In the first year of our marriage, I used to sneak into Rumi’s library at every opportunity. I would sit there amid the books he loved so much, breathing in their dusty, moldy smells, wondering what mysteries they hid inside. I knew how much Rumi adored his books, most of which had been handed down to him by his late father, Baha’ al-Din. Of those, he was particularly fond of the Ma’arif. Many nights he would stay awake until dawn reading it, although I suspected he knew the whole text by heart.
“Even if they paid me sacks of gold, I would never exchange my father’s books,” Rumi used to say. “Each of these books is a priceless legacy from my ancestors. I took them from my father, and I will pass them on to my sons.”
I learned the hard way just how much his books meant to him. Still in our first year of marriage, while I was alone at home one day, it occurred to me to dust the library. I took out all the books from the shelves and wiped their covers with a piece of velvet dabbed in rosewater. The locals believe that there is a kind of juvenile djinn by the name of Kebikec who takes a twisted pleasure in destroying books. In order to ward him off, it is the custom to write a note of warning inside each book: “Stand thou still, Kebikec, stay away from this book!” How was I to know that it wasn’t only Kebikec who was supposed to stay away from my husband’s books, but me as well?
That afternoon I dusted and cleaned every book in the library. As I kept working, I read from Ghazzali’s Vivification of the Religious Sciences. Only when I heard a dry, distant voice behind me did I realize how much time I had spent there.
“Kerra, what do you think you are doing here?”
It was Rumi, or someone who resembled him—the voice was harsher in tone, sterner in expression. In all our eight years of marriage, that was the only time he’d spoken to me like that.
“I am cleaning,” I muttered, my voice weak. “I wanted to make it a surprise.”
Rumi responded, “I understand, but please do not touch my books again. In fact, I’d rather you did not enter this room at all.”
After that day I stayed away from the library even when there was no one at home. I understood and accepted that the world of books was not and never had been, nor ever would be, for me.
But when Shams of Tabriz came to our house, and he and my husband locked themselves in the library for forty days, I felt an old resentment boil up inside me. A wound that I didn’t even know I had began to bleed.
Kimya
KONYA, DECEMBER 20, 1244
Born to simple peasants in a valley by the Taurus Mountains, I was twelve the year Rumi adopted me. My real parents were people who worked hard and aged before their time. We lived in a small house, and my sister and I shared the same room with the ghosts of our dead siblings, five children all lost to simple diseases. I was the only one in the house who could see the ghosts. It frightened my sister and made my mother cry each time I mentioned what the little spirits were doing. I tried to explain, to no avail, that they didn’t need to be frightened or worried, since none of my dead siblings looked scary or unhappy. This I could never make my family understand.
One day a hermit passed by our village. Seeing how exhausted he was, my father invited him to spend the night in our house. That evening, as we all sat by the fireplace and grilled goat cheese, the hermit told us enchanting stories from faraway lands. While his voice droned on, I closed my eyes, traveling with him to the deserts of Arabia, Bedouin tents in North Africa, and a sea of the bluest water, called the Mediterranean. I found a seashell there on the beach, big and coiled, and put it in my pocket. I was planning to walk the beach from one end to the other, but a sharp, repulsive smell stopped me midway.
When I opened my eyes, I found myself lying on the floor with everyone in the house around me, looking worried. My mother was holding my head with one hand, and in her other hand was half an onion, which she was forcing me to smell.
“She is back!” My sister clapped her hands with glee.
“Thank God!” My mother heaved a sigh. Then she turned to the hermit, explaining, “Ever since she was a little girl, Kimya has been having fainting spells. It happens all the time.”
In the morning the hermit thanked us for our hospitality and bade us farewell.
Before he left, however, he said to my father, “Your daughter Kimya is an unusual child. She is very gifted. It would be a pity if such gifts went unappreciated. You should send her to a school—”
“What would a girl need an education for?” my mother exclaimed. “Where did you hear such a thing? She should stay by my side and weave carpets until she gets married. She’s a talented carpet weaver, you know.”