The Islamic Bookshop | مكتبة الكتب الإسلامية
"A rare Islamic texts dealer in Cairo. A scholar who needs what only she can find. Their search for manuscripts becomes a search for something more."
The Islamic Bookshop
مكتبة الكتب الإسلامية
Dar al-Kutub has been here since 1900.
Rare Islamic texts. Manuscripts other dealers can't find. I inherited it from my father.
Dr. Khalil needs something impossible.
I'm Mona.
Forty-eight, never married. Books are my companions. The shop is my world.
He wants to change that.
He's a professor from Princeton.
Fifty-three, Egyptian-American, searching for a lost Ibn Arabi manuscript. Every scholar in the world wants it.
"It doesn't exist," I tell him.
"Everything exists somewhere."
"Why do you want it?"
"Because it would change how we understand Sufi cosmology."
"So academic prestige."
"So truth." He leans forward. "Isn't that what you sell here? Truth preserved in ink?"
"I sell books. Truth is between the reader and the page."
"And between us?"
"There is no 'us.'"
"Not yet."
He keeps coming back.
Asking about manuscripts I don't have. Buying things he doesn't need. Filling my shop with conversation.
"You're not just here for Ibn Arabi," I observe.
"I'm here for knowledge."
"What kind?"
"The kind you don't keep on shelves."
"Dr. Khalil—"
"Ahmad. Please."
"Ahmad. What are you actually looking for?"
"A woman who understands why manuscripts matter more than money."
"That's specific."
"I've been specific my whole life. It's time I found what I'm looking for."
The first kiss happens in the rare books room.
Surrounded by centuries of wisdom, we add something new.
"This is impractical," I say.
"The best things are."
"I live in Cairo. You live in Princeton."
"I could live in Cairo. They'd let me sabbatical forever with the right excuse."
"What excuse?"
"Love. It's the oldest one."
He undresses me among the manuscripts.
Carefully, like handling rare texts.
"Beautiful."
"I'm old—"
"You're seasoned. Like good leather. Like first editions."
We make love where Qurans are stored.
Sacred and profane tangled together. His academic precision now devoted to my body.
"Ya Mona—"
"Ahmad—"
"I've found it. What I was looking for."
"The manuscript?"
"Something better."
Three years later
He moved to Cairo.
Princeton made him a visiting position—comes back for one semester a year. The rest, he's here.
In my shop. In my bed.
"Happy?" I ask.
"I found the manuscript, you know."
"Which one?"
"The Ibn Arabi. In your back room. Behind the Ottoman registers."
"That's impossible."
"So was finding you."
We donated it to Al-Azhar.
Published jointly. His academic career soared. But he stayed.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because Princeton has libraries. Cairo has you."
Alhamdulillah.
For bookshops that hide treasures.
For scholars who search.
For manuscripts that lead to love.
The End.