Upon hearing this, the wandering dervish bowed humbly and gratefully to kiss Baba Zaman’s hand. That is when the master asked that bizarre question: “You say you are ready to deliver all your knowledge to another person. You want to hold the Truth in your palm as if it were a precious pearl and offer it to someone special. But opening up someone’s heart to spiritual light is no small task for a human being. You’re stealing God’s thunder. What are you willing to pay in return?”
For as long as I live, I will never forget the answer the dervish gave then. Raising an eyebrow, he said firmly, “I am willing to give my head.”
I flinched, feeling a cold shiver travel down my spine. When I put my eye to the crack again, I noticed that the master looked shaken by the answer as well.
“Perhaps we have done enough talking for today.” Baba Zaman exhaled a sigh. “You must be tired. Let me call the young novice. He will show you to your bed and provide clean sheets and a glass of milk.”
Now Shams of Tabriz turned toward the door, and I felt down to my bones that he was gazing at me again. More than that. It was as if he were looking through and into me, studying the pits and peaks of my soul, inspecting secrets that were hidden even from me. Perhaps he was involved with black magic or had been trained by Harut and Marut, the two angels of Babylon that the Qur’an warned us against. Or else he possessed supernatural talents that helped him to see through doors and walls. Either way he scared me.
“No need to call the novice,” he said, his voice attaining a higher pitch. “I’ve a feeling he is nearby and has already heard us.”
I let out a gasp so loud it might have woken the dead in their graves. In utter panic I jumped to my feet and scurried into the garden, seeking refuge in the dark. But an unpleasant surprise was awaiting me there.
“So there you are, you little rascal!” yelled the cook as he ran toward me with a broom in his hand. “You are in big trouble, son, big trouble!”
I jumped aside and managed to duck the broom at the last minute.
“Come here or I’ll break your legs!” the cook shouted behind me, puffing.
But I didn’t. Instead I dashed out of the garden as fast as an arrow. While the face of Shams of Tabriz shimmered before my eyes, I ran and ran along the winding trail that connected the lodge to the main road, and even after I had gotten far away, I couldn’t stop running. My heart pounding, my throat dried up, I ran until my knees gave out and I could run no more.
Ella
NORTHAMPTON, MAY 21, 2008
Braced for a quarrel, David came home early the next morning, only to find Ella asleep in bed with Sweet Blasphemy open on her lap and an empty glass of wine by her side. He took a step toward her to pull her blanket up a little and make sure she was snugly covered, but then he changed his mind.
Ten minutes later, Ella woke up. She wasn’t surprised to hear him in the bathroom taking a shower. Her husband could flirt with other women, and apparently even spend the night with them, but he would rather not take his morning shower anywhere other than his own bathroom. When David finished and walked back through the room, Ella pretended to be asleep, thus saving him from having to explain his absence.
Less than an hour later, both her husband and the kids had left, and Ella was in the kitchen alone. Life seemed to have resumed its regular course. She opened her favorite cookbook, Culinary Artistry Made Plain and Easy, and after considering several options chose a fairly demanding menu that would keep her busy all afternoon:
Clam Chowder with Saffron, Coconut, and Oranges
Pasta Baked with Mushrooms, Fresh Herbs, and Five Cheeses
Rosemary-Infused Veal Spareribs with Vinegar and Roasted Garlic
Lime-Bathed Green Bean and Cauliflower Salad
Then she decided on a dessert: Warm Chocolate Soufflé.
There were many reasons that Ella liked cooking. Creating a delicious meal out of ordinary ingredients was not only gratifying and fulfilling but also strangely sensual. But more than that, she enjoyed cooking because it was something she was really good at. Besides, it quieted her mind. The kitchen was the one place in her life where she could avoid the outside world altogether and stop the flow of time within herself. For some people sex might have the same effect, she imagined, but that always required two, whereas to cook all one needed was time, care, and a bag of groceries.
People who cooked on TV programs made it sound as if cooking was about inspiration, originality, and creativity. Their favorite word was “experimenting.” Ella disagreed. Why not leave experimenting to scientists and quirkiness to artists! Cooking was about learning the basics, following the instructions, and being respectful of the wisdom of ages. All you had to do was use time-honored traditions, not experiment with them. Cooking skills came from customs and conventions, and although it was clear that the modern age belittled such things, there was nothing wrong with being traditional in the kitchen.