Saïd the Fisherman by Marmaduke Pickthall — Read

The house of Saïd the Merchant was so set in the heart of the city that for strangers and country people, who had not the clue to the labyrinth, it was a day's work to find it. The approach from the nearest bazaar was by an archway infested with dogs and beggars, down a winding lane, and through a gate in the wall. Even after the gate was passed, callers were forced to ask their way, for one passage gave access to three several dwellings, and who, uninspired, could tell which door to choose? As one stood on its roof and looked out over the town, it seemed an easy feat to scramble thence to the minaret of Isa, half a mile distant, without once descending to the level of the streets. You would have deemed Es-Shâm hewn of a single stone, so hard it was to mark where one building ended and another began. It was on the housetop that Saïd was wont to say his prayers at nightfall, and often in the daytime, with face turned duly southward towards the qibla. Often, too, he would cause a servant to bring an ewer of water to him upon the roof, and there, in sight of the many who sought refreshment in the evening air, he would perform the lesser washings of preparation, without which no prayer of man is acceptable to Allah.

He had a very large and precious copy of the Quran, so exquisitely written that each word was a monogram for a learned scribe to decipher; for Saïd it was quite illegible. This manuscript, bound in finely-chased leather, was carried every Friday by a servant to the mosque, together with a cushion. It was a small place of worship frequented by poor people, to whom a merchant was a great man. As soon as Saïd was comfortably seated on the cushion, the volume was placed in his hands. Opening it at random, he would recite some passage which he knew by heart, in a very loud, nasal voice, and to the edification of all who sat there on the bare stones, waiting for the coming of the preacher.