Chapter 13: The Cloth

Against the glow of a calm fire the young boy and his father ate their cooked lamb quietly within the dark confines of their hovel high on the Meccan hillside. They had just finished their evening prayers and were both equally famished from a day of trading trinkets in the city bazaar for whatever they could get for them. Every so often a cold wind swept through the home and fanned the fire they enjoyed, its warm light dancing and casting misshapen shadows across the dirt floor of the room. While picking at his lamb meat, the young boy gazed into the fire as he had done so many times before, wondering which parts of the kindling the flames would excite next. His father broke him out of this trance by warning him that he shouldn’t gaze for so long into mysteries that he couldn’t for the life of him understand at such a young age. The son heeded his father’s advice that evening and finished whatever meat remained at the center of the thali. When the father finished the rest of the lamb, he boiled a tin kettle of strong black coffee, and both of them sat in silence for a time, sipping on the dark, bitter brew.

“Tomorrow,” said the father, “I will not accompany you to the bazaar. You are quickly becoming a young man, and you will have to go by yourself.”

An awkward warmth seeped into the heart of the boy, as going to the bazaar alone would only result in being bested by the other, more experienced traders. These traders would undoubtedly be much more aggressive and predatory in their tactics than he could ever be. His eyes widened and searched his father for any excuse he could give for not sending him into the fray alone, but the old man offered none, and so it was decided that evening that he would venture from the hillside into the heart of the Meccan capital and hope that he brought home at least some of his self-respect. The father, sensing that his son was frightened by this decision, finished what remained of his charred coffee and rummaged through his burlap sack of goods that warmed by the fire.

He pulled out a small package from the sack. It was wrapped in waxy brown paper and stitched up tight by strong thread. His father peeled off the packaging to reveal a soft turquoise cloth that had been neatly folded within. He passed it to the boy who was instantly charmed and fascinated by its beauty, its edges embroidered in geometric shapes of gold and the center of the cloth stitched in the patterns of the most careful Arabic calligraphy that read, “there is no God but the One.” The cloth smelled of aged saffron, and a chalky dust layered its weave. Even though it was made from cotton, it felt like the finest of silks and was too fragile to hold for very long. The father returned it to the hollow of the wrapping and handed the package to him.

“I know we don’t talk about it much,” said the father, “but when your mother wandered the streets of the city, both hungry and cold from the desert winds, she found me in the bazaar and implored me to serve as your guardian, as she didn’t have any food to feed you. You were too young to remember, as you were just a small baby then, and when your mother gave you to me, I wrapped you in this very same cloth that I’m giving you now. I’ve kept the cloth from you, because I thought that when you became of age, you could sell it and start a new life for yourself.”

The boy gazed at it with wide, bewildered eyes. He felt comforted and secure holding it, as though it were the only security he had left, now that his father had ordered him into the bazaar.

“The indulgences we sell aren’t getting us very far, you and I. No one is buying them, and when we do sell them, we are getting half of what we originally paid for them. The meat tonight was the last of our rations. There is no more, and our supplies are running low. You will have to fetch a high price for the cloth. Otherwise, you’ll go hungry, which is why I’m suggesting to you that we separate for a time.”

The boy never realized it would come to this. For most of his life he had been following his father through the few bazaars in and around the twin cities of Mecca and Medina. Trading was a skill he never possessed, and he had always assumed his father would carry him until he himself grew old and tired. He never expected their time together to end so soon. He somehow expected his father to nurture and care for him without the realities of hunger getting in the way. They always did without, and it was fine for a time, but apparently things had to change.

He didn’t want to weep in front of him, as he thought his father would respect him less for doing so. Traders, after all, had to be very keen and wary of such emotions. It was a disadvantage to have them. One becomes vulnerable that way. He suppressed his tears as well as any show of emotion. He was helped by the charisma of the fire, its flames licking what remained of the few desert branches it fed from. A sweet, mellow smoke filled the small hovel, the fire devouring the wood with a slow and steady exactitude that seemed to harness a greater, more divine force. Even after spreading his blankets down for sleep, the boy continued to watch the glowing crimson embers of the fire burn, until the flames themselves were overcome by the darkness of the hovel. He fell asleep quickly thereafter, his father snoring lightly beside him.

On the next morning, his father bid him farewell by placing his hand upon his head and muttering a short prayer. He did his best to hide his tears then, and while he couldn’t understand what the prayer meant, he assumed that it would somehow protect him from whatever turbulence and anxiety the action in the bazaar would bring.

“You should not sell it for anything less than ten rials,” said his father of the cloth. “You have to be firm and insist on that price. Otherwise, you will have been cheated. Do you understand?”

The boy repeated his instructions until his father was satisfied. When he opened the door of the hovel, a brilliant, white sunshine flooded his vision, and an intense heat seeped into the pores of his skin. At first the sunlight blinded him, but after wrapping his head in white cloth, he adjusted to the climate and made his way down a rock-strewn trail that led into the center of the city. He tread silently on the jagged rubble and debris that littered the trail, and when others from neighboring villages joined him after a good hour of methodical walking, he made sure to look tough and remain both silent and cautious. He kept his eyes peeled to the ground and tucked the package securely into the twine that kept his garments in place. And while no one talked to him directly, he certainly was aware of the calculating whispers of those on the road who commented on his poor dress and child-like appearance.

“He will certainly be taken advantage of,” he heard one of these voices say.

As the trail grew more crowded, these voices all seemed to be whispering the same in unison. Even the most remote of their palaver somehow related directly to him, and as the trail gave way to a paved road at the base of the hillside, the dry desert dirt that swirled in the wind had also swept away whatever fragments of confidence he had started the day with. Yet he kept silent and strong with his eyes fixed forward and the package at his waist snug and secure against his body.

The paved road quickly transformed into a small village with a kebab stand and a general store. One story shacks, both sagging and sullen, soon succumbed to marble mosques, outdoor restaurants, and two-story buildings that were sturdy and white-washed, their lacquered wooden shutters protecting its inhabitants from the blare of intense sunlight and road-dust that burned in the air. The road pinched into a narrow lane where a car or two buzzed through the procession like strange insects. These lanes were soon joined by other roadways and side streets that fed into the dazzling network of the metropolis. The mosques, filled to the hilt with believers keeling below tall, white domes, were both high and august, and the ongoing din of conversation that seemed to engage every pedestrian cleared the air of the same guarded silence that stalked him on the hillside. The odor of cooking meat and mild incense made him hungry and a little tired, but he knew he had to continue towards the bazaar and save these luxuries for after he had fetched the highest price for the cloth.

As he approached the bazaar, he discerned its canopy of white canvas tents rippling in the hot breeze. He heard the rough din of the shouting matches between the toughest of traders and the most uncompromising of customers. The traffic on the roadway festooned into a carnival of color. Stalls on the both sides of the street sold hand-woven rugs from Iran, leather jackets and accessories from Pakistan, gold-threaded robes from North Africa, and Chinese textiles that were rolled onto heavy cardboard tubing and stood erect, like rainbows, behind colorful salespeople and their equally illustrious buyers who yelled out their best offers. Pushcart vendors sold skewered meats and kebabs, and buyers wore their best garments in what amounted to a parade of Arab fashion. Collapsible awnings that swung out from the storefronts hid the street from the sun, and as soon as the heat became too much, large, white tents shaded most of the haggling, negotiating, and sudden bursts of emotional reasoning that distinguished this volcanic oasis from other towns and villages outside of the city.

Usually the boy quietly followed his father down these crowded side streets, but now that he was alone, the bazaar had a much different feel to it. He sensed that beneath the bazaar’s spectrum of colors, expensive imported products, and hoarse shouts of traders haggling over prices, there was an invisible darkness in which the real elements of hunger and desire lay buried beneath a cosmetic surface. He had always known of this predatory darkness, or at least he had sensed it on visits with his father, but it was his father who usually confronted it while the boy watched from a safe distance. His father had often hoped that he would be able to manage this darkness one day – to make trading more of a sport than the fulfillment of predatory hunger and zero-sum conflicts - but now that he was alone, he was rife with timidity and soon lost some of his father’s skills. He could only stay tough and hope that no one cheated him or goaded him into selling the cloth below its set value.

From a distance he eyed the activities of one particular stall that lined the street. Apparently, the trader and his stubborn customer were arguing over the price of what seemed to be a thin silver bracelet that was clearly meant for a young woman’s wrist. The heavy-set customer soon ended these negotiations when the trader refused to sell it to him at the price he wanted, and the boy thought it the perfect time to approach this frustrated customer with the cloth he carried. He moved in cautiously behind him and tugged on his trousers. The man then turned to face him, and the boy gasped at what he saw.

This was no ordinary man. He wore a blood-red turban, heavy gold earrings, and an embroidered vest that hid a tan-collared work shirt beneath it. His skin was thick, red, and robust, a handlebar moustache gracing his upper lip, and his teeth were like heavy white blocks in his mouth. A long, deep scar cut into one of his ruddy cheeks, and emblazoned on his arm was what appeared to be a military insignia of sorts. The boy also noticed braided gold epaulets on his shoulders, distinguishing him as some sort of authority in the city or a high government official. He looked perturbed by the intrusion, but before he could swat him away with his heavy, brick-like hands, the boy quickly tore through the stitching that held the package at his waist together and unfurled the brilliant turquoise cloth that had been with him all along.

The official, awestruck by the cloth’s inescapable beauty, examined its fine thread and fingered the heavy gold embroidery at its edges and center. Apparently he had never seen such a cloth before and decided that it was a gift that rivaled the thin bracelet he tried to buy earlier. The official’s hard, cold scowl suddenly transformed into a seductive smile, the white blocks of his teeth glowing like polished marble, his frustration waning, and a subtle twinkle in his eyes restoring whatever strategies had failed him earlier. He licked his lips and breathed in a heavy gust of hot, desert air, as though a dead beast had been brought back to life.

“How much do you want for this worthless thing?” asked the official.

“What price do you propose?” asked the boy.

“Why this is nothing but the handkerchief of a peasant. I’ve seen this a million times before. It can’t be worth anything more than five rials.”

The boy, however, knew a little better than that.

“This is a very special cloth that dates back many generations. It is a magic cloth and will bring comfort to whoever owns it. I’ll be willing to sell it for ten rials, nothing less.”

“Why you insolent little monkey,” thundered the official, “do you know who I am? How dare you insult me with your offer. Ten rials for a filthy scrap of cloth? I can easily buy such filth elsewhere for far cheaper than that. But I tell you what – since I am an official of high distinction around these parts, you and I can make a deal that will give you even more benefit than the price of that silly little thing you have there.

“Do you see these honors on my chest? I am a man who is well-respected by the powers that control this unwieldy city, and if you sold that thing to me for, let’s say, seven rials, why I’d connect you with some of the most powerful people in the kingdom.

“Imagine yourself working your way up through the chain of civic command, only to prosper with the knowledge and skill that comes with shrewd politics and honorable governance. This entire city is controlled and maintained by some of the wealthiest men in the world. Not only will you intimately know the powerful statesmen who enforce our daily laws and customs, but you will have a chance to harness the power your downtrodden peasantry has sought after for so long. Imagine inspecting a line of troops or attending banquets with world-renowned dignitaries from all over the world, or having the satisfaction of crushing a rebellion with the wave of your hand.

“I’m offering you a chance at the reigns of power, my friend – an opportunity, if you will, to be a part of the political class that rules all of Arabia. Wherever you go, you’d be treated with the highest respect. People will respect you, fear you, and love you for the power you wield. The food will always be plentiful and your peasant masses will revere you as their long-lost messiah. Can you imagine the power of that? Can you imagine what a man you’d be? For seven rials you can have all of that. Just lower your price, and this city will open up to you.”

By this time visions of grandeur had broken the seals of his imagination. The boy could think of no other life better than that of a man who had the power to control and maintain the vast complexities of the city. The offer struck a deep chord within him, as heavy silver thalis, thick with moist and tender meats, simmered in the juices of his mind. He could also see himself in regal dress, talking politics with the Sultan himself, or trading jokes with the commanders of vast armies, all of this under the high dome of a luxurious palace he calls home. He even imagined himself exercising his fierce power over the migrants who whispered things about him on the trail that morning, and how he would somehow force them to their knees in worship of the power he had achieved. They would never whisper bad things about him again.

All of this came into clear focus, and just before he gave his consent to the official, who stood there smiling and twirling the ends of his moustache, a bright blade of sunlight broke through the open sides of the tent and illuminated the gold embroidery stitched into the cloth. The refracting light snapped him out of his vague imaginings, and he quickly recalled his father’s instructions. He tore himself away from these superb visions of power and summoned the same rigor and toughness that he carried down the hillside with him.

“Ten rials only,” said the boy finally. “Nothing more.”

The smile of the towering official above him soon tightened, and his angry, threatening scowl returned. His cheeks filled with scorching hot blood, and the twinkle in his eyes shot back a sharp darkness that would have immediately cut him to bits had he not stepped a few paces back from him.

“Why you dirty little rodent, do you know what the penalties are for conning a city official? Why I’ll throw you in prison for the time you’ve wasted me. Come here, you filthy rat –”

The official tried to grab hold of the boy, but since he was a few paces away from him already, his heavy hands could only grab his shirt, which immediately tore as the boy stumbled back and ran into the thickest part of the bazaar. His small frame served him well as he weaved among the torsos of wandering pedestrians, the official behind him yelling vulgarities in the middle of the road and stomping his feet in heated madness. The boy then fled the bazaar and finally found rest on the outskirts of the marketplace, his heart beating beyond his chest and his panic and alarm at almost being thrown in prison subsiding into a calm but weary fatigue.

After his panic subsided, he was left with nothing but utter disappointment for ruining an otherwise glorious future. Luckily he still had the cloth, as he thought he had lost it during his escape. By this time, though, the cloth had lost its smoothness and was wrinkled and manhandled in his fist. He unfurled the cloth and tried to smooth the threads back into shape. It was just then that a slim man in a white, seer-sucker suit and wide-brimmed safari hat emerged from the chaos of the tents and smiled at him graciously.

“Hey, boy, what have you got there?” asked the man.

A renewed confidence lifted the boy from the doldrums. He displayed the full beauty of the turquoise cloth for this man who grazed his manicured fingertips against its fine cotton fibers and translated the Arabic calligraphy at its center with a small, leather-bound book he had been carrying.

“Hmmm, ‘there is no God but the One.’ Very interesting indeed,” mumbled the man while translating the calligraphy.

His broken Arabic accent pegged him instantly as a traveler from a land far away. The boy had rarely seen such a suit of such high quality on anyone in the bazaar before, and his pale while skin, pink lips, and azure eyes suggested a noble upbringing and a class membership rarely seen in these humble parts of the city. He also had wavy blonde hair, which is something he had never seen on anyone before. The boy took a liking to his suave and courteous manners as well as his peculiar speech, which made his Arabic sound more romantic and complex. His language was fluid and less guttural, as though a date tree was lodged in his throat. The musky odor of his cologne also added to this portrait of a middle-aged tycoon who would never chase after him like the brutish government official had. There was something awkwardly civilized about his overall demeanor, and his first confrontation with this new brand of civility calmed his anxieties and allowed him to feature the cloth more boldly against his body.