I spent the whole day struggling with these thoughts while having to watch the preparations. The house was spruced up, and the bedroom where the newlyweds would sleep was cleansed with rosewater to ward off evil spirits. But they forgot the biggest evil! How were they going to fend off Shams?
By late afternoon I couldn’t stand it anymore. Determined not to be part of a celebration that meant only torture for me, I headed for the door.
“Aladdin, wait! Where are you going?” My brother’s voice came from behind me, loud and sharp.
“I am going to stay at Irshad’s house tonight,” I said without looking at him.
“Have you gone crazy? How can you not stay for the wedding? If our father hears this it will break his heart.”
I could feel rage rising from the pit of my stomach. “How about the hearts our father is breaking?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you get it? Our father arranged this marriage just to please Shams and make sure he doesn’t run away again! He offered Kimya to him on a silver tray.”
My brother pursed his lips, looking hurt. “I know what you are thinking, but you are wrong. You think this is a forced marriage,” he said, “whereas it was Kimya who wanted to marry Shams.”
“As if she had a choice in the matter,” I snapped.
“Oh, God! Don’t you understand?” my brother exclaimed, lifting both palms up as though asking help from God. “She is in love with Shams.”
“Don’t say that again. That is not true.” My voice cracked like thawing ice.
“My brother,” Sultan Walad said, “please don’t let your feelings veil your eyes. You are jealous. But even jealousy can be used in a constructive way and serve a higher purpose. Even disbelief can be positive. It is one of the rules. Rule Number Thirty-five: In this world, it is not similarities or regularities that take us a step forward, but blunt opposites. And all the opposites in the universe are present within each and every one of us. Therefore the believer needs to meet the unbeliever residing within. And the nonbeliever should get to know the silent faithful in him. Until the day one reaches the stage of Insan-i Kâmil, the perfect human being, faith is a gradual process and one that necessitates its seeming opposite: disbelief.
That was the last straw for me.
“Look here, I’m sick of all this syrupy Sufi talk. Besides, why should I listen to you? It’s all your fault! You could have left Shams in Damascus. Why did you bring him back? If things get messy, and I am sure they will, you are the one who is responsible.”
My brother gnawed the insides of his mouth with a look that verged on fearfulness. I realized in that instant that for the first time in our lives he was frightened of me and the things I was capable of doing. It was a bizarre feeling, but strangely comforting.
As I walked to Irshad’s house, taking the side streets that reeked of foul smells so that nobody would see me cry, I could think of only one thing: Shams and Kimya sharing the same bed. The thought of him taking her wedding dress off and touching her milky skin with his rough, ugly hands was revolting. My stomach was tied in knots.
I knew that a line had been crossed. Somebody had to do something.
Kimya
KONYA, DECEMBER 1247
Bride and groom—that is what we were supposed to be. It has been seven months since we got married. All this time he hasn’t slept with me as my husband even once. Hard as I try to hide the truth from people, I can’t help suspecting they know it. Sometimes I fear that my shame is visible on my face. Like writing on my forehead, it is the first thing that anyone who looks at me notices. While I am talking to neighbors on the street, working in the orchards, or bartering with the vendors in the bazaar, it takes people, even strangers, only a glance to see that I am a married woman but still a virgin.
Not that Shams never comes to my room. He does. Each time he wants to visit me in the evening, he asks me beforehand if it is all right. And each time I give the same answer.
“Of course it is,” I say. “You are my husband.”
Then all day long I wait for him with bated breath, hoping and praying that this time our marriage will be consummated. But when he finally knocks on my door, all he wants to do is sit and talk. He also enjoys reading together. We have read Layla and Majnun, Farhad and Shirin, Yusuf and Zuleikha, The Rose and the Nightingale—stories of lovers who have loved each other against all odds. Despite the strength and determination of their main characters, I find these stories depressing. Perhaps it is because deep inside I know that I will never taste love of such proportions.
When not reading stories, Shams talks about the Forty Rules of the Itinerant Mystics of Islam—the basic principles of the religion of love. Once he put his head on my lap as he was explaining a rule. He slowly closed his eyes, and as his voice trailed off into a whisper, he fell asleep. My fingers combed through his long hair, and my lips kissed his forehead. It seemed an eternity before he opened his eyes. Pulling me down toward himself, he kissed me softly. It was the most blissful moment we ever had together. But that was it. To this day his body is an unknown continent to me, as is my body to him.