ready to check in for our flight. What do you say?
I don’t know any stories. I’m not very good at that kind of thing.
But everyone felt it was good there was talking.
Look sir you’re not going to tell me that! Everyone knows stories! I just told you I slept in the same bed as my wife every night for the last fifteen years in the same bedroom of the same flat in the same suburb of Tokyo–and look at all you different people! You just have to tell me how you travel to work every morning in the place where you live and for me it’s a fable! it’s a legend! Sorry I am tired and a little stressed and this is not how I usually talk but I think when you are together like this then stories are what is required.
Someone spoke: I have a story I can tell.
Simple, just like that.
NOT SO LONG ago, in one of those small, carefree lands that used to be so common but which now, alas, are hardly to be found, there was a prince whose name was Ibrahim.
One summer, the usual round of private parties and prostitutes became too tedious for Ibrahim and he decided to go on a voyage around the provinces of the kingdom, ‘to see how those villagers spend all their damned time’. So he packed clothes and American one-dollar bills (for letting fly from the windows of his jeep) and set off with his young courtier friends in a jostling pack of father-paid cars, whooping and racing.
Despite themselves, the young men fell silent when the ramshackle streets of the outskirts of the city finally gave way to open countryside. The smooth, proud highways built under the reign of Ibrahim’s grandfather began to loop up into the hills and, as the morning mists cleared, the city boys looked out on spectacular scenes of mountains and forests. For several hours they drove.
By early afternoon they had travelled a great distance without a single halt, and as they approached a small town Ibrahim pulled off the road and stopped. The scene was all polo shirts and designer jeans amid the slamming of car doors, the stretching of limbs, the pissing behind bushes–and the townsfolk quickly assembled to find out who these visitors were. ‘Certainly they are film stars come to make videos like on MTV,’ they said to each other as the band of young men strode onto the main square of the town, sun glaring from oversized belt buckles and Italian sunglasses. Goats and chickens whined and clucked their retreats, as if to clear the set.
On the minds of the young men was food; and very soon orders had been placed, chairs brought from front rooms and the local inn, and they were sitting sipping coconut juice in the shade of a wall. Around the square, the whole town stood and watched. Children stared, shop owners came out onto the streets to see what was going on–and a number of youths who were no younger or older than these visitors stood wondering who the heroes could be, and committing to memory every gesture, accoutrement, and comb-stroke.
The food was brought and Ibrahim and his companions began to eat vigorously. The boldest of the villagers stepped forward and addressed them,
‘Please, kind Sirs, tell us: Who are you?’
None of the courtiers knew what to say. Which was more sophisticated: to tell the truth, or to remain silent?
Ibrahim himself spoke.
‘We have come from far away, and we are very grateful for your kindnesses.’
What a fine answer that was! The local people felt their civic pride swell, and the prince’s companions thought once again to themselves, ‘That is why I am me and he is a prince.’ As women brought more and more food, the sun’s rays seemed to glow more yellow with the harmony that could exist between these two groups who seemed to have so little in common.
The meal was over; and with much wiping of hands and mouths the party left their plates and large piles of dollars behind and began to explore the narrow streets of the town, followed by a crowd of excited townsfolk.
They saw small houses with children playing and women sweeping, stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables, and shops of shoemakers, butchers, and carpenters. Finally, at the end of an alleyway, they came to a little store hung out front with robes and dresses: the tailor.
‘Let’s see what this fellow has to offer,’ said Ibrahim. A bell rang as they opened the door, and they pushed past it into a gloomy room overflowing with clothes. The tailor rushed forward to greet them.
‘Come in, come in gentlemen, plenty of room, please!’ He hastily pushed things out of the way to make space for them to stand. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘What is your name, tailor?’ asked Ibrahim.
‘Mustafa, at your service, Sir.’
‘You live here alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what do you make?’
‘I make anything and everything that can be worn. The people here are poor, so mostly it is simple work. Cotton dresses for the ladies. Shirts for the men. But I can see you are grand visitors. I will show you something special.’
He went to the back of his store and took out a large packet wrapped in brown paper. The young men drew around as he reverentially laid it out on the workbench and untied the string. He slowly unwrapped it, and there, inside, glowing with pent-up light, was the most magnificent silk robe any of them had ever seen. Cut in the traditional style, it was intricately patterned, delicately pleated, and slashed on the sleeves and flared skirts to reveal exquisite gold brocade beneath. The web of stitches that covered the whole robe, holding it in its perfect shape, was entirely invisible, and all the sections fitted together without a single break in the pattern.
The men stared, taken aback at this unexpected splendour.
‘This is a fine piece of work, tailor. There are too few people in our country who have respect for these old traditions,’ said Ibrahim.
‘Thank you, Sir. This is the achievement of my lifetime. It has taken me years to save the money to make this. It was my own little dream.’
Ibrahim gently felt the textures of the shimmering robe.
‘Tailor, I would like you to make me a robe even more magnificent than this.’
Ibrahim’s companions were amazed. Was he in earnest? They had never seen this seriousness in him.
More amazed still was the tailor himself.
‘I am deeply honoured, Sir, at your request. But may I ask first–please do not misunderstand me–who you are and whether you are sure you can afford what you ask for. These materials come from far away and are now very rare. I will need to travel to meet with merchants. They will have to send out orders far and wide. It will take six months, and–’
‘Do not worry. I am Ibrahim, eldest son of King Saïd. I will see that your expenses are covered and you yourself are handsomely paid for your pains. Please embroider the robe with the royal stag and crescent moon, and deliver it to the royal palace when it is finished.’
The tailor was moved.
‘Your Highness, I will do what you ask.
