The Hand of Fatima

by Falcones, Ildefonso

  Hernando’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did you say a lot of them die?’ he asked, shaking his head sorrowfully.

  ‘It’s nothing more than a business deal, my lord. I know how it works. Some children are good at making people weep and stirring their compassion; others aren’t. These last don’t survive. It’s no good using plump, well-fed children to beg for money either; that’s one of the basic rules of the trade. They are all kept starving. And, of course, many of them die of hunger, or from the slightest of fevers, gnawed at by rats, and of course none of this figures in the guild’s registers.’

  Hernando raised his eyes to the dark, heavy sky. ‘And you want me to blackmail Don Martín with this so that he allows me to marry Rafaela?’ he asked finally.

  ‘That’s right.’

  61

  DON MARTÍN ULLOA, needle-maker and magistrate of Córdoba (the post inherited from his father), refused to receive him. A fat old Morisco slave, pretentiously decked out in a uniform that had seen better days, gave him the message: the first time disdainfully, the second peremptorily, the third time angrily.

  ‘Tell your master’, Hernando retorted after this last refusal, raising his voice because he was well aware somebody was listening behind the door, ‘that it was Angustias and other friends and companions of hers who sent me. Did you hear that? Angustias!’ he repeated loudly and clearly. ‘Tell him also that I shall be expecting him at my house on a business matter of interest to him. I will not give him another opportunity before I pay a call on the governor or the bishop. In case he is not aware of it, I live in the house next door,’ he added ironically.

  Later that day, alone in his library, Hernando could not stop pondering on the whole affair. Did he want to marry Rafaela?

  ‘You’re on your own! You need a woman beside you to look after you. Someone who loves you and can give you the warmth of a family,’ Miguel had shouted at him the morning after they had met Rafaela in the stables, when Hernando had told him he was sorry but that he had to find some other solution because he was not willing to marry the girl. What they had to do, he said, was to expose the question of the foundlings to the judicial authorities.

  ‘Don’t you see what’s happening?’ Miguel had protested. ‘For years, you’ve been shut up with your books and writings. What about children? Wouldn’t you like to have children to pass your properties on to? Would you like to have a new family? How old are you? Forty? Forty-one? You’re growing old. Do you want to spend your old age alone?’

  ‘I have you.’

  ‘No.’ There was an embarrassed silence between the two men. ‘I have thought about it a lot. If you don’t marry Rafaela, if you don’t rescue her from the convent, I’ll go back to begging myself.’

  ‘It’s not fair for you to threaten me like that,’ said Hernando, frowning.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Miguel insisted, his mouth tightening in a line as he shook his head, aware of how serious the matter was. ‘I told you that my one aim was to set that girl free. God knows that if it were possible, if there were the slightest chance of it, I would not bring you into this. I can respect the fact that you do not want to marry. But I couldn’t go on living here if you refused me the help I’m asking you for.’

  ‘But you’re asking me to get married!’

  ‘So? Those people you call your brothers in faith want nothing to do with you. Are you going to go out and look for another Christian woman to marry? What is so bad about marrying Rafaela? You will have a good woman to serve you, look after you, and give you children. You’re rich. You have a house, rents from your tenant farmers, lands and horses. Why not get married?’

  ‘I’m a Muslim, Miguel!’

  ‘So what? Córdoba is full of marriages between Morisco men and Christian women. Bring up your children in the two religions you claim you want to unite. What else has all your work been for? For those who reject and insult you? What do you want now? What future do you have? Marry Rafaela and be happy.’

  Be happy. Those two words had pursued him all the next day before he decided to present himself at the magistrate’s door. Had he ever sought happiness? Fátima and the children had once given it him. How long ago that was! It was fourteen years since they had all been killed. And since then? He was all alone. Suddenly he recalled how desolate he had felt during his last trip to Granada, when Estudiante had been nibbling at the grass by the river Darro and he had looked up at Isabel’s garden. Miguel was right. Who had all his work and efforts been for? Be happy! Why not? Rafaela had seemed like a good woman. Miguel adored her. And what if Miguel left him? If his only friend were to leave as well . . .

  What did he stand to lose if he married? He imagined the house full of children scampering about, their chatter and laughter providing a joyful backdrop to his work in the library. He saw himself leaning over the gallery handrail watching them play in the courtyard, just as he had once done with Francisco and Inés. Fourteen years! He was surprised to find he did not feel guilty about considering the possibility: Rafaela was so different from Fátima . . . Nobody was saying it had anything to do with love; very few marriages were for love anyway. There was no passion in it either; simply the chance to escape the melancholy solitude he had to admit he often felt engulfed by. Thinking of the possibility of having more children suddenly brought him a sense of peace.

  ‘What are you after, you filthy Moor?’

  Don Martín Ulloa did not wait until the next day. He came to see Hernando that same evening. Hernando received him in the gallery in the courtyard. The magistrate refused his offer of a seat, and spat out his question leaning menacingly over him. Hernando caught sight of the sword he had at his belt. Behind the stable door, Miguel was listening in.

  ‘Do sit down,’ Hernando offered again.

  ‘In a Moor’s seat? I do not sit down with Moors.’

  ‘In that case, step away from this Moor whom you find so offensive.’ The magistrate stepped back a couple of paces. Hernando remained seated. ‘I would like the hand of your daughter Rafaela in marriage.’

  Dom Martín was a corpulent man, getting on in years but still with a haughty demeanour. The white of the little hair still on his head and of his thick beard suddenly contrasted even more vividly with the scarlet flush that spread over his face. He launched an incomprehensible insult, guffawed twice, and then returned to further insults.

  Alarmed, Miguel stuck his head round the stable door.

  ‘My daughter’s hand! How dare you even mention her name? Your dirty lips stain her honour—’

  ‘It is your honour that would be destroyed for ever’, Hernando butted in threateningly, ‘if the city council heard of your dealings with the foundlings. Yours, that of your wife, and that of your children. Your grandchildren too . . .’ Don Martín reached for his sword. ‘Do you take me for a fool, magistrate? On this very spot, those Moors you detest so much created a splendid culture, and that was no coincidence.’ Hernando spoke calmly, despite the half-drawn sword. ‘At this very moment there is a sealed document in the hands of a public notary,’ he continued, lying, ‘which contains all the details of your dealings with the foundlings. It includes the names of the children and all those involved. If anything happens to me, that document will immediately be passed to the judicial authorities.’ Hernando saw the other man hesitate, although part of the sword blade was still glinting outside the scabbard. ‘If you kill me, your future is not worth a thing. Do you remember a little girl by the name of Elvira?’ he went on, to show how accurate and serious his information was. The magistrate shook his head briefly. ‘You gave her as a newborn baby to a wet-nurse called Juana Chueca. You remember her, don’t you? Then Elvira was passed on to go begging on the streets with Angustias. She died about six months ago – but none of this is to be found in the registers of your guild.’

  ‘That’s a problem the inspector must face,’ Don Martín argued.

  ‘Do you think the inspector would be willing to take all the blame? Or that the nurses and beggar women will s
ay nothing about your participation, or about the money they take to your house at night?’ He could see doubt begin to cloud the magistrate’s face. ‘You have a daughter whom you intend to get rid of by sending her to a convent, without any dowry. Is it worth risking your and your family’s honour for her sake?’

  ‘How do you know my daughter?’ the magistrate asked suspiciously. ‘When have you seen her?’

  ‘I don’t know her, but I have heard her story. We are neighbours, Don Martín. Think of the offer I am making: my silence in exchange for that daughter of yours who is such a burden to you . . . and your word of honour that you will cease in your trafficking of those children. I swear I will keep a close eye on that! I may be a new Christian, but I have close links with the archbishop in Granada. Look at this.’ Don Martín sheathed his sword, and Hernando handed him the commendation the archbishop had signed for him. The magistrate, however, could not read, and so handed it back once he had seen the cathedral council’s seal. ‘You need not feel ashamed in front of your peers. You know I was under the protection of the Duke of Monterreal—’

  ‘And that you were thrown out of his palace,’ Don Martín muttered disdainfully.

  ‘The duke would never have done that,’ Hernando replied. ‘He owed his life to me. Think it over, Don Martín, but I expect your answer by tomorrow night at the latest. If I do not hear from you . . .’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ Don Martín took another step back. Real concern had crept into his eyes.

  ‘Have you only just realized that? I’ve been doing so ever since you arrived,’ said Hernando with a sarcastic smile.

  ‘What if my daughter doesn’t agree?’ the magistrate muttered between clenched teeth.

  ‘For your sake and that of your children, make sure that she does.’

  With these words, Hernando put an end to their conversation. He accompanied the magistrate back to the entrance, making sure he did not turn his back on him. Don Martín seemed lost in thought, and when he stumbled in the doorway, Hernando was convinced he had won. He walked back into the courtyard and found Miguel standing outside the stable door. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, but as he had both hands on his crutches, he could not wipe them away or stop them falling. Hernando realized with a shock that this was the first time he had ever seen him cry.

  The wedding took place at the end of April in that same year. Through Miguel, Hernando learnt that Rafaela had played a very clever trick on her father. She had refused to accept his suggestion that she be married to a Morisco. ‘I’d rather go into a convent!’ she had shouted at him. Fearful of compromising his honour and his social position because of the foundlings, Don Martín was even more incensed by his daughter’s refusal, and so shrieked at her until he got his way.

  The marriage took place without any celebration, without the bride’s insulted brothers and sisters, and also without any dowry. After the ceremony was over and they were walking back from the church, Hernando began to realize what a huge step he had taken. Rafaela went into what was to be her new home with bowed head, scarcely daring to say a word. They both fell into a tense silence. Hernando studied her; the poor girl was trembling. What was he going to do with this frightened little thing, who was almost twenty-five years younger than him? He was surprised to find that he felt nervous too. How long was it since he had been with a woman other than the ones in the bawdy house? He sighed, and accompanied her to a bedroom alongside his own. Blushing, Rafaela went in, murmuring something so softly he did not understand what she had said. He looked down at his wife’s hands: she had been rubbing them so hard the skin was raw and torn.

  Hernando sought refuge in his library.

  The day after the wedding, Miguel came to talk to him. Red-faced, he stammered as he announced his intention of leaving the Córdoba house and going to stay at the stud farm. His excuse was that he wanted to keep an eye on Toribio and the twenty pregnant mares they had, as well as the newly born foals. Both of them knew the real reason for his decision, though: he was getting out of the way, and leaving Hernando and Rafaela room to get to know each other. His master had kept his promise and married her, and now Miguel did not want his presence in the house to put any kind of obstacle between the new couple.

  There was no getting him to change his mind, and so Hernando and his wife saw him off. When the two of them went back inside the house, Hernando suddenly felt himself strangely alone. He ate with Rafaela in a silence interrupted only by the occasional polite phrase, and then retired to the library. From there he could hear Rafaela cleaning the rooms and working around the house. He sometimes even thought he heard her humming a tune, which she herself then interrupted as if she did not want to make any noise.

  The weeks went by. Hernando grew accustomed to having Rafaela around, while she felt increasingly comfortable in her new home. She went with María to the market, cooked for him, and did not seem at all bothered by the time he spent shut up in his library; she did not even ask what he did there. Summer had brought a bloom to her pallid cheeks, and her timid, quickly stifled murmurs had given way to songs that could be heard all over the house.

  ‘Why does this horse have a different bit from the one you use with the other colt?’ Hernando was surprised to hear her ask in the stables one morning as he was setting out for his daily ride.

  Rafaela had never before appeared in the stables when he was preparing to go out. Now she pointed towards the tackle hanging on the wall. Although Hernando usually said very little to her, on this occasion, almost without realizing it and without pausing as he got his mount ready, he found himself giving his wife a lesson.

  ‘It all depends on what kind of mouth they have,’ he told her. ‘Some of them are black, others white, and still others pink. The best are the ones with black mouths – that’s the most natural, as with this one.’ Hernando tightened the girths. ‘With them you only need to use an ordinary, soft bit that’s not too wide . . .’ He came to a halt for a moment behind Rafaela, but went on speaking: ‘The others need bits that are much thicker and longer . . .’ He turned towards his wife. ‘And the curb needs to be thicker and rounder too,’ he concluded, now looking her full in the face.

  Rafaela gave him one of her sweetest smiles.

  ‘Why are you interested in all this anyway?’ he asked.

  They stood facing each other for a few moments. In the end, it was Hernando who took a step towards her. He grasped her by the shoulders and kissed her gently on the lips. He felt her whole body quiver.

  *

  That evening, Hernando watched her while they ate. She was in a lively mood and told him a funny story about something she had seen on the way to market. When she opened her thin lips in a smile, her white teeth appeared; her voice was soft and innocent. For the first time, Hernando found himself laughing with her.

  After their meal, they both went out into the courtyard. The night sky was filled with stars, and the roses gave off a sweet perfume. They stared up at the bright moonlit night. She asked him in a whisper: ‘Don’t you want to have children with me?’

  Taken aback, Hernando looked her up and down. ‘Is that what you want?’ he asked.

  Rafaela’s courage seemed to have deserted her with her first question.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, her eyes on the ground.

  They climbed silently up to his bedroom. Her immense shyness seemed contagious, and Hernando approached her gently, anxious not to harm her. He forgot the kind of pleasure he had enjoyed with Fátima and Isabel and made love in the way that Christians did. Rafaela lay on the bed, her body covered in her long tunic so that she would not be committing a sin.

  A year and a half later, their union was blessed with the first of their children: a boy, whom they called Juan.

  62

  IN THE YEAR 1600, Don Pedro de Granada Venegas summoned Hernando to his city. The moment to send the gospel of Barnabas to the Great Turk was fast approaching. The lead plaques containing what Hernando had written, which Don Pedro, L
una and Castillo had been concealing in the caves of Monte Valparaíso for the Christians to find, had achieved their first objective.

  That year Archbishop Don Pedro de Castro, ignoring the voices denouncing the discoveries as fakes and calls from Rome to be cautious over them, declared that the bones and ashes found with the plaques on what was now popularly known as the Sacromonte were authentic relics. At last Granada had the relics of its patron saint, Saint Caecilius, as well as of other martyrs who had accompanied Saint James the Apostle. At last Granada could throw off the stigma of being the city of the Moors, and become the equal of all the other important sites of Christianity in Spain! Granada was just as Christian (and perhaps even more) as Santiago, Toledo, Tarragona or Seville. Many saintly men had suffered martyrdom on its sacred mountain.

  Although Archbishop de Castro had the authority and legitimacy to declare the relics authentic, he was not in a position to do the same with the lead plaques, or to affirm the truth of what was written on the tablets and medallions. Only Rome could decide such matters, and so the Vatican had asked they be sent there. The Granada prelate had refused to do so, with the excuse that first the arduous task of translating them had to be completed, by the very same Luna and Castillo.

  This was the situation Hernando found in Granada. The relics had been declared authentic, while the lead plaques that said the relics were those of this or that saint were still being studied. But these formal questions of authority did not seem to affect the fervent Christians of Granada or the new King Philip III, who had come to the throne two years earlier after his father’s slow, painful death. King Philip III was delighted with this reborn Granada.