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How wonderfully alluring she is, he thought.
Her arms clasped onto him tighter and tighter. Her face was as hot as forged iron.
“O Allah, how sweet she is,” he whispered and pressed her close.
Then Sara offered him wine. While he drank, Zainab quickly changed the pillows.
“It’s strange, none of them has been this lovely or this sweet,” he murmured.
Halima crept off into a corner and buried her face in some pillows. She dropped off to sleep
immediately.
Fatima cleared her throat.
“I’m  going  to  sing  a  song  about  this  evening,”  she  said  with  a  charming  smile.  Dimples
showed in her cheeks.
“Excellent!” Suleiman approved. He stretched back on the pillows, cradling his head in his
hands.
“Now listen!”
Fatima began, to the accompaniment of her harp.
Suleiman gray falcon
Came to paradise,
Caught sight of fair Fatima,
Could not believe his eyes.

---

He wrapped himself around her
Like a brave white swan,
Took all she had to offer,
Became her only one.
Then came sweetest Aisha
Ready to make love,
She steals Fatima’s husband,
Now Aisha is his dove.
Leila becomes heartsick
Seeing Suleiman,
So she leaps upon him—
Now it’s her he wants.
But then Turkan sees this,
And she’s in his lap.
She’s a girl who pleases,
He’s not one to nap.
And then yet another
Wins his fickle heart.
This is dark-skinned Sara
With her lustful art.
Enough of sultry beauty,
Enough of darkened hues,
Zainab brings a new thing,
Zainab’s eyes are blue.
Allah gave Halima
Long legs and slender hips.
She’d be a prize for the sultan,
The boy is drawn to her lips.
Khanum and Shehera together
Stretch out their arms for him.
One takes him by the shoulders,
One takes him by his limbs.
Meanwhile poor Fatima
Keeps plucking at the strings.
She watches her faithless sweetheart,
How painfully it stings.
Then Suleiman comes to her,

---

How handsome a hero he is!
He kisses her eyes in contrition,
For Fatima it’s sweetest bliss.
Then all the girls together
Dance around him in a ring.
They chant aloud in chorus,
In unison they sing:
Heaven wasn’t much until we met
This noble Pahlavan.
So let’s call out together now:
Long live our Suleiman!
Shouts, laughter and loud acclaim greeted Fatima’s song. The girls drew Suleiman toward
the center and began dancing around him. They called out to him and cheered him.
He  was  barely  able  to  get  away  from  them.  He  ran  over  to  Fatima  and  hugged  her
exuberantly.
“What an excellent song!” he said, smiling. “You have to write it down for me. Will Naim
and Obeida ever be impressed.”
“But you can’t take anything with you from paradise,” Fatima cautioned. “You’ll have to
learn it by heart.”
The noise finally woke Halima. She looked around, puzzled.
“What happened?”
“Fatima composed a song,” Sara replied. “And you were in it.”
“Then it must be silly.”
She burrowed into the pillows again and tried to go to sleep.
Then Suleiman spotted her. He came up and shook her by the shoulder.
“How can you sleep when there’s a guest in the house?”
He sat down beside her and she snuggled up to him. He could feel the pleasant warmth of
her breath, and its rhythmic regularity soon put him to sleep.
“How adorable they are,” Aisha said.
“Let’s let them rest.”
Fatima called to Zainab.
“Let’s compose a song about them,” she suggested quietly.
The other girls drank up and continued having fun. They danced, jumped into the pool,
cracked jokes, and laughed.
The song was ready, and Fatima told the girls to wake Halima and Suleiman. Both of them
opened their eyes at the same time, saw each other, and laughed.
“Boy, if old Yusuf could see me now!”
Suleiman was enormously happy. The girls offered him more wine. He refused a cup and
drank straight out of the jug.
“There’s no sultan that has it this good!”
“Now listen, you two! Fatima and Zainab are going to sing you a song.”
He lay back on the pillows and drew Halima toward him.

---

Fatima and Zainab began.
Of all the houris in heaven,
Halima least mastered the plan.
She’d scowl at sixes and sevens
If anyone mentioned a man.
She fled from serpents and lizards.
What she thought of them wasn’t wise:
That Allah had made them to slither
And eat up little girls alive.
At times she cast furtive glances
At the eunuchs’ ludicrous ploys.
At night she’d secretly wish
That they could be real boys.
And barely had Suleiman entered
Than her heart felt in heaven at last.
She lost her head, time expanded,
And the days of her childhood were past.
When Suleiman stretched his hands out
Toward her maidenly breasts and waist,
She moaned so softly and sweetly,
And her breath was taken away.
She lowered her eyes and she trembled,
And she practically fainted away.
She longed, she desired, she resisted,
And she even blushed red with shame.
Secretly she may have figured
That she might not suit his tastes.
Whatever she’d learned she’d forgotten,
And that could mean total disgrace.
And yet, when the thing finally happened
That is wont at these times to occur,
Her face and her eyes shone resplendent
With a happiness totally hers.
The girls laughed. But Halima was all red with shame and anger. Suleiman was grinning in
satisfaction. He was already so drunk that he could barely have gotten up.
“I’ll throw these pillows at you if you don’t keep quiet!”
Halima shook her tight, little fist at them.

---

Then,  in  the  distance,  a  horn  sounded  gloomily.  Once,  twice,  three  times.  The  girls  fell
silent. Fatima went pale. In secret she prepared a pellet for the wine.
Suleiman listened too. He rose with difficulty. He could barely stay on his feet.
“What does that mean?” he asked, perplexed.
He walked toward the door, as though meaning to leave the pavilion.
“One more cup, Suleiman.”
Fatima could barely conceal her worry.
The drink was ready. The girls drew Suleiman back onto some pillows.
“What are you going to tell Naim and Obeida about your experiences in paradise?” Fatima
asked, to deflect his attention from more dangerous thoughts.
“Naim and Obeida? Oh, those Turks won’t believe me. But I’ll show them. Just let them
doubt! I’ll shove this in their faces.”
He showed them his clenched fist. Fatima offered him the cup to drink. He emptied it as an
afterthought.
A  heavy  drowsiness  came  over  him  right  away.  He  tried  to  resist  it  with  the  last  of  his
strength.
“Give me something to take as a keepsake.”
“You can’t take anything with you.”
He could see he would get nowhere with Fatima. His weakening right hand instinctively
felt for Halima’s wrist. A gold bracelet slipped into his palm. He hid it beneath his robe and
then fell fast asleep.
Halima didn’t betray him. How could she have? She had fallen in love with him with all
her heart.
There  was  complete  quiet  in  the  pavilion.  Fatima  silently  took  the  black  coverlet  and
spread it over the sleeping youth.
They waited.
“It’s not things in themselves that make us happy or unhappy,” Hasan told his friends in his
observatory  when  they  lay  back  down  on  their  pillows.  “It’s  rather  the  thought,  the
conviction that we have about them. Take an example: a miser buries a treasure at a secret
location. Publicly he gives the impression of a pauper, but in private he enjoys the knowledge
that he’s a wealthy man. A neighbor finds out about his secret and takes his treasure away.
The miser will continue enjoying his wealth until he discovers the theft. And if death comes
to him before that, he’ll die in the happy knowledge that he’s a rich man. It’s the same with a
man who doesn’t know that his lover is betraying him. Provided he doesn’t find out, he can
live  happily  his  whole  life.  Or  take  the  opposite  situation.  His  beloved  wife  could  be  the
model  of  faithfulness.  But  if  some  lying  tongues  persuade  him  she’s  been  unfaithful,  he’ll
suffer the torments of hell. So you see, neither things nor actual facts decide our happiness—
or unhappiness. Instead, we’re completely and exclusively dependent on our notions, on our
perceptions of them. Every day reveals to us how false and error-ridden these perceptions are.
What frail legs our happiness rests on! How unjustified our grief often is! Small wonder that
the  wise  man  is  indifferent  to  both  of  them.  Or  that  only  simpletons  and  idiots  can  enjoy
happiness!”
“Your philosophy is none too much to my liking,” Abu Ali commented. “You’re right, we’re

---

constantly making mistakes in life and we’re often the victims of wrong beliefs. But does that
mean we have to forego every pleasure because it’s based on false assumptions? If a person
were to live by your wisdom, he’d have to spend his whole life in doubt and uncertainty.”
“Why did you get so upset earlier at my sending the fedayeen into paradise? Aren’t they
happy?  What  possible  difference  is  there  between  their  happiness  and  the  happiness  of
somebody else who is just as ignorant of its true foundations? I know what’s bothering you.
You’re bothered that the three of us know something that they don’t know. And despite that,
they’re still better off—than I am, for instance. Imagine how any pleasure would be ruined for
those  three  if  they  even  suspected  that  I’d  deliberately  drawn  them  into  something  about
which they had no knowledge. Or that I knew something more than they do about everything
that’s happening to them. Or if they sensed they were just playthings, helpless chess pieces in
my hands. That they were just tools being used in some unknown plan by some higher will,
some higher intellect. I’ll tell you, friends, that sense, that sort of suspicion has embittered
every day of my life. The sense that there could be someone over us who surveys the universe
and our position in it with a clear mind, who could know all sorts of things about us—maybe
even the hour of our death—that are mercilessly veiled from our intellect. Who could have
his own particular designs for us, who perhaps uses us for his experiments, who toys with us,
with  our  fates  and  our  lives,  while  we,  the  puppets  in  his  hands,  celebrate  and  rejoice,
imagining  that  we  actually  shape  our  own  happiness.  Why  is  it  that  higher  intellects  are
always the ones so hopelessly dogged about discovering the secrets of natural phenomena?
Why is it that wise men are always so passionately committed to science and racking their
brains about the universe? Epicurus said that a wise man could enjoy perfect happiness if he
didn’t  have  to  be  afraid  of  unknown  heavenly  phenomena  and  the  mystery  of  death.  To
subdue  or  at  least  explain  that  fear,  he  devoted  himself  to  science  and  the  exploration  of
nature.”
“Very  learned,”  Abu  Ali  remarked.  “But,  if  I  understood  you  right,  your  philosophizing
could  be  abbreviated  to  this  assertion:  you’re  secretly  hounded  by  the  fact  that  you’re  not
Allah.”
Hasan and Buzurg Ummid both laughed.
“Not a bad guess,” Hasan said. He stepped up to the battlements and pointed toward the
part of the sky where it was dark, from where a thousand tiny stars intensely shone.
“Look  at  this  limitless  vault  of  heaven!  Who  can  count  the  stars  scattered  across  it?
Aristarchus said that each one of them is a sun. Where is the human intellect that can grasp
that?  And  still,  everything  is  efficiently  arranged,  as  though  it  were  governed  by  some
conscious  will.  Whether  that  will  is  Allah  or  the  blind  operation  of  nature  is  irrelevant.
Against this limitlessness we are ridiculous invalids. I first became aware of my smallness in
comparison with the universe when I was ten years old. What haven’t I experienced and what
hasn’t faded since then? Gone is my faith in Allah and the Prophet, gone is the heady spell of
first love. Jasmine on a summer night no longer smells as wonderful, and tulips no longer
bloom in such vivid colors. Only my amazement at the limitlessness of the universe and my
fear of unknown meteorological phenomena have remained the same. The realization that our
world is just a grain of dust in the universe, and that we’re just some mange, some infinitely
tiny lice on it—this realization still fills me with despair.”
Abu  Ali  leapt  up  on  his  bowed  legs  and  began  thrashing  around  as  though  he  were

---

defending himself from invisible opponents.
“Praise be to Allah that he made me modest and spared me those concerns,” he exclaimed
half in jest. “I’m more than glad to leave those things to the Batus, the Mamuns and the Abu
Mashars.”
“Do you think I have any other choice?” Hasan replied with a kind of headstrong irony.
“Yes, Protagoras, you were great when you spoke the maxim that man is the measure of all
things! What else can we do, after all, but make peace with that double-edged wisdom? Limit
ourselves to this clod of dirt and water that we live on and leave the expanses of the universe
to superhuman intellects. Our domain, the place suited to our intellect and will, is down here,
on this poor, little planet. ‘Man is the measure of all things.’ The louse has suddenly become a
factor worthy of respect! All we need to do is to impose some limits. Exclude the universe
from our field of vision and be content with the terra firma we stand on. When I grasped that
intellectually—do  you  see,  friends—I  threw  myself  into  reordering  things  in  myself  and
around myself with all my might. The universe was like a huge, blank map for me. In the
middle of it was a gray spot, our planet. In that spot was an infinitely tiny black dot, me, my
consciousness. The only thing I know for sure. I renounced the white space. I had to delve
into the gray spot, measure its size and count its numbers, and then … then gain power over
it,  begin  to  control  it  according  to  my  reason,  my  will.  Because  it’s  a  horrible  thing  for
someone who’s competed with Allah to end up on the bottom.”
“Now  at  last  I  understand  you,  ibn  Sabbah!”  Abu  Ali  exclaimed,  not  without  some
playfulness. “You want to be the same thing on earth that Allah is in heaven.”
“Praise be to Allah! At last a light has gone on in your head too,” Hasan laughed. “And high
time. I was beginning to wonder whom I was going to leave my legacy to.”
“But you did finally fill in the blank space on the map,” Abu Ali said. “Where would you
have found a place for your paradise otherwise?”
“You see, the difference between those of us who have seen through things and the vast
masses stumbling through the dark is this: we’ve limited ourselves, while they refuse to limit
themselves. They want us to get rid of the blank space of the unknown for them. They can’t
tolerate any uncertainty. But since we don’t have any truth, we have to comfort them with
fairy tales and fabrications.”
“The fairy tale down there is developing fast,” said Buzurg Ummid, who had been looking
into the gardens from the battlements when he caught their last words. “The second youth is
awake now and the girls are dancing a circle dance around him.”
“Let’s have a look,” Hasan said, and went with Abu Ali to join him.
The girls watched with bated breath as Zuleika uncovered the sleeping Yusuf. He was so tall
that when the eunuchs were bringing him in, his feet had stuck out over the end of the litter.
Now his powerful body appeared as the blanket was removed.
“What a giant! He could hide you under his arm, Jada,” Zofana whispered, to gather more
courage.
“You wouldn’t have that much to boast about around him yourself,” Rokaya said, cutting
her off.
In the meantime Zuleika had knelt down beside him and was studying him raptly.
“What do you suppose he’ll do when he wakes up?” Little Fatima worried. She covered her

---

eyes with her hands, as though she were trying to avoid an unknown danger. She was among
the most timid of the girls, and to distinguish her from the first Fatima they called her Little
Fatima.
“He’ll gobble you up,” Habiba teased her.
“Don’t scare her. She’s skittish enough as it is.”
Rokaya laughed.
But Yusuf kept on sleeping. He merely turned his back on the light that was glaring in his
eyes.
Zuleika got up and joined the girls.
“He’s as fast asleep as if he were unconscious,” she said. “But isn’t he a splendid hero? Let’s
sing and dance for him, so that he’ll be pleased when he wakes up.”
Each  girl  picked  up  her  instrument.  They  began  playing  and  singing  softly.  Zuleika  and
Rokaya reached for the drums and tried dancing a leisurely step.
Jada and Little Fatima were still trembling with fear.
“Why  don’t  you  two  sing?”  Zuleika  asked  angrily.  “Do  you  think  I  don’t  see  you’re  just
moving your lips?”
“This is what Suhrab, the son of Rustam, must have been like,” Asma commented.
“Don’t tell me you see yourself as the lovely Gurdafarid?”
Zuleika laughed.
“Don’t laugh, Zuleika. You’re no Gurdafarid yourself.”
In response, Zuleika began writhing and provocatively displaying her charms.
“Look, Zuleika has already started trying to seduce him,” Asma laughed. “But her hero is
asleep and doesn’t notice her.”
“Just like Yusuf of Egypt, who didn’t care for Potiphar’s Zuleika!” Rokaya exclaimed.
“That’s right! Yusuf and Zuleika! How perfect it is.”
Jada was delighted at this discovery.
“Let’s write a song for them,” she suggested.
They set their instruments down and put their heads together. They began crafting verses.
Eventually there was a fight, and Zuleika intervened.
Then Yusuf raised himself up on his arms and looked around. Suddenly he began laughing
heartily.
The girls shrieked in terror.
“Oh, no! We’ve been discovered! He’s heard everything!”
Zuleika grabbed her head and stared at the girls in despair.
Yusuf shuddered, shook his head, closed his eyes, and then opened them again. Then he
began staring at the girls with an expression of utter amazement.
“Allah is great! This isn’t a dream!”
At this point Zuleika found her bearings. Gently swaying, she approached and sat down on
the pillows beside him.
“Of course it’s not a dream, Yusuf. You’ve come to paradise. We’re the houris who have
been waiting for you.”
Yusuf touched her cautiously. He got up, walked around the pool, and with an uncertain
look examined the girls, who followed him with their eyes. When he got back to Zuleika, he
exclaimed,  half  to  himself,  “By  all  the  martyrs!  Sayyiduna  was  right.  And  I  didn’t  believe

---

him!”
Then he slumped down onto his cot. He felt weak and had a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Where are Suleiman and ibn Tahir?”
“Also in paradise, just like you.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“Bring him some milk,” Zuleika ordered.
He emptied a dishful of it.
“Do you feel better now, you weary traveler?”
“I feel better.”
“What were you laughing at when you woke up?”
Yusuf tried to think back. Suddenly he was overcome with laughter again.
“Oh, nothing. Just some stupid dream.”
“We’d like to hear about it.”
“You’ll  laugh  at  me.  Sayyiduna  gave  me  this  little  ball,  and  suddenly  I  felt  I  was  flying
upward. If I thought about it, I realized I was still lying in the same place. Oh, by the seven
prophets! How did I get here then? I couldn’t have really been flying, could I?”
“Of course you were flying, Yusuf. We saw you float through the air and into our home.”
“All-merciful Allah! Is that true? Wait, let me tell you what I dreamed after that, if I was
even dreaming at all. You see, I’m flying over these vast landscapes and I come to a huge
desert. Beneath me in the sand I catch sight of the shadow of a hawk that’s moving just like
me. ‘A bird of prey is hunting you, Yusuf,’ I say to myself. I look up, I look down, then left
and right. No trace of a bird. I wave with my left arm, I wave with my right. The shadow
beneath  me  repeats  the  same  movements  with  its  wings.  (I  have  to  tell  you  that  as  a  boy
tending my father’s herd, I often saw shadows like that sweep over the ground. The animals
would get scared and run away from them. So I know something about these things.) ‘You
can’t have changed into an eagle, Yusuf?’ I think. Then I’m above a huge city. I’ve never seen
anything  like  it.  Palaces  like  mountains,  with  squares,  mosques  with  different-colored
cupolas, minarets and towers like an army of lances. ‘Could this be Baghdad or even Cairo
down there?’ I say to myself. I come flying over a huge bazaar. Lots of commotion coming
from down there. I come to a stop in front of a tall, slender minaret. Some caliph or other is
standing on it, shouting and endlessly waving his arms. It seems like he’s hailing someone
and bowing to him. The minaret bows down with him. I look around to see who the bowing
is for. But I don’t see anyone. ‘Now there, Yusuf,’ I say to myself. ‘You’ve come pretty far up
to have caliphs and minarets bowing to you.’ Then I realize that the caliph is Sayyiduna. I’m
terror-struck. I look around for a way to escape. But Sayyiduna jumps from the top of the
minaret  like  a  monkey  and  starts  dancing  strangely  on  one  leg.  He’s  surrounded  by  flute
players, like the ones who come from India and tame snakes, and Sayyiduna begins to twist in
a circle to their music like a madman. What can I do? I start laughing out loud. Then I see all
of you around me. Really, really strange! Reality outdid my dream.”
The girls laughed.
“That  really  was  an  odd  dream,”  Zuleika  said.  “It  accompanied  you  as  invisible  wings
brought you to us.”
Then he noticed the tables on which food had been set out. He felt ravenous. He inhaled
the smell of the food and his eyes sparkled.

---

“Would  you  like  to  eat?”  Zuleika  asked.  “It’s  written  that  you  have  to  wash  first.  Look,
water, nice and warm, all ready for you.”
She kneeled down beside him and began undoing his sandals. The others tried to remove
his robe. He resisted.
“Don’t  resist,  Yusuf,”  Zuleika  said.  “You’re  in  paradise,  and  everything  we  do  here  is
decent.”
She took him by the hand and drew him along after her toward the pool. He threw aside
the cloth he had wrapped around his hips and slipped into the water. Zuleika unwound her
veils and followed him. She removed the fez from his head and handed it to her companions
for safekeeping. She helped him wash and splashed him in fun.
After he stepped out of the pool and dried himself with a towel, they offered the food to
him.  He  attacked  the  many  delicacies,  devouring  everything  within  arm’s  reach.  “Allah  is
great,” he said. “Now I know I really am in paradise.”
They offered him wine.
“Didn’t the Prophet forbid it?”
“Don’t  you  know  the  Koran  says  that  Allah  permits  it  in  paradise?  It  won’t  go  to  your
head.”
Zuleika compelled him to drink. He was very thirsty and emptied a full jug in one draught.
He stretched back onto the pillows, feeling pleasantly tipsy. Zuleika snuggled up to him and
placed his head in her lap.
“Boy, if only Suleiman and ibn Tahir could see me now!”
He felt like a god. He couldn’t resist starting to tell them about his heroic exploits of that
morning. Rokaya kneeled in front of him and continued to serve him food and wine. When he
had finished, the girls picked up their instruments and began playing and singing the song
they had just composed. Yusuf listened to them. His heart melted with tenderness and swelled
with pride.