Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

by Tariq Ali

  ‘Your grandfather Abdallah was only two years old when his much-loved mother, the Lady Najma, died giving birth to your Great-Aunt Zahra. Her younger sister, the Lady Maryam took her place and became a mother to the two children. And what a mother. It is said that the children grew up believing that she was their real mother.’

  Zuhayr was beginning to get impatient. ‘Are you sure this is the story of your life? It sounds more like mine. I was brought up on fairy stories about my great-grandfather.’

  Al-Zindiq’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Zuhayr. ‘If you interrupt me once more, I will never discuss the matter with you again. Is that clear?’

  Zuhayr indicated his agreement to these harsh conditions and the old man resumed the tale.

  ‘But there were problems. Ibn Farid showed great respect and affection to his new wife, but passion there was none. Maryam could substitute for her sister in every other way, but not in your great-grandfather’s bed. He simply lost the use of that implement with which every man has been endowed. Many physicians and healers came to see him. Restorative potions of the most exotic sort arrived and were poured down his throat to revive his lost ardour. Nothing happened. Beautiful virgins were paraded before his bed, but nothing moved.

  ‘What they did not realize was that diseases of the mind cannot be cured like those of the body. You see, my young friend, when the spirits are low the cock does not crow! Are you sure you don’t know any of this?’

  Zuhayr shook his head.

  ‘I am truly surprised to learn that. Both Ama and the Dwarf know every detail. One of them should have told you.’ And the old man expressed his disapproval of the pair he had named by sniffing violently and spitting the phlegm out of the cave with both skill and accuracy.

  ‘Please do not stop now. I must know it all,’ said Zuhayr, in a voice which was both pleading and impatient. The old man smiled as he poured out some more coffee.

  ‘One day when Ibn Farid was visiting his uncle in Qurtuba, the two of them rode out of the city to the village of a Christian nobleman whose family and yours had been friends since the fall of Ishbiliya. The nobleman, Don Alvaro, was not at home. Nor was his lady. But while they were waiting a young serving maid brought in some fruit and drinks. She must have been fifteen or sixteen years old at the most.

  ‘Her name was Beatrice and she was a beautifully shaped creature. Her skin was the colour of ripe apricots, her eyes were the shape of almonds, and her whole face smiled. I saw her soon afterwards and even as a boy it was difficult not to be affected by her beauty. Ibn Farid could not take his eyes off her. His uncle realized straight away what had happened. He attempted to leave, but your great-grandfather refused to stir from the house. His uncle later told the family that even then he had a presentiment that Ibn Farid was heading for the precipice, but all his warnings and fears and evil portents were of no avail. Ibn Farid was known for his obstinacy.

  ‘When Don Alvaro returned with his sons, they were delighted to see the visitors. A feast was prepared. Beds were made ready. There was no question of the two men being permitted to return to Qurtuba that night. A messenger was dispatched to inform the family that Ibn Farid would not be returning till the next day. You can guess how delighted he was. Finally, late at night, the great warrior meekly asked his host about the maid.

  ‘“You too, my friend, you too?” said Don Alvaro. “Beatrice is the daughter of Dorothea, our cook. What is it that you desire? If you want to bed the wench it could, no doubt, be arranged.”

  ‘Imagine Don Alvaro’s surprise when his generous response led to Ibn Farid rising from his cushions, red in the face with anger, and challenging his host to a duel. Don Alvaro realized that the matter was serious. He stood up and hugged Ibn Farid. “What is it you desire my friend?” Everyone became silent. Ibn Farid’s voice was choked with emotion. “I want her for my wife, that is all.” His uncle fainted at this stage, though he had probably just succumbed to the alcohol. What could Don Alvaro say? He said the girl’s father was dead and he would have to ask Dorothea, but he was candid enough to make it clear that, since the woman was in his employment, a refusal was most unlikely.

  ‘Your great-grandfather could not wait. “Summon her now!” Don Alvaro did as he was told. A perplexed and puzzled Dorothea arrived and bowed to the assembled company. “Oh Dorothea,” Don Alvaro began, “my guests have enjoyed your food a great deal and this great knight, Ibn Farid, compliments you on your cooking. He also compliments you on the beauty of young Beatrice. We who have seen her grow up these last few years take her features for granted, but to any outside she appears devastating. Have you any plans for her marriage?” Poor woman, what could she say? She too was very striking, with her magnificent frame and flowing red hair which reached her knees. She was stunned by the enquiry. She shook her head in disbelief. “Well then,” Don Alvaro continued, “I have good news for you. My friend, Ibn Farid, wants her for his wife. Understand? His wife for all time, not a concubine for one night! He will pay you a handsome dowry. What do you say?”

  ‘You can imagine, Ibn Umar, the state of that poor woman. She started weeping, which moved Ibn Farid, and he spoke and explained to her once again that his intentions were fully honourable. She looked then at Don Alvaro and said: “As you please, my Lord. She has no father. You decide.” And Don Alvaro decided at that very moment that on the next morning Beatrice would become your great-grandmother number three. More wine was consumed. Such joy, we were later told, had not been seen on the face of your ancestor since the day your grandfather was born. He was in the seventh heaven. He began to sing, and he did so with such obvious joy and passion that the infection spread and they all joined him. He never forgot that poem and it was sung in your home regularly from that time on.’

  Zuhayr stiffened.

  ‘Was it the Khamriyya? The Hymn to Wine?’

  The old man smiled and nodded. Zuhayr, deeply moved by the story of Ibn Farid’s passion, suddenly burst into song.

  ‘Let the swelling tide of passion my senses drown!

  Pity love’s fuel, this long-smouldering heart,

  Nor answer with a frown,

  When I would fain behold thee as thou art.

  For love is life, and death in love the heaven

  Wherein all sins are readily forgiven ...’

  ‘Wa Allah!’ the old man exclaimed. ‘You sing well.’

  ‘I learnt the words from my father.’

  ‘And he from his, but it was the first time that was the most important. Should I continue or have you had enough for today? The sun is already shining on the peaks. Your heavenly mixture awaits you at home. If you are tired ...’

  ‘Please continue. Please!’

  And the old man continued.

  ‘The next morning, after breakfast, Beatrice converted to Islam. When offered a choice of Muslim names she appeared puzzled, and so it came about that even her new name was decided by her husband-to-be. Asma. Asma bint Dorothea.

  ‘Poor child. She had been informed about her impending nuptials when she woke up, early that morning, to clean the kitchen and light the fire. She was in tears. Some hours later, the wedding ceremony took place. It was your great-grandfather’s uncle who, as the only other Muslim present, had to perform the ritual. Ours is a simple religion. Birth, death, marriage, divorce do not involve any elaborate rituals, unlike the system devised by the monks.

  ‘Ibn Farid was in a hurry because he wanted to present the family with an irreversible fact. Any delay, he felt, could have been fatal. The brothers of Najma and Maryam belonged to that section of the family which specialized in settling disputes with other clans. They were expert assassins. Naturally they would regard it as an outrage that their sister was being bypassed in favour of a Christian slave-girl. Concubines are, as you know, permissible. But this was different. A new mistress of the household was being chosen without their knowledge or consent. She would, no doubt, bear him children. Given time to think they might have tried to kill Beatrice. Ibn Fa
rid was known throughout al-Andalus as “the lion” for his courage, but he could play the fox with equal skill. If he was actually married, he knew that he would have the advantage of his brothers-in-law. Of course his uncle was angry, but he did not quarrel with his nephew in the house of Don Alvaro. That came later.

  ‘So Ibn Farid and Asma bint Dorothea returned to Qurtuba. They rested for a day and a night before beginning the two-day journey to the kingdom of Gharnata and the safety of al-Hudayl. Unknown to Ibn Farid news had already reached the house, through a special messenger, dispatched by his uncle.

  ‘The atmosphere in the house was one of mourning. Your grandfather Abdallah, was then eighteen years old, already a man. Your great-aunt, Zahra, was four years younger, the same age as myself. They were walking up and down in the courtyard through which the stream flows, and they were both in a state of great agitation. I was watching them get more and more upset without knowing the cause. When I asked your grandfather he shouted at me: “Son of a dog, get out of here. It is none of your concern.” He had never spoken like that to me before. As the Lady Maryam came out of her room, both of them rushed up to her and embraced her, weeping all the while. My insolence was happily forgotten. I loved your grandfather very much, and what he said to me that day hurt me badly. Later, of course, I understood the reason for his anger, but till that day I had always played with him and Zahra as an equal. Something had changed. Once calm had returned we both tried to return to our habits of the old days, but it was never the same again. I could never forget that he was the young master and he was constantly reminded that I was the son of a serving woman, who had now been assigned the duty of attending to the needs of the Lady Asma.’

  At last, thought Zuhayr, he is beginning to talk about himself; but before he could ask a question, the old man had moved on.

  ‘Lady Maryam was the most gentle of women, even though her tongue could be very cruel if any of the maids, except of course for your Ama, attempted even the tiniest degree of familiarity. I remember her so well. Sometimes she used to go and bathe in a large freshwater pool made by the river. She was preceded by six serving women and followed by another four maid-servants. They held sheets on either side of her to ensure total privacy. The party usually proceeded in silence unless Zahra happened to be with her. Then aunt and niece chattered away and the maids were permitted to laugh at Zahra’s remarks. The servants respected Maryam, but did not like her. Her dead sister’s children worshipped her blindly. For your grandfather and great-aunt she could do no wrong. They knew their father was not happy with her. They felt, the way children usually do, that whatever the problem was it went very deep, but they never stopped loving her.’

  The old man stopped abruptly and peered into his listener’s troubled eyes.

  ‘Something is worrying you, young master? Do you wish to leave now and return another day? The story cannot run away.’

  Zuhayr’s eyes had picked up a small figure on the horizon and the dust indicated it was a rider galloping on a mission. He suspected it was a messenger from al-Hudayl.

  ‘I fear we are about to be interrupted. If the man on horseback is a messenger from our house, I will return at sunrise tomorrow. Could you satisfy my curiosity on one question, before I leave today?’

  ‘Ask.’

  ‘Who are you, old man? Your mother served in our house, but who was your father? Could you be a member of our family?’

  ‘I am not sure. My mother was a piece of the dowry, a serving girl who came with the Lady Najma from Qurtuba when she married Ibn Farid. She must have been sixteen or seventeen years old at the time. My father? Who knows? My mother said that he was a gardener on your estates, who was killed in one of the battles near Malaka the year I was born. It is true that she was married to him, but Heaven alone knows if he was my father. In later years, after the sudden and mysterious death of Asma bint Dorothea and the strange circumstances of my own mother’s demise, I would hear stories about my real father. It was said the seed which produced me was planted by Ibn Farid. It would certainly explain his behaviour in later years, but if that had been the case my mother would have told me herself. I stopped caring much about it.’

  Zuhayr was intrigued by this turn of events. He now remembered vaguely the stories Ama used to tell about the tragedy of the Lady Asma, but he could not even recall their outlines. He was desperate to stay and hear it all, but the dust seemed closer.

  ‘You are still concealing one important fact.’

  ‘What may that be?’

  ‘Your name, old man, your name.’

  The old man’s head, which had been held erect for all this time, suddenly slumped as he contemplated the patterns on the rug. Then he looked up at Zuhayr and smiled.

  ‘I have long forgotten the name my mother gave me. Perhaps your Ama or the Dwarf will remember. For too many decades my friends and enemies have known me as Wajid al-Zindiq. That was the name I used when I wrote my first book. It is a name of which I am still very proud.’

  ‘You claimed you knew why they called me al-Fahl. I will have to think hard to come up with something equally sharp to explain to you why you acquired such a name.’

  ‘The answer is simple. It describes me well. I am, after all, a sceptic, an ecstatic freethinker!’

  Both of them laughed. As the horseman arrived outside the cave, they stood up and Zuhayr, impulsive as usual, hugged the old man and kissed his cheeks. Al-Zindiq was moved by the gesture. Before he could say anything the messenger coughed gently.

  ‘Come in, man. Enter. Is it a message from my father?’ said Zuhayr.

  The boy nodded. He was barely thirteen years old.

  ‘Excuse me, my lord, but the master says you must return at once. They were expecting you back for breakfast.’

  ‘Good. You climb on that mule you call a horse and ride back. Tell them I am on my way. Wait. I’ve changed my mind. Go back now. I will overtake you in a few minutes. I will greet my father myself. There are no messages.’

  The boy nodded, and was about to leave when al-Zindiq stopped him. ‘Come here, son. Are you thirsty?’

  The boy looked at Zuhayr, who nodded slightly. The boy eagerly took the cup of water he was being offered and drank it in one gulp.

  ‘Here, take a few dates for your ride back. You will have time to eat them after the young master has overtaken you.’

  The boy gratefully accepted the fruit, bowed to the men and was soon to be seen coaxing his horse to retrace their route to the mountain.

  ‘Peace be upon you, Wajid al-Zindiq.’

  ‘And you, my son. Could I request a favour?’

  ‘Whatever you like.’

  ‘When your father permitted me to live here a quarter of a century ago he insisted on one condition and that alone. My lips were to remain sealed on all affairs concerning his family. If he were ever to discover that this condition had been breached, his permission would be withdrawn. And so would the supplies of food which your mother has so kindly organized for me. My future depends on your silence. There is nowhere else left for me to go.’

  Zuhayr was outraged.

  ‘But this is unacceptable. It is unjust. It is not like my father. I will ...’

  ‘You will do nothing. Your father may have been wrong, but he had his reasons. I want your pledge that you will remain silent.’

  ‘You have my word. I swear on the al-koran ...’

  ‘Your word alone is sufficient.’

  ‘Of course, al-Zindiq, but in return I want your promise that you will complete the story.’

  ‘I had every intention of doing so.’

  ‘Peace be upon you then, old man.’

  Al-Zindiq walked to where Khalid was tethered and smiled appreciatively as Zuhayr jumped on to his bare back. Al-Zindiq patted the horse.

  ‘Riding a horse without a sack ...’

  ‘I know,’ shouted Zuhayr, ‘... is like riding on a devil’s back. If that were true, all I can say is that the devil must have a comfortable back.’<
br />
  ‘Peace be upon you, al-Fahl. May your house flourish,’ shouted the old man with a grin on his face as Zuhayr galloped down the hill.

  For a while al-Zindiq stood there silently appreciating the skill of the departing horseman.

  ‘I used to ride like that once. You remember don’t you, Zahra?’

  There was no reply.

  Chapter 3

  YAZID HAD WOKEN UP from his afternoon sleep, trembling slightly, with sweat pouring down his face. His mother, lying next to him, was anxious at seeing her last-born in this state. She wiped his face with a linen cloth soaked in rose-water and felt his forehead. It was as cool as the afternoon breezes in the courtyard. There was no cause for alarm.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell my son?’

  ‘No. I just had a strange dream. It was so real, Ummi. Why are afternoon dreams more real? Is it because our sleep is lighter?’

  ‘Perhaps. Want to tell me about it?’

  ‘I dreamt of the Mosque in Qurtuba. It was so beautiful, Mother. And then Great-Uncle Miguel entered and began to pour bottles of blood everywhere. I tried to stop him, but he hit me ...’

  ‘What we see in dreams outdoes reality,’ Zubayda interrupted him. She did not like the continuous attacks on Miguel which the children were fed by Ama, and so she tried to divert her son’s mind. ‘But all that one could dream of the Great Mosque in Qurtuba falls short of the truth. One day we shall take you to see its magnificent arches. As for Miguel ...’ She sighed.

  Zuhayr, on his way to the bath, had overheard the conversation and entered his mother’s room silently, just in time to hear Yazid’s condemnation of the Bishop of Qurtuba.

  ‘I don’t like him. I never have. He always squeezes my cheeks too hard. Ama says one can’t expect anything better. She said that his mother, the Lady Asma, didn’t like him either. You know, Mother, once I heard Ama and the Dwarf talking to each other about the Lady Asma. Ama said that it was Miguel who killed her. Is that true?’

  Zubayda’s face turned ashen. She gave an unconvincing little laugh. ‘What foolishness is this? Of course Miguel did not kill his mother! Your father would be shocked to hear you talk in this fashion. Your Ama talks a lot of nonsense. You must not believe everything she says.’