I moved my king on the chessboard. Francis’s eyes flew open as he detected the fatal position. But in chess, just as in life, there were moves that you made for the sake of winning and there were moves you made because they were the right thing to do.
“Please come with me,” implored Sultan Walad, interrupting my thoughts. “The people who gossiped about you and treated you badly are remorseful. Everything will be better this time, I promise.”
My boy, you can’t make such promises, I wanted to tell him. Nobody can!
But instead I nodded and said, “I would like to watch the sunset in Damascus one more time. Tomorrow we can leave for Konya.”
“Really? Thank you!” Sultan Walad beamed with relief. “You don’t know how much this will mean to my father.”
I then turned to Francis, who was patiently waiting for me to return to the game. When he had my full attention, an impish smile crept along his mouth.
“Watch out, my friend,” he said, his voice triumphant. “Checkmate.”
Kimya
KONYA, MAY 1247
Bearing a mysterious gaze in his eyes and a distance in his demeanor that he’d never had before, Shams of Tabriz came back into my life. He seems to have changed a lot. His hair long enough to fall into his eyes, his skin tanned under the Damascus sun, he looks younger and more handsome. But there is something else in him, a change I cannot quite put my finger on. As bright and reckless as ever his black eyes might be, there is now a new glimmer to them. I can’t help suspecting he has the eyes of a man who has seen it all and doesn’t want to struggle anymore.
But I think a deeper transformation has been taking place in Rumi. I had thought all his worries would diminish when Shams came back, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. On the day Shams returned, Rumi greeted him outside the city walls with flowers. But when the joy of the first days somewhat abated, Rumi became even more anxious and withdrawn than before. I think I know the reason. Having lost Shams once, he is afraid of losing him again. I can understand as no one else can, because I, too, am afraid of losing him.
The only person I share my feelings with is Gevher, Rumi’s late wife. Well, she is not technically a person, but I don’t call her a ghost either. Less dreamy and distant than most of the ghosts I have known, she has been moving like a slow flow of water around me ever since I came to this house. Although we converse about everything, lately there is only one topic between us: Shams.
“Rumi looks so distressed. I wish I could help him,” I said to Gevher today.
“Perhaps you could. There is something occupying his mind these days, but he hasn’t shared it with anyone yet,” Gevher said mysteriously.
“What is it?” I inquired.
“Rumi thinks if Shams gets married and starts a family, the townspeople would be less set against him. There would be less gossip, and Shams would not have to leave again.”
My heart skipped a beat. Shams getting married! But to whom?
Gevher gave me a sidelong look and said, “Rumi has been wondering if you would like to marry Shams.”
I was stunned. Not that this was the first time the thought of marriage had crossed my mind. Now fifteen, I knew I had reached the age to marry, but I also knew that girls who got married changed forever. A new gaze came to their eyes, and they took on a new demeanor, to such an extent that people started to treat them differently. Even little children could tell the difference between a married woman and an unmarried one.
Gevher smiled tenderly and held my hand. She had noticed that it was the getting-married part that worried me, not getting married to Shams.
The next day, in the afternoon, I went to see Rumi and found him immersed in a book titled Tahafut al-Tahafut.
“Tell me, Kimya,” he said lovingly, “what can I do for you?”
“When my father brought me to you, you had told him that a girl would not make as good a student as a boy because she would have to marry and raise her children, do you remember that?”
“Of course, I remember,” he answered, his hazel eyes filled with curiosity.
“That day I promised myself never to get married, so that I could remain your student forever,” I said, my voice dwindling under the weight of what I was planning to say next. “But perhaps it is possible to get married and not have to leave this house. I mean, if I get married to someone who lives here …”
“Are you telling me you want to marry Aladdin?” Rumi asked.
“Aladdin?” I repeated in shock. But what made him think I wanted to marry Aladdin? He was like a brother to me.
Rumi must have detected my surprise. “Some time ago Aladdin came to me and asked for your hand,” he said.