by Raḍwá ʻĀshūr
"What's gotten into you, Naeem?" asked Father Miguel.
"Do you see something wrong with me, Father?"
"You look so sullen, and sometimes you talk to yourself. You go on like that oblivious to my presence."
"Do I really talk to myself?"
"Yes, you do. I caught you several times, and I'm thinking it may have something to do with your repeated visits to the slaves' huts. Those people practice witchcraft, and they could have put a spell on you."
"I swear to God, Father, those people are very kind and they like me a lot. But now, I remember, did you hear me speaking to myself in Arabic? The truth is, Father, I miss Granada and my friends I left back home. Sometimes I find myself talking to them. Do you realize, Father, that there's only one other person of Arab origin in all this region, and he's the carpenter who works on the other side of the settlement, and I only run into him once in a blue moon. Since there's no one to speak Arabic with, I speak it out loud, imagining that I'm talking to one of my friends back home."
"You should refrain from doing that, or else you'll be stricken with madness," commented the priest in all seriousness. "Also, the devil could creep into your soul at any moment and turn your words into his favor since what you're saying is not directed to anyone in front of you. If you miss Arabic, then you should read the prayer book I gave you that was translated into Arabic. Didn't you bring it with you?"
"Sorry, Father, I forgot to bring it with me from Granada."
"How negligent can you be!" he said with a reproaching look on his face.
"I'm sorry, Father. I promise I won't talk to myself any more."
Naeem only spoke with Maya in these daily conversations. His desire to speak to her couldn't wait until they mastered each other's language. Even at night in bed, he spoke to her. During the day, while he cleaned the house, prepared the meals, or did the laundry, he spoke to her. He talked to her incessantly, telling her everything about his life, from the time Abu Jaafar stretched out his hand to him and asked him his name until the moment he first saw her while he was bathing by the stream and dove into the water to cover his shame.
Somehow, Naeem communicated to Maya that he wanted to marry her, to meet her family and ask their permission for her hand. She tried to explain to him that her family lived far away, but he wasn't sure whether or not he understood what she was telling him. He asked her repeatedly, but her response was no different from what he understood. After two whole days of painstaking and interrupted conversations, the matter became clear to him. She had come to this region with her husband who had since died. She was left alone. Going back to her family would require a horse, or several weeks of traveling by foot, in either case exposing her to problems with the Spaniards. He thought about asking Father Miguel to give him his horse, but then he would have to tell him the whole story. He may or may not agree. Most likely he wouldn't, Naeem thought. But he had to act.
Naeem cleaned the house from top to bottom, washed Father Miguel's clothes, waited for them to dry and then folded them, and cooked enough food to last the priest three or four days. After that, he went outside the house, picked a bunch of wildflowers, put some of them in a vase with water, and set them in Father Miguel's library. He tied a bow around the remaining few flowers, and packed them up with a small Quran, a few provisions for the road, and a straw-colored hat he had made secretly and was intending to give to Father Miguel for a Christmas present, but decided instead to give to his bride's father. He certainly couldn't go to him empty-handed.
Just before sunrise, Naeem crept out of the house quietly. He mounted his master's horse and rode it to the stream where Maya was waiting. He mounted her on the horse behind him, and they rode off into the distance.
23
It dawned on Hasan as he lay in bed huddled under the covers trying to get warm that his life was much better now. The storm that Maryama raised had calmed down, and their life together had gotten back on course. Her family was released from prison. Her mother was declared innocent of all charges, although her brothers were sentenced to pay a substantial fine that they could not afford. When the Castilians confiscated Abu Ibrahim's house in lieu of payment, Maryama suggested to Hasan that her mother and brothers come and live with them.
"Your mother is more than welcome to come and live with us," he replied. "But your brothers will have to find their own place to live. I have my mother and sister in this house, and they are not blood relatives."
Maryama looked at him suspiciously. "Tell me what's really on your mind, Hasan. No need to think up excuses. You've hosted Omar and Abdel-Kareem before, for several weeks at a time when they were still strangers from Valencia, and not related to you through marriage."
He looked at her in annoyance and didn't respond. When she continued to glare at him, he spoke. "You know what the other reason is, so why bother to say it? But since you want to hear it, then listen! Your brothers have just been released from prison, and they're being watched. I don't want myself or my family to have anything to do with whatever problems may arise."
Maryama said nothing. She no longer broached the subject or alluded to it. But throughout the next three months, she was on edge and easily irritated, yelling at the children for one reason or another, or for no reason at all. She spanked Hisham and she cried at the slightest incident. She met all of Hasan's needs in the way of food and clothing, but she wouldn't engage him in conversation or let him near her in bed.
But patience prevailed and in the passing of weeks and months, she calmed down. One night in bed, Hasan thought about how pleased God must be with him. The state of his affairs and those of his family were stable at a time when stability was rare. Even Saleema, whose defiance and choice of such a strange life caused him so much anxiety, began to fill their house in Albaicin with prestige and gratitude because she had the power of healing, and her treatments cured both the body and the soul—at least that's what people were saying. She inherited Abu Jaafar's high-mindedness and noble heart, and she never refused a request for help, even if there were no means to pay a fee for her services. Maybe that's the reason, Hasan thought, why God rewarded her, and why people lavished their money on her when they had it, and why they lavished their affection when they had money or didn't have it. God bestowed on Saleema wisdom, knowledge, the affection of people, and that little angel, Amal, who filled his house with her joy, her radiant laughter, and her enchanting presence. "What will you give me today, Amal?" The little girl opens her arms and gives him a big hug, saying, "I love you more than the sun, the moon, and Mummy." Hasan beams with pride as the tears well from his eyes. He wished only that Saad would return to complete his peace of mind, that he marry off his remaining daughters, and that Hisham grow up and marry Amal so that he may see their children before he dies.
Hasan spent several hours every day thinking about his welfare and that of his family, or about this thing or that. Even if he went to bed late, he always woke up at the crack of dawn, two or three hours before Maryama, who lay sound asleep next to him, and the other family members. Only Saleema was awake at that time. The only thing he could do was to lie awake in bed with his thoughts, waiting for the others to get up.
Sometimes he found it difficult waking up in the dark. He would light a candle and follow the shadow of its flicker against the wall or the ceiling. Sometimes he would get up and go into Saleema s room, knock on the door and go in. He would feel comfort in her company and in watching Esperanza's angelic face as she slept.
"What's keeping you up, Hasan? Why can't you sleep?" Saleema asked.
"Nothing, really. I just seem to need only a few hours of sleep."
"Are you sure that's all?"
Her question made him uneasy. He didn't respond.
She lifted her head from the book she was reading and asked, "Do you remember the day you, Saad, Naeem, and I all went to see the Christopher Columbus parade?"
"The day Naeem suddenly disappeared and we didn't know where he went?"
Hasan began to recall some of the details of that day, and a half smile cracked on his face. His features expressed something between sadness and joy.
"We were so young then, Saleema, and we had no idea what was in store for us."
"I sometimes ask myself how our grandchildren will live a hundred years from now."
Hasan had never given it a thought. "God only knows. I never get further than a day in the future when Saad and Naeem come back, and when we marry off our children and see their children." He stopped talking for a moment and then decided to tell Saleema what he wanted to tell her for months. "Would you accept Hisham as a husband for Amal?"
Saleema laughed so loud that the little girl stirred in her bed, but then rolled over and went back to sleep. Her laughing made him uncomfortable and he asked her with a slight tone of annoyance, "Why are you laughing?"
"Because my Aysha is only three years old, and Hisham isn't even nine yet."
"Before you know it she'll be a young women of ten, and Hisham a tall and strapping young man."
"It's premature to be talking about such things, Hasan. And when the time comes, we'll have to face the problem of the Castilian edict banning marriage between relatives."
"They can all go to hell! I'll never give Amal away to a stranger who'll take her away from my house."
Saleema smiled and pretended to go along with Hasan, feeling as if she were participating in an amusing game whose outcome would be in some distant future.
"How will we get the official papers? And when they have children, won't the Castilian law declare them illegal?"
Hasan fidgeted as though he had to solve the problem then and there.
"I will find a way out. Saad is from Malaga and Amal bears his name. I will deny on paper that I'm her uncle and you are her mother."
This time Saleema laughed softly so that she wouldn't wake up the sleeping child. "Why don't you arrange for the marriage contract now?" she asked with playful sarcasm. "Then all we need to do is wait a few years for the children to come of legal age and announce the wedding."
Hasan was offended and brushed aside Saleema's poking fun at him. "What's gotten into you, Saleema? I swear by the Lord of the Kaaba that I love your daughter more than Hisham and all my daughters, those here and those in Valencia whom I miss with all my heart. Good night!" He left her to crawl into bed as was her habit at that early hour in the morning, and went and woke up Maryama to prepare his breakfast before going off to work.
Hasan enjoyed his work at the inn. The only cloud over his head was Abu Mansour with his short temper and lack of self-control. Hasan really didn't need his services when he asked him to work there, but the man was without a job and nothing to keep his mind occupied. Instead he stayed home and abused his wife and alcohol. He would sit and take one drink after another until he couldn't breathe and his face broke out in red blotches. His verbal abuse would turn physical and the sounds rang out throughout the neighborhood.
When he came to work at the inn, Hasan showed him a small room by the entrance. "Why don't you work here, away from all the commotion? You can register the names of the guests and take what they want to keep in the safe. You can put their belongings into the safe yourself, and return them once they settled their accounts."
In the beginning, it seemed that the job suited Abu Mansour. He put his mind to it, and he seemed to be pleased with it. He didn't drink excessively. But that didn't last long. After a while, the drinking got the better of him, and he would stumble out into the courtyard looking for a fight. Hasan had to stand on guard and be ready to prevent a brawl at any moment. Whenever he needed to be away, he cautioned his employees to keep an eye on Abu Mansour and make sure he didn't stir up any trouble.
Business was bustling at the inn, especially during the summer months. The rooms were always full, especially with traveling merchants, and many people stopped by for an evening of entertainment. The clientele were Arabs and non-Arabs. Some came from the villages surrounding Granada who needed to stay over a day or two to finalize a business deal. Some came from long distances, like Aragon and Valencia, or even as far away as the cities on the Italian coast, mostly merchants coming to buy or sell. During the day they would conduct their affairs, and at night they would sit and chat, or have dinner and drink. In the summer the guests stayed up late into the night, and the inn's employees wouldn't get to sleep until the wee hours of the morning.
Hasan was busy settling accounts with the chef when he heard Abu Mansour shouting. He jumped up and rushed out to the courtyard where he found him with a sullied face and fire raging in his eyes. Hasan put his arms over his shoulders and spoke to him in an attempt to lure him away and toward his room. "Everything's fine, Abu Mansour. Tell me, what happened?"
Abu Mansour wouldn't budge, so Hasan spoke to him in a stern, measured tone.
"Come with me inside to your room, and we'll talk calmly about what's bothering you."
Abu Mansour paid no attention to Hasan, but yelled out and pointed his finger at one of the patrons: "May we be rid of your kind, you dog!"
The young man Abu Mansour was pointing at was strikingly handsome and impeccably groomed. He sneered at Abu Mansour and turned his head away in disgust.
"I beg you, for God's sake, come with me," Hasan shouted at Abu Mansour as he tried to push him inside.
"This boy is the son of Yaseen the stoker. His father, may God have mercy on his soul, used to work as a stoker in my bathhouse. I just heard him now with my own ears bragging that he's a Castilian, born and bred, and that he's of pure blood. Where in hell did you get pure blood when everything about you reeks of being a filthy sodomist?"
The young man jumped up from his seat and shouted at Hasan. "Are you going to allow this senile old goat to insult people? Since you manage the place, you're responsible for making sure your guests are treated with respect."
Before Hasan could even open his mouth to apologize for what had happened, Abu Mansour stretched out his hand to grab the man by the collar. But just in time, Hasan jumped between them and ranted at him furiously. "Abu Mansour, conduct yourself like a gentleman. I've had enough of what you're doing to yourself and to other people!"
But Abu Mansour was like a raging bull as he tried to set himself free and charge at the young man. "Pure blood?" he repeated, "you son of a whore."
In a panic, not knowing what to do, Hasan punched Abu Mansour in the stomach, which quieted him down. Silence prevailed for several moments before Abu Mansour spoke.
"Hasan, whom I carried in my arms as a baby, hits me. Don't worry, son of Yaseen the stoker, you're not the only son of a whore in this place." All the clamor that had erupted in the courtyard in loud bursts ended in a whimper. Abu Mansour turned around and staggered in slow heavy steps until he vanished from sight.
Despite Hasan's attempts to offer an apology to the guest and kiss his shoulder, making the excuse that Abu Mansour was an old man prone to excessive drinking, he found it difficult to forgive his own behavior. When he found himself alone in bed that night, he was tormented by what happened. Abu Mansour never dared to insult or harm him in any way, so why did he raise his voice and strike him in front of all those people? In the morning Hasan went to him and tried to apologize, but Abu Mansour couldn't even look him in the eye. His face was crestfallen, and the only thing he could say was, "Go, Hasan, don't make matters worse. Times are hard enough."
Hasan went away, but came back to visit on the holidays. On both occasions Abu Mansour motioned to his wife to offer him whatever food or drink they had, but he sat without saying a word, as though he forgot how to talk. After that Hasan stopped visiting. He told himself that when Saad comes back he'll patch things up between them. But Abu Mansour didn't wait for Saad. When Hasan joined Abu Mansour's funeral procession, he sobbed so profusely that the others berated him. "Control yourself, Hasan. It's not right to weep like a woman."
24
Saad came to the realization that going back to work with his comrades, the freedo
m fighters, was virtually impossible. What good would there be in a man who walks slowly and cautiously with the help of crutches? How could he climb up or come down from that village suspended in the highest rungs of the mountain, with its roads winding and unpaved? Even if they found him some other job or duty to fulfill, how would that suit him, especially since the court extended his sentence beyond the three years of prison by placing him on probation and house arrest in Granada, restricting his movements outside the home to attending mass on Sundays and holidays, including Christmas and Easter. He could not mingle with other people without wearing the sanbenito, the yellow vest with the red armband that called attention to his past sins.
If Saad could have chosen what to do upon his release from prison, he would not have gone directly to Granada. How could he go back to Hasan and Saleema and say to them, "Feed me and take care of me because I don't have a job and the court won't allow me to go and work." How would he bear that look of pity or the suppressed gasp of dismay that reveals itself in the quiver of lips the moment the door opens and he see on their faces his own reflection, his impotence and his crutches?
He knocked on the door. When Umm Hasan opened it, she called out his name, and then yelled out, "Saleema!" and started to weep. It wasn't what he was expecting. His immediate reaction was that something terrible had happened to Saleema. He was stunned by fear and his tongue and body froze. As he started to whisper something, Maryama came rushing out and greeted him. "Welcome back, Saad. Saleema is fine. She bore you a daughter, so beautiful and radiant. Come, Aysha, come and say hello to Saad, your father."