Granada

by Raḍwá ʻĀshūr

  Saleema finished the story. "Before we even left the vendor's shop, he had begun to tell the story of the poor woman who sold her gold ring to bring a little joy into her sick son's heart. On the way home, Maryama told the story three times, twice in Spanish and once in Arabic. God forbid, one of the people she told the story to is an employee in the Office of Inquisition."

  "What if someone asks about the sheep tomorrow, or the day after?" asked Hasan.

  "I'll say that the sheep died," answered Maryama with a smirk. "I'll sigh and say, 'God forgive the vendor, he sold me a sheep with a disease. If he hadn't had seven children and I didn't have a kind heart, I would have evoked the wrath of God on him. But who knows? Perhaps it was the will of God, just and merciful, that killed the sheep and restored my son's health.'"

  After dinner, Hasan lured Saad away to be alone with him. Saad told him stories of the mountain village where he was living.

  "It's just like what Granada use to be. The voice of the muezzin rings out, and you can hear chanting and singing at the wedding feasts and out in the fields. We speak in Arabic without any restrictions, we dress the way we're accustomed to, we sit vigil for the coming of Ramadan, and we celebrate the two feasts."

  "Are there any Castilians there?"

  "Not a single one."

  "That's odd."

  "Its an abandoned mountain village in the middle of nowhere. They probably have no idea that it exists."

  "Do you plan to stay there a long time? This is your house, Saad, and you can come back whenever you want."

  "That's difficult at the moment, Hasan. When I was living here, I use to help them with what little I could. I'm working with them now."

  "Are you going to stay with them for good?"

  "Pray with me that this nightmare ends and the need for our work no longer exists. Maybe God will give guidance to the Ottoman Turks or the North Africans to launch the final campaign we're all hoping for."

  "Do you really think that could happen, or are we deluding ourselves with the impossible?"

  Saad took a deep breath and did not answer the question. "How did Umm Jaafar die, Hasan?"

  Hasan spoke without elaborating, but when Saad insisted on hearing the details, Hasan told him everything.

  "In the morning I'll pay a visit to her grave, and then I'll go and see Naeem and tell him I'm back."

  Hasan looked at him. He was just about to tell him about Naeem's journey, but decided to put it off until the next day. "Go to your wife, Saad. We've spoken too long, and it's getting late."

  In the morning, Hasan accompanied Saad to Umm Jaafar's grave and they prayed for her soul. On their way back, Hasan broke the news about Naeem's journey. He handed him Naeem's letter that Saad read despondently and without uttering a word.

  "Come with me. I want to show you that inn," Hasan said.

  On the way to the bank of the Darro River where the inn was located, Hasan told his brother-in-law all about it.

  "Two members of the Tahir clan from Valencia bought this inn. They're a big and influential family. They even say that a few years ago they were able to buy an innocent verdict for three of their younger members. They were accused by the Office of Inquisition of establishing contacts with the French and agitating a rebellion between the Arabs and the local citizens. They say that the plan was to distract the Aragonese officials in the event of a French invasion. The father and uncles of the three accused supposedly traveled to Madrid and Barcelona and contacted the Royal Court and the Supreme Council of the Office of Inquisition, and they paid large sums to secure the release of their sons.

  "The point is that the two men who bought the inn are from this family, although they have no connection at all to the case of the three accused. Obviously they have a lot of clout since they were able to buy this inn and register it under their name despite the ban on buying land and buildings imposed on the Arabs residing within the province of Granada. These two men sent a messenger offering me the job of managing the inn. The messenger said that if I agreed, the two men would come personally to work out the details. So, what do you think?"

  Saad inspected the place from every angle. They had just walked through a wooden gate across a corridor and into a rectangular open courtyard in the middle of which was a two-story stone structure. The courtyard was surrounded on three sides by protruding wood-latticed balconies, along which ran a wooden passageway that carried both the columns and the ceilings to the second story.

  Directly to the right of the entrance was a spacious pen for the livestock, with a high covering on top and troughs for food and water running across it. Toward the left was a stone stairway that lead up to the wooden loge to which the guest rooms opened out. Hasan opened a door to a long rectangular room that accommodated a bed and a wood armoire. The room was lit by a square window that arched at the top.

  "There are fifteen rooms on this story," said Hasan, "five on each wing. On the lower level. there are ten rooms and a storeroom where the guests can deposit their belongings. On one side there's the stable, and a large hall for a kitchen and dining area, as well as a place to keep a fire going during the winter. For summer nights there's the open courtyard where we'll lay out carpets and wooden sofas. What do you think?"

  "I think it's very nice, spacious, and can be put to good use. God help you with managing it. It'll require the energy of many men to keep it going."

  "If I were made this offer before Naeem left, I would have kept him here to work with me. I also asked Abu Mansour to help me."

  "Will he be able?"

  "He can, but he's been drinking heavily lately. I asked him to work with me in the hope that he would have something to distract him from drinking," answered Hasan. The two men left the inn and went to see Abu Mansour, but they didn't find him at home.

  Saad spent three days with Hasan and the family before slipping out in the dark of night to return to his village in the mountains. They all said their good-byes and Umm Hasan cried while Saleema stood ashen faced. He told them he would come back before the end of the summer, but ifhe were unable to do so, he would certainly be there in the fall to spend the feast of the end of Ramadan with them. As he was leaving the outskirts of Granada and on his way back to his companions, Saad thought about his intimate moments with Saleema, and the thought of his leaving weighed even more heavily on him. What he didn't know was that he bid farewell to his wife leaving a part of himself, and months later he still didn't know that the seed he left inside of her sprouted and grew into a black-eyed baby girl who resembled him, whom Saleema cuddled with great anxiety as she waited for her father's return to tell him that his new name is "Abu Aysha."

  Despite a lingering anxiety over Saad's absence that continued well beyond the end of the summer and even beyond the end of the following winter, Aysha's birth brought a renewed joy to the household, filling it with the screams of a newborn and all the family fussing over her. The newest member of the family found more than the breast of one mother, but of many mothers who pampered her and showered her with affection. It wasn't just Saleema, Maryama, and Umm Hasan who were consumed by caring for the baby. Hasan's older daughters found in Aysha an infant on whom they could practice their early mothering skills, while his younger daughters found her to be something of a new and exciting toy to play with. Only Hisham found himself without any role in all of this. He was only five years older than the newborn, and he saw her merely as an unwelcome guest who was trying to usurp him of his throne of importance within the family. His father wouldn't tolerate his attitude and scolded him often, adding insult to injury.

  Hasan was convinced that the birth of this little girl was a promise of prosperity and a good omen. Only days after she was born, good news came to Albaicin that made the people's hearts beat fast and their eyes flutter with hope. The sea commandos from the Moroccan ports launched an attack that broke the backs of the Spanish and rubbed their noses in the mud. Their ships anchored under cover of night, as was their custom, and succeeded in s
afely boarding six hundred emigrants. Then the Spanish armada surprised them at sea and engaged them in battle. Not only were the freedom fighters able to defend themselves, but they also launched a counteroffensive. They sunk some of the Spanish ships and surrounded others. They took prisoners, including their admirals and other high-ranking officers, and returned to Morocco safely.

  The woman greeted the news with ululation. The women of Albaicin ululated in their hearts, while the wives and daughters of the freedom fighters ululated from the shores across the sea to their menfolk as their ships approached land.

  "Aysha, daughter of Saad and Saleema, brings blessings and good tidings," Hasan repeated as he held the little girl against his chest. He began each morning looking at her radiant face, and he never went to bed at night without planting a kiss on her forehead, whether she was sound asleep or screaming as newborns do. When it was time to register her name on the birth certificate, he wrote "Esperanza," but they called her "Aysha." But he, himself, gave her the nickname "Amal" for the hope she inspired.

  18

  Naeem sat in a corner of the room as he watched Father Miguel repeatedly dip his feather pen into the ink bottle and write slowly from left to right. Naeem was hoping his patron would stop working, if only for a few moments, so that he could engage him in conversation. But Father Miguel was much too absorbed in what he was writing.

  By the light of the lantern, the priest appeared to him like a feeble old man, worn down by a long life. The dark clerical robe, the straight posture, and the self-assured gait that always gave him a youthful countenance were nowhere visible at this moment as he sat in his white nightgown with his head slightly bent forward, taking with it the smooth silver wisps of hair and his pale, wrinkled, round and puffy face. Naeem wondered if the priest was as tormented by nightmares as he was, even though he didn't wake up screaming in the night, at least he had never heard him doing that. He never saw him cry, except for that one time he heard the sound and rushed to him. He saw him through the open door on his knees, with his forearms raised and his chin resting on his folded hands. He was praying and sobbing in a loud, defeated voice. On that day the two of them had witnessed the bodies of ten native women swinging from the ropes of gallows suspended onto a wooden structure high enough to leave space between the feet of the women and the ground to hang their children with the ropes that dangled from beneath their mothers' feet.

  The priest cried that night, but Naeem didn't. Instead, he thought how gracious God was to the mothers in letting them be hanged before their children. Only a few days before, he had seen the horror of a baby's murder in front of its mother's eyes. She was a beautiful woman, robust and sweet, carrying her infant child of no more than seven or eight months old. He had his mother's plumpness and moonlike face, as well as her dimples. What stroke of ill fortune brought her to that place at that time? he thought. She walked along casually, carrying her child without a care in the world. When the Castilian soldier caught her by surprise, she was startled, and her sudden shrieking scream failed to prevent the baby from being snatched away from her. In a moment's flash, he had pounced on her and grabbed the infant from her arms and threw it on the ground between his feet and his hungry dog. It was a black hunting dog with a long snout, high haunches, and two big dangling ears like a goat. The dog took one leap at the baby and grabbed it by the teeth. The screams of the mother and the baby blended with the chortles of the Castilians who gathered around to watch. They were all laughing uproariously except for two of them, one of whom looked on and shook his head in disbelief, and the second who struggled to keep his arms around the woman to prevent her from getting to her child. The dog continued its meal, the men laughed, and the woman screamed until a shot rang out and she fell to the ground soaking in her own blood. Then everything became silent.

  When the ships landed at port and Naeem arrived in this new world with his employer, he was more taken by the women than the lush greenness of the trees and the austere darkness of their imposing trunks. Naked women like the virgins of Paradise! He gaped at them, and his heart beat fast and his soul ignited with a scorching desire. One, two, three days, and then he saw the panting and voracity of the men as they hunted their prey until they prevailed, clawing at their flesh and raping them. He ran to Father Miguel in a panic and told him the story. The priest reassured him, "Tomorrow, I will meet with the governor and inform him. That is a sin, my boy, a mortal sin that angers our Lord. If such an action happens again, God will bring down a devastating punishment on all of us, those who committed the sin and those who denounced it."

  After a while, Naeem stopped running in a panic to tell about what he had just been witness to, for the priest came to realize that any meeting he had with the governor or his deputy would be to no avail, and writing letter after letter to the king or the court officials in Spain, or to the pope in Rome for that matter, would fall on deaf ears.

  Naeem would pass by the bare breasts, the slender bodies, and those ravishing eyes without staring. He averted his eyes as though these women were members of his own family whose honor he could not violate. He was afraid to make eye contact lest the shame of their nakedness and his own weakness devour him.

  If only Father Miguel would stop writing and talk to him. If only he could speak the language of the natives, he could come to know and befriend a number of them. He would see them working, cutting down trees, paving roads, lifting rocks, always under the vigilant eyes of the armed Castilians. He stared at them for a long time, guessing their natures and temperaments. He would say that this one is kind-hearted, and that one is less so, or that one is self-confident and kind to his people. He wished he could approach them and talk to them, to introduce himself to them. He wanted to tell them his stories and listen to theirs. But how could he do this not knowing their language? Besides, they most assuredly thought of him as one of those whom the sea washed ashore to inflict suffering on them.

  Naeem closed his eyes and imagined the middle-aged man whom he saw time after time and who by now was as familiar with his face as he with his. Naeem would smile and wave his hand whenever he passed him by. At first the man just fixed his gaze on Naeem in wonder, but then he gradually began to smile and wave back exactly as Naeem had done, lifting his hand and touching the side of the forehead. If only he understood my language, Naeem pined, if only I understood his, I would say to him, "I'm not one of them! Did you think I was one of them? I'm from Granada!" He would speak to him at length, and the man would get to know him and like him, and then he would invite him to his house. And who knows, maybe he has a daughter as nice as himself, and he could ask to marry her. Surely, I'm a stranger and nearly forty years old, he would say, and I'm not as handsome as I used to be, but I have a kind heart and I would take care of my wife and I would lavish on her both love and children. So, what do you say, uncle?

  Between the time he awoke until drowsiness overcame him, Naeem saw the girl he was going to marry, the daughter of that man. She resembled the one he had seen that long-ago day near Granada. The one who stole his heart. It was astonishing how much they looked alike. She wasn't naked, but like her was dressed in a white robe.

  "Your eyes are getting heavy with sleep, Naeem. Why don't you go off to bed, my son?"

  Naeem opened his eyes wide and responded, "Not at all, Father. I don't feel like sleeping just yet."

  Father Miguel smiled and shook his head. "You fell asleep and perhaps you were dreaming. My voice must have awakened you."

  "Father Miguel, may I ask you something?

  "Go ahead, my son."

  "What are you writing? What exactly are you writing?"

  "I'm writing, I mean, I wrote the story from the beginning. I wrote about Christopher Columbus's four voyages, the difficulties he encountered and the successes he achieved. Now, this past month, I'm writing about the island and its inhabitants. I'm describing the climatic conditions over the course of the year, and I'm writing down my observations about the different species of plants, b
irds, and animals. After that, I'll write about the people. I'll describe their physical characteristics, their way of life, their thoughts and beliefs."

  "But . . ." Naeem stuttered. "How do you know about their thoughts and beliefs when you haven't spoken directly to them?"

  "I observe their behavior, and I compare my observations with those of others, and from that I deduce their thoughts and beliefs."

  "Are you writing about those other things as well, Father?"

  "Yes, my son, I have written and will continue to write more and more about those painful things I saw and heard about. And I will add that it's a shame we're transforming the dream of that great man who discovered this land into this incredible savagery. Do you know, Naeem, what compelled Columbus to set sail and seek adventures?"

  "To discover a new land, Father?"

  "That was just a means to an end, my son, a means to achieve a noble and lofty dream that can be epitomized in just two objectives: to spread the word of God among the people who have not received it and bring them into the fold of the Church; and to obtain gold in order to unleash a holy crusade on the Holy Lands, liberate Jerusalem, and rescue the tomb of our Lord and Savior from the hands of those who do not believe in him."

  "But the Muslims do not deny Jesus Christ, Father." The sentence slipped out without Naeem thinking, but he wasn't able to retract it.

  Father Miguel shot him a stern look and retorted emphatically, "Yes, they do deny him!"

  Father Miguel arose from his chair, which was a sign that he finished writing and was preparing to go to bed.

  Naeem jumped up and said, "Thank you, Father, for allowing me to sit with you. I hope that I haven't bothered you with my questions. Sweet dreams!"