Down in the street, in front of Sheherazade's door, sat burnt-out Hassan the potter. When he saw her at old Yusuf the perfumer's shop, in her glance flashed the brilliance he longed for even when he was not aware.
Years passed for him as time passes in a buried city; clay in the clay vats -- which once ravished him with its fragrance -- lay stone hard. Flask, jug and cup, candlestick and vase -- props of his trivial life and of his art -- lay broken. Hassan thought of nothing but those talisman eyes.
In her eyes was bewitchment numbing his body and soul. He spent 1,001 nights chained to the spell of those eyes, of the dreamy Baghdad streets, the bank of the Tigris and its sleepy boatmen. The potter's wheel did not turn and hunger started knocking at the door of this master craftsman.
On night 1,002, he set sail for unknown lands across seven dark, unfathomable seas. He ignored the warning that those who cross the seven seas lose everything: land, friends, and family, even their names.
So in New York nobody knows Hassan Koozagar. The owner of the liquor store where he works calls him Zee and Zee is his name now. He is a Muslim but works at a liquor store, although his religion forbids drinking, selling or making alcohol. The owner is a Muslim too who was Maqsood back home but is now called Max.
Max is the son of a village imam. He feels bad about selling liquor. Whenever he has time, Max tells Zee how he would like to pull out of this business and open a grocery store. "Next year, God willing. Next year," he says as Zee nods his head in affirmation.
Max has been saying this for nine years. Meanwhile, he has added another merchandise to his store. A stack of fleshy magazines sits nicely behind his counter, enticing customers as they come to pay. "Perhaps you will always do this. So why don't you stop feeling bad about it," says Zee. Max does not agree.
"You should never forget who you are," says Max while showing off the rosary his father brought to him from the Holy Lands. Max used the money he made from selling forbidden drinks to send his parents for haj, the annual pilgrimage to the Muslim holy city of Mecca, but he never told them the source of the money.
Although they prefer to live in their village back home, Max's parents often visit. When they are in New York, Max sometimes brings them to the store, presenting Zee as the man who owns all the "dirty bottles" in the store.
As far as the parents are concerned, their son Max makes his living selling food and non-alcoholic drinks to dozens of liquor stores. "Somebody has to sell halal (kosher) food to these non-believers too," says his mother, Bibi.
Whenever the parents visit the shop, Bibi never tires of telling Zee how he should close down the liquor store, even if it means having to return home. "You are sowing the seeds of sin. God will punish you for this," she says. And Zee assures her that when they next visit New York he will be running a grocery store.
The father says nothing. Zee thinks he already knows who really owns the shop, but does not want to embarrass his son. Max disagrees. He says his father is a simple villager and if he knew the truth, he would say so.
Max is an easygoing man, difficult to annoy. But he gets upset when someone suggests God would refuse to reward his parents for the haj because the money came from a liquor store.
"God is not a magistrate. He is not always judging people," he argues. "I could not have sent my parents to the nearest city had I stayed in my village, toiling the land."
There is a sign behind the counter that says: "No politics please." It is there because Max has many Jewish customers and he does not want his Muslim friends -- and friends always seem to be in the shop -- to drive off his customers with fiery debates, such as the Palestinian and Israeli disputes. Yet politics is what Max and his friends discuss when there's no customer in the shop.
One of the subjects hashed and rehashed but is still fresh: Who was behind the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks? Most of them do not want to believe Muslims are capable of such a horrible crime and so they always are receptive to conspiracy theories.
One of the theories that sparks heated debate is that the Jews planned the attack on the World Trade Center to defame Muslims. The more educated among them do not agree. They argue that, unfortunately, there are people among the Muslims who would do anything to vent out their anger and frustration.
"A Muslim killing innocent people? No way, it is against the teachings of Islam," counters Max. He acknowledges similar attacks elsewhere in the world, but says: "That's different. Those attacks are politically motivated. But the World Trade Center? No way. Don't you know that hundreds of Muslims were also killed in the attack? Why would a Muslim kill fellow Muslims?"
All this keeps Zee occupied. But when he closes the shop and walks back to his apartment at 2 a.m., he almost always thinks of Baghdad and the large luminous eyes that forced him to leave.
