217 Babel Street | Apartment 11
And this I know: whether the one True Light,
Kindle to Love, or wrath-consume me quite,
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
Mustafa poured the wine to let it breathe, and in that moment, the words returned, singing in his ear from a decade away. His teacher had made him stand. He hadn't understood poetry but neither had he wanted to get the words of a great poet wrong. His throat went dry. He didn't know where to put his hands - in his pockets, or hanging down like a dumb gorilla's? Runny-nosed Ahmed sniggered. But he willed breath into his throat and, against everyone's expectation, against his own, he heard the Rubaiyat come out of his mouth.
Oh if the World were but to re-create,
That we might catch ere closed the Book of Fate
And make The Writer on a fairer leaf
Inscribe our names, or quite obliterate!
He looked up. Fehmi was regarding him strangely in the window reflection. So he turned away, busying himself with candles and an old cassette of Turkish music.
Ah Love! Could you and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits - and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
The door buzzer blasted him into the here and now. "You get it," he instructed. "No, you," countered Fehmi."It's your flat," argued Mustafa. And they stood, arms crossed, feet apart.