The Prophet's Ladder (15 page)

Even more impressive, within the span of twenty-two weeks of nonstop, round-the-clock work approximately a third of the cable had been brought up to its operational size; Al-Hatem Aerospace was running ahead of schedule. The sheikh no longer had to court skeptical foreign investors or untrusting distant relations; international mining conglomerates, telecommunications and energy firms, even a New Zealand explorers’ guild had petitioned the company for space on the first elevator voyage up the cable. Al-Hatem’s mailroom was inundated with fan mail from all over the world. Some few parcels contained checks or extra stamps that would cover the cost of the weight of the envelope itself, each requesting that the missive be shipped into orbit for various sentimental or absurd reasons; the paltry cost soon affordable to any member of the global bourgeoisie.

Todd Wittry’s team was in charge of monitoring the spiders themselves, ensuring that they were functioning within defined and optimal safety parameters. Any solifuge that showed signs of deterioration or malfunction would return to the asteroid depot to be repaired by others of its make, though as of yet this had proved to be unnecessary; he and his team had designed outstanding machines. His crew worked alongside other teams that were in charge of other aspects of the elevator’s construction, each team’s manager reporting directly to Karim, who was seemingly ever present at
the mission control center.

Despite their creation’s seeming success, Todd was not faring well. He had not fully recovered from the attempt on his life, and his mental faculties as well as his managerial skills had suffered for it. Sleep came infrequently to him, and when it did it was always filled with nightmares: guns pointed at his head, or losing control of his car at high speeds, the vehicle often careening over the side of a bridge or into a building full of pedestrians.

His psychiatrist, an Austrian woman who lived and worked in Abu Dhabi, had prescribed antidepressant and antianxiety medications, which he took to little effect. To make matters worse, his team seemed to be suffering alongside him. John Bolivar, while assiduously attending to his work, was untalkative and remote, unwilling to even engage in the most inane workplace socializing with his coworkers. He often refused to look Todd directly into the eye, and was never able to find the time for another golf outing or dinner date with his wife. Other coworkers were more open about their troubles: several of their homeland’s governments had contacted them, threatening them or their families with fines, jail, or permanent deportation unless they ceased their work for Al-Hatem Aerospace. Karim had been busy addressing these issues with his staffers on Todd’s behalf. International politics was above his pay grade.

Anne had done her best to comfort him, and had taken to cooking some classic American meals for Todd: grilled hamburgers and fries, lasagna, she had even bought a kilo of peaches at the vegetable souk and had made cobbler, his favorite dessert. He attempted to remain outwardly stoic, but on occasion the facade would crack, notably when Thor, their dog, had suffered a heat stroke and had to be taken to the nearest veterinarian’s office eighty kilometers away. The poor animal had survived, and was even now back to his gregarious, usual self, but the scare had stressed Todd to the breaking point.

Communications with their family and friends back in the USA was also trying. Karim had advised them both that their phones and internet usage were being monitored by multiple governments, some hostile, and that they should cease, or at least try to limit, any discussions of Todd’s work for Al-Hatem. Anne’s family, her father and mother especially, had been accusatory and critical of their refusal to return home after the terrorist attack. This had put Anne in a sour mood for several weeks, which taxed their relationship even further.

Through it all Samam had been there, taking care of the household, preparing meals, ensuring that the additional security escort, a constant presence now, was able to do its job without being too intrusive into the family members’ personal lives. She was a blessing, a godsend, and Todd knew that he would have had a complete breakdown had it not been for her. She had even taken to chatting with Anne and he on their rare days off, and they learned of her life growing up on the streets of Karachi, her escape as a young girl to the UAE, her employment with the military and then the royal family. She had risen through the ranks of multiple patriarchal organizations through sheer aptitude, displaying a powerful strategic mind and proficiency for ranged and hand-to-hand combat.

Her stories were meandering and sweeping in scope: she had led a life of poverty and oppression only to escape and prove herself, an immigrant in a foreign land, through hard work, intelligence, dedication, and a little bit of luck. It was all a grand narrative that had taken many sessions to tell, Samam’s account only interrupted by Anne’s digressive inquiries or Todd making more coffee in the kitchen. Though they did not consciously realize it, the story had served to enhearten the couple, relieving some of the stress garnered from their daily lives and work, fostering their spirit to persevere in the face of adversity, especially as they were laboring as immigrants in an alien land. It was a propitious gift in a time of need, to be sure; Todd often felt like king
Shahryār
from
One Thousand and One Nights
, listening to
Scheherazade spin her tale each successive evening, his whole being rapturously enchanted.

****

In the city of Tunis life carried on much the same as usual. It was a near timeless place, despite the always increasing prevalence of newer handheld devices and the flowering of solar cells on every rooftop, Tunis, at least in the old quarter of the medina, was very much as it was three or four centuries ago.

Life was not the same however, for the al-Aziz family. The family had not recovered from the loss of Ali at the hands of fundamentalists more than a year ago. Sharifa’s mediocre health had deteriorated even further, as though she had given up on the matter of living entirely, and she was now fully bedridden, unable or unwilling to even utter a single word to anyone, especially her husband, whom she blamed for Ali’s death. Salah and his remaining sons would bring her food prepared by local street vendors or nearby relations, though she would not touch it, refusing to eat anything but soggy bread and mashed dates.

Ali and Amina’s book was a best seller in Tunisia, particularly in urban areas and amongst the country’s youth. Out of respect and love Amina had transferred fully half the proceeds from sales of the book to Salah’s bank account (coincidentally the account was with the same bank her father owned), and had written to him with kind regards, going so far as to send a bound, signed edition with a lovely message scrawled on the inside cover. Salah did not attempt to read the book, or even look at it, shelving it on some forgotten windowsill. Instead, he spent much of the monies Amina had provided on house calls from the best doctors in the city for his wife, perhaps out of a sense of residual guilt over his son’s death, but Sharifa had again been obstinate, declining any proffered treatment.

In the end, Salah had grown exasperated with his wife’s stubborn contumacy and returned to spending much of his time at the mosque or in the cafes with his friends, leaving the day to day running of the hanut to his eldest son Abdel, only returning in the late evening to remove and clean his wife’s bedpan after she had fallen asleep. Sharifa sought to escape reality in her dreams, retreating to memories of her darling, favorite child playing in her lap.

A year and a day after Ali’s death, his mother died asleep, alone, a single quilt covering her gaunt frame.
She was buried next to her youngest son’s empty grave.

****

1346 CE, China
 

“And how are you getting along in Quanzhou, Master Battuta?” The ambassador was formally dressed and spoke in Persian, the only language the two men both knew to some degree, with an erudite tongue. Ibn Battuta, struggling to recall his limited vocabulary, replied slowly.

“I am impressed with the beauty of this land, sir, and with its richness. Even the meanest peasant wears silk at all times of day, and owns the most beautiful porcelain I have ever laid eyes upon.”

The ambassador, his surname Wu, smiled amicably and inclined his head slightly. “Your words do us honor, master Battuta, though I hope this city is not too ostentatious, for that would be unseemly. But surely your own land has its riches?”

“The Maghreb does indeed have wealth, your honor, but it is not of this sort. Our faith in God and our love of his Prophet, peace be upon him, is our greatest treasure.” He grinned. “Well that, and our tangerines, the most delicious fruit you’ve ever tasted.”

Wu nodded appreciatively, though perhaps he was only being diplomatic. “Very good, very good indeed, though I surmise that you are disenchanted with our not being of your own Muslim religion.”

“In truth, your honor, it does, though in my travels I have met many fine pagans, those you call Buddhists, and even now Confucians. It strains my heart to know that you will not know our Creator’s infinite kindness. I pity you, though I hope you do not take offense at my meaning.”

In fact Wu’s mood was slightly soured by the Moroccan envoy’s tactful speech, though he did not let it show. “No offense taken, Master Battuta. I understand that you are a man of great conviction, evidently. I am certain that is why your Sultan appointed you as a judge and envoy in the Kingdom of Delhi.” The ambassador rose from the tea table at which they were seated. “Well, I hope you will join us for our canal excursion tomorrow.”

Ibn Battuta rose and, in the custom of this land, bowed at the waist. “I look forward to it, ambassador Wu, and to traveling to the capital of your great land in a few day’s time.”

After his counterpart had left, Ibn Battuta turned to his present company, an Egyptian merchant by the name of Siddiq. He was a man who had grown exceedingly rich during his stay in China, a period of several years.  “Was that properly done?”

“It was, it was, my friend,” said the merchant, a fat, bearded fellow who wore gold chains over his grey silk robes. “You bowed as though you’ve been living here for half your life!”

“ I wanted to do the ritual some justice.”

“It was very good, I assure you. Now, what do you have planned this evening?”

“I had intended to stay in my apartment and read the Quran, for lack of a proper place of worship.”

“You can do that any time!” The man slapped his knee. “Come come, you must attend a magic show with me tonight.”

“True magic? You mean, like sorcery?” Ibn Battuta seemed shocked that a Muslim like himself would attend to such idolatry. His companion guffawed.

“Haha, no no no: only mere tricks, sleight of hand, acrobatics and the like. You know what I mean.”

Ibn Battuta paused and considered the offer. “Well...very well then. I have kept cooped up in my accommodations for too long.”

“Excellent!” Siddiq seemed honestly thrilled. “Tonight at sundown then, I will send some servants and a palanquin for you.”

Ibn Battuta stared out the window, reviewing the architecture, the terraced topography of Quanzhou. “Siddiq, can I be honest with you? I feel as though you are the only person in this city I can be forthright with, though I’ve known you only for a few weeks now.”

“Of course my friend! What ails you?”

“In truth this city, this land, depresses me. It was one thing to meet those of another religion in a kingdom of the faithful, indeed I learned a great deal in conversations with those good persons, both about their faith and my own, but this is something else entirely.”

“I see. Yes, I can understand what you mean.”

“For example, they serve roasted pig on the street here! Hundreds of vendors hawking the flesh of an unclean animal for consumption! It astounds the mind. Surely…. surely some pious Muslims have made their way here before us, have attempted to teach them the error of their ways?”

“I’m sure they have my friend, but this is an ancient kingdom, one far older than even those in the Arab world, older even than the Rum, or the Persians. They seem certain of their ways, of their traditions. They know them to be the most proper, the most suited for their wants and needs.”

“I suppose you are right.” Ibn Battuta sighed. “I am not entirely certain I wish to entertain a trip to Beijing. I am overwhelmed, now more than ever, with the desire to return to my home. My true home, Tangier.”

His companion cracked his knuckles loudly. “Well, don’t decide right away. Think it over, give it some time. For now enjoy all that China has to offer.”

“I shall my friend, thank you. God bless you and your parents, you’ve been quite kind to me this past fortnight.”

Siddiq the merchant kissed his friend on both cheeks as he departed, invoking his comrade’s full name, a sign of esteem. “May God bless your parents as well,
Abu Abd al-Lah Muḥammad ibn ʿAbd al-Lah l-Lawati t-Ṭangi ibn Battuta
.”

****

The interior of the space elevator’s Tower facility was a sight few outside the inner circle of the Al-Hatem Aerospace Corporation had seen. Only Sheikh Nur, Karim, a portion of their employees, and the company’s exclusively contracted construction workers had been inside the building for any significant length of time. At least, until today. If asked, the sheikh could not begin to explain why he had offered to show Amina Hannachi the facility. Perhaps it was a desire to demonstrate the tangible outcome of her deceased finance’s convictions, his thoughts of a better Islam, an improved Arab society forged in a crucible where science was measured and tempered by faith; where a man (or a woman, or anyone) could make of themself a kingdom dedicated to bolstering the Creator’s gifts. Not improving upon them, no, for that would be arrogance, and this tower and everyone in it would be cast down and destroyed by the All Powerful, to punish their hubris. No, not improving, but supporting, strengthening. Helping his fellow brothers and sisters, the people of the book, and even those outside the House of Peace, and lifting them up, bringing them to the heavens, that they might fully witness the glory of creation: both in the stars and in themselves.