said Sefadhi, a slight edge in his voice, “for the true Sufi, the looking is the key. Even if you don’t know what you’re looking for.” Then, sensing that he’d gone too far, he stopped himself and said, “Questions: I’m sure what John has said has given you much to think about.”
“It has,” said Alex, and there was a faint stirring around the table that John’s best friend should be the first one to challenge him. “You talk about this dissolution of self ”—his eyes met his friend’s—“as if it were water going down a drain.” There was a scattering of laughter. “But how does it happen exactly? A poem, a meeting, and then you disappear?” The laughter became more generalized.
“Hardly. It isn’t anything you can plan for. You just have to leave yourself open, the way you might leave your door open in case a friend drops by.” He’d lost the battle already, he realized; he was sounding priggish and defensive.
“So it’s more a kind of ‘follow your bliss’ thing?” said Debra, who could be relied upon to complicate the simple.
“It’s more a question of knowing that you don’t always know where your bliss may lie. Sometimes it may be in the most unexpected places.” He was talking—he was thinking—in circles. “The Sufis often say that God is a hidden treasure who created the world so He could be discovered. They aren’t solitaries: Rumi could never have come to an understanding of his better nature without the mysterious appearance of the wandering dervish Shams.”
“There are no monasteries in Islam,” Sefadhi summarized succinctly, and then there was more talk, of how “the bee thirsts for the honey that thirsts for him” and how his student had “translated the sweetest nectar of the East into a cordial for the West.”
The object of the compliments was lost, however, far away; he’d let the tradition down, he knew. Somewhere, he’d lost the sense of compassion.
The minute Sefadhi was finished, there was a vivid, if discreet, movement towards the door, and a couple of classmates stopped by to offer thanks, congratulations. Dick wanted to know if he’d be free for their usual game of tennis—Thursdays at seven o’clock—and Alex asked him if he’d like a drink. Getting up and straightening his papers, happy never to have to look at them again, he heard someone hovering behind him and looked up to see a woman he hadn’t registered before. She’d been sitting, he now recalled, in one of the seats against the wall reserved for members of the community with “special interests.”
“Thank you for your candor,” she said, and offered him a small smile.
“Thank you,” he said, not sure what she was saying.
She looked at him for a moment, a trace of amusement in her blue eyes. For all the foreign elegance—the tumble of long dark hair, the ruby earrings—she had something familiar about her.
“I think you know my sister,” she went on, and when he failed to respond, she extended a manicured hand. “Kristina Jensen. You helped me with a favor.”
“Oh yes, of course. How are you? Very nice to meet you.” Though by now, of course, it was too late. She seemed, in her worldly confidence, to belong to a different continent from her fair-haired sister.
“I’ll let Camilla know I saw you,” she said, in her faintly ironic way. “Thank you for the gift.”
“Thank you,” he said again, and then, as she walked away, realized that he didn’t know if she’d been referring to the presentation he’d just given, or to the present he’d delivered.
Campus was more than ever like some sketch that nobody had troubled to fill in during the lazy days of summer, and as they walked among the buildings, the grassy courtyards set among high towers, no sound came up to them except, at moments, the massed, far-off chant of cheerleaders here to practice affirmations. Houlihan’s, when they got there, was almost empty and when he claimed his usual place in the
“It has,” said Alex, and there was a faint stirring around the table that John’s best friend should be the first one to challenge him. “You talk about this dissolution of self ”—his eyes met his friend’s—“as if it were water going down a drain.” There was a scattering of laughter. “But how does it happen exactly? A poem, a meeting, and then you disappear?” The laughter became more generalized.
“Hardly. It isn’t anything you can plan for. You just have to leave yourself open, the way you might leave your door open in case a friend drops by.” He’d lost the battle already, he realized; he was sounding priggish and defensive.
“So it’s more a kind of ‘follow your bliss’ thing?” said Debra, who could be relied upon to complicate the simple.
“It’s more a question of knowing that you don’t always know where your bliss may lie. Sometimes it may be in the most unexpected places.” He was talking—he was thinking—in circles. “The Sufis often say that God is a hidden treasure who created the world so He could be discovered. They aren’t solitaries: Rumi could never have come to an understanding of his better nature without the mysterious appearance of the wandering dervish Shams.”
“There are no monasteries in Islam,” Sefadhi summarized succinctly, and then there was more talk, of how “the bee thirsts for the honey that thirsts for him” and how his student had “translated the sweetest nectar of the East into a cordial for the West.”
The object of the compliments was lost, however, far away; he’d let the tradition down, he knew. Somewhere, he’d lost the sense of compassion.
The minute Sefadhi was finished, there was a vivid, if discreet, movement towards the door, and a couple of classmates stopped by to offer thanks, congratulations. Dick wanted to know if he’d be free for their usual game of tennis—Thursdays at seven o’clock—and Alex asked him if he’d like a drink. Getting up and straightening his papers, happy never to have to look at them again, he heard someone hovering behind him and looked up to see a woman he hadn’t registered before. She’d been sitting, he now recalled, in one of the seats against the wall reserved for members of the community with “special interests.”
“Thank you for your candor,” she said, and offered him a small smile.
“Thank you,” he said, not sure what she was saying.
She looked at him for a moment, a trace of amusement in her blue eyes. For all the foreign elegance—the tumble of long dark hair, the ruby earrings—she had something familiar about her.
“I think you know my sister,” she went on, and when he failed to respond, she extended a manicured hand. “Kristina Jensen. You helped me with a favor.”
“Oh yes, of course. How are you? Very nice to meet you.” Though by now, of course, it was too late. She seemed, in her worldly confidence, to belong to a different continent from her fair-haired sister.
“I’ll let Camilla know I saw you,” she said, in her faintly ironic way. “Thank you for the gift.”
“Thank you,” he said again, and then, as she walked away, realized that he didn’t know if she’d been referring to the presentation he’d just given, or to the present he’d delivered.
Campus was more than ever like some sketch that nobody had troubled to fill in during the lazy days of summer, and as they walked among the buildings, the grassy courtyards set among high towers, no sound came up to them except, at moments, the massed, far-off chant of cheerleaders here to practice affirmations. Houlihan’s, when they got there, was almost empty and when he claimed his usual place in the
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