The Many Assassinations of Samir, the Seller of Dreams: Chapters 1–2

I screamed even though there was no one around to hear my prayers except for God, and it was not His will at the moment to spare me.

Behind me rolled a thundering cloud of dirt and grit and ash.

I hoped the low-lying crags would be too much for the old men and they would stumble.

I was not watching where I was going and so I took an ignorant step, a loose rock shifted under my foot, I careened forward, flailed my arms, screamed again, “Help?” and slammed face-first into the dirt.

He loomed above me.

But the tarpan horses were especially susceptible to panic—probably because they are such short animals, and like children, they can’t look grown men in the eye.

Beside him was an ancient and bedraggled donkey, who did not get up and may have been dead.

The portly merchant looked over his shoulder during his conversation with the guards and shouted back at the camp, “Rasseem? Rasseem, you sleeping beauty, arise and come, come!”

I am famous from the courts of Chang’an to the caliphate of Baghdad for my honesty.

We were not Jews, as he had assumed by calling on the name of their God.

We could use one of their monsoons in this infernal desert heat, couldn’t we?

Samir chuckled a solicitous chuckle.

Samir scooped up the free hand of Brother Zesht and shook it vigorously with both of his.

Come with us to the cold water. You must be parched from your chasing.

I will tell you that only days before I had shined the lanterns of the temple so diligently that Brother Zesht himself tousled my hair and held me to his side and said, “You are a good creature,” and I had felt proud.

I will tell you that only days before I had shined the lanterns of the temple so diligently that Brother Zesht himself tousled my hair and held me to his side and said, “You are a good creature,” and I had felt proud.

Maybe this was all the hand of Providence, to visit humility upon me for that pride.

Maybe this was all the hand of Providence, to visit humility upon me for that pride.

“A misguided disciple. And now that you’ve walloped him with this tremendous spanking, what now, friend? Could he become a slave?”

Samir drew the bucket from the well and spirited a cup from the folds of his silk embroidered caftan.

Samir drew the bucket from the well and spirited a cup from the folds of his silk embroidered caftan.

He must have been somewhere in the throng of horses, camels, mules, and travelers—all carrying whatever packs they could.

The eyes of Brother Zesht betrayed a subtle acknowledgment of this worry.

Samir, the Seller of Dreams, I realized, could read such cryptic tablets of the inner mind as a false prophet could read tea leaves or knucklebones.

The last of the caravan jostled past, revealing the stiff, blind donkey I had seen earlier sleeping beside Samir, and a pack mule, loitering nearby.

But I am your humble servant, honorable sir, and though my poverty is my shame, for a fellow Zoroastrian, I could part with several torches to light your path, a waterskin to slake your thirst, some dried figs, a few handfuls of gooseberries—you must be peckish from all that shouting—and several metalwork knives, plus a belt to hang them on, that I have just procured from the new blacksmith in our caravan.

But I am your humble servant, honorable sir, and though my poverty is my shame, for a fellow Zoroastrian, I could part with several torches to light your path, a waterskin to slake your thirst, some dried figs, a few handfuls of gooseberries—you must be peckish from all that shouting—and several metalwork knives, plus a belt to hang them on, that I have just procured from the new blacksmith in our caravan.

But I am your humble servant, honorable sir, and though my poverty is my shame, for a fellow Zoroastrian, I could part with several torches to light your path, a waterskin to slake your thirst, some dried figs, a few handfuls of gooseberries—you must be peckish from all that shouting—and several metalwork knives, plus a belt to hang them on, that I have just procured from the new blacksmith in our caravan.

I bless you on your journey home, and I assure you I will give such prodigious punishings to the shoeless monkey that his wrongheadedness will be knocked into rightheadedness.

“A bundle to survive on, from an impoverished merchant, for nothing in return? The boy is dead to you. That is nothing. I give you six rare treasures!”

A treacherous niece of the Chinese emperor was betrothed to an ambitious governor of Kucha.

A treacherous niece of the Chinese emperor was betrothed to an ambitious governor of Kucha. She knew him to be a boorish man, this new husband of hers. And she hated her uncle for forcing the marriage.

She knew him to be a boorish man, this new husband of hers. And she hated her uncle for forcing the marriage.

He placed a twelve percent tariff on silk and named it after his niece, so merchants would spit at the mention of her name.

In the meanwhile, several poorly timed garden fires depleted the emperor’s bounty of silkworms all the more, creating a scarcity.

The pack mule trudged under the weight of a dozen bundles of wool, while Samir’s ancient donkey had no run to speak of.

“You’ve got the copper complexion of a Turkoman, if it wasn’t covered in dirt, and the brown curls of a Greek, if they weren’t matted down with blood.”

“Because by the look of you, even if you were gold, you wouldn’t weigh enough, you scraggly thing.”

As I drank, he mused while tugging on his mustache. “If I did trade this enormous belly for gold, it’d be the merchant’s crown, wouldn’t it?”

Around the caravan campfires, merchants would brag with stories of the trades where they got the most and gave the least.