The Galician Woman

by William Mesusan

  Hasdai pushed back his chair and stood and then walk over to an arch-shaped window, set into a recessed wall, on the far side of the room. Along the way he passed an impressive bookcase built from ornately carved woods, a massive piece of furniture rising from the floor with shelves arranged halfway up the wall towards the high ceiling.

  Solomon joined his cousin at the window and the two men stood staring out into the distance. The poet turned to gaze at his cousin and found him looking pensive, almost withdrawn. What is he thinking, Solomon wondered as Hasdai looked down along the terraces of the Caliph's visionary, splendorous city of Madinat al-Zahra. Eight miles distant, beyond a broad, fertile plain, the old capital of Córdoba retained its regal majesty as morning sunlight glistened off the rooftops of the Great Mosque. Even the sight of this stunning architectural achievement couldn't lift Hasdai's flagging spirits.

  A silk sleeve brushed across a brocade vest. The brooding Foreign Minister raised a hand, rested it beneath the lightly-bearded chin, and sank into a world-weary posture. He appeared lost in disturbing thoughts. Solomon couldn't remember ever seeing his cousin looking so unsettled.

  "I sometimes wonder if the Caliph has distanced himself too far from his people," reflected Hasdai.

  "I still love the old city," Solomon admitted. "What Córdoba lacks in grandeur is compensated for by its soulfulness."

  Hasdai turned and stared with a blank look in his eyes.

  "Al-Zahra," he signed. "I fear it may one day lead to our downfall."

  "Given his reputation, I'm sure Umar made a lot of personal enemies," Solomon ventured, in a rather obvious attempt to remind his preoccupied cousin about the reason for his summons.

  Hasdai understood the ruse. Disregarding his weariness, he summoned strength from a reservoir deep within himself and, as he turned to face Solomon, his steely eyes left no doubt that his attention had returned to the ongoing predicament.

  "We're looking into a number of suspects. As I mentioned. . .this Galician woman lived with a friend. You'll find her in the Ajerquia. . . the Christian suburb east of the city walls. I have an address for you."

  "You want me to scour Umar's apartment and then interrogate the roommate?"

  "A rather candid way of expressing it, Solomon . . . but, yes. And, there are other suspects and witnesses for you to. . . as you say. . .interrogate."

  They turned from the window and walked back across the room. Their path took them past the imposing bookcase, an edifice revealing the richness of a brilliant and disciplined mind filled with wide-ranging interests. Volumes of poetry, philosophy, and scientific knowledge unknown to the rest of Europe had a place on shelves constructed from aromatic cedar, books embellished with ebony, tortoise-shell, and pearl inlays. Stacked halfway to the ceiling were books bound in leather and embossed with glittering silver, lapis lazuli, malachite, and gold. They were written in four languages: Arabic, Hebrew, Latin, and an edition of one rare botanical work, a copy of the invaluable lost manuscript composed in the original Greek.

  "You will be well compensated for this assignment,” promised Hasdai. "Perhaps enough to free you from your work as a translator. Not only that. You will earn the Caliph's eternal gratitude."

  "I thought I'd already earned that."

  An awkward silence ensued.

  "We can't rest upon our laurels," Hasdai countered, breaking their brief quietude.

  This comment reinforced what Solomon always suspected. The gratitude of rulers and politicians is often short-lived. That May morning proved no exception.

  Solomon went over to a table inscribed with intricate arabesque designs as the transitory nature of gratitude led him to consider further possibilities for compensation. On a chess board fashioned from a striking combination of ebony, sandalwood and aloe in-laid with gold, pieces stood aligned like two opposing armies, figures carved out of translucent rock crystal and their red marble foes. This must be a present from a grateful Caliph to one of his most trusted advisors. My kind of reward, Solomon mused. Two silk-covered floor cushions, placed on opposite sides of the chess set, provided comfort for the players. The translator stood admiring the setting, warding off feelings of envy with acute observation.

  Hasdai joined him as they surveyed the board.

  "Chess is called The Sport of Kings, Solomon. Do you know why?"

  "I imagine you're about to enlighten me."

  This comment elicited a smile.

  "Players in this game, like rulers in real life, must always make the correct choice. From out of the wealth of endless possibilities each move presents, players must select only one. They make a wrong move and they will be forced into a corner and their room to maneuver becomes limited. One needs to exercise clear-sightedness and wisdom if they wish to succeed."

  Solomon knew this soliloquy was intended for his benefit.

  "It appears Umar failed to make the correct choice somewhere along the way," he offered.

  "Umar made a number of wrong moves," Hasdai corrected him.

  It seemed clear a match had been left in progress, so Solomon studied the players' previous moves. He couldn't help himself. His hand reached out across the chess board in the direction of one of the pieces.

  "Hands off, Solomon!" ordered Hasdai. "The Caliph and I are engaged in a game."

  The poet stopped his forward motion.

  "Looks like somebody is being trounced," Solomon observed. "I thought I'd offer the Caliph some help."

  His cousin offered a second smile, this one more like a benign grin.

  "You can help by staying out of affairs that aren't your business."

  "Sorry."

  "For what it's worth, it's not the Caliph who needs help."

  This rare admission of imperfection humanized Hasdai in Solomon's eyes and he experienced a sudden surge of empathy for his older cousin. Hasdai's return to more important matters quickly broke the spell.

  "You'd better hurry. The body is decomposing rapidly and you have to interview Umar's wife, and his brother, and the roommate of this Galician entertainer."

  Solomon decided to make one last attempt to evade the mission. He so desperately wanted to concentrate on his poetry. He suspected it would appear self-serving, but he felt compelled to express himself.

  "Why me, cousin? Can't you have someone else look for this. . . .Galician woman?"

  "I chose you for this mission because you speak Latin and you have amazing skills of observation and memory," explained Hasdai. "Most of all I chose you because I trust you."

  "What does my speaking Latin have to do with it?"

  "This investigation may require a journey to Galicia."

  "The savage north?" asked Solomon, in disbelief. "You're sending me to the savage north?"

  "Only if it's absolutely necessary."

  Solomon didn't respond so Hasdai, recognizing the limits of his younger cousin's familial loyalty, decided it was time to abandon any pretense of understanding. His patience deserting him, the Foreign Minister utilized the most reliable tool in his vast arsenal of persuasion: pure political power.

  "You're going to do as I say." demanded Hasdai. "You have no choice in this matter. Do I make myself clear?

  Solomon felt his cousin's enmity begin to pierce through his emotional defenses. He realized that he was left with two essential choices; willingly accept his fate or find himself begrudgingly enduring its vicissitudes. No sense feeling sorry for himself, he reasoned.

  "As you wish," he agreed.

  "Maybe the scenery will inspire new poems," Hasdai suggested, attempting to lighten the tenor of their conversation.

  Solomon didn't appreciate this comment though he knew it was well-intentioned.

  The Foreign Minister removed a gold signet ring from his finger and handed it to Solomon. The nascent investigator inspected the insignia and quickly recognized the royal seal etched into the surface.

  "Take it," said Hasdai. "This ring will insure your safe passage and give you unlimited access anywher
e in Andalusia,"

  Hasdai's ebullient nature resurfaced as he smiled and waved his cousin towards the door: "Go and find the Galician woman. . ." he shouted, summoning new energies. "Find her and bring her back to me so that justice may be served."

  Solomon bowed his head in submission and walked to the entryway. Pausing at the doorway, he looked back to his cousin and offered a good-natured farewell.

  "Good luck with the interrogations, Solomon" Hasdai continued before offering a warning. "Be careful. There's a murderer on the loose."

  Chapter 3

  Solomon left the office of the Foreign Minister clutching a thin piece of cotton fiber paper. There was an address written upon it. He didn't need directions to the scene of the crime. Umar's notorious love nest had always been al-Zahra's least kept secret. Lust nest was a more apt description, he thought. But Solomon understood only one address mattered. It led to the residence of the Galician woman, and her roommate, in the Christian suburb east of the old city.

  His older cousin always seemed to keep one step ahead. In his most honest moments, Solomon realized Hasdai was two or three steps ahead of him. In spite of his innate intelligence and erudition, the Foreign Minister operated with the instincts of a street merchant. This rare combination inspired fear in some minds, but it was always a source of awe and wonder for the poet-turned-investigator.

  The Tangerine still guarded the entry, no doubt listening through the doorway. Solomon gazed into the man's dark eyes, smiled, and without uttering a word he shuffled back down the polished marble hallway in the same direction he’d traveled less than an hour earlier. A sudden premonition came upon him. He suspected that he and the Tangerine would meet again sometime in the future. He'd have to put this hunch to the test although his intimations of things to come, the mystery of unfolding events, had served him well in the past.

  He thought of Layla and how what originally seemed destined to be nothing but a brief encounter had blossomed into an ongoing friendship in which she became his confident. This turn of events was unpredictable, but he sensed from the first time he met her that they would be seeing each other on more than one occasion. Who would've guessed that a lost manuscript would provide an introduction to a courtesan and that their relationship would endure beyond that unique situation.

  Solomon's thoughts returned to the Tangerine. Would he see him again in the course of this investigation? Would he remember the man's name, he wondered. As he walked on, his mind became preoccupied with thoughts of the mission. The translator felt grateful he was only pursuing one of many potential suspects though interviewing others. He hadn't even considered how many culprits there might be. Hasdai had done the math and it had obviously placed him under a great deal of pressure.

  That lost manuscript, Solomon thought to himself, wondering if they believed he possessed magical powers, the ability to make everything just as it was before Umar met his tragic demise. He supposed he should've been thankful they thought so much of his abilities, only sometimes he felt their expectations of him were unrealistic. True he possessed excellent powers of observation and he could be quite determined, but he wasn't alone in possessing these traits. He believed he'd been chosen for his previous mission because he could be trusted to be discreet regarding Hasdai's deeply held secrets. His cousin had just confirmed that fact. The Caliphate is fragile, Solomon repeated to himself as he continued down the corridor. This wasn’t reassuring, but he knew Hasdai's words to be true.

  When he finally looked up, Solomon discovered someone approaching from the far end of the hallway. The youthful-looking figure came closer, and he recognized that it was Ahmad. Unlike most Arab men with their smooth-shaven skulls, tiny ringlets of oiled black hair sprouted from Ahmad's scalp. Shaving the head, a style introduced a century earlier by Bagdad courtier and exile Ziryab, whose widespread influence over many aspects of Andalusi culture had outlived his death, didn't appeal to Ahmad. He didn't flaunt his curly black locks with excessive pride, but he seemed determined to maintain his individuality.

  Ahmad refrained from wearing the turban as did a majority of Andalusi men, but he also rejected the high, multi-colored skullcap the Qalansuwa, favored by the male population. He'd dispensed with the practice of wearing rings on every finger, another popular mode of ornamentation, although a tell-tale white circle of skin indicated he had once worn one.

  Ahmad adhered to a unique sense of style.

  With almond-shaped, brown eyes and an oval face, Ahmad's clean-shaven visage presented a hint of feminine features. At social events and political functions, Ahmad exuded an easygoing and charming nature in sharp contrast to Solomon's aloofness. Ahmad stood out in a crowd while Solomon attempted to remain in the background like the proverbial wallflower. The two men shared a history, knowing each other from mandatory attendance at countless official functions. Ahmad remained the only male Solomon had ever described to himself as elegant. This accurate and honest description, based on firsthand observation, had nothing to do with attraction, sexual or otherwise, at least not on the investigator's part.

  No, there was more to it than that.

  During an increasing number of public events requiring his presence, Solomon found countless officials stealing looks in his direction, sometimes even staring at him. He was never sure why, but he often stared back hoping to create feelings of discomfort and anxiety in retribution for the intrusions. He sometimes felt tempted to stick out his tongue or engage in some other outlandish or childish behavior, but refrained from doing so because he wanted to avoid embarrassing Hasdai, whose role as the kingdom's Foreign Minister demanded that the poet maintain a degree of restraint. There was also a personal shortcoming. He remained too timid to act out his fantasies. He often wondered if his perceptions were some sort of paranoid delusions.

  Ahmad also endured the public gaze of strangers; albeit, for a far different reason. Both women and men found the stylish young Arab captivating. His unique look attracted attention, but Solomon sensed that this wasn't Ahmad's intention. Ahmad was simply being Ahmad.

  They commiserated about their fates on many social occasions. Feelings of annoyance created a bond shared in common. Solomon learned to put on a brave front, one that compensated for his reserved inner nature. Ahmad considered the attention unnecessary, but he accepted it as the price to pay for displaying his dazzling persona. They shared another unspoken, perhaps unrealized bond. Both were both stuck in mid-level careers and each lacked the ambition to rise higher.

  Solomon continued to observe Ahmad and then moved over a couple of steps to share the walkway. His Muslim counterpart, dressed casually in a loose fitting, white cotton tunic with matching baggy trousers and leather sandals, appeared lost in his own thoughts, ready to pass by without looking up.

  "Hello, Ahmad. . . how are you?" Solomon asked.

  The beautiful Arab registered a look of surprise, but quickly regained his poise as he flashed a mouth full of gleaming white teeth.

  "They're sending me to North Africa to gather intelligence."

  That makes sense, thought Solomon. He knew the Fatimids were among the list of possible suspects.

  "I may be journeying to the Christian stronghold of Galicia," Solomon offered.

  "They make demands, don't they?"

  "Yes, they do," he agreed. "You'll have to off those curls."

  "I'll just shave the sides of my head and wear a fez."

  Nervous laughter arose in both men, and it made Solomon feel uneasy. Each had been chosen for a dangerous mission and there was a chance one or both of them would find themselves in mortal danger. Their weak attempt at joking was meant to shield them from these thoughts.

  For his part, Ahmad wished that Solomon had passed him by without making contact, but he'd learned long ago how to play the eternal social game of personal niceties and deception. In his case, constant practice turned it into something of an art form.

  "May Allah bring us back safely to our beloved Andalusia," invoked the Arab.


  Ahmad appeared rattled and his normally self-assured persona, one he'd worked hard to develop, appeared to have deserted him. Even the light-hearted banter failed to hide his unease.

  "Is everything all right, Ahmad?" Solomon asked. "You seem upset."

  "It's just that . . . I don't fancy being sent to Tangier."

  Solomon wondered if this was another deception, but he also knew how to play the game.

  "I can't say that I blame you," he offered sympathetically. "That city has always been a hotbed of political intrigue."

  They parted with cheerful goodbyes and Solomon's thoughts returned to his impending adventure. He admitted to himself that he felt terribly conflicted. A part of him dreaded the idea of a possible journey to what he considered the savage north. Another aspect of his being found the idea of a new adventure both stimulating and mysterious. His original intuition had proven correct and, this new assignment offered him a chance to solidify his gains. He'd been able to dispense with the patronage of his older cousin, but he still relied upon the money earned from his translations to help him fulfill necessary financial obligations.

  Another successful investigation might create an opportunity for him to leave behind his day job to write poetry full time, enabling him to fulfill his deepest desire. Sleuthing Umar's murder offered a chance for him to help his people maintain their unprecedented success while securing his own personal financial freedom. A dark cloud may have fallen over the Umayyad Caliphate, but his personal future appeared quite bright. At least that's what Solomon Levy chose to believe.

  Solomon stood outside on the second of al-Zahra's three tiers, monumental terraces cut into a huge natural spur of the Sierra Morena mountains, east of the fertile Guadalquivir river valley. The vast blue sky, bright sunshine, and a hint of a cool breeze began to restore his sense of well-being. He breathed in the fresh air and surveyed his surroundings.