and Iâm appalled.
I undertook this journey for the noblest of reasons, concerned about the survival of the universe and the reactions of my fellow-mortals to the dramatic events now being foretold. And because of that woman I find myself embroiled in the filthy byways beloved of the vilest of men. Jealousies, intrigues, petty tricks â when the whole world might be annihilated tomorrow!
Sheikh Abdel-Bassit was right. What is the good of travelling all over the world just to see what is inside me already?
I must pull myself together! I must get my original inspiration back, and dip my pen only in the most venerable ink, even if it is also the bitterest.
2 September
We often speak of sea-sickness, but rarely of riding-sickness, as if it was less degrading to suffer on the deck of a ship than on the back of a mule, a camel or a nag.
But riding-sickness is what Iâve been suffering from for the last three days, though I havenât got to the point of deciding to interrupt the journey. However, I havenât written much.
Yesterday evening we reached the little town of Maarra, and it was only in the shelter of its half-ruined walls that I felt myself come alive again and got my appetite back.
This morning, as I was sauntering through the shopping streets, something very strange happened. The local booksellers had never seen me before, so I could question them freely about The Hundredth Name. All I met with were expressions of ignorance â whether genuine or feigned, I couldnât say. But by the last booth, next to the main mosque, just as I was about to turn back, a very old seller of secondhand books, whom I hadnât yet spoken to, came up to me, bare-headed, and handed me a book. I opened it at random and, following an impulse I still canât explain, began to read aloud the lines my eyes first fell upon:
They say Time is soon to die
That the days are short of breath
They lie.
The author of the book is Abu-l-Ala, the blind poet of Maarra. Why did the old man put it into my hands? Why did it open just at that page? And what made me read aloud from it like that, right out in the street?
Is it a sign? But what sort of a sign is it that refutes all other signs?
I bought the old manâs book. No doubt it will be the least unreasonable of my travelling companions.
Aleppo, 6 September
We got here yesterday evening, and had to spend all today haggling with a sly and greedy caravaneer. He claimed, among countless other tricks, that the presence in the party of a wealthy Genoese merchant and his wife meant he had to take on three more men to strengthen the escort. I said we were four men to one woman, and could defend ourselves against bandits if necessary. He looked us over meaningly, raising an eyebrow at the puny shanks of my nephews, the mild demeanour of my clerk, and especially my own prosperous paunch. Then he gave a disagreeable laugh. I felt like turning on my heel and applying to someone else, but I restrained myself. I hadnât much choice. Iâd have had to wait a week or two and risk running into the first winter cold of Anatolia, and even then I might not find a more amiable guide. So I swallowed my pride and pretended to share the joke, tapping my belly and holding out the thirty-two piastres he was asking for â the equivalent of 2,500 maidins, no less!
Weighing the coins in his hand, he tried to make me promise that if we all arrived at our destination safe and sound, together with our merchandise, Iâd pay him something extra. I reminded him that we had no merchandise, only our personal effects and our provisions. But I still had to undertake to show my gratitude if the whole journey passed off without incident.
We leave at dawn the day after tomorrow, Tuesday. If God wills, we should reach Constantinople in about forty days.
Monday, 7 September
After the tribulations of the journey so far, and before those yet to come, Iâd been hoping for a quiet day,
I undertook this journey for the noblest of reasons, concerned about the survival of the universe and the reactions of my fellow-mortals to the dramatic events now being foretold. And because of that woman I find myself embroiled in the filthy byways beloved of the vilest of men. Jealousies, intrigues, petty tricks â when the whole world might be annihilated tomorrow!
Sheikh Abdel-Bassit was right. What is the good of travelling all over the world just to see what is inside me already?
I must pull myself together! I must get my original inspiration back, and dip my pen only in the most venerable ink, even if it is also the bitterest.
2 September
We often speak of sea-sickness, but rarely of riding-sickness, as if it was less degrading to suffer on the deck of a ship than on the back of a mule, a camel or a nag.
But riding-sickness is what Iâve been suffering from for the last three days, though I havenât got to the point of deciding to interrupt the journey. However, I havenât written much.
Yesterday evening we reached the little town of Maarra, and it was only in the shelter of its half-ruined walls that I felt myself come alive again and got my appetite back.
This morning, as I was sauntering through the shopping streets, something very strange happened. The local booksellers had never seen me before, so I could question them freely about The Hundredth Name. All I met with were expressions of ignorance â whether genuine or feigned, I couldnât say. But by the last booth, next to the main mosque, just as I was about to turn back, a very old seller of secondhand books, whom I hadnât yet spoken to, came up to me, bare-headed, and handed me a book. I opened it at random and, following an impulse I still canât explain, began to read aloud the lines my eyes first fell upon:
They say Time is soon to die
That the days are short of breath
They lie.
The author of the book is Abu-l-Ala, the blind poet of Maarra. Why did the old man put it into my hands? Why did it open just at that page? And what made me read aloud from it like that, right out in the street?
Is it a sign? But what sort of a sign is it that refutes all other signs?
I bought the old manâs book. No doubt it will be the least unreasonable of my travelling companions.
Aleppo, 6 September
We got here yesterday evening, and had to spend all today haggling with a sly and greedy caravaneer. He claimed, among countless other tricks, that the presence in the party of a wealthy Genoese merchant and his wife meant he had to take on three more men to strengthen the escort. I said we were four men to one woman, and could defend ourselves against bandits if necessary. He looked us over meaningly, raising an eyebrow at the puny shanks of my nephews, the mild demeanour of my clerk, and especially my own prosperous paunch. Then he gave a disagreeable laugh. I felt like turning on my heel and applying to someone else, but I restrained myself. I hadnât much choice. Iâd have had to wait a week or two and risk running into the first winter cold of Anatolia, and even then I might not find a more amiable guide. So I swallowed my pride and pretended to share the joke, tapping my belly and holding out the thirty-two piastres he was asking for â the equivalent of 2,500 maidins, no less!
Weighing the coins in his hand, he tried to make me promise that if we all arrived at our destination safe and sound, together with our merchandise, Iâd pay him something extra. I reminded him that we had no merchandise, only our personal effects and our provisions. But I still had to undertake to show my gratitude if the whole journey passed off without incident.
We leave at dawn the day after tomorrow, Tuesday. If God wills, we should reach Constantinople in about forty days.
Monday, 7 September
After the tribulations of the journey so far, and before those yet to come, Iâd been hoping for a quiet day,
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