"But I think you've heard of me."
Hawksworth stared at him for a moment, and suddenly everything came together. He could have shouted his realization.
"You're Samad. The Sufi. . . ." He stopped, his heart racing. "Where is . . .?"
"Yes, I'm a poet, and I'm called a Sufi because there is nothing else to call me."
"You're not really a Sufi?"
"Who knows what a Sufi is, my English friend? Not even a Sufi knows. Sufis do not teach beliefs. They merely ask that you know who you are."
"I thought they're supposed to be mystics, like some of the Spanish Catholics."
"Mystics yearn to merge with God. To find that part within us all that is God. Sufis teach methods for clearing away the clutter that obscures our knowledge of who we are So perhaps we're mystics. But we're not beloved by the mullahs."
"Why not? Sufis are Muslims."
"Because Sufis ignore them. The mullahs say we must guide our lives by the Laws of the Prophet, but Sufis know God can only be reached through love. A pure life counts for nothing if the heart is impure. Prayers five times a day are empty words if there is no love." Samad paused again, and then spoke slowly and quietly. "I am trying to decide if then is love about you, English."