by Tariq Ali
‘Why to heaven, my child.’
‘Will we all go to heaven?’
‘May Allah bless you. You will go to the seventh heaven, my pure little slice of the moon. I’m not so sure about the others. And as for that sister of yours, Hind bint Umar, unless they marry her off soon she won’t even get to the first heaven. No, not her. I dread that something evil will overtake that child. I fear that she will be exposed to wild passions and shame will fall on the head of your father, may God protect him.’
Yazid had begun to giggle at the thought of Hind not even getting through the first heaven, and his laughter was so infectious that Ama began to cackle as well, revealing the total complement of her eight remaining teeth.
Of all his brothers and sisters, Yazid loved Hind the most. The others still treated him like a baby, seemed constantly amazed that he could think and speak for himself, picked him up and kissed him as though he were a pet. He knew he was their favourite, but he hated it when they never answered his questions. That was the reason he regarded them all with contempt.
All that is except Hind, who was six years older than him, but treated him as her equal. They argued and they fought a great deal, but they adored each other. This love for his sister was so deep-rooted that none of Ama’s mystical premonitions bothered him in the slightest or affected his feelings for Hind.
It was Hind who had told him the real reason for Great-Uncle Miguel’s visit, which had so upset his parents last week. He too had been upset on hearing that Miguel wanted them all to come to Qurtuba, where he was the Bishop, so that he could personally convert them to Catholicism. It was Miguel who, three days ago, had dragged all of them, including Hind, to Gharnata. Yazid turned to the old woman again.
‘Why doesn’t Great-Uncle Miguel speak to us in Arabic?’
Ama was startled by the question. Old habits never die and so, quite automatically, she spat at the sound of Miguel’s name and began to feel her beads in a slightly desperate way, muttering all the time: ‘There is only one Allah and he is Allah and Mohammed is His prophet ...’
‘Answer me, Ama. Answer me.’
Ama looked at the boy’s shining face. His almond-coloured eyes were flashing with anger. He reminded her of his great-grandfather. It was this memory which softened her as she answered his question.
‘Your Great-Uncle Miguel speaks, reads and writes Arabic, but ... but ...’ Ama’s voice choked in anger. ‘He has turned his back on us. On everything. Did you notice that this time he was stinking, just like them?’
Yazid began to laugh again. He knew that Great-Uncle Miguel was not a popular member of the family, but nobody had ever spoken of him so disrespectfully. Ama was quite right. Even his father had joined in the laughter when Ummi Zubayda had described the unpleasant odours emanating from the Bishop as being reminiscent of a camel that had consumed too many dates.
‘Did he always stink?’
‘Certainly not!’ Ama was upset by the question. ‘In the old days, before he sold his soul and started worshipping images of bleeding men stuck on wooden crosses, he was the cleanest person alive. Five baths a day in the summer. Five changes of clothes. I remember those times well. Now he smells like a horse’s stable. Do you know why?’
Yazid confessed his ignorance.
‘So that nobody can accuse him of being a Muslim under his cassock. Stinking Catholics! The Christians in the Holy Lands were clean, but these Catholic priests are frightened of the water. They think to have a bath is a betrayal of the saint they call the son of God.
‘Now get up and come with me. It’s time to eat. The sun is setting and we can’t wait any longer for them to return from Gharnata. I’ve just remembered something. Did you have your honey today?’
Yazid nodded impatiently. Since he was born, and his brother and sisters before him, Ama had forced a spoonful of wild, purifying honey down their throats every morning.
‘How can we eat before you’ve said the evening prayers?’
She frowned at him to register disapproval. The thought that she could ever forget her sacred ritual. Blasphemy! Yazid grinned and she could not stop herself from smiling at him as she lifted herself up slowly and began to walk to the bathroom to do her ablutions.
Yazid remained seated under the pomegranate tree. He loved this time of day, when the birds were noisily preparing to retire for the night. The cuckoos were busy announcing their last messages. In an alcove on the outside of the tower house, overlooking the outer courtyard and the world beyond, the doves were cooing.
Suddenly the light changed and there was total silence. The deep blue sky had turned a purplish orange, casting a magical spell on the mountain-tops still covered with snow. In the courtyard of the big house, Yazid strained his eyes, trying to observe the first star, but none was yet visible. Should he rush to the tower and look through the magnifying glass? What if the first star appeared while he was still mounting the stair? Instead, Yazid shut his eyes. It was as if the overpowering scent of jasmine had flooded his senses like hashish and made him drowsy, but in reality he was counting up to five hundred. It was his way of killing time till the North Star appeared.
The muezzin’s call to prayer interrupted the boy. Ama limped out with her prayer-mat and pointed it in the direction of the sunrise and began to say her prayers. Just as she had prostrated herself in the direction of the Kaaba in Mecca, Yazid saw al-Hutay’a, the cook, signalling to him frantically from the paved path at the edge of the courtyard in the direction of the kitchen. The boy ran towards him.
‘What is it, Dwarf?’
The cook put his finger to his lips and demanded silence. The boy obeyed him. For a moment both the dwarf-cook and the child remained frozen. Then the cook spoke. ‘Listen. Just listen. There. Can you hear?’
Yazid’s eyes lit up. There in the distance was the unmistakable noise of horses’ hoofs, followed by the creaking of the cart. The boy ran out of the house as the noises became louder. The sky was now covered with stars and Yazid saw the retainers and servants lighting their torches to welcome the family. A voice echoed from afar.
‘Umar bin Abdallah has returned. Umar bin Abdallah has returned ...’
More torches were lit and Yazid felt even more excited. Then he saw the three men on horseback and began to shout.
‘Abu! Abu! Zuhayr! Hind! Hind! Hurry up. I’m hungry.’
There they all were. Yazid had to admit an error. One of the three men on horseback was his sister Hind. Zuhayr was in the cart with his mother and Kulthum, a blanket wrapped round him.
Umar bin Abdallah lifted the boy off his feet and hugged him.
‘Has my prince been good?’
Yazid nodded as his mother rained kisses on his face. Before the others could join her in this game, Hind grabbed him by the arm and the two ran off into the house.
‘Why were you riding Zuhayr’s horse?’
Hind’s face became tense and she paused for a moment, wondering whether to tell him the truth. She decided against, not wishing to alarm Yazid. She, better than anyone else in the family, knew the fantasy-world in which her younger brother often cocooned himself.
‘Hind! What’s wrong with Zuhayr?’
‘He developed a fever.’
‘I hope it’s not the plague.’
Hind shrieked with laughter.
‘You’ve been listening too much to Ama’s stories again, haven’t you? Fool! When she talks about the plague she means Christianity. And that is not the cause of Zuhayr’s fever. It’s not serious. Our mother says he’ll be fine in a few days. He’s allergic to the change of seasons. It’s an autumnal fever. Come and bathe with us. It’s our turn first today.’
Yazid put on an indignant look.
‘I’ve already had a bath. Anyway Ama says I’m getting too old to bathe with the women. She says ...’
‘I think Ama is getting too old. The nonsense she talks.’
‘She talks a lot of sense as well, and she knows a great deal more than you, Hind.’ Yazi
d paused to see if this rebuke had left any impact on his sister, but she appeared unmoved. Then he saw the smile in her eyes as she offered him her left hand and walked briskly through the house. Yazid ignored her extended hand, but walked by her side as she crossed the courtyard. He entered the bath chambers with her.
‘I won’t have a bath, but I will come and talk to all of you.’
The room was filled with serving women, who were undressing Yazid’s mother and Kulthum. Yazid wondered why his mother seemed slightly worried. Perhaps the journey had tired her. Perhaps it was Zuhayr’s fever. He stopped thinking as Hind undressed. Her personal maid-servant rushed to pick the discarded clothes from the floor. The three women were soaped and scrubbed with the softest sponges in the world, then containers of clean water were poured over them. After this they entered the large bath, which was the size of a small pond. The stream which flowed through the house had been piped to provide a regular supply of fresh water for the baths.
‘Have you told Yazid?’ asked their mother.
Hind shook her head.
‘Told me what?’
Kulthum giggled.
‘Great-Uncle Miguel wants Hind to marry Juan!’
Yazid laughed. ‘But he’s so fat and ugly!’
Hind screamed with pleasure. ‘You see, Mother! Even Yazid agrees. Juan has a pumpkin instead of a brain. Mother, how could he be so totally stupid! Great-Uncle Miguel may be slimy, but he’s no fool. How could he have produced this cross between a pig and a sheep?’
‘There are no laws in these matters, child.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ ventured Kulthum. ‘It might be a punishment from God for becoming a Christian!’
Hind snorted and pushed her older sister’s head below the water. Kulthum emerged in good spirits. She had become engaged only a few months ago, and it had been agreed to have the wedding ceremony and departure from the parental home in the first month of the next year. She could wait. Her intended, Ibn Harith, was someone she had known since they were children. He was the son of her mother’s cousin. He had loved her since he was sixteen years old. She wished they were in Gharnata instead of Ishbiliya, but it could not be helped. Once they were married she would try and drag him nearer her home.
‘Does Juan stink as much as Great-Uncle Miguel?’
Yazid’s question went unanswered. His mother clapped her hands and the maid-servants who had been waiting outside entered with towels and scented oils. As Yazid watched thoughtfully, the three women were dried and then rubbed with oil. Outside Umar’s voice could be heard muttering impatiently, and the women hurriedly left the chamber and entered its neighbour where their clothes awaited them. Yazid followed them, but was immediately dispatched by his mother to the kitchen with instructions for the Dwarf to prepare the food, which should be served in exactly half an hour. As he set off, Hind whispered in his ear: ‘Juan smells even more than that old stick Miguel!’
‘So you see, Ama is not always wrong!’ cried the boy triumphantly as he skipped out of the room.
In the kitchen, the Dwarf had prepared a feast. There were so many conflicting scents that even Yazid, who was a great friend of the cook, could not decipher what the stunted genius had prepared for the evening meal to celebrate the family’s safe return from Gharnata. The kitchen seemed crowded with servants and retainers, some of whom had returned with Umar from the big city. They were talking so excitedly that none of them saw Yazid enter except the Dwarf, who was roughly the same height. He rushed over to the boy.
‘Can you guess what I’ve cooked?’
‘No, but why are they all so excited?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘What? Tell me immediately, Dwarf. I insist.’
Yazid had unintentionally raised his voice and had been noticed, with the result that the kitchen became silent and only the sizzling of the meat-balls in the large pan could be heard. The Dwarf looked at the boy with a sad smile on his face.
‘Your brother, Zuhayr bin Umar ...’
‘He’s got a slight fever. Is it something else? Why did Hind not tell me? What is it, Dwarf? You must tell me.’
‘Young master. I don’t know all the circumstances, but your brother does not have a slight fever. He was stabbed in the city after a rude exchange with a Christian. He’s safe, it is only a flesh wound, but it will take some weeks for him to recover.’
Forgetting his mission, Yazid ran out of the kitchen, through the courtyard and was about to enter his brother’s room when he was lifted off the ground by his father.
‘Zuhayr is fast asleep. You can talk to him as much as you like in the morning.’
‘Who stabbed him, Abu? Who? Who was it?’
Yazid was dismayed. He was very close to Zuhayr and he felt guilty at having ignored his older brother and spent all this time with Hind and the women. His father attempted to soothe him.
‘It was a trivial incident. Almost an accident. Some fool insulted me as we were about to enter your uncle’s house ...’
‘How?’
‘Nothing of moment. Some abuse about forcing us soon to eat pig-meat. I ignored the creature, but Zuhayr, impulsive as always, slapped the man’s face, upon which he revealed the dagger he had been concealing under his cloak and stabbed your brother just under the shoulder ...’
‘And? Did you punish the rascal?’
‘No my son. We carried your brother inside the house and tended to him.’
‘Where were our servants?’
‘With us, but under strict instructions from me not to retaliate.’
‘But why, Father? Why? Perhaps Ama is right after all. Nothing will be left of us except fragrant memories.’
‘Wa Allah! Did she really say that?’
Yazid nodded tearfully. Umar felt the wetness on his son’s face and held him close. ‘Yazid bin Umar. There is no longer any such thing for us as an easy decision. We are living in the most difficult period of our history. We have not had such serious problems since Tarik and Musa first occupied these lands. And you know how long ago that was, do you not?’
Yazid nodded. ‘In our first century and their eighth.’
‘Exactly so, my child. Exactly so. It is getting late. Let us wash our hands and eat. Your mother is waiting.’
Ama, who had heard the entire conversation in silence from the edge of the courtyard outside the kitchen, blessed father and son under her breath as they walked indoors. Then, swaying to and fro, she let loose a strange rattle from the back of her throat and spat out a malediction.
‘Ya Allah! Save us from these crazed dogs and eaters of pigs. Protect us from these enemies of truth, who are so blinded by sectarian beliefs that they nail their God to a piece of wood and call it father, mother and son, drowning their followers in a sea of falsehood. They have subjected and annihilated us through the force of their oppression. Ten thousand praises to you, O Allah, for I am sure you will deliver us from the rule of these dogs who in many towns come daily to pull us from our homes ...’
How long she would have carried on in this vein is uncertain, but a young serving woman interrupted her.
‘Your food is getting cold, Ama.’
The old woman rose to her feet slowly and with her slightly bent back followed the maid into the kitchen. Ama’s status among the servants was unambiguous. As the master’s wet-nurse who had been with the family since she was born, her authority in the servants’ quarters was unchallenged, but this did not solve all the problems of protocol. Apart from the venerable Dwarf, who boasted that he was the most skilled cuisinier in al-Andalus and who knew exactly how far he could go in discussing the family in the presence of Ama, the others steered away from sensitive subjects in her presence. It was not that Ama was a family spy. Sometimes she would let her tongue loosen and the servants would be amazed by her boldness, but despite these incidents her familiarity with the master and the sons made the rest of the household uneasy.
In fact, if the truth be told, Ama was extremely critical
of Yazid’s mother and the way she brought up her children. If she let her thoughts travel uncensored on this subject Ama finally ended up praying that the master would take a new wife. She regarded the lady of the manor as over-indulgent to her daughters, over-generous to the peasants who worked on the estate, over-lenient to the servants and their vices and indifferent to the practices of their faith.
On occasion Ama went so far as to voice a moderate version of these thoughts to Umar bin Abdallah, stressing that it was precisely weaknesses of this order which had brought Islam to the sorry pass in which it now found itself in al-Andalus. Umar simply laughed and later repeated every word to his wife. Zubayda was equally entertained by the thought that the frailties of al-Andalusian Islam were symbolized in her person.
The sounds of laughter emanating from the dining chamber tonight had nothing to do with Ama or her eccentricities. The jokes were a sure sign that the Dwarf’s menu for the evening had found favour with his employers. On an ordinary day the family ate modestly. There were usually no more than four separate dishes and a plate of sweetmeats, followed by fresh fruit. Tonight they had been presented with a heavily spiced and scented barbecue lamb; rabbits stewed in fermented grape-juice with red peppers and whole cloves of garlic; meat-balls stuffed with brown truffles which literally melted in the mouth; a harder variety of meat-balls fried in coriander oil and served with triangular pieces of chilli-paste fried in the same oil; a large container full of bones floating in a saffron-coloured sauce; a large dish of fried rice; miniature vol-au-vents and three different salads; asparagus, a mixture of thinly sliced onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, sprinkled with herbs and the juice of fresh lemons, chick-peas soaked in yoghurt and sprinkled with pepper.
It had been Yazid trying to extract the marrow from a bone and blowing it by mistake on to his father’s beard that had caused the laughter. Hind clapped her hands and two serving women entered the room. Her mother it was who asked them to clear the table and distribute the large amount of left-over food amongst themselves.
‘And listen. Tell the Dwarf we will not try his sweetmeats or cheese-cakes tonight. Just serve the sugar-cane. Has it been dipped in rose-water? Hurry up. It’s late.’