delighted! You look so handsome, like a real prince. You have won my heart and all of me, with your patient and sublime nature. Let me, beloved, see you dancing, so I become excited and lustful. What will arouse me and turn me on is a handsome young man like you swaying and shaking his hips.”

Baqbouq felt proud of himself for the first time in his life. He danced without any rhythm or tempo, which made the lady laugh hysterically. She began to throw cushions at him and her slaves joined in, hurling potatoes and lemons. Every time he ducked, the lady made him dance with her, until he was bent over like a monkey suffering indigestion. The lady began to take off her clothes but Baqbouq was too embarrassed and overwhelmed to respond. The slave whispered into his ear, “My lady is intoxicated now, wait until she is in her underwear, and then take off all your clothes and follow her.”

When the lady had stripped down, she cried out, “Catch me if you can!” Baqbouq stripped off as if his clothes were on fire. The lady called out, “Do you really want me?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Baqbouq replied. “Come and get me,” came the reply. She ran from one room to the other, as Baqbouq ran after her panting, his penis hardening, encouraged by the slaves who called out, “You’ve nearly reached her!”

He ran from one room to another like a rabid dog, drooling, his penis jutting out like the branch of a tree. Then, running after her, he found himself in a dark room and felt he was running on wooden boards, but nothing could stop him now, he just wanted the woman. All of a sudden, the floor broke and he fell down and found himself in the leather market. When the traders saw him fall down among them, totally naked, with an erect penis, without a beard or moustache and with red, bushy eyebrows and a face as red as a baboon’s bottom, they beat him with leather, laughing, until the poor fellow lost consciousness. Then they put him on a donkey, parading him through the market to the chief of police, who asked, “What is this and where did you find it?” “He dropped and fell from a chamberlain’s house like this,” the merchants answered.

Baqbouq was given one hundred lashes, and then he was ordered to leave Baghdad for good. When Baqbouq’s two brothers found out what happened, they came to me to ask me for help, knowing that I visit the Commander of the Faithful from time to time. I hurried to the Wali himself, describing the gentle nature of Baqbouq, who wouldn’t even tread on a dead ant, assuring him that someone must have played a trick on him, and the Wali pardoned him, and let me take him back to his family. From that day, until now, Baqbouq has never crossed the threshold of his house. He is unable to trust anyone, man or woman; not even me, who helped him.

Abu Nuwas, coming to the end of his tale, looked round at the sisters. “Now, my ladies, I urge you to confide in me with all the humanity you hold and conscience you carry within you. Can the actions of that disgraceful, whimsical and spoilt lady be described as mean, vile and lowly? Surely he suffered the ultimate injustice
at her hands, because he was what people call an idiot? In my opinion, he suffered as all of you have, because of the cruelty of a woman. And I want you to imagine what would have happened to him if I hadn’t asked the Wali to pardon him. He would have become a fugitive, away from his home and city, exiled and alone in the wilderness, not only with no money or food or roof over his head, but with no love, care or sympathy.”

he audience shook their heads in sorrow for poor Baqbouq.

“My brother, the fisherman, is Baqbouq’s neighbour,” said the porter. “You’ve forgotten, my dear poet, to add that Baqbouq has never stopped repeating, ‘Why, why, why,’ his breath rattling in his chest like a slaughtered beast!”

The poet turned to the five sisters, whose expressions remained blank. “Baqbouq’s story is nothing but a few mint leaves with which to whet the appetite. The main dish is most certainly mischievous Dalila the Wily.”

To the great surprise of all who were gathered in the room, one of the elder two sisters stood up.

“Oh Commander of the Faithful,” she said. “Would you permit me to tell the tale of Dalila the Wily myself? My family knew her so well.”

“Yes, you may,” answered the Caliph.

She cleared her throat, but Abu Nuwas interrupted her, barking like a dog.

“Would someone stop this infernal dog from barking?” said the Caliph, with great irritation.

But the eldest sister simply ignored the commotion and began her story.

Dalila’s husband was in charge of rearing carrier pigeons for the Caliph. When he died, his salary of a thousand dinars was stopped, as well as the two meals provided for him, his wife and two children each day. Dalila tried in vain to get a pension, even a quarter of her husband’s salary. But her request was declined and so she was forced to seek employment, working here and there as a maid to make ends meet. She worked every day without ceasing until she became old.

It happened one day that she heard of two men who had come from Cairo to Baghdad and played confidence tricks and grew in influence until they found their way to the Caliph himself, who appointed them commanders of the right and left flanks of the district just outside the walls of the city. They were given money, food and above all respect, which in Dalila’s opinion they did not deserve. She decided that she would exact revenge for her ill treatment, playing confidence tricks with great craftiness and deviousness in order to win her reputation in Baghdad and thereby claim the salary of her late husband. She swore that news of her feats would reach not only the Wali, but the Caliph himself.

“I will show them that I am the only person able to milk an ant!” she said to herself, and then she dressed up like a Sufi in a woollen gown which reached her ankles, with a wide belt around her waist and a woollen jubba on her head. She wrapped prayer beads and worry beads around her neck, filled a jug with water and laid three dinars in a cloth across the rim.

Then, covering her face with a thin veil, she strolled through the streets calling, “Allah, Allah!” But behind the veil, her eyes,
like two eagles, were hunting constantly for prey. “What trick can I play now, and on whom?” she murmured.

Dalila made her way through the poor alleyways and slums until she reached the better part of town, where the influential and rich lived. Her senses alive, she scanned the streets until she spotted an arched door inlaid with marble. She stopped and looked at the house, calling out louder, “Allah, Allah, Allah!”

A beautiful young lady, surrounded by her maids, looked out of the window. When Dalila spotted the girl’s elaborate clothing and glittering jewellery, she decided she would lure her out of the house and strip her of everything in which she was attired. She began to whirl like a dervish, her white woollen robes swirling as she turned until she looked like a dome of light.

“Come, you saints of God, let us be blessed by your presence,” she intoned, as she turned.

When the gatekeeper of the house heard Dalila, he hurried to kiss her hand, but she refused, saying, “Keep away, lest you spoil my ablution. But I shall let you drink from my jug, so that you might be blessed.”

She twirled the jug in the air, shaking her hand until the cloth fell and the three dinars dropped at the gatekeeper’s feet. He picked them up and handed them back to her.

“These worldly things don’t concern me,” Dalila said loudly, so the beautiful woman would hear, and she indicated that the gatekeeper might keep the coins.

“This is indeed a heavenly gift,” said the astonished gatekeeper.

Dalila ignored him, sprinkling drops of water in the direction of the woman’s window.

“Come, saints of God!” she implored, “and bless these women!”

“Go and ask her ladyship if she wants the Sufi woman to bless
the house. She is clearly a woman of great power and devotion,” the excited gatekeeper said to the maids at the window.

As Dalila continued her devotions, a maid came down, kissed her hand and took her into the house to meet her mistress.

Once inside, the young lady rushed towards Dalila, offering some food.

“I eat only the food of Paradise, and then only five days in the year,” Dalila said humbly, eyeing the woman’s jewellery from beneath lowered eyelids.

Hearing this, the young woman asked all her maids and slaves to leave them. Dalila sensed that something was bothering the girl. She closed her eyes, and holding the girl’s hand, murmured, “I can sense that you’re worried about something, so confide in me, my daughter, and I’ll try to help you.”

The young woman began to weep. “My husband is the Emir Shar al-Tariq, Prince Evil of the Road,” she murmured. “We’ve been married one year, and I haven’t yet borne him a child. Yesterday he pushed me away when I approached him, saying that a man who leaves no sons or daughters will not be remembered. Then he accused me of being barren, unable to conceive, and said that he would start looking for another wife tomorrow. I defended myself, telling him that I had ground up so many medicines that every mortar in the house was worn away, and that I am not at fault. But he shouted at me, saying sleeping with me is like carving in stone,” said the girl, weeping even harder.

Dalila, extremely happy to hear this, stroked the girl’s hand in sympathy.

“I weep because I don’t wish that flat-nosed mule, with his useless sperm like farting soap bubbles, to divorce me and rob me of all this wealth.”

“Did he say tomorrow?” Dalila said. “Then we must hurry. Prepare yourself, and I’ll take you to Sheikh Abu al-Hamalat, whose name describes how he carries everyone’s problems in his heart and as a burden on his shoulders. If we go to him now, and you convince your husband to sleep with you tonight, you will conceive a daughter or a son.”

“I swear that I’ll fast for a whole year if this Sufi woman is not a holy saint!” said the gatekeeper, as Dalila and the young woman left in a great hurry, hand in hand.