Arabic Tales for the young and the curious

paul d kennedy

book I

ARABIC TALES FOR THE YOUNG AND THE CURIOUS

Book 1 First published in 2007 www.arabic-tales.com Copyright © 2007 by Paul D Kennedy All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the writer. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. Published by Thorn Island Typeset by Thorn Island www.arabic-tales.com The images contained in this e-book are available for downloading in high resolution format suitable for framing or the creation of post-cards from: www.arabic-tales.com.

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Contents ABOUT THIS BOOK

III

THE OX AND THE DONKEY

1

A smart donkey and a wise farmer

THE MAN WHO NEVER SMILED

7

Curiosity kills the heart

THE DREAM BELIEVER

24

Dreams come true in strange ways

THE NAMING OF ABUKIR BAY

31

Friendship, envy, betrayal and just desserts

THE OLD MAN & HIS DONKEY

61

A trickster who relies on misbelief

THE COBBLER'S CARAVAN

69

A fantasy that can never end

AFTERWORD

90

A BRIEF LEXICON

92

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ABOUT THIS BOOK This book contains six exciting stories gleaned from the hundreds of myths and fables still being told in the Arabian Gulf. Rewritten in a modern story-telling style aimed at juveniles and curious adults alike, these stories – about kings, sheikhs, princess, jinn and, above all, ordinary people – illustrate that, at the fundamental human level, Arabs are really just like the rest of us. Beautifully illustrated in water-colours, these fantastical stories provide a thrilling glimpse of ancient beliefs that still have persuasive power in modern Arabic culture. Copies of this book in other electronic media, as well as printed copies, may be obtained from www.arabictales.com, where the illustrations are also available.

Suitability These stories are suitable for all children — aged ten to a hundred years — who are curious about the folk-ways of a culture that is as old as ours.

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Arabic Words A few Arabic words are used here and there in these stories, sometimes for the sake of flavouring, more often because there is no word in English that conveys the sense of the word in Arabic accurately. If the meaning of a word is not clear from the context, the reader will find it in a lexicon at the end of this ebook.

Caution These stories are not suitable for children who, no matter how curious they may be, are over 100 years of age.

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THE OX AND THE DONKEY Once upon a time a farmer and his wife lived on a large farm. They were blessed with many fertile fields, herds of animals, faithful servants and sturdy farm workers. But in addition to his wealth, the farmer himself had a very strange gift — he could understand the language of the animals. On the farm, along with all the other animals, there was an ox and a donkey. They lived in stalls, side by side, in the barn and they were great friends. The ox was a great big muscular fellow, with a creamy light-brown skin. He was full of breath and strength. But he had a hard life. Everyday he was lead out to the fields by the ploughboy. There he had to walk up and down, from one end of a field to another, in a straight line, hauling a heavy plough, from dawn until dusk, no matter what the weather. He was always covered in dust, mud and dirt, and by the end of the day he was totally exhausted. The donkey on the other hand led a life of comparative leisure. He seldom had to carry his master or mistress anywhere, and he did not have to pull a cart often at all. Small and dark-brown in colour, he spent most of his day just lounging around, eating and drinking, wandering around the farmyard and passing the odd 1

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hour snoozing under a shady tree. Life for the donkey was sweet and easy. ‘I don’t know how you manage it,’ the ox used to moan in the evenings, when he and the donkey were in the barn together with the other animals. ‘Life is really unfair,’ he used to say to his friend. The donkey felt sorry for the ox. One evening, as the farmer went through the barn checking on his animals, he overheard the donkey giving his friend some advice. ‘What you need to do,’ said the donkey, ‘is make yourself look sick. Don’t eat and pretend you are ill. The next time you’re out in the fields pulling the plough, let yourself fall over and pretend you are too weak to get up. Then struggle to your feet and fall over again. When they get you back here, don’t eat anything. Don’t eat at all, even if they put the best oats in front of you in your manger. Keep it up for a few days and you’ll be on easy street. You’ll see.’ The ox nodded his head. The farmer smiled as he went about tidying up the barn. The next morning when the ploughboy arrived for the ox at dawn he found him lying flat on his side in his stall. His manger was still full of barley oats and it was obvious that he hadn’t eaten anything at all. The ox moved his head slowly from side to side and groaned. 2

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He didn’t flick his tail, even when a fly landed on his side. The ploughboy ran off to tell his master about the ox. The farmer nodded his head gravely as he listened to the boy. ‘Well,’ said the farmer, ‘the ploughing has to go on, so there is only one thing for it. You will have to use the donkey to pull the plough. We’ve no choice in the matter if we’re to get the ploughing done. The donkey, of course, is much smaller than the ox so you’ll have to drive him hard to get the work done. Make sure you drive that donkey as hard as you can.’ The ploughboy was a bit surprised at his instructions and he thought it was strange that the farmer didn’t seem to be too worried about the ox. But he didn’t know about his boss’ gift. The boy did as he was told and lead the donkey out to the fields where he hitched him to the plough. All that day long, under the heat of the sun, the donkey pulled the heavy plough up and down the fields. The poor creature was soon covered in dust and mud. Now and then the plough would stick in the earth and the ploughboy would beat him with a long thin stick. The slaps from the stick really stung the donkey but he had to struggle on because, whenever his pace slackened, the ploughboy gave him a few more lashes. The poor donkey felt numb all over from the stick and the 3

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strain of pulling the plough. This went on all day with only a short break in the middle when the ploughboy stopped to eat the lunch the farmer’s wife had given him in the morning. Then the pulling and lashing started again, and went on and on without a let-up until it was almost dark and the ploughboy turned him back towards the farmyard. ‘Oh, what a grand day I’ve had,’ said the ox as his friend came stumbling back into the barn, ‘most agreeable and pleasant. I’m a bit hungry to tell the truth, but I can put up with that. You don’t need much food when you don’t have a lot to do and I’ll be able to start eating again in a few days anyway.' He grunted with satisfaction. 'How did you get on

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yourself?’ he enquired. The donkey said nothing. He walked slowly into his stall and slumped down into a corner. He glared at the ox with his exhausted eyes. What a fool I am, he thought as he sulked in his corner. In future I will keep my bright ideas to myself. The next morning the ploughboy arrived at the crack of dawn as usual. He saw that the ox was still not well and had not eaten a grain of his barley. He ran off to the farmer and received the same instructions as he had been given the morning before. Again, all day long, the donkey had to pull the plough up and down the fields, from one end to the other and back again, feeling the strain of the plough on his shoulders and sting of the long thin stick on his behind. ‘I’ve got to do something about this,’ he said to himself, breathing great gulps of air. ‘I’ve got to think up something. This can’t go on.’ At last the day was finally over and, once again, the donkey stumbled into the barn, bruised and hungry, dusty and muddy, and completely exhausted. The ox looked up from where he was reclining on the straw in his stall. ‘Has another day drifted by already?’ he enquired, yawning contentedly. ‘It’s been so dreamy. And how was your day?’ 5

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‘My day was just fine,’ the donkey retorted sharply. He tottered into his stall and sank down onto his bed of straw. He lay there for a while, the tiredness sweeping through him in waves. Then he revived a little and smiled to himself. He looked over at the ox. ‘Listen, we’re old friends, you and I. We’ve always helped each other, always. Now there’s something I must tell you, for your own good. When we were coming back through the yard, the farmer said something to the ploughboy. He said that there was no point in keeping you if you’re going to be too sick to work. He said that if you haven’t recovered in a day or so he’ll have to ask the butcher to come and put you out of your misery.’ The next morning, as dawn broke, the farmer and his wife went to the barn with the ploughboy. The ox’s manger was empty, licked clean, not a grain of barley left. The ox himself was full of vigour and vim, frisking about, flicking his tail and flexing the great big muscles on his shoulders. The boy harnessed the ox and lead him out of his stall. ‘I thought you said the ox was very ill, dear,’ the farmer’s wife said as the ploughboy led the ox past. The farmer laughed and a slight blush coloured the creamy cheeks of the ox. 6

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THE MAN WHO NEVER SMILED Several hundred years ago a merchant, who was called Abu Ibrahim (following a tradition that still survives) by one and all as soon as his first son was born, had a fabric shop in one of the teeming suqs of Damascus. In those days Damascus was a great commercial centre on the trade routes linking the East with the West. In his shop Abu Ibrahim sold only the best and most expensive cloths. Every day rich and powerful men came to buy his fine linens from Egypt, his beautiful silks from China and his locally-worked multi-hued brocades. From a young age the boy Ibrahim had to sit in his father's shop to learn his trade-to-be. He watched as emirs, princes, governors, viziers, qadis, generals and sheikhs of great wealth and demeanour sat on mounds of luxurious rugs and sipped tea while the shop boys unwound bolts of the finest cloths imaginable and his father expounded on the virtues of the materials spread out before them. Ibrahim was very impressed by the style, manners and gestures of these rich customers as they examined and bargained. As he grew up the boy wanted for nothing. He was loved dearly by his mother and his two sisters, while his father’s astuteness in commerce ensured that he had 7

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everything he needed. But Ibrahim was playful and impetuous and was always looking for something more. As the years passed, at first slowly and then more quickly, Abu Ibrahim began getting old. He noticed with increasing disquiet that his son was acquiring unsettled habits that boded ill for his future happiness. When Abu Ibrahim died his fortune was inherited by his family in accordance with the Sheria. His widow received a moiety as she had two young daughters to support. Ibrahim received the other half of his father’s wealth. Ibrahim, now a rich young man in his own right, tired quickly of the hard work of a merchant. He sold the shop and built a mansion in the suburbs of Damascus, which he filled with the finest furniture and choicest carpets. His dining boards were laid with plates of gold and utensils of silver. He hired servants, cooks, maids, and musicians, so that every evening he could entertain his many friends with sumptuous banquets, while dancers swirled to the rhythms of drum, ’oud and pipe. The party went on and on until, inevitably, the money ran out and Ibrahim had to borrow to keep his house and his friends happy. Then one day his creditors seized his grand palace and kicked him out into the street. To survive, Ibrahim had to seek work. But the only 8

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job he could find was that of a day-porter carrying heavy loads for the merchants in the suq where his father’s shop had once stood. It was grinding work and it paid just enough for a meal in the evening. And on the days when there was no work he had to go hungry. One morning in the height of summer Ibrahim got a job unloading a camel train. At noon he was sitting exhausted under the shade of a tree when a well-dressed elderly man with a sad countenance approached. ‘Are you looking for work?’ the man asked. Ibrahim nodded politely. ‘There are ten noblemen living with me in my house,’ the sad old man continued. ‘We have no one to look after us in our old age. If you will be our servant, we will give you food and clothes and we will also pay you well.’ Ibrahim immediately stood up. He bowed low to the man and said: ‘Good sir, I am your humble servant.’ The old man led Ibrahim through the busy lanes of the suq. They turned into an alley that was lined with tall walls on both sides. Half-way down they stopped before a small blank door. The old man opened it and they went through. Ibrahim looked around and found himself in the courtyard of a beautiful residence. There were small 9

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green lawns with clear-water ponds into which fountains gushed quietly. Orange trees made the air pungent with the soothing scent of their blossom. The courtyard was surrounded by colonnades of pillars and arches, decorated with sparkling tiles, that opened to elegant chambers. The sad old man led Ibrahim across into a large cool room. He sat down on a bench and Ibrahim squatted on the floor beside him. ‘Now,’ said the sad old man. ‘I live here with ten sheikhs. We are all old men. Your job will be to take care of the house and courtyard, to buy food and cook our meals. Can you do that much?’ ‘Of course, sir,’ Ibrahim answered. ‘It seems such easy work after the way I have been living recently.’ ‘Good,’ the old man said. ‘I can see that you are a well brought up young man. That is why I chose you. But there is one thing. Before I give you this work, you must make me a solemn promise.’ ‘What is that, sir?’ ‘You will see that we are all sad men. You must promise never to ask why we are sad, why we never laugh or smile, and why we sometimes have tears in our eyes.’ ‘I promise, sir,’ Ibrahim replied. ‘Of course I promise most faithfully.’ It seemed a strange promise but an easy one to keep. Thus Ibrahim began a new life keeping house for the 10

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old men. Because they were always sad, they had little appetite and then only for the simplest of food. They never entertained any guests. So buying and cooking food for the old sheikhs was easy. And as the beautiful house and courtyard were never disturbed by visitors, keeping the place neat and clean was equally easy. In return for his daily chores, Ibrahim was dressed in fine clothes and given a plentiful supply of money. He lived in the house as if it were his own, though he made sure never to ruffle the peace of the old men. All day and every day they sat and sighed, groaned and moaned, but quietly, each one weeping softly to himself every now and then. Ibrahim wondered, often and again, what had made them so sad. But he always remembered his solemn promise and did not ask. Ten years went by and one by one the old sheikhs died, until there was only one left, the kindly old man who had hired Ibrahim. Finally he too lay dying of old age. Ibrahim remained by his bedside for many days, talking to him and comforting him. ‘When I die,’ the old man said, ‘this house will be yours.’ ‘Thank you, sir,’ Ibrahim replied. ‘I shall never forget your kindness to me.’ They sat in silence for a while. At last Ibrahim found the courage to ask the question which had troubled him for so many years. He looked at the old man. 11

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‘Please tell me now, sir,’ he said. ‘Why are you always so sad?’ ‘My son,’ the old man whispered slowly, ‘that I cannot tell you. I will tell you only this: that door over there, if you value your happiness – never open it!’ The old man raised his arm and pointed with a shaky hand at the other side of the room. Ibrahim followed his fingers and gazed at the door. It was made of thick planks of solid oak laced together with stout crossbeams. The left side the door was fastened to the wall by four massive brass hinges. On the right it was held closed by four gigantic steel sliding-bolts with locks. There were no keys. Spiders had made thick webs in all four corners of the doorway. After the old man died Ibrahim remained in the house, living alone. Though he had little to do, no one to care for, he continued to keep the place clean. Often he stood in front of the door and wondered what was behind it. Indeed, no matter what he was doing, Ibrahim found himself constantly thinking about the door. But he remembered what the old man had said. If I open it, he thought, I will always be sad. Yet if I don’t open it, I will never be happy. In the end Ibrahim’s curiosity won out. He took a large 12

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iron bar and began breaking the locks. He had to heave for a long time but one by one he managed to snap the locks. He pulled the door open. Behind it was a long dark stone-flagged passageway. Ibrahim hesitated. The light from the room behind only illuminated the first few yards of the narrow corridor. Ahead he could see nothing but blackness. Taking a deep breath he stepped through and walked forward a few paces. The air sighed and with a soft thud the door closed firmly behind him. Shocked, Ibrahim whirled in the sudden complete darkness. After a frantic scrabble his hands found the door again. It wouldn’t budge. He pushed and pulled, his heart beating rapidly, to no avail. The door was jammed tight. Eventually he gave up trying to open the door and turned around in the darkness. He calmed down, knowing his decision was now irrevocable and he had to go on. He stretched out his hands and felt the rough-hewn stone walls of the passageway. Ahead it was pitch black but there was the faint puff of a cool breeze. Ibrahim began walking along the passage, guiding himself by touching the walls with his outstretched hands. The passageway turned. The air began stirring a little more but ahead it was still totally dark. He went on, feeling his way. Then his head began to touch the stone roof. As the roof came down lower and lower, 14

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Ibrahim had to crawl along on his hands and knees. The floor was cold and damp and he could hear rats scampering about behind him. He knew there was no point in turning back. Ahead the darkness was now less intense and the puffs of cool air were wafting stronger. Ibrahim thought that he could smell water and pressed on, through the tunnel had begun to twist and turn. Then he saw daylight ahead and the tunnel widened into a large cave. He stood up and walked to the entrance and out into bright open air. Ibrahim found himself on the bank of a wide fastflowing river. There were mountains on the other side, with grassy slopes and trees and snowy caps. The ground in front of the cave was covered in spongy moss. Feeling tired but very relieved, Ibrahim lay down. He stared at the river for a few minutes, then he began to doze off. Suddenly he heard a sharp whistle. Something dropped rapidly through the air and the sky grew dark. As Ibrahim opened his eyes two giant claws grabbed him by the waist. He felt himself rising up from the ground. He stared up in horror and saw that he had been snatched by a giant black eagle that was taking him high into the sky. The eagle flew across the river and over the mountain. It flew higher and higher. Down below Ibrahim 15

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could see forests, rivers and lakes, hills and mountains. Then the land ended. The eagle stretched its giant black wings out straight and began to glide down towards the deep blue sea. In the distance was a small green speck of land. The eagle glided lower and lower, aiming for the tiny island. It dropped to the ground and opened its claws. Then it turned, flapped its massive black wings, rose up and flew away, back out over the sea. Ibrahim lay on the grass. He was too frightened to move. He lay on the ground for several hours. Finally Ibrahim pulled himself together and sat up. The island was grassy and full of fruit-trees. He picked some fruit and went down to a beach of pure white sand. He sat down and munched on the fruit. He was wondering where he was and what he should do when he noticed a dhow approaching. The ship had a large lateen sail that was as white as snow. It was coming fast across the water. As it drew near, Ibrahim could see that the hull was made of black wood, polished to a high shine. The gunwale was trimmed with gold and the hull was riveted with pegs made of ivory. The sail dropped and the dhow hove to. A gangplank was lowered and forty maidens, swathed from head to foot in brightly flowing robes, walked slowly down to the beach and gathered around Ibra16

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him. Each was more beautiful than any girl Ibrahim had ever seen in his life before, even more beautiful than the most beautiful of the dancers he used to hire for his parties when he was rich. He immediately stood up. The maidens sank to the sand around him. Then they shouted in unison: ‘Greetings to our King!’ Ibrahim stared at the forty beautiful girls. He could not speak. Then one of the girls stood up, pushed her hijab back over her head, bowed and said softly: ‘Our Queen has sent us to you so you may travel in comfort.’ The maidens led Ibrahim up the gangplank and into the dhow. They gave him sweet water in a cup of gold. They bathed him, soothed his body with fragrant unguents and dressed him in brocades of the finest silk. The dhow set sail across the ocean. For three days and nights they traveled, the dhow skimming the waves. The maidens fed Ibrahim with spiced meats, fruits, and honeyed cakes. At night they played gently on the ’oud in time with the sea and sang tender songs while he lay on a bed of soft carpets. The dhow beached on a shore of white sand which was lined with thousands of mounted soldiers dressed in polished armour and closed helmets. Ibrahim walked slowly down the gangplank. As soon as his feet touched 17

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the ground a great cry went up from the assembly: ‘Our king has come! Hail to our king!’ A soldier led a white stallion forward. The horse was dressed with a saddle of leather trimmed with ivory and gold and a plumed harness. The soldier held out a wrought-silver stirrup and gestured for Ibrahim to mount. As soon as he was sitting in the saddle there was a great sound of trumpets and drums. Ibrahim’s mount moved forward and the army fell in behind, flags and banners fluttering in a gentle breeze. Ibrahim and the army left the beach and rode down a long wide avenue into a green valley of gardens, orchards and flowing streams. There they halted. At the far end of the valley was a great city. It was surrounded by castellated walls, beyond which Ibrahim could see minarets, domes and great buildings. The huge gates of the city opened. Another army rode out of the city. It was lead by a young general in shining armour and helmet, whose face was concealed by a closed visor. When the second army drew near, it halted. The young general saluted Ibrahim and waved him forward. The general and Ibrahim rode side by side. Their armies followed, flags fluttering. They rode through the huge gates and down a wide street hung with colourful bunting and streamers. The people roared and cheered Ibrahim and threw flowers in his path. The cavalcade 18

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made its way slowly through the throng to the palace. Inside the palace they dismounted. Royal aides led Ibrahim and the young general up a wide marble staircase into a great hall. At the far end were two thrones, side by side, made of gold and ivory and cushioned in fine damask. The aides indicated the royal seats and when Ibrahim and the general were seated side by side, they raised the young general's visor. Ibrahim was stunned. It was the radiant face of a lady of astounding beauty. Ibrahim's heart lurched. ‘I am the queen of this land,’ she announced. ‘You are the king – if you will have me for your queen.’ ‘Yes,’ Ibrahim whispered. The queen nodded and called for her ministers. They were all women. Ibrahim could not hide his surprise. ‘There are no men in this land,’ she explained to Ibrahim. ‘The soldiers you saw are all women. You’ll soon get used to it.’ Ibrahim bowed his head. The queen instructed her ministers to announce the marriage and arrange the wedding. Then she turned to Ibrahim. ‘You will be happy with us,’ she smiled. ‘The riches of the land will be yours and you will have all that you can possibly wish. But there is one thing you must promise never to do.’ The queen led Ibrahim to a tower and up a steep al19

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most never-ending series of stairs to a small room at the top. The room was dusty and unkempt. She pointed at the other side of the room. There Ibrahim saw a door made of thick planks of solid oak laced together with stout crossbeams. It was fastened to the wall by four massive brass hinges. On the right it was held closed by four gigantic steel sliding-bolts. ‘You must never open that door,’ the queen said. ‘And you must never ask why.’ Ibrahim promised. The wedding of Ibrahim and the queen was celebrated with riotous festivities. For three whole days the kingdom reeled with fairs, feasts and dances. At night the sky was bright with fireworks, while the music, singing and eating continued throughout the daytime. As soon as their wedding was over, the new king and his queen toured their kingdom. Everywhere they went their path was strewn with flowers and they were hailed joyously by the people who brought them gifts of gold, jewelry, fabrics and bukhur. When they returned to the palace in the great city the king and queen settled down to a life of contented indulgence. At first Ibrahim found it strange being the only man in the country. But he enjoyed himself and such was his love for his queen and his new life that the strangeness soon passed. One day he remembered the door the queen had 20

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pointed out his first day in the palace. He went to the tower and climbed up to the unkempt room and looked at it. The four large sliding-bolts were not locked. Ibrahim remembered the queen’s warning. He went away. But he could not get the door out of his mind. I wonder what is behind it, he kept thinking. He often returned to the room but he did not dare open the door. But one day his curiosity became too strong. I’ll just open it, he thought, just to see what’s on the other side. I won’t go through. As long as I don’t go through it’ll be all right. Ibrahim drew back the four sliding-bolts. He pulled the door open and looked through. Bright sunlight flooded in. On the other side of the door was a small open-air balcony ringed by a wrought-iron balustrade wreathed in foliage in which birds sang sweetly. Beyond the balcony Ibrahim could see the golden roofs of the palaces of the city, framed by distant mountains with snowy caps. Without thinking, he stepped through the door to have a better look at the delightful scene. There was a sight of air and the door closed behind him with a firm thud. Ibrahim whirled. A sharp cry escaped his lips. The door had no handle. He shoved and shoved but it would not open. He pounded on 21

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the door and shouted. After a while there was a swift patter of feet coming across the unkempt room on the other side of the door. ‘Ibrahim, were you not happy?’ he heard the plaintive voice of his queen. ‘Will you ever be happy? Can men never be happy?’ With that there was a sudden swishing sound and he found himself grasped around the waist by giant talons. Up he rose into the air, crying piteously, in the claws of the black eagle that had carried him to the island. Now the bird flew higher, away from the city and kingdom and all that Ibrahim loved. The giant eagle flew on and on for hours and hours, high over the land and out over the sea. Then it dropped quickly down and deposited Ibrahim beside a wide fast-flowing river next to a cave. It was the entrance to the tunnel that led to the house of the sheikhs. Ibrahim sat by the river for days and days. He gazed across at the snowy caps of the mountains across the river, hoping he would be taken back to his queen. But he knew that this would never happen. Finally he arose in sorrow and made his way down the dark passageway back to the house of the sheikhs. The door was open. And he lived in the house of the sheikhs, never to smile again, until the end of his life.

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THE DREAM BELIEVER Years and years ago a successful merchant lived in the City of Baghdad. He was very rich and had everything a man might dream of possessing. The merchant lived in a beautiful house surrounded by gardens and courtyards full of fountains. One of the courtyards was lined with grey and white marble and in the centre there was a fountain that spewed water into the air in big arcs that spread in every direction. The many rooms inside the house were laid with fine carpets and carved furniture, and the dishes were made of silver and gold. The merchant was attended by scores of servants who catered to his every whim. However, rich as he was, he never forgot those who were less fortunate. He gave coin and food generously to the needy who came begging at his door and he often ordered his servants to prepare large meals and to distribute these in the poor quarters of the City. Though he had come up in the world very quickly, no one was quite sure how he had acquired his great wealth. Some said it was by astute dealing, others by stealth and trickery. But it mattered not, for just as great riches may be acquired quickly, so too may they be lost. And so it came to pass. One day the rich merchant 24

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found that his last dinar was gone. Not only was he penniless but, when he called in his bookkeeper, he discovered he owed a great deal of money. To pay off his debts he had to sell all his businesses and nearly everything else he owned. He rented out the rooms in his mansion and he ended up with just a corner room off the grey and white marble courtyard for himself. But he still did not have enough to pay off his debts. As the rents he received for the rooms were pledged to his creditors, he had to go out to work like any ordinary man. He carried heavy sacks of grain for the merchants in the suq and he broke the stones that were used in those times to make roads. His days became long and hard, and his nights were filled with a bitter weariness. Late one evening, thoroughly exhausted after breaking stones all day, the poor man was stumbling back to his room in his old house. He lay down on the ground for a moment’s rest and fell into a deep sleep. He had a strange dream, in which a man appeared to him and said: ‘A magnificent fortune is yours if you go to the Great City of Cairo. Do not delay. Go there and find what is yours!’ The man in the dream vanished. When our poor man woke up he remembered his dream. He thought long and hard. 25

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‘It’s a long way to Cairo,’ he said to himself, ‘a very long way. But life there will hardly be worse than it is here, in Baghdad, breaking stones.’ So he set off on the thousand miles to Cairo. He had to walk all the way, from oasis to oasis, through the burning desert. It took him three full months of plodding. At last he reached the Great City. It was late at night. He was very tired and had no where to stay. But, as he was now used to roughing it, he found himself a quiet corner in a garden in front of some majestic buildings where he lay down. Soon he was asleep. During the night thieves tried to break into one of the buildings. The alarm was raised and, in getting away, the thieves ran through the garden, jumping over the sleeping man’s body. When the police came, the thieves were long gone. But our poor man was still there, sitting up and looking about through bleary eyes, wondering what all the hoo-ha was about. Four burly officers jumped on him, flattened him to the ground, yanked his arms behind his back and kept him there, pressing down with their knees, until the chief of police came. The chief took one look at him and ordered him thrown into goal. The poor man from Baghdad stayed in the goal for three days. He was bruised and worn out. He was kept in a dank dimly-lit cell and he had to sleep on the damp 26

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floor. What am I doing in this place? he thought to himself. I must have been mad. Three months crossing the desert and this is my fortune? I must have been really mad! Towards the end of the third day he was dragged into the presence of the chief of police. He had to stand in front of a table, his hands bound firmly behind his back, while the chief interrogated him roughly from the comfort of a large armchair. ‘Where are you from?’ the chief of police demanded. ‘From Baghdad, sir,’ replied our poor man. ‘So,’ the chief of police glowered, ‘you’ve come from far away to rob us. We don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour around here, as you’ll soon find out. What have you got to say for yourself?’ The poor man told his strange tale. The chief of police could see that the fellow was quite sincere. When the tale was ended, the chief burst out laughing. ‘So you’re not a thief,’ he roared. ‘You’ve come to seek a fortune because of a dream?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said our poor man. ‘And so far my fortune has been poor, three days in gaol.’ ‘Oh, what a fool you are!’ The chief of police laughed until the tears from his eyes ran down his cheeks. ‘Let 27

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me tell you about a dream I’ve had myself, at least three times. ‘In this dream a man appears and says “Go to Baghdad. There you will find a mansion full of gardens and courtyards. One of the courtyards is made of grey and white marble and has a fountain that spews water into the air in big arcs that go in every direction.” That's what the man says!’ The chief of police nearly burst himself in merriment. ‘The man in the dream also says: “Under this fountain you will find a great treasure. That treasure will be yours. Just go to Baghdad.” What a dream!’ The chief chuckled and leaned across the table in front of which our poor man was standing. ‘Of course I stayed right here in Cairo,’ he said. ‘I’m not as stupid as you.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘You may go now.’ Once he was out of the police station our poor man hurried to take the road to Baghdad. Though the desert burned like before, he went fast, his legs light, and he reached that city in less than two months. He went straight to his house. There, under the fountain in the courtyard lined with grey and white marble, he found the great hoard of treasure the chief of police had told him about. 29

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THE NAMING OF ABUKIR BAY Once upon a time, quite some hundreds of years ago, an honest barber by the name of Abu Sir had a shop in the great port of Alexandria on the coast of Egypt. Every day he shaved the beards and cut the hair of his many customers. He worked hard, and though he was diligent and trustworthy he earned little, for his customers were poor. But Abu Sir was happy enough because his heart was clean. Next door to Abu Sir a dyer called Abu Kir had a workshop. Though he was an excellent dyer and had a vast knowledge of all the techniques of dyeing, Abu Kir was thoroughly dishonest. He used to accept cloth for dyeing from his customers and then sell it for money which he would spend on idle pleasures and debauched pastimes. When his customers returned for their dyed cloth he would tell them that their material had been stolen and that there was nothing he could do about it. Of course he was smart enough to cheat only labourers or other kinds of the poor workers with whom Alexandria was teeming, and he always avoided conning the rich and powerful. However his dishonesty eventually became known throughout the city and so, despite his skills, only the ill-advised or innocent stran30

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gers took their cloth to Abu Kir’s dye-works. As the two shops were side-by-side, Abu Kir and Abu Sir knew each other as well as two brothers might know each other’s lives and characters. Indeed Abu Kir, with few customers to occupy his time, spent much of his day sitting in Abu Sir’s shop. From there he could watch his own shop through the open door. He was always on the look-out for an innocent stranger. One day Abu Kir made a grave error. He cheated the servant of a rich and powerful man. When the man heard his servant’s story he went straight to the chief of police and demanded justice for his khadam. The chief immediately sent a squad of police to Abu Kir’s shop. But Abu Kir was not there. He was next door in Abu Sir’s saloon pretending he was waiting for a shave. So the sergeant left his squad to guard the empty shop and went back to his chief for further instructions. The chief of police was very angry with Abu Kir, for the rich and powerful man was a relative of sorts who could be very useful to his career, so he ordered the dye-works to be shut up. The sergeant went back and boarded it up. He posted a notice on the door stating that the shop was closed until the owner presented himself at the police station. Abu Kir was aghast when he read the notice. He was, naturally enough, very reluctant to visit the police station to get his shop reopened. He sat in Abu 31

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Sir’s shop for the rest of the day, muttering to himself gloomily. When Abu Sir was sweeping up after his last customer had left, Abu Kir said: ‘I don’t know why I have all the bad luck. Thieves come and steal my customers’ cloth and I get blamed and now the chief of police has decided to prevent me from carrying on my trade. How will I survive? I think, my friend, that the time has come for me to seek my fortune elsewhere.’ Abu Sir smiled. He knew Abu Kir too well. Indeed, as a friend and brother, he had reproved him many times for his dishonesty. Then Abu Sir also sighed: ‘I too am tired of this city. I only earn enough to keep me alive from day to day. There is probably no better barber in Alexandria than me,’ he said factually without pride, ‘but I will never make my fortune here. I too feel that it is time to travel.’ There and then the two men resolved to travel together to find their fortune in a far distant land, any land whatsoever provided it was a place where they could earn some wealth. They made a solemn covenant among themselves that each would share with the other in equal measure whatever he would earn, for as long as their travels lasted. The two men wrapped the few possessions they had in knotted cloths. Abu Sir also carefully packed the tools of his trade, his razors, his towels and his copper 32

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shaving bowl, in a leather bag. Then he locked up his barber’s shop and gave the keys back to the landlord. The two men set off for the harbour where they soon found a ship that was sailing for distant lands. It was a large sturdy trading dhow with room for at least eighty passengers and crew. The two friends went on board and by dawn the next day they were far out at sea. In those days passengers on board ships had to look after themselves. As they had left hurriedly and had given little thought as to what they might need on a long sea-voyage, Abu Sir and Abu Kir had brought no food with them. They discovered from the crew that the first port of call was at least twenty days sailing away. Fortune however smiled on them. There was no other barber on board and, as beards and hair grow just as quick at sea as they do on land, Abu Sir soon discovered that his skills were in high demand as most of the passengers were men. But instead of charging money for shaving and cutting, he accepted food instead. In the meantime, as the twenty days went slowly by, Abu Kir had nothing to occupy his time. He just lazed around and slept while his friend worked. When he awoke he ate his way through the food which Abu Sir acquired through his diligent labour. 33

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Abu Sir had never seen anyone eat so much. Abu Kir ate ravenously, like a merchant’s camel that had just crossed the desert from Kuwait to Damascus. Bread, cheese and olives from the deck passengers, spiced kebabs and sugared pastries from the captain’s table – no matter what Abu Sir managed to bring, it all went down in a swift gluttonous stream. And of course, as they had agreed to share all their earnings, the honest barber could hardly protest. At last the ship reached a port. Abu Sir and Abu Kir disembarked and began looking around the new city for what luck might bring them. Again fortune smiled. They came across a caravansary, a set of very large enclosed courtyards where camel trains used to stop in those days. The place was a hive of hectic activity. Caravans were arriving and setting off all the time. Merchants and their retainers, their drivers and their camels, were milling about everywhere. The storehouses around the courtyards were full of merchandise. The two men reckoned that the caravansary would be an excellent place for Abu Sir to do business. They found a room in an inn that was located over one of the storehouses and Abu Sir paid the rent in advance. Soon Abu Sir was very busy with his razors and copper shaving bowl. He had a little stool his customers could sit on and he would wander around the caravan35

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sary and the nearby suqs carry his shaving tools, fresh towels and his stool, offering an on-the-spot service. He became very popular, both for his skills and his pleasant manner. After a while he secured a permanent corner in one of the courtyards where he shaved the beards and trimmed the hair of the many merchants and their retainers who queued up for his services. Meanwhile, Abu Kir lay idle in their room. ‘I feel dreadfully giddy,’ he would complain. ‘That long voyage was no good for my health. Up and down, up and down on the sea for twenty days. Exhausting and most upsetting. I do believe I need a really good rest to recover.' So Abu Sir worked and Abu Kir rested. Everyday Abu Sir brought food to their room, which Abu Kir devoured greedily before returning to his bed where he lay day and night without ever going out. Yet Abu Sir did not feel resentful. Not only were they living well but business was so advantageous that he was managing to save a goodly amount of coin. Instead he worried about Abu Kir. One morning he spoke to him. ‘You should bestir yourself,’ Abu Sir said in his usual thoughtful way. ‘Just lying about is not improving your health. Perhaps it would be good for you to take a short walk around the city. You can go slowly of course until 36

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you get your strength back. But it is a very fair city and I’m sure you will find it interesting. There are lots of things to see and do.’ ‘Oh, please don’t talk about it,’ Abu Kir said. He turned slowly over on his mattress. ‘The very thought of movement makes me feel nauseous.’ Their life went on like this for weeks. Each day Abu Sir worked and Abu Kir rested. Each day Abu Sir brought food to their room and Abu Kir ate. And each day Abu Sir’s little horde of coin mounted up until he had quite a goodly sum. He kept it in their room in a small leather money bag. One morning Abu Sir awoke with a bad fever. He was too ill to go to work and he had to remain the whole day on his mattress where he slept fitfully. Abu Kir did little to help his friend. He just lay on his own mattress. As the morning wore on he became increasingly hungry. He also became irritated with his friend’s fitful tossing and feverish moaning. Eventually, unable to stand it any more and now ravenous with hunger, he got up, took Abu Sir's bag of coin and went out of their room, locking the door behind him from the outside. Abu Kir wandered down the street, staring at the sights. Abu Sir was right, he thought, this is a fascinating place. So much to see. Then he noticed a clothing shop. 37

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The shop was full of beautiful outfits in blue and white. Abu Kir chose a long white dishdasha with blue strips. He matched it with a dark blue bisht or overcloak, edged in white silk. For his head he selected a blue and white check gutra which he wound above his ears like a turban. For his feet there were naal of the finest Spanish leather. Abu Kir paid from the leather purse and then, neatly dandified, went to a nearby mataam where he ordered a meal that was in keeping with his new appearance. He broke his fast with dates and milk. Then, with his appetite well-whetted, he chose a complete tray of mezza, to be followed by a tray of finely-spiced kebabs. He finished with a selection of hello’wa, all doused in shearer. When he was entirely replete and could eat no more, Abu Kir paid the bill. He noticed that Abu Sir’s bag of coin was now almost empty. Then, holding his over-stuffed belly before him, he stumbled out of the mataam. Abu Kir entirely failed to bother himself about Abu Sir. Instead he decided to go for a stroll around the city and see the sights. As he rolled about the town he noticed that blue was the only colour of the clothing people wore. The rich wore magnificent robes of blue and white, while even the faded colours on the tatty clothes of the poor looked as if they had once been 38

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blue. When he enquired about the matter, Abu Kir was told that the dyers in the city could only dye cloth in one colour – blue – and that they did not know how to use any other colours. So, scenting a chance for some easy money, he visited one of the dye-works and, bowing politely, addressed the owner. ‘I am a dyer by profession,’ Abu Kir said. ‘If you let me join your business I will teach you how to dye cloth in all the shades of nature – yellow, green, red and orange, as well as all the shades and tints of these and many others besides.’ The owner of the dye-works became angry. ‘There are forty dyers in this town, no more and no less,’ he said sternly, ‘and we do not accept strangers into our guild. Blue is the only colour we use. Good day to you, sir, whatever your name is.’ Angry at this rebuff, Abu Kir decided to seek an audience with the king of the city. After a long wait he was granted admission. The king was dressed magnificently in the blue robes of the city. Even his ogal was made of twisted blue silk. Upon his finger there was a large gold ring with a single small stone set in the centre. He received Abu Kir courteously. ‘Your majesty,’ Abu Kir said. He bowed low, crossing his hands in front of his swollen belly. ‘I am a dyer from afar. I know how to dye cloth with every colour that 40

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can be found in nature. Yet here in this city, I have not seen a single piece of cloth that is not coloured blue. I am here to remedy the skills of your dyers, if you will permit me, sire.’ Abu Kir explained to the king how cloth could be dyed in different colours. The king became very interested. He found the idea of different coloured clothing altogether fascinating. He asked many questions. Abu Kir prattled on, his tongue easy with the technicalities, his voice persuasive. Finally the king snapped his fingers. ‘Yella,’ he said authoritatively, ‘I have decided.’ With a well-practiced regal gesture, the king bade Abu Kir to be seated. Servants came running to refresh the guest. The king spoke his orders. ‘You shall build a dye-works, such as you have described. You may take over whatever property you require for this purpose and buy whatever materials you need. I will give you the money. My servants will be at your disposal.’ And thus Abu Kir became the master of a splendid new dye-works. His business was very successful. Everyone wanted to wear clothes dyed in the new colours – purple and vermilion, red and orange, pink and rose, yellow, brown and green, a thousand hues, tints and shades. He hung samples of his finished work from poles in front of the building and the people queued 41

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up with bales of cloth, cleaned and ready for dyeing. Abu Kir sat on a thick pile of cushions in the centre of his factory, whence he directed the work of preparing and mixing the dyes. At his elbows were bowls of fresh fruit and plates of samboosa helwa. He had two young boys to fan him, for it is hot in a dye-works, as he ordered his staff about. He felt and acted like a sheikh. A few days after the new dye-works opened, Abu Kir was visited by an anxious delegation from the city’s forty dyers. Their trade was crumbling and they knew that soon they would be out of business. They pleaded with him to share his skills. But, just as they had rebuffed him, he refused to entertain their plea. He derived enormous pleasure from doing so. Meanwhile, back at the caravansary, Abu Sir lay dying. He was locked in their room and his fever was very bad. He had neither food nor drink and he was too weak to call for help. Fortunately the landlord noticed that he had seen neither of the two men for several days. He assumed that they had run off without paying their rent, so he went to the room and let himself in. There he found Abu Sir, hollow-cheeked and in the final stages of his fever. Abu Sir could hardly draw breath. The landlord was a kindly man. He fed Abu Sir with 42

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special broths and a marag based on an ancient formula that his wife made. Eventually Abu Sir recovered but it was several months before he was fully up and about. During his illness he told the landlord all about his plight and how Abu Kir had disappeared with all his money. ‘Your friend is hardly a true friend,’ the landlord said. ‘Oh, he is, I’m sure.’ Abu Sir insisted. He always tried to give a person the benefit of any possible doubt. ‘Perhaps he has not returned because he met with some terrible accident. He is unwell and prone to accidents.’ Once he felt strong enough to go out, Abu Sir took his razors, copper shaving bowl, towels and little stool and went off shakily to find work. He hoped to find some business so that he could start earning his keep again and, if the Almighty permitted, save enough to pay off his debt to the landlord. He found some customers and managed to earn a little money. A few days later, when his strength was much returned, he went for a walk outside the caravansary and came across a building that was bedecked with all sorts of colourful cloths. There was a large noisy crowd outside. Abu Sir went over to see what was going on and discovered that the building was a dye-works. Abu Sir went in. He saw his long-time friend sit43

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ting on his cushions, being fanned by his young boys. Abu Kir was dressed in the finest and most colourful robes Abu Sir had ever seen and he was surrounded by hordes of customers, all clamouring for his attention. ‘Ah, it’s my good friend Abu Kir,’ Abu Sir said to himself. ‘Look how well he has done for himself. Running this business must take up all his time. No doubt that has prevented him from looking for me out over the last few weeks.’ Abu Sir went forward and greeted his friend. Abu Kir stared at him. Then he pointed at him. ‘So, you thief,’ Abu Kir cried. ‘You’ve dare to show your face in front of me again.’ He turned to his servants. ‘Throw this thief out,’ he shouted, ‘and give him a taste of what will happen to him the next time he darkens my doorway.’ Abu Kir’s servants grabbed Abu Sir. They dragged him out into the street and beat him with sticks, and kicked him on his way. They kept kicking and punching him until he managed to scramble around a corner in the street. There he collapsed on the ground. After a while Abu Sir recovered from his beating. He stood up. His body was badly bruised and very sore, and he was covered from head to toe in dust. And he felt very rejected and betrayed. He decided that the only thing that might restore his spirits was a good hot 44

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steam bath. He enquired the whereabouts of a hammam from a passing citizen. ‘Hammam?’ the citizen replied. ‘And what might that be?’ ‘Well, you know, sir,’ Abu Sir answered, ‘That’s a bathing house where you can wash yourself in warm water.’ ‘Go to the sea,’ said the citizen. ‘That’s where everyone washes in this place, even the king. We have no hammams here.’ Abu Sir did as he was told. But the salt water was cold and it irritated his skin. So next day he decided to seek an audience with the king. After a long wait, the king received him graciously and enquired about his business. ‘It seems so strange, sire,’ Abu Sir answered, ‘that this fine city does not have a hammam.’ He explained to the king what a bathing house was. He described the baths of hot and cold water and the steam room where you could relax, and how you could have your stiffness rubbed away with fine soaps and oils. ‘The hammam, sire,’ Abu Sir concluded, ‘is one of the greatest inventions known to man and no city without one can truly be called great.’ The king questioned Abu Sir closely at length. Abu Sir answered all his questions honestly. Finally the king 46

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snapped his fingers. ‘Yella,’ he said authoritatively, ‘I have decided.’ With his well-practiced regal gesture, the king bade Abu Sir to be seated. Servants came running to refresh the guest. The king spoke his orders. ‘You shall build a hammam, such as you have described. You may take over whatever property you require for this purpose and buy whatever materials you need. I will give you the money. My servants will be at your disposal. You will start immediately, so that my people will have all the benefits you have described as soon as possible.’ Not long afterwards Abu Sir found himself in charge of the finest hammam ever built on this earth. From the very first day it was opened, the hammam was thronged with people. All, poor and gentry alike, were enthralled by the novel pleasure. Even the king visited the hammam at least once a week. One day Abu Kir, who had heard a great deal about the new hammam but who knew nothing of its owner, came for a bath. He arrived on a donkey, flanked by servants who walked alongside and shielded his personage from the glare of the sun with parasols. He dismounted with the exaggerated dignity of the nouveau riche and entered the hammam. There he saw Abu Sir administering to his guests. He recovered from his shock quickly. 47

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‘My dear friend,’ cried Abu Kir. ‘I had no idea that this was your place. My! You have indeed done well. But all this time you have neglected your old friend.’ Abu Sir politely mentioned his visit to Abu Kir’s dye-works. Abu Kir feigned surprise. ‘Surely that was not you,’ he declaimed. ‘I’m afraid I did not recognize you. I thought it was that thief who had come back. You should have made it clear to me who you were, you know. Really you have only yourself to blame.’ Abu Sir was incapable of bearing a grudge. He smiled his forgiveness and welcomed Abu Kir. He attended to him personally, leading him to the baths and supervising the attendants as they sponged his vast body with soap. He handed Abu Kir hot towels after his first bath and made sure that the masseur rubbed his body well with scented oils before leading him to the steam room. Then, when Abu Kir had spent his allotted time in the steam room, he helped him take his cold plunge. Afterwards they had coffee together and talked about the generosity the king had shown to strangers and how he had helped each of them to establish their businesses. ‘Abu Sir,’ Abu Kir said just before he left. ‘This is a fine hammam, perhaps the finest in the world. But there is one thing missing.’ 48

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‘What’s that?’ Abu Sir enquired. ‘Don’t you remember that sweet-smelling ointment made from almond oil and the resin of the pine tree? We used to enjoy it so much in Alexandria. I’m sure that the king would really appreciate a rub-down with it the next time he is here.’ ‘Ah, yes, pine-resin oil,’ Abu Sir said. ‘I remember it well. It was indeed wonderful. I’ll have some made up and offer it to the king the next time he visits. Thank you for reminding me.’ Abu Kir smiled and took leave of his old friend. He went straight to the king’s palace and asked for an urgent audience. His request was granted. ‘Oh king, I must warn you,’ Abu Kir said breathlessly as he was rushed into the king’s presence. ‘That owner of the hammam, I know him from the old days. He is an assassin and he intends to kill you the next time you go to the hammam.’ ‘Tell me how,’ the king commanded sternly, toying with the ring on his finger. ‘The next time you go to the hammam the owner will offer you a massage with an ointment that smells strongly of pine-resin. But this oil contains a deadly poison. If you are rubbed with it, the poison will enter through your skin and within three days you will be dead.’ The king didn’t know that the generosity he had ex49

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tended to Abu Sir had kindled Abu Kir’s envy. He took Abu Kir’s warning seriously and prepared himself. The next time he went for his bath Abu Sir offered him a massage with the special new oil. The king sniffed the oil. As soon as he inhaled the smell of the pine, he signaled to the soldiers among his retinue of servants and Abu Sir was arrested. The king called his court together. Abu Sir was accused of threatening the person of the king, a capital crime. He was quickly found guilty and sentenced to death by drowning. The king ordered that Abu Sir be bound and taken out to sea in a boat by the king’s own sea-captain. Then he was to be put in a sack and the sack was to be weighted with quicklime. The boat was to lie off-shore in front of the king’s palace. At a signal from the king, who would be on his balcony overlooking the bay, the captain was to drop the sack into the sea. The captain took Abu Sir on board his boat and set sail. He piloted his craft around a small island in the bay. He stopped on the far side of the island where they could not be seen from the mainland. He undid the rope around Abu Sir. ‘I have often visited your hammam,’ the sea-captain said, ‘and I know that you are an honest and kind man. You have been the victim of a malicious plot.’ 50

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‘Thank you,’ Abu Sir said. ‘But you’ll get into trouble yourself, for your kindness.’ ‘Not if you help me now,’ said the sea-captain and showed Abu Sir what to do. The two men got a large boulder. They put it in the sack. They hauled the sack into the boat and then they filled it to the brim with quicklime and closed the top. ‘You’ll have to stay on the island for now,’ the seacaptain said. ‘I’ll be back later and help you get away. In the meantime here is my fishing equipment. Use the net to do some fishing. It’s my job to supply the king’s table and if you can catch a good supply of fish you’ll be repaying me several times over.’ The captain sailed his boat back around the island and hove to in front of the king’s palace. He saw the king come out onto the balcony. The sea-captain pulled the heavy sack up onto the gunwale of the boat. He saw the king raise his hand and he prepared himself to push. The king dropped his hand and the sea-captain pushed the sack over the edge. It fell with a heavy splash and sank rapidly. Just as the king’s hand was dropping, the captain saw a flash. Something small and glittery had fallen from the king’s hand into the sea. Meanwhile, on the other side of the island, Abu Sir had started fishing with the net the sea-captain had 51

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given him. The sea thereabouts was well-stocked and he had some good fishing. Soon he had pulled in a great number of fish, large and small, of many sorts. All of a sudden he felt weak and hungry. He realised that he had not eaten since his arrest. As he had already caught plenty of fish, more than enough for the king’s table and several other tables besides, he decided to prepare one of the catch, roast it on a fire and share it with the sea-captain on his return. Abu Sir chose a large zubeidi. He took a knife from the captain's fishing box and filleted it neatly. When the entrails fell out onto the ground he saw something sparkling in the sand. He picked it up. It was a large gold ring with a single small stone set in the centre. Abu Sir stared at it in wonder. He put it on his finger, where it fitted snugly, marveling at his luck. He began to prepare a fire to grill the fish. When he had the fire going nicely and he was preparing a stick to skewer the fish, he looked up. In the distance he could see the sea-captain’s ship on its way back from the far side of the island. There was also a small boat that had just landed on the beach. Two men were dragging it ashore. One of the men looked up and saw Abu Sir. ‘Where is the fish?’ he shouted. ‘We’ve come to collect the fish for the king’s kitchen.’ ‘Where is the captain?’ the other man cried. 53

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In answer Abu Sir pointed between the two men to the captain’s boat which was coming closer to land. There was a flash and a bright ray of light shot out from the ring on his finger and knocked the two men down. Abu Sir felt his finger tingle. He looked at the ring in amazement. Then he ran to help the two men. They had been knocked out but in a few minutes, just as the captain was landing, they came back to their senses. They backed away from Abu Sir in fear. The captain had seen what had happened as he was guiding his ship in. When he had landed, Abu Sir showed him the ring. ‘Why, that’s the king’s ring,’ the sea-captain said in amazement. ‘How did you get it?’ ‘I found it in that fish,’ Abu Sir replied and he pointed at the fish he had prepared for the fire. ‘How could it have gotten into the fish?’ ‘Well, when I was pushing the sack overboard I saw something small and flashing falling from the king’s hand, when he gave the signal. That’s how the ring got into the sea, I’m sure.’ ‘But how did it get into the fish?’ Abu Sir asked. ‘Well, the fish must have swallowed it, I’m sure,’ the captain replied. ‘The fish was guided by our destiny straight into your net.’ He smiled. ‘It’s the king’s magic ring.’ ‘Magic ring?’ 54

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‘Yes. With this ring the king can kill whoever he points it at,’ the captain explained. ‘Those two are lucky that you pointed your finger between them or they would surely have been killed. Our king uses the ring to maintain peace in the land.’ ‘Then we must return the ring to the king without a second’s delay.’ The sea-captain protested. He said that the king would be extremely angry. But Abu Sir told him that the king would find out anyway when his two kitchen servants got back to the palace, so it was best that they returned to the king and explain everything. ‘He is a just king,’ Abu Sir said. ‘I know from his face. In my case he was deceived, but nevertheless he is a just king.’ ‘I hope he is also merciful,’ the sea-captain replied. Abu Sir, the captain and the two kitchen servants set sail back to the king’s palace. When Abu Sir and the sea-captain presented themselves at the palace the king was very surprised and angry. He ordered his guards, who were standing behind him, to seize the pair. As the guards came rushing around the king, Abu Sir held his hand up. The king saw the ring on Abu Sir's finger. He froze and turned deathly pale. He raised his hands straight out from his sides and stopped the guards from going 56

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past. Everyone was still and silent for a few moments. Then Abu Sir began to speak. He told the story of what had happened and how he came by the ring. He related all that had happened to him since he arrived in the king’s city. He spoke in a firm voice, clearly and calmly, stating the facts without attributing any blame. His audience was impressed by his honesty of expression and his simple uncomplaining demeanour. When he had finished his tale Abu Sir slipped the ring from his finger. He stepped forward and bowed to the king and put the ring into the king’s hand. Then Abu Sir said: ‘Your majesty, I am ever your humble servant. What have I done that you should condemn me so? As far as I am aware I have never done you any wrong or harm.’ On hearing this, and having seen the honest man return the magic ring to its rightful owner, the king and all his court knew that Abu Sir was innocent and that he could not possibly be an assassin as Abu Kir had claimed. They could see that Abu Kir, through slander and false testimony, was responsible for a grave injustice. The king ordered his guards to bring Abu Kir into his presence. When Abu Kir was stood before the king and his court, he denied all the charges against him. But the court physician, an elderly and wholly-learned man, 57

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examined the pine-scented oil. He stated that it was made of pine-resin and essence of almond, but that it contained no poison he had ever encountered in all his fifty years of experience in these matters. The king glowered. ‘You, Abu Kir, are a liar and a scheming cheat. You are a thief and a swindler. You have perjured yourself before my court. And, perhaps saddest of all, you have betrayed the friendship of an honest man.’ The king sentenced Abu Kir to death, death by drowning in a sack filled with limestone. ‘Further,’ the king declared, ‘forty days after the sentence has been carried out, the sack shall be lifted from the sea in front of my palace and taken to Alexandria, whence you came, and there thrown into the sea. Thus shall your infamy and shame be made known in the place of your birth.’ Abu Sir pleaded for the life of his old friend. ‘Sire,’ he addressed the king. ‘Please have mercy on this man. I forgive him for the wrongs he has done me. Punish him if justice demands. But not by death, sire, I beg you.’ The king was unmoved. ‘I accept that you pardon him,’ he said to Abu Sir. ‘But the grave offence against my person, my court and our sense of justice cannot be forgiven.’ Thus was sealed the fate of Abu Kir. 58

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After the sentence against Abu Kir was carried out Abu Sir found that life in that fair city no longer pleased him, though he was treated most kindly and very generously by the king for his loyalty and honesty. He decided to return to Alexandria. When the king realised that Abu Sir was determined to return to his native home, he provided him with a parting gift of wealth and a large galleon replete with a fine crew to sail her. Forty days after the execution of Abu Kir the ship set sail for Alexandria, with Abu Sir and his treasure on board. The galleon also contained a large heavy sack. As the ship neared Alexandria the crew, as ordered by the king, shoved the large heavy sack overboard. When the tale of the sack and its sad contents were spread abroad in Alexandria the place where it was dumped in the sea became known as Abukir Bay. And that place bears that name even today.

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THE OLD MAN & HIS DONKEY Once upon a time there was a simple old man who had a donkey and little else. He lived in a shack outside the town with his wife of many decades. The couple had no children. The old man made a meagre living by hiring out his donkey to whosoever needed a lift or had some goods to be carried. Every morning he used to set out on the road to town leading his donkey and looking for work. Like its owner, the donkey was old. It was grey and blind in one eye. It had a bit missing from one of its ears. It had a white stripe down the front of its long

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face and a big black tuft of hair on its chest. The grey fur on its back was rubbed bald here and there from the loads it had to carry, and the top and sides of its neck were scored by the rope the old man used to lead it along. One morning the old man set out on the road as usual, leading his donkey and looking for work. He was spotted by a trickster. The trickster nudged his companion. ‘Today,’ he whispered, ‘we’re going to get us a nice little donkey to sell. Just follow me and take hold of the donkey when I give you the nod. Be quiet now!’ The trickster sneaked along the road behind the old man. He didn’t make a sound. He looked around carefully. When there was no-one else about he quietly slipped the rope off the donkey’s neck, placed the loop around his own neck, and began following the old man. His companion took hold of the donkey and held it gently. The old man didn’t notice anything at all. The trickster walked behind the old man. He made sure to keep the rope taut so that the old man thought he was still leading his donkey. But after they turned a bend in the road, and his companion and the donkey were safely out of sight, the trickster dug his heels into the ground and stood still. The rope jerked and the old man almost fell backwards. He tugged at the rope, cursed his donkey, and turned around. 61

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He got the shock of his life when he saw the trickster standing there with the rope around his neck. ‘Who are you?’ he cried in a high croaky voice. ‘Good sir,’ the trickster replied, bowing slightly. ‘I am your donkey.’ ‘But, but ….,’ the old man nearly choked. ‘Let me explain,’ the trickster said. The old man stood as if petrified and listened. ‘When I was young,’ the trickster said, ‘I was a wild wrongdoer.’ He put on a mournful expression. ‘I used to steal things and I brought sorrow and shame to my family.’ The old man nodded. ‘One night I stole a large sack of pomegranates. I was seen by the owner, but I managed to escape and ran into my parents’ home. The owner chased me into the house and confronted me in front of my parents. He accused me of stealing. ‘I swore to my parents that I had been given the sack by a stranger. But they knew me well and I could see they did not believe me. This made me lie all the more. I swore that, if what I was saying was not the very truth itself, I should be turned into a donkey. And that is what happened. There and then I turned into a donkey.’ The trickster paused and looked at the old man. ‘That is my story. I became the donkey that has served you, and the many before you, for long hard years. 62

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‘I presume,’ the trickster concluded, ‘that Allah, in His Great Goodness and Infinite Mercy, has decided that I have been punished enough and has returned me to my human form.’ When the trickster had finished telling his story the old man became very frightened. He knew he could not interfere in God’s mercy. He immediately untied the rope from around the man’s neck and let him go. The old man went home and told his wife what had happened. She was understanding. She had often heard the people say that a sinner could be punished by being turned into a beast of burden. She tried to comfort him, saying what he did was for the best. But then, all of a sudden, a black thought struck her. Like any childless old woman she was apt to see the bad in everything. ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘Just to think how badly you used to treat that poor donkey! You cursed it, you beat it, and you kicked it. You hung it with loads fit to break its back. Sometimes you forgot to feed it. And all the time it was just a poor man suffering for his sins.' She rung her hands. ‘Oh!’ she wailed. ‘May Allah forgive you.’ The old man lay down on their bed. He felt very bad. Day after day he lay on the bed. He was too depressed to think about work. Anyway he had no donkey so he could not get work. 63

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But soon their food ran out and his wife lost her patience. She began to rave at him. ‘Listen,’ she shrieked. ‘You lying about all day isn’t going to feed us. There’s nothing else for it. Find the moneylender and borrow some money. Then you’ll be able to buy yourself a new donkey.’ So the old man had to get up and go out. He went to the moneylender and they came to an agreement. With a little money in his pocket the old man now went to the suqs. He passed through the spice suq and the vegetable suq. He walked by the suq where they sold cloths and sandals. At last he came to the animal suq. In a corner he found donkeys for sale. The old man walked around looking at the donkeys. There were donkeys of all shapes and sizes, all ages and conditions. Some were young and fit-looking but these were very expensive. Others were marked where they had been beaten and seemed doleful and resentful, as if there was no point in trying to get work out of them. The cheapest donkeys were very old and on their last legs. The old man looked at each donkey carefully. He was looking for one he could afford but which still had a bit of work left in it. He had to buy a donkey or starve. Suddenly he realized that one of donkeys was very 64

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familiar. It was old and grey and blind in one eye. It had a bit missing from one of its ears. It had a white stripe down the front of its long face and a big black tuft of hair on its chest. The grey fur on its back was rubbed bald here and there and the top and sides of its neck were scored. The old man looked at the donkey twice. Then he walked around it, eyeing it from every angle. There was no doubt about it. It was his old donkey! The old man scratched his head. Then he leaned forward and grabbed the donkey by the neck. He lifted up its ear and shouted: ‘So, you’ve been up to your old tricks again, haven’t you, you old chiseller. Out stealing and lying again afterwards. Shame on you, making the same mistakes again. Didn’t you learn your lesson the first time? You’ve got what you deserve and this time I don’t think Allah will forgive you.’ ‘Hah!’ The donkey brayed loudly. ‘And another thing,’ the old man yelled back. ‘I myself won’t be making the same mistake twice. You can be sure of that. I won’t be buying you for a second time!’ The old man chose another donkey, bargained as best he could, paid his money, and led the donkey home to his wife. He walked with light feet, happy justice had been done. 66

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THE COBBLER'S CARAVAN Years and years ago, a poor but honest man named Ma’aruf lived in the Great City of Cairo. He was a small lithe man with handsome features and a ready winsome smile. Ma’aruf was a cobbler by trade and he had a tiny shop in one of the suqs where he spent his days mending old naal, the light slip-on shoes still worn in much of the Arab world today. He lived in a small room in a nearby house. He had a wife but no children. Despite his sunny disposition Ma’aruf was not a happy man. His wife made sure of that. She was a very large, tall, fat scold, and she bossed him around terribly, telling him what to do and what not to do, shouting so loudly that their neighbours could hear as she berated him ceaselessly for never earning enough. Her name was Fatima but their neighbours called her a variety of unpleasant names, though only from far behind her ample back. At dawn each morning Ma’aruf left their small room, not without a sigh of relief, and went to his tiny shop. There he worked all day, cleaning, gluing, stitching, tapping away with his hammer, until the light faded. Then, after he had closed up his shop, he would walk slowly home – usually with just enough money for 67

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some plain food for himself and his wife. Nearly all the people in those times were poor and they had their footwear mended as seldom as possible. One morning as he was preparing to go to work, Fatima looked up from where she was squatting on the floor and barked at Ma’aruf. ‘When you come home tonight, bring me a large slice of kunafeh cake soaked in honey. Do not forget, a large slice and lots of honey.’ ‘Kunafeh cake, dear,’ Ma’aruf tried to smile. ‘But that’s very expensive.’ Fatima struggled to her feet and then rose to her full height. She swayed over Ma’aruf, waving her arms. ‘Will you never do anything to please me?’ she screeched. ‘What have I ever done to deserve such a mean husband?’ ‘Yes, dear, I will get the kunafeh cake,’ Ma’aruf said anxiously. ‘Don’t get excited. The doctor says it’s bad for your heart. I will earn enough today to please you, InshaAllah.’ ‘You’d better, Ma’aruf,’ she glared at him. But that day not a single customer came to his shop and when it was time to close up Ma’aruf didn’t even have enough money to buy bread. As he walked despondently home he passed a pastry shop owned by a friend. He stopped and looked sadly at the cakes and sweetmeats. 68

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‘Ma’aruf, habibi, what’s the matter?’ the owner asked him. Ma’aruf told him that his wife was waiting at home for a slice of kunafeh cake but that he had no money. ‘Don’t worry,' the pastry-shop owner said. ‘Take this slice of kunafeh. You can pay me when you can. There is no honey left but I have some good sugar syrup for it. Will that do?’ ‘Thank you,’ Ma’aruf said. ‘Thank you so much.’ The owner poured the syrup over the cake, wrapped it up and gave it to Ma’aruf. The cobbler went skipping on his way. As he let himself into their little room, Fatima looked up from where she was squatting on the floor. She growled: ‘Have you got my cake?’ ‘Yes, dear,’ Ma’aruf answered, ‘a fine slice of kunafeh, just what you want.’ He smiled, bent and placed the package gently on her lap. Fatima’s pudgy fingers pulled greedily at the wrapping. She tore it open and gazed longingly at the kunafeh. Suddenly the jowls on her round fat face began quivering in indignation. ‘This isn’t honey,’ she screamed. ‘This is sugar syrup. I asked for honey.' ‘Yes, dear, but ...’ Ma’aruf tried to explain. ‘You’re trying to trick me, cheat your own wife.’ 69

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Fatima threw the cake at Ma’aruf. It fell with a plop to the earthen floor. At that Ma’aruf lost his temper with his wife, the first time he had ever done so. He picked up the spoiled cake and threw it back. It landed right on her face. She jumped up and began picking up pots and pans and anything else she could find. She threw them at Ma’aruf. He cowered down into a corner as all the small things they had in their home began bouncing off the wall behind his head. Fatima made a terrible racket and their neighbours burst in. ‘My husband’s a cheat and a liar,’ Fatima screamed at them. Then she stood up straight, her body went rigid and she fell straight down on the floor. Her body rolled and wallowed a few times and then she was still. ‘Quick, the doctor,’ Ma’aruf cried. ‘Fetch the doctor quickly. It’s a heart attack.’ But by the time the doctor arrived, Fatima was dead. The doctor asked Ma’aruf what had happened. Ma’aruf answered sadly: ‘I brought home the wrong kind of cake.’ For days and days Ma’aruf lived like a man in a trance. He hardly spoke. He just went to his shop and sat there, slowly stitching as tears ran down his face. By night he wandered aimlessly through the streets of the old city. Late one evening he sat down by an old hut. Misery racked his mind and he stared blankly up at the stars. 71

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‘Oh,’ he sighed to himself. ‘I never thought I would be so unhappy without Fatima. How can this be?’ Suddenly there was a bright flash of lightening and the roof of the hut blew off. A gigantic jinnee, five times the size of an ordinary man, appeared. The jinnee was dressed in green with a red sash around his waist. He wore golden slippers and had two gold bracelets around each ankle and three gold bracelets around each wrist. His turban matched the colour of his suit and it was tied with a jeweled pin. His face was ruddy and red smoke streamed from nostrils. His eyes were as big as grapefruits. They flashed angrily as he stared at Ma’aruf. ‘Who are you?’ the jinnee shouted, as Ma’aruf cowered on the ground in terror. ‘Who are you who presumes to disturb me in my sleep?’ ‘I .. I .. I ..,’ Ma’aruf stuttered. The jinnee glared into Ma’aruf’s face. Then his expression softened and he said quietly: 'For two hundred years I have lived here and in all that time I have never seen a man as unhappy as you. Come, climb on my back, and I will take you to a land far away from grief and sadness.' Ma’aruf did as he was told. A few moments later he was lying on the jinnee’s back and holding fast to his green shoulder straps as they flew up into the sky. Below the lights of the City twinkled and then faded as 72

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they sped through the dark night air. Up and on they flew. They went so high that Ma’aruf fancied he could almost touch the stars. Looking down he saw the snow-covered peaks of the high mountains of Arabia glistening in the light of a pale moon. As dawn broke they landed on the top of a hill. Ma’aruf climbed down from the jinnee’s back. ‘In the valley below,’ the jinnee said, ‘you will find a great city. Go there and seek your fortune.’ And with those words he vanished. Ma’aruf sat down on a rock. He was confused but the cold morning air soon cleared his head. He was also feeling very hungry, so he set off down the hill. When he reached the gates of the city, a guard stopped him and asked him where he was from. ‘From Cairo,’ Ma’aruf answered. ‘From Cairo? That’s a long way away. How many weeks did it take you to get here?’ ‘I left Cairo last night,’ Ma’aruf replied. The guard laughed and called out to some passing citizens: ‘Here’s a man who says he was in Cairo last night!’ A small crowd gathered around Ma’aruf. When he said again that he had left Cairo the night before, they jeered and taunted him. They only stopped when a well-dressed merchant stepped through the crowd. 73

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‘This is no way to welcome a stranger to our beloved city,’ he shouted. He invited Ma’aruf to stay in his house. As they walked through the city the merchant questioned Ma’aruf about Cairo and his life there. ‘I used to live there,’ he said, ‘in the same place as you. Do you know Sheikh Ahmed, the perfume seller?’ ‘Of course,’ Ma’aruf replied. ‘His sons are my friends. Mohammed, the eldest, is also a perfume seller, while Mustapha is a school teacher. But Ali, the third son, was my best friend, until he ran away from home years ago.’ The merchant stopped walking. ‘Ma’aruf, look at me,’ he said. ‘Look at my face.’ Ma’aruf turned and stared at the merchant. His eyes opened wide in surprise. ‘It can’t be ...’ he stuttered. ‘Yes, I’m Ali,’ said the merchant. The two long-lost friends hugged each other warmly. Ali lived in a magnificent villa on the edge of the city. In the centre of the house there was a shaded marble courtyard with flowing fountains to cool the air. There the two friends sat catching up on old times. After Ali’s servants had eased his hunger with spiced meats and 75

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other delicacies, Ma’aruf smiled at his friend. ‘Tell me. How did you become so rich?’ ‘When I first came to this city,’ Ali said, ‘I was a poor man like you. But I pretended I was a rich merchant. I told everyone I had a caravan with hundreds of camels loaded with silk, spices and jewels arriving soon. The merchants believed me and when I said I only needed a hundred gold coins until my caravan arrived they gladly lent me the money.' Ali paused and smiled. 'With that money I bought cloth and sold it at a profit. I did this again and again. Soon I was able to pay back the hundred coins. But I kept trading and became rich.’ ‘It was all so very simple,’ said Ma’aruf in admiration. ‘Yes,’ said Ali. ‘And tomorrow we will go to the suq. You will pretend that you are a rich merchant waiting for your caravan to arrive. You too will be rich soon!’ Next day Ma’aruf dressed himself in some fine clothes that Ali gave him and, with a purse full of Ali’s gold coins in his pocket, he made his way to the suq. He told the merchants that he had a great caravan, with thousands of camels, which would be arriving in less than a week. It was not long before the richest of the city’s merchants had gathered eagerly around him. ‘Will you be bringing fine silk?’ one of them asked. ‘How about spices?’ another enquired. 76

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Ma’aruf told them that his caravan was fully loaded with silks, cottons, spices, bukhur, gold and silver ornaments, in fact everything they needed. As they crowded around to hear more, an old beggar pushed his way through the throng. Some of the merchants gave him a small coin or two. But Ma’aruf dropped a handful of gold into the poor man’s outstretched hand. The merchants were astonished. Soon more beggars were arriving. Ma’aruf gave each of them several gold coins and before long he had given away all the gold Ali had lent him. ‘Oh,’ he said to the merchants, ‘if only I had known how many poor people there are in this city I would have brought more gold with me. What I had with me is all gone, so the others will have to wait for my caravan.’ ‘No problem,’ one of the merchants said, ‘I’ll lend you a thousand gold coins until your goods arrive.’ Every day after that Ma’aruf went to the suq in the morning. He borrowed money and gave it away. Everyone thought he must be very rich indeed and soon the whole city was greatly excited, awaiting the arrival of his caravan, except for Ali who became very worried. One day Ma’aruf invited the merchants to a feast at Ali’s house. None of them had ever experienced the splendor and magnificence of the food and drink laid before them. 77

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‘Ma’aruf,’ Ali said to his friend, ‘we’ll never be able to pay for all this. We’ll be ruined!’ ‘Don’t worry,’ Ma’aruf replied. ‘Everything will be fine as soon as my caravan arrives!’ 'But, Ma'aruf,' Ali stuttered. 'You can't be serious.' Soon, when there was still no sign of the caravan, the merchants became as worried as Ali. They went to their emir and complained. After listening to them, the emir told his vizier to invite Ma’aruf to the palace. ‘We must judge this man for ourselves,’ he said to his vizier. ‘But how?’ The vizier was a cunning man, as he must have been else he would not have been the emir’s chief minister. ‘Show him your most valuable pearl,’ he told the emir, ‘and if he recognizes its worth then we will know that he is really very rich.’ When Ma’aruf stood before the emir, the servants brought in a velvet cushion on which there was a pearl as big as a walnut. ‘Tell me your opinion of this,’ the emir commanded. Ma’aruf picked the pearl. He examined it closely. Then he dropped it on the floor and crushed it with his foot. There were gasps of horror throughout the audience chamber. 78

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‘This pearl was nothing,’ Ma’aruf declared. ‘In my caravan I have a hundred pearls more beautiful than that was. Please allow me, sire, to give them to you.’ The emir was astounded. He thought to himself: This man must be very, very rich. He is the perfect match for my daughter. Indeed, for many years the emir had been looking for a husband for Rana, his daughter. His problem was that there was no man around quite rich enough to give the princess, his only child, the kind of life-style she had grown used to in the palace, or so he thought. Now, it seemed, he had found just the right man. The emir was a swiftly decisive man. He ordered his daughter to be presented to Ma'aruf. When her face was unveiled and he looked into her impish eyes he was immediately captured. The emir decreed a week-long festival for his daughter's marriage. For six whole days and nights there were feasts and parties with dancing and music. After that Ma’aruf lived happily in the palace with his princess. They loved each other deeply and dearly. Ma’aruf took to his new opportunities with aplomb. As the son of the house he was allowed to take anything he wanted from the emir’s treasury. He gave presents to his servants and gifts of gold and jewels to courtiers and ambassadors as well as robes of fine silk for their wives. And every day he went to the suq and 79

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gave away hundreds of gold coins to the poor. Then one day the vizier bowed before the emir and said: ‘Sire, the accountant tells me that the treasury is almost empty.’ ‘What?’ the emir asked anxiously. They hurried to the vaults and found that it contained only a few remaining coins, scattered here and there. The emir scratched his head. ‘You must ask the princess to find out the truth about Ma’aruf’s caravan,’ the vizier told him. The emir commanded his daughter to do. That evening as they sat together in her room high up in the castle, Rana asked gently: ‘Ma'aruf, when do you think your caravan will arrive?’ Ma’aruf remained silent for a few moments. Then he took her hand in his and said softly: ‘I cannot hide the truth from you any longer. There is no caravan. I’m not a merchant, just a simple cobbler.’ Rana began to laugh. ‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘That’s why I love you.’ Ma’aruf told her the story of his life, about Fatima, the kunafeh cake, the jinnee and his friend Ali. When he had finished he looked at her sadly. ‘Can you ever forgive me for deceiving you?’ he asked. ‘Of course,’ she smiled and hugged him. ‘Of course I 80

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do forgive you, sweet husband of mine.’ Then her face became very grave. ‘But my father won’t. When he hears this he will have you beheaded!’ ‘Oh! So what shall I do?’ ‘You must leave immediately,’ Rana said. ‘I will stay and tell the emir that you have gone to meet your caravan.’ ‘But when shall I see you again?’ Ma’aruf asked. ‘When your caravan arrives! Not before then, I suppose.’ The princess and Ma’aruf spent a long time kissing goodbye. Then Rana, with tears in her eyes, hung a rope from her balcony. Ma’aruf shinned down, borrowed a big stallion from the stables and galloped off into the night as fast as he could. The stallion was black, swift and sure. All night and all the next day Ma’aruf kept on riding. Eventually he came to a small settlement and stopped beneath a large tree to rest. Both man and beast were tired and hungry. In a nearby field a farmer was busy, driving a plough and oxen. Ma’aruf went over and asked him where he might find food and water. ‘Stay here, sire,’ said the farmer, bowing low, ‘and I will bring you lunch from my house.’ 81

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‘Oh, please don’t trouble yourself like that,’ Ma’aruf answered. ‘Just show me where the village is.’ ‘You’ll find nothing there,’ said the farmer. ‘Be my guest and wait here for a while.’ The farmer went off. Ma’aruf sat down and waited. He wondered sadly if he would see his beloved princess again. Then, as he waited, his natural generosity came bubbling up. ‘I cannot waste this poor farmer’s time,’ he said to himself. ‘While he is away, I will work his plough.’ Ma’aruf got up and went into the field. He drove the oxen from one end to the other, ploughing the rows. He began to sweat, so he pulled off his fine clothes and leather boots and threw aside his belt and silver dagger. ‘This is the life,’ he laughed to himself. ‘If I cannot be a prince then I’ll be a farmer.’ When the farmer came back with a bowl of boiled lentils and a jug of fresh water for Ma’aruf the only person he could see was a peasant ploughing his field. On the ground was Ma’aruf’s fine clothing. ‘Hey,’ the farmer yelled. ‘What are you doing? Where’s the rich fellow gone?’ Ma’aruf stopped ploughing and bowed. ‘I am he,’ he said. ‘I am Ma’aruf the cobbler, Ma’aruf the prince and now Ma’aruf the ploughboy!’ 82

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Ma’aruf and the poor farmer sat in the shade of the tree and ate the simple lunch the farmer had brought. Ma’aruf told his story. ‘I lead a very simple life,' the farmer said when he had finished. ‘Nothing but hard work. My life is very dull compared to what you have done. You have been very lucky.’ ‘I suppose I have been lucky,’ Ma’aruf said, ‘lucky most of all to get away with my life, after how I cheated all those merchants and, to tell the truth, the emir. I suppose death is what I deserve. How happy I would be to lead a simple life like yours, living by nothing but my own hard work.’ ‘I am poor and cannot offer you much,’ the farmer said. ‘But if you want to work for me, I will see that you have enough to eat and somewhere to sleep.’ ‘Thank you,’ Ma’aruf jumped at the offer. ‘I will work harder than I have ever worked before, and put my days as a lazy fake merchant behind me forever.’ For seven long years Ma’aruf laboured on the farm. He ploughed, sowed, hoed and reaped. He helped the poor farmer turn his fields into good farm land. Each year the crops became better and better. At the end of the seventh year the farmer watched as Ma’aruf carried heavy bags of grain into his full store-house. ‘Ma’aruf,’ he said when the last bag had been stacked away, ‘for seven long years you have toiled without rest. 83

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Would you like to be a rich merchant now again?’ ‘An honest one, yes,’ said Ma’aruf, ‘but not to avoid hard work. Honest merchants have to work just as hard as poor farmers. But if I were a rich merchant again I would be able to see my princess once more.’ There was a bright flash and a massive clap of thunder. The farmer disappeared and out of a cloud of smoke came the gigantic green jinnee with red smoky nostrils and grapefruit eyes. ‘Hah!’ he roared. ‘I wasn’t the poor farmer you thought I was. I am the jinnee who carried you from your life of misery in Cairo.’ ‘But ...’ Ma’aruf could hardly speak with the shock. ‘Seven long years you have laboured for me,’ the jinnee bent down and smiled at Ma’aruf. ‘You have proved that you are worthy of good fortune after all. The wealth you wasted is now repaid. Now go with your caravan to the city.’ ‘My caravan?’ Ma’aruf cried. ‘Wait here,’ the jinnee commanded and then vanished into thin air. A few minutes later two horsemen rode up and halted in front of the granary. ‘Good sire,’ they cried. ‘We are riding to the city to announce that your caravan is on its way. Your personal camel will be here soon.’ About half an hour later a camel train, so long that 84

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it stretched back over the far horizon, began arriving. The camels were loaded with cottons, silks, jewels, pearls, bukhur, spices, gold and silver ornaments, and other expensive merchandise. It took a whole hour for the caravan to pass by the farm house. At the end of the train was the finest animal of them all, saddled in leather and gaily caparisoned. Two servants helped Ma’aruf to dress in robes bordered with gold brocade. Then he mounted his camel and rode forward to the city. The city had been alerted by the two riders and walls were thronged. Everyone was eager for a glimpse of Ma’aruf’s famous caravan. After seven years they could hardly believe that it was arriving at last. The emir was wondering out loud but the vizier was holding his opinion. The merchants were thinking of the riches the caravan was bringing, while Rana was shivering with excitement. But Ali thought it was another of his friend’s tricks. As Ma’aruf rode through the gates of the city, the people cheered. He went straight to the palace and was reunited with his beloved princess. He refilled the emir’s treasury, paid off all his debts, and made friends with Ali again. Then he started giving away his fortune once more. One morning Ma’aruf awoke to find that his caravan 85

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had disappeared. Everyone asked him where it had gone. ‘To far and distant lands,’ he replied vaguely. In truth he didn’t know where the caravan had gone but Ma'aruf the cobbler had an idea that his fortune was about to change once again.

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AFTERWORD These six short stories were first published in Kuwait this month, of which I was the founding editor. None of these stories are original. They are based on the folk-tales of the Arabian Peninsula, as once told around the Bedouin cooking pots and to sleepless children in their tents. Today, despite the omni-presence of television and the internet, stories like these are still being told throughout the Peninsula, though the tellers and their listeners live in ultra-modern villas and apartment blocks in some of the newest and grandest cities in the world — grander than any palace the nomadic inventors of these tales could possibly have imagined long ago. I first heard Arabic folk-tales in the diwaniyas of Kuwait, in 1989, when I went to work in that country. There I learned that not all these folk-tales are inventions of the Arabs. The Arabs were great traders, especially into the Far East. These merchants brought back a wealth of stories which were refashioned and retold as Arabic tales. Indeed some Arabic folk-tales are set in India (Al-Hind) and China, for example, Aladdin and the Magic Lamp. All the stories contained in this short book and, I suspect, most of the stories told to me in Kuwait, have been printed in some form or other somewhere in the 88

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world. All I have done is retell the stories in my own words, though I have reshaped the plots a bit to make them more dramatic. Some of the background descriptions are based on my own observations of Arabic culture. Religion plays a surprisingly small part in these folktales. Though words or phrases like InshaAllah (God Willing) are used as interjections, these are habitual phrases, similar to how Westerners invoke God (as in Oh, My God), and not reflections of a fundamentally religious nature. Indeed the endings of some tales do not accord with Islamic morality even though most inhabitants of Arabia are Muslims. None of the hundreds of stories I have heard is at all religious nor do any of them have a religious message. Magic, however, is accepted as fact. In all the stories, some sort of magic is part of the story-world and, for those original listeners in the Bedouin camps, would not have required any suspension of belief. Indeed Jinn are mentioned in the Holy Quran, the Islamic bible, as having been created by God before he created Adam. Hopefully you have enjoyed reading this short book. If so, please let the writer know by email on: [email protected] A second book of these stories is under preparation. You can check to see when it is ready on: www.arabic-tales.com 89

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A BRIEF LEXICON Abu ..... ‘father of’. That a man proves his manhood by siring a male heir is very important in the Arab world and as soon as his first male child is born a man’s name will be changed to reflect his new status. For example, if a man’s first son is called Ali, the man himself will be addressed as Abu Ali, meaning 'father of Ali'. Bisht ..... a cloak, which can be of two types. A heavy bisht made from woven sheep or heavy camel hair is worn by the desert Arab on cold winter nights. By contrast, a ceremonial bisht is semi-transparent and is often edged with gold braiding called zari; even today it is worn by powerful personages in Arabia as an indication of their rank and dignity. Bukhur ..... incense, of which there are many kinds. Caravansary ..... a place of rest in a town for caravans, merchants and drovers, usually an extensive enclosed yard where camels and horses could be unloaded and fed. The surrounding buildings contained store-rooms with unfurnished rooms overhead for merchants, their 90

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servants, and camel handlers. A caravansary contained a variety of small businesses, such as restaurants and caravan-chandlers. The word is a combination of the Persian words for a caravan and an inn. The actual Arabic word is khan, which has the same meaning, but caravansary is used in this book as its sense is more intuitively obvious. Diwaniya ..... a reception hall used by men for receiving, entertaining and feeding their male guests. Every house in Kuwait has a diwaniya with a separate entrance for visitors. Dhow ..... a wooden sailing ship, of which there are many kinds. Dishdasha ..... a floor-length robe worn by men, which is put on over the head. Because it is so well suited to the hot arid climate it is still worn by most Peninsular Arabs. The style of the collar and cuffs indicate where in Arabia the wearer is from. Emir or Amir ..... ruler, the title given to the chief of an independent tribe. The emir, who was always male, was usually 91

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elected by the notables of the tribe. Once elected, he ruled for life. Gutra ..... a head scarf worn by men, ie a square piece of cloth folded into a triangle and placed centrally on the head so that the ends hang down over the shoulders. The gutra is a very versatile head-covering. It provides shade during the summer, it can be folded across the face during sand-storms, and can be twisted up like a turban for manual work. The gutra is still worn by most Peninsular Arab men. It is held in place by a doubled circlet of twisted cord called an ogal. To stop it from slipping, a close-fitting skull cap called a gahfiya is often worn under the gutra. Habibi .... a form of address for a close friend, ie dear or darling depending on the context. Habibi is used when speaking to a male friend, relative or lover, while habeebti is used to address a female. Hammam ..... a washing place, originally a bath-house. Ancient Arabic cities had public hammam for washing, a legacy of Roman times. In modern Arabic, the word also refers to a toilet. 92

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Hello’wa ..... Arabic dessert, a series of sweet dishes. Hijab ..... a headscarf worn by woman that covers her hair but leaves her face visible. InshaAllah ..... God Willing, used as an interjection. Jinnee ..... a member of a race of spirit beings, often mentioned in Muslim theology and folklore. Jinn (plural) can assume various shapes, sometimes as monstrous men with supernatural powers. Khadam ..... a male servant; a female servant is a khadama. Kebabs ..... cubes of meat grilled on a skewer. Kunafeh ..... sweet pastry consisting of strings of dough wound together and fused during cooking. Lateen Sail ..... a triangular sail, originally invented by the Arabs 93

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who introduced it to the Mediterranean. Marag ..... a type of stew in which meat or fish, as well as vegetables and spices, are first fried or boiled separately and then put into a large pot, to which rice or wheat may be added, to be simmered together gently for some hours. Mataam ..... a restaurant. The original Arabic word for a restaurant, it usually refers nowadays to a low-priced restaurant serving local food. Mezza ..... the hors d'oeuvres of the Arab table. Mezza is made up of tiny dips, such as hummus (chick pea), m'tabbal (aubergine), ful (beans), and tabooleh (salad) which are scooped up and eaten with wedges of khubus (unleavened bread). Mezza also includes samboosa (savoury stuffed pastries), fatayah (tiny pies of meat, cheese or spinach), kibbet (meat balls), and waraq al-aneb (stuffed vine leaves), which, being dry, are eaten by hand. Mezza is extremely popular throughout the Arab world. Naal ..... slippers. Even today naal are worn in the street and 94

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at work as a matter of convenience. In the Arab world it is customary to take off one’s footwear when entering a mosque, diwaniya, or house, so most Peninsular Arabs who wear Western shoes prefer slip-ons rather than laced shoes for practical reasons. 'oud ..... a fretless guitar, similar in shape to a lute, which is played with a plectrum. Qadi ..... a judge skilled in Islamic jurisprudence. Samboosa helwa ..... a sweet pastry fried in oil. Shearer ..... an extremely sweet caramelised syrup of rosewater, cardamom, saffron, lemon juice and sugar that is used to soak bagalaw’wa, a baked dessert pastry. Sheikh ..... the equivalent of ‘lord’, a title given to highly respected members of society, such as religious and political notables. Sheria ..... Islamic Law which, Muslims claim, lays down rules 95

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for all aspects of human behaviour. Yella ..... an exclamation with a variety of meanings such as let’s go, let’s do it, it’s decided, I’m ready. The word is often interjected enthusiastically, without evident purpose, during a voluble yet friendly exchange of words. Vizier ..... a minister, a ruler’s advisor and deputy. Zubeidi ..... a flat, rather tasty, fish found in the Arabian Gulf. Often served stuffed and baked ..... delicious!

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THE END We hope you enjoyed reading this book. If you have any comments or suggestions, please let us know on: [email protected]

ABOUT THE WRITER Paul D Kennedy spent nearly two decades working in Kuwait as a business consultant, writer and editor. He was the founding editor of Kuwait this month, a social and cultural magazine for the general reader. He is also the author of the Kuwait Pocket Guide and Doing Business with Kuwait. He has written numerous articles for the Arab Times, a local newspaper, on political and social matters, and has won several awards for his short stories. He may be contacted on: [email protected]

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR Abbas is a well-known artist, illustrator and graphic designer who has been practising his art in Kuwait for the last four decades. Highly successful and with a deep understanding of Arabic culture, he may be contacted on: [email protected] 97