of the Humr all children she bore him would be freeborn, full members of his lineage, and that he would lavish wealth upon them so they would have plenty to take good care of her after he was summoned to Paradise.
In spite of his kindness, she’d run away at the first opportunity, fleeing back to the Nuba. She’d taken their infant with her, and the loss of him had widened the hole in Ibrahim’s heart. It tortured him to think of the boy, growing up among savages, never learning all the things a father could teach about cattle and soil and grasses. What did he look like? Was he well and strong, or sick, and if sick, who among those heathens with their kujurs and silly superstitions could heal him?
What had he done to earn this torment? Ya Allah! He knew. He’d sinned, bribing the woman who was to circumcise Yamila not to do it but to pretend she had, and then bribing her further to ensure her silence. It was then that he’d bestowed the name Miriam on Yamila, proclaiming to his kinsmen that the concubine was now a Muslim, and he supposed that public falsehood had aggravated his offense. His thoughts were turning bitter again, his longing congealing into anger. You would think that Miriam would have shown some appreciation and gratitude; he’d damned his own soul for her sake. It was she who’d begged him not to allow her to be cut, though he’d granted her wish for his own sake, too. Circumcision would prevent her from taking pleasure in the sexual act, and the pleasure she got from it had heightened his own, so much so that he’d begun to neglect his wives. Abruptly, his emotions swung back to longing. Oh, the way she would whisper “I am here,” and then turn over on the sleeping mat and arch her back, presenting herself like a lioness in heat, and then make sounds in her throat and move against him, the little stifled cries and the thrusts of her buttocks restoring the powers of his youth. Surely she could not have taken such delight from him if she didn’t love him. Surely she could not have been deceiving all that time. Everything was in God’s hands. Perhaps God had willed Miriam to escape with their son to punish him for his sins. If that were so, then he had to submit himself to God’s will, but he was incapable of such resignation.
“Ya, uncle. It was a thorn.”
“What?”
“In Barakat’s leg.” Abbas showed him the thorn, long as a man’s thumb. “It was in very deep. I pulled it out with my teeth,” he said, baring his teeth, which were strong and white and straight.
“Barakat can be bad tempered. You’re lucky he didn’t kick you in the head.”
“God told him I was trying to help him, and so he was quiet.”
“You see the hand of God in every little thing.”
“I see it because it’s there.”
Ibrahim Idris again motioned at his saddlebags. “I wish to further test what you learned. Read to me what the book says about the coveting of women, if you can find the verses.”
“I think I can.” Abbas sat down with the Koran opened in his lap, his lips moving as his finger moved across the pages. “Yes, here it is. The twenty-third sura. It says a man may know only his wife and the captives he possesses. If he covets any woman beyond these, he is a transgressor.”
“So it’s not a sin to covet a captive woman?”
“The verse is very clear.”
Then Ibrahim spotted Kammin, his chief servant, and called to him. “Make fresh tea and tell my guests I’m ready to receive them.”
Kammin, a good Dinka who’d converted to the faith, jerked his head in acknowledgment, removed the pot from the fire, and went off.
“Ya, Abbas! Have you cleaned your rifle yet?”
“Of course, uncle. It’s the first thing I do every morning.”
“Go somewhere and clean it again. I wish to speak to my guests in private.”
Led by Kammin, the Messiriya trader Bashir approached with his companion. They sat down, folding their legs, and Kammin poured them each a glass of tea and they exchanged greetings with their host, who asked if they’d slept well. They looked tired. Bashir scratched his beard and replied that the hospitality of Ibrahim Idris made the hardest ground as soft as a bed.
“A new acquisition?” he asked, gesturing at Bashir’s wristwatch. “It looks very dear.”