The Giant's Almanac by Andrew Zurcher (black female authors .txt) 📕

spent in that city, my friend the merchant took a walk with me after our evening meal, and outside the city walls showed me a well where the king’s heir had escaped the wazir’s plot to murder him, and steal the king’s treasure. On the third day, I went again to the market, but my mind was not at all fixed on my custom, but on the end of my friend’s story, which he had promised to tell me that night. During the day I made many false bargains, and traded away much of my wealth. I was not myself. It seemed to me that I had become this other man, this king, this sorrowful master betrayed by his wicked brother, and I lived only to hear the end of his tale.

‘That evening my friend came to my table when all my wares had gone. He had had a very successful day’s trading, but even in the midst of his own affairs he had been mindful of my fortunes, and had seen how I had given away so much in exchange for so little.

‘“Brother merchant,” he said, “the day has been unkind, but I fear the conclusion of my story will be harder still. Perhaps it is better that you should not learn what remains of this tale.”

‘With all the strength of my eloquence, to which I conjoined not a few oaths, I implored my friend the merchant to finish his story. I felt I could not be master of myself until I had heard and knew the end of this king’s life.

‘“So be it,” said he, and together we left the bazaar and wandered through the streets of the city. On this evening we had neither mules to pack for the next day’s business nor wares to stow, for my friend had been shrewd and had sold all that he possessed, in exchange for a great fortune that he had sent before, with cunning and prudence, by a trusted servant to his home; and I, as you have already heard – if truth be told, I had little at the end of that third day, for my bargains had been poor, my credit unworthily extended, and my poor eyes easily swindled. Like two beggars, then, we went through the ways of the city, until we came to the great gate by which all who came or went from that place, whatever their business, had to pass.

‘Here we sat upon a piece of old stone, a slab that had once, perhaps, formed part of the city walls, but had long since fallen from its place and been by winds and rain worn smooth. And then we seemed to ourselves beggars indeed, for that was the place where the poor and houseless of that city, at the end of every day, gathered to receive alms. For an hour as the sun dropped behind the city walls, we watched these men, women and children accept their charity: soup, and bread, a little money, clothing and necessaries of that kind. This was, my eyes, a spectacle of misery, as all spectacles of compassion always are; for what is compassion but the insufficient human gesture called forth by irremediable suffering? There was not bread and soup enough to fill those hungry bellies; there were not smocks and blankets enough to shield those helpless bodies from the cold winds of the desert nights. Many went hungry, or knew that they would do so another time. Watching their suffering, many times I stirred myself and made as if to stand, to go to these people, to give them what I had, whatever I could to alleviate their suffering and privation; but my companion stopped me, his hand light upon my knee, with these words.

‘“Brother merchant, humour me. This time, sit here, sit here upon this stone, and hear what I have to say to you. I brought you to this place to show you these miserable people, their starving bodies, their terrible and consuming need. The heart goes out to them – your heart, my heart, the hearts of those at whose hands they have taken some little food, clothing, the little things that will sustain them tonight and tomorrow night, from night to night as they scrape their survival from the raw face of the rock and from the sand that blows upon the wind. But ask yourself, why does your heart go out to them? Ask yourself, is it not because they are miserable?”

‘Here he took me by the shoulder, and pointed my gaze to two men standing by the gate, not far, but far enough that they stood out of our earshot. Though we could not hear the substance of their conversation, it was plain that they were engrossed, even then, in a terrible argument. One of them, a rich man, had come to the gate that evening to dispense charity to the poor; we had already seen him, many times, with his hand extended, a beneficent smile expressing on his face the deep love that was in his heart. Now, instead, he held his arms crossed upon his chest, and his chin tucked against his neck. His eyes blazed with fury while the second man beseeched him, harangued him, chivvied and worried him.

‘“Do you understand the argument between these two men?” my friend asked of me.

‘I told him I did not.

‘“I do,” he said. “I have seen both these men here, many times. The rich man is a philanthropist, a man whose heart, like yours perhaps, is full of love and generosity. Every evening he comes to this place, to share his wealth with those less fortunate than he is. The other man is a beggar – indeed he is – though by his sumptuous clothes and the lustre of his skin you may suspect he has done rather better for himself than many who seek charity at the city gates. I can say more, indeed – so rich has he grown,