because the way she looked at him with a single raised eye reminded him of Walid. He bit his lip, but she did not appear in the least disconcerted.
‘Master Idrisi, my mother and I are going to spend the day with her family next week. Since your sister will also be there it would be a pleasure if we could break bread together. You do not need the permission of the Sultan to visit your sister, or do you?’
‘I will think about your suggestion, Princess.’
‘If you are fearful of losing your way I will happily draw you a map.’
He burst out laughing. ‘I will be there, provided you let me know the day.’
‘Good. We will discuss Pythagaros of Samos and his ideas. I believe in the importance of numbers, but definitely not seven.’
On seeing the surprise on his face, she laughed and disappeared. Thank Allah that every day was not like this one. As to which of the two emotions he encountered in the palace that day affected him more, it was difficult to say. That he still loved Mayya was hardly a surprise. She was forever locked inside him. On his long voyages, she was always with him, a willing participant in dozens of imagined conversations that had become a balm to ease his mental exhaustion.
In the past when she had whispered in his ear that Elinore was his daughter, he had not completely believed her. He had thought this was her way of assuaging her guilt. He did not know that she had none; guilt played no part in her feelings. For her, the offer of a place in the Sultan’s harem had not been a choice. It was a command. She had not had to be told that if she disobeyed, her entire family would suffer. In this respect all Sultans were the same: a belief in the prophecy of Muhammad or the miracles of Jesus made no difference. The satisfaction of their carnal needs transcended all spiritual beliefs.
Idrisi saw now that there was no way she could have conveyed this to him, but with his knowledge of the world he should have known. How they had managed to meet in secret and made love was something that still frightened and astonished him. She was sure they had not been seen, that not even the most hated eunuch of the harem knew what had happened, but could one be sure of anything in that cursed palace? Just as he should have known that for her, he, Muhammad al-Idrisi, would be the only man in her life. It upset her that the fever of love had left no mark on him, but here she was wrong. She looked for physical signs and wondered why he was not thin and distraught. That was how the poets described lovers who had been deprived of their beloved. If Qays could starve himself for his Laila, why not Muhammad for his Mayya? She did not know that she was ever present in his mind, that the book he had just completed was written for her, not the Sultan, that the main reason he stayed close to Rujari and, in consequence, angered many of his friends, was to be close to her. He had never told her that because he did not think she would believe him.
Of one thing Idrisi was now certain. Elinore was his child. All doubts had fled. And he feared that the Sultan suspected as much. The joy of holding Mayya in his arms and seeing his daughter had lifted his heart. But now, as he walked back to his house, acknowledging the greetings of passers-by as if in a dream, he could not get the thought of Philip out of his head. He knew him well, which did not make it easier to accept Rujari’s decision. Philip had been helpful in regard to the book, on one occasion going so far as to capture and bring to Palermo a Chinese merchant for questioning on his country’s coastal lines.
But it was a long-ago meeting that Idrisi now recalled. That day after patiently listening to him expand his ideas of the world for over an hour, Philip had smiled a sad smile and spoken words that Idrisi had never forgotten: ‘I have never doubted that your work is of great importance for you, Master Idrisi. And for the Sultan, who waits impatiently for the
‘Master Idrisi, my mother and I are going to spend the day with her family next week. Since your sister will also be there it would be a pleasure if we could break bread together. You do not need the permission of the Sultan to visit your sister, or do you?’
‘I will think about your suggestion, Princess.’
‘If you are fearful of losing your way I will happily draw you a map.’
He burst out laughing. ‘I will be there, provided you let me know the day.’
‘Good. We will discuss Pythagaros of Samos and his ideas. I believe in the importance of numbers, but definitely not seven.’
On seeing the surprise on his face, she laughed and disappeared. Thank Allah that every day was not like this one. As to which of the two emotions he encountered in the palace that day affected him more, it was difficult to say. That he still loved Mayya was hardly a surprise. She was forever locked inside him. On his long voyages, she was always with him, a willing participant in dozens of imagined conversations that had become a balm to ease his mental exhaustion.
In the past when she had whispered in his ear that Elinore was his daughter, he had not completely believed her. He had thought this was her way of assuaging her guilt. He did not know that she had none; guilt played no part in her feelings. For her, the offer of a place in the Sultan’s harem had not been a choice. It was a command. She had not had to be told that if she disobeyed, her entire family would suffer. In this respect all Sultans were the same: a belief in the prophecy of Muhammad or the miracles of Jesus made no difference. The satisfaction of their carnal needs transcended all spiritual beliefs.
Idrisi saw now that there was no way she could have conveyed this to him, but with his knowledge of the world he should have known. How they had managed to meet in secret and made love was something that still frightened and astonished him. She was sure they had not been seen, that not even the most hated eunuch of the harem knew what had happened, but could one be sure of anything in that cursed palace? Just as he should have known that for her, he, Muhammad al-Idrisi, would be the only man in her life. It upset her that the fever of love had left no mark on him, but here she was wrong. She looked for physical signs and wondered why he was not thin and distraught. That was how the poets described lovers who had been deprived of their beloved. If Qays could starve himself for his Laila, why not Muhammad for his Mayya? She did not know that she was ever present in his mind, that the book he had just completed was written for her, not the Sultan, that the main reason he stayed close to Rujari and, in consequence, angered many of his friends, was to be close to her. He had never told her that because he did not think she would believe him.
Of one thing Idrisi was now certain. Elinore was his child. All doubts had fled. And he feared that the Sultan suspected as much. The joy of holding Mayya in his arms and seeing his daughter had lifted his heart. But now, as he walked back to his house, acknowledging the greetings of passers-by as if in a dream, he could not get the thought of Philip out of his head. He knew him well, which did not make it easier to accept Rujari’s decision. Philip had been helpful in regard to the book, on one occasion going so far as to capture and bring to Palermo a Chinese merchant for questioning on his country’s coastal lines.
But it was a long-ago meeting that Idrisi now recalled. That day after patiently listening to him expand his ideas of the world for over an hour, Philip had smiled a sad smile and spoken words that Idrisi had never forgotten: ‘I have never doubted that your work is of great importance for you, Master Idrisi. And for the Sultan, who waits impatiently for the
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