The Hand of Fatima

by Ildefonso Falcones

  ‘What—?’ began the bailiff.

  ‘Let him go!’ one of the footmen ordered, snatching his prey out of the bailiff’s hands.

  ‘Seize them!’ the other footman added, pointing to the Count of Espiel’s servants. ‘They want to kill him!’

  That simple accusation was enough for the bailiffs to confront the count’s men, and enough also for Hernando and the footmen to make themselves scarce on the way to Potro.

  Meanwhile, the Count of Espiel rode his horse proudly round the Corredera, to the cheers of the public.

  ‘Get those carcasses out of here.’ Pointing at the dead bull and horse, Don Diego ordered all the servants watching the scene from the gate. ‘Otherwise,’ he said with quiet irony to two horsemen near him, ‘that idiot will be incapable of leaving the square and we’ll be here until nightfall.’

  31

  A FEW DAYS before the Sunday of the bullfights, Fátima and Jalil, whose Christian name was Benito and who, together with Hamid, was one of the elders of the Morisco community in Córdoba, were heading for the prison, each of them carrying food they had managed to collect for the prisoners, as they had been doing regularly. They were talking about Hernando and his work for the community.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ said Jalil, ‘young, healthy and strong. He should get married and have a family.’

  Fátima said nothing. She lowered her gaze and slowed her steps.

  ‘There is a chance to sort out your difficulty,’ said Jalil, who was well aware of the situation.

  She stopped and asked the elder, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Has Aisha had her baby?’ Jalil asked her, indicating that she should keep walking. They circled the mosque until they came to the Perdón gate where Calle de la Cárcel began. Fátima saw how the elder was looking out of the corner of his eye at the symbol of Muslim domination of the West while she quickened her step to catch up with him.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘A beautiful boy.’ She said it sadly. Córdoba had taken Humam from her; Córdoba had given Aisha a new son.

  Jalil believed he understood her. ‘You are still young and, despite appearances, you are strong. You prove it day by day. Trust in God.’ Jalil said nothing for a while, but as they entered Calle de la Cárcel, he spoke again, ‘When you married Brahim, was he poor?’

  ‘No. He was the deputy of Ibn Abbu, the King of al-Andalus, and had everything he could ask for. He rode the streets of Láujar on the finest white mule . . .’

  She fell silent at once when they came face to face with two women dressed in black who were accompanied by servants and followed by some pages who were holding aloft the trains of their dresses to prevent them getting dirty. There was not enough room in the narrow street for so many people to pass by and the two Moriscos wisely stepped aside. The two women did not even notice them, but Fátima and Jalil both noticed the children acting as pages: they were probably Moriscos, children stolen from their mothers in order to convert them to Christianity. The elder sighed and the two of them stood silently for a few moments while the women and their train went down the street.

  ‘It was the best white mule in the Alpujarra,’ she whispered once the group had turned towards the cathedral.

  Jalil nodded as if that revelation was interesting. He came to a halt a few steps from the prison gate, where relatives of the prisoners were crowding round.

  ‘The money your husband makes . . . I mean, who supports you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘All of them. Brahim and Hernando both hand over their wages to Aisha to manage—’

  ‘Hernando’s as well?’ Jalil interrupted her.

  ‘Of course! Although it might not amount to much, we couldn’t live without it. Brahim does nothing but complain about it.’

  ‘And now, with a new child, I imagine it will be even more difficult.’

  ‘It seems that’s the only thing on his mind: his new son, a “man child” who has brought the smile back to his face!’ Fátima wondered if in fact she had ever seen him smile openly, aside from that cynical curl of the lip he customarily adopted. Certainly not, she concluded. ‘But if he’s not with the boy,’ she went on, ‘all he does is moan about the miserable wages they pay him in the fields.’

  Jalil nodded. ‘A husband’, he then explained, ‘must look after his wife. He must provide food and drink for her, dress her, give her shoes to wear . . .’ At this point the elder looked down at Fátima’s feet, at her leather clogs, which were torn and had holes in them, the soles almost completely worn away. ‘He must provide an appropriate dwelling. If he does not do all this, his wife can ask to be rid of him.’ The girl shut her eyes and dug her nails into the piece of hard bread she was bringing to the prison. ‘Our laws state that only if a wife married her husband in the full knowledge that he was poor does she lose the right to seek a divorce if he cannot provide for her.’

  ‘How can I ask for a divorce?’ the girl burst out hopefully.

  ‘You would have to go to the alcall, and if he thinks you are right, he will grant Brahim somewhere between eight days and two months to improve his situation. If he succeeds, he will be able to return to you, but if the waiting period stipulated by the alcall has lapsed and he is still unable to provide for you properly, you will be able to marry someone else and Brahim will have no further rights over you.’

  ‘Who is the alcall?’

  The elder hesitated. ‘We . . . we do not have one. I imagine it could be me, or Hamid, or Karim,’ he added, referring to the third elder who made up the council.

  ‘If we don’t have an alcall, Brahim could refuse to comply.’

  ‘No.’ The elder was emphatic. ‘Having two wives is in keeping with our laws. He cannot invoke those laws when they work to his advantage and deny them when they work against him. The community will be on your side, it will follow our customs and our laws. Brahim will not be able to dispute anything, neither with us nor with the Christians. Aren’t you officially married to Hernando?’

  Fátima was pensive. What about Aisha? What would happen to Aisha if she were to seek a divorce? Faced with the girl’s silence, Jalil urged her to carry on towards the prison. Hernando had done a good job and one of the gatekeepers took the food for the Morisco prisoners. A stream of people were constantly going in and out of the building but they themselves did not go in; they did not want to arouse any ill will towards their own people who were prisoners. Fátima handed over the hard bread, some onions and a piece of cheese before setting off once more down the street. At the moment, she thought, Brahim seems contented with his new son. But how long would that last? Although . . . he had other children as well! And what if he had more with her? What if he forced himself on her? It was his right. He could . . .

  ‘I want a divorce, Jalil,’ she said at once.

  The elder was in agreement. They found themselves once more in front of the Perdón gate of Córdoba’s mosque.

  ‘In there,’ he said, stopping and pointing towards the temple. ‘That’s where you should make your claim before the alcall or the cadi. I ask you, Fátima de Terque,’ he added with great formality, ‘why do you seek a divorce?’

  ‘Because my husband, Brahim de Juviles, is unable to provide for me as he should.’

  After talking to Don Diego López de Haro’s footmen in Plaza del Potro, and after checking that the Count of Espiel’s servants were no longer chasing them, Hernando went to look for Hamid. The brothel was closed on Sundays and the holy man came out into Calle del Potro without a problem. The whole of Christian Córdoba, including the brothel landlord, as well as most of the Moriscos, were in the square to watch the bull-run.

  ‘They want me to work in Córdoba’s royal stables,’ Hernando said after greeting him, ‘with the King’s horses. There are hundreds of them. They breed them and break them in and they need people who understand horses.’ Then he told him about the business with the count’s stallion. ‘Apparently that’s what made Don Diego notice me.’

  �
�I heard something about it,’ said the holy man. ‘Some six or seven years ago, King Philip gave instruction that a new breed of horse was to be created. The slow, heavy warhorses are no longer any use to the Christians. Spain is at peace. Of course, Spain wages wars in far-off lands but not here, and ever since the King’s father, the Emperor Charles, adopted the ways of the court of Burgundy, the nobles have needed horses to show themselves off on their excursions, at their festivals, their jousting contests or at their bullfights. I understand that what they are trying to create is the perfect courtly horse. And the King chose Córdoba to put his plan into practice. They are building some magnificent stables near the fortress, where the Inquisition is based. Some Morisco builders are working on it. I congratulate you,’ Hamid said finally.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ The look on Hernando’s face reflected his doubts. ‘I’m fine here. I can do what I want and can move freely around the city. Despite the wages . . .’ He thought about the salary of twenty reales a month plus a dwelling that Don Diego’s footmen were offering him. ‘If I say yes, I wouldn’t be able to look after the Moriscos arriving in the city.’

  ‘Take the job, my son,’ Hamid urged. Hernando was about to object but the old man went on: ‘It’s vital that we get well-paid, responsible jobs. Someone else can carry out the work you are doing now and don’t think for a moment that you will have nothing to do for the community. We must organize ourselves. Little by little we’re getting there. When our brothers begin to work as artisans or merchants and leave the fields behind, they acquire money for our cause. Any one of them is infinitely more valuable than those idle Christians. Make the most of it. Work hard and, above all, keep up the learning we worked on in the Alpujarra: read, write. All over Spain men are making themselves ready. We – I – will be gone one day and someone must carry on after us. We must not allow our beliefs to be forgotten!’ Hamid grasped Hernando by the shoulders impulsively in the middle of the empty street. The contact and his obvious passion sent a shiver down the boy’s spine. ‘We cannot let them conquer us again and we cannot let our children forget the religion of their ancestors!’ Hamid’s voice broke. Hernando looked him in the eyes; they were moist. ‘There is no god but God, and Muhammad is the messenger of God,’ Hamid intoned, as if it were a victory chant.

  A tear . . . a single tear ran down the holy man’s cheek.

  ‘Know’, Hernando added, reciting the Morisco profession of faith, ‘that all people must understand there is only one God in His kingdom. He created everything that exists in the world, the high and the low, the throne and the footstool, the heavens and the earth . . .’

  When Hernando had finished, the two men embraced.

  ‘My son,’ Hamid mumbled, his face buried in the boy’s shoulder.

  Hernando held him tightly in his arms.

  ‘There is a problem,’ Hernando complained after a few moments. ‘They have offered me a dwelling. Fátima . . . As far as the Christians are concerned, she is my wife, she’s registered as such, which means she would have to come and live with me, and that’s impossible. I don’t know if I can turn down the lodging or if I have to live in it.’

  ‘Perhaps you won’t have to turn anything down.’ Hamid drew away from him. ‘A few days ago, Fátima asked for a divorce from Brahim.’

  ‘She didn’t say anything to me!’

  ‘We are dealing with it in council. We asked her not to tell you; we asked her not to say anything to anybody until we began the hearing and informed Brahim.’

  ‘Can she . . . Will she be able to divorce him?’ stammered Hernando.

  ‘If what she claims is correct, and it is, then yes. This very day, when everyone was at the bullfights, we met and agreed to start the process. If the decision goes in favour of Fátima, and Brahim does not come up with enough money to provide for her within two months, she will be a free woman.’

  That night, Hamid and the two other elders on the Muslim council presented themselves at Brahim’s house in Calle de Mucho Trigo. The holy man had asked Hernando to make sure he was out that evening, and to find somewhere else to sleep, which he had no difficulty doing.

  For her part, Fátima knew that the council was meeting that Sunday to deal with her request for divorce. Jalil had told her so.

  That afternoon, when Brahim and the rest of the household went to see the bullfight, Fátima stayed with Aisha and the baby. They had baptized him with the name Gaspar, the same as one of the godparents, two old Christians whom the parish priest of San Nicolás had chosen for that role as was required in the case of baptisms of Morisco children. Neither Aisha nor Brahim had a preference for any particular Christian name and went along with the priest’s suggestion: the child would be called Gaspar.

  The baptism cost them three maravedís for the priest, a cake for the sacristan and some eggs as a gift for the godparents, as well as the white linen stole the baby wore, which was left for the church. Brahim had to ask for a loan to cover these expenses. Before the baptism, the priest checked that Gaspar was not circumcised, just as the midwife who had attended the delivery had done. No one, though checked how, when they got home, Aisha washed the newborn’s little head time and time again to clean off the holy oils. They had decided to give him the Muslim name of Shamir. The ceremony had taken place one night, a few days before the Christian baptism, with the baby held pointing in the direction of Mecca after he had been washed from head to foot, dressed in clean clothes, and the gold hand of Fátima placed around his neck while prayers were recited in his ears.

  On that Sunday evening in March, the two women were sitting in the courtyard of the house.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Aisha finally asked her, breaking the silence.

  Fátima had asked her to let her have Shamir and she spent a long while rocking him, singing softly, looking at him and caressing him, so completely absorbed in the baby that she said nothing to Aisha. At first Aisha thought the young girl was missing Humam and so she respected her silence and her grief, but as time passed and the girl did not even look at her, she felt there was something more to it.

  Fátima did not answer her question. She pressed her lips to stifle a slight shiver, which Aisha immediately noticed.

  ‘Tell me, child,’ she persisted.

  ‘I have asked for a divorce from Brahim,’ she admitted.

  Aisha took a deep breath.

  For the first time since Fátima had taken Shamir in her arms, the two women looked at each other. It was Aisha who allowed tears to flow first. Fátima was not long in joining her and they both wept looking at each other.

  ‘Finally . . .’ Aisha made an effort to overcome the weeping. ‘Finally you will be able to escape. You should have done so a long time ago, when Ibn Umayya died.’

  ‘What will happen?’

  ‘What will happen is that you will find happiness at last.’

  ‘I mean . . .’

  ‘I know what you mean, dear one. Don’t worry.’

  ‘But—’

  Aisha reached out her arm and very gently put her fingers on the girl’s lips. ‘I am happy, Fátima. I am happy for you both. God has put me to the test and after all the misfortunes I’ve suffered he has rewarded me with the birth of Shamir. You have suffered as well and you deserve to be happy again. We must not doubt the will of God. Enjoy the blessings he has decided to grant you.’

  But what would Brahim say? Fátima asked herself, unable to contain a shiver of fear when she thought about the muleteer’s violent nature.

  Brahim let fly with a thousand curses when Jalil, accompanied by Hamid and Karim, informed him of his second wife’s petition for divorce. Fátima and Aisha sheltered one another, staying as close to each other as they could in a corner of the room. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, Brahim called into question the council’s authority.

  ‘Who are you to make a decision about my wife?’ he bellowed.

  ‘We are the leaders of the community,’ answered Jalil.

  ‘Says who?’
r />   ‘As far as you’re concerned’ – this time it was the other elder, Karim, or Mateo by his Christian name, who intervened, gesturing towards the door – ‘for now, they do.’

  As if in answer to a prearranged signal, three sturdy young Moriscos appeared and stood behind the elders. Merely sizing up the strength of one of them was enough for Brahim.

  ‘It does not have to be like this, Brahim,’ said Hamid in an attempt to calm things down. ‘You know that to all intents and purposes we are the leaders of our community. Nobody has elected us but neither have we set ourselves up in this position; we have not sought to be such. You will respect the learned. You will obey the elders. Those are the commandments.’

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘Your second wife’, Jalil explained, ‘has complained to us that you do not provide for her in an appropriate fashion—’

  ‘And who can do so in this city?’ Brahim interrupted, shouting. ‘If I had my mules . . . They rob us! They pay us a pittance . . .’

  ‘Brahim’ – Hamid spoke again, evenly – ‘think about the consequences of your words before you say anything. In the light of Fátima’s petition, we are bound to instigate a hearing and that is what we have done. That is why we are here, to give you a chance to present whatever you think is relevant, to call on witnesses if you so wish, and then to reach a decision in accordance with our laws.’

  ‘You? I know perfectly well what decision you will reach. You’ve already done it once, do you remember? In the church at Juviles. You’ll always take the side of the Nazarene!’

  ‘I will not take part. No judge can do so if he is in possession of facts before the hearing. Rest easy on that score.’

  Jalil decided to intervene to put a stop to any possible personal disputes. ‘Brahim of Juviles, your second wife, Fátima, has complained that you are unable to provide for her. What have you to say to that?’