water!"
A boy stood by them with a large brass urn strapped to his shoulder. He had been listening to the voice of a teller of tales seated in front of a fruit shop. Now he turned and drew a china cup from his girdle. Tilting the urn, he filled the cup and handed it to Omar who drank gratefully. When the cup had been filled a second time he poured water over his fingers and wiped them on a cloth the boy offered him.
"In the name of God," the boy muttered.
Omar gave him a small coin and the kebab seller exclaimed aloud upon the greed of the water sellers who would not quench a believer's thirst without money.
"And what of a believer's hunger?" asked Omar, amused.
"Oho, find me a man who will give me a sheep for alms—ay, and charcoal for the fire, and a boy to turn the irons, then could I give meat with an open hand." He wagged his head sagely. "But perhaps thou art a pilgrim, going to the shrine at Meshed?" Feeling for the three copper coins, he hesitated. The young student looked like an Arab of both pride and temper, but he wore a single camel-hair abba and he carried a small woven saddle bag. None the less, his words——
"I know not," said Omar, "whither I go."
He was content to feel himself part of the throng passing through the alley of the sweetmeat sellers to the entrance of the adjoining mosque. It being the eve of Friday, many were on their way to pray.
The heat of the sun had left the alley. Half-naked boys with waterskins sprinkled the dust. The voice of the blind teller of tales rose above the shuffling of slippered feet—something about lovers who sickened when they were snatched from their enchanted garden.
A slender figure paused before Omar, and moved on more slowly. He looked up into a girl's dark eyes, above the folds of a veil. There was something familiar about the slant of the eyes at the corners, and a brown curl that escaped the veil. Omar started, thinking of Zoë. Hastily he got to his feet with his package of papers and books, and followed the girl who had looked back.
The kebab seller loosed his coins with a sigh of relief. "He is no pilgrim," he muttered, and then aloud, " Ahai , who hungers? Who would have clean meat, no gristle or leavings? Here are kebabs! "
The distant voice of the caller-to-prayer floated down from the minaret. "Come to prayer. Come to prayer ... to the house of praise. . . . there is no God but God . . ."
Kneeling and rising and kneeling again, Omar went through the familiar motions. Lights glimmered from the glass sconces just over his head, and a strange echo came down from the roof of the mosque. All about him garments rustled and voices murmured in unison.
When he rose to go out with the crowd, his eyes searched the group of women. The girl of the blue head veil was behind the others, walking beside the bulky figure of a servant. Out in the courtyard she put on her slippers carelessly, so that after a few paces one of them fell off.
She ran back and stooped to put the slipper on, within arm's reach of Omar. Above the shuffling of feet he heard her whisper.
"O son of Ibrahim, there were no roses on my birthday."
Before he could answer she had slipped away, to walk sedately by the servant again, her eyes on the ground. Then he remembered Yasmi the child who had given him a rose three years before.
When he left the alley of the sweetmeat sellers, he found the Takin gate closed and some Turkish spearmen standing guard. Dusk had settled down, and men were lighting the lamps in the shops.
"My soul! Khayyam, you make haste slowly."
The speaker, a round man in brilliant saffron silk, moved toward him on a sleek pony. Omar recognized Tutush, and drew out the letter Master Ali had given him to deliver. The plump stranger opened it at once, and leaned closer to a lamp to read it.
Tutush refolded the letter and tucked it into his girdle. He held out a silver dirhem to Omar. No one could have told if the missive pleased him or not. Yet Master Ali had hinted that
A boy stood by them with a large brass urn strapped to his shoulder. He had been listening to the voice of a teller of tales seated in front of a fruit shop. Now he turned and drew a china cup from his girdle. Tilting the urn, he filled the cup and handed it to Omar who drank gratefully. When the cup had been filled a second time he poured water over his fingers and wiped them on a cloth the boy offered him.
"In the name of God," the boy muttered.
Omar gave him a small coin and the kebab seller exclaimed aloud upon the greed of the water sellers who would not quench a believer's thirst without money.
"And what of a believer's hunger?" asked Omar, amused.
"Oho, find me a man who will give me a sheep for alms—ay, and charcoal for the fire, and a boy to turn the irons, then could I give meat with an open hand." He wagged his head sagely. "But perhaps thou art a pilgrim, going to the shrine at Meshed?" Feeling for the three copper coins, he hesitated. The young student looked like an Arab of both pride and temper, but he wore a single camel-hair abba and he carried a small woven saddle bag. None the less, his words——
"I know not," said Omar, "whither I go."
He was content to feel himself part of the throng passing through the alley of the sweetmeat sellers to the entrance of the adjoining mosque. It being the eve of Friday, many were on their way to pray.
The heat of the sun had left the alley. Half-naked boys with waterskins sprinkled the dust. The voice of the blind teller of tales rose above the shuffling of slippered feet—something about lovers who sickened when they were snatched from their enchanted garden.
A slender figure paused before Omar, and moved on more slowly. He looked up into a girl's dark eyes, above the folds of a veil. There was something familiar about the slant of the eyes at the corners, and a brown curl that escaped the veil. Omar started, thinking of Zoë. Hastily he got to his feet with his package of papers and books, and followed the girl who had looked back.
The kebab seller loosed his coins with a sigh of relief. "He is no pilgrim," he muttered, and then aloud, " Ahai , who hungers? Who would have clean meat, no gristle or leavings? Here are kebabs! "
The distant voice of the caller-to-prayer floated down from the minaret. "Come to prayer. Come to prayer ... to the house of praise. . . . there is no God but God . . ."
Kneeling and rising and kneeling again, Omar went through the familiar motions. Lights glimmered from the glass sconces just over his head, and a strange echo came down from the roof of the mosque. All about him garments rustled and voices murmured in unison.
When he rose to go out with the crowd, his eyes searched the group of women. The girl of the blue head veil was behind the others, walking beside the bulky figure of a servant. Out in the courtyard she put on her slippers carelessly, so that after a few paces one of them fell off.
She ran back and stooped to put the slipper on, within arm's reach of Omar. Above the shuffling of feet he heard her whisper.
"O son of Ibrahim, there were no roses on my birthday."
Before he could answer she had slipped away, to walk sedately by the servant again, her eyes on the ground. Then he remembered Yasmi the child who had given him a rose three years before.
When he left the alley of the sweetmeat sellers, he found the Takin gate closed and some Turkish spearmen standing guard. Dusk had settled down, and men were lighting the lamps in the shops.
"My soul! Khayyam, you make haste slowly."
The speaker, a round man in brilliant saffron silk, moved toward him on a sleek pony. Omar recognized Tutush, and drew out the letter Master Ali had given him to deliver. The plump stranger opened it at once, and leaned closer to a lamp to read it.
Tutush refolded the letter and tucked it into his girdle. He held out a silver dirhem to Omar. No one could have told if the missive pleased him or not. Yet Master Ali had hinted that
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