Bensalem Himmich - The Polymath

It was while I was riding on horseback with them that I suddenly realized how very absent-minded and distracted I’d become. I had no trouble determining the cause: my mind was totally preoccupied with thoughts of Umm al-Banin. She had even made me forget that I was obliged to go and present my salutations to the sultan both before leaving and upon my return. The thought of her had banished the mighty Mamluk ruler from my mind altogether. What it all meant was that she was beginning to have an undesired effect on my interior self and infiltrating her way into my heart and soul. But I can swear that my conscience in the matter was clear. My only motive was one of pure and innocent affection and a strong desire that my prayers should accord this woman the boon of childbirth.

Ever since my arrival in Egypt as a refugee, there had only been three occasions when I had managed to have a meeting with Sultan Barquq in the Ablaq Palace within the Jabal al-Ahmar Citadel. I had paid scant attention to the architecture of the place, merely muttering ‘What opulence!’ as I reminded myself that God alone endures. I can recall that during the course of those visits my eyes would open wide as I passed through the portal to the private mosque where prayers were performed. For a few moments I had just stared at the sheer elegance all around me — the elaborate marble paving on the floor and the gilded ceiling in the sultan’s private section. I had also counted the colonnades around the courtyard. This time, however, I seemed to have the status of compulsory guest, so I had plenty of time to look at my surroundings more carefully and take in things I had not had the chance to on previous visits. That is exactly what I started doing, once, that is, the servants had finished bathing, powdering, and dressing me. I took a look at the food I was offered, and was then informed that the sultan could not give me an audience till after the noontime prayers on Friday, the following day. I would thus have to stay overnight in the citadel palace.

Resisting the urge to complain or ask questions, I made my way to the sermon mosque where I prayed the afternoon prayer and relaxed for a while. I kept out of pepole’s way so as to avoid having people stare or leer at me. I was also anxious to avoid running into any of the manipulators who had managed to get me dismissed from my position as judge three years earlier. As soon as I became aware that there were a number of people pacing around me, I got up to leave. In attendance I found two servants who may have been members of the viceroy’s retinue. I informed them that I wanted to take a walk, so I set off with them following a few meters behind.

I now strolled my way through halls and courts, some high, some low. At times I was looking at the outside of palaces in black and yellow stone; at others, lofty domes appeared, all green and yellow; at still others, garlanded balconies that jutted out various distances and gave on to interior courts or gardens. Many were the jewel-encrusted doors that maybe led to the sultan’s arcade and assembly rooms, or to the harem’s entrance, or else to vaults where secrets were kept. With every one that I passed. I quickened my step in quest of some space where I could relax. I thought I found what I was looking for in a wing of one of the palaces; I sat down to rest in a broad room that was open to the gentle glow of the setting sun. The light was filtered through panes of copper-colored glass in various shapes and reflected in the mirror of the marble floor, on the walls, and the lofty ceiling decorated with precious stones, shells, gold, and lapis lazuli. The arches and columns too displayed their own share of spectacular beauty in the patterning of their lines and their gypsum filigree.

I asked the two servants to whom this palace belonged. They muttered something I didn’t understand, and one of them went away for a moment. He came back with a man wearing an open mantle and a huge turban that almost covered his eyes. He greeted me respectfully and introduced himself. He was clearly an Egyptian, and informed me that he served as the official translator in the palace and ustazdar , meaning that he supervised the affairs of the scullery, the carpet store, the cellar, and other aspects of the sultan’s private quarters. I asked him the same question I had posed to the two servants, and he replied that it had formerly belonged to one of the amirs in the musicians’ corps, but now it served as a guest house for distinguished visitors.

“Tonight, sir,” he went on, “you are such a guest. Is there anything I can do for you?”

As a way of passing the time I asked him to tell me about the materials used to build the first citadel. His response came as a confirmation of what I had anticipated.

“Ever since Qaraqush built it for Salah al-Din the Ayyubid, Sultan al-Nasir Muhammad ibn Qala’un the Mamluk constructed walls, towers, and the Ablaq Palace, and Sultan al-Zahir Barquq — whose reign may God prolong — decided to use it as a residence, the building materials and the various additions have been quartz crystal and granite from Upper Egypt and limestone cut from the Muqattam Hills.”

Tapping a wall, I could not resist muttering to myself that the Muqattam Hills had already been stripped bare, and now they were making it even worse! Both before and after these slaves had come to power in Egypt, they had revealed through their architecture the extent of their nostalgia for their original Turkestan homeland. They were determined that their buildings would resist the ravages of time.

“Can I do anything else for you, blessed pilgrim?” the man asked.

“Send someone to fetch my burnous from the citadel bath and show me to my bedroom.”

He gestured to a door at the back, and I followed him down a long hall at the very end of which was another door with a servant standing outside. He ordered that it be opened and invited me to enter my bedroom for the night. He urged the servant to take good care of me and wished me a good night’s sleep.

Every single court and residence in this citadel was of wide proportion; the concept of constricted space was totally unknown there. The room I was in would be big enough for at least two families from Fustat. It was several meters larger than my own house, and was lavishly accoutered and furnished. As I sat down on a bench, I could imagine Umm al-Banin entering this room and uttering cries of amazement and wonder; I could see her touching the bed and weeping as she explained that even in her most extravagant dreams she had never envisaged anything to match the softness of the counterpane and silk pillows or to match the splendor of the furnishings. I could imagine myself comforting her by saying that this was civilization flat on its back like a flagrant prostitute. Such opulence was a harbinger of a culture and people that were utterly corrupt.

I heard someone at the door asking to come in. The servant entered with my burnous over his shoulder and a tray of food in his hands. He put them down on a table and went to open a balcony window. With a smile he gestured to the outdoors before withdrawing once again. I walked over to the window. “Yes indeed!” I told myself, “he was right to direct me over here. These beautiful sights, stretching away as far as the eye can see, deserve much care and attention. What intensity of emotion, what loveliness!”

I took a rug and the tray of food over to the balcony and sat there, looking at the choice of food and staring out at the spectacular view, all in the gentle glow of the early evening.

You know, Umm al-Banin, if I direct my gaze to the northeast of the river, there is al-Mu‘izz’s Cairo spread out across its swampy ground, its minarets all yearning in the direction of the great al-Azhar mosque and the tomb of al-Husayn; its gardens, quarters, and streets; its nine gates opening onto the canal and the River Nile; its lofty white buildings behind Salah al-Din’s walls; many edifices still standing in spite of the ravages that decay and disruption have wrought. Then, Umm al-Banin, if I turn and look to the southeast, there is Fustat, a city the Arab conquerors would never have bothered to build if it weren’t for the doves that laid their eggs on ‘Amr ibn al-‘As’s tent in Fustat.