Granada

by Raḍwá ʻĀshūr

  As soon as he settled into bed, Naeem fell into a deep sleep until a knocking at his door at the crack of dawn awoke him. He opened it, and there stood Saad who had come as they agreed the night before.

  "My boss doesn't get here until late morning, so there's plenty of time. So, tell me what's new before we start to work?"

  Saad smiled as he stared at Naeem who just then realized that his friend had left him late last night, so how could there possibly be any news? Justifying his question he added, "I mean, did you run into anyone last night after you left? Did Umm Hasan make one of her annoying comments? Did you dream of something unusual last night or did you have a restful sleep? There's always news to tell!"

  Saad laughed and so did Naeem, and then they started to work. Umm Hasan couldn't control herself from expressing her annoyance with her daughter-in-law. "Women arrange good marriages for their sons, and the daughters-in-law come and lift the burden from them. But this Maryama is a good-for-nothing dimwit!"

  "She's still a little girl, Zaynab," pleaded Umm Jaafar. "Teach her and she'll learn."

  "How can I teach her when she never comes and stands with me in the kitchen when I'm cooking? She never rushes to come over and pull the broom out of my hand when she sees me bent over sweeping out the house."

  Umm Jaafar laughed heartily as she pointed out how Saleema is no different, and that Maryama, although younger, at least responds when someone asks her to do something. But Saleema always makes a big fuss and concocts an excuse about something else she's doing and complains that she can't be doing two things at the same time. "They're both still very young and not up to carrying all the responsibility. They'll learn in time, especially when they have children."

  Unappeased, Umm Hasan continued her tirade against Maryama without ever mentioning Saleema, and Umm Jaafar only laughed and passed it off as a mother-in-law never satisfied with the woman who marries her son, even if she were as sweet as pie. "I guess all mothers-in-law are alike, except for me!"

  Umm Hasan defended herself and added that she's never seen a woman whose husband wakes up and goes to work while his wife is still sleeping, and who whiles away the entire day lounging about in bed and prattling foolishly like a child.

  Umm Jaafar held her ground:"Your daughter is no different! It's as though you've given birth to both of them at the same time. Why do you blame the one and not the other?"

  Umm Hasan wasn't comparing Maryama to Saleema, but rather to herself. She was convinced that her son wasn't lucky enough to marry a girl clever and efficient around the house. Even though Umm Jaafar defended her by saying she's young, and that the young do learn, that they follow the example of their elders, imitate them, and benefit from their knowledge, Umm Hasan insisted that this Maryama is clumsy and stupid and doesn't want to learn a thing. She was exactly her age when she got married, but she was eager to gain the trust and admiration of her mother-in-law. She followed her around like her shadow, observed her, imitated her, and worked hard at sweeping and dusting, washing the clothes, and polishing the pots and utensils until they shone like mirrors. She stood next to her mother-in-law in the kitchen or sat next to her, never taking her eyes off of her as she observed closely how to prepare couscous, lamb stew with citrus fruit, chicken soup with dumplings, and meat and spinach pies. Even though she learned many different recipes from her own mother and aunts, she was nonetheless eager to learn new things, and it wasn't long before Umm Jaafar grew to depend on her to prepare many dishes. She was exactly Maryama's age when she mastered the arts of jerking meat, disemboweling a newly slaughtered sheep, salting fish, and pickling olives, lemons, and eggplants. She learned quickly how to make different kinds of pies, with cheese, date or fig jam and syrup, and all the things that a house full of family and guests never did without.

  A few days ago she noticed that the powdered soap they used to wash their hands after eating was running out, and she called out to Maryama and asked her to make some more. She didn't ask her to stuff a sheep, or to light a fire and knead dough and make bread. She simply asked her to make some hand soap, nothing more or less. Maryama responded, "Tell me how it's done, and I'll do it."

  Umm Hasan was stunned at how stupid the girl was, but she decided to be patient. "You mix the lotus fruit with some dried thyme, rose petals, and a bit of dried lemon peel. Then add some sandalwood dust and a handful of nutmeg. That's all there's to it."

  Maryama went into the kitchen but came out a dozen times to ask questions: where's the dried thyme, or the little mill to grind whatever needed grinding? She even came out to ask about the amounts. When Umm Hasan finally went into the kitchen to see the soap her daughter-in-law was preparing, her faced contorted in anger and disgust. She was on the verge of dumping it all when Umm Jaafar came in and begged her not to hurt the girl's feelings. What would happen if she asked her to prepare a meal of couscous? She probably would have come up with a big glob of sticky semolina and raw meat! She couldn't for the life of her understand what Hasan saw in that girl. She wasn't pretty, talented, or skilled at anything besides prattling with Saleema!

  Saleema's relationship with Maryama deepened by the day, compounded by the fact that Saleema was older than her sister-in-law by three years, thus giving her the role of the older sister. Maryama was sweet and pleasant, and she was perfectly happy in her role of younger sister. She felt great respect, if not pure awe, for Saleema's ability to open a book, stare into it, and decode the meanings of its mysterious words. She even was kind enough to talk to her about what was in it. And when Saleema suggested to her that she teach her how to read, Maryama's feelings turned to pure affection.

  "Do you think I'll be good at it?"

  "Why wouldn't you be good at it?"

  Umm Hasan piped in:"My God, this is all we need!"

  Now, added to their long talks and endless chatting were their daily lessons where Maryama would hold her slate and Saleema would sit in front of her and dictate letters and words, and then correct what Maryama had written.

  Thus, while Umm Jaafar and Umm Hasan prepared the meals, cleaned the house, and did the laundry, the two girls sat in their places without moving a finger. Even when they weren't chatting or having a lesson, the two always sat next to each other, Saleema reading a book and Maryama knitting swaddling clothes for the babies they both were expecting.

  Naeem spoke with his employer. "My friend is an excellent shoemaker. He learned the craft in Malaga. Then he came to Granada and worked with a well-known cobbler, but when he found out his new patron was a sympathizer of the Castilians, he let it be known to Abu Mansour. Well, you know Abu Mansour's position on this matter, and so he invited him to leave the scoundrel and come and work at the bathhouse."

  "That poor man, Abu Mansour! They closed down his bathhouse."

  "I must tell you, sir, that I'm afraid my friend might go to the cobbler in the next neighborhood, and they'll give us some fierce competition."

  His boss stood silent for a moment, and Naeem saw no other recourse than to cut right to the matter.

  "Say, why don't you ask Saad to come and work with us?"

  "I'm in no position to pay wages to two workers. Besides, there's not enough work for that."

  That sly fox! Naeem thought to himself. Everyone in the neighborhood knew what a penny-pincher he was and how much gold he was able to hoard. Some even claim that he keeps his money stashed at home in three large vessels. Should he convince him there's too much work and it can't be done with one employee alone?

  "But I swear to you, boss, there's a lot of work, thank God! And if we're two, we can get twice as much done."

  "But I can't afford to pay two wages!"

  Thinking there was no use pursuing this line of argument, Naeem changed his strategy. "Allow me to speak truthfully. I won't beat around the bush since you're my patron who's treated me with respect and never refused me anything.

  "Truthfully?"

  "The truth is that I made a marriage proposal."

  "Did you fi
nd yourself a bride?"

  "I haven't found one yet, but I've hired a matchmaker. I also found a job that pays more money, and that will allow me to save what I need to take care of a family. But I said to myself that this is not the conduct of a gentleman, to leave a job suddenly, just like that, and abandon your boss. So I went to my friend and asked him to come back to his former profession."

  "Then you want to quit working with me?"

  "God forbid, sir! It's just that I am compelled to accept another job I don't want, but I need the wages."

  "Is this friend of yours trustworthy? Can I depend on him?"

  "Far more than me, sir."

  "Then let me see him."

  "Shall I go and fetch him?" Naeem asked as he sprinted to his feet.

  "Not now. Finish what you're working on, and then you can go and bring him."

  When he finished his work, he darted out and headed toward Abu Jaafar's house. He ran through the side streets taking shortcuts until he reached their quarter. He then realized that he hadn't thought about what he was going to say to Saad when he asks him about the job he was leaving the cobbler's shop for. He needed to fabricate a convincing story that wouldn't arouse any suspicion on his friend's part. Naeem backtracked and walked on slowly, thinking; of a solution to his latest dilemma.

  11

  In the dark of night Abu Mansour stole away to his bathhouse, and when he arrived he paused for a few moments before taking out the key from his pocket. He inserted it into the keyhole and turned it twice, slowly. He pushed in the door and entered. Although he shut the door behind him gently, it made a loud squeaking sound that he was sure all of Albaicin heard. Despite the pitch-black darkness, Abu Mansour didn't need to grope his way but rather proceeded five steps to the left and walked up three stairs. He stretched out his arm, took down the lantern, lit it, and put it back in its place. Then he went over and lit two smaller lamps, first on one side and then two more on the other.

  He went over to the bench and sat down. He tilted his head backward slightly and closed his eyes as though he were giving himself over to sleep. He had no need at all to open his eyes or light the lanterns to decipher the details of the place, but he nevertheless opened them wide and began to inspect. There was the square carpeted courtyard as well as the four high arches that connected to a circular dome with drawings of leaves and branches in shades of a deep, rich olive green. And on the triangles that separate one arch from the other were drawings of Cordova with its Grand Mosque, its gardens and palaces. Abu Mansour stared at the pictures, then lifted his head and looked up at the dome. His eyes fell on the surface that held up the dome, counting the windows around it that he knew to be twelve. He counted them. Then his eyes moved over to the two cabinets facing one another before ascending three steps where they fell upon the three benches covered with rugs and carpets. On the wall behind the benches, there were pairs of niches, some holding lanterns and others for the folded towels that emitted the scent of dried lavender trussed into tiny cloth sacks pressed in between the folds.

  Abu Mansour lifted his arms and leaned them against the back of the bench. He closed his eyes and saw his father yelling angrily and slapping him across the face, and himself running out of the house with the intention of never returning to that family that imprisons its sons, generation after generation, in a cage built by the madness of an old grandfather. The story of the grandfather, who, in actuality, was the father of his grandfather's grandfather, was a family heirloom passed down from grandmother to grandfather, father, mother, aunt, and uncle, amassing detail upon tireless and endless detail as though it summarized all of existence.

  The great-grandfather who emigrated from Cordova after its fall more than two hundred years ago, leaving behind his house and his bathhouse, arrived in Granada with nothing more than his wife and children, a little money in his pocket, and one solitary persistent desire that he wanted nothing more than to fulfill. What he dreamed by night and accomplished by day and all that he did in between was focused on this one desire: to build a bathhouse more grand than the one he once owned. So he left his wife and children and traveled to Syria to see for himself if what they say is true, that the bathhouses of Syria are more beautiful than those of Cordova. He made the journey, he looked around and compared. He came back two years later. The ship let him off at Malaga from where he returned in a procession of five donkeys. He rode one, the Damascene architect he brought back with him rode another, and he loaded the three remaining with all the things he bought to make a bathhouse from Damascus, Cairo, and Alexandria. When he came into the house to see his wife and unload his cargo, she burst into tears, not only because he forgot to bring her a piece of fine Damascene silk, but because he brought back nothing for his daughter's wedding present, and because he came back with nothing for his son who awaited dutifully the father's return to announce his own engagement.

  Afeef began to build his bathhouse. He spent two whole years, day and night, supervising the construction. In the winter months he wrapped himself in an old woolen cloak, and in the summer he would only wear a light Tunisian jersey. In the bitter cold or scorching heat, he remained with the architect, the builders, and carpenters. They'd finish one door and he would shout in disappointment, "Do you call that a door? To me its's just a slab of wood!" They'd react in bewilderment as they stepped back to inspect their delicately and meticulously carved workmanship. But Afeef dreamed of all the beautiful doors he saw in Cairo, Syria, and Cordova. "I'll provide the wood and pay you whatever you want. But for God's sake, you have to make a new door!"

  The door, the pond, the marble fountain, the floral engravings on the dome, the chest, the bench, and the pendant lamp, all these things robbed Afeef of his time and money. He could always borrow the money, but how could he borrow time? Only one week after the completion of the bathhouse, Afeef passed away, leaving his wife and seven children heavily indebted to family, friends, and neighbors. But his children and grandchildren worked in the bathhouse, and God provided them with a decent living. They worked very hard and the Zayn Bathhouse of Afeef the Cordovan was a sight to behold and a comfort to the body, and with it the family settled the grandfather's debts.

  Abu Mansour stood up and went over to the chest he used as a safety deposit box where customers put their bundles of clothing and money. It was a long rectangular chest that rested on four wooden legs several inches from the ground. It was made of walnut wood carved with floral designs that intersected and crisscrossed, inlaid with pieces of ivory in square and triangular patterns whose bright creamy white contrasted sharply with the old dark wood.

  Abu Mansour inserted the key into the metal lock and lifted the top of the chest. There was a small Quran inside as well as a handkerchief folded over some dried lavender flowers that diffused its overwhelming scent into his nose and chest.

  "I don't want to work in the bathhouse."

  "What do you want? To run around with musicians and get drunk and sing?"

  "That's better than working in a bathhouse!"

  His father slapped him on the face. Young people can be hard, they can be foolish, and they can be blind. Only now he understood what his father had feared. It wasn't just a bathhouse but a family history, and he was the only one left to preserve it. He felt the tears swelling in his eyes. His father died while he kept company with musicians playing his lute. When he found out, he returned to his mother. She gave him the key. He opened the bathhouse and refurbished it. He was eighteen years old.

  Forty years he's been holding onto this key that his father once carried, and before him his father and his father's father, opening that door that the carpenters worked on so laboriously to carve that plain slab of wood into a medley of geometric patterns and incisions that you immediately recognize as though you were seeing your own reflection in a mirror.

  Abu Mansour got up and sauntered toward the central foyer in the middle of which was an octagonal pink stone pool with a marble spout in the shape of a flower from which the w
ater gushed out. It was he who added the pool and remodeled the wash rooms on the sides. He was also the one who bought the lantern made of leaded glass.

  Abu Mansour left the central foyer and went to the inner bath where everything was as it had always been. The heating bench divided the area south to north. There were water basins on both sides, the small pool and the large pool, five marble sinks, and a floor tiled with rose-colored marble with blackened trim. This was the great-grandfather's vision and what the builders did to realize it.

  Abu Mansour saw all of this with eyes wandering in close inspection. The lamps that hung from the arches on opposite sides emitted their refracting light onto the dark walls. He lay down on the heating bench, which was now cold. The stoker hadn't come and the fire hadn't been lit. He stretched out his arms and closed his eyes. A year's worth of sleep overtook him. In his sleep he saw himself as a boy with nothing more that a faint shadow of a mustache over his upper lip. He was sitting cross-legged in front of the furnace room basking in its warmth, clutching his lute and strumming its strings as he hummed a few melodies. His solitude was broken by an older man with a powerful build and taller than usual. "Get up, boy!"