I wasn’t sure I was following him correctly, but somehow this explanation made perfect sense to my addled mind. I had always suspected that these Sufis were a crazy, colorful bunch capable of all kinds of eccentricities.
Now it was Rumi’s turn to lean forward and ask in the same whispery tone, “Would it be terribly rude if I asked you how you got that scar on your face?”
“It’s not a very interesting story, I’m afraid,” I said. “I was walking home late at night, and I bumped into this security guard who beat the crap out of me.”
“But why?” asked Rumi, looking genuinely concerned.
“Because I had drunk wine,” I said, pointing to the bottle that Hristos had just placed in front of Rumi.
Rumi shook his head. At first he seemed entirely befuddled, as if he didn’t believe that such things could happen, but soon his lips twisted into a friendly smile. And just like that, we continued to talk. Over bread and goat cheese, we conversed about faith and friendship and other things in life that I thought I had long forgotten but was now delighted to rake up from my heart.
Shortly after sunset Rumi rose to leave. Everyone in the tavern stood to bid him farewell. It was quite a scene.
“You cannot leave without telling us why wine has been forbidden,” I said.
Hristos ran to my side with a frown, worried that my question might annoy his prestigious customer. “Hush, Suleiman. Why do you have to ask such things?”
“No, seriously,” I insisted, staring at Rumi. “You have seen us. We are not evil people, but that is what they say about us all the time. You tell me, what is so wrong with drinking wine, provided we behave ourselves and don’t harm anyone?”
Despite an open window in the corner, the air inside the tavern had become musty and smoky, and suffused with anticipation. I could see that everyone was curious to hear the answer. Pensive, kind, sober, Rumi walked toward me, and here is what he said:
“If the wine drinker
Has a deep gentleness in him,
He will show that,
When drunk.
But if he has hidden anger and arrogance,
Those appear,
And since most people do,
Wine is forbidden to everyone.”
There was a brief lull as we all contemplated these words.
“My friends, wine is not an innocent drink,” Rumi addressed us in a renewed voice, so commanding and yet so composed and solid, “because it brings out the worst in us. I believe it is better for us to abstain from drinking. That said, we cannot blame alcohol for what we are responsible for. It is our own arrogance and anger that we should be working on. That is more urgent. At the end of the day whoever wants to drink will drink and whoever wants to stay away from wine will stay away. We have no right to impose our ways on others. There is no compulsion in religion.”
This elicited heartened nods from some customers. I, for my part, preferred to raise my glass in my belief that no piece of wisdom should go untoasted.
“You are a good man with a great heart,” I said. “No matter what people say about what you did today, and I’m sure they are going to say plenty, I think as a preacher it was very brave of you to come to the tavern and talk with us without judgment.”
Rumi gave me a friendly look. Then he grabbed the wine bottles he had left untouched and walked out into the evening breeze.
Aladdin
KONYA, FEBRUARY 1246
Besieged with anticipation, for the last three weeks I have been waiting to find the right moment to ask my father for Kimya’s hand in marriage. I have spent many hours talking to him in my imagination, rephrasing the same sentences over and over, searching for a better way of expressing myself. I had an answer ready for every possible objection he could come up with. If he said that Kimya and I were like sister and brother, I would remind him that we were not bound by blood. Knowing how much my father loved Kimya, I was also planning to say that if he let us get married, she would not have to go and live anywhere else and could stay with us all her life. I had everything worked out in my mind, except I couldn’t find a moment alone with my father.
But then this evening I ran into him in the worst way possible. I was about to leave the house to meet with my friends when the door creaked open and in walked my father holding a bottle in each hand.
I stood still, agape. “Father, what is it that you are carrying?” I asked.
“Oh, that!” my father responded without the slightest trace of embarrassment. “It’s wine, my son.”
“Is that so?” I exclaimed. “Is this what has become of the great Mawlana? An old man blasted on wine?”
“Watch your tongue,” came a sulky voice from behind me.