Bensalem Himmich - The Polymath

“When it comes to the realm of politics,” my companion said, “I have neither pass nor transit visa. I’m a child of the people. Even so, revered pilgrim, there’s still life to be lived; there are perfumes, women, and melodies. But for the nightclub, life on earth would be unbearable. It provides a refuge for those who are lost and badly done by. Here I can distract myself from time’s onslaughts and ever increasing despair.”

For a moment he stopped his litany of misery, but then he picked up again. “If only you could see the body of our singer tonight, sir, you would be as convinced as I am that, by comparison, politics is a sick joke. A pox on Timur Lang and all enemies of beauty.”

He downed the rest of his cup. “Don’t you agree with me, sir,” he went on, “that with this particular singer the Ruba ‘iyat of ‘Umar al-Khayyam are as ravishing as can be? With her, the sounds emerge from her throat like so many pearls scattered around, like light upon light! With her the Ruba ‘iyat can teach me the alphabet of life and death; they prompt me to garner pleasure without delay. Pleasure comes from the very pulse of existence, the pulse whose impetus is the very moment itself.”

The singer resumed her performance, and the tavern once again fell into an emotive silence. The whole place seemed to be swaying to and fro like a boat being tossed by waves, sleepy and intoxicated. I clung to my cup of coffee, avoiding as far as possible the probing stares of the revelers. By now I was getting very impatient and made every effort to be as inconspicuous as possible.

“Is it true, I wonder,” asked my companion, “that this singer and all other young beauties like her will one day be food for worms?”

Then he whispered in my ear, “You’re not really my companion, coffee-drinker, but rest assured that the only thing I’m drowning in my glass is my anxieties. Apart from that small slip, my hands are clean. They’ve never slapped anyone’s face or been sullied by the blood of either human or animal. O Lord, I associate no one with You. Your radiant essence I adore only through Your bounty and forgiveness.”

And, as the singer brought her song to a close, he joined in:

No pearls of righteousness do I enlace ,

Nor sweep the desert of sin off my face .

And other voices inside the tavern sang with them:

Yet since I never counted one as two ,

I do not quite despair of heavenly grace .

The curtain was now pulled back accompanied by a storm of applause. Wonder of wonders, I now discovered that the singer was not a woman at all, but a flat-chested boy with short hair.

“Don’t be shocked, revered pilgrim,” my companion said, “to discover that the singer is a transvestite. It’s the singing and atmosphere that matter, not gender. But since you’re such an astute judge, tell me, by God, what do you think of the Ruba‘iyat’s eternal wisdom?”

I had to say something by way of reply, albeit briefly. “The genius of al-Khayyam,” I replied, “lies in his uncanny ability to eradicate the contradiction between intellect and levity. His poetic talent is directly connected to his knowledge of algebra and astronomy. That’s why his Ruba‘iyat , at least in the translated version I have read, have a mathematical pattern that addresses itself to the spirit in the rhythm of ‘To God alone belongs the power and might.’ That way the passionate heat of their verse becomes cool and serene.”

“Bravo, Master, bravo!”

“As for the ribald verses in the Ruba‘iyat , I just swallow them like sour fruit and beg God for forgiveness.”

“You can say such wonderful things when you are completely sober! Power to you, liberal and broad-minded sage that you are! Now take a look at the flute player going up on stage. She’s a genuine female, no question.”

The woman now sitting on the chair, with a flute held between her fingers and its aperture to her lips, was indeed a woman; her clothes were those of a female, as was her stature and hair. Even so, I told myself that God alone knows the contents of people’s hearts. What was most important was the perfect harmony between flute and player, so much so that you could imagine the one fusing with the other. Melody thus turns into a source of plaintive longing. A short while later, she was joined on stage by a drummer, violinist, and lute player. The lute player tuned his instrument to the right key, and they started playing. They were singing this muwashshaha :

Fresh are my wounds and the blood is splattered .

My killer, dear brother, cavorts in the desert .

They said: We will avenge you, but I replied: This is yet worse .

The wounder shall heal me; that is a better plan .

My companion unleashed a series of ribald sighs, then asked me what I thought. “This song is one of the best Eastern muwashshahat ,” I replied. “The poetry flows well, and the basit meter is properly used. Strophes and rhymes are flawless. But the performance is only average: it needs more instruments and better voices.”

“Don’t be so critical, Master! Just sit back and enjoy it.”

The group now started singing:

When I knocked on the door of the tent, she asked: “Who knocks?”

“One bewitched by beauty, “I replied, “no thief or robber. “

She smiled, revealing a set of pearly white teeth .

Drowning in the sea of my own tears I staggered back in disarray .

The members of the group took turns reciting the two verses, each in their own way, then they were joined by a beautiful young man whom they let sing a solo while they accompanied him on their instruments:

Oh how long, how long have I loved your lashes ,

Yet you have no mercy, no heart that softens ,

So now, because of you, you can see how my heart

Has become like a ploughshare in smiths’ hands .

Tears drop and flames leap high ,

Hammers fall to left and right .

God has created Christians to be raided ,

But your raids are against lovers’ hearts .

This time I gave him my opinion without being asked. “That young man is from the Andalusian Maghrib for sure,” I said. “Al-Jubani’s son, did you notice how the singer put so much extra expression into the performance. Muwashshahat and zajals are part of his regional heritage. The very best ones of all I have heard only in Fez and other places influenced by Andalusian culture.”

As the troupe made its way off the stage to another storm of applause, I murmured:

Is the gazelle of al-Hima aware that it has enflamed the heart

of a lover where it has made its dwelling place?

Inflame and lightning flash it behaves like

the East wind toying with the firebrand .

Once the stage was empty, someone piped up with the following anecdote: “When your favorite buxom wench comes to see you, tell her this joke. It comes from one of the two great authorities, either Ibn al-Jawzi, or else Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziya in his Meadow for Lovers : A wife and her husband had a falling out. So he started having sex with her a lot. ‘God take you away!’ she told him. ‘Every time we have an argument, you come at me with a mediator I can’t repel!’’’

Everyone in the tavern let out a lewd guffaw. I realized that the level of debauchery was rising rapidly. As I was making ready to leave, a waiter leaned over and offered me a glass of wine — compliments, he said, of some toffs in the tavern to the great Maliki legal authority, Ibn Khaldun. I stood up, told the waiter to take the glass back to its owners with clear instructions to the effect that I only take legitimate drinks. I said a rapid farewell to the astonished young man and hurried toward the exit. Behind me I left the dancer gyrating and soaring with every limb in her body.