Chapter Yusuf
Yusuf
If Djalila attended more to what goes on in her own household she would have seen her fifteen-year-old daughter fall in love. No-one with eyes could miss it once it happened, though none of us saw what sparked it. Something happened between them, something none of us saw.
The household is accustomed to receiving guests.
A merchant of fine carpets must welcome many men to his home, offer them good food and drink, speak with them on various matters.
They must feel cared for in luxurious surroundings and then they will associate that care with the wares they are shown.
They will see the beautiful carpets and believe that if they were laid in their own homes, they would receive such care, enjoy such luxury always.
Djalila’s presence only enhances such thoughts.
Perhaps, think the men, if their own home were filled with such carpets their own wives would be as beautiful.
They are fools to be swayed by so little but traders have always had their ways of making fools of men.
Yusuf is good looking, with black curls and dark eyes, his arms wiry with strength.
I hear more than one slave girl sigh at the sight of him on that first night, but Zaynab does not join us for dinner and so when she descends the next morning, her skin rose-blushed and dressed in finery more suited to a celebration than the family table her father looks bemused.
I watch her face. She does not look at Yusuf but every part of her being is focused on him, she looks away so hard she might as well raise her eyes and gaze on him without shame.
She must have glimpsed him last night but I cannot think when.
***
His name is Yusuf bin Ali, the chief of the Wurika and Aylana tribes, whose boundaries come close to the great city of Aghmat, far to the west from here.
His home is a ksar, a fortified city built by desert-dwellers.
It is for himself that he comes to buy carpets, but he is a loyal and trusted vassal of King Luqut, the amir of Aghmat and so if he should like Ibrahim’s carpets it may well be that we can expect patronage from the amir also.
There are gatherings, some for business, others for pleasure, and Yusuf is our guest at all of them.
Some of the evenings are of interest, at others I have to listen to interminable debates about whether or not our rulers are likely to switch their allegiance to Baghdad and what the consequences of that might be.
I watch Djalila’s face but she is too experienced at these events by now, she keeps her face calm and pleasant, smiles when anyone addresses her and otherwise is silent.
I try to stifle my yawns when they speak of politics and hope that one of the scholars will speak of something more interesting.
***
At first, I think it is only Zaynab who feels anything for him, a young girl a little too admiring of a handsome older man.
But Yusuf stays more nights than he had originally planned and I see that he does not turn his head when she enters a room, he seems otherwise engaged.
I see his nostrils flare when she walks past him and although he does not watch her go, he breathes in her scent as she passes and his eyes close for a brief second.
He lusts for her; he cannot help himself.
He is too conscious of the curve of her body, the sway of her walk.
At one gathering I find myself standing briefly between them.
I feel the heat rising between their bodies and words as yet unspoken forming in their mouths, waiting to be heard.
But there is something else there too, a kind of helpless tenderness from him for a girl caught in her first love.
Somehow, they have spoken, he has found out what she feels for him.
It does not take long before Yusuf asks a question, a feeling-out of whether Zaynab’s hand might be granted.
Ibrahim dismisses the idea. “He has a wife already,” he says.
“Zaynab is in love with him,” I say.
Ibrahim turns his face away. “We do not always get what we want,” he says and my heart sinks at the bitterness in his voice, a bitterness he never had before and for which I hold myself responsible.
“Zaynab could love and be loved,” I say. “At least one of us could.”
He meets my gaze then and I see that his eyes shine with unshed tears. “So be it,” he says. “At least one of us should know what that feels like.”
***
I wait until Yusuf leaves the dining room and heads to bed and I intercept him on the stairs.
“I would speak with you of Zaynab,” I say and I watch his face, see his colour change a little, his eyes narrow on my face.
“You are her mother’s handmaiden,” he says. He does not say what right have you to speak of Zaynab’s marriage, but I see it in his eyes.
“I am her mother’s voice,” I say.
He looks me over and does not reply, but he waits to hear what I have to say.
“Did you speak with Zaynab before you spoke with her father?” I ask and I am close enough that I feel the rush of tenderness when he thinks of speaking with her.
It is not quite love, no. It is something more than simple lust, though.
There is a tightness in him when he thinks of her.
I almost want to reach out and touch him, to feel what he feels better, to bring it into focus so that I can name it.
“I have spoken with her,” he admits.
“She wants to marry you?”
He only nods. Again, the rush, the emotion when he thinks of whatever she said.
She has made her feelings for him known, that much I can be sure of.
Perhaps he found her charming and no more and then she said something.
Few men could feel nothing at all if a beautiful young girl confessed her love for them.
And Zaynab is burning up for him, she would have confessed it passionately, unable to hold herself back and in so doing she has secured this feeling for herself, not quite love but close enough that he considers marriage to her.
“You already have a wife though,” I say and suddenly his feelings change to something so dark that I step back. “You have a wife?” I repeat but this time I am questioning him. From the darkness I have just felt I would not be surprised if he had murdered her.
“She is not a well woman,” he says and his voice is heavy, his shoulders drop. “She became unwell after the birth of our son. She was sunk in sadness, nothing we could do would pull her back.”
I nod. I have seen such women. “She did not recover?” I ask. Usually they do, although with some it may take a long time.
He shakes his head. “We have five sons,” he says. “And none has brought her joy.”
“She should not birth more children,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I no longer lie with her.”
I nod. It is becoming clearer to me. He has a wife in name only.
A wife sunken in sadness, a wife he may not lie with.
He is alone. And here is Zaynab, beautiful as her mother, full of passion and desire, who offers up her love for him like a rare and precious fruit to be plucked at will.
What man could resist? For a moment I think of lovely Imen, so trusting in love and then I put the thought away.
“You will be good to her,” I say. It is not a question.
“I would protect her with my life,” he says and I nod and walk away.
***
“She should be told,” says Djalila stubbornly.
“Let her find out,” I tell her. “What use to burden her with such knowledge?”
“And when she sees the other wife? Then what?”
I shake my head. “There is something wrong with the other wife. She barely stirs from her room. Zaynab will have Yusuf to herself.”
“It is not nothing to live with another wife,” says Djalila. “What would you know of it? It eats away at your soul.”
“Plenty of women manage it,” I tell her sharply. “It is time you grew up, Djalila. How much pain do you intend to bring to Ibrahim’s life?”
Her face goes pale. I curse myself for my lack of control.
She will whip herself again and it will be me who must tend the weals, coax her back to something approaching normality.
I follow her, snapping at servants along the way who have done nothing to deserve my anger.
In my prayers I think of Zaynab and I feel some relief.
Yes, there is another wife but she is ailing in some way.
Zaynab loves Yusuf so greatly that her love will draw him towards her, as it has already done.
What man can resist such devotion, such passion?
He is already filled with tenderness for her and she is too beautiful not to be desired.
It is a short step from tenderness and desire to love; she will make him her own eventually.
At least I have made one person in this family happy and I feel a little of my burden lift.
***
The wedding is rushed. Yusuf needs to return to his people.
Djalila shuts herself up in her rooms and appears only when necessary.
Ibrahim leaves everything to me. And so my memory of those days is of a whirlwind of rituals and robes, of the golden headdress atop Zaynab’s flowing hair, of an endless train of camels ready to leave this place.
Above all of Zaynab’s ecstasy, her happiness so great that the whole house feels it, reels back from its shining force.
***
In the end it is only Ibrahim who is brave enough to tell the truth, when there is no longer a choice to be made.
I see him speak to Zaynab as he bids her farewell and watch her face grow pale.
It is too late, she is lifted into the saddle of her camel and when she turn to look back at us, her still-childish face asking an unspoken question, each of us looks away until she is lost to our sight.
***
In the darkness of the house that night I kneel and beg Allah to care for Zaynab. I have nothing to offer in return, only the misery of this household in return for her happiness.