Bensalem Himmich - The Theocrat

“Yes, indeed you did, my lord. That’s another issue I can’t understand!”

“If I’d met Abu Rakwa and found he was better than the others, I’d have shared the caliphate with him and made him my heir after my disappearance.”

Mukhtar was astonished, not knowing what to do or say. “Shall I write down what you’ve been saying about Abu Rakwa?” he asked.

“Do whatever you like. Actually leave out what I’ve just said. Even if you pass it on, you may not find anyone who’ll believe you. But do write this down in your history: Only the most worthy and virtuous deserve the imamate.”

“What about the chapter in my history on Abu Rakwa, my lord? Shall I include the verses attributed to him that I actually asked your poet, Muhammad ibn ‘Asim, to write, the ones in which he asks you for forgiveness and pardon?”

“Recite me a few lines so I can decide.”

“It’s a long poem, but I’ll select a short extract.”

I fled, but to no avail. No fugitive on earthcan withstand the one with God on his side.

By God, flight’s only cause was fear of that death I now savor.

My entire body led me to you as a dead person shakes in death’s millstone.

All are agreed that you are my killer but that is indeed a false notion about you.

It is a matter of revenge and is over; now are you bound to use it as you must.

“Fear God, Mukhtar!” was al-Hakim’s reaction. “Spare these poor dead folk the fancies and lies of poets!”

“But, my lord,” the historian replied, “this poetic text will gradually be turned into a genuine document to be repeated by historians for all time. I think it’s important and precious. It needs to be reproduced like all documents that may have started as poetry but later became history.”

“If you like,” said al-Hakim, “leave it for the course of history to determine. It’s a mere drop in the ocean. But then who is to tell us we’re not all living a bad dream or a total lie?”

With that al-Hakim rushed out of his residence, headed to his observatory, and pointed his telescope into the heavens. He came back inside, sat down again in the dark, and started repeating a phrase, as though to another. My unlucky star has shown me its tail.” Once he had tired of repeating this phrase, he fell into a troubling silence that al-Misbahi dared not interrupt. The historian was on the point of grabbing the opportunity afforded by al-Hakim’s ever increasing somnolence to escape to his own house. At the sound of the first snore he stood up and started to sneak away like a thief in the night. However the roar that al-Hakim let out, along with expressions of disapproval, made him return to his place in short order.

“So, Mukhtar, are trying to leave without my permission? Aren’t you capable of sharing my insomnia and gloom with me? God disgrace you for running away like that!”

“Forgive me, my lord. I’d noticed how melancholy you looked and how much the misery seemed to be weighing down on you.”

“Then write that down. You know my penchant for innovation and putting a cover on the past.”

“You were lost in a profound silence …”

“So record my silence then! You will see how my deeds ferment and my innovations fare in their labor pains.”

“But, my lord, so gifted and splendid, I myself cannot take on such a complex, indeed impossible task.”

“If you can’t do it well now, then learn how to do so. It will be the same as learning astronomy and the interpretation of esoteric words and stars. Are we created for any other purpose than learning and searching for light? Mukhtar, how long shall I see you only at my banquets and receptions, as part of the procession to open the Canal in Cairo, or at the dedication of my buildings and other ceremonial occasions? Till when will your loyal pens only follow me during my nocturnal councils and affairs of state? Do you define history as simply weddings, ceremonies, ribbons to be cut, records and decrees to be recorded and sealed? That type of history has already covered all caliphs and sultans; they dominate the entire scene. Don’t you think your opus could be expanded to include one of the weakest Buwayhi sultans like Bakhtiyari who turned his meetings with ministers and generals into a chain of weeping and wailing, and all because he had fallen in love with a young boy and lost him? Isn’t what I’m asking you the truth?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

“So then, where have you left my unique and splendid qualities? How can you manage to encrust the memory of time and future generations with the jewels of my era?”

“My lord, my own share of knowledge is very small. Over every knowledgeable person is One who knows.”

“This knowledge you have is less than it should be; it lacks profundity and interpretive power. It could prove very harmful, indeed useless.”

“So how can I raise it to a higher level in order to satisfy my lord?”

“Mukhtar, you have to work hard and never flag. Interpret till you’re sweating out of sheer exhaustion. Open up your senses so you can penetrate beyond the outer shell and reach the very essence of things. There you’ll encounter useful ideas and wonderful proofs. But, if you don’t go through those doors, you’ll be like all other normal people who live in the visible world, and never move beyond the passage of time or cultivate anything beyond rust and dross.”

“Just supposing, my lord, that I were to make the necessary effort till my veins stick out and my face turns pale, but still fail to uncover anything more than what I’ve already mentioned. In such a case I’d have no choice but revert to the things I’ve always relished writing about, the coterie of government and panoply of kingly power. Those are the things I’ve asked people about, and they in turn have directed me to the capital of your rule. I have questioned the inhabitants of your capital, and they have directed me to your court, my lord. It is in this prosperous court of yours that I have found my desired goal, the focus of those interests in matters of administration, warfare, and finance, all combined in the decision-making process and in creating events. Every person can find ease in the particular situation for which he was created. My lord, I have found my own ease in your service, just as I found it with your illustrious forebears. I recount your doings and relate everything to you. That’s why you’ll never find me consorting with the plebs nor bothering about their livelihood, plants, and paltry minerals. No, I have concentrated instead on precious stones, costly horses and livestock, and rare plants that are good for your health, my lord.”

“Mukhtar, my court has attracted you and given you enthusiasms. But at the same time it’s made your head spin so much that you’ve ignored everything else.”

“But, dear patron, the attraction that I feel for the court and all the benefits connected with its firmament don’t prevent me from alluding to other people as well. I can do that in marginal comments about revolts and major calamities like earthquakes, fires, droughts, and plagues.”

“What you want is for the people’s memory to vaunt my name; wherever they turn, my face is the only one they’ll see.”

“How could I wish for anything else, when you’ve afforded your humble servants throughout your widespread dominions a positive flood of your personal radiance and enveloped them in your cogent proofs?”

“But, Mukhtar, today people are in a very different mood from the one I’m used to or desire. Their lese majesty has reached the level of outright slander and censure. They’re busy erasing me from their memory. Haven’t you noticed the increase in pamphlets and the petitions plastered all over the city walls and gates? I’ve come to expect all kinds of unpleasantness from my people, but not lampoons and sarcasm.”