cetera.
“Did you really imagine your sister fooled Shahryar for a thousand nights with her mamelukes and dildoes?” Shah Zaman laughed. “A man couldn’t stay king very long if he didn’t even know what was going on in the harem! And why do you suppose he permitted it, if not that he loved her too much, and was too sick of his other policy, to kill her? She changed his mind, all right, but she never fooled him: he used to believe that all women were unfaithful, and that the only way to spare himself the pain of infidelity was to deflower and kill them; now he believes that all people are unfaithful, and that the way to spare oneself the pain of infidelity is to love and not to care. He chooses equal promiscuity; I choose equal fidelity. Let’s treasure each other, Dunyazade!”
She shook her head angrily, or desperately. “It’s absurd. You’re only trying to talk your way out of a bad spot.”
“Of course I am! And of course it’s absurd! Treasure me!”
“I’m exhausted. I should use the razor on both of us, and be done with it.”
“Treasure me, Dunyazade!”
“We’ve talked all night; I hear the cocks; it’s getting light.”
“Good morning, then! Good morning!”
3
Alf Laylah Wa Laylah, The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night, is not the story of Scheherazade, but the story of the story of her stories, which in effect begins: “There is a book called The Thousand and One Nights, in which it is said that once upon a time a king had two sons, Shahryar and Shah Zaman,” et cetera; it ends when a king long after Shahryar discovers in his treasury the thirty volumes of The Stories of the Thousand Nights and a Night, at the end of the last of which the royal couples—Shahryar and Scheherazade, Shah Zaman and Dunyazade—emerge from their bridal chambers after the wedding night, greet one another with warm good mornings (eight in all), bestow Samarkand on the brides’ long-suffering father, and set down for all posterity The Thousand Nights and a Night.
If I could invent a story as beautiful, it should be about little Dunyazade and her bridegroom, who pass a thousand nights in one dark night and in the morning embrace each other; they make love side by side, their faces close, and go out to greet sister and brother in the forenoon of a new life. Dunyazade’s story begins in the middle; in the middle of my own, I can’t conclude it—but it must end in the night that all good mornings come to. The Arab storytellers understood this; they ended their stories not “happily ever after,” but specifically “until there took them the Destroyer of Delights and Desolator of Dwelling-places, and they were translated to the ruth of Almighty Allah, and their houses fell waste and their palaces lay in ruins, and the Kings inherited their riches.” And no man knows it better than Shah Zaman, to whom therefore the second half of his life will be sweeter than the first.
To be joyous in the full acceptance of this dénouement is surely to possess a treasure, the key to which is the understanding that Key and Treasure are the same. There (with a kiss, little sister) is the sense of our story, Dunyazade: The key to the treasure is the treasure.
Perseid
1
Good evening.
Stories last longer than men, stones than stories, stars than stones. But even our stars’ nights are numbered, and with them will pass this patterned tale to a long-deceased earth.
Nightly, when I wake to think myself beworlded and find myself in heaven, I review the night I woke to think and find myself vice-versa. I’d been long lost, deserted, down and out in Libya; two decades past I’d overflown that country with the bloody Gorgon’s head, and every drop that hit the dunes had turned to snake—so I learned later: at twenty years and twenty kilometers high, how could I have known? Now there I was, sea-leveled, forty, parched and plucked, every grain in my molted sandals raising blisters, and beleaguered by the serpents of my
“Did you really imagine your sister fooled Shahryar for a thousand nights with her mamelukes and dildoes?” Shah Zaman laughed. “A man couldn’t stay king very long if he didn’t even know what was going on in the harem! And why do you suppose he permitted it, if not that he loved her too much, and was too sick of his other policy, to kill her? She changed his mind, all right, but she never fooled him: he used to believe that all women were unfaithful, and that the only way to spare himself the pain of infidelity was to deflower and kill them; now he believes that all people are unfaithful, and that the way to spare oneself the pain of infidelity is to love and not to care. He chooses equal promiscuity; I choose equal fidelity. Let’s treasure each other, Dunyazade!”
She shook her head angrily, or desperately. “It’s absurd. You’re only trying to talk your way out of a bad spot.”
“Of course I am! And of course it’s absurd! Treasure me!”
“I’m exhausted. I should use the razor on both of us, and be done with it.”
“Treasure me, Dunyazade!”
“We’ve talked all night; I hear the cocks; it’s getting light.”
“Good morning, then! Good morning!”
3
Alf Laylah Wa Laylah, The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night, is not the story of Scheherazade, but the story of the story of her stories, which in effect begins: “There is a book called The Thousand and One Nights, in which it is said that once upon a time a king had two sons, Shahryar and Shah Zaman,” et cetera; it ends when a king long after Shahryar discovers in his treasury the thirty volumes of The Stories of the Thousand Nights and a Night, at the end of the last of which the royal couples—Shahryar and Scheherazade, Shah Zaman and Dunyazade—emerge from their bridal chambers after the wedding night, greet one another with warm good mornings (eight in all), bestow Samarkand on the brides’ long-suffering father, and set down for all posterity The Thousand Nights and a Night.
If I could invent a story as beautiful, it should be about little Dunyazade and her bridegroom, who pass a thousand nights in one dark night and in the morning embrace each other; they make love side by side, their faces close, and go out to greet sister and brother in the forenoon of a new life. Dunyazade’s story begins in the middle; in the middle of my own, I can’t conclude it—but it must end in the night that all good mornings come to. The Arab storytellers understood this; they ended their stories not “happily ever after,” but specifically “until there took them the Destroyer of Delights and Desolator of Dwelling-places, and they were translated to the ruth of Almighty Allah, and their houses fell waste and their palaces lay in ruins, and the Kings inherited their riches.” And no man knows it better than Shah Zaman, to whom therefore the second half of his life will be sweeter than the first.
To be joyous in the full acceptance of this dénouement is surely to possess a treasure, the key to which is the understanding that Key and Treasure are the same. There (with a kiss, little sister) is the sense of our story, Dunyazade: The key to the treasure is the treasure.
Perseid
1
Good evening.
Stories last longer than men, stones than stories, stars than stones. But even our stars’ nights are numbered, and with them will pass this patterned tale to a long-deceased earth.
Nightly, when I wake to think myself beworlded and find myself in heaven, I review the night I woke to think and find myself vice-versa. I’d been long lost, deserted, down and out in Libya; two decades past I’d overflown that country with the bloody Gorgon’s head, and every drop that hit the dunes had turned to snake—so I learned later: at twenty years and twenty kilometers high, how could I have known? Now there I was, sea-leveled, forty, parched and plucked, every grain in my molted sandals raising blisters, and beleaguered by the serpents of my
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