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Authors: Elif Shafak
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that a complete stranger in a remote corner of the world had prayed for her well-being. She closed her eyes and imagined her name written on a piece of paper tied to a wish tree, dangling like a kite in the air, free and happy.
A few minutes later, she opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the backyard, enjoying the unsettling coolness of the breeze. Spirit stood beside her, uneasy and growling, constantly sniffing the air. The dog’s eyes grew small, then big and anxious, and his ears kept perking up, as if he had recognized in the distance something scary. Ella and her dog stood side by side under the late-spring moon, staring into the thick, vast darkness, similarly frightened of the things moving in the dark, frightened of the unknown.
The Novice
BAGHDAD, APRIL 1242
Bowing and scraping, I showed the judge to the door and quickly returned to the main room to collect the dirty bowls. I was surprised to find Baba Zaman and the wandering dervish in the same position as when I left them, neither one saying a word. Out of the corner of my eye, I checked them, wondering if it could be possible to carry on a conversation without talking. I lingered there as long as I could, arranging the cushions, tidying up the room, picking up the crumbs on the carpet, but after a while I ran out of reasons to stay.
Halfheartedly, I dragged my feet back to the kitchen. As soon as he saw me, the cook started to rain orders. “Wipe the counter, mop the floor! Wash the dishes! Scrub the stove and the walls around the grill! And when you are done, don’t forget to check the mousetraps!” Ever since I’d come to this lodge some six months ago, the cook had been riding roughshod over me. Every day he made me work like a dog and called this torture part of my spiritual training, as if washing greasy dishes could be spiritual in any way.
A man of few words, the cook had one favorite mantra: “Cleaning is praying, praying is cleaning!”
“If that were true, all the housewives in Baghdad would have become spiritual masters,” I once dared to say.
He threw a wooden spoon at my head and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Such back talk will get you nowhere, son. If you want to become a dervish, be as mute as that wooden spoon. Rebelliousness is not a good quality in a novice. Speak less, mature quicker!”
I hated the cook, but, more than that, I feared him. I had never disobeyed his orders. That is, until this evening.
As soon as the cook turned his back, I sneaked out of the kitchen and tiptoed to the main room again, dying to learn more about the wandering dervish. Who was he? What was he doing here? He wasn’t like the dervishes in the lodge. His eyes looked fierce and unruly, even when he bowed his head in modesty. There was something so unusual and unpredictable about him that it was almost frightening.
I peeped through a crack in the door. At first I couldn’t see anything. But soon my eyes adjusted to the semidarkness inside the room and I could make out their faces.
I heard the master ask, “Tell me, Shams of Tabriz, what brings someone like you to Baghdad? Have you seen this place in a dream?”
The dervish shook his head. “No, it wasn’t a dream that brought me here. It was a vision. I never have dreams.”
“Everybody has dreams,” Baba Zaman said tenderly. “It’s just that you might not remember them all the time. But that doesn’t mean you don’t dream.”
“But I do not,” the dervish insisted. “It is part of a deal I made with God. You see, when I was a boy, I saw angels and watched the mysteries of the universe unfold before my eyes. When I told this to my parents, they weren’t pleased and told me to stop dreaming. When I confided in my friends, they, too, said I was a hopeless dreamer. I tried talking to my teachers, but their response was no different. Finally I understood that whenever people heard something unusual, they called it a dream. I began to dislike the word and all that it
A few minutes later, she opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the backyard, enjoying the unsettling coolness of the breeze. Spirit stood beside her, uneasy and growling, constantly sniffing the air. The dog’s eyes grew small, then big and anxious, and his ears kept perking up, as if he had recognized in the distance something scary. Ella and her dog stood side by side under the late-spring moon, staring into the thick, vast darkness, similarly frightened of the things moving in the dark, frightened of the unknown.
The Novice
BAGHDAD, APRIL 1242
Bowing and scraping, I showed the judge to the door and quickly returned to the main room to collect the dirty bowls. I was surprised to find Baba Zaman and the wandering dervish in the same position as when I left them, neither one saying a word. Out of the corner of my eye, I checked them, wondering if it could be possible to carry on a conversation without talking. I lingered there as long as I could, arranging the cushions, tidying up the room, picking up the crumbs on the carpet, but after a while I ran out of reasons to stay.
Halfheartedly, I dragged my feet back to the kitchen. As soon as he saw me, the cook started to rain orders. “Wipe the counter, mop the floor! Wash the dishes! Scrub the stove and the walls around the grill! And when you are done, don’t forget to check the mousetraps!” Ever since I’d come to this lodge some six months ago, the cook had been riding roughshod over me. Every day he made me work like a dog and called this torture part of my spiritual training, as if washing greasy dishes could be spiritual in any way.
A man of few words, the cook had one favorite mantra: “Cleaning is praying, praying is cleaning!”
“If that were true, all the housewives in Baghdad would have become spiritual masters,” I once dared to say.
He threw a wooden spoon at my head and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Such back talk will get you nowhere, son. If you want to become a dervish, be as mute as that wooden spoon. Rebelliousness is not a good quality in a novice. Speak less, mature quicker!”
I hated the cook, but, more than that, I feared him. I had never disobeyed his orders. That is, until this evening.
As soon as the cook turned his back, I sneaked out of the kitchen and tiptoed to the main room again, dying to learn more about the wandering dervish. Who was he? What was he doing here? He wasn’t like the dervishes in the lodge. His eyes looked fierce and unruly, even when he bowed his head in modesty. There was something so unusual and unpredictable about him that it was almost frightening.
I peeped through a crack in the door. At first I couldn’t see anything. But soon my eyes adjusted to the semidarkness inside the room and I could make out their faces.
I heard the master ask, “Tell me, Shams of Tabriz, what brings someone like you to Baghdad? Have you seen this place in a dream?”
The dervish shook his head. “No, it wasn’t a dream that brought me here. It was a vision. I never have dreams.”
“Everybody has dreams,” Baba Zaman said tenderly. “It’s just that you might not remember them all the time. But that doesn’t mean you don’t dream.”
“But I do not,” the dervish insisted. “It is part of a deal I made with God. You see, when I was a boy, I saw angels and watched the mysteries of the universe unfold before my eyes. When I told this to my parents, they weren’t pleased and told me to stop dreaming. When I confided in my friends, they, too, said I was a hopeless dreamer. I tried talking to my teachers, but their response was no different. Finally I understood that whenever people heard something unusual, they called it a dream. I began to dislike the word and all that it
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