The Forty Rules of Love (33 page)

Kerra

KONYA, MAY 1247

Broaching a subject as deep and delicate as love is like trying to capture a gusty wind. You can feel the harm the wind is about to cause, but there is no way to slow it down. After a while I didn’t ask Kimya any other questions, not because I was convinced by her answers but because I saw in her eyes a woman in love. I stopped questioning this marriage, accepting it as one of those odd things in life I had no control over.

The month of Ramadan went by so fast and busy, I didn’t have time to dwell on this matter again. Eid fell on Sunday. Four days later we married Kimya to Shams.

The evening before the wedding, something happened that changed my entire mood. I was alone in the kitchen, sitting in front of a floured board and a rolling pin, preparing flatbread for the guests. All of a sudden, without thinking what I was doing, I started molding a shape out of a ball of dough. I sculpted a small, soft Mother Mary. My Mother Mary. With the help of a knife, I carved her long robe and her face, calm and compassionate. So absorbed was I in this that I didn’t notice someone standing behind me.

“What is it that you are making, Kerra?”

My heart jumped inside my chest. When I turned around, I saw Shams standing by the door, watching me with inquisitive eyes. It occurred to me to hide the dough, but it was too late. Shams approached the tray and looked at the figure.

“Is that Mary?” he asked, and when I didn’t answer, he turned to me with a beaming countenance. “Why, she is beautiful. Do you miss Mary?”

“I converted long ago. I am a Muslim woman,” I answered curtly.

But Shams continued to talk as if he hadn’t heard me. “Perhaps you wonder why Islam doesn’t have a female figure like Mary. There is Aisha, for sure, and certainly Fatima, but you might think it is not the same.”

I felt uneasy, not knowing what to say.

“May I tell you a story?” Shams asked.

And this is what he told me:

Once there were four travelers, a Greek, an Arab, a Persian, and a Turk. Upon reaching a small town, they decided to get something to eat. As they had limited money they had only one choice to make. Each said he had the best food in the world in mind. When asked what that was, the Persian answered “angoor,” the Greek said “staphalion,” the Arab asked for “aneb,” and the Turk demanded “üzüm.” Unable to understand one another’s language, they began to argue.

They kept quarreling among themselves, feeling more resentful and bitter with every passing minute, until a Sufi who happened to pass by interrupted them. With the money collected the Sufi bought a bunch of grapes. He then put the grapes in a container and pressed hard. He made the travelers drink the juice and threw away the skin, because what mattered was the essence of the fruit, not its outer form.

“Christians, Jews, and Muslims are like those travelers. While they quarrel about the outer form, the Sufi is after the essence,” Shams said, giving me a smile that conveyed such excitement that it was hard not to be carried away by it.

“What I am trying to say is, there is no reason for you to miss Mother Mary, because you don’t need to abandon her in the first place. As a Muslim woman, you can still feel attached to her.”

“I … I don’t think that would be right,” I stammered.

“I don’t see why not. Religions are like rivers: They all flow to the same sea. Mother Mary stands for compassion, mercy, affection, and unconditional love. She is both personal and universal. As a Muslim woman, you can keep liking her and even name your daughter Mary.”

“I don’t have a daughter,” I said.

“You will have one.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

I felt excited to hear such words, but before long the excitement was washed away by another feeling: solidarity. Sharing an unusual moment of serenity and harmony, we looked at the figure of Mother Mary together. My heart warmed to Shams, and for the first time since he’d come to our house, I was able to see what Rumi saw in him: a man with a big heart.

Still, I doubted he would make a good husband for Kimya.

Ella

BOSTON, JUNE 29, 2008

By the time Ella got to the hotel, she was so tense she couldn’t think properly. There was a group of Japanese tourists in the lobby, all of whom appeared to be in their seventies and sported the same haircut. She crossed the lobby, scanning the paintings on the walls, so as not to have to look in the eyes of the people around her. But it didn’t take long for her curiosity to defeat her timidity. And the moment her gaze slid toward the meeting area, she saw him, watching her.

He was wearing a khaki button-down shirt and dark corduroy trousers, and had a two-day stubble that she thought made him quite attractive. His curly chestnut hair fell over his green eyes, giving him an air of confidence and mischief all at once. Wiry and thin, light and lithe, he was very different from David in his expensive tailor-made suits. He spoke with a Scottish brogue, which she found charming, and smiled with an ease of manner, looking genuinely happy and excited to see her. And Ella couldn’t help asking herself what harm there could be in having a cup of coffee with him.

Later on, she would not be able to remember how one cup of coffee became several cups, or how the conversation took on an increasingly intimate tone, or how at some point he planted a kiss on her fingertip, just as she would not be able to explain why she didn’t do anything to stop him. After a while nothing seemed to matter as long as he kept talking and she could let her gaze linger on the small dimple at the corner of his mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss him there. It was half past eleven o’clock in the evening. She was in a hotel with a man she didn’t know anything about, aside from some e-mails and phone calls and the novel he’d written.

“So you’re here for
Smithsonian
magazine?” Ella asked.

“Actually, I’m here for you,” Aziz answered. “After reading your letter, I wanted to come and see you.”

Still, there were possible exit routes off this fast-moving highway. Up to a certain moment, it remained possible to pretend that everything was just on friendly terms—the e-mails, the phone calls, even the glances. A bit flirtatious and playful, perhaps, but nothing more than that. She could have drawn a line. That is, until he asked, “Ella, would you like to come to my room?”

If this was a game they were both playing, that was when it got serious. His question made everything far too real, as if a mantle had been lifted and the truth, the naked truth that had been there all along, now looked them squarely in the face. Ella felt something stir in her stomach, a bubbling discomfort that she recognized as panic, but she did not turn him down. This was the most impulsive decision she had made in her life, and yet at the same time it felt as if the decision had already been made for her. All she needed to do was to accept it.

Room 608 was pleasantly decorated in hues of black, red, gray, and beige. It was warm and spacious. She tried to remember the last time she’d stayed in a hotel. A trip to Montreal with her husband and children a long time ago popped into her mind. After that, they had spent all their vacations at their house in Rhode Island, and she’d had no reason to stay in a place where the towels were changed daily and breakfast was prepared by others. Being in a hotel room felt like being in a different country. And perhaps she was. Already she could feel the frivolous freedom one could enjoy only in a city where everyone was a complete stranger.

But as soon as she walked into the room, her nervousness came back. No matter how tasteful the decor or how spacious the room, the king-size bed was clearly at its center. Standing next to it made her feel awkward and guilty. She started struggling with internal questions, getting nowhere. Would they make love now? Should they? If they did, how could she look her husband in the eye afterward? But David never had any difficulty looking
her
in the eye despite his many flings, did he? And what would Aziz think of her body? What if he didn’t like it? Shouldn’t she be thinking about her children now? Were they asleep or awake watching TV at this hour? If they learned what she was about to do, would they ever forgive her?

Sensing her unease, Aziz held her hand and moved her toward an armchair in the corner, away from the bed.

“Hush,” he whispered. “It’s so crowded inside your mind. Too many voices.”

“I wish we had met earlier,” Ella heard herself say.

“There is no such thing as early or late in life,” Aziz said. “Everything happens at the right time.”

“Do you really believe that?”

He smiled and brushed a cloud of hair out of his eyes. Then he opened a suitcase and brought out the tapestry he’d bought in Guatemala and a small box that turned out to be a necklace of turquoise and red coral balls with a silver whirling dervish.

Ella let him put the necklace around her neck. Where his fingers touched her skin, she felt warm. “Can you love me?” she asked.

“I already love you.” Aziz smiled.

“But you don’t even know me!”

“I don’t have to know to love.”

Ella sighed. “This is crazy.”

Aziz reached around and pulled out the pin holding her bun, letting her hair loose. Then he gently moved her onto the bed. Slowly, tenderly, and in ever-growing circles, he moved his palms up from her feet toward her ankles and from there toward her belly. All the while his lips muttered words that sounded like a secret ancient code to Ella. Suddenly she understood. He was praying. While his hands caressed every inch of her body, his eyes remained firmly closed and his lips prayed for her. It was the most spiritual thing she had ever experienced. And although she kept her clothes on, and so did he, and although there was nothing carnal about it, it was the sexiest feeling she had ever experienced.

All at once her palms, her elbows, her shoulders, her whole body began to tingle with a strange energy. She was possessed by so magnificent a desire that she felt as though she were floating on warm, wavy waters where all she could do was surrender and smile. She sensed a living presence around him, then around her, as if they were both being showered in a drizzle of light.

She, too, closed her eyes now, drifting in a wild river without holding on to anything. There might be a waterfall at the end for all she knew, but even if she could have stopped, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Ella felt a burning between her legs when his hands reached her belly, drawing a circle there. She felt insecure about her body, her hips and thighs and the shape of her breasts, which were far from perfect after three kids and all these years, but the anxiety came and went. Feeling buoyant, almost protected, she snapped into a state of bliss. And just like that, she realized she could love this man. She could love him so much.

With that feeling she put her arms around Aziz, pulling him toward her, ready to go further. But he snapped his eyes open, kissed her on the tip of her nose, and pulled away.

“You don’t want me?” Ella asked, amazed by the fragility of her voice.

“I don’t want to do anything that would make you unhappy afterward.”

Half of her felt like crying; the other half was elated. A strange feeling of lightness took hold of her. She was entirely confused, but, to her great surprise, for once it felt okay to be confused.

At half past one in the morning, Ella opened the door to her apartment in Boston. She lay on the leather couch, unwilling to sleep in the master bed. Not because she knew that her husband had been sleeping there with other women, but because somehow it felt better like this, as if this house didn’t belong to her any more than a hotel room, as if she were a guest here and her true self were waiting elsewhere.

Shams

KONYA, MAY 1247

Beautiful bride, don’t you cry

Say bye to your mom, bye to dad

You will hear the birds sing tomorrow

Though it will never be the same.…

On our wedding night, I slipped out into the courtyard and sat there for a while, listening to an old Anatolian song pour from the house amid the many other sounds. Laughter, music, gossip. Female musicians played in the women’s section. I stood there thinking and chanting, shivering and feeling numb, all at the same time. I pondered the lyrics of the song. Why was it that women always sang sad songs on wedding nights? Sufis associated death with weddings and celebrated the day they died as their union with God. Women, too, associated weddings with death, though for entirely different reasons. Even when they were happily getting married, a wave of sadness descended upon them. In every wedding celebration, there was mourning for the virgin who was soon to become a wife and a mother.

After the guests left, I returned to the house and meditated in a quiet corner. Then I went to the room where Kimya was waiting for me. I found her sitting on the bed, wearing a white robe adorned with golden threads, her hair braided into a multitude of plaits, each of which was ornamented with beads. It was impossible to see her expression, as her face was covered with thick, red tulle. Except for a candle that flickered by the window, the room was without light. The mirror on the wall had been covered by a velvet cloth, as it was deemed to be bad luck for a young bride to see her reflection on her wedding night. Beside our bed there was a pomegranate and a knife, so that we could eat the fruit and have as many children as the seeds inside.

Kerra had told me all about the local customs, reminding me to give the bride a necklace with gold coins upon opening her veil. But I never had gold coins in my life and did not want to greet my bride with coins borrowed from someone else. So when I lifted Kimya’s veil, all I did was to give her a comb made of tortoiseshell and plant a small kiss on her lips. She smiled. And for a second I felt as shy as a lost little boy.

“You are beautiful,” I said.

She blushed. But then she squared her shoulders, doing her best to look more tranquil and mature than she could ever be.

“I am your wife now,” she said.

Then she pointed toward the beautiful carpet on the floor, which she had crafted on her own and with great care as part of her dowry. Exuberant colors, sharp contrasts. As soon as I saw it I knew that every knot and every pattern on the carpet was about me. Kimya had been weaving her dreams.

I kissed her again. The warmth of her lips sent waves of desire across my entire body. She smelled of jasmine and wildflowers. Stretching out beside her, I inhaled her smell and touched her breasts, so small and firm. All I wanted was to enter her and get lost inside her. She offered herself to me the way a rosebud opens to the rain.

I pulled away. “I’m sorry, Kimya. I can’t do this.”

She looked at me, still and stunned, forgetting to breathe. The disappointment in her eyes was too much to bear. I jumped to my feet.

“I need to go,” I said.

“You cannot go now,” Kimya said in a voice that didn’t sound like her. “What will people say if you leave the room now? They will know that this marriage was not consummated. And they’ll think it was because of me.”

“What do you mean?” I murmured, half to myself, because I knew what she was suggesting.

Averting her eyes, she mumbled something incomprehensible, and then she said quietly, “They’ll think I wasn’t a virgin. I’ll have to live in shame.”

It made my blood boil that society imposed such ridiculous rules on its individuals. These codes of honor had less to do with the harmony God created than with the order human beings wanted to sustain.

“That’s nonsense. People should mind their own business,” I objected, but I knew that Kimya was right.

With one quick move, I grabbed the knife beside the pomegranate. I glimpsed a trace of panic in Kimya’s face, slowly replaced by the expression of someone who recognized a sad situation and accepted it. Without hesitation I cut my left palm. My blood dripped on our bedsheet, leaving dark crimson stains.

“Just give them this sheet. This will shut their mouths, and your name will remain pure and clean, the way it should be.”

“Wait, please! Don’t go,” Kimya beseeched. She rose to her feet, but, not knowing what to do next, she repeated once again, “I am your wife now.”

In that moment I understood what a terrible mistake I had made by marrying her. My head throbbing with pain, I walked out of the room into the night. A man like me should never have gotten married. I wasn’t designed to perform marital duties. I saw this clearly. What saddened me was the cost of this knowledge.

I felt a strong need to run away from everything, not only from this house, this marriage, this town, but also from this body I had been given. Yet the thought of seeing Rumi the next morning held me anchored here. I couldn’t abandon him again.

I was trapped.