A Muslim Suicide

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134 6 So here I was back in my room and breathing normally. I washed myself and performed the ritual ablutions, put on some wool clothing, took a potion and some hot liquids, then prayed before going to bed. Next morning I woke up feeling unwell, but knowing the symptoms full well: a very bad cold. I called it “a love cold” as a way of accepting the inevitability of it and relieving the symptoms. Relishing my condition, I decided not to medicate myself. Lo and behold, I found myself totally congested, with a roaring headache and intermittent fevers and chills—all of which I dutifully ignored; or, better put, I allowed the lady who had so entranced me to distract my attention from my bodily aches and pains. This went on till I had turned into some kind of ethereal abstracted entity with neither substance nor shape, floating around in a firmament where the only existing thing was a single woman with no partner or equal. It was as though all the beautiful women in the world had decided to crown her victorious over them all or else that she had managed to gather to herself the sum total of their exquisite nectar. There was a slight tapping on my door. I told whoever it was to come in, assuming that it would be the shaykh from Meknes, but it turned out to be the zawiya’s warden. He greeted me as he entered and placed two baskets stuffed full of provisions alongside my bed. He told me that he had refused to allow the servant who had delivered them to give them to me in person, but had promised him that he would give them to me himself. “Did he say anything else?” I asked in a croaking voice. “I can’t remember. He did suggest that you’d find some things in the baskets that would make you happy.” “Then what?” A Muslim Suicide | 135 “Nothing. Oh yes, a present came for Shaykh ‘Abd al-Kamil from Meknes. I couldn’t for the life of me understand him this morning. He refused to get out of bed and kept ranting and raving; I’ve never heard the like of it before. I gave him a physical examination, assuming that he was sick, but he seemed fine. On the other hand, you, Master, look very ill.” “Don’t worry, dear friend. It’s just a cold, nothing serious . . .” He then told me that my fine reputation among the residents had led many of them to request to talk to me. The case of one of them, a sick old man, was urgent, in that he was spouting heresy, while another middle-aged resident was under observation because he was refusing to eat or drink anything and was contemplating suicide. I promised to visit both men after the afternoon prayer. Saying farewell, he left. I pulled the two baskets close, anxious to find out what presents had been sent to me. There were a variety of costly foods that I took out, but in the very bottom there was a sealed letter. I opened it hurriedly and read what follows: “From Fayha’ of Sabta to the one who is beloved in everything: “But for a cold I would have invited you back to see me at once. My great longing for you with all my heart is what is making me feel better, indeed invigorating and energizing me. Dear man of noble character and gleaming visage, I am praying for you and providing you with whatever I can in order that God may choose to preserve you for myself and for the things you love and cherish.” So this woman is to be my cure! I took some of the bread she had sent, dipped it in honey, and ate it with relish. Then I tried some Indian dates, her delicious pot-pie with sugar and sauce, then some luscious, sweet-smelling fruit. I accompanied it all with thirstquenching draughts of juices and nonalcoholic wine. I felt more sated than I had ever done before. I gave thanks to God for restoring my appetite and at the same time giving me back my health and vigor. With my cold now breathing its last, I got up and bounded my way over to the warden’s place. His welcome was accompanied by astonishment. “Here’s my own horse,” he told me, “the one that was stolen from you. He’s...