by Raḍwá ʻĀshūr
That was not the first time Saad found himself without any source of sustenance, as he thought about the days when his future appeared to him like a winter morning enveloped in a thick fog in which you could hardly see your own footsteps. Those days he used to ruminate over his past, the distant past when the branch grew freely, and the not-so-distant past when it was snapped off the tree, blown about by the stormy winds. And the more he tried to recall what had happened, the more the details came back to him, ones that had slipped his mind. He was astonished that he could forget, but more astonished that these memories came back to him with a sudden new clarity, and after thinking about it somewhat, he became certain that nothing was lost, that the human mind was a wondrous treasure chest, and that however deeply lodged in the head, it preserved things that couldn't be counted or weighed: the scent of the sea, his mother's face, pale shafts of sun that filtered through the green vine leaves moistened by drops of rain, threads of silk on his father's loom, his grandfather's hacking morning cough, the laugh of the little girl, the taste of a fresh green almond, a broken jar seeping olive oil, or a solitary rosary bead that had rolled behind the chest of drawers where he used to hide.
After three days of looking for work and sleeping at night in the mosque, Saad thought of asking Abu Mansour for help. "I left my master, or rather he fired me. I'm looking for work."
"Do you know the Paper Makers' Quarter?"
"Yes, I know it."
"Go there and ask for Abu Jaafar's shop. Tell him I'm the one who sent you. If he can't find you any work, come back to me."
Abu Jaafar spoke to Saad while he worked:"You should observe closely everything Naeem and I do. God willing, you'll learn quickly. Can you read and write?"
"No."
"That's another problem we'll have to deal with. Naeem, come over here. This is Saad who comes to us from Malaga. He's going to be working with you. You have to help him. I trust you're a good teacher?"
Naeem smiled, proud of the confidence his patron bestowed on him in assigning him such a task. However, Saad wasn't so happy, as he saw in Naeem a boy with a frail body and hazel eyes that glistened with sparks of shrewdness. Although no older than thirteen, Saad felt as though he were a man. Hadn't his body developed and his voice dropped, and the lines of his mustache grown in? What could this pale, mousy kid possibly teach him?
That evening Saad's feelings toward Naeem were reinforced and his annoyance with him increased. He was a chatterbox who went on endlessly about nothing and everything. He asked him about Malaga, about his father and mother, how he came to Granada all by himself, why he hadn't stayed with them, and where did he work before coming to Abu Jaafar. He never tired of asking questions, and Saad had no desire to reveal anything to him, so he responded with terse, evasive answers.
When Naeem realized he was getting nowhere with Saad, he began to talk about himself. He told him that he didn't know or remember his parents. In fact, the only person he remembers is the old woman who raised him, and when she died he had nothing but the streets, that is, until he met Abu Jaafar. "You know, Saad, I'm not afraid of roaming the streets at night, nor of stray dogs, nor of the head of the city police who struts about with his protruding belly like a sack of flour. Nor do I fear the evil spirits. What I do fear, though, is Abu Jaafar falling ill or something bad happening to him."
As Naeem spoke a look of sadness suddenly appeared on his face. Moments of silence passed before he continued to talk. "Abu Jaafar took me off the streets and brought me into his home. He asked his wife Umm Jaafar to bathe me. As soon as she poured the hot water over my head, I screamed at the top of my lungs and leaped away with every intention of leaving that house. But she was able to grab hold of me, and then she squatted on the floor and forced me to sit down. She wrapped her left arm around my chest and her two legs around my waist, and the only thing I could do was holler for help. The more I raised my voice, the more she scrubbed my body harder and harder, until I thought I was going to die right in front of her! She spent the whole day washing me."
"The whole day?"
"Well, that's what it seemed like at the time," laughed Naeem.
3
The muezzin had not yet called out the early morning prayer nor had the neighbor's rooster screeched its first crow when one of Alhambra's guards, whose services were recently terminated, came running out onto the streets, shouting out words that seemed to have no logical connection, some of them clear and others totally incomprehensible. Through his high-pitched screaming you could finally make out that he was saying that the Christian troops would be entering Alhambra today to receive its keys. Abu Jaafar woke up and counted the days, first in his head and then with his fingers, and added up thirty-seven. He sat up in bed. He heard the rooster's crow, once, twice, and then a third time. The muezzin then called out the prayer. The day began and the hours passed. The voice that awakened Abu Jaafar awakened Saad as well. He sat up despondently in the darkness of the shop, not knowing whether what he heard was a dream or real. He stood up, put on his shoes, wrapped himself in his cloak, and went out into the street.
Saad followed the winding alleys that lead toward the Gate of the Flour Merchants. As he passed it the red hill loomed before him, blurred by the purple haze of the early morning. The castles above it stood erect, protected by walls and towers. Perhaps it was all a nightmare. He reached the Judges' Bridge and crossed over to the other side of the river, then came back and crossed the bridge once again and headed in the direction of Albaicin. He stared into the river. The Darro flowed in God's protection, and the fig tree from which he ate fresh fruit only a few months ago was as it always was, still standing. Its branches had shed their leaves but were still intact. He looked up at the top of the road, which was still deserted. He headed toward Steamroller's Bridge and sat on a stone bench by the bank of the river. He waited. He saw the horizon from beyond the castles changing colors with the rosy hue of morning, a misty purple tinged with the blueness of early dawn. Then it lit up in full violet. The sun was about to rise, and when it did, it did so in utter silence, made more glorious by the chirping of the many species of birds. The day broke, and Alhambra came into full view in all its splendid detail: the sharply honed impenetrable walls; the lofty towers; the imposing palaces; the palm and cypress trees, luxuriant and majestic. He was about to turn back and make his way to the shop when he heard a sound in the distance. He pricked up his ears. He was sure he heard something. The sound was distant but it was getting closer. Soon, he was able to decipher the din of beating drums, the blowing of bugles, and the ringing of gunfire. Are they coming to take over Alhambra? Are they advancing from the direction of the east where they can't be seen? Is what the guard said true? He stood there petrified as his eyes followed the rays of the sun. The sound of the music was becoming more distinct, louder, and it kept pace with the rhythm of his beating heart. In spite of the bitter cold, a hot flash raced through his body.
As midmorning approached, Saad saw Castilian soldiers raising a large silver cross on top of the watchtower. When they succeeded in setting it firmly in place, they hoisted the Castilian flag and the banner of Santiago. They shouted out something in a strange language from which he could only make out the names of Ferdinand and Isabella. They repeated it three times, and then cannons roared in the air.
Waiting no longer, Saad took off like a crazy man up the Albaicin hill. When he reached the neighborhood he hollered as loud as he could from the street:"They've entered Alhambra! I saw them! I heard them! Citizens of Albaicin, I saw them, I heard them."
The streets were empty, not a soul, nor a donkey or bird in sight. The doors were sealed shut like coffins as he raced through the streets shouting. When he found himself at the shop, he removed his cloak and shoes, and he sat down and burst into tears.
Saad's sobbing surprised Naeem who stood up, bewildered, not knowing what to say or do. He moved about, stumbling, as he looked for a pitcher of water to give his mate something to drink.
&nbs
p; "What happened, Saad? Why are you crying?"
Saad couldn't stop his weeping, and the only thing that Naeem could do was to turn back and look for the water. He filled a basin and carried it over to his friend. He wiped his face gently, and then he knelt down and began to wash his muddy feet that were bleeding from the rocks and thistles.
Abu Jaafar spent the day in his bedroom, sitting and standing, pacing between the four walls. Had he been wrong, like all the citizens of Albaicin, to help Abu Abdallah take control of the country? They came to his assistance and engaged in skirmishes with the Granadans on account of that miserable pubescent. At the time the young man appeared to be neither a scoundrel nor an evil omen, but rather a ray of hope who would save them from the abuses of his father, who was up to his ears in vice. They sided with the son of La Horra,1 and slammed the gates of Albaicin in the face of his tyrant father who pulled out from the walls of the city, defeated and dethroned. Did they commit a serious error in siding with a prince who was wronged, they being wronged themselves? Did they err in holding a just prince to a promise? So what befell the young prince? Was it his capture in the hands of the Castilians that destroyed him? Did defeat defeat him, or is it merely preordained on the Preserved Tablet?2 Does God jot down on His tablet the defeat of His pious servants? It's too late for help. It's too late. But it will come from our people in Egypt, Syria, and North Africa. They will come, by the command and will of God . . . But what if they don't?
1. The mother of Boabdil was commonly referred to as al-Hurra, the free woman.
2. The preserved tablet, al-lawh al-mahfuz, is believed in Islam to be the ultimate and complete word of God.
Abu Jaafar looked out from a small opening in the wall to the sky. There's no earth without a heaven. O, Wisest of rulers, Lord of the highest skies, O Promise of truth, O God.
As daylight came to an end and everything grew quiet, nighttime fell and settled in, and the people remained in their homes, depressed. Just as no one ventured out to work that day, no one took to his bed that night. Silence had imposed itself on the city, and silent it remained day and night. Yet no one slept, not even little Hasan who had been spanked by his mother for reasons he could not understand. He had gone out into the alley to play with his friends, but finding no one, he went to see the two little brothers who lived nearby. Their mother insisted they all play indoors. Unaware of his going out or of his absence, Hasan's mother panicked when she realized he was gone. She looked for him on all the streets and alleys of the quarter. When he finally came home she walloped him severely. The little boy cried and yelled out for help to his grandmother who rushed over and pulled him away from his mother as she scolded him hysterically. Hasan spent the rest of the day curled up in a corner of the house. He refused to play with his sister Saleema and sat sulking silently in his corner, wiping the tears from his eyes and the mucous from his nose with the sleeve of his shirt.
What had gotten into his mother? he wondered. Has she gone stark raving mad like the crazy man who lives over in the next lane and who makes the kids shudder in fear and run away? She had never laid a hand on him, even when he broke a vase or lost money. This time she gave him a good thrashing and for no apparent reason! When his grandmother pulled him away, his mother just stood there sobbing. He was afraid of her and for her at the same time. He was crying because she hit him and because she was crying herself. His grandmother wiped his eyes and gave him a piece of candy. "The Castilians came into Granada today. Your mother got scared. She thought they kidnapped you to sell you in the market." Had Hasan heard such a thing at any other time he would have laughed at the very idea of selling children in the market like donkeys. Did she honestly think he was a donkey?
When his grandmother called him for supper he didn't respond, and when she didn't call him again, he retreated to his bed where he lay wide awake thinking about his mother's odd behavior, and his grandfather's as well. While his mother was sobbing and spanking him and he was yelling at the top of his lungs, Abu Jaafar was inside the house, but he didn't budge at all, as though he hadn't heard a sound. What was going on with his family today? he wondered.
Hasan never found the answer to his question, neither that night nor the many that followed. Even when he turned seven years old and his grandfather took him to a faqeeh for his schooling, the memory of that night remained a mystery to him. He learned that it had been a sad day indeed for all Granadans and that the Castilians took women, children, and men as well from the neighboring villages and sold them as slaves. But he still couldn't understand why his mother had spanked him so harshly, nor could he understand how one man could sell another man, or a child or a woman. Nor did he see anything especially frightening about the Castilian soldiers. They were just like any other men with nothing to distinguish them from the Arabs except for their fairer complexions and their spectacular uniforms, with their waistline jackets, form-fitting trousers, and feathered caps. They looked especially grand when they mounted their horses and trotted in parades with colorful banners, while some men beat drums and others blew bugles, and the streets were as festive as a holiday. So, what was all the sadness that surrounded their entrance into the city?
4
Had the people of Granada been bestowed with the gift of predicting the future, would the few years that followed the loss of their country appear as the ultimate extent of degradation and defeat? They lived the misery of each day, made no easier by what was decreed in the new Treaty of Capitulation, which was supposed to guarantee their right to worship and trade, and to live their lives as they saw fit. Nor was this misery at all alleviated by the fact that their new governor, Count Tendilla, ruled with a velvet glove and that the archbishop of Granada, De Talavera, exerted considerable effort, in spite of his advanced years, to make contact with them, even going so far as to learn Arabic and instruct his missionaries to follow suit. But occupation was nonetheless occupation, and the Granadans were burdened with even more worries that hovered over them like the huge silver cross that hung above the towers of Alhambra.
The secret matter of the treaty concluded by Abu Abdallah Muhammad and the king and queen of Castile and Aragon was soon exposed, and the news spread like wildfire far and wide. The young prince turned over the keys of Alhambra and was compensated thirty thousand Castilian pounds, along with the right to maintain in perpetuity ownership of his personal castles and farmlands, as well as all other family possessions. "The scoundrel got eternal rights to his own property and ran," people said.
They lived the misery of each day with the bitter discovery that they had been sold like chattel. They witnessed the flight of entire families among the nobility and elite, who, in a state of utter chaos and panic, sold everything they owned, and undoubtedly everything was bought. Houses, estates, orchards, precious manuscripts, and swords, heirlooms of their grandfathers and great grandfathers. "Buy, Abu Jaafar, the price is right and buying is profitable." But Abu Jaafar was as stubborn as a mule, and he didn't want to buy nor sell. He was furious at the sight of the departing ships that he viewed as nothing more than floating coffins.
The Granadans watched as their princes converted to Christianity. Saad and Nasr, the sons of Sultan Abu Hasan, now called themselves Duke Fernando de Granada and Duke Juan de Granada. Saad went even one step further by joining the Castilian army as an ordinary conscript. "Rest in peace in your grave, Abu Hasan," thought Abu Jaafar. "Sleep content, and may the breezes of Paradise blow over you. Your offspring have been leased in a rare business. They've certainly risen to the occasion!" The vizier, Yusuf Ibn Kumasha, who negotiated in the name of the nation and who prepared both the secret and public texts of the treaty, crowned his achievements by converting to Christianity and entering a monastery.
Abu Jaafar, now in his seventies, was becoming more taciturn as he shielded from those closest to him the inner turmoil he was suffering. He barely slept, and when he did it was never more than an hour or two. He would sit up and at the first crack of dawn leave the house and
pace around the quarter until its doors were opened. At the moment when they did, he would leave.
He walked down to the bank of the Darro and strolled along the river, enjoying the Sabika and the fortresses and castles of Alhambra. He delighted in the many species of trees that sprouted up along the river, from the cypresses, palms, and pines at the foot of the hills across the river, to the fig, olive, pomegranate, walnut, and chestnut trees that graced the road that lead to Albaicin. He passed by and inspected each tree closely and then gazed at the river. When he came to the Grand Mosque, the river appeared in full view and picture-perfect. Then, looking over to the open square, he didn't fail to notice the relentless hustle and bustle of buying and selling and the familiar voices that called out their wares. He continued his walk and headed east until he reached the Jewish Quarter and the Najd Gate, then retraced his steps back to the marketplace, passing by the Alley of the Druggists, on to the Potters, the Glass Makers, and then to the covered market where he walked through every single passageway, running his fingers through the cottons, wools, and silks, both raw and embroidered, while the merchants were busy measuring and weighing, buying and selling, on the cuff or haggling. When he left the covered market and cut across Zacatin Street, he found himself once again at the Grand Mosque. He went in, performed his ritual ablutions, completed the four prostrations required of the midday prayer, and two extra ones in observance of the Prophets custom, before returning to his shop in the Paper Makers' Quarter.