Chapter 20: The Letter

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SALMAN

  
A letter from his father. It nearly made Salman forget about his woes.

In the Name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.

Assalamualaikum, ibn! How do you fair? As for me, life in Baghdad has been indifferent. You know, things with the cobbler and all. I apologize for not writing to you for quite some time. Anything interesting that has happened on your side recently? I also pray that you are constantly improving on your swordplay as well. May Allah continue to bless you. How has Walid been to you? And also, I would love it if you tell me about some interesting comrades that you happen to meet.

With all the love inside me, Abdullah, your father.

Salman bit the tip of his quill as he thought of an answer. He had far too many questions, and he didn’t know if he had the strength to write them all.

‘By the way,’ he heard Yasir’s voice. ‘Why do you not find out about your grandfather?’
  
Salman turned his head and looked from his shoulder.
  
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
  
Yasir looked around, as if something that wasn’t supposed to be revealed was going to spill.
  
‘What do you know of Abdullah’s father?’ he asked.
  
‘I – I know nothing about him.’
  
His grandfather, Huraira, had died before Salman was born because of a reason that he didn’t know. Never once did his father ever mention his own father. It was one of the few moments of his life that he liked to keep to himself, and Salman always asked why that was the case.
  
‘Sometimes, in life, there should be secrets.’ He had told him.
  
Yasir looked at Salman with thoughtful, deep eyes.
  
‘The next time you write to your father, ask him about him.’ He said.
  
‘I have done that, and he didn’t answer my questions clearly.’
  
‘Guilt him into doing it.’
  
Salman wanted to vomit at the thought of him blackmailing his own father, his own abu.
  
‘Are you mad?’ Salman asked, his voice raising.
  
‘It is the only way,’ Yasir replied. ‘If you ask him about Huraira, then …’
  
Yasir paused for a bit, looking away, thinking of his next words. Salman would continue to wonder what Yasir would say, even sixty years later.
  
Yasir looked back at Salman again, this time, his eyes had an unidentifiable expression, like an empty well.
  
‘You will know worldly truths that only your father, the dunes, and Allah could tell.’
  
Salman shuddered simply thinking of that conversation. He wanted to resist the urge. Curiosity was his friend, yet also his greatest enemy. He had to learn to resist it, and yet, he was losing against it.
   
‘Then tell me about her! Please, Yasir!’
  
Yasir looked down at Salman, staring at his eager eyes. He sighed.
  
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But there are very few things that I know about her. I was a victim of her charisma. That is one thing that I can tell you.’
  
‘Did you – er – you know?’ Salman asked sheepishly.
  
Yasir shook his head.
  
‘Fortunately, no. But if you asked me that seventeen years ago, I would have said that I wish it was true.’
  
Salman blushed at the thought that Yasir could have been his father instead of Abdullah.
  
‘Is there anything else?’ Salman asked.
  
‘Not much is left to say. Perhaps there was that one time she had talked to me about eloping with someone.’
  
Salman’s eyes widened.
  
‘What did you say?’
  
‘I said that she was out of her mind. Luckily, my statement had brought some sense to her.’
  
‘And what was her relation with Abu before she married him?’
  
Yasir knitted his eyes, struggling to find memories. He sighed.
  
‘I’m sorry, Salman; I don’t remember seeing them together before marriage.’
  
Salman’s breath slowed down. He wanted to yell at himself. He bit his tongue, preventing that. He bit it so hard, he felt blood. He swallowed. Well, there it went. His final hope of finding out something about her mother. Why did he even bother having hope in the first place? Hope is something to keep a person alive. A cruel punishment, a torture. An escape from the pain, yet it caused pain itself.
  
He turned around.
  
‘But …’
  
Salman stopped.
  
‘I do remember her telling me about something …’
  
Salman turned around to face Yasir. His pupils began to dilate as if it wanted to suck in the next words Yasir might say.
  
‘She told me something about … about an oath.’
  
‘And? And?’ Salman ran forward.
  
He held on to Yasir’s arm. Demanding to know more. An oath. That might have given him some kind of clue. But what kind of oath was it? Was it a blood oath? For what? There were too many questions. He tried to ask all of them, but they twisted with each other, intertwined in a knotted manner when they came out of his mouth. All his words were unintelligible. Just as he had dreaded, Yasir shook his head.
  
‘I am sorry, that is all I know; really this time. Fatima’s life was so … secretive. You couldn’t know her, it was impossible. If you tried, all you would find is a tangle of information. And now that she is nowhere to be found, and there is no living relative of her left, I think her life will forever be a mystery buried in the dunes.’
  
Before he could help it, the tip of his quill had already made contact with the parchment.

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