I gasped. I knew it wasn’t proper for a girl to ask too many questions on such matters, but I was dying to learn more. “And what did you say, Master?”
“I told him I would have to ask you first,” Rumi said.
“Master …” I said, my voice trailing off. “I came here to tell you I want to marry Shams of Tabriz.”
Rumi gave me a look that bordered on disbelief. “Are you sure about this?”
“It could be good in many ways,” I said, as inside me the need to say more wrestled with the regret of having said too much. “Shams would be part of our family, and he wouldn’t ever have to leave again.”
“So is that why you want to marry him? To help him stay here?” asked Rumi.
“No,” I said. “I mean, yes, but that’s not all.… I believe Shams is my destiny.”
This was as close as I could get to confessing to anyone that I loved Shams of Tabriz.
The first to hear about the marriage was Kerra. In stunned silence she greeted the news with a broken smile, but as soon as we were alone in the house, she started to ask me questions. “Are you sure this is what you want to do? You are not doing this to help Rumi, are you?” she said. “You are so young! Don’t you think you should marry someone closer to your own age?”
“Shams says in love all boundaries are blurred,” I told her.
Kerra sighed loudly. “My child, I wish things were that simple,” she remarked, tucking a lock of gray hair into her scarf. “Shams is a wandering dervish, an unruly man. Men like him aren’t used to domestic life, and they don’t make good husbands.”
“That’s all right, he can change,” I concluded firmly. “I will give him so much love and happiness he will have to change. He will learn how to be a good husband and a good father.”
That was the end of our talk. Whatever it was that she saw on my face, Kerra had no more objections to raise.
I slept peacefully that night, feeling exultant and determined. Little did I know that I was making the most common and the most painful mistake women have made all throughout the ages: to naïvely think that with their love they can change the men they love.
Kerra
KONYA, MAY 1247
Broaching a subject as deep and delicate as love is like trying to capture a gusty wind. You can feel the harm the wind is about to cause, but there is no way to slow it down. After a while I didn’t ask Kimya any other questions, not because I was convinced by her answers but because I saw in her eyes a woman in love. I stopped questioning this marriage, accepting it as one of those odd things in life I had no control over.
The month of Ramadan went by so fast and busy, I didn’t have time to dwell on this matter again. Eid fell on Sunday. Four days later we married Kimya to Shams.
The evening before the wedding, something happened that changed my entire mood. I was alone in the kitchen, sitting in front of a floured board and a rolling pin, preparing flatbread for the guests. All of a sudden, without thinking what I was doing, I started molding a shape out of a ball of dough. I sculpted a small, soft Mother Mary. My Mother Mary. With the help of a knife, I carved her long robe and her face, calm and compassionate. So absorbed was I in this that I didn’t notice someone standing behind me.
“What is it that you are making, Kerra?”
My heart jumped inside my chest. When I turned around, I saw Shams standing by the door, watching me with inquisitive eyes. It occurred to me to hide the dough, but it was too late. Shams approached the tray and looked at the figure.
“Is that Mary?” he asked, and when I didn’t answer, he turned to me with a beaming countenance. “Why, she is beautiful. Do you miss Mary?”
“I converted long ago. I am a Muslim woman,” I answered curtly.
But Shams continued to talk as if he hadn’t heard me. “Perhaps you wonder why Islam doesn’t have a female figure like Mary. There is Aisha, for sure, and certainly Fatima, but you might think it is not the same.”
I felt uneasy, not knowing what to say.
“May I tell you a story?” Shams asked.
And this is what he told me:
Once there were four travelers, a Greek, an Arab, a Persian, and a Turk. Upon reaching a small town, they decided to get something to eat. As they had limited money they had only one choice to make. Each said he had the best food in the world in mind. When asked what that was, the Persian answered “angoor,” the Greek said “staphalion,” the Arab asked for “aneb,” and the Turk demanded “üzüm.” Unable to understand one another’s language, they began to argue.
They kept quarreling among themselves, feeling more resentful and bitter with every passing minute, until a Sufi who happened to pass by interrupted them. With the money collected the Sufi bought a bunch of grapes. He then put the grapes in a container and pressed hard. He made the travelers drink the juice and threw away the skin, because what mattered was the essence of the fruit, not its outer form.