He felt perplexed, emotionally uncertain.
He’d rubbed shoulders with Nuzha at official state functions arranged by the Caliph’s chief-of-staff. He’d known the woman as a warm, charming, intelligent, and educated individual. He’d heard she studied music and wrote poetry. She’d always carried herself with a sense of grace and dignity.
Although the name Nuzha meant pleasure in Arabic, the woman he’d just questioned seemed distant and mean-spirited. He mulled over the dichotomy and decided to give Umar’s widow the benefit of the doubt. They were all reeling under pressure generated by tremendous stress. How could any of them keep a semblance of balance when the status quo had been completely overturned, the result of a singular disruptive act. They all seemed to realize, at some deep subliminal level, that Umar’s murder threatened Andalusia’s fragile peace.
Solomon found himself entertaining many questions, but he lacked convincing answers. He found it easy to identify a list of potential suspects, difficult to pinpoint clearly defined motives. At least his investigation wouldn’t be impeded by major religious observances. Ramadan, Passover, and Easter had all recently concluded. Muslims and the dhimmi, “The People of the Book,” believers in the Torah and the Bible, were all available to answer his questions. The investigator saw this as a remarkable concurrence of events given the shifting lunar calendar. He believed the mild spring weather also worked in his favor.
Now what, he asked himself.
He did possess an address. It led to the Christian suburb east of Córdoba’s walled inner city.
It led to the abode of the missing Galician woman.
Chapter 8
Solomon instructed his driver to disregard the shorter route across the northern suburbs of Córdoba. If he was being followed, perhaps by Christian spies from the north who were dreaming of reconquering Muslim Andalusia, it would be easier for him to elude them in the crowded, familiar streets inside the walled city. He told the old teamster to stop on the south side of the old Roman Bridge, an engineering marvel spanning the Guadalquivir River atop sixteen solidly constructed arches.
One of the main entryways into Córdoba, the bridge had required rebuilding by the conquering Muslims, two centuries earlier, to renew access across the river. The Visigoths, who’d made the city of Toledo their Iberian capital, lacked interest in this city by the river, allowing superior Roman ingenuity to fall into disrepair.
As Solomon disembarked, he gave his driver instructions to return to the exact same location, at sunrise on the following morning, after the first call to prayer. That’s when he planned to report to Hasdai and receive the Foreign Minister’s next set of instructions.
For a brief moment, he contemplated giving the old man a gold dinar for his services. He decided against it. He knew the driver’s compensation wasn’t his responsibility and it would already be quite generous given the immense resources of the Caliph.
His gaze turned towards the great river. Ancient Córdoba stood on the north bank of an unusual bend in the east-west waterway. Cargo boats, moored downstream, used the navigable freshwater port as a hub for thriving import and export enterprises. The Guadalquivir flowed south to Seville and Cadiz, then out into the Atlantic Ocean and beyond.
The investigator crossed the heavily guarded span on foot and passed through the Gate of the Bridge, a massive stone archway leading into the walled inner city, a heavily congested area covering two square miles. Most of Córdoba’s quarter million residents lived and worked in the twenty three suburbs outside these walls as an expanding population spilled out into the surrounding countryside.
Solomon heard the groans of a waterwheel in the distance. It supplied water along a gently inclined aqueduct to the Old Palace and its lushly maintained gardens. As he walked on, the waterwheel came into view to his left just inside the gate.
He felt a pang of disappointment as he entered the city, sensing he stood little chance of finding the Galician woman anywhere inside the capital. A journey north seemed inevitable, an unanticipated and unwelcomed incursion into his poetic endeavors.
Solomon usually returned home from al-Zahra thorough the Almodovar Gate. Located at the western city wall, this gate was flanked by towers on both sides and linked by a parapet walkway. One of nine portals built by Emir Abd al-Rahman I, this route led directly into the Juderia, the thousand year old Jewish Quarter. This is where the investigator made his home, as had thousands of Jews since before the time of the Romans.
This assignment dictated a different direction.
He continued on past the Great Mosque.
Despite his fall from grace, Solomon felt certain Umar’s body would be transported for burial to the Royal Cemetery, in Córdoba. First he’d be washed in scented water and wrapped in sheets of clean, white cloth. After funeral prayers, in the square of the Great Mosque, he’d be taken to the cemetery and laid to rest on his right side, facing Mecca. At the gravesite, any display like tombstones, markers, flowers, or mementos would be discouraged. The entire ritual would be conducted with dignity, thus preserving the impression that the status quo remained in effect despite the circumstances surrounding Umar’s passing.
Solomon went through the Mosque’s main square, walking past a fortress-like edifice with forty-foot high outer walls finished in cinnamon-colored, unadorned stucco. He had always heard the inside of the unprepossessing Mosque was breathtaking in contrast to its non-descript exterior. As a non-Muslim, he’d never been allowed the opportunity to see for himself.
This Mosque was reminiscent of Syrian architecture and the Mosque at Damascus, harkening back to happier times for Andalusia’s Umayyad rulers. The Córdoba structure was later extended south towards river by Rahman II and his son, Muhammad. On its northern side, Rahman III would soon construct a new minaret after demolishing the existing tower, built sometime during the late eighth century. The footprint of the structure continued to expand in proportion to the rate of conversion to Islam.
Like al-Zahra, the Great Mosque remained a work-in-progress.
Although Solomon’s small refuge from the world was located only a dozen blocks northwest of this architectural wonder, he headed in a northeast direction along a circuitous route leading to the old Christian suburb. He passed the covered market, the Alcaiceria, where vendors busied themselves trading silk and other textiles and then he continued through a lively area of makeshift stalls and craft workshops.
He knew the route by heart.
He’d spent his entire youth exploring the streets of Córdoba.
Entering a maze of twisting streets teeming with locals, he found the merchandise of the walled city’s ground-floor shops spilling out into the street. The greater part of the city’s business of living was conducted outdoors. It had always been that way. He took a deep breath and pushed his way through the ever-present crowd, keeping his purse and the precious piece of paper he’d been entrusted with, now protecting a single strand of red hair, hidden from view.
Solomon walked on through this warren of narrow, cobbled streets, angling northeast along the butcher’s street and then the coppersmith’s street. He held his breath as he passed the fish market, exhaling deeply when he felt well clear of smells he personally considered malodorous. Though he sometimes envied them, he knew that he could never have earned his living as a fisherman
Leaving the walled city through the New Gate, Solomon entered the Ajerquia, the oldest extension of Córdoba outside the walls. This suburb, also known as the Eastern Wing, covered an area larger than the walled city itself. A population of Arabized Christians, called Mozarabs, lived in this part of town. Vague memories stirred within him, memories of the times he and his young friends had ventured into these streets as young boys to explore a beckoning, if not taboo, world beyond their personal environs. He felt more cautious now, lacking in the fearlessness or perhaps foolishness of his youth.
He stopped to ask for directions..
Then he continued on his way, wondering if his next set o
f questions and observations might yield new clues or at least new insights into the mystery behind Umar’s murder. He entertained little hope that the Galician woman would be waiting at home to answer questions upon his
arrival. His thoughts turned to her roommate. What could she tell him? What would she tell him? Would this Mozarab Christian woman help or hinder his investigation?
Solomon had no way of knowing.
What’s happened to Lia, the young woman wondered.
Worrying and feeling confused, she paced the floor. Why hasn’t she come home? She asked herself this question, but her mind could find no answer to quell her concern. Struggling to make some sense out of her roommate’s absence, the woman continued to pace back and forth inside the sparse living room of a small house in the Ajerquia, the old Christian suburb of Córdoba.
An image of her friend and roommate and fellow entertainer appeared in her mind. Lia with her deep green eyes, pinkish white skin and sensuous red hair accentuated by copper streaks when the sun decided to cast its rays her way. The olive-skinned and amber-eyed woman had trusted that Lia could take care of herself, but now she wasn’t so sure. Her worst fears began to assail her, rising to the surface of her mind like a coiled serpent ready to strike and poison her being with untold doubts.
Had the Galician woman, with the voice of an angel, become prey to the Devil?
Lia had accepted an invitation from the Caliph’s nephew Umar. Had the risk been too great? There were rumors of what it cost to be a recipient of the nephew’s lavish rewards, rumors of unwanted groping and indecent proposals. Should the woman have protested her friend’s decision more vehemently?
She continued to pace back and forth across the floor.
She began to blame herself. “It’s all my fault,” she heard herself whisper aloud. The thought that this might be true began to terrify her. It made her feel like a stranger to herself. It made her feel sick inside as her stomach became nauseous. She searched for another explanation to assuage her guilty conscience.
Lia had told her that she was homesick. She wanted to sing for the scion of the royal family and collect her reward and return to far-off Galicia, gladly returning to her younger siblings and their family farm. The land would be paid off and Lia would be free of the burden that had led her to venture into another culture and way of life.
It had all seemed so innocent, thought the Mozarab. But that thought didn’t soothe her queasy stomach. It only made things worse. She should’ve warned her roommate even if doing so made her seem unsympathetic.
She stopped pacing and stood erect in the middle of her living room. The Christian woman spread her arms out wide as her body took on the form of a cross. This was the stance Andalusi Christians assumed when they prayed. Arms outspread, a human cross emulating the Redeemer’s crucifixion. Sara silently invoked a prayer as she softly chanted a heart-felt plea for her Lord to protect her friend’s well-being. Where can she be, the woman wondered anxiously as she dropped her arms to her side and went to her roommate’s bedroom and entered that domain.
A candle had burned down on the dresser next to Lia’s bed. The woman would replace it, an act of faith to demonstrate that she believed with all her heart that everything would be resolved and her doubts and fears would be revealed as unnecessary worries, mere phantoms of her mind.
The snake retreated.
The Mozarab ran her fingers lightly over an embroidered silk tunic that rested on a footstool. She missed her fair-skinned friend, a woman as melancholy as the misty, rainy countryside that she had described so many times and with such deep longing.
She calmly dismissed the fears from her mind. The situation was out of her hands and events were beyond her control so she embraced what Bishop Racemundo had always referred to as “the peace that passeth understanding.”
She realized she hadn’t yet eaten. She left Lia’s bedroom and passed through the living room on her way to the kitchen. She found dates and figs and oranges sitting in a large bowl on top of her kitchen table,. Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to eat. Her stomach hadn’t yet settled. Perhaps a cup of water would suffice.
What’s happened to Lia? she wondered again.
The question refused to go away.
Chapter 9
Solomon entered a neighborhood of deteriorating streets and dilapidated houses. It provided a visible example of how the once dominant religion’s fortunes had declined since the rise of Muslim culture on the Iberian Peninsula. Wealthier Christians, a decided minority, favored villas outside of the Ajerquia, down along the shoreline of the Guadalquivir. In the Eastern Wing, outside of the walled city, commercial enterprises tended to be less significant: vinegar making, soap making, cobblers, and plasterers. Solomon’s assignment led him past the straw market and the mat market and finally into an area of tiny squares and meandering streets.
The afternoon sun, positioned directly overhead, somehow found its way into the narrow street to beat down upon the back of his neck. Despite his discomfort, he continued searching until he found the dwelling that he was looking for in the middle of a block of attached one story houses. All of them exhibited similar degrees of decline.
After arriving at his destination, Solomon took a close look around.
Solomon found no guards posted outside the Galician woman’s residence, but he did spy a pair of misplaced Arabs eying the house from a shaded doorway on the far side of the street. Were they waiting to see if the Galician woman returned home? Were they tailing him? He felt a twinge of paranoia. If he were to hazard a guess, he’d presume these men worked for the Chief of Police.
Seeking comfort, he gazed down at the signet ring. It guaranteed his safely most anywhere in Andalusia. He looked back across the street and discovered the two men had vanished. His eyes searched up and down the roadway. The two were completely out of sight. He returned to his task, but not before making a mental note of the occurrence. It seemed the Galician woman wasn’t the only one capable of disappearing.
Time for a small precaution. He stuck a small sliver of clove into his mouth to freshen his breath. He sucked on its pungent yet sweet outer layer for a moment and then began chewing on the nail-shaped flower bud’s fibrous pulp.
Solomon rapped on a weathered door.
Bare wood, visible beneath flaking blue paint, provided ample proof of the dwelling’s lack of maintenance. To be fair, he reasoned it might be caused by a lack of resources and not desire. The entry indicated as much; a plain flush door without panels or molding and devoid of a transom. He knocked again, and then Solomon waited.
The door finally opened.
An attractive young woman stood looking up into Solomon’s eyes. He judged her to be about his own age, late-twenties, perhaps a few years younger. With dark hair and full, moist lips, she could’ve passed for a Jewess or an Arab woman. Chestnut brown hair, with the barest hint of reddish tones, might have cascaded down along the nape of a slender neck, framing a sweet face, if she hadn’t pulled her long strands up and tied them at the back of her head with a simple, wooden clasp.
Solomon spoke to the woman in Arabic because he assumed that she was also conversant in the language. He would’ve been surprised if she wasn’t: “I’m investigating the death of the Caliph’s nephew and the disappearance of your roommate.”
The woman remained silent.
Solomon observed her closely and realized the thread of hair he’d found in Umar’s apartment didn’t match hers. Beneath dark brows, the deep-set eyes still gazed up at him, holding his attention for a moment. Those amber-colored orbs held flecks of green and brown. Her only jewelry, a pair of pearl earrings, also caught his eye. They complemented a white, floor length linen tunic under which, he imagined, she wore pants and a chemise. She can’t afford cotton, he observed. Certainly not silk. This made him wonder who had given her the pearls. An absence of perfume, almost essential to Arab and Jewish women, added to his initial attraction. Something about her unpretentious and unvarnished be
auty appealed to him.
This isn’t going to be easy for her, he told himself.
“May I come inside?” he asked with a quiet voice.
She hesitated and then opened the door slowly, retreating to the interior of the residence where she turned to face him.
“Are they connected?”
“The death and the disappearance?” he asked as he closed the door behind himself. “That’s what I need to find out.”
“I’m Sara,” she said, introducing herself.
“Solomon Levy. I’m afraid I have to ask you some questions,” he told her. “It’s official business.”
“I understand.”
She doesn’t really, he thought.
“When did you last see your roommate?”
“Last night, after our performance,” Sara answered. “She stayed behind to visit with the audience. It wasn’t unusual.”
“You’re a Christian and a qiyan?” he asked.
“You seem surprised.”
“It does seem a bit contradictory.”
“We have to make a living.” she explained. “Times are difficult for Christian singers and dancers so we entertain at public gatherings and private parties.”
Times are only difficult for some Christians, he reflected. Others are quite prosperous. The most successful Christian men accrue harems like their Muslim counterparts. Maybe this Sara is a bit naive. Or, maybe she’s a talented actress.
“We share the gifts that God has blessed us with,” Sara continued. “Bishop Racemundo has given us his permission. Our spiritual leader is a wonderful man.”
“Yes, he is,” Solomon agreed. “My cousin, the Foreign Minister, works closely with the Bishop.”
His attempt to impress her didn’t elicit a response.
“Did your roommate have any ongoing contact with Galicia? he asked. “I’m thinking especially of Santiago de Compostela.”
“I don’t recall anything,” she answered with a vacant stare.
The Galician Woman Page 6