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ANATAALISMA:

THE MOUNTAINS OF SALT

At a poetry soiree, Abdul-Wahab had been invited in Paris to be the chief guest of honour by Mme Blanchet. Mme Blanchet was a semi-mundane, and a musician, she loved displaying her music skills to her bourgeois friends, and entertain others. Her invitations were always accepted with anticipation. She was a generous lady and was known to have a certain wealth. None knew her well, but no questions were raised either. Her mansion was exquisitely decorated with antiques, and chandeliers, persian carpets, sculptures, her verandah was the favorite part, and in summer evenings, iron wrought tables made in province were set there in a stage like arrangement. Her garden was legendary, it was an orchard, and in the summer nights the fruity scents were both stimulating and soothing. There was too her incredible green house where she kept several kinds of orchids…she did not like flowers very much, she did not like those with thorns, or those that were used to decorate tombs at the graveyards…. Yes everyone in different part of France and other countries always gleefully opened her letters, and when there was an invitation card, they smiled broadly. After all who could have forgotten the soiree of last year, when her daughter did get engaged to the son of a famous lawyer. It had been an extravagant soiree, and she had spared no efforts to make it a success…She had engaged an orchestra and singers who sang the songs of La Rive Gauche, Edith Piaf, Mistinguet, Maurice Chevaliet…… Everyone had dressed up nicely, put on long dresses and wore exquisite hats, the men were attired in tuxedos too….The front of the mansion was lined with expensive cars from her limousine to the corvette of her son, to the Mercedes of her guests. The party had been a delightful event, but the climax of that party, everyone remembered and was the topic of many conversations, the maids had brought in the desert, the masterpiece of the French meal. It was a tall sculpture of petits choux, light pastry filled with a lighter vanilla cream, iced with a perfect coat of orange flower almond paste. -1/3-The Sufi Poet's Madness- Copyrighted Rahman, brigitte Arlette- All rights reserved.

 

She had stood up and said: " Well in honor of my beautiful daughter, Anataalie, I shall serve each of you your dessert." And so she had raised herself went to the side trolley, and as the maid handed over each guest's desert plate, she carefully placed one petit choux. They all waited, as per French courtesy, that she had regained her seat at the table to resume the meal… She smiled and said: "Warning for those of you who may not know, this is the masterpiece of this soiree, eat and chew before swallowing, chew three times." She said loudly: " I repeat, chew three times before you swallow…" They thought she was playing one of her games, or maybe she was a little inebriated from the joy of seeing the happiness on her daughter's face…But they were all gentle people, they said: "Yes, Madame, of course…" As they started to eat the dessert, each of them chewed and soon each face became perplexed, each guest took their serviette/napkin and proceeded to remove a hardness they had found in the cream, and soon each one gave a delightful shriek or laugh: in each petit choux, there was a solitaire diamond, they were 28 guests… She had planted 28 solitaires diamonds…Guests were shocked…and wanted to thank her, but she evaded the thanks with a smile. She laughed and said: Now to my lovely Anataalia, here is the necklace that my mother gave me" She opened an ecrin, and an incredible sparkle came out of there…everyone gasped as she took it out, it was a river of diamonds 280 solitaires…a fortune by any standard. That party was talked about it for years. Today again Mrs.Blanchet's mansion was the venue of a soiree, she mentioned that it would be a poetic soiree, she had invited an old friend from Mesopotamia, a famed Sufi poet Al Wahab. Everyone was eager to reach on time, the place was so deliciously relaxing and full of anticipation…As usual everything was perfect, petits fours topped with caviar and violet petals glazed with pink sugar were served to the guests. The anti-chambre was full with the most elegant people of Paris and other capitals of the world; an orchestra from Egypt was playing songs of Arabia in the Honor of that distinguished Poet that had been crowned the Prince of Poetry in many cities of the world. It was rumored that he would be one of the next Nobel Prize Winners. He was a man of 60 years, wearing a suit, impeccably groomed; he was with a walking stick of rosewood with a handle of pure silver. There was a look of a faded Rudolph Valentino in him, somehow, that was appealing. Anaatalia had come too with her husband, and she was magnificent, she wore an embroidered dress of Arabia, and everyone stared at her in amazement, she was Sheherazade reincarnated. Soon Mrs.Blanchet clapped her hands and said: "Silence everyone, take your seat, and let us enjoy the poetry that our distinguished Poet will speak out to you from his heart to your heart…. The Egyptian orchestra stopped and the stage manager signed them over to play the next melody, it was a gentle Arabian melody based on three instruments the flute, the canoon and the ood… Al Wahab stood in the middle of the podium and started reciting his poetry. It was magical, from the prison rhymes he had written when he had been captured and jailed for his beliefs to the softer poems of love, the flow went uninterrupted. Everyone was under his spell…. None spoke; his fiery stare and gentle voice hypnotized everyone…. " The white dove in my heart refuses to eat I tried to feed her sweet words and serenades But she will not eat. The wailing of her anguish Maddens my days and nights .." He recited… Some strange noise came from the background, like a sob…. None really looked as everyone was enthralled by the poetry…. Soon everything was over, and the Egyptian orchestra proceeded to play dynamic music and Mona Ayyed, the most famous belly dancer of Egypt, was dancing on a mesmerizing music, she was quite a sight too, and everyone was too hypnotized by her dance…. It was so vibrant, so oriental… The soiree was another success. Mrs.Blanchet and her son in law were engaging the guests into conversations, gleaming with pride. Everyone was there, except Abdul-Wahab and Anataalie who were in the green house… Anastaalie was sitting near an orchid, crying gently….she heard some footstep coming closer as she looked up, Abdul-Wahab said: I am so sorry Anataalie, I should not have recited those verses. -2/3-The Sufi Poet's Madness- Copyrighted Rahman, brigitte Arlette- All rights reserved.

 

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She said: "yes, you should not have, those were the verses you last wrote to me". He said: " yes, I could not help it". She said: " Have you got your reply?" He said: " I look for no reply, I am a Sufi I have no expectations". She asked: " Has she died?" The poet replied: " She is dying, yes, she tries to do so but she cannot die and you know why? He said: please let her die, I am a prisoner of your heart, free me…You have captured my soul and as long as the white dove is alive, I am tortured. Let go of me, Anataalia All my life is in vain, cannot you understand?" She said : "No." And they both looked back on their lives and remembered how they had met the first time. Mrs.Blanchet had rented a villa for the summer in Madrid, and Abdul Wahad was occupying a villa was next to theirs, he was a cultural attache of some embassy. They used to meet. She was 15 and he had fallen madly in love with her. It was so easy to do, she was so very beautiful, many did fall in love with her, and she was used to it. But he was different, he was so unique. He came and said: I had a Sufi land in my soul until you, and none and nothing could tie me to life or death. He repeated this over and over, but it was too late, he had fallen for her. She said nothing. And he would pursue her, bring gifts and poems and wait for her, but she always said no. He had felt so much pain…. Once his friends said: " Abdul Wahab let us go to a nightclub" He said: "Yes, my soul has got to be tested… They laughed and said : "Spanish women are something else" He said "I really do not care, let us go and we shall see. My soul cannot be possessed by a woman" As he said this he felt a sharp stab in his heart, he heard Anataalia's soft voice. They went and sat at a table close to the stage…It was a great place, everyone seemed to enjoy themselves so well, but he was bored, the stage programme was boring…women…suddenly something struck him hard, there she was on the stage, she wore a wig, had put make up but it was her…. And he became mad: he shouted aloud…. Anataalia…It was she, she run from the stage and disappeared into the night… He went home and cried all night: he had wanted to give her respect and gentle love, why was she doing this there? How? He did not understand, he was mad with grief and disbelief. In the early hours of that morning, he heard a knock and she was at the door. He said: "Anataalie, go, please, I cannot see you". She said. "Yes". He said: "Yes what Anataalie?" She said. " Yes, tonight, yes." He felt his heart breaking, his soul ripped open as he cried: "Can you not understand Anataalia, we are finished before we even started, and I could never love you now. Never. Go away." The next day, he left and mailed her one poem:   I just cannot find the words to tell you this. But yes perhaps the incantation formed In the crater of my heart is the white dove within I cannot tell her what to do, she is pure She had been made to sing bliss Then strangled by a tyrannical hand that Needed to control the flow of her life The white dove in my heart refuses to eat I tried to feed her sweet words and serenades But she will not eat. The wailing of her anguish Maddens my days and nights She trusted for the first time She came to nestle in your hand, You closed your fist on her to capture and torture her. Yes I think I did find the words to tell you Let her be, she does not have long to live And what if she remembered a few of your lies? Let her be, she is dying a painful death She will never come to you again...   He sent her that poem…. And they never met again till now. Today was one day after some ten years, and he had been haunted by her ever since. He had not long to live; he wanted to be free of her, to go to the Sufi Land of the Soul…. That is why he had come to Mrs.Blanchet soiree, for that sole purpose. To regain his freedom, to feel and feed on the disgust of that fatal night and be finally free from her. But as he looked upon her loveliness in the green house, he knew that he would forever be a earthbound spirit, and that his poems would be the poems of eternity, that he would be put next to Shakespeare, as his soul in pain would never rest. Ever. He left the next day, and soon the news came that he had died in a plane crash, his body was never found. Copyrighted by Rahman,Brigitte -3/3-The Sufi Poet's Madness- Copyrighted Rahman, brigitte Arlette- All rights reserved.