In his grief the merchant tried to go on a spree of drinking and revelling – in vain. A lot of people witnessed how Jammal, without any visible reason, spilled upon himself one after the other three cups of wine, forbidden by the Prophet, and then broke a big jug of the aforementioned drink, spattering with it all those assembled. And when the merchant tried to visit one dancer girl he knew, he disgraced himself much more: in the most crucial moment, when the clothes were thrown off, the Slave of Justice said plaintively: “Sorry, but I cannot allow this!” and hit the merchant straight in his crotch with all his might.
Jammal’s life became veritable hell. His faint attempts to defend himself led to nothing: the djinni was much stronger and what more – fought like a shaitan! Thus a month passed, then another one. The merchant grew thin and hollow-cheeked from such a life, notwithstanding that the djinni didn’t beat him as frequently any more and sometimes would even cheer him up: “Hold on, my friend! You are on the right way! Soon your torments will bear fruit!”
“Of course! If you beat up a man twice a day, even Iblis himself will gain the fruits of righteousness!” thought the merchant in his mind, dreaming secretly to get rid of the hated djinni. Finally he made a decision. First of all Jammal visited the renowned exorcist who lived at the south outskirts of Vlera.
“A charlatan,” announced Abd-al-Rashid confidently scarcely had they stepped at the threshold. “He doesn’t see me at all.”
“He’ll drive you away without looking at you!” objected the merchant in a whisper. Without much hope, however.
The djinni only snorted contemptuously in response.
Abd-al-Rashid proved to be right: the exorcist cavorted around till he fainted, smoked the entire house with stinky incenses, and yet the merchant returned home together with his Conscience. Nevertheless, now Jammal was clutching straws. He visited all the sorcerers, quacksalvers and hermits in the area, turned to a mullah, to a doctor... And he saw they didn’t believe him. They pretended, trying to draw as much money as they could out of the insane simpleton. The merchant no longer needed the djinni’s acrimonious comments to understand this.
Once there stopped in Vlera, in passing, the renowned mage Hussein al-Murally; having heard about his visit, the merchant rushed to the mage. The djinni was moving nearby, squinting gloomily at his ward and muttering: “Aren’t you ashamed? I wish you well, and you... Ungrateful!” From time to time he would give Jammal a cuff on his nape.
The merchant didn’t answer obstinately.
The great wizard had glanced at Jammal – more exactly, over his shoulder – just once, turned slightly pale and hurried to step farther from the merchant. As if from a leper. And then declared firmly: “You’ve come in vain. I cannot help you.”
“But king Suleiman knew how to confine djinn!” cried out the merchant in despair, seeing that hope, which had barely sparkled, was threatening to disperse. “I’ll pay you! I’ll shower you with gold!”
The mage stretched his arms to the sides: “Alas, oh my respectable guest. I am not king Suleiman.”
“But how can I get rid of him?”
“I don’t know. Someone else would deceive you, whereas I tell you honestly: I don’t know. And if anybody declares he’s able to help you, spit this liar in his eyes!”
“And to kill? Is it possible to kill him?!” cried out the merchant desperately, feeling how the reproaching glance of Abd-al-Rashid sent shivers down his spine.
“It is said djinn were killed by an enchanted weapon. If the wound is serious enough, the fire that substitutes their blood leaks out – and the djinni turns to a handful of ashes.”
“Where?! Where can I find such a weapon?!”
The merchant couldn’t get rid of an odd feeling. A surprising feeling. Unusual. Blood rushed to his face, and there was a gnawing in his heart. Maybe he was sick?
“Excuse me, oh my respectable guest,” the mage shrugged. “If I knew...”
The door closed.
However, evidently there was a witness to this talk, who had quite keen ears and an equally long tongue. Because the very next day there came to Jammal an antiquarian and brought a rusty dagger, claiming that the dagger had a spell on it, and with it to slaughter any djinni was piece of cake. After this people would come in flocks, offering the merchant all sorts of rubbish at exorbitant prices. And each of them swore on his father’s memory and his mother’s honour that it was exactly his weapon that was fit to disembowel the djinni’s flaming guts. Watching how Jammal drove away the next fraud Abd-al-Rashid would only make a squeamish grimace: “These ones definitely have no conscience!”
Finally the merchant decided to leave Vlera for a little house on the beach, at the mountainous peninsula of Karaburuni that bordered Vlera Gulf on the South-West. He decided to leave the business to his eldest son and have a rest. Gradually the rumours would settle, excitement would calm down and it would become possible to come back as if nothing had happened. And the djinni... Well, what about the djinni? Strange as it was, Jammal got used a bit to the constant presence of Abd-al-Rashid. It’s true that a man can get used to everything.
“That’s right,” approved the djinni of his intentions. “Have a rest, think about your soul. It would be also nice to go to hajj to Mecca. But this is later on.”
For a week Jammal was just resting, doing nothing and recovering from the insanity of the last months. He hurried to send his servants away, remaining alone, not counting the djinni. However, the life of a hermit soon bored the merchant who was active by nature, and he began conversing with Abd-al Rashid more and more frequently. Formerly the merchant had despised fairy tales, but now he would eagerly listen to the djinni’s stories about the days of old, about his service at king Suleiman’s; yet about the cause of his imprisonment into the amulet the djinni preferred not to speak. The sandy shore where they now would walk together was desolate, Jammal could not worry that somebody would hear their conversations and once again consider the merchant to be insane. Besides, the even sound of the waves calmed him down, returning peace of mind and immersing him in a meditative state which hadn’t been characteristic of the merchant before.
One day they wandered farther than usual.
...From the sand there stuck out a half-covered jug. Its plug was coated with red tar with the print of some seal. The merchant squatted down and looked closely. The writings on the seal reminded very much the squiggles on the plate of the amulet where there had languished Stagnash Abd-al-Rashid.
“Don’t open it!” cried out the djinni.
“And why is this?” inquired Jammal suspiciously. Reason prompted: he should act to spite Abd-al Rashid. It wouldn’t be worse, while better...
Anything’s possible!
“Don’t, I beg you... Who knows who sits in this jug?”
The merchant snorted contemptuously: “What a Conscience you are! To liberate you one should come running, whereas another poor wretch – ‘who knows who’! Aren’t you ashamed?!”
The djinni lowered his eyes. In his swarthy face there was reflected an inner fight; yet in a minute the eyes of the Slave of Justice brightened.
“You’re right, oh my saviour. And I’m not. If your heart is prompting you this, liberate the prisoner without fear. And forgive me for my silly advices!”
The tar was cracking under the blows of a large pebble. With a slight effort the merchant pulled out the plug. Raised the jug that had been dug out beforehand, turned it upside down. Clapped on its bottom.
Out of the jug poured some muddy slush.
“What muck... Probably the wine has turned sour.”
The puddle at his feet wavered, curled up in a ball. A moment – and a lame dwarf was cavorting before stunned Jammal. The dwarf’s hair stuck out like needles, his mouth was stretched to the ears, baring widely spaced but sharp teeth.
“Oh Suleiman ibn-Daud!” screamed the dwarf, rubbing his face with both of his small hands. “Forgive me, oh mighty one!”
The merchant stepped aside, for the dwarf was distinctly stinking.
“Then you forgive me,” went on the prisoner of the jug, having not received an answer, “oh Asaf ibn-Barahia, Suleiman’s vizier!”
The next minute Jammal caught the sidelong glance of the dwarf, full of malicious gibe, and understood that he was just mocking. The dwarf also realized he had been disclosed, and stopped pleading for forgiveness. Knitted his thin brows: “What, you fool? Was it nice to feel yourself Suleiman? Why, I’ve heard it all... Well, after all you’ve chosen your fate yourself.”
“What fate?” the merchant, perplexed, turned to Stagnash Abd-al-Rashid, and his heart suddenly stopped, freezing.
It was for the first time that he saw his djinni like this.
Severe and doomed.
As if he was going to step into a precipice of his own free will.
“Go away, Shahriash...” said the djinni named Conscience, shielding the merchant with his body.
“What, just like that – go away?!” the dwarf burst into laughter, puffing out his cheeks which immediately made him look like a toad. “Better you get out, Stagnash, while I’m still kind. You’ve never been a fighter. While this fool – let him meet his death properly. You know: if he let me free craving for wealth or power – he would get what he demanded. But he has opened the jug out of good motives! Ha! Out of compassion! H-ha! Out of mercy! Ho-ho-ho! And I’ll repay his favour fully!”
“How could you, so big, be placed in such a small jug...” muttered the merchant, remembering convulsively the half-forgotten fairy-tales of his childhood; but both djinn didn’t pay attention to him.
Only the dwarf significantly twirled his finger near his temple.
“Go away, ifrit,” repeated the Slave of Justice firmly. “I beg you. After all, he’s your saviour.”
“Suleiman has done well when he imprisoned you,” interrupted the dwarf, becoming Jammal’s height and continuing to grow. Shahriash’ arms became swollen with muscles, his fangs protruded forward, and over his spine there grew up bristle like that of a boar. “About me he was wrong, whereas with vermin like you it should have been done even earlier. You are too correct. You’re annoying. I’m asking for the last time: will you go away?!”
Stagnash Abd-al-Rashid only shook his head negatively.
In a minute, when a fiery tornado and a raging whirlpool clashed on the shore, the merchant barely had time to crawl away underneath the lee of cliffs. Apparently he fainted for some time, because only the heroes of old could watch the fight of djinn without trepidation, whereas Jammal was not a hero of old, and the merchant’s reason, once a sober and practical reason, was quivering like a parrot that felt chilly, hiding its head under the wing. Much later, after opening his eyes in a silence more deafening than the recent rumble, he saw: the ugly dwarf, cursing soundlessly, was crawling towards him from the edge of the shore. The dwarf’s body looked crumpled as a sweeping rag; Shahriash was gritting his teeth, stretching his guttering hands to the merchant, but the sand was soaking the ifrit in, braiding him with dark threads – and soon only a wet path was marking the way of the prisoner of the jug.
And near a glistening boulder there was standing Abd-al-Rashid. He was still standing, pulsating like a fading tongue of flame, but soon his legs gave way and the djinni fell on the sand. With the palm of his right hand he was pressing his neck in the place where human beings have the jugular vein. The merchant rushed to his djinni, sobbing, seeing in terror that from under the fingers of the Slave of Justice there was leaking out black smoke mixed with fire.
The ashen-pale face of the djinni lit up with a smile.
“He’s told the truth: I’m a bad fighter...”
“Doctor!” cried out Jammal like a madman, glancing around. “Doctor!”
His scream rushed about over the shore.
“There’s no need for a doctor. I’m a djinni, not a human being. There’s fire flowing in my veins, and soon it will run out. Let’s bid farewell, oh my saviour? A pity I hadn’t time... I couldn’t...”
“You must live!” the merchant wasn’t understanding what he was saying, what he was demanding, yet the wet path behind his back was getting dry twice as fast, as if a second sun had lit nearby. “You will live! I’ll find a way! I swear, I will...”
Seagulls were crying over the two, mourning the day, and a wisp of smoke drifted towards the birds.
Later on Peter Sliadek never managed to understand: when exactly had he fallen asleep? To all appearances, in the very beginning of the tale, and the entire story about the djinni was just his dream. Furthermore, it was unclear how long had he slept. An hour? Two? More?! When the dream surged back and Peter opened his eyes, Kerim-aga wasn’t nearby. The caravan-bashi, judging by the droning of his bass, was standing at some distance talking to someone.
The vagrant sat up, wrapping himself in the blanket.
Near the doors of the vast apartment where he was lying people were crowding. Peter recognized Kerim-aga immediately, the rest were unknown to him. A puny old man – a Lombard banker, judging by his clothes; near him – a giant Avraamite, looking like a stevedore, only dressed as a money-changer and with a purse in his belt. A young merchant was hanging about, glancing into everyone’s eyes.
“Sieur Fiarella! Rabbi Boruch! You’ve misunderstood! You’ve...”
Peter recognized the voice of the young merchant. This man had proclaimed not long ago: “I’ll persuade even the dead!” when he was about to take on a loan. Now he was looking miserable and ingratiating.
“Kerim-aga!” the Lombard stepped towards the caravan-bashi, touching his shoulder confidingly. “Forgive old Fiarella! I didn’t know it was you who lead the newly arrived caravan, while this... this young man hasn’t troubled to inform us. Hussein Borjalia, you are disgracing your father’s name! You know, dear Kerim-aga, if we had your word we would buy the entire slave market wholesale, and the loan would be at minimal interest!”
Joy flashed in the mouse-like eyes of Hussein Borjalia. One way or another, there will be a loan! It flashed – and faded away when the severe caravan-bashi turned to Hussein. “Aren’t you ashamed, Hussein?” asked Kerim-aga quietly.
“I... me...” prattled the merchant. Peter saw with astonishment how Hussein’s face was changing: from behind the mask of embarrassment and fading joy there was peeping out an offended boy who had realized for the first time in his life he could be punished for a good reason rather than offended. “Kerim-aga, I haven’t thought that the loan...”
The caravan-bashi shook his head wearily: “It’s not about the loan. The son of Mustafa Borjalia is self-determined to take loans in Vrzhik. It’s your right. There is another thing: you knew I don’t deliver slave caravans, didn’t you?”
And as if confirming his words, he looked for a moment over his left shoulder. Smiled. And once again, this time without pressing: “You must be ashamed, Hussein. It’s bad when a man carries on foul dealings secretly from the others. And it’s good when a man is ashamed afterwards. I’m telling odd things, sometimes senseless ones, but you must understand me, Hussein Borjalia. Because I can’t do otherwise.”
“He has understood you, Kerim Jammal,” droned the giant Avraamite, two tones lower than the caravan-bashi himself. “He’s understood you perfectly well. Would you be so kind as to visit my house today? Miriam will be very glad. She asks frequently: where are you? How are you? And little Yitzhak...”
Listening to their conversation Peter Sliadek didn’t know yet that he would go with the caravan all the way to Dragash, and then back to Vlera, as a driver, a porter, an errand boy – not for salary but for a piece of bread and the possibility to go near Kerim-aga, looking now and then over his left shoulder. They would depart on the shore of Vlera Gulf. The sailed galley “Sultan Machmud” would leave the shore heading for Barletta, and the vagrant, as thin as a rake, would freeze on the deck, bidding farewell to the caravan-bashi Kerim Jammal. And in the morning mist Peter would once again seem to see behind the back of Kerim-aga the swarthy djinni pressing the torn neck with his palm. The smoke was flowing from under the fingers of Stagnash, the Slave of Justice, yet the djinni was smiling and not hurrying to die, for the fire in his veins would not end. The fire that is sometimes burning, sometimes dangerous, but always alive.