“Rule Number One,” she murmured. “Stop looking for love! Stop running after impossible dreams! There are surely more important things in life for a married woman about to be forty.”
But her own joke produced an obscure discomfort in Ella, reminding her of bigger worries. Unable to hold herself back anymore, she gave her elder daughter a call. She got her answering machine.
“Jeannette, dear, I know it was wrong of me to call Scott. But my intentions weren’t bad. I just wanted to make sure …”
She paused, deeply regretting not planning this message in advance. She could hear the soft rustle of the answering machine recording in the background. It made her nervous to think that the tape was rolling and time was running short.
“Jeannette, I’m sorry for the things I do. I know I shouldn’t complain when I’m so blessed. But it’s just that I’m so … unhappy—”
Click. The answering machine came to a stop. Ella’s heart constricted with the shock of what she’d just said. What had come over her? She hadn’t known she was unhappy. Was it possible to be depressed and not know it? Oddly enough, she didn’t feel unhappy about confessing her unhappiness. She hadn’t been feeling much of anything lately.
Her gaze slid to the piece of paper on which she’d written Aziz Z. Zahara’s e-mail address. The address looked simple, unpretentious, and somehow inviting. Without giving it much thought, she went to her computer and started composing an e-mail:
Dear Aziz Z. Zahara,
My name is Ella. I am reading your novel Sweet Blasphemy in my capacity as a reader for the literary agency. I have only just begun, and I am enjoying it immensely. This, however, is my personal opinion and is not reflective of the views of my boss. Whether I like your novel or not, I have barely any influence on the final decision as to whether we will take you on as a client.
It seems like you believe that love is the essence of life and that nothing else matters. It’s not my intention to get into a fruitless debate with you on this matter. Suffice it to say that I do not completely agree. But this is not why I am writing to you.
I am writing because the “timing” of my reading Sweet Blasphemy couldn’t have been more bizarre. Currently I am trying to persuade my elder daughter not to marry so young. The day before, I asked her boyfriend to call off their marriage plans. Now my daughter hates me and refuses to talk to me. I have a feeling you two would get along well, as you seem to have very similar views on love.
I am sorry to pour my personal problems out to you. That wasn’t my intention. Your personal blog (that is where I found your e-mail address) says you are in Guatemala. Traveling around the world must be quite a thrill. If you happen to come to Boston, perhaps we could meet in person and talk over a cup of coffee.
Best wishes,
Ella
Her first e-mail to Aziz was not a letter so much as an invitation, a cry for help. But Ella had no way of knowing this as she sat in the silence of her kitchen and composed a note to an unknown writer she didn’t expect to meet now or at any time in the future.
The Master
BAGHDAD, APRIL 1242
Baghdad took no note of the arrival of Shams of Tabriz, but I will never forget the day he came to our modest dervish lodge. We had important guests that afternoon. The high judge had dropped by with a group of his men, and I suspected there was more than cordiality behind his visit. Renowned for his dislike of Sufism, the judge wanted to remind me that he kept an eye on us, just as he kept an eye on all the Sufis in the area.
The judge was an ambitious man. He had a broad face, a sagging belly, and short, stubby fingers, each with a precious ring. He had to stop eating so much, but I suspected that nobody had the courage to tell him, not even his doctor. Coming from a long line of religious scholars, he was one of the most influential men in the area. With one ruling he could send a man to the gallows, or he could just as easily pardon a convict’s crimes, lifting him up from the darkest dungeons. Always dressed in fur coats and expensive garments, he carried himself with the grandeur of someone who was sure of his authority. I did not approve of his big ego, but for the well-being of our lodge I did my best to remain on good terms with this man of influence.
“We live in the most magnificent city in the world,” the judge pronounced as he popped a fig into his mouth. “Today Baghdad overflows with refugees running away from the Mongol army. We provide them safe haven. This is the center of the world, don’t you think, Baba Zaman?”
“This city is a gem, no doubt,” I said carefully. “But let us not forget that cities are like human beings. They are born, they go through childhood and adolescence, they grow old, and eventually they die. At this moment in time, Baghdad is in its late youth. We are not as wealthy as we used to be at the time of Caliph Harun ar-Rashid, though we can still take a measure of pride in being a center of trade, crafts, and poetry. But who knows what the city will look like a thousand years from now? Everything might be different.”