Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

by Tariq Ali

  On his way to eat, Ibn Daud was surprised by Yazid.

  ‘Peace be upon you, Ibn Daud.’

  ‘And upon you, Yazid bin Umar.’

  ‘Should I tell you what the Dwarf has cooked for our meal?’

  When Ibn Daud nodded, Yazid recited the list of ingredients in such a perfect copy of the Dwarf that his new tutor, not having heard the original, was genuinely impressed. They went into the dining-room together.

  Ibn Daud was delighted by this renewal of friendship with his pupil. He felt it was a good omen. Everyone was extra kind to him during the meal. The Dwarf’s sunset stew had been a great success and Hind insisted on serving him a second helping.

  Miguel had returned to Qurtuba. Zahra was dead. Zuhayr was in Gharnata. Kulthum was visiting her cousins and future in-laws in Ishbiliya. The family presence in the dining-chamber was unusually depleted. This made the circle of which Ibn Daud was a part more intimate than usual. Zubayda had noticed him gazing into Hind’s eyes with a smile, and this reassured her. Perhaps it had been a false alarm. Perhaps Umar’s instincts had been closer to reality than hers. She began to feel guilty and wanted to tell her husband not to ask the boy any embarrassing questions, but it was too late. Umar had already begun to speak.

  ‘Ibn Daud,’ said the master of the house, ‘would you care to take a short walk with me after you have finished your coffee?’

  ‘It would be an honour, sir.’

  ‘Can I join you too?’ asked Yazid in a matter-of-fact voice, trying to sound as adult as he possibly could. Since Zuhayr was away, he felt he should be present at such an occasion.

  ‘No,’ smiled Hind. ‘I want a game of chess. I think I am going to take your king in under ten moves.’

  Yazid was torn, but his sister prevailed.

  ‘On reflection,’ he said to his father, ‘I will remain indoors. I think it is getting cold outside.’

  ‘A sensible decision,’ said Umar as he rose from the floor and walked towards the door leading to the terrace.

  Ibn Daud bowed to Zubayda, and looked at Hind as if he was pleading with her not to judge him too harshly. He followed Umar out of the room.

  ‘Go to my room and lay the chess pieces on the cloth,’ Hind instructed her brother. ‘I will join you in a moment.’

  ‘I think we were wrong about Ibn Daud,’ said Zubayda the minute her son had left the room. ‘Did you observe him while we were eating? He had eyes only for you. He may be confused, but he is very attached to you.’

  ‘What you say may be true, but the uncontrollable passion which I felt for him is gone. I still like him. I may even love him in time, but without the intensity I felt before. The afternoon has left me with a dull headache.’

  ‘Not even our greatest physicians have been able to solve the riddles of the heart, Hind. Give yourself a chance. You are too much like me. Too impatient. Everything at once. I was like that with your father, and his parents mistook my simple desire for greed.’

  ‘Surely, Mother,’ said Hind in a very soft voice, ‘we do not know how much time there is left for any of us. When you were young the Sultan was in the al-Hamra palace and the world seemed safe. Today our lives are governed by uncertainties. Everyone in the village feels insecure. Even the false magic of dreams can offer consolation no longer. Our dreams have turned sour. Do you remember when Yazid was crying and clinging to Zuhayr, pleading with him not to go to Gharnata?’

  ‘Could any mother forget that scene?’

  ‘The sight of Yazid in such distress angered me and I whispered some rudeness in Zuhayr’s ear. Something stupid. Told him he had been selfish from birth. His face paled. He put Yazid down and took me to one side. Then he whispered fiercely in my ear: “There is nothing to be gained by becoming entangled in life and its daily routines. The only freedom left is to choose how we are to die, and you want to take even that away from me.”’

  Zubayda hugged Hind and held her close. They did not speak any more. In the silence they could hear the wind outside. Their bodies transmitted signals to each other.

  ‘Hind! Hind!’ Yazid’s voice brought them back to the world in which they continued to live. ‘I’ve been waiting. Hurry up! I’ve planned my moves.’

  The two women smiled. Some things would never change.

  Outside in the dark blue night, Umar and Ibn Daud were walking round the walls of the house. They, too, had been discussing the state of their world, though in more philosophical terms. Now that they were beyond the hearing of the nightwatchmen who patrolled the perimeter of the house, Umar decided that no more time should be wasted.

  ‘I have heard that you went for a walk with Hind after lunch today. She is a very precious treasure. Her mother and I both love her very much. We do not wish to see her hurt or upset.’

  ‘I was very pleased when you asked me to come and walk with you. I love Hind. I wish to ask your permission to marry her.’

  ‘Remember one thing, Ibn Daud,’ said Umar in his most avuncular style. ‘Only a blind man dares to shit on the roof and thinks that he cannot be seen!’

  Ibn Daud began to tremble. He was not sure how much Umar knew. Perhaps Yazid had told his mother. Perhaps the maidservants had talked. Perhaps ...

  ‘What I mean, my dear friend, is that there is no excuse for somebody to fall into the same hole twice.’

  Now he understood.

  ‘There is nothing I wish to hide from Hind and yourself or from the Lady Zubayda.’ Ibn Daud spoke with a tremor in his voice. ‘There was an incident some years ago. A fellow student. We loved each other. He died over a year ago. I have not been with any other man or woman. My love for Hind is stronger than it was for my friend. I would sooner die than harm her in any way. If, in your wisdom and with your experience, you and the Lady Zubayda feel that I am the wrong person for her, pray tell me so and I will pack my bag and leave your noble house tomorrow. Your judgement will be final.’

  The wind had died, leaving behind a clear sky. Ibn Daud’s honesty had dispelled the gloom of the night and Umar’s heart had lightened. Zubayda’s suspicions, even though he would not admit it to her, had discomforted him. There were far too many family stories of women made unhappy by men who lived only for each other, women who lived on withered dreams. Their sole function, as far as their husbands were concerned, was procreation. Umar’s own grand-uncle, Ibn Farid’s younger brother, had flaunted his male lover in this very house, but he, at least, had never bothered to get married.

  ‘I am greatly impressed by your honesty. What you tell your future wife is between the pair of you.’

  ‘Then I have your permission?’ began Ibn Daud, but he was immediately interrupted.

  ‘You have more than my permission. You have my blessing. Hind will carry a handsome dowry.’

  ‘I assure you that the dowry is of no interest to me.’

  ‘Have you any wealth of your own?’

  ‘None whatsoever. Money has never played an important part in my life.’

  Umar chuckled as they began to walk back to the house. The only thing to recommend poverty, he felt, was the way it ennobled some people with a dignity which wealth simply could not match.

  ‘Never mind, Ibn Daud. You shall have the dowry nonetheless. My grandchildren will thank me for my foresight. Tell me, have you decided on where you want to live? Will you go back to al-Qahira?’

  ‘No. That is the one place where I do not wish to live. I will naturally discuss all this with Lady Hind, but the Maghrebian town which pleases me the most is Fes. It is not unlike Gharnata, but without the presence of Archbishop Cisneros. Moreover Ibn Khaldun, if my grandmother is to be believed, commended it highly and wished to make it his permanent home.’

  Whereas a few weeks ago the sight of Hind making eyes at Ibn Daud had only served to kindle Umar’s irritation with the Qahirene, he now began to feel a kind of admiration for this young man. He no longer found him irksome and too clever for his own good, and had begun to share his confidence that he could survive materiall
y simply on the basis of his intellect. As they reached the inner courtyard Umar felt that he was one of the few men with whom Hind could be happy. He embraced Ibn Daud.

  ‘Peace be upon you and sleep well.’

  ‘Peace be upon you,’ responded the scholar from al-Qahira, his voice choked with emotions he was trying so hard to conceal.

  When Umar entered his wife’s bed-chamber he found Hind massaging her mother’s legs and feet. Zubayda sat up the minute her husband entered the room.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Who won at chess, Hind?’ was Umar’s only response, designed deliberately to provoke his wife.

  ‘Umar!’ demanded Zubayda. ‘What happened?’

  Umar, looking as resigned and calm as he could, stared at her with a smile. ‘It was as I thought,’ he replied. ‘The boy truly loves our daughter. Of that I have not the slightest doubt. I gave him my permission. It is now up to Hind.’

  ‘My fears?’ pressed Zubayda. ‘Were they totally false?’

  Umar shrugged his shoulders. ‘They were irrelevant.’

  Zubayda smiled in satisfaction. ‘It is your choice and yours alone, my daughter. We are happy.’

  Hind’s face had acquired a flush as she heard this conversation. Her heart had begun to beat faster. ‘I will think carefully about it tonight,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘and tomorrow you shall all have my answer.’

  She then kissed her parents in turn and, putting on her most dignified look, walked slowly out of the chamber.

  Once she was in the safety of her own room, she began to laugh, first silently and then aloud. The laughter reflected her triumph, her joy, and there was also an element of hysteria. ‘I wish you were not dead, Great-Aunt Zahra.’ Hind was looking at a mirror and inspecting her own face, whose natural softness was enhanced by the light of the lamp. ‘I need to talk to you. I think I will marry him, but first I must convince myself that his love is genuine, and there is only one way to find out. You told me so yourself.’

  Having convinced herself of the righteousness of what she was about to do, Hind extinguished the lamp in her room and tiptoed out into the courtyard. It was pitch-black. The clouds had returned and covered the stars. She waited till her eyes had adjusted to the dark and walked nervously to the guest chambers.

  Outside Ibn Daud’s room she paused till she had stopped trembling. She looked around carefully. Everything was still. His light was still burning. She knocked gently on the door. Inside the room Ibn Daud was puzzled. He wrapped a sheet around him, got out of bed and unlatched the door.

  ‘Hind!’ His surprise was so great that he could barely hear his own voice. ‘Please come in.’

  Hind marched into the room, trying hard not to laugh at the sight of this very proper young man trying to keep the sheet around him in place. She sat down on the bed.

  ‘My father says that he has given you permission to marry me.’

  ‘Only if you agree. Is that all your father said?’

  ‘Yes. What else did you say to him?’

  ‘Something I should have said to you many days ago. I was a fool, Hind. I think I must have been frightened of losing you.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Ibn Daud recounted the whole story of his love for the dead Mansur, including the details most likely to cause pain to her. He described how they had shared a room at the al-Azhar university, how they had found each other’s company the most stimulating and how, one night, their intellectual affinity had brought them together physically. He talked of their discovery of each other and then the death of Mansur.

  ‘You were the person who brought me back to life.’

  ‘I am glad of that. You have probably realized that I am one of those who prefer a heart pierced with anguish to a placid happiness, which is usually based on self-deception or deceit. The food of most marriages is a cold emptiness. Most of my cousins are married to brutes with the sensitivity of a log. Marriage for its own sake is something I could never accept. Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Whatever you wish.’ Ibn Daud’s voice sounded eager and relieved.

  ‘We could become great friends, write poetry together, join the hunt, discuss astronomy, but are you sure that when the sun sets you will desire a woman’s body in your arms?’

  ‘I have been yearning for you since the afternoon. I was confused and unsure, but the flow of your hands across my limbs was an experience I would happily repeat when the sun rises, never mind at night.’

  As he stroked her face she felt moved again and embraced him, feeling his naked body underneath the sheet of pure cotton. When she felt his palm-tree stir she pulled the sheet off him and held him tight. Then she stepped back and shed her gown.

  ‘The noise of your heartbeats will wake up the whole household,’ she teased as she put out the lamp and fell with him on the bed.

  ‘Are you sure, Hind? Are you sure?’ he asked, incapable of further self-control.

  She nodded. Gently he planted his tree in her garden. She felt the pain, which was transformed within seconds into pain-pleasure, and then she relaxed and joined him as their bodies began to heave in unison, reaching a climax together. All her cousins and the maid-servants had told Hind that the first time was the least pleasurable. She lay back and enjoyed the after-glow.

  ‘Now are you sure,’ he asked her, sitting up in bed and giving her a quizzical look.

  ‘Yes, my lover, now I am sure. Are you?’

  ‘What do you mean, you devil?’

  ‘I mean was it as nice as it used to be with Mansur?’

  ‘It is very different with you, my princess, and so it shall remain. A pomegranate can give as much pleasure as an oyster even though the taste of each is so completely different from the other. To compare them is to spoil both.’

  ‘I am warning you, Ibn Daud. Even before we are married. If you desert me for a pretty young boy selling figs, my revenge will be public and brutal.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  In response she clasped his palm-tree.

  ‘I will remove these dates and have them pickled.’

  This made both of them laugh. The flame mounted again. They made love many times that night. He fell asleep before she did. For a long time she watched his sleeping body and relived what she had just experienced. She stroked his hair, hoping that it might awaken him, but he did not stir. Her palate wanted to taste him again, but sleep, tired of waiting any longer, overpowered her desire.

  Just before sunrise, Zubayda entered the room, knowing what she would find. She put her hand on her daughter’s mouth to prevent any startled screams which might embarrass her lover, then shook her vigorously till she opened her eyes. On seeing Zubayda she sat bolt-upright in the bed. Zubayda signalled that they should leave the room quietly.

  ‘I love him. I will marry him,’ whispered Hind drowsily as they crossed back into the inner courtyard.

  ‘I am truly glad to hear the news,’ replied her mother, ‘but I think you should marry him later this afternoon!’

  Chapter 11

  XIMENES IS SITTING AT his desk thinking.

  My skin is perhaps too dark, my eyes are not blue but dark brown, my nose is hooked and long, and yet I am sure, yes sure, that my blood is without taint. My forefathers were here when the Romans came and my family is much older than the Visigoth ancestors of the noble Count, our brave Captain-General. Why do they whisper I have Jewish blood in me? Is it a cruel joke? Or are some disaffected Dominicans spreading this poison to discredit me inside the Church so that they can once again stray into the land of deceit and confuse the distinctions between ourselves and the followers of Moses and the false prophet Mahomet? Whatever their reasoning, it is not true. Do you hear me? It is not true. My blood is pure! Pure as we shall make this kingdom one day. I shall neither weep nor complain at these endless insults, but carry on God’s work. The wolves call me a beast, but they dare not attack me for they know the price they will have to pay for my blood. The worship of Mary
and the pain felt by Him who was crucified awakens mysterious emotions inside me. In my dreams I often see myself as a Crusader below the ramparts of Jerusalem or catching sight of Constantinople. My memory is rooted in the time of Christianity, but why am I always alone, even in my dreams? No family. No friends. No pity for the inferior races. There is no Jewish blood in me. Not even one tiny drop. No. On this I have no doubts.

  A spy had informed Ximenes a few hours ago that at the conclusion of a banquet the previous night, after a great deal of wine had been imbibed and the assembled party of Muslim and Christian noblemen, together with Jewish merchants, were being entertained by dancing-girls, a courtier had remarked that it was a great pity that the Archbishop of Toledo could not be present to enjoy such pleasant company, upon which the Captain-General, Don Inigo, had been heard to remark that the reason for the prelate’s absence might well be that in the candle-light it was impossible to tell him apart from a Jew. He had not stopped there, but insisted loudly, amidst general laughter that this could be one reason why His Grace shunned the company of Jews even more than of Moors. For whereas Moorish features were indistinguishable from those of Christians, the Jews had preserved their own special traits with much greater care, as a close inspection of Ximenes clearly revealed.

  At this point a Moorish nobleman, stroking his luxuriant red beard and with a twinkle in his shiny blue eyes, had asked Don Inigo whether it was true that the reason the Archbishop was determined to destroy the followers of the one God had much more to do with proving his own racial purity than with defending the Trinity. Don Inigo had assumed a mock-serious expression and shouted that the suggestion was preposterous, then winked at his guests.

  Ximenes dismissed the spy with an angry wave of the hand, to imply that he was not interested in these trivial pieces of malicious gossip. In reality he was livid with rage. That he was cursed and reviled by deceitful Moorish tongues was a well-known fact. Not a single day passed without reports of how he was being abused, by whom and in which streets of the city. The list was long, but he would deal with every single offender when the time was ripe. With such thoughts stirring in his head and increasing the flow of bile in his system, it is hardly surprising that the Archbishop’s disposition that particular morning was not generous.