The Tale of a Singer

“The next moment, a glittering sabre blade flashed towards my neck.
I closed my eyes and when I opened them again… I was sitting in the
gaza harbour and, illuminated by the morning sun, playing the bala-
laika. That same morning I took a purple galley and sailed to Provence.
“There I met a young man whose tragic fate will shadow my heart
forever. His name was Jacques d’avignon and he was a troubadour, or
a rhapsodist, who wandered Provence with a guitar in his hands, look-
ing for love.
“When I told him that I was on the way to Cordoba in order to find
alma, he was delighted. “That’s love!” he cried and asked me to stay
in Provence for some time, so that he could learn to play the balalaika
(Baal-al-laik or string of the sun’s tear) and I could master the art of
writing ballads.
“Ballads (Baal-odes or the songs of love and death) originated in
Phoenicia,” he told me, “and were sung during the Phoenician holiday
the week of debauchery. Young men, skilled in playing the flute or the
balalaika, would sing a song and the queen of debauchery would de-
cide which song was the most beautiful. The lucky performer would
then spend one year in Baalbek, as alleluia and the queen’s lover.
“Ballads are the most beautiful poetical form,” he added, “because
one has to depict, in very few words, two biggest secrets in the universe
– love and death.” and then he sang one:

For centuries I seek a woman…
To give her my noble eyes, my gentle soul, all my gifts.
now I know that love I will never find.

For centuries I write a poem…
about love and beauty I sing, as for the pain, I keep silent.
now I know that death will heal all wounds.

“And only a few days later the white Provençal road brought us to
albi. But we did not know that the soldiers of Pope urban II had alrea-
dy arrived in this town, looking for some Cathari, who allegedly clai-
med that the world had been created by the devil and that in the eter-
nal struggle between good and evil, evil would prevail. as I said, those
cruel men waited for us at the gates of the town and took us with them.
“When we told them that we were simple rhapsodists looking for
love, they laughed at us scornfully and said, “This is the very place to
find it!” Then, on the charges that we were friends of the albigenses
and angels of evil, they condemned us to death. and on the same even-
ing, we were hanged.
“The next morning, as the purple rays cast their light upon the hill
above albi, I sat under the gallows singing a sad song and poor Jacques
d’avignon was streaming in the young wind. I dropped a tear, slung
the balalaika on my shoulder, and went to Cordoba.
“But as soon as I arrived there, a new misfortune befell me. This
time they did not cut off my head nor did they hang me, but if you
thought that death was the biggest misfortune, then you were greatly
mistaken. So, what happened? I learnt, my friend, that alma was not
in Cordoba!
“I learnt that the caliph’s caravan by which she was travelling had
been intercepted by Moorish pirates from the tribe of Tuareg – the
same one which al-Korta, my friend from gaza, came from! – who
then took her into the heart of the desert. and the bitter knowledge
that alma was not there and that my sufferings had been in vain was
worse than the worst death. But, as I said, I quickly pulled myself to-
gether and went to the black deserts of africa.
“as absurd as it would be to describe this journey, I still must say
that the sun did not move from the sky for months and that flames
burst out of the sand like the rays of a big fire. So I walked through a
living torch for months, dreaming of a deluge.
“and then, one starlit night, I felt fear for the first time. It seemed to
me that this time I was going to die, truly and forever. “I don’t want to
die!” I whispered to myself and for a moment closed my eyes. When I
opened them again, I found myself lying in the heart of an oasis, watc-
hing the young moon bathing in a spring. and when I turned around,
alma was standing beside me, holding a jug in her hands.
“alma…” I whispered, and she smiled and gave me the jug.
“I am sorry, ashug-Kerrib,” she said, “I have caused you much pain.”
She came to me and kissed me, and a tear dropped out of her eye. and
before I managed to say anything, she dropped another tear and then
turned around and left. and with her also departed the palms, the
birds, the spring and the stars.
“alma…” I whispered once more, then fell into the sleep of a right-
eous man.
“When I awoke again, I was riding on a two-humped Bactrian camel
along the coast of Phoenicia. and a few days later, I arrived in Baalbek.”
“and where are you going now?” I asked.
“Home to Samarkand,” he replied. “I want to rest from all this and
try to answer the question of whether alma had really existed. or did
I only invent her in order to accomplish this impossible journey and to
realize that love is a secret, like death.
“and if you want to,” he added, “you can try to answer the question
of whether I exist. or was I, too, invented by some idle rhapsodist, to
do all this instead of him and to serve him as a sign-post and a source
of consolation.”
He stood up and left, and I sat in front of the temple of god’s tear
for a long time and watched him, slowly walking out of our story and
disappearing among the young cypress trees.