Elif Shafak is one of Turkey’s most acclaimed and outspoken novelists

Suleiman the Drunk 
KONYA, JUNE 1246
Blood and thunder! What an unforgettable evening! I still have not recovered from its effects. 
And of all the things that I have witnessed tonight, the most startling was the finale. 
After the sema, the great Kaykhusraw II stood up, his eyes ranging round the room imperiously. 
In consummate smugness he approached the stage, and after giving a great whoop of laughter, he 
said, “Congratulations, dervishes! I was impressed by your performance.” 
Rumi gracefully thanked him, and all the dervishes onstage did the same. Then the musicians 
stood up together and greeted the sovereign with ultimate respect. His face brimming with 
satisfaction, Kaykhusraw signaled to one of his guards, who immediately handed him a velvet 
pouch. Kaykhusraw bounced the pouch in his palm several times to show how heavy it was with 
golden coins and then flung it onto the stage. People around me sighed and applauded. So deeply 
were we moved by the generosity of our ruler. 
Content and confident, Kaykhusraw turned to leave. But no sooner had he taken a step toward 
the exit than the very pouch he’d flung on the stage was tossed back at him. The coins landed 
under his feet, jingling like a new bride’s bracelets. Everything had happened so fast that for a 
full minute we all stood still and perplexed, unable to make sense of what was going on. But no 
doubt the one who was most shocked was Kaykhusraw himself. The insult was so obvious and 
definitely too personal to be forgivable. He looked over his shoulder with unbelieving eyes to see 
who could have done such a horrible thing. 

---

It was Shams of Tabriz. All heads turned toward him as he stood onstage arms akimbo, his eyes 
wild and bloodshot. 
“We don’t dance for money,” he boomed in a deep voice. “The sema is a spiritual dance 
performed for love and love alone. So take back your gold, sovereign! Your money is no good 
here!” 
A dreadful silence descended upon the hall. Rumi’s elder son looked so shaken that all the blood 
had been drained from his young face. Nobody dared to make a sound. Without a sigh, without a 
gasp, we all held our breaths. As if the skies had been waiting for this signal, it started to rain, 
sharp and stinging. The raindrops drowned everything and everyone in their steady sound. 
“Let’s go!” Kaykhusraw yelled to his men. 
His cheeks wobbling with humiliation, his lips quivering uncontrollably, and his shoulders 
visibly slumped, the sovereign headed for the exit. His many guards and servants scurried behind 
him one by one, stomping on the spilled coins on the floor with their heavy boots. People rushed 
to scoop up the coins, pushing and pulling one another. 
As soon as the sovereign had left, a murmur of disapproval and disappointment rippled through 
the audience. 
“Who does he think he is!” some people burst out. 
“How dare he insult our ruler?” others joined in. “What if Kaykhusraw makes the whole town 
pay the price now?” 
A group of people stood up, shaking their heads in disbelief, and stalked toward the exit in a 
clear sign of protest. At the head of the protesters were Sheikh Yassin and his students. To my 
great surprise, I noticed among them two of Rumi’s old disciples—and his own son Aladdin.