The Galician Woman

by William Mesusan

  He used a brass door knocker to announce his presence and, as he waited, he found himself hoping that this next interview would be productive. Even crossing suspects off the list would be a step in the right direction. He didn’t see the point of talking with a Muwallad, but orders were orders. Hasdai had proven many times in the past that he usually knew best. When the door finally opened Solomon found himself staring at a silver-haired man servant wearing a black cotton tunic. The contrast was dramatic.

  “I’d like to speak with ibn Hafsun,” he told the man. “I’ve been sent by the Foreign Minister.” :

  The servant raised an eyebrow before noticing the signet ring

  “Wait here, please.”

  A few minutes later, another man came to the door. This dark haired man looked younger than the servant, probably in his late forties or early fifties. His lavish silk tunic, a long and flowing brilliant red garment, with wide sleeves and a loose fit, sported intricate bands of black geometric patterns at the upper arms. Below the tunic he wore leather ankle boots

  “I’m ibn Hafsun,” he said. “You wish to see me?”

  “Solomon Levy,” replied the investigator. “I was sent by the Foreign Minister to ask you some questions.”

  “I’m surprised the venerable Shaprut has any interest in me,” the man replied, his steely blue eyes revealing nothing. The Muwallad smoothed his tunic as the hint of a smile creased his lips.

  “Please, follow me.”

  Solomon entered the house. The old servant, who had been standing off to the side and out of sight, quietly closed the door behind the two men before disappearing into another room. Hafsun led the way through a lavish reception area lined in the round with carved benches surrounding a wool rug whose exquisitely detailed patterns suggested a foreign origin. Solomon guessed that it had been woven in Persia, but he wasn’t an expert. It might have been India.

  Bright colors danced along the white walls and off cream-colored floor tiles: yellow, green, blue, and violet. Solomon looked up and discovered the source of this marvelous effect, a stucco cupola supporting half a dozen stained-glass window panels.

  Hafsun turned and smiled. He must have believed that the investigator was impressed by the trappings of success. He continued walking down a hallway towards the back of the house. Solomon followed and the two men shortly entered an elegant sitting room. Two oversized, upholstered chairs sat facing each other on either side of a round table made from deeply grained imported wood. There were no crucifixes or religious pictures on the walls, nothing to suggest that Hafsun wasn’t a convert to Islam. Then again, he sat in chairs and not on pillows set upon the floor.

  “Would you care for some refreshments? he asked, and then he paused briefly for effect. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

  “Levy. Solomon Levy,” replied the investigator. “No thank you.”

  Hafsun clapped his hands loudly and the servant came running.

  “We’ll have coffee.”

  The servant bowed submissively and quickly left the room. Another brief smile appeared on Hafsun’s face. Clearly he was enjoying the encounter. “Please sit down,” he said. Solomon took a seat and his host circled around the table and sat down opposite him. The investigator thought about how he should frame his first question, but the Muwallad spoke out before he had the opportunity to proceed.

  “You probably think that I inherited this house,” he began. “Actually I purchased this

  property using a part of the fortune that I’ve earned working in the spice trade. Like your people, I saw an opportunity to profit from the business.”

  Solomon nodded, knowing that many Jewish merchants had also grown wealthy importing spices into Andalusia. If they weren’t deemed more valuable upon arrival in Tunisia, or Egypt, they were sent on to the high priced Andalusi markets.

  “I maintain contacts in Alexandria where I keep a second home,” the Muwallad continued. “It puts this house to shame I dare say. In Egypt, I trade inexpensive pick-ups for spices like black pepper and nutmeg.”

  “’Pick-ups?’” inquired Solomon. He’d never heard the term.

  “Sorry,” laughed Hafsun. “Pick-ups are cloth made from waste silk spinnings.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Solomon admired the Muwallad’s ambitious nature. He often wished his father had been more successful in his chosen field. Toviyah Levy had also possessed a nose for business which is why he decided against joining the many Jewish artisans of Córdoba who had involved themselves in glass blowing and metal working. Like Hafsun, Solomon’s father had entered the textile trade. He started a family enterprise in league with his two brothers. Only they weren’t nearly as prosperous as their Muwallad competitor. They’d achieved a modicum of success with their dyeing and weaving business, but had never advanced their interests beyond the domestic marketplace.

  Solomon had absolutely no interest in textiles and, least there be any doubt, he pursued his artistic and intellectual interests with a decided passion as soon as he realized that his family wasn’t beyond sacrificing his creative energies and God-given talents to keep the business

  running in perpetuity. He had no intention of playing Isaac to his family’s collective Abraham.

  Fortunately, he had an ally. The opinion of his distinguished cousin Hasdai wasn’t to be taken lightly so the family relented. Solomon’s younger sister, Miriam, wasn’t as lucky. She was brought into the fold as the firm’s bookkeeper. She didn’t seem to mind since the position

  allowed her to keep her finger on the pulse of the business.

  Solomon refocused his attention on his host who seemed amused at his visitor’s lack of concentration.

  “What is the nature of your business, Levy?” asked Hafsun, abruptly changing the subject of the conversation “What is it that the Foreign Minister wants to know?”

  “There’s been talk that the Muwallads aren’t happy,” said Solomon. “Rumors are circulating that they may be inclined to revolt.”

  Hafsun jumped out of his seat to confront Solomon. His piercing eyes met the investigators and he stared in anger for a moment before speaking. Solomon could feel the man’s discomfort and he understood his host was clearly upset.

  “Who is it that says such things?” Hafsun demanded to know.

  “I’m sorry, Solomon apologized. “ I can’t divulge that information.”

  The servant reappeared with a silver tray. There were two small cups of steaming coffee, a bowl of sugar, and a spoon resting upon its surface. The man set the tray down on a side table, bowed politely, and then he exited the room leaving the two men to themselves. The interruption had given Hafsun time to regain his composure. He gestured to Solomon.

  “Are you sure you won’t join me?”

  “Actually, I think I will,” the investigator replied.

  Solomon was beginning to tire. He wasn’t used to this present line of work. His energies were flagging and it was important that he concentrate. He also reasoned that a more sociable attitude might help him extend the interview so that he might learn something of value from Hafsun. He knew he’d already struck a nerve.

  “Sugar,” asked Hafsun as he made his way over to the side table.

  “I think not.”

  Hafsun brought over a cup of the aromatic liquid and handed it to Solomon. He went back to the side table, spooned sugar into his cup, and took the coffee with him to his overstuffed chair. He sat down and turned to the investigator as the smile returned to his lips. He paused, clearing thinking about how much he wanted to reveal.

  “I apologize for overreacting,” he began. “Inciting revolt would be a treasonous act against the Caliph. I assure you I am quite content although I cannot speak for others. Why seek me out? Because of my great uncle? I admit he was a bit of a rogue and a thorn in the side of the Umayyads. Did he convert to Christianity. I don’t know. Was he buried as a Christian? Again, I’m not sure. What people like to forget is that by the time he died, some thirty
years ago, he had pledged his allegiance to the Umayyads.”

  “He returned to the flock?”

  “You might say that,” Hafsun agreed.

  Solomon sipped his coffee before offering a response.

  “Yes, we’re aware of all of that,” he replied soberly. The investigator felt like he was finally beginning to get the upper hand in his dealings with the Muwallad. He eyed Hafsun suspiciously, waiting for his host’s response.

  “Is the Caliph feeling insecure,” asked Hafsun as he raised an eyebrow. “If so, he might look for traitors among his own family. I’ve heard rumors that someone in the royal family covets the throne. One of his nephews perhaps.”

  “Who might that be?” inquired Solomon as he stood up from his chair and took a final sip of his coffee. He waited, but there was no response from the Muwallad so he walked over to the side table and placed the ceramic cup down on the silver platter next to the bowl of sugar. He turned to Hafsun and repeated the question.

  “Everybody knows that Umar abd Rahman and his clique of elitist Arabs are not happy with the Caliph’s desire for equal opportunity for all regardless of any affiliation other than loyalty to his Caliphate.”

  Solomon reflected upon Hafsun’s phrasing: “are not happy.” Clearly not the words of a man who knew that the Caliph’s nephew had been murdered. Either that, or the Muwallad was a good actor. The investigator wanted to tell him that Umar had been murdered so that he could gauge the response, but he knew this approach was unwise. Hasdai would have advised him to share as little as possible with any of the possible suspects.

  “The Umayyads treated us cruelly,” said Hafsun, the long pause in the conversation making him uncomfortable. He sighed deeply. “It would be understandable if some wished that harm would come to the Caliph. There may even be some who are in league with the northern

  Christians. As for me, I’ve made my peace.”

  The Muwallad rose from his chair without waiting for a response.

  “If you have no further questions,” he said with no hint of a smile.

  Had the Muwallads, acting independently or in alliance with the northern Christians, enlisted the help of the Galician woman in a scheme to overthrow the Caliphate? It was a possibility. If they had, Solomon believed that they had done so without the help of Hafsun. He found the man’s story credible and felt somewhat like an intruder in this house. Solomon disliked this part of his assignment, the need to question people he considered innocent and perhaps completely uninvolved in the events he was charged with investigating.

  Solomon took a step towards the doorway.

  “Wait please,” requested Hafsun. He came around the table to speak to Solomon. “I don’t care much for politics or religion. If rumors get around that I might be involved in some sort of plot against the Caliphate, whether they’re true or not. . . well, you understand.”

  Solomon couldn’t fault the man on that score since he was similarly inclined to minimize his involvement in those two spheres. And, yes, he understood that it might prove detrimental to the man’s business to be linked to a conspiracy. The investigator saw a chance to make amends so he offered Hafsun a warm smile and then, quite spontaneously, he bowed politely.

  “I’ll be sure to tell the Foreign Minister that you cooperated,”

  Chapter 11

  Solomon turned the door key clockwise inside an iron lock. He knew immediately that the lock had been tampered with and quickly realized that his front door had been left slightly ajar. This bothered him. Although his library of books held no apparent monetary value, they meant the world to the investigator. It was a part of his life that felt irreplaceable.

  He pushed the door open and entered, expecting to find his comfortable living quarters just as he’d left them. A sudden shock and a feeling of violation and a sense of revulsion all washed over him at the same time as he found the living room in complete disarray. The furniture had been overturned and an important collection of books and papers lie scattered haphazardly on the tile floor in a room doubling as a library and private study.

  “What the hell is going on,” he cried aloud.

  His hand reached instinctively inside his vest pocket and he withdrew the ring. As he rubbed its smooth gold surface between his fingertips he couldn’t help but wonder if the shiny object he’d discovered in Umar’s apartment might explain the chaos surrounding him. Is someone searching for this ring? he asked himself. Nothing appeared to be missing. Not that he owned much of value.

  Solomon looked at the inscription inside the band before pocketing the object.

  He made a beeline for the bedroom.

  He flung open the door to his wardrobe and gazed silently at his most valuable possession. The gorgeous sea wool tunic, with a woven gold and iridescent fabric made from fibers harvested from a unique mollusk, had been a gift from the Caliph for past services rendered. His thoughts raced.

  They would’ve stolen this precious coat to sell on the black market. It took many years to collect enough mollusk fibers to create even one tunic. This wasn’t a random act of thievery. The perpetrators were definitely targeting him and he now believed Umar’s ring held a clue to their identity. He wondered how the ring inside of his pocket fit into the mystery of Umar’s murder.

  He remembered that two men had been watching Sara’s house. Had they returned to continue their surveillance after he’d left? He’d forgotten to look for them when he re-entered the street. Another lapse on his part. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this investigating business. Was it possible they’d tailed him to the Christian suburb and later ransacked his apartment while he’d spent time questioning the Christian woman Sara about her roommate?. How did they know where he lived? So many unanswered questions.

  He heard loud knocking at the front door.

  This noise startled Solomon, but he managed to gather his wits. He closed the wardrobe door and left the bedroom to encounter the source of the unwelcomed interruption. Once inside the living room, he realized he’d left the front door wide open after entering the apartment. He looked out across the room, to the open doorway, and felt another invasion into his once predictable life. At the threshold, staring at the mess in total disbelief, stood Hasdai Shaprut.

  Hasdai looked spent. His slumped shoulders and sagging jawline revealed the extent of his travail. Touched by compassion, Solomon felt an ache in his heart as his beleaguered cousin crossed the room while surveying the damage.

  “What happened here?”

  Solomon fished inside his pocket, withdrew the gold ring, and held it up for inspection: “I think they were looking for this,” he explained, though he knew full well he was just guessing.

  “I found it in Umar’s apartment.”

  “You think it points to the murderer?”

  “Perhaps it does,” he replied. “I’m not sure yet.”

  Hasdai stepped forward and extended his outstretched arm with an upturned, open palm: “The ring will be safe with me.”

  “Why would I leave it with you?” Solomon asked. “That would deprive me of an opportunity to see if it fits on one of the Galician woman’s fingers.”

  “Point well taken,” acknowledged Hasdai. “I’m glad to know that you’ve finally come to terms with the importance of this assignment.”

  Solomon didn’t bother to mention the strand of hair. It seemed inconsequential. He returned his desk back to an upright position and reset its chair while Hasdai helped by placing volumes, written in three languages, back on the shelves of a bookcase the intruders had left standing

  “There’s been a change of plans,” Hasdai informed him. “You’re leaving for Galicia in the morning.”

  Solomon stopped tidying up: “What,” he responded incredulously. “Tomorrow morning?”

  “We have no time to waste. News of Umar’s murder is all over al-Zahra and it’s spreading here to Córdoba. It makes our investigations more difficult.”

  Solomon replaced the cushions on his sofa while taking i
n the news.

  “You’re sending me to Galicia. . .to the savage north?”

  “She’s gone,” said Hasdai.

  “Gone?”

  “Fled the city,” responded Hasdai, thrusting out his arm and waving his hand in no particular direction. “We think she has an accomplice.”

  “How do you know this?” asked Solomon.

  Hasdai ignored the question.

  You’ll need an escort,” declared Hasdai, “We’ve assigned you one of the Caliph’s elite Slavic Guard, one of The Silent Ones, only this one’s not silent like most of them. He didn’t come to our land as an adult mercenary, but as a young slave. I’m told he has an ear for languages and he was hand-picked for this mission by General Naja, the Caliph’s Chief of Staff.

  “You’re sending me with a single bodyguard?” Solomon grimaced.

  “It will be difficult enough for you to keep a low profile in Galicia. This soldier is worth a dozen others and his Arabic is quite good. I believe he wants to emulate the General, become a Slavic freed slave and rise through the ranks to a position of eminence. We’ll provide horses for the ride north. You may still be able to overtake her.”

  “Why don’t you sit down, Hasdai,” Solomon suggested. “You look exhausted.”

  The Caliph’s Foreign Minister accepted the offer and sank down into the furniture’s soft fabric while the nascent investigator continued restoring order to the room while updating his cousin on his progress.

  “I’ve talked with Umar’s wife, Nuzha. And, I’ve questioned his brother, Hasan,” he reported. “They’re not very cooperative. Ibn Hafsun seems unlikely, but the Galician woman’s roommate Sara told me that our suspect was expecting a man very dear to her. He may have helped her to escape.”

  “I’m growing weary of politics, Solomon,” Hasdai confessed, abruptly changing the subject of their conversation. “How’s your Grandfather? I was preoccupied earlier in the day and forgot to ask.”