“The Lord decided to shine His countenance upon you,” Rebekah cooed to his dramatic show of silence. “Gold Dust, the Shah’s favorite, wants to meet you. Next week when the sun hits the center of the sky, on the day after the first of the week, come to the alley behind the baths.”

She waved a hasty farewell and hurried toward the exit. She pitied this young artist who was born in this godforsaken place, but she had her own troubles to tend to. As if she had remembered something, she walked back and faced him, her gaze scrutinizing.

“Sweetlove,” she said, her voice brimming with consideration. “You’re as pale as a corpse. The favorite dislikes fair men. Lie under the sun, rub yourself with some coloring ointment, do something to darken your skin and give it a healthy look.”

She turned on her heels and swung through the flimsy door, past the stinking pit, the phosphorous flies, and ravenous rats, vowing under her breath that she would not allow this acrobat even to carry Gold Dust’s coffin on his shoulder.

Soleiman hardly slept, but his body was alert and nimble. He lost his appetite, so he fed his cobra and bear his own food. The animals grew stronger, and his acrobatic feats opened a different world to his audiences, who remained suspended in his universe as he spun in the air as if he were a fantastical bird who juggled objects, swallowed fire, and twisted his body in the most precarious angles. The ushers had to shake the viewers out of their reveries and remind them that Soleiman’s world was only a world of fantasies where things were not what they seemed and dreams vanished at the end of the show.

After his performances, he strolled the night, his thoughts and the song of nightingales haunting him. Repeating his own poems in his heart and tasting unfamiliar longings, he experienced the intensity and harrowing pain of a love that would only bring doom.

During the day he rested under the sun, his face smeared with a mixture of Turkish coffee, henna, and black olives to darken his complexion.

Then the sun hit the center of the sky on the day after the first day of the week. Soleiman went to the baths and sprayed himself with attar of sandalwood. He stole a branch of cherry blossoms from his neighbor’s yard and tied a ribbon around the stem. He wore his Sabbath attire and checked his image in a brass tray. The ointment had worked. His blue eyes shone in a face as dark as burnished leather. His polished sword swaying by his side, he hurried to the alley behind the baths.

“Let’s take the shortcut to the baths,” Gold Dust said, conscious of Rebekah’s grip around her arm.

“It’s been years since you’ve seen your home, and the waiting will whet the acrobat’s appetite.” Rebekah led her daughter through the crowd. Gold Dust had not mingled among the public for so long, she walked in a straight line as if the populace would part in her wake.