The Forty Rules of Love: a novel of Rumi

Ella
NORTHAMPTON, MAY 21, 2008
Braced for a quarrel, David came home early the next morning, only to find Ella asleep in bed with Sweet
Blasphemy open on her lap and an empty glass of wine by her side. He took a step toward her to pull her
blanket up a little and make sure she was snugly covered, but then he changed his mind.
Ten minutes later, Ella woke up. She wasn’t surprised to hear him in the bathroom taking a shower. Her
husband could flirt with other women, and apparently even spend the night with them, but he would rather
not take his morning shower anywhere other than his own bathroom. When David finished and walked
back through the room, Ella pretended to be asleep, thus saving him from having to explain his absence.
Less than an hour later, both her husband and the kids had left, and Ella was in the kitchen alone. Life
seemed to have resumed its regular course. She opened her favorite cookbook, Culinary Artistry Made
Plain and Easy, and after considering several options chose a fairly demanding menu that would keep her
busy all afternoon:
Clam Chowder with Saffron, Coconut, and Oranges
Pasta Baked with Mushrooms, Fresh Herbs, and Five Cheeses
Rosemary-Infused Veal Spareribs with Vinegar and Roasted Garlic
Lime-Bathed Green Bean and Cauliflower Salad
Then she decided on a dessert: Warm Chocolate Soufflé.
There were many reasons that Ella liked cooking. Creating a delicious meal out of ordinary ingredients
was not only gratifying and fulfilling but also strangely sensual. But more than that, she enjoyed cooking
because it was something she was really good at. Besides, it quieted her mind. The kitchen was the one
place in her life where she could avoid the outside world altogether and stop the flow of time within
herself. For some people sex might have the same effect, she imagined, but that always required two,
whereas to cook all one needed was time, care, and a bag of groceries.
People who cooked on TV programs made it sound as if cooking was about inspiration, originality, and
creativity. Their favorite word was “experimenting.” Ella disagreed. Why not leave experimenting to
scientists and quirkiness to artists! Cooking was about learning the basics, following the instructions, and
being respectful of the wisdom of ages. All you had to do was use time-honored traditions, not
experiment with them. Cooking skills came from customs and conventions, and although it was clear that
the modern age belittled such things, there was nothing wrong with being traditional in the kitchen.
Ella also cherished her daily routines. Every morning, at roughly the same time, the family had
breakfast; every weekend they went to the same mall; and on the first Sunday of every month they had a
dinner party with their neighbors. Because David was a workaholic with little time on his hands, Ella
was in charge of everything at home: managing the finances, caring for the house, reupholstering the
furniture, running errands, arranging the kids’ schedules and helping them with their homework, and so on.
On Thursdays she went to the Fusion Cooking Club, where the members merged the cuisines of different
countries and freshened up age-old recipes with new spices and ingredients. Every Friday she spent hours
at the farmers’ market, chatting with the farmers about their products, inspecting a jar of low-sugar
organic peach jam, or explaining to another shopper how best to cook baby portabella mushrooms.

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Whatever she hadn’t been able to find, she picked up from the Whole Foods Market on the way home.
Then, on Saturday evenings, David took Ella out to a restaurant (usually Thai or Japanese), and if they
weren’t too tired or drunk or simply not in the mood when they came home, they would have sex. Brief
kisses and tender moves that exuded less passion than compassion. Once their most reliable connection,
sex had lost its allure quite a while ago. Sometimes they went for weeks without making love. Ella found
it odd that sex had once been so important in her life, and now when it was gone, she felt relieved, almost
liberated. By and large she was fine with the idea of a long-married couple gradually abandoning the
plane of physical attraction for a more reliable and stable way of relating.
The only problem was that David hadn’t abandoned sex as much as he had abandoned sex with his
wife. She had never confronted him openly about his affairs, not even hinting of her suspicions. The fact
that none of their close friends knew anything made it easier for her to feign ignorance. There were no
scandals, no embarrassing coincidences, nothing to set tongues wagging. She didn’t know how he
managed it, given the frequency of his couplings with other women, particularly with his young assistants,
but her husband handled things deftly and quietly. However, infidelity had a smell. That much Ella knew.
If there was a chain of events, Ella couldn’t tell which came first and which followed later. Had her
loss of interest in sex been the cause of her husband’s cheating? Or was it the other way round? Had
David cheated on her first, and then she’d neglected her body and lost her sexual desire?
Either way the outcome remained the same: The glow between them, the light that had helped them to
navigate the uncharted waters of marriage, keeping their desire afloat, even after three kids and twenty
years, was simply not there anymore.
For the next three hours, her mind was filled with thoughts while her hands were restless. She chopped
tomatoes, minced garlic, sautéed onions, simmered sauce, grated orange peels, and kneaded dough for a
loaf of whole-wheat bread. That last was based on the golden advice David’s mother had given her when
they got engaged.
“Nothing reminds a man of home like the smell of freshly baked bread,” she had said. “Never buy your
bread. Bake it yourself, honey. It will work wonders.”
Working the entire afternoon, Ella set an exquisite table with matching napkins, scented candles, and a
bouquet of yellow and orange flowers so bright and striking they looked almost artificial. For the final
touch, she added sparkly napkin rings. When she was done, the dining table resembled those found in
stylish home magazines.
Tired but satisfied, she turned on the kitchen TV to the local news. A young therapist had been stabbed
in her apartment, an electrical short had caused a fire in a hospital, and four high-school students had been
arrested for vandalism. She watched the news, shaking her head at the endless dangers looming in the
world. How could people like Aziz Z. Zahara find the desire and courage to travel the less-developed