The Hand of Fatima

by Falcones, Ildefonso

  From the gateway where the four men stood they could see the whole area, dimly lit by the torches of the watchmen guarding the building works and those of the colleges opposite, on the far side of a square. On the left were the Colegio Real and the Santa Catalina college; on the right, set back from the square, was the cathedral. Only the central dome and the ambulatory had been completed, as well as the new belfry. This gave on to the square, leaving a large empty space between it and the other new buildings. A few yards away, at the opposite extreme to the new bell tower, stood the old mosque and its minaret.

  The Turpian tower was being carefully taken down, stone by stone, so that the materials could be reused and to make sure the new cathedral roof was not damaged in any way. The four men surveyed the tower, listening hard for the conversation and laughter from the guards, who were out of sight in the main part of the cathedral.

  ‘They mustn’t see us,’ whispered Castillo. ‘Nobody should be able to link our presence here with the discovery of the casket.’

  ‘There are too many guards,’ Don Pedro said, discouragement in his voice. ‘They’re bound to see us.’

  Silence reigned once more, broken only by the cries of the guards inside the cathedral. With the tar-covered casket well hidden under his cloak, Hernando breathed in the smell of silk that permeated the whole of the network of narrow streets of the silk-weaving district. It brought back to him a similar smell he had so often met back in the Alpujarra, when the cocoons were being boiled and the precious product was being spun. It’s been so hard for me to forget you, Isabel had told him. He imagined her in Don Ponce’s arms once more . . .

  ‘Hernando!’ Castillo whispered urgently in his ear. ‘What shall we do?’

  Yes, what shall we do? Hernando asked himself. What he most wanted to do at that moment was to run off, climb the wall into the judge’s house, slip back into Isabel’s bedroom and . . .

  The translator shook him.

  ‘What shall we do?’ he repeated, more loudly this time. Hernando returned his attention to the square in front of them.

  ‘There are too many guards,’ Castillo warned him.

  A nobleman and two scholars! What clever ruses could he expect from them?

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘there seem to be quite a few of them. But they won’t be guarding the Turpian tower. They’re not interested in it. They’ll be concentrating on the cathedral; that’s why they’re there.’ He thought it over for a few moments. ‘You three go round the cathedral, and on the far side, beyond Calle de la Cárcel, make sure your faces are covered and start a quarrel. As soon as I hear your voices, I’ll go across and get into the tower.’

  The three others could not hide their sense of relief at Hernando’s suggestion. They hurried off towards Plaza de Bibarrambla until they reached Calle de la Cárcel, beyond the cathedral. As soon as they had left him, Hernando’s thoughts again turned to Isabel. Did her refusal mean he would never be able to talk to her again? Did he really want to see her again? Or were his feelings merely a mirage created by the enchanting glow from the Alhambra? He closed his eyes and gave a deep sigh.

  Shouting in the distance brought him back to reality. ‘Santiago!’ he heard someone call. He did not think twice. A couple of bounds took him to the mosque wall. He pressed his back against it so that he could glide along in its shadow. There was no entrance to the tower from the square; it must be inside the mosque itself. He crept out from behind the Turpian tower and found himself in the open ground where the cathedral transept and nave were being built. There were several bonfires near the building works, and he could see that the guards were all looking in the direction of Calle de la Cárcel, where the sounds of men’s raised voice and the clash of swords could be heard. Hernando went round the tower and at its base discovered the entrance. He edged sideways up a narrow staircase barely more than a couple of handspans in width, and then suddenly found himself out again in the cool night air. Don Pedro and his companions were still carrying on with their fight, but up there he could no longer hear them: he could see the Alhambra and the whole of Granada! How often the faithful must have been called to prayer from this very spot! ‘Allah is great!’ he exclaimed, clasping the casket. By the light of the moon he searched for a stone that had already been loosened prior to being dismantled. When he found one, he pulled it apart, scraped away the lime sealing the blocks together, and pushed the tarred casket into the gap. Then he pushed the stone back into place. He climbed back down the staircase and retraced his steps to the silk exchange. From there he headed to Bibarrambla and Calle de la Cárcel to put an end to the staged quarrel.

  53

  EARLY IN May 1588, only a few days before the Spanish armada was to set sail from Lisbon to conquer England, Philip II wrote to the Archbishop of Granada thanking him for the gift of half of the veil of the Virgin Mary that he had sent to El Escorial, and in the name of his subjects expressed his satisfaction at the discovery of such precious relics. As soon as the workmen dismantling the Turpian tower had found the casket Hernando had hidden there, and inside it discovered the parchment signed by Saint Caecilius, the Virgin’s veil and the relic of Saint Stephen, Granada exploded with Christian fervour. This was the first, longed-for news of Saint Caecilius. With it came proof that before the arrival of the Muslims, Granada had been as Christian as any other capital city in the Spanish kingdom. This caused an outburst of passion and mysticism in the ordinary people that the Church was careful not to restrain in any way. From that moment on, countless people said they had witnessed miracles, mysterious lights, apparitions and all kinds of extraordinary phenomena. Granada cathedral had its relics, and the faith of its inhabitants could be based on something more than words!

  Aisha was taken aback when one of the only two Morisco beggars in the city closed his filthy, trembling hand with surprising speed just as she was about to drop a penny into it. They were in Calle de la Feria, near the Corbache gate. She was left holding the coin as the beggar spat at her feet and turned away from her. At once, several Christian beggars pressed round her to claim the money. Aisha hesitated. The law of the Prophet said that one should give alms, but not to Christians. But she was so perturbed when she saw the man who had refused her charity return to begging a little further down the street that she let the penny fall into one of the hands insistently clasping hers.

  Not even beggars respected her! She dragged herself towards Juan Marco’s weaving workshop. ‘The Nazarene woman’, some of them even called her, after the news spread through Córdoba that Hernando was betraying his brothers and collaborating with the Church in the investigation into the crimes committed in the Alpujarra. In recent years, the economic situation of the deported Moriscos had improved considerably. The fact that they worked hard, compared to the lazy Christians, had brought them prosperity, so that many of those who at first had been obliged to sell their labour for wretched day wages now had businesses of their own. Most of them supplemented their incomes by cultivating small plots on the outskirts of the city down by the river Guadalquivir. So successful were they that the guilds in Córdoba, as in many other Spanish cities, implored the authorities to stop new Christians opening shops or having a trade, and ensure that they only did paid work for others. Their requests fell on deaf ears, because the city councils were pleased with the competition the Moriscos brought to the economy. All this meant that the relations between the two communities were more strained than ever.

  Aisha was by now almost forty-seven years old. She felt old and alone: especially alone. The only son she had left was an enemy to their faith, a traitor to his brothers. What could have become of her other children? she wondered, as she entered the door of the master weaver’s light and airy workshop. Shamir. Fátima and the children. What was Fátima’s life like with Brahim? At night, as she lay still and anguished on her sraw mattress, Aisha tried to drive away the images that kept appearing of Fátima being violated by Brahim; of her own son and her grandson Francisco being whipped on one o
f the ships, forced to become galley slaves. Yet the tragic images kept coming back again and again, assaulting her senses as she tried to sleep. Musa and Aquil! It was common knowledge that all those children who had been handed over to the Christians after the uprising had been forcibly converted or sold as slaves. Were her children still alive? Aisha raised her forearm to her face and staunched the tears that had begun to flow. More tears! How could her weary eyes still weep so much?

  She earned a good wage, yes, but everyone seemed to know this was thanks to Hernando, and ever since she had heard the people she shared her house with calling her ‘Nazarene’ in whispers, this extra money was of no use to her. None of them spoke to her. First some of her food started to disappear. She said nothing. Then, in the place where she kept her supplies, she found dry chunks of millet bread. Still she said nothing, and continued to buy things the others ate. One day she found her room taken over by a family with three children. Again, she said not a word and went on paying as if she were living in it on her own. What if they threw her out? Where would she go? Who would take her in? She might have money, but she was nothing more than the Nazarene woman; at least there she had a roof over her head. Another day when she returned from work she found all her belongings piled in the front doorway. From then on, she slept out there.

  In the back room of the weaver’s workshop, where the taffeta was woven on four looms, Aisha made for her post opposite a series of baskets where the dyed strands of silk were piled. They were divided into colours: blues, greens and many other shades, including gold, the famous Spanish red, and the valuable crimsons, made from cochineal that came from tiny insects that lived on the holm oaks. She had to sort out the threads and then prepare the warp of the loom by gathering all the ones of the same length and winding them round the iron spindle used for the weaving. She picked up a stool and carried it across the room, raising her hand to her lower back to ease the pain. She sat down in front of a basket. Why had all-powerful God abandoned her? she complained to herself as she started to work on another skein of coloured silk.

  On the far side of the strait separating Spain from Barbary, in a rich palace in the Tetuan medina, Fátima was dictating a letter to a Jewish trader. She promised him a large sum of money to write it in Arabic, deliver it to Córdoba with someone he trusted, and then bring back the reply.

  ‘Beloved husband,’ she began, her nervousness evident from her voice, ‘peace and the blessings of the Magnanimous, He who judges with truth, be upon you . . .’

  Fátima paused. What could she say to someone she had not seen for seven years? How could she find the words? She had it all prepared, she had thought it over as she remembered the past with joy and tears, but when the moment of truth came she could not find the words.

  The patient old Jew raised his eyes from the sheet of paper and stared at her: she was beautiful, proud-looking and self-possessed, but there was something hard and cold about her, a severity that now seemed to be giving way to doubt. He watched her pace up and down the room, go out through the arches leading to the courtyard and then almost immediately come back in; raise her ring-laden hands to her lips, then cross them under her breasts or wave one in the air as if this would help her find the fluency she seemed to have lost.

  ‘My lady,’ said the trader turned secretary, ‘may I help you? What is it you want to say to your beloved?’

  Fátima fixed her shining cold eyes on the Jew. What she wanted to say would never fit into a letter, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell him something as simple as the fact that Brahim had died and she wished above all that Hernando would come to be with her in Tetuan. That nothing now stood in the way of their happiness, and that she was waiting for him. But what if he had married again? What if he had already found happiness? It had been seven years . . .

  Seven years of complete submission! Fátima came to a halt in front of the old Jew, who went on observing her, quill poised.

  ‘It was a shout,’ she whispered. The old man made as if to dip his quill into the ink, but Fátima stopped him. ‘No, don’t write it down. It was a shout that woke me up and brought me back to life.’

  The old man put the quill down on the desk and settled back in his chair, encouraging Fátima to go on with her story. He knew about Brahim’s murder; all Tetuan knew he had been killed.

  ‘Filthy dog!’ Fátima continued. ‘That was what I heard Shamir shouting at Nasi. It was then I realized that the boy of fifteen had become a man, toughened by his life at sea, the attacks on Christian ships and raids on the coast of Andalusia. It happened right here in this courtyard,’ she added, pointing to the marvellous fountain surrounded by a circular mosaic of brightly coloured tiny stones forming a geometric pattern, which shot a jet of water from ground level. ‘I watched how Nasi, ten years older than him and a feared, cruel corsair, dropped his hand to the hilt of his scimitar when he heard this insult. I trembled, and shrank into myself as I had done ever since I first set foot in this wretched city. My little Abdul, his blue eyes opened wide, was standing next to Shamir. When Nasi unsheathed his scimitar and brandished his weapon in their faces, I thought I was going to faint.’ Fátima fell silent as she relived those moments; the Jewish trader did not dare move. All of a sudden she stared intently at him: ‘Do you know something, Ephraim? God is great. Shamir and Abdul took a few steps back, but not to escape, as I was willing them. No, they too drew their swords, both at the same time, and stood there side by side, their feet firmly planted on the ground, as if they were a single person. They did not show the slightest sign of fear. Shamir ordered Abdul to step aside, to leave him on his own. My little one obeyed, but moved to protect his back as if it were something he had done thousands of times. “Dog!” Shamir insulted Nasi a second time, thrusting his scimitar at him. “Flea-bitten swine!”

  ‘Blind with rage, Nasi launched himself at the lad, but Shamir, agile as a cat, avoided his lunge, struck Nasi’s scimitar and parried the blow. I remember . . . I remember that the sound of the clash of steel made the pillars round the yard shake. The noise was like a signal to my little Abdul. He wheeled round from behind Shamir and also slashed at Nasi’s scimitar. The corsair could do nothing to stop it, only watch as his weapon flew out of his hand. In the blink of an eye my two boys were back in position, weapons at the ready, a smile on their faces. Yes, they were smiling! As if they had the world at their feet. “If you don’t want to die like the pig you are, pick up your sword and try to fight like a true believer,” Shamir told Nasi.’

  Fátima fell silent. She gazed out at the courtyard, reliving the fight.

  ‘My lady . . . carry on,’ the Jew begged her when the silence became prolonged.

  Fátima smiled nostalgically. ‘The commotion woke my husband,’ she resumed. ‘He came waddling out into the courtyard to stop the fight and chastise Shamir and Abdul. “What makes you think you can attack my lieutenant in my own house?” he shouted at them. “Scum!” he muttered, spitting at their feet.

  ‘But by then I had caught a glimpse of the universe opening before my son and Shamir, the world they had smiled at so proudly and confidently like the grown-up men they now were . . . Day by day, encouraged by the virility of my children, I gradually recovered my self-esteem. One night soon afterwards, while the four of them were eating, sitting on cushions around a low table without any weapons, I burst into the dining room. The first thing I did was dismiss the servants and slaves. I can still see Brahim’s look of surprise. Little could he guess what was coming. “There’s something urgent I need to discuss with you,” I said brazenly. With that I pulled out two daggers I had hidden under my clothes. I threw one to Shamir, and seized the other. Nasi leapt to his feet, but Brahim was unable to react. Before his lieutenant could reach me, I plunged the knife into Brahim’s chest.’ Fátima broke off and stared defiantly at the old Jewish man. Her voice was cold, expressionless. ‘Shamir did not immediately realize what was going on, but when he did, he seized Nasi and threatened him with the dagger; Abdul
also threw himself on the corsair.’

  Fátima fell silent again for a few moments. When she spoke once more, her voice was barely a whisper. The old man watched her, intrigued: what other secrets were hidden behind those beautiful black eyes?

  ‘My husband did not die from that first wound. I am only a weak, inexperienced woman. But it caused him so much pain he was unable to defend himself. I stabbed him in the mouth so that he could not cry out, then hacked at his stump until I almost reached his elbow. He took a long while to bleed to death. A very long while . . . He was pleading with me. I remembered the life of suffering he had given me as I saw his life drain away. I did not look away until he breathed his last. He died like a stuck pig.’

  ‘Mother! What have you done?’ shouted Abdul.

  The boy was staring wide-eyed at Brahim, who was lying sprawled on the cushions with his left hand pressed against the wound in his chest; the blood was gushing out all over him.

  Fátima said nothing, and gestured for them to be quiet as Brahim slowly bled to death on the rich silk rugs covering the floor of the room.

  ‘Shamir,’ she said firmly when her despised husband had finally expired, ‘from now on you are the head of the family. Everything is yours.’

  Shamir, who was still standing behind Nasi with his dagger pressed to his throat, was unable to take his eyes off his father. Abdul held his breath, his gaze darting between Brahim and Shamir.

  ‘He was not a good man,’ Fátima insisted, faced with Shamir’s silence. ‘He ruined your mother’s life, and mine. Both of yours too . . .’