Granada

by Raḍwá ʻĀshūr

  The others reply, "No surrender."

  It falls to Darwish, the leader of the town, to settle the matter: "We will surrender!"

  Al-Thaghri appears mounted on his make-believe horse. He raises his sword to Darwish and strikes him. He falls to the ground and dies. The others run away. With his tree branch weapon drawn, al-Thaghri proclaims, "Tell the king that Sidi Zghal did not entrust us with the command of this fortress only to surrender it. We will defend our city!"

  The king's emissary replies, "But His Majesty has sent you this gift," stretching out a handful of stones and pebbles. "He will give you all of this, plus a castle and even more money, if you surrender."

  Al-Thaghri returns the handful of gifts to the royal emissary and says confidently, "I want nothing from you."

  Whereupon war breaks out. They all take part in attacking with their wooden swords. The battlefield extends into the entire vineyard as they pair off in different directions, battling one another until they collapse in exhaustion.

  These were the daily games in the first weeks of the siege before the provisions dwindled and people dropped dead of starvation, and their empty stomachs prevented them from running and playing. Even the sour grapes, which they delighted in stealing and whose sharp pungency they once savored, were now repugnant to them as their acidity tore away at their insides.

  His father refuses to slaughter his horse. His mother sobs: "The children will starve to death."

  He yells back,fully aware of his own lying: "Who said I'm starving? I swear to Almighty God I am not starving." Yet he cries in hunger and in fear for the horse.

  His father refuses to slaughter the horse. His mother picks vine leaves, boils them in water, and feeds the children. She pounds palm fronds until they turn mealy, like flour. She kneads it with water, flattens it out, . . . they eat.

  The fading dusk light did not obscure Saad's face from Saleema, yet she couldn't understand his nervous fidgeting nor the restrained anxiety that manifested itself on his twitching face. At the same time she felt a profound sadness deeply embedded within him but was at a loss as to why it was there. When she noticed the tear stealthily trickling from the corner of his eye, she held out her hand and took hold of his.

  Saad had succeeded in bringing Hasan and Saleema home safely and then headed toward the shop. I'll wait for him there awhile, he thought, and if he doesn't return, I'll go back to the parade site and look for him. Then he noticed the light of the lantern creeping in from underneath the door of the shop, and he knew that Naeem had finally come home.

  "What happened? Where were you?"

  Naeem mumbled something underneath his breath and looked as though he were upset, then he answered sheepishly: "I marched in the parade."

  "Why would you do something like that, and why didn't you tell us?" Saad was shouting at the top of his lungs, and all too aware that he would pounce on Naeem at any moment if he didn't get a satisfactory explanation for his conduct.

  "What happened?"

  "Calm down, Saad. I can't answer unless you calm down. I'm just as upset and depressed, and I'm at my wit's end."

  "What happened?"

  Naeem stood up and started to prepare something for supper. They ate in silence, without a word. When they finished Naeem spoke.

  "I've fallen in love with the young girl."

  "What young girl?"

  "The one in the parade, the one in the white robe."

  "And, so?"

  "She's stolen my heart, and I'm frightened, and I don't even know her name. I ran after the procession and tried to catch up with her. I began to make noises to attract her attention. She looked in my direction, and I felt she noticed me too, but the guards pushed me away. I fell down. She was watching, and she smiled. Then the guards moved her to the other side of the procession so I couldn't see her. I marched along keeping pace in the hopes of seeing her again, but I didn't. Now what can I do?"

  "Blow out the lantern and go to sleep!"

  Saleema came to the shop looking for Abu Jaafar, but he wasn't there. "Tell him when he comes that Grandmother . . ." Saad didn't hear a word she said. It happened faster than a flash of lightning. He averted his eyes, unable to look at the face he saw a thousand times but could only see when the blindness fell from his eyes. When he glanced up and the butterflies gathered in his stomach, he looked down again. That night, Saad couldn't fall asleep. He lay awake, tossing and turning as though he were consumed with fever. The next few days he stopped going to Abu Jaafar's house and asked Naeem to go instead whenever the need arose. He concocted one excuse after the other. Whenever the urge to divulge his secret to Naeem overcame him, he became tongue-tied. The more he tried to cure whatever was gnawing at his heart, the stronger it kindled with the flames of passion.

  Two months later he told his friend everything. Naeem jumped for joy when he heard Saad utter the words, "I'm in love," but when Saad continued, "with Abu Jaafar's granddaughter, Saleema," Naeem's joy turned into reticence and he found himself at a loss for words. After a few moments he said, "Love her for awhile, and then love someone else." What Naeem was saying was totally in tune with what Saad was thinking. What would Abu Jaafar say if he knew? Would he say, "I entrusted Saad with the safety of my family, and now he has betrayed my trust." Would he accept if Saad asked for her hand in marriage? Wouldn't he say that he has no money nor family, and he only wants to marry his granddaughter to secure wealth and position for himself.

  Naeem repeated, "Love her for now, a week or two, but then look for someone else to fall in love with. I was worried about you, brother. I said to myself, Saad's locked himself away from women, but now the lock has been opened."

  After several moments of silence, Naeem asked, "How is it that you came to fall in love with her?"

  "I don't know."

  "I'm concerned about you. I want to compare your love for women with mine. Tell me everything, all the details of how it came about, this love of yours for her."

  Hasan and Saleema received the usual pampering of being raised in a grandfather's house, if not more, especially since they were the children of their dearly beloved father whose life was cut short before his time. Abu Jaafar not only provided them with everything they wanted, but he also pinned all his hopes and dreams on them. He brought Saleema a private tutor to give her lessons in reading and writing, and when Hasan turned seven, he enrolled him in the class of the most prestigious faqeeh in town. He would say to Hasan, "Granada has fallen, Hasan, but who knows, some day it may return to you, even by way of your own sword, or perhaps you will write its story and record its glories for all time. It's not my intention that you become a paper maker like myself, my boy. I see you rather as a great writer, like Ibn al-Khateeb,2 and your name will be synonymous with Granada and memorialized along with it in every book."

  Saleema was only nine years old the day Saad looked into her eyes and turned away in shame. She definitely noticed it, and it caused her to wonder. What she saw confused her since Saad's presence in the household was as familiar and natural as that of Hasan, Naeem, her grandfather, and even her tutor. But his look that day and her feelings about it were both strange and new to her, and she didn't know how to deal with them. The matter preyed on her mind for several days, and she pretended to forget it, until eventually she did. Saleema was not conscious of her femininity the way other girls her age were, girls whose families were already making arrangements for their betrothals. Abu Jaafar, who never revealed his innermost thoughts to anyone, harbored a fervent hope that Saleema would become like Aysha bint Ahmad, the pride and joy of Cordovan ladies and gentlemen alike, who surpassed them all in intellect, erudition, and culture. He was not concerned about her marriage, nor did he ever raise the subject with her. Her mother felt the same way, but for entirely selfish reasons. Her intense attachment to her daughter made her shiver even at the thought of being separated from her, living far away with a strange man in a strange house.

  Friends and acquaintances of Abu Jaafar warne
d him about what it would cost to educate both his grandchildren, calling it a senseless waste of money. These are not times for Islamic scholars and judges, nor for Arabic manuscripts, for that matter. Spanish is the language of the future, and there will be no financial rewards for knowing Arabic, they would say. Abu Jaafar would listen to them and not say a word. But he never gave a thought to depriving the two little ones of an education, not only because he was adamant about realizing his dreams, but because he was resolutely convinced that refusing to educate them was tantamount to surrendering to a defeat that Almighty God may not decree in the end. His dreams had not abandoned him, so why would he abandon his dreams? He liked to imagine that everything that was happening was only a fleeting nightmare, and that it was impossible that God would abandon His servants and forget them as though they never worshipped Him nor built His abode with their hearts bursting with love for Him. He imagined days to come in which the Castilians would withdraw to the north and leave Granada to live in peace, in the security of the Arabic language, and in the comfort of the muezzin's call to prayer. He knew that he would most likely not live long enough to see all of that. He told himself that his soul one day would be seen circling the skies of the city in the form of a white dove, gliding in the air, flapping its wings from the towers of Alhambra to the minaret of the Great Mosque, landing in its courtyard to pick up the scraps of bread the young pupils leave for him. Then it would take flight and hover over the city and follow a path, and land at the end of the day on a window's edge in a house in Albaicin that used to be his own, and that is now occupied by Hasan the Granadan, the writer, who burns both ends of the candle as he dips his plume into the inkwell and writes.

  2. Lisan al-Din Ibn al-Khatib (1313-74), vizier at the Nasrid Court, was an eminent bellettrist and historian, but was later accused of heresy, exiled to Fes, and murdered while in prison.

  The two grandchildren sustained Abu Jaafar's dreams by excelling in their studies. Saleema succeeded in memorizing vast amounts of poetry that full-bearded scholars failed to do. Hasan developed an exquisite calligraphy and his letters looked like perfectly carved moldings from a mosque, and the page that came from his hand was a joy to all who laid eyes on it. The children's teachers regarded their intelligence as a sign of great promise. Abu Jaafar showered them with generous salaries even if it forced him to cut down on other expenses, like a scarf or a pair of shoes he needed to buy to replace a worn-out pair.

  5

  The man arrived in Granada during the month of July in the year 1499.

  War or no war, occupation or joyous occasion, the hills in summertime hold their matrimonial feasts and spread throughout the land their all encompassing greenery, scented with the sweetest aromas, and embroidered with colorful wildflowers, especially the anemones that eclipse them all with their scandalous and teasing red. Summer in Granada brings forth fruit-filled olive trees and the flirtatious apricots appear and disappear behind the lush green leaves. The reticent pomegranates slowly gather their sweetness before being peeled away at the hands of those who will devour them. Arbors and trellises, walnut, almond, and chestnut trees shade the roads as spouting waters merrily cascade from the mountain tops onto the valleys.

  That summer, the man came to the city. His head was shaven except for a ring of curly hair that encircled his fleshy, shiny bald crown. His face was stern, bordering on a sickly yellowness. His forehead was wide and his two beady eyes stared out with an inspector's penetration. He had a hooked nose and two tight, thin lips, the upper of which was slightly fuller than the lower. His torso was excessively lean, and when he spread out his arms from underneath his flowing black robe, he appeared like a frightening giant bat.

  The people asked themselves who he was and where he came from. It wasn't long before they learned to pronounce his name, Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros. He was the archbishop of Toledo who came to them, so they say, from the city of Alcala where he had founded a university. He was a scholar and a faqeeh, a Castilian faqeeh, who came to meet the faqeehs of the Arabs. He reached out to them, treated them with respect, and showered them with gifts.

  The town crier announced to the people that Hamid al-Thaghri was going to be released, and that whoever desired to see him in person was free to proceed on the following day to the Church of San Salvador. Abu Mansour was indignant and asked disdainfully, "How can we enter the courtyard of the mosque they turned into a church?"

  Saad replied, "The place is ours even though they changed its name. Besides, we're going not for their sake, but to see a man who is of great concern to all of us. We are his flesh and blood, so is it right that al-Thaghri come out of his long imprisonment only to be alone and deprived of the company of his people? We will carry him on our shoulders from the mosque square, as befitting both him and ourselves."

  Abu Jaafar didn't utter a word.

  On the following day the three of them went to the Albaicin Mosque, which was now called the Church of San Salvador. A great number from the Arab community came out. Some of them were from Malaga, those fortunate enough to have made their way to Granada, men and women alike, who had known al-Thaghri and whose souls had clung to every word he said and every decision he made. The others were citizens of Granada and the surrounding villages who followed the exploits of al-Thaghri, a man who held a warm place in their hearts, that is, next to the place they set aside for Ali,1 the one who won them over with his feats of heroism and acts of justice.

  The people assembled in the courtyard of the mosque and sat cross-legged, pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, waiting in breathless anticipation. Then, Cardinal Cisneros appeared in his long black cassock and, with slow deliberate steps, headed toward the east portico where a large, luxurious throne was placed and upon which he sat. He stared out at the people and they at him. He clapped his hands, and four guards came out escorting an extremely emaciated man dressed in tattered clothing. His hands and feet were bound, and he walked with a bowed head and shuffling feet.

  1. Ali Ibn Abi Talib, cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad, is universally revered by Muslims.

  The crowds began to whisper. "Is that Hamid al-Thaghri? Is it possible? Could that really be him?"

  "It's him," shouted a man from Malaga who had fought alongside him. From row to row the people passed the word that Abu Ali the Malagan recognized him. Some asked who had recognized him. They repeated, "Abu Ali the Malagan."

  With his unusually long and pointed fingers, the cardinal motioned to the guards to untie the prisoner. Then the cardinal spoke. "Now, Hamid, tell the people what you saw."

  Hamid stared out at the crowd, lowered his head, then stole another quick, unsettling look. The crowd seemed to be holding its collective breath. Hamid spoke:

  "Yesterday . . ."

  One of the guards shouted at him to speak louder. Hamid cleared his throat, straightened himself up, and raised his voice. "Yesterday, while I was in my cell, I fell asleep." He stuttered, coughed, and then continued. "While I was sleeping yesterday, a voice called out to me and told me that God wants me . . ."

  He stopped. Several silent moments passed in which it appeared that the man had nothing further to say. He closed his eyes and said: "He wants you to become a Christian. This is His will."

  A dead silence fell over the crowd as though the square, teeming with hundreds of people, was totally deserted. The guards took al-Thaghri away, and the masses of Arabs were jolted by the sudden piping of the organ and the hymns that echoed loudly throughout the courtyard of the mosque. Saad spoke up: "Let's go, Abu Jaafar. Come, Abu Mansour, let's go home." He turned toward Abu Jaafar and was shaken by the tears gushing out of his eyes as though he were a little boy. He put his arm around him and repeated, "Let's go, Grandfather." Abu Jaafar shook his head and beckoned with his fingers to Saad who understood immediately that he wanted to stay.

  The guards returned with al-Thaghri whose hands and feet were now free of the chains. They had washed his face, combed his hair, and dressed him in a
silk robe. Al-Thaghri walked toward the cardinal with slow, heavy steps as though his feet were still in chains. He knelt at the feet of Cisneros who took the small decanter of baptismal water from one of the deacons. He dipped his fingers into the water and sprinkled the drops over al-Thaghri's forehead as he recited a prayer. Hamid al-Thaghri had chosen for his Christian name Gonzales Fernandez Zegri.

  The people had not yet recovered from what had happened, nor had anyone dared to even recall the details or dwell on the painful events when the news traveled in whispers that the Castilians were breaking into all the mosques and schools, and that they were collecting all the books and bringing them to an unknown destination.

  For a week, the Paper Makers' Quarter witnessed unusual activity. The shops closed during the daytime and were kept open all night as a cover-up. Two or three hours after evening prayers the quarter came alive and went to work. Abu Mansour and three of his young employees stood guard over the quarter from a position behind the bathhouse, while Naeem and two others kept watch from the other side.

  Behind the doors that were kept slightly opened was the soft glow of candlelight. In every shop you could see the shadows moving back and forth in the flickering light. Cupboards full of books were opened on both sides as the hands moved in and out of them with great care and caution. Large sacks were stuffed, and straw baskets and cartons were filled to the brim. There was the shadow of someone filling a sack and carrying it off, or of someone stuffing a basket, or perhaps two men hoisting together a heavy crate over their shoulders and vanishing into the night. The dark, gloomy street came to life with voiceless phantoms, some sinuous and hunchbacked, others straight as reeds, looking as though they were capped with a strange and mysterious crown on the top of their heads. Some took bizarre shapes like elevated thrones with walking legs. The whole quarter was animated with these silent phantoms whose torsos conjoined with the loads they were carrying, as they communicated with their arms and legs, appearing like eerie phantasmic creatures that come to life only in the black of night and fade away at the crack of dawn.