You are the one I have been awaiting without knowing it. My thoughts leap out to reach you; I felt you should hear all the mysteries of my heart.’

‘What you feel,’ replied the stranger, ‘I feel as well, and I shall tell you something I have never even been able to admit to myself before. You thirst for something impossible, I thirst for something monstrous; you are in love with a peri, I am in love – don’t be aghast – with my sister! And yet, strangely enough, this illicit urge inspires no remorse in me; try as I might to reproach myself, I am absolved of all guilt by some mysterious force I feel within me. My love is pure of all earthly cravings. It is not lust that draws me to my sister, even though she is every bit as beautiful as the phantom of my visions; it is an attraction that cannot be defined, a love as deep as the sea, as immense as the sky, a love such as a god might feel. The very idea that my sister might wed another man fills me with horror and disgust: it would be utter sacrilege. Through the veils of her flesh, I can sense in her something that is not of this world. Though she bears the name of a mortal, she is in fact the bride of my immortal soul, the virgin promised to me from the very dawn of time. Every now and then, it is almost as if I could seize the evidence of our secret bond throughout the shadows of the ages. Scenes that took place before man’s appearance on earth come back to my mind, and I see myself sitting beneath the golden boughs of Eden with her by my side while obedient spirits minister to our every need. If I were to wed any other woman, I would be afraid of prostituting and dissipating the soul of the world that beats in my breast. By the concentration of our shared divine blood I hope to produce an immortal race, a definitive god far more powerful than all the divinities that have heretofore appeared on earth under various names and guises!’

While Yousouf and the stranger were thus opening their hearts to each other, the other regular customers of the okel, increasingly intoxicated, were drifting into ecstasies, flailing about madly, laughing hysterically, performing strange, convulsive dances. But little by little, as the effect of the hemp subsided, they grew calmer again and lay there sprawled out on the divans in the state of prostration that usually succeeds such immoderation.

A man of patriarchal demeanour, his long beard curling down over his flowing robe, entered the okel and stationed himself in the middle of the room.

‘Rise, my brothers,’ he said in a resounding voice. ‘I have been observing the sky; the hour is propitious for a sacrifice of a white cock in front of the Sphinx in honour of Hermes and Agathodaemon.’3

The Sabeans got to their feet and seemed about to follow their priest, but upon hearing what had been proposed, the stranger changed colour two or three times: his blue eyes went black, awesome furrows gathered on his brow, and he let out a low roar that caused everybody in the okel to tremble with fright. It was as if a veritable lion had appeared in their midst.

‘You godless creatures! Blasphemers! Loathsome beasts! Idol-worshippers!’ he shouted in a voice that echoed like thunder.

His explosion of anger left the crowd stupefied. The stranger had about him such an air of authority, he was ruffling the folds of his tunic with such imperious gestures that no one dared respond to his words of abuse.

The old man approached him and said, ‘Brother, what do you have against the ritual sacrifice of a cock to the good geniuses of Hermes and Agathodaemon?’

The mere mention of these two names was enough to cause the stranger to gnash his teeth.

‘If you do not share in the beliefs of the Sabeans, what are you doing here? Are you a follower of Jesus or Muhammad?’

‘Muhammad and Jesus are impostors!’ screamed the stranger in an unbelievably vehement tone of blasphemy.

‘You are no doubt a Parsee then, you worship fire …’

‘All that is just hocus-pocus, drivel, lies!’ exclaimed the man in the black tunic, growing ever more indignant.

‘Well, whom do you worship then?’

‘He’s asking me whom I worship! … I worship nobody, for I myself am God! The only God, the true God! All the others are merely my shadow.’

Upon hearing this unthinkably outrageous, utterly insane pronouncement, the Sabeans lunged towards the blasphemer. He would have certainly come to harm had not Yousouf shielded him with his own body and dragged him, kicking and screaming all the way, out on to the terrace overlooking the Nile. Shoving off from the shore with a swift kick of his foot, Yousouf got the boat out into the river. As they caught the current, he asked his friend, ‘Where should I take you?’

‘Over there by those lights, on the isle of Roddah,’ said the stranger, the night air having calmed his agitation.

With a few strokes of his oars, Yousouf reached the island. As he went ashore, the man in the black tunic offered his saviour a ring of ancient workmanship, adding, ‘Wherever it is you meet me again, all you have to do is present me with this ring and I shall do whatever you wish.’ Then he disappeared into the distance beneath the trees that line the river. To make up for lost time, Yousouf, anxious to participate in the sacrifice of the cock, sliced his oars through the waters of the Nile with redoubled vigour.

II

The Famine

Several days later, the caliph made his usual way from his palace to the Mokatam observatory. Everybody was accustomed to see him thus venture forth from time to time, riding on an ass and accompanied by a single mute slave. It was assumed he spent the night contemplating the stars, for he could be seen returning at the break of day in the same fashion. His palace attendants were all the more used to his comings and goings given the fact that he was merely following in the footsteps of his father, Aziz-Billah, and of his grandfather, Moëzzeldin, the founder of Cairo, both of whom were well-versed in the cabbalistic arts. But once he had observed the configuration of the stars and deduced that he was not for the moment under the threat of any danger, Caliph Hakim used to exchange his customary attire with his slave and, while the latter stayed behind in the tower to wait for him, would then make his way down into the city, having blackened his face somewhat to disguise his features, and mingle with the population so as to learn of secrets that might be of later use to him as a sovereign. It was in a similar disguise that he had lately slipped into the okel of the Sabeans.

On this particular day, however, Hakim made his way down to Roumelieh, a bustling square where the people of Cairo used to gather in shops or under trees to tell or hear stories and poems while sipping sugared drinks or lemonade accompanied by candied fruits. The various jugglers, almehs and animal showmen would usually attract quite a crowd, eager for entertainment after the day’s work. But this was no ordinary evening; the local population was seething and roiling like a storm-tossed sea. Here and there, angry voices rose above the din and bitter vociferations were ringing out on all sides. Amid the general uproar, the caliph could make out the repeated cry: ‘The public granaries are empty!’

Indeed, the people of Cairo had been quite worried about the possibility of a famine for several days now.