MOKHTAR ENTERED THE room silently, carrying a tray on which he had laid out the day's mail. He set down the tray on the low table next to the armchair and, catching my eye, bowed slightly and withdrew. The mail was always a pleasant distraction after a morning spent translating the mystic poetry of the 17th century Caliph, Shayk al-Bahr, but I finished a stanza before I got up from my desk and sank into the cool leather of the armchair.
Most of the mail was correspondence forwarded by the university, from which I always escaped during the second semester to Baghdad. One letter, however, was of local origin. It did not bear a stamp, and must have been delivered by messenger that morning. I turned the envelope over and saw that it was from Ahmed Basim, the antique dealer whose shop on Al-Rashid Street I sometimes looked in on when I had business at the consulate. Basim, who was as old as most of his merchandise, never bothered with telephones and always sent a note when he found something he thought I might buy.
Your Excellency, the letter began. [Everything about Basim was antique.) An article of great interest has come into my possession, with respect to which I invite your Excellency's perusal. I must suggest that your Excellency refrain from delay in this matter, for the article in question is of such curiosity that even those with none of your Excellency's cultivation in such matters cannot fail to note its worth. I remain, with respect, your humble etc.
I could hardly suppress a chuckle. Nothing ever stayed in Basim's shop for less than three months, and most of the daggers and dusty parchments that cluttered the place had been there for years. I tossed his letter into the waste basket and went back to the poetry of Shaykh al-Bahr.
A month or so later I was called to the Consulate and asked to take an advisory position on some pointless cultural commission. I managed to elude responsibility without giving offense, and it was with relief that I stepped out into the bright sunlight for the walk home.
My route took me across Al-Rashid Street and when I reached the corner I recalled Basim's letter. I had not puttered in his shop for some time and, suddenly curious to know what sort of trinket had prompted him to write me, turned and made my way through the twisting street.
As I stepped into the shop, the floor groaned beneath my foot, where a rotted board had been patched with a piece of tin. As always, there were no other customers to be seen. After a moment my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness and I made out Basim's familiar form, squatting on a tasseled cushion behind a table littered with amber pendants and carved ivory. His face was ridged with wrinkles and once again I marvelled at how a man who sat all day in the dark could have so weathered a complexion. He was gently puffing on a hookah that sat in a tray on the floor, and he eyed me with what seemed to be amusement.
"Peace be upon you," he said when he was sure that I could see him.
"And upon your household," I replied.
"And upon your household," I replied.
Basim rummaged in the darkness under his table and pulled out another cushion, which he set down across from the hookah. He gestured to me to be seated, and as I slipped out of my sandals he called for his boy and asked for tea. We sat across from each other for a moment, while he puffed at his hookah. Our tea arrived and we chatted about mutual acquaintances in the antiquities trade before I brought up the subject of his letter.
"I understand you have acquired something you think might interest me."
"Would it interest you," he replied, "to know that a Frenchman has already offered me one thousand dinars for this article?"
For a thousand dinars I could have bought half this shop. It was an enormous sum. "Not at all," I said, "until I had examined the article in question."
Once again Basim called for his boy and murmured a few words. The boy returned with a flat package wrapped in a white silk cloth. Basim removed the cloth and withdrew a leather portfolio with the initials R.F.B. stamped in gold on the cover. I took the portfolio in my hands. It was clearly of European workmanship and could have been no more than a hundred years old. I opened it and found a dozen pages of heavy rag paper. The first was a title page, at the top of which the words "The Tale of the Two Queens" had been penned in a bold, calligraphic hand.
"This is European," I said, closing the portfolio, "and of no interest to me."
A glint of amusement returned to Basim's eyes. "Turn to the last page," he said.
It was the conclusion of the text, written in the same bold hand, and ran nearly to the bottom of the page. I drew a quick breath at the words in the lower right hand corner: Richard Francis Burton. London, 1884.
Burton was the famous adventurer who had translated the Tales from the Arabian Nights. I had seen his signature on documents in the British Museum. Still, there were several manuscript versions of Burton's translation, and though collectors have bid up their price, there was not a single tale that had ever sold for one twentieth the price Basim had quoted me.
As if he had guessed my thoughts, Basim spoke. "Have you read all the Arabian Night's Tales?"
Burton's translation runs to fifteen volumes. "No, I have not."
"If you had, you would know that none has the title, 'The Tale of the Two Queens.'"
"What?" Do you mean to say that this is the missing manuscript?"
"I have every reason to believe that it is," said Basim, "and so does the Frenchman ..."
In the celebrated Terminal Essay with which Burton concludes his fifteenth volume, he writes of what he calls the Thousand and Second Tale, a tale which, he adds, for reasons of his own, he did not include in an otherwise exhaustive translation. Scholars have searched in vain for an untranslated portion of the original Arabic. Most have concluded that the reference is nothing more than a joke at the reader's expense, but a small band of Burton loyalists has argued that there must be such a tale, even if Burton wrote it himself rather than translate an original text which has since been lost. If what I held in my hands were the missing tale, it would be very valuable. I looked up at Basim.
"It would be tiresome for you to examine the document here," he was saying. "Please take it with you and study it at your convenience."
"That is very generous of you."
"However, I must set two conditions."
"Of course."
"First, you must promise that you will not make a copy of the text. You will recall that it was never published. Second, the Frenchman will return in one week with money in hand. I do not wish to disappoint him. I would, of course, be pleased to entertain an offer from your Excellency." Amusement glinted in Basim's eyes.
"Sir Richard was, like your Excellency, an Englishman," he went on, "In all respect I feel sure that he would have preferred that his work return to England rather than fall into the hands of foreigners."
"Perhaps so. I will study the document and return it within a week."
I rose to go but Basim laid a hand on my sleeve. "And the first condition?"
I rose to go but Basim laid a hand on my sleeve. "And the first condition?"
"By all means. I give you my honor that I will not make a copy."
"It is always a pleasure to deal with the English," he said. "I required the Frenchman to read the document in my presence."
Basim wrapped the portfolio in its cloth and slipped on his sandals to accompany me to the door, "It is a curious tale," he said, pointing to the package in my hands. "It begins where Burton's tales leave off- a kind of epilogue."
He bid me farewell and once again I stepped out into the sunlight.
As I walked down the dusty streets toward home I tried to remember, the setting of the Arabian Nights' Tales. A certain King Shahryar and his brother, likewise a king, had become so embittered by the adultery of their wives that they had devised a foolproof method to ensure faithfulness. Each night they would take to wife one of the virgins of the kingdom, and in the morning have her executed.
This grisly practice appears to have gone on for some time until a
beautiful, courageous and well-read lass named Scheherazade volunteered| to be King Shahryar's bride. Her father was grief-stricken at the news, but Scheherazade had a plan to end the carnage. Her first night with the king, she spun him an extravagant tale of wazirs, jinni, trickery and enchanted fish, and left off at such a tantalizing point that the king had no choice but to let her live to the next night so that he might learn how the story ended.
his clever tale-telling went on for a thousand and one nights, apparently uninterrupted by the fact that Scheherazade is said to have borne the king three sons during this period. Eventually, of course, the king's misogyny waned and he agreed to accept Scheherazade as full-time wife and queen. I couldn't recall what the king's brother had been up to for all that time, but it appears that Scheherazade had a younger sister named Dunyazade, just as beautiful as she, who was married off to the brother in one of those symmetrical happy endings so popular in the Middle East. If The Tale of the Two Queens was an epilogue of some sort, it must recount the further adventures of Scheherazade and Dunyazade. beautiful, courageous and well-read lass named Scheherazade volunteered| to be King Shahryar's bride. Her father was grief-stricken at the news, but Scheherazade had a plan to end the carnage. Her first night with the king, she spun him an extravagant tale of wazirs, jinni, trickery and enchanted fish, and left off at such a tantalizing point that the king had no choice but to let her live to the next night so that he might learn how the story ended.
I was still musing on what these might be when I arrived home. I told Mokhtar I was not to be disturbed, cleared my desk of Shayk al-Bahr, and addressed myself to my new prize. Upon close examination, both manuscript and portfolio proved to be in excellent condition. It was as if Burton had drafted a final, clean copy, shut it carefully away, and never touched it again. Once again, I examined the signature. If the document was a forgery it was a masterful one.
I turned back to the first page and gave myself up to the elegance of Burton's antique prose. The tale was more than an epilogue; it was an alternative ending to the Scheherazade series that only the most cynical reader could have foreseen.
I sat in silence for some minutes musing on what I had read. I imagined with mounting amusement the confusion this document would sow among the Burton scholars. There would first be a raging battle over the authenticity of the manuscript. Then, if my guess proved right, and The Tale of the Two Queens was found to be in Burton's hand but of his own invention rather than a translation, there would be a torrent of scholarly speculation on the scabrous turn that Burton's mind must have taken in his old age. At the center of the whirlwind would, of course, be the man who had discovered the document.
I replaced the heavy sheets in their case, wrapped the lot in its silk cloth, and put it safely away in the locked drawer of my desk. I looked at the clock. There was just time enough to translate a dozen more stanzas from Shayk al-Bahr before tea.
Several days went by and I hardly gave the Burton tale a thought, as I was busy with visitors from England. An infernal round of receptions, teas and dinner parties kept me even from my own work. But by the time my guests had packed their bags and set off for Cairo, a decision had begun to take shape in my mind.
My reputation as an Arabist was secure. I had always been known for patient scholarship and dependable research. Never had I been associated with the undignified controversies that sometimes sweep the universities. Moreover, there was the matter of the thousand dinars. I would have gladly paid one quarter that amount for what was clearly a document of great historical curiosity, but to muster the sum Basim demanded would have required a reordering of my tidy finances.
There was nothing more to consider. I would leave the field to the Frenchman. My slight taste for controversy would he amply satisfied by a quiet evening with this soon-to-be-celebrated Frenchman, in which I would suggest to him how easily the document that had established his reputation might have slipped through his fingers. I would, nevertheless, take one precaution...
I returned to Basim's shop one day before the week was out and found him once again squatting in the darkness, his hookah at his side. I set down the silk-wrapped package and took my place on the cushion he offered me. We sipped tea and spoke at length of the shipment of spurious caliphate jewelry that had suddenly flooded the bazaars. Basim shook his head at the idiocy of anyone unable to distinguish bone from rhino horn and I confess that until only a few days earlier several such people had been my guests.
"Of course," said the old man, as if the thought had never occurred to him before, "the foreigners would buy them."
Presently the conversation lapsed. Basim brushed the white silk with his fingertips. "And this, your Excellency? Did the tale amuse you?"
"It did, Basim, and I am honored that you should allow me to study it."
"It is my pleasure. And is your Excellency of a mind to acquire the article?"
"I am. But the Frenchman seems more of a mind than I. I regret that I cannot match his offer." The light in Basim's eyes seemed to fade, but I was looking into them so watchfully that my gaze might have disturbed him.
"Very well," he said. "Burton's work will come to rest in Paris rather than in London."
"I'm not sure it would disappoint him," I said. "Sir Richard was fond of Paris."
I stayed on for a few moments longer and let Basim overcharge me for an onyx signet ring that had once been worn by the chief chamberlain to Sultan Wazun of Aleppo. He saw me to the door and we bid farewell.
Eleven years have passed since I returned the Tale of the Two Queens to Basim's shop. For some months afterwards, whenever I opened an Arabist journal I expected to read some young Paris scholar's claim to have found Burton's missing manuscript, but no such paper was ever published. I returned from time to time to Basim's shop, where we sipped tea and talked of many things but never of the Tale of the Two Queens. I had thought that with profits from the sale of the manuscript he would surely replace the rotted plank at the entrance to his shop but each time I stepped in from the sunlight, it was to the creak of a patch of tin.
Eleven years have passed since I returned the Tale of the Two Queens to Basim's shop. For some months afterwards, whenever I opened an Arabist journal I expected to read some young Paris scholar's claim to have found Burton's missing manuscript, but no such paper was ever published. I returned from time to time to Basim's shop, where we sipped tea and talked of many things but never of the Tale of the Two Queens. I had thought that with profits from the sale of the manuscript he would surely replace the rotted plank at the entrance to his shop but each time I stepped in from the sunlight, it was to the creak of a patch of tin.
Two years ago, I retired from university and now amuse myself growing spices in a conservatory next to my cottage in Warwickshire. A year ago I learned from a younger colleague that Basim had died. His stock was bought by a well-known dealer from Cairo, and nothing of compelling interest was found.
I now feel free to tell the Tale of the Two Queens. I, like the Frenchman - if he ever existed - have let the original slip through my fingers. But I broke my word to Basim. The night before I returned the manuscript I copied it word for word.
Thus did the two Kings, Shahryar and Shah Zaman abide in perfect harmony, each ruling the kingdom a day in turn. And the people rejoiced, giving thanks that affliction had been lifted from the virgins among them and that King Shahryar and Shah Zaman were freed from the cark and care of faithless wives. All who lived within the realm prospered an hundredfold, for there was no man whose olive groves were not dark with fruit, whose flocks and herds flourished not, and whose waters ran not cool and pure like the streams of paradise. For three years did feast and bounty thus continue, but no man, be he lord or lazar, can escape the fate that is his alone, and only Allah is All-knowing.
Now when one day, as Scheherazade and Dunyazade disported themselves in the Hammam baths, they chanced to talk of the noble brothers the twain had wed. Each boasted in turn of the lofty one who was her King, and each regaled the other with talk of the mighty works her master wrought among the scented cushions of the bedchamber. And in the telling each o'erstepped the bounds of truth, and the two sisters, Scheherazade and Dunyazade, were seized with longing to taste the delights the other spoke so fondly of.
And Scheherazade, the elder, summoned up her wit and, bidding the Hammam attendants to withdraw, hatched a plot with Dunyazade, whereby the two might know whereof the other spoke. All was soon contrived, and the queens repaired to their quarters, laughing girlishly at the cunning of their craft.
So it was that not a fortnight thereafter, there appeared before King Shahryar's court, a figure heavy-robed and veiled in the manner of an old woman, who made plain her wish to speak with her sovereign. Forthwith she was admitted to the throne and, with all eyes upon her, spoke in a faltering voice:
"O great and puissant King, I come in supplication before my lord with a plea I would reserve for thine ear alone."
"What matter is this," replied the King, "that my grandees and wazirs are not fit to hear of?"
"O Commander of the Faithful," said the woman, "it is a matter of little note to one so august as thou, but signifies the everlasting joy of thy maidservant. I beseech three, therefore, O King, to hear my plea and to vouchsafe to thy maidservant thy sole attention."
At this the King commanded the company to withdraw and, turning to the old woman, bade her draw near and speak. When the woman saw that she was alone with the King, she threw off her outer garments and lo, it was a maiden, graceful as a gazelle, who stood before the King in naught but films of gauze. Her beauty was like the full moon, her belly like a sheaf of wheat, and her breasts a temptation to behold, but her veil she kept upon her and the King knew her not.
When the King beheld the woman's loveliness, he well nigh swooned away from amorous desire and in a voice like honey said to her, "Speak, my child. Whatsoever thy heart desirest of me shall be thine."
"Know, O Monarch of the Firmament,' replied the woman, "that I am the daughter of thy humblest but most devoted subject. Before his death there was none like him to keep thy law and to glorify thy name. But the shades o'ertook him when I was but a child, and he was gathered to his forefathers. I then became the ward of my father's brother, a whoreson knave of lowest sort who delights in nothing more than guile and mischievousness.
"This uncle, finding me comely, hast resolved to wed me to a wealthy man, a trader in ivory, incense and precious stones, and hopes thereby to fatten his coffers with my bride price. But this man, this trader, is a greasy lout with nose flabby like an eggplant, face like a cobbler's apron and lips like camels kidneys, loose and pendulous. In brief, a terror and a monster who hath no more charm than a dung beetle. In the temple of my heart there dwelleth instead a winsome youth of high birth who, though with gifts and faculties like unto a shining star, is a man of little wealth."
At this the King's brow knotted like a rope and he said unto the woman, "thou must know that no woman can wed without consent. This is the law of the Prophet - May his name be praised! - which no man, be he King or Emir, dare revoke."
"O noble King," said the woman, swaying gently to and fro with undulation like as to seduce a saint, "thy maidservant knows the law and all it signifies. It is not the law that I would change but my uncle's crass intent. It did once betide, O King, when I confessed my love for the youth and my disdain for the lout, that my uncle waxed wroth and rage was like to strangle him. My flesh, said he, were fit for a King's couch, and 'twere hopeless waste to squander it upon the penniless. Whereupon I seized upon his words and asked if he might free me from his will if the King, our lord, were to look upon me with favor.
"He then swore by the beard of the Prophet that on the day that I did lie with the King, betimes I would be free. Thus have I come before thee, O Monarch of the Ages, to request thy favor in holding this evil man to his covenant."
At this the King's heart leapt within his bosom and he would have futtered the lass forthwith, but restrained himself at the thought of his wazirs and grandees waiting upon him in the outer chambers with matters both weighty and pressing. And he spoke to the woman and said, "It pleaseth me to deliver thee from thy despair, O daughter of my Kingdom. This eventide when the moon is risen, return to the private gate in the East wall of the palace and knock thrice upon it. When the guard challengeth thee, say unto him that thou comest at the bidding of the King.
Then the lass came forward and prostrated herself before the king and taking his feet in her hands bathed them with tears of thanksgiving. "O Liege," said she, "blessed is thine handmaiden for the grace thou shedest upon her. But my evil uncle suspects my plan and watches my comings and goings. Six days hence he will be absent from his house and then it is that thy servant would beg favor of thee. E'en so, the youth who holds thy servant's heart in the palm of his hand is sickened and vexed that his lover should lie with so glorious a one as the King, in the perfumed splendor of the royal bedchamber. Thus have I sworn to him an oath neither to do this thing within the palace walls nor to show my face to our lord the King."
The woman then told of a bower in the shade of three fig trees where they might make assignation undiscovered. And the woman, whose ivory roundness at his feet was like a dagger in his heart, and whose scented body filled his nostrils with fire, prevailed upon the King and he granted all she wished. And she, rejoicing, kissed the ground before him, prostrated herself seven times, and donning her crone's clothing withdrew from the King's presence. The King, though striken with desire like unto the thirst of a desert wanderer, recalled his court and in good countenance performed his royal duties. But that night he tasted not the sweet food of sleep, so hotly did the fires within him burn.
On the morrow Shah Zaraan took his brother's place upon the throne and o'ersaw the business of the realm. And great was the astonishment of the assemblage when again a woman, veiled and dressed in robes of black, appeared and craved private counsel with the King. And again, when all wazirs and grandees had been banished from the room, the woman doffed her outer garments and stood before Shah Zaman, sweet as the gentlest zephyr, in youthful loveliness that smote his heart. She too recounted a tale of anguish and affliction that might only be set right by intimate attention from the king.
Now Shah Zaman was younger and more intemperate than his brother, and as quickly as the lass undraped her supple form his loins moved and straightaway did he rise to manful estate. He paid no heed to the tale she told and made to swive her then and there. But the woman, fearing to be discovered should the King partake of her treasure by light of day, restrained him, saying, "An thy wouldst have thy way with me, O King, it must needs be according to the mighty oath that I have sworn, for only thus may thy servant be released from grief and bondage." So saying, she covenanted with him to meet five days hence in a secret place beside a field of barley. When all was agreed and Shah Zaman had recomposed himself, she prostrated herself before him seven times and, resuming the habit of an old woman, withdrew.
Now Shah Zaman was younger and more intemperate than his brother, and as quickly as the lass undraped her supple form his loins moved and straightaway did he rise to manful estate. He paid no heed to the tale she told and made to swive her then and there. But the woman, fearing to be discovered should the King partake of her treasure by light of day, restrained him, saying, "An thy wouldst have thy way with me, O King, it must needs be according to the mighty oath that I have sworn, for only thus may thy servant be released from grief and bondage." So saying, she covenanted with him to meet five days hence in a secret place beside a field of barley. When all was agreed and Shah Zaman had recomposed himself, she prostrated herself before him seven times and, resuming the habit of an old woman, withdrew.
The court was struck with wonderment at these aged creatures who sought to speak in seclusion with their kings, but the royal brothers kept their own counsel and none dared question them. Five days went by and none among the grandees and wazirs gave e'en a passing thought to these events but King Shahryar and Shah Zaman were restless for the days to pass.
When came at last the appointed night, each king arose, girded himself in dark disguise, and brimming with thoughts of amorous sport, set out for his appointed meeting place. And lo, their two queens arose after them and making haste to powder and perfume their bodies, likewise set out beneath the stars, for verily 'twas Dunyazade who had hocussed her sister's master, King Shahryar, with talk of evil uncles, and Scheherazade who had frolicked before Shah Zaman.
Now the two kings, though they thought Scheherazade and Dunyazade each to be that thing so dear and rare, a faithful woman, remembered still the wanton treachery of their former wives. Thus had each commanded a doughty Mameluke, honest as an ax handle, secretly to watch over his queen by night to see that she slipped not away for faithless trysting. And these good men, one armed with a scimitar of keenest Damascus, the other with a spear of seven cubits, followed unbeknownst as the queens hastened forth.
Presently Queen Dunyazade came upon the bower beneath three fig trees, and finding King Shahryar therein, the two fell upon each other with shouts of joy. Thereupon, the Mameluke drew nigh unto the bower and seeing the queen abandon herself to the most lascivious tupping and clipping, did as his king had commanded him and, drawing his scimitar, in one mighty blow cut the two in four pieces. Likewise, when the slave in whose charge Queen Scheherazade had been put came upon the secret place by the barley field and found her in the thoes of lust and lewdness, he lifted up his spear and drove it home with such force that the lovers were skewered to the earth, locked even as they were in carnal embrace.
When, upon the morrow, the people learned of the tragedy that had befallen their kings, they rent their garments and plucked their beards from their faces, saying. "Woe be upon us, for ours was a land of justice and prosperity, but now Allah has struck down our rulers and we have none to govern us." And the grandees and wazirs quarreled among themselves, saying, "Now I shall be King," or again, "Nay, it is I who shall be King." Men rose up in arms against each other, carrying fire and sword through the land, and the fields were wasted, the date gardens left to ruin, and not a cobbler or basket weaver carried on his trade. The land was anon reduced to desolation, and for neighboring peoples it became a hissing and a byword and a symbol of the faithlessness of woman and the foolishness of man.
When, upon the morrow, the people learned of the tragedy that had befallen their kings, they rent their garments and plucked their beards from their faces, saying. "Woe be upon us, for ours was a land of justice and prosperity, but now Allah has struck down our rulers and we have none to govern us." And the grandees and wazirs quarreled among themselves, saying, "Now I shall be King," or again, "Nay, it is I who shall be King." Men rose up in arms against each other, carrying fire and sword through the land, and the fields were wasted, the date gardens left to ruin, and not a cobbler or basket weaver carried on his trade. The land was anon reduced to desolation, and for neighboring peoples it became a hissing and a byword and a symbol of the faithlessness of woman and the foolishness of man.
And so it is, and ever shall be, that the greatness of man is nothing to the greatness of Allah, whose Name be forever magnified. Glory to Him whom the shifts of time waste not away, who rewardest the righteous an hundred-fold and who drivest the wicked through the gates of Hell. All praise be to Allah, the Lord of Creation!
END