Bensalem Himmich - The Polymath

“No, no,” replied the sultan in a drunken stupor, “it belongs to you.” It was clear that he rejected the entire story and disapproved of the fact that I had used it as a pretext for coming to see him.

My relationship with this sultan will never be one of warmth and respect; the psychological barrier that separates us can never be bridged. But I no longer care about what goes on in the palace. My own sense of pride, my preoccupation with my own new situation, and other factors all combine to vitiate my need for all that. Thus it was that, when I received the purse, albeit with a deduction for the person who brought it, I praised God for releasing me from any incipient difficulties over this matter of the mule.

It was almost the end of Sha‘ban, and there was still no news from Fez or Umm al-Batul. I was still extremely worried. For that reason, I wrote to the Mamluk sultan requesting his permission to travel to the Maghrib, merely pointing out that I longed to see my family and homeland. Unfortunately the response to this request took the form of a decree appointing me Maliki judge in Cairo for the third time. Into this new responsibility I read a desire on the sultan’s part to keep me under the watchful eye of the Mamluk administration. All I could do now was to come up with some other way of escaping my situation. The best way I could think of was to insist on the strictest possible application of the law, a total rejection of applying two different standards, and an avoidance of any kind of recommendation or intercession when it came to dealing with cases and grievances. As a result, not even a year went by before I was dismissed from the position yet again. The position was sold to the person who paid for it in a kind of financial dog-fight, a man named Jamal al-Din al-Bisati, someone well versed in the fields of intrigue and bribery. Even so, I did not wait until my inevitable dismissal before trying another avenue of escape.

In Safar 804, I decided to write to the Marini sultan in Morocco, Abu Sa’id, even though I knew nothing about him because the Maghrib was so distant and communication about events was so poor. I decided to concentrate on the threat that the Tatars represented and on making him aware of the need to remain on his guard against the expansionist ambitions of the man who had gained total control over the khanate and its dominions, Timur Lang the Mongolian. I recounted to the Maghribi ruler the period I had spent as an adjunct to the khan’s retinue in Damascus, but avoided mentioning the fact that I had written for him a description of the Maghrib region. I then provided a short account of Tatar history, from the time when they launched a series of attacks across the River Oxus under their king, Genghiz Khan, all the way to his children who had divided up his widespread dominions in East and Central Asia. All these lands had also come under the control of Timur, son of Chagatai, ravager of peoples and lands, who had further expanded Mongol territories. In my document I compared the Tatars with the Arabs for their courage and Bedouin qualities of endurance, all with the aim of encouraging its primary reader to mobilize and toughen the Arabs of the Maghrib in readiness for emergency situations.

My aim in writing to the Marini sultan was not just to replicate my motivations in producing the earlier document for Timur. I also wanted to persuade the sultan to write a letter to Sultan Faraj requesting that I be allowed to return to the Maghrib. I had to find someone to deliver the letter, then wait to see what happened.

The letter was sent with a traveling merchant. From that moment, I waited for eight full months with no response or reaction from the Maghrib. Eventually I despaired of waiting and wrote once again to Sultan Faraj begging him to let me travel. Yet again his response was to issue yet another official edict appointing me Maliki judge. I accepted the position with the greatest reluctance so as not to annoy the sultan and completely sever every last strand of hope. This all happened in Dhu al-Qa‘da of the same year.

Like present, like past, water and water, this was the way I regarded my reappointment as judge: testimony, statements, mistakes, in never-ending succession, all accompanied by an increasingly sophisticated use of graft, fraud, and trickery. In such circumstances, how I longed to break my bonds and leave forever the whirlpool of corruption for another place where people could live a simpler life with their animals and land. Had I been younger and more vigorous, I would not have hesitated for a single second to take a boat or camel and travel long distances, taking in vast expanses and incredible sights on the way. But when old age strikes and you have one foot in the grave, all you can do is chew the cud while you wait or else react and object as you ride on the backs of fancies and dreams. For my part, I kept having disturbing nightmares. Whenever I woke up after them, my mouth would still be moist with the stirring words I had been uttering. There was one day when I managed to recall every detail about such a dream: I had been speaking to Sultan Faraj. He was totally drunk and weaving his way among his drinking companions. “You took me with you on a foul war and then you ran away. You gave me up for lost with your sworn enemy. As a result, when news reached Cairo that I’d been killed, my family was shattered. What do you have to say?” The sultan let out a vile laugh. “Old man Judge,” he responded with a leer, “can anyone your age still be so in love? No doubt, your young wife has found herself another mate. Forget all about her and have a good time!” My dream finished with me saying, “God curse all wanton drunkards, you shameless and godless reprobates!”

At the beginning of Dhu al-Hijja, when I was most depressed, Sha‘ban came up to see me with a beaming smile.

“Master,” he said, “I hate seeing you so depressed and miserable. I realize that your wife’s departure has affected you very deeply, but aren’t you the one who has always said, ‘Never despair of God’s mercy’? During last year’s pilgrimage season I asked a Maghribi pilgrim on his way back to Fez from Cairo to enquire after your wife and tell her that you are still alive and are longing to have her back. My network did not produced any results, but I’d like to try again with the pilgrims from Fez who are leaving here on their way back to the Maghrib. So write some letters to Umm al-Banin, daughter of Salih al-Tazi, and I’ll see to the rest.”

My expression managed to reflect some glimmerings of hope. Welcoming Sha‘ban’s idea, I kissed him and promised to write some letters.

I wrote just one short letter in a number of copies. In it I told my wife that I was still alive and employed and that my dearest wish was that she and our daughter would return to me. Sha‘ban gave the letter to seven separate pilgrims and asked them to make a thorough search and carry out their mission to the full. I prayed to God to respond to my network of letters and bring about a happy outcome. Two months and more now passed with no news from the Maghrib. Meanwhile, I kept counting the time in heartbeats and upsets to my lifestyle. Neither my dismissal from the judgeship for the fourth time nor news of Sultan Bayazid’s death in one of Timur’s prison cages interfered with my patient waiting.

Rabi‘ al-Awwal of 806 came to an end, to be followed by Rabi‘ al-Akhir. Sha‘ban tried to counter the effects of my rekindled depression with various promises and soothing thoughts, including a solemn promise to undertake the rigors of a journey — albeit after a two- or three-month wait — to bring my wife and daughter back. “Unlike you, Master,” he would say, “I’m not involved in the sultan’s court. It’s up to me to perform this function as a sign of my gratitude to you for your generosity and kindness.”