{"id":35461,"date":"2024-12-06T10:10:41","date_gmt":"2024-12-06T08:10:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/?p=35461"},"modified":"2024-12-06T10:10:41","modified_gmt":"2024-12-06T08:10:41","slug":"the-time-travels-of-the-man-who-sold-pickles-and-sweets-an-excerpt","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/the-time-travels-of-the-man-who-sold-pickles-and-sweets-an-excerpt\/","title":{"rendered":"The Time-Travels of the Man who Sold Pickles and Sweets<\/em>\u2014an Excerpt"},"content":{"rendered":"
Temporal displacement: the author\u2019s alter ego wanders through ancient streets and gates of the Mamluk era, meets Egypt\u2019s greatest historian al-Maqrizi, and has a run in with a grumpy Andalous scholar and mystic, Ibn Arabi.<\/span><\/h5>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Khairy Shalaby<\/span><\/h4>\n

Translated from Arabic by Michael Cooperson<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWhat year is this?\u201d \u201c792\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I had ended up in the wrong time. I walked away, wondering how to get back to where I had come from. But the crowd pulled me along, this time to a festive tent full of watermelons and a throng as big as any in late-twentieth-century Egypt. Sitting nearby was <\/span>Maqrizi<\/span><\/a>. I thought he might be waiting for a watermelon to take home to his family, but he turned out to be questioning a boy who looked like a vagrant. I asked what he wanted from him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe and one of his friends work in the stables,\u201d said Maqrizi. \u201cOn this blessed Ramadan night, they stole some twenty watermelons and approximately 30 wedges of cheese.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\"The<\/a>
Published by AUC Press<\/a> in Cairo.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

\u201cDo the melons and cheese belong to you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I\u2019m only asking him how he did the deed, so I can write it down.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou,\u201d I said, \u201care a truly great man.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He looked at me suspiciously. \u201cDidn\u2019t I see you being arrested by Gohar\u2019s troops?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I admitted it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo what do you want, exactly?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI have an invitation to break the fast with <\/span>Mu\u2018izz<\/span><\/a>, the Fatimid caliph.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOn the occasion of what?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe \ufb01rst Ramadan to be celebrated in Cairo.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGo back the way you came,\u201d he said. \u201cAt the moment, you\u2019re walking along a line between the two palaces. The Fatimid caliphate has fallen to the Ayyubids, and the square\u2019s been thrown open to the public, as you can see.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He must have realized that I was a person of some importance, especially after I balanced my Samsonite briefcase on my knee and opened it with an impressive click. I brandished the gold-engraved invitation card from Mu\u2018izz, thinking that even if the visit didn\u2019t work and I found myself busted \ufb02at I could sell the gilt to a goldsmith. That\u2019s why I kept it at arm\u2019s length and why my hand trembled when Maqrizi reached for it, hoping to read it: the card itself was so splendid that I should be able to pawn it for cash if I had to.<\/span><\/p>\n

Maqrizi smiled. \u201cWhere were you before you came here?\u201d \u201cI was coming from the Mosque of Husayn, going through the gate on the other side past the souvenir shops toward<\/span><\/p>\n

Mu\u2018izz Street. The next thing I knew, I was here.\u201d \u201cGood enough,\u201d he said. \u201cSee that big gate?\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the Daylam Gate. It overlooks the courtyard called Bashtak Palace Square. If you walk through the courtyard, away from the Storehouse of Banners, you\u2019ll end up at Husayn. It\u2019s actually right behind you, but there are a good many years in between. From the Daylam Gate you can go through to the Saffron Cemetery Gate, which is the burial ground for the caliphs and their families. By the way, the Saffron Cemetery is going to be the site of the Caravanserai of al-Khalili. Have you heard of it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve never seen the caravanserai, but in my time <\/span>Khan al-Khalili<\/span><\/a> is world-famous.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He nodded and then said as if it were only a day between, \u201cAll that\u2019s left is the name. One more for Egypt to remember!\u201d He continued, \u201cAnyway, between the Daylam Gate and the Saffron Cemetery Gate are the seven passages the Caliph uses on the bon\ufb01re nights to reach the observation tower on al-Azhar Mosque, where he and his family sit and watch the \ufb01res and the crowds. You can go through Saffron Cemetery Gate to Reeky Gate.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s that?\u201d I exclaimed.<\/span><\/p>\n

He pointed to a grand old gate and said, \u201cThat\u2019s it.\u201d \u201cThe gateway\u2019s still there in my time, too! I\u2019ll stand in front<\/span> of it and hold on\u2014maybe it\u2019ll pull me from the bottom of time up to the surface. From there I can come back down the well the right way.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Smiling, Maqrizi asked if I was invited to break the fast. When I said I was, he asked me if I knew what \u201cReeky Gate\u201d meant. I said I didn\u2019t.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt means \u2018Kitchen Gate,\u2019\u201d he said. I looked toward it longingly. Maqrizi tugged at me gently and sat me down at his side. Then he pulled out a pocket knife\u2014not a switchblade, which would have been illegal\u2014with a handle elegantly decorated with Quranic verses and radiant Islamic designs. He rolled one of the watermelons over, tapped on it like an expert, stuck the knife into it and cut twice, then drew out an enormous slice and offered it to me with the suggestion that it would cool me down. I buried my whole face in it, indifferent to the mess it would make of my suit, tie, and shirt collar. As he sedately carved out a piece for himself, Maqrizi asked, \u201cDon\u2019t they have watermelon in your time?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, by God,\u201d I said, \u201conly something like it, that goes by the same name.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMay God rest the soul of <\/span>Ibn Arabi<\/span><\/a>, who wrote: \u2018When Jupiter enters Gemini, food becomes dear in Egypt. The rich become few and the poor many, and death takes from them its tithe.\u2019\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo when does Jupiter enter Gemini?\u201d I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cEvery 30 solar years,\u201d he said. \u201cIt stays there about 30 months.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIbn Arabi was right about some things,\u201d I said, \u201cbut the more poor people there are, the more rich people too\u2014and the higher their property values.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIn that case,\u201d said Maqrizi, \u201cCairo\u2019s sign of Aries must still be ascendant.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s almost time,\u201d I said, \u201cfor me to meet Mu\u2018izz!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI happen to know that Mu\u2018izz arrived here at his palace on the seventh of Ramadan, ah 362.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNow I can get there with no trouble,\u201d I said, writing the date in my appointment book. \u201cI\u2019ll just take the direct bus.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I bid him farewell. Embarrassed at the condition of my suit, I tried cleaning it off with a handkerchief, but discovered that all the dust in Cairo had come off my face onto the cloth. Laying it on my wrist, I folded it over to get the clean side up; but every time I did, I would start sweating again and have to wipe my face, which dirtied the handkerchief all over again. The prospect of facing Mu\u2018izz\u2019s guards in that condition was a depressing one. I might even be arrested and interrogated by the police, with unpleasant consequences. Leaning against the Reeky Gate, I ran a hand over it. It stood \ufb01rm and strong: not a relic yet. People were staring at me, some suspicious, others amused.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe must be a Crusader,\u201d said a young donkey-driver. \u201cFool!\u201d said a tripe-seller pushing his cart. \u201cHe\u2019s a Turk.\u201d A peddler girl joined in: \u201cNo, he\u2019s a Daylami!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Poking at her with his staff, an old man launched into a rant: \u201cTurks, Daylamis, Zuwayla, Franks, Persians: there\u2019s no way to know where anyone\u2019s from anymore!\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The peddler girl stopped in the middle of the crowd and turned to face the old man \u2014 and me, too. She was beautiful: a product of Turkish, French, Greek, Persian, Caucasian, or Ethiopian blood, or most likely of all of them together, and a descendant of one of the former palace slave women and an emir, perhaps. Looking me over, she pronounced with formidable authority, \u201cPoor thing! He must have been captured by slave traders centuries ago and wandered off on his own. Are you still lost, sweetie? Don\u2019t worry, someone here will give you a place to sleep and bread to eat. What a city: cruel and tender all at once! This jinx of an old man thinks I\u2019m an ignorant girl or a common whore, but he should know that I\u2019m a lady of the day, not only of the night; and I can read and write, too. All those kings and emperors started out as slaves, but they fought and plot and schemed until they came to power\u2014and turned into bloodsuckers!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The old man curled his lower lip in distaste, brandished his stick, and said, \u201cGet away from me, you she-devil! Go back to your house in Dar el-Ratli, or wherever the hell you live.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

With a sprightly bow, she said, \u201cAll of Cairo is my home. You spend the night in any one of the 100 open mosques, but I spend the night in the hundreds of eyes enchanted by my beauty and the hundreds of hearts move by my plight. My plight is theirs and theirs it mine; and how pretty a plight I have!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She turned, making the light sparkle on her costly frock, and disappeared into the crowd. The old man shook me, saying, \u201cMy name \u2026 My name is \u2026\u201d When he saw that I was paying no attention to him, he shook the stick in my face and walked away, muttering to himself. When he vanished, he seemed to have given the whole scene permission to vanish as well. For an instant, I could see nothing, though my head was filled with the echoes of sweet voices softly chanting songs of Spain.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Ibn Shalaby, like many Egyptians, is looking for a job. 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