On the six hundred and twenty-sixth night, Scheherazade poured the King a cup of rosewater and said: “Hear, O King, of a merchant’s son who fell asleep a poor man and woke up ruling Baghdad.”
Abu al-Hasan lived with his mother in a narrow house by the Tigris. He had once wasted his inheritance on false friends, and now he kept one stubborn habit: each evening he invited a single stranger to supper, fed him well, and never invited the same guest twice.
One evening the stranger was a merchant from Mosul with a calm voice and very fine slippers. Abu al-Hasan did not know that this was the Caliph Harun al-Rashid in disguise. Over dates and warm bread, the young man sighed, “If I were Caliph for a single day, I would scold the greedy imam of my street and send my mother a purse of gold.”
A Day on the Golden Cushions
The Caliph smiled and slipped a sleeping powder into his host’s cup. When Abu al-Hasan opened his eyes, he lay on silk cushions while servants bowed to the floor. “Good morning, Commander of the Faithful,” they chanted.
He pinched his arm until it turned red. Then, deciding that a dream should not be wasted, he gave orders. The greedy imam was sent to sweep the market for a week. A thousand dinars went to a poor widow by the river, who happened to be his own mother. Behind a carved screen, Harun laughed until his turban tilted.
At nightfall another cup of powder sent Abu al-Hasan home. He woke on his old straw mat and insisted to everyone that he was the Caliph. The neighbours shook their heads and called a doctor, and for many days the poor fellow was not sure which of his two lives had been the dream.
The Laughing Caliph Confesses
At last Harun visited again, still dressed as the merchant, and this time he told the whole truth. Abu al-Hasan stared, then burst out laughing so hard the Caliph had to hold on to a pillar.
Harun admired a man who had used one day of power only for justice and kindness. He made Abu al-Hasan his companion at court, married him to the clever Nuzhat al-Fuad, and gave his mother a garden of orange trees.
Scheherazade set down her cup. “Power is a borrowed robe, my lord. What matters is not how long we wear it, but whom we keep warm while it is ours.”
The King nodded, and dawn crept in before he could ask for more.
