IGMS Issue 42 Page 7

  I nodded, thinking of how uncomfortable he must have been in his suit. Thick hairs matted against his skin between his socks and ends of his trousers.

  "Can you tell me what you do?"

  I shrugged. Most of the time I was simply entertaining myself, and any enjoyment the tribe derived was incidental. "I make puzzles."

  "What kind of puzzles? Tell me one."

  I glanced at my father. He remained silent, his expression stone-like. I couldn't understand his anger. Why wasn't he proud?

  I stared at the whorls of steam that eddied off my coffee, thinking. "Every bayt in the tribe is entitled to one jar of goat's milk per day. However, there are only two milk pitchers. One holds three jars, the other five. How can every bayt get their fair share without spilling any milk?"

  The professor grinned, but remained silent.

  I looked around the circle, watching the men think. This was my favourite part: to catch a wry turn of the lip or a sudden rise of the brows -- to share in the thrill of revelation.

  I realized that some of the men had found the answer, but they were reluctant to answer before the sheikh. It must've been one of my first lessons in politics. It wouldn't be my last.

  "If I might be permitted --" the professor began diplomatically.

  "Of course," the sheikh replied, neatly solving the majlis' dilemma. "Go ahead."

  "The three jar pitcher is filled, and its contents poured into the five jar pitcher. Then the three jar pitcher is filled again, and the five jar pitcher filled to the brim. Thus there is left one jar in the three jar pitcher."

  Murmurs of approval and gasps of understanding filled the tent.

  "Here's one for you, Ismail," Professor al-Wahab said, staring up in thought. "A wise king's beautiful daughter is sought in marriage by three princes. To ensure his daughter marries the most intelligent prince, the king devises a test. The three princes are brought into a room, and sat in a triangle facing each other. On the floor between them are three white hats and two black hats. They are blindfolded and three of the hats are placed on their heads, while the other two are removed. The princes are told that when their blindfolds are removed they must work out the colour of their own hat from the what they see before their eyes. The right answer will win them the king's daughter in marriage. The wrong answer, death." He paused, taking a sip of his coffee. "Now, imagine you are one of the princes. Your blindfold is removed, and you see that the other two princes wear white hats. After a short while, neither of the other two princes has answered. What colour is your hat?"

  I remember picturing myself as that prince, sitting in a pristine, marble-white chamber, facing my two rivals. When neither answered quickly, the colour of my own hat was obvious.

  "White," I said.

  "Are you sure, Ismail? The pain of death awaits the wrong answer."

  The answer was clear, no doubt in my mind. "My hat is white. If my hat were black, the other two princes would see one white hat and one black hat. They would quickly realize that their own hat couldn't be black for that would mean the other Prince would see two black hats and immediately realize his own hat must be white. Thus they would realize their own hat must be white. Since neither prince gives this answer, there can be no black hats. All the hats are white."

  I could tell the men were impressed, for awed whispers met my words.

  "Very good, Ismail. Your grasp of logic is impressive." The professor turned his head to the sheikh. "He shows great potential. Would you permit me to stay longer in order --"

  "You are welcome to stay as our guest for as long as you like." The sheikh picked up the silver, slender-necked coffee-pot, and poured the professor another cup. "We should, however, discuss all the --" the sheikh stroked his chin, seeking the right word "-- eventualities." He turned to me. "Ismail, you may go now."

  I stood up, obedient, but disappointed I couldn't stay longer. In the professor I sensed a man of insight and curiosity, a kindred spirit who would understand me, not as a source of throwaway puzzles, but as a like-minded individual -- even if I was only a boy.

  Most of all I wanted to know what he intended for me.

  "Ismail," the professor said before I'd gone a single step, "another puzzle for you. An emperor is preparing for the biggest celebration of his reign. The day before the party, after gathering a thousand bottles of his finest wines from his cellars, he discovers that one of the bottles has been poisoned. Anyone drinking even the smallest drop of the poisoned wine will die within a day. He has a thousand slaves at his disposal, but he would rather use the condemned men awaiting execution in his prison. What is the smallest number of men he must use to determine which bottle is poisoned?"

  I understood the problem, but I couldn't begin to fathom an answer.

  "It is not an easy problem," the professor said, "but see if you can make some headway."

  I nodded, knowing that I wouldn't rest in my pursuit of the answer. I skipped out of the tent, enthused, but nervous, glancing once at my father.

  His expression was still grim.

  The men spoke for many hours.

  It was long after nightfall, long after I'd pulled the goat's hair blanket over my body, that I heard my father come in. He stroked my cheek, whispered blessings. I feigned sleep. My mind was far from the world of dreams, the strange visitor foremost in my thoughts. I hoped that my mother and father might talk, and that I might learn something about his plans.

  Through the slit of my eye I watched my father slip under the blankets beside my mother.

  I was in luck.

  "Al-Habib," my mother muttered, rousing herself from slumber, "you're freezing." She coughed, the illness that had beset her many moons ago worsening by the day.

  From the silhouette of their huddled form I could tell my mother held my father close, gave him warmth. Whenever something occupied his mind he would hike a short distance from the camp and stare at the stars. He always said if you looked hard enough the constellations offered guidance from Allah.

  "He wants to take Ismail, doesn't he?"

  I held my breath, trying to hear my father's reply. My heart hammered loudly in my chest.

  "Yes."

  My mind cartwheeled. I felt afraid but excited. Where would I travel? What would the professor teach me? Why did he need me?

  There was a desperate edge to my mother's next words. "The sheikh --"

  "-- has to think of the tribe. The wells are dry, the animals are starving. Professor al-Wahab promises much wealth in exchange-"

  "He is not to be bartered like a camel!" My mother raised herself into a sitting position, gave out a long hacking cough. "We can leave, join another tribe --"

  "No. That would only bring shame." My father sat up, placed a hand on my mother's shoulder. "Think. With the money we can buy medicine for you."

  It was only then that I realized I wasn't the only one whose life was about to change. I was an only child. My leaving would be devastating.

  My father sighed. "I am not happy with this, but who are we to question Allah's will?"

  My mother had no answer to that, only tears.

  She cried for a long time that night.

  In hindsight I am sure Professor al-Wahab could have left with me the next day. There was nothing more for him in the desert, nothing but discomfort and delay from his work. Instead, he accepted the hospitality of the tribe -- partaking in the feasting, listening to the tales of the elders, sharing prayer times. When he wasn't involved with these duties, he would spend time with me asking about my family, tracing shapes in the sand, talking about the night sky and the secrets of the heavens.

  I understand now that as well as beginning to prepare me for what lay ahead, he was giving me the chance to find peace with the fact it might be long years before I returned. I am grateful for that. During those last few days I experienced long hours of wonderment, punctuated by moments of sadness. The hidden beauty of the cosmos was being revealed to me, but I would soon be leaving everyone and everything
I knew.

  Whenever I asked him where I would be going, or why he had come for me, all he would say was "All in good time, Ismail. All in good time." He said that it would be an adventure, that I would see amazing things, and that I would be contributing to a noble endeavor. The mystery scared me as much as it thrilled me.

  When I wasn't with him I helped my mother and father with their work -- mending pots and making saddles -- all the while turning the puzzle about the emperor and his poisoned wine over and over in my mind.

  I understood that if each of the thousand bottles was drunk by a different set of men, then the pattern of deaths would reveal which bottle was the poisoned one. Exactly how many men were needed to create the required sets stayed out of reach, however.

  It wasn't until the morning of our departure, three days after the professor had arrived, that the answer came to me. I'd led a couple of the tribe's goats over to a near-dry watering hole and was watching them drink, when I realized there were four combinations of drinking patterns for two goats: both abstain; one abstains, one drinks; the other abstains, the other drinks; and both drink. Therefore two men would be needed if there were four bottles of wine, three for eight bottles, four for sixteen, and so on.

  I slapped the hindquarters of the goats, herded them back to the camp, and tethered them to their wooden stake.

  "Ten men," I shouted as I ran between the tents, giddy with excitement. "Ten men are needed!"

  Coming round the corner of the sheikh's tent I almost ran square into the back of Professor al-Wahab. He stood in conference with my mother and father and the sheikh.

  "The emperor needs ten men," I blurted.

  The professor nodded, smiled as if he'd always known that I'd get the answer. "We must leave now, Ismail." Off to one side I noticed that two camels had been prepared, the same guide who'd arrived with the professor tightening their saddles. My elation vanished as fast as a disturbed gecko. I felt hollow.

  My father stepped to me, placed his hands on my shoulders. "Allah has blessed you with a wonderful mind, son," he said, eyes glistening, "but it is up to you how you use it. Never forget that. And remember, no matter what happens, you will always be in our hearts." He edged back, made way for my mother.

  Despite her sickness, she wore a beautiful embroidered dress and her hair was tied up. "It seems like only yesterday that you were a baby, Ismail," she said unevenly, not hiding her tears. "And now you're a man, ready to make your way in the world."

  I knew she didn't really think I was a man yet, but I appreciated her confidence in me.

  "Wear this for me," she said, pulling an amulet from a fold in her dress and tying it around my neck. "It will protect you from evil spirits." She pulled me close, hugged me tight.

  "I will think of you every day, Ommah."

  The sheikh helped the professor onto his camel, while my father helped me on to mine.

  My mother's tears, wet on my shoulder, evaporated in the brilliant sunshine before we'd gone even one hundred paces.

  Camel-back became crowded bus.

  The world beyond -- and even within -- the smeared, dusty windows beguiled me, helped me forget the pain of being wrenched from my old life. An old woman passed a bag of aniseed sweets between the passengers. Young and old wore colorful clothes, the fabrics emblazoned with all manner of animated words and icons. At the rest-stops little kids younger than me jumped aboard and hawked everything from ice lollies to ident jammers. Outside, the hand of man became more and more evident as we moved from rough pasture to vast industrialized landscapes to the outskirts of the city.

  "This is Riyadh," Professor al-Wahab said, looking up from his tablet. Since we'd boarded the bus twelve hours earlier his attention had been consumed by the electronic device in his lap. "This is the capital of your country."

  I peered at the thrusting structures far in the distance, disbelieving that anything could stand so tall. "Is this the end of our journey?"

  He powered down his tablet, folded it up and slipped it into his inside pocket. "No, Ismail, this is just the beginning."

  We didn't linger in Riyadh, trading the glittering towers of glass and metal for the squat, dilapidated tenements of Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of Congo. Stepping off the near-empty plane, every fiber of my body still tingling from the wonder of flight, the thick, muggy heat of central Africa pressed against my skin.

  The stifling air made me yearn for the dry heat of the desert.

  Without even leaving the shimmering runway, we switched to another aircraft -- a bare, cavernous, noisy beast in stark contrast to the quiet, upholstered luxury of the first.

  Soldiers with mottled blue uniforms and shiny guns slung around their necks slept or joked or played dice on the rumbling floor. They spoke in languages I couldn't understand. When they made faces or said something to me, Professor al-Wahab would say a couple of stern words and they'd get back to whatever they were doing.

  "They are curious about you, Ismail. That's all."

  "Is there a war, Professor?" I asked. I knew about warfare from the old films my father liked to watch when our trading routes took us to the small villages that had electricity generators. Zulu, Black Hawk Down, Kandahar Nights. War seemed dangerous but exciting.

  "These soldiers are part of a multi-national taskforce to help keep the peace. There is no war." Professor al-Wahab stared into space, pensive. "At least not yet."

  We landed on a narrow airstrip that cut a black line through swathes of tropical forest, then transferred to a battered truck. As we hurtled down the rutted road, the light dim from the thick foliage, conversation between the soldiers dwindled. Above the whine of the engine, the crunch of the driver changing gears, and the constant rattling of the seats the jungle hummed with life. I smelt the men's sweat, felt the periodic bite of mosquitoes.

  The truck stopped at several checkpoints. At the last, a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire running off on either side, the professor and myself got off while the soldiers headed on. I felt sick. Whether that was from the road, the fatigue, the heat, or simply nerves, I don't know. I thought of my mother and father in their tent, an empty space on the floor where I should've been.

  The professor led me into a modern complex next to the checkpoint. I stayed in that place for the better part of two days taking tests, answering questions, shuttling between all manner of strange machines that whirred and beeped and groaned as I clambered in or on or under them.

  Eventually, late in the second afternoon, after they had nothing more to ask or probe or take, after they made me sign documents that they read aloud but I couldn't read, they let me into the compound proper.

  "We'll settle you in later, Ismail" Professor al-Wahab said under dusky, purple skies, letting a soldier scan his ID as he passed through another security post. "Right now I want to show you why I've brought you all this way."

  I raised my ID badge and the soldier scanned it, waved me through.

  Rough tracks for vehicles crisscrossed the earth, but we traveled by foot. The original rainforest had been razed and the fertile ground was now dense with tubers and grasses instead. Here and there the stumps of old trees still dotted the landscape. The site was enormous, all number of structures within it including loud, smelly generators, spires of hollowed metal, and a huge field of tanks. Despite all the soldiers, an eerie air of abandonment and decay permeated the place.

  We hurried on, headed for the concrete-walled heart of the site, my 'abya soaked with sweat.

  Near to the high walls I noticed a girl and a boy playing a swing ball game. A tennis ball was attached to a piece of string which in turn was fixed to a metal pole driven into the ground. They swiped their plastic bats at the ball, the girl hitting the ball in one direction, the boy in the other. When the girl saw us, she stopped playing, stared. The boy turned, stared as well. The girl said something and the pair of them laughed.

  "That's Judith and Wai Tat," Professor al-Wahab said. "You'll meet them soon."

&n
bsp; At the final security gate embedded in the walls of the central structure I had to press my face against a goggle-shaped machine. A chime sounded, the turnstile clicked open, and I stepped through.

  To this day I can still bring forth the memory of the strange sensation of that place. It was as if the air itself was electrified. My skin tingled at its touch.

  "You feel it, don't you?" Professor al-Wahab said, eyes sparkling.

  I nodded. I didn't just feel it either. The air looked odd too, heavy and shimmering. Fifty or so paces away a dark rippling mass floated a dozen hand widths above the ground.

  "As you get closer it will examine you. Don't be afraid." Professor al-Wahab stepped forward, motioned for me to follow.

  I took a couple of tentative steps nearer, experiencing what I can only describe as a mental breeze pass over my mind. It was unsettling but not unpleasant, a complex, powerful force. I felt it linger, circling my psyche, before drawing closer.

  A perfect circle bloomed in my mind, ensnared between two hexagons. The hexagons changed, became octagons. Somehow, I realized that I was being shown a method for calculating the ratio between the width and the perimeter of the circle -- an eternal ratio that was the same for every circle. In my mental space, I kept increasing the number of sides of the bounding shapes until they became indistinguishable from the circle.

  The breeze drew back, and I knew that I had pleased it.

  Next, the circle spun to become a sphere.

  "Ismail." Professor al-Wahab grasped my shoulder, breaking my trance. "Are you okay?"

  I blinked as the outer world rushed back, the breeze no longer with me. My legs felt weak, my head tired. "It was inside me, inside my mind," I said, suddenly afraid.

  "What happened?"

  I related what I'd seen and done.

  "Geometry. Interesting," Professor al-Wahab said. "The fact it wanted to play with you some more is a good sign. Some very gifted mathematicians have been rejected point blank."

  "Professor, what's that?" I asked, pointing ahead. As my eyes had sharpened, a slumped form had come into focus through the murk.