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In fact, that night, I could not sleep a wink. I imagined Abu al-Hasan Ali Ibn Zuraiq al-Baghdadi's last night, sleeping restlessly until he took his last breath, beaten by despair, sorrow, homesickness, regret, and while reciting his only lines of poetry. That night, I was about to take my last breath too. Two souls passing away! The travelers would return to Baghdad with the news that my soul followed Ibn Zuraiq's soul in the same inn, inside the same room, on the second floor, in glamorous Cordoba. Yet the inn was a bad omen for everyone who came to it from the East! The news of my death shall reach the minister, who will inform the caliph. The latter will give orders to crucify me—I mean crucifying my memory, because I never came back with the definite truth.

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