Cervantes Street

by Jaime Manrique

  I waited for another sign from the house, and for many days I did not leave the bagnio. But there was always a sick captive who stayed behind, or a person of rank in Spain who could borrow from moneylenders in Algiers: they could stay all day in the bagnio sleeping or playing cards. For weeks nothing happened; I began to think that my benefactress would never try to contact me again.

  One morning when I found myself momentarily alone, the rope dropped again near to me with another small bundle tied at the end of it. I grabbed it quickly. Wrapped in a perfumed handkerchief, I found a balled-up sheet of fancy paper. Again the rope was quickly removed and the shutter closed. I held in my hand—I counted twice to make sure I was not hallucinating—forty crowns of Spanish gold. The letter was signed with the drawing of a cross. The calligraphy of the writer was exquisite:

  Christian,

  I have to be brief, but I swear by the holy name of Lela Marien—the blessed Virgin—that I am your friend. Tomorrow midmorning, in the section of the souk where herbal medicines are sold, an old woman will approach you. Her name is Loubna. Do not speak to her. She will show you the palm of her hand, on which you will see a cross drawn in ashes.

  Follow her, but make sure that no one is following you. Walk behind her at a distance. She will lead you to a remote part of the casbah where you will meet a young Moorish gentleman.

  Do not ask him any questions, but follow him.

  Was fate playing another cruel trick with me? Regardless of the dangers, I had to find out what was behind all this. If necessary, I would risk torture all over again if it meant there was a glimmer of hope that I could escape from Algiers. After my thwarted first escape attempt, I was more determined than ever to taste again the sweetness of freedom. Freedom is a slave’s Holy Grail; without it, his life has no meaning.

  I couldn’t sleep that night. I wished Sancho had been around so that I could share my disquiet with him. How admirable of my noble friend to risk a terrifying death knowing his chances of survival were infinitesimal. At least Sancho was at peace now. Death had restored to him what every slave was robbed of—his dignity.

  The next morning, I followed the instructions of my mysterious benefactress and met Loubna in the casbah. I trailed her at a distance, until the crowds thinned out and we reached the edge of a forest of pines behind one of the great houses of Algiers. She entered it and I walked behind her. In a sheltered spot we met a young Moor dressed in splendid clothes. “Follow me,” he said. The old maid turned around and began retracing our steps. The young man walked fast, deeper into a thicker, darker part of the woods. I was too excited to feel any fear. I noted the youth’s gentle voice, his lithe steps, his long neck, his pink lips, and his soft manner. Stopping under a tall rock, he faced me and removed his turban—whereupon long black hair cascaded to his shoulders. I was flabbergasted: my eyes had never beheld such a beautiful woman.

  “I’m the one who dropped the money from the window,” she said. “I’ve been watching you for a while, and have seen you telling stories to the other captives. I have come to the conclusion that you’re unlike any of the other men in the bagnio, and that you’re the only one I can trust.”

  “Who are you?” I asked. “Why have you blessed me with your trust?”

  “My parents gave me the Moorish name of Zoraida, but my Christian name is María,” she said. “I’m Agi Morato’s daughter; that’s all I can tell you now. Later I will answer your questions. I have prepared this billet which will explain many things.” She pulled out a small envelope from her sleeve and handed it to me. “Read it later. Now you must listen to me carefully because I don’t know when we will get another chance to speak to each other face-to-face. Don’t worry about being discovered here: my maid will start singing if there’s anybody coming this way. I’m in a desperate situation and the passage of time is my enemy. I’ve had many suitors from all along the Barbary Coast and from as far away as Arabia, but to the dismay of my father, who is entering an advanced age, I’ve turned down all of them. Father has informed me that Muley Maluco, king of Fez, has asked for my hand in marriage. My father is planning for a wedding at the end of October. The king is a good man, cultivated and kind, which pleases me.” She paused to stare at me briefly, as if to make sure I followed her story. “But I don’t love him. My father, as you may have heard, is very wealthy and I have access to a great deal of his fortune in gold escudos and jewels. I will provide you with funds in gold so you can purchase a well-built vessel to carry me to Spain, where I hope to enter a convent. I know you will not betray me. Your gallantry and bravery are well-known in Algiers—you are admired even by your enemies.”

  Her words made me dizzy. I felt as if God had sent an angel to carry me back to Spain.

  “I know you are good and honest,” she went on. “My people are deceitful, and there’s no one I can trust, except my loyal maid, who also wants to go to Spain with me. She’s an old Christian woman bought by my father many years ago, when she was a girl. She wants to return to Spain before she dies, to die in the bosom of the only true church. Await my instructions, sir. Tomorrow in the market, in the same place where you met Loubna today, she will hand you the funds you will need to start preparing for this enterprise. I have to go now. We must step with the caution of cheetahs.”

  I dropped to my knees. “I vow to serve you with all my strength,” I said. “I pledge to defend you against any harm.”

  She extended her hand, in which she held a handkerchief, which she surrendered to me. Then she turned around and disappeared among the trees, leaving me inebriated with the heavenly scent of her body. I lay on my back on the pine needles and moss that carpeted the ground, with her handkerchief spread across my nose and lips. I closed my eyes and stayed in that position oblivious to the passage of time. I wanted that moment of perfect happiness never to end. If this was a dream, I did not want to awaken from it.

  When I began to get cold, I found my way out of the woods and directed my steps to the little plaza in front of the ruins of the ancient Christian church. There were no people around. I squatted on a large rock from which I could see the harbor. For the first time since my arrival in Algiers, the Mediterranean looked conquerable. Zoraida’s billet read:

  Señor Poet:

  I’ve been told your name is Miguel Cervantes. When you have read this letter you will perhaps take compassion on me. I never knew my mother, for she died at my birth. My father, grief-stricken, swore never to marry again. But he had high hopes for me from my earliest days. He said I was destined to be a princess, and he would prepare me to marry a man from a noble house. He made it a priority that I would receive a good education that would fit my later station in life. One day, when I was still a child, he came home with a young Spanish lady he had bought at auction. Azucena had been a lady-in-waiting to the Countess of Paredes. My father purchased her to teach me Spanish and everything a lady needs to know. Azucena was a devout Christian. Although my father had surrounded me with servants who fed me, washed and dressed me, played games with me, and made sure that no harm came to me, Azucena, despite her despair at finding herself deprived of her freedom, took pity on me: a lone child growing up without a mother. Azucena would be the only mother I ever knew. Instead of hating me for being the daughter of her captor, Azucena devoted herself to my happiness and to teaching me everything she knew. She slept in my chamber; I could not bear to be separated from her for a minute. My father was pleased with Azucena because she had taught me beautiful manners, to play the guitar and sing, and to speak Spanish, the language in which she and I communicated so that nobody in my father’s house could understand what we were saying to each other.

  The following year, Azucena’s mistress, the countess, sent Spanish priests to Algiers to buy her freedom, but my father said he would not sell her back for any amount of money because he needed her for me. Azucena cried whenever the two of us were alone. She stopped eating and became frail and pale. I was afraid she was going to die. “When I grow up and get mar
ried,” I would say to her, “I will give you back your freedom.” Azucena would take me in her arms and kiss my face. She said the Rosary on her knees every night. My people taught me that Allah was the only God. But when I saw the consolation Azucena received from her prayers, the forbearance her faith gave her, her complete belief that Lela Marien would relieve her sorrows, I too wanted to know that peace of soul and mind. Among the few possessions Azucena still had from her old life was a little statue of Lela Marien.

  “When you pray to the Mother of our Redeemer with true faith and a pure heart, she will hear you,” Azucena would say. I asked Azucena to let me pray with her, but she said my father would not approve and would send her away if we were discovered. I could not bear the idea of losing her. It was then that Lela Marien began to appear in my dreams, wearing a crown of stars.

  At first I was afraid to mention my dreams to Azucena. When I did, she said this was proof the Holy Virgin wanted me to convert to Christianity. Azucena said she would be burned or impaled if anyone found out, but I swore it would be our secret, that I would never break my word if it meant I would harm the person I loved the most in the world—after my father.

  The letter described Azucena’s death years later. She began to appear in Zoraida’s dreams and instructed her to go to Spain and live as a Christian. Though Azucena did not say anything on the subject, Zoraida was sure she was destined to become a nun and a bride of Christ.

  Not if I can help it, I told myself. Almost ten years had gone by since I had fallen in love with Mercedes. But she was now no more than a beautiful memory of my youth. During my captivity in Algiers, the idea of my falling in love again seemed preposterous. I could never hope any woman would reciprocate my love. What woman would fall in love with a cripple and a slave? I felt a pure, enveloping happiness that day—knowing that the beautiful and uncorrupted Zoraida trusted completely in me, and had put her life in my hands. So many years had gone by since I had known joy that I had forgotten it was also a part of life. In my years in the bagnio, my heart had atrophied, until I met her. I had forgotten that even in the most awful circumstances the world can remind us that beauty exists, that people are capable of kindness, that Satan’s offspring are no more numerous on earth than the children of God. She has seen my soul, I murmured to myself. This is love because I feel generous not selfish about it, I repeated to myself that night before I went to sleep.

  From that night on, Zoraida suffused my every waking minute, and became the bright light that burned in my dreams and made them happy. I knew hope once again.

  * * *

  The plans for my second escape attempt were begun in earnest but with much prudence. This time I had to succeed; I could not fail Zoraida. An abundance of money would make things go easier: her father’s coffers were bottomless, as long as his suspicions were not aroused. After my experience with El Dorador, I had learned that betrayal was the favored currency in Algiers. I was suspicious even of the flies. Under no circumstances would I deal with renegades. Once these men had abjured Christianity, their souls were corrupted, as if they no longer cared whether they were on the side of God or the devil. Money became their true God.

  One morning in the souk, Loubna made a sign indicating I should follow her. She was accompanied by a tall, older, well-dressed Moor I had seen walking about in the casbah. His name was Abdul and he informed me he had secretly converted to Christianity. He had worked for Zoraida’s father all his life, and was in charge of many of Agi Morato’s business dealings in the city.

  As we ambled up a sparsely populated section of the casbah, Abdul began to speak in the lingua franca in which by that time I had become proficient enough. His voice was sonorous and mournful: “The Lady Zoraida, who I held in my arms when she was an infant, has handed me funds with instructions to buy a frigate that will take her in safety to Spain. She has asked me to go with her, as that is my desire—to live as a Christian. Besides, a lady of her station must not travel to a foreign land unaccompanied.” He paused, and interrogated me with his eyes. I nodded to indicate that I understood everything he had said. “Her desire is to depart as soon as possible, in view of the proximity of her betrothal to King Muley Maluco. I’ve already purchased for the purpose of our trip a frigate in excellent conditions, which I inspected myself. It has twelve banks: one oarsman per bank. Men whom I trust completely, and who wish this venture to succeed, will row it as far as a safe harbor, since they cannot leave their families behind in Algiers. The most propitious time to escape will be during the summer. Christian,” he continued, slowing down his speech, as if to make sure I understood him perfectly, “in August, as you may know already, in search of healthy breezes, rich Algerian families retire to the sierra bordering the sea. The Lady Zoraida will accompany her father to his villa by the seashore. My master’s house is many leagues from Algiers, which is an ideal place from which to sail to Spain. Parallel to my master’s garden runs a stream that empties into a hidden harbor where our vessel will await us.”

  I was speechless. Everything had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, it still seemed like a dream—a perfect dream.

  “Here,” Abdul said, waking me from my reverie, “the Lady Zoraida asked me to give you this.” He handed me a billet.

  I had to find out immediately the content of the letter. The sheet scented with her familiar perfume read:

  Miguel,

  If I may be so bold as to call you by your first name. The days I will be waiting for you in my father’s orchard to take me to Spain will be the longest of my life. I will pray with all my faith to the Virgin and her Divine Son to keep you safe, to quiet the rough and dangerous seas, and to give speed to the wind that will blow the sails of your vessel coming to free me so that I can live as a Christian woman. I know I do not need to remind you that I’ve put my life in your hands.

  “Tell my lady that with God’s help we will come to take her to Spain,” I said to Abdul. “Tell her to wait for me in tranquility in her father’s garden where my constancy to her will be revealed, and where she will have proof that I am a man who keeps his word.”

  All that was left for me to do was find, without delay, a dozen strong and trustworthy men who could row with vigor to freedom. Fortune seemed to have given us her blessing when a shipment of Spanish captives arrived at the bagnio. It included two young Dominican priests and nine Castilian noblemen, who had been on a mission at the Vatican on behalf of our king. It was a dangerous gamble to approach them, but experience had taught me it was better to deal with recent arrivals before, as was so often the case, they were broken in body and spirit by the vicissitudes of life in the bagnio, or became corrupted by the sodomitic pleasures readily available in that land of heathens. I approached my compatriots with considerable trepidation.

  To establish my bona fides I introduced myself as a soldier in the Battle of Lepanto. The scars on my chest and my useless hand corroborated my story and established me as a true patriot and a Christian. When the Dominican priests found out I had worked for Cardinal Acquaviva in Rome, they embraced me as someone they could trust. The men were unanimous in their desire to join me in my plan. I prayed there were no potential Judases in the group.

  * * *

  Zoraida, her father, and his servants and slaves left Algiers for his summer residence in a caravan. From the gate of the bagnio, I saw her go by, high up on a chair atop a camel. Despite the veils that covered the chair, and the veil that covered her face, I recognized her features. For a moment I thought our eyes met and she nodded at me ever so slightly. Happiness made me light-headed. My former vitality was restored and I felt young again.

  Word spread through Algiers that Hassan Pasha, commanding a large fleet of corsairs, was leaving to attack Malta. It might be a long time before conditions were so well aligned in our favor.

  Late one afternoon, after we’d had the chains around our ankles removed by a friendly blacksmith, we walked undetected out of Algiers through the gate of Bab Azoun. Walking without chains
for the first time in five years, I could almost taste freedom. We were dressed as farmers returning home at the end of the day after selling goods in the souk. We blended in with the stream of farmers carrying empty fruit baskets, or riding in their burro-drawn carts to reach their homes before night fell. Our men were instructed to travel alone and not to acknowledge or speak to each other. Under no circumstances were we to utter a single word in Spanish. Even if addressed in our language, we should pretend not to speak it. When I passed through the gate of Bab Azoun in the middle of a group of Algerian farmers, my lungs constricted as if they had been put in a vise. Arnaut Mamí’s punishment for my first escape attempt was still vivid, and I bore the scars on my back as a reminder.

  My fellow conspirators and I walked for about half a league before we reached the trident in the road where Abdul had instructed me to go left. It was dusk. All our men had walked this far without being discovered; we marched in a group entirely formed by Spanish captives. I began to think that we would reach Agi Morato’s giardini without any incident. We came upon another fork in the road and turned right on a narrow path of pebbles that ran between leafy trees.

  Wolves called each other: their howls echoed with eerie clarity across the nocturnal desert sky. A pride of hungry Barbary lions, not wolves, was our concern. We marched through the wilderness in silence. A few of our men carried pistols; in case of an ambush we had a chance.

  It was a clear night, like most nights in the desert, and a moon shaped like a golden grapefruit poured so much light there was no need of torches. We trekked for hours in open country, on the narrow pebbled road until we reached the place in the woods where Abdul and his men were waiting for us with horses.

  Led by Abdul, we headed through hilly dense forests in the direction of the sea. With the wind of the Mediterranean on my face, I rode under the jeweled Algerian sky feeling the old excitement that had gripped me the night before the Battle of Lepanto. Back then, my heart was aflame with love of God and country; now it was the desire to be free once more, abetted by my love for a woman, that made me fearless. It was ten years since I had felt so close to Spain, to my family, to my old dreams. Why not dare dream again? Perhaps Zoraida would fall in love with me for my courage. If she had seen my soul, she must have seen that there was greatness in me.