The Tale of a Singer

One day I sat in front of the temple of god’s tear in Baalbek, listening
to the crickets singing joyfully in the crown of the cypress tree, when
a young man came along riding on a two-humped Bactrian camel, a
balalaika slung over his shoulder. as he came closer he smiled at me
innocently, then got off the camel and sat down beside me. and as if
we had known each other for years, I would even say for centuries, the
young man sadly sighed and began to talk.
“Dear friend,” he said, “after all that has happened to me I can’t tell
you for certain whether what I am going to tell you has really happened.
More precisely, whether it happened to me or to some other man who
lived instead of me. In other words, I don’t even know whether I have
lived at all.
“So, if I have existed or if I still exist, then my name is ashug-Kerrib
and I come from Samarkand. and my sufferings began the day I met
alma.
“alma (Baal-ma or the crying tear) was – and you can take my word
for it – the most beautiful girl under the sun and I was the best poet
in Samarkand. as you may guess, love flamed my heart and warmed
my soul.
“But then shocking news came to me – alma got married!
“She went to Cordoba,” they told me, “and there she became the
sixth wife of caliph al-gizah.” at that moment it seemed as if I saw
death itself, but I quickly pulled myself together and made a salutary
decision: I left Samarkand and, firmly decided, set out to Cordoba. I
had no foreboding, however, how long and troubled this journey
would be.
“first, I arrived in Shiraz where I met the famous poet and astron-
omer Khayyam and told him about the misfortune that had befallen
me. He listened to me attentively, and when I finished, here is what he
told me.
“as far as I know,” Khayyam said, “the distance between two stars is
smaller than the distance between two hearts. So, your sufferings are
in vain. But since alma, as you say, is so beautiful, then you, ashug-
Kerrib, can with good reason be proud of the beauty of your sufferings,
worthy of the best poet from Samarkand.”
“I took Khayyam’s words as comfort, and then left Shiraz. I went
to Palestine with the intention to embark a ship that would take me
to Cordoba, but soon a new misfortune befell me. apparently, the
Christians and Saracens were fighting over their holy land, but I
didn’t know that.
“As soon as I arrived in gaza some brigands intercepted me and,
with no explanation, clapped me into a dungeon. I tried to explain to
them that I belonged to Zarathustra’s faith and that I had nothing to
do with their war, but they told me that it would be much wiser to keep
my mouth shut.
“among the prisoners, who, with no exception, were cruel and biza-
rre, I would single out one man, whose fate in a strange way interlaced
with mine.
“ I am from the Sahara,” said al-Korta, as the man was called, “from
the proud tribe of Tuareg. When I realized that the arabian bedouins
had forced my ancestors to accept their faith, I raided the mosque in
fes and went abroad.
“on the shores of the red Sea I came across the Carmatians,  who
claimed that the Prophet was a liar and that the world was not created
by allah – but by Satan. I joined them and when the caliph from Bagh-
dad captured our chief and put him to death, we ravaged Mecca and
took the Black Stone with us. We threw it into the heart of the desert
and the soldiers of Baghdad’s caliph found it only twenty years later.
“Soon, however, I realized that I was neither a robber nor a murde-
rer and that I am strongest when I fight alone. I went to Persia where I
fought imam al-Sabah, because he was a tyrant, but I also fought the
robbers who robbed his caravans.
“and when these bedouins arrived, carrying the cross in one hand
and the sabre in the other, I came to Palestine. They captured me in the
battle by a purple river and that is how I got to the dungeon.
“That’s my story,” al-Korta said. “and you are going to Cordoba,” he
added, “and you will cover such a long way because of a woman. I’m
not going to persuade you that this is folly, although I know perfectly
well that love doesn’t exist. But I have to tell you this.
“It was in this very dungeon that Samson, the great hero from Phoe-
nicia, also spent his life. after leaving Baalbek, where he had spent a
year as alleluia, the one who carries the sun, he left his mistress astar-
ta and went out into the world. He wandered from town to town, flying
from one woman to another, and then he arrived in gaza and met
Delilah.
“and do you know what this bitch did to him? While he was asleep
in her arms, she cut his hair – the source of his strength. The Philisti-
nes then blinded him and threw him into the dungeon, where he spun
the mill wheel and ground Philistine corn. and so he who felt no fear
when faced by sixty bedouins and six lions at the same time, was over-
come by a woman! and now you go to Cordoba!”
“I spent three years in the dungeon in gaza. at the end of the third
year we received news that the Christians had suffered a crushing de-
feat and that, in retaliation, they would put us to death.
“The following morning they took us out and I watched with my
own eyes as they cut off heads, one after another. When it came to al-
Korta’s turn, he looked at me and smiled. “Death is a secret,” he whis-
pered, “just like love,” – and then his black head rolled into the dust.