Conjunction

Malik Mufti

On a cool and starless Aleppo night in the month of Rabi` al-Awwal, on the 338th year after our Prophet's Hegira, the renowned poet Abu l-Tayyib al-Mutanabbi stumbled across the philosopher Abu Nasr al-Farabi's little garden. "He keeps even the weeds well-tended," he muttered to himself, "but can't be bothered to put up a lantern on his door so a night visitor doesn't break his neck."

Coming up to the house – a tiny hovel, really – with his neck intact, Abu l-Tayyib knocked and entered. Abu Nasr was sitting by his fire next to an unfamiliar young man. "Abu l-Tayyib, what an auspicious surprise," he said warmly and introduced the young man as a fellow poet from a town some 14 farsakhs southwest of Aleppo. "Come, sit with us. We are discussing the art the two of you practice."

"And what brilliant conclusions have you reached?" Abu l-Tayyib asked grumpily. He had not come to discuss poetry, least of all with a bare-faced stripling, nor to bandy theoretical abstractions with his old friend.

"Conclusions are elusive," the philosopher replied and, seeing his guest's mood, shifted the subject. "But how goes it with you on this fine night?"

The poet hesitated, glancing at the young stranger. Abu Nasr reassured him: "My guest here is a trusted friend, and has no dealings with the court. I can vouch for him."

"The old wizard reads me as clearly as ever," Abu l-Tayyib grumbled to himself. "Am I that transparent?"

"In any case," Abu Nasr went on, "he has more to fear from the court than you do."

"I fear nothing," Abu l-Tayyib shot back.

"Ah: To what height do I ascend; what great thing do I fear?

All that God created, and all that He has not,

Are contemptible to my will ..."

"Do not recite my own lines to me, Abu Nasr."

"Certainly no one denies your courage, my friend. Now tell me, what is agitating you?"

Why had he come to him? It was a cursed weakness. All his life he had been drawn to such men: older, self-possessed, seemingly capable of bending everyone around them to their will without giving up anything of themselves. What did it say about himself, the poet wondered, that he sought solace from a man who barely survived on the sultan's meager stipend, supplemented only by the few vegetables he cultivated in his garden, and which he spent mostly on the candles that illuminated his nighttime studies? He glanced at the young stranger, but he seemed to have dozed off, reclining back on a pillow, facing straight into the fire, eyes half-open in that way some people have when they sleep.

Finally, Abu l-Tayyib replied: "As you have probably guessed, trouble at the court." The sultan was angry at him, and had rebuked him insultingly in front of the entire retinue.

"Why?"

"Because his lackeys are trying to turn him against me."

"Out of jealousy?"

"Obviously. Since we're quoting my poetry: How can one who towers not be envied,

When his feet are above the heads of all?"

"And now you want to retaliate with some verses of hijā'."

"Lampooning is my greatest weapon. My invective will resound through the ages."

"No doubt. But to what end?"

"Don't start again with that, Abu Nasr. You know very well to what end."

"Yes, you certainly make no secret of your love of glory. But do you really think you're going about it the right way? By intriguing against a nest of scorpions and annoying their master? How far will that get you?"

"Cowards think weakness is intelligence;

That is the self-deception of base nature."

Abu l-Tayyib immediately regretted this outburst, knowing what would come next.

"Need I complete your verse, my friend: ... and nothing is like courage in a wise man. If we ... "

"I know you think politics is a waste of my time," the poet interrupted.

"You're not listening to me. On the contrary; I care more for politics than you do. But it's a wonder that I have to lecture poets about the conditional and targeted uses of eloquence." Abu Nasr leaned back. "Neither of you ever knows when to shut up."

Abu l-Tayyib looked at the stranger and smiled. He turned to his host. Instead of saying anything more, however, Abu Nasr reached out and clasped him tenderly by the shoulder; a clasp the poet perceived as a gesture of understanding, friendship, but also pity that sent a shiver through his body, as if in memory of something that hadn't happened yet. This was why he had come tonight.

Outside, in the silent sky, the clouds parted for a moment, allowing the moon's beams to flood over Aleppo, before closing up again and plunging the land back into darkness.

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Malik Mufti teaches political science at Tufts University near Boston, Massachusetts. His writings focus on Near Eastern politics and political philosophy. His most recent book is The Art of Jihad: Realism in Islamic Political Thought (SUNY Press, 2019).

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