Forty Rules of Love(53)

My father stepped in. “I’m sure she didn’t mean ill, Master. I can assure you Kimya is a serious child. She never disrespects her elders.”

I realized I had to tell the truth. “Your late wife is here. She is holding my hand and encouraging me to speak. She has dark brown almond eyes, pretty freckles, and she wears a long yellow robe.… ”

I paused as I noticed the young woman gesture to her slippers. “She wants me to tell you about her slippers. They are made of bright orange silk and embroidered with small red flowers. They are very pretty.”

“I brought her those slippers from Damascus,” Rumi said, his eyes filling with tears. “She loved them.”

Upon saying that, the scholar lapsed into silence, scratching his beard, his expression solemn and distant. But when he spoke again, his voice was gentle and friendly, without a trace of gloom.

“Now I understand why everyone thinks your daughter is gifted,” Rumi said to my father. “Let’s go to my house. We can talk about her future over dinner. I’m sure she’ll make an excellent student. Better than many boys.”

Rumi then turned to me and asked, “Will you tell this to Gevher?”

“There is no need, Master. She has heard you,” I said. “She says she needs to go now. But she is always watching you with love.”

Rumi smiled warmly. So did my father. There was now an easiness hanging in the air that hadn’t been there before. At that moment, I knew my encounter with Rumi was going to have far-reaching consequences. I had never been close to my mother, but as if to compensate for her lack, God was giving me two fathers, my real father and my adopted father.

That is how I arrived in Rumi’s house eight years ago, a timid child hungry for knowledge. Kerra was loving and compassionate, more so than my own mother, and Rumi’s sons were welcoming, especially his elder son, who in time became a big brother to me.

In the end the hermit was right. As much as I missed my father and siblings, there hasn’t been a single moment when I regretted coming to Konya and joining Rumi’s family. I spent many happy days under this roof.

That is, until Shams of Tabriz came. His presence changed everything.





Ella





NORTHAMPTON, JUNE 9, 2008

Being one who had never enjoyed solitude, Ella found she preferred it lately. Immersed in putting the final touches to her editorial report on Sweet Blasphemy, she had asked Michelle for another week to turn it in. She could have finished earlier, but she did not want to. The task gave her an excuse to retreat into her mind and shun family duties and long-awaited marital confrontations. This week, for the first time, she skipped the Fusion Cooking Club, unwilling to cook and chat with fifteen women who had similar lives at a time when she wasn’t sure what to do with hers. She called in sick at the last minute.

Ella treated her communication with Aziz as a secret, of which suddenly she had way too many. Aziz didn’t know she was not only reading his novel but also writing a report on it; the literary agency didn’t know she was secretly flirting with the author of the book she was assigned to report on; and her children and husband did not know anything regarding what the novel was about, the author, or the flirtation. In the span of a few weeks, she had converted from a woman whose life was as transparent as the skin of a newborn baby into a woman wallowing in secrets and lies. What surprised her even more than this change was seeing that it did not disturb her in the least. It was as if she were waiting, confidently and patiently, for something momentous to happen. This irrational expectation was part of the charm of her new mood, for despite all the secrets, charming it was.

By this time e-mails weren’t enough. It was Ella who first called Aziz. Now, despite the five-hour time difference, they talked on the phone almost every day. Aziz had told her that her voice was soft and fragile. When she laughed, her laughter came in ripples, punctuated by short gasps, as if she weren’t sure how much more to laugh. It was the laughter of a woman who had never learned not to pay too much attention to the judgments of others.

“Just go with the flow,” he said. “Let go!”

But the flow around her was unsteady and disruptive as several things were happening in her house at this time. Avi had started taking private classes in mathematics, and Orly was now seeing a counselor for her eating disorder. This morning she had eaten half an omelet—her first substantial food in months—and though she had instantly inquired how many calories there were in it, it was a small miracle that she hadn’t felt guilty and punished herself by throwing up afterward. Meanwhile Jeannette had set off a bombshell by announcing her breakup with Scott. She had offered no explanation other than the fact that they both needed space. Ella wondered if “space” was a code for a new love, given that neither Jeannette nor Scott had lost any time in finding someone new.