The pattern of Nouri’s days, therefore, became fixed: rising at dawn to bow his head and fall prostrate for the first call to prayer, eating the morning meal, carrying a bowl of yogurt to the Sufi master’s cell and feeding him, practicing zikr, bowing his head and falling prostrate for the second call to prayer, eating the midday meal, carrying a bowl of broth to the Sufi master’s cell and feeding him, tending the roses, bowing his head and falling prostrate for the third call to prayer, writing in his cell, bowing his head and falling prostrate for the fourth call to prayer, eating the evening meal, carrying a bowl of lentils to the Sufi master’s cell and feeding him, reading in his cell, and finally, as the light bled from the sky, bowing his head and falling prostrate for the last call to prayer. His movements were simple. No excess. No strain. Each day was like the day that had come before. At night, however, when the hallways darkened and the brothers retired to their separate cells, Nouri abandoned himself to the constant surprise of being with Ryka.
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