"You seek a place to live, master?" Thin and dirt-streaked, with a shaven head and bare feet, the dark-skinned child was no more than six, his birdlike, reedy voice matching his skinny limbs.
Too out of sorts to be civil, Francho sneered, "And why do you think I trudge in and out of the hostels? To amuse myself?"
"Please, master, I know of a place to let. If I take you there will you give me a piastre?"
Glancing ruefully at his aching feet, Francho reshouldered his pack. The sun was going down and he needed to find a place to sleep besides the street. It would be dark before he reached the lower city. "I do not wish to scratch lice in bed with six other men. Run away, boy." He reached into his tunic and fished a few small coins from his purse. "Here. Now stop following me."
Great, limpid eyes looked up as the little boy put his spindling arms behind him. "No, master, I will not beg or take money I do not earn. Only listen please—there is a woman whose husband was buried today. I heard her say she wants to lease her house and leave the city. I will take you to her."
The fact that the boy would not take unearned money impressed Francho. He leaned down and asked more kindly, "What is your name, little grasshopper?"
"Ali Afsah, master."
"Well, Ali Afsah, I am sorry but I do not require a house, only a single chamber or a bed."
"Oh, but it is a very little house," the child declared gravely.
"It is?" Francho's weariness stayed him to listen. "Well, we shall see. If it is cheap and what I require, then you shall have several piastres for your initiative. Lead on and I will follow."
With a grateful smile the youngster padded off, threading his way expertly through the hodgepodge of alleys. At a somewhat more prosperous-looking inn, the Golden Horn, he crossed a small square, rounded a corner, and entered a short, cul-de-sac alley, looking back to make sure Francho was still behind him. He stopped at the third building down the alley, a narrow, one-story shelter with a flat roof, wedged in between higher buildings which were leaning slightly, as if to hold the rundown little house together.
"This is the place, master," Ali chirped hopefully.
Francho rapped sharply on the splintery door. There were shuffling footsteps and the door squeaked open on rusty hinges. "What do you want?" The fat woman peered at them suspiciously, using the end of the cotton shawl she wore on her head as a casual veil over her mouth. "I have no money for creditors. This is a house of mourning. Go away." She started to shut the door but Francho put his foot in it.
"I want to inquire about letting your house," he said quickly.
She looked him up and down. "You do not have enough money. Rooms are hard to get these days and the landlord calls the tune. I will not lease my house for a paltry sum."
"I have money. Only let me see what you have to offer. If it suits me I am certain we can come to terms."
He could almost see the greedy wheels turning in her head as she stared at him speculatively. Then she opened the door wider. Francho stooped his head under the lintel and entered, smiling at her in his most charming manner, for she was merely fat but not old, and possibly susceptible to flattery. He had only just so much money and didn't want to part with an exorbitant sum to make her rich.
The woman gestured about with a pudgy hand. "I will leave the furnishings for the right price."
There were only two little chambers. The larger in which they stood boasted a blackened hearth with an iron cookpot and some cracked bowls and pitchers set on a crude inside ledge. There was a low table with straw mats for sitting, a rickety cupboard holding a few utensils and cups, a battered oil lamp, and a large market basket. The woman showed him a pallet in one corner, and Francho was pleasantly surprised to note that the straw was fresh and the old blanket covering it, although threadbare and faded from many washings, was clean. The second room, through the doorway screened by a tattered cotton hanging, offered a wider pallet, also in good condition, and wall pegs, which now held the woman's few skirts and mantles.
The floor was swept clean and the house looked as if it might be fairly free from vermin and rats. Francho decided he would find no better shelter in this quarter and told the woman he would take it.
The woman eyed his guembri. "You are an itinerant musician," she sniffed. "Can you pay three dinars the month?" This was an outrageous price. A laborer earned perhaps one silver dirhem for a very long day, or two and a half gold dinars a month, but only if he worked steadily.
"Come, madam, the Sultan himself would not pay so much gold for such humble quarters," he chivvied her. "A musician's purse is slim and a man must eat as well as sleep. I can pay you twenty dirhams." He knew that in normal times the woman would have groveled at his feet for the offer, but these were not normal times.
"What?" she cried, dropping her shawl and revealing a double-chinned, pouty face with a large wart in the corner of her nose. "You are wasting my time. Only this morning the proprietor of the Golden Horn offered me a truly generous sum, for he needs extra lodging for his guests. It was only fear that my property would be defaced by the ruffians he caters to that kept me from agreeing on the spot. Now that my poor husband is gone to the pleasures of Paradise I am lonely and wish to return to my father's farm. But I have debts to settle; if you desire my house you must pay."
The dickering went on for a quarter of an hour, he offering a bit more each time, she coming down a bit, for the eyes behind the ragged veil marked well the sapphire gaze and white smile of this black-bearded haggler. Finally Francho shrugged and spread his hands fatalistically. "Ah, I had hoped to have a roof over my head tonight, but it seems the little money I have gathered is not enough." He let his eyes travel slowly over her heavy form, and her round eyes widened slightly. "I am sorry, madam, to have bothered you."
She regarded him stolidly and did not acknowledge his rueful smile. But when he reached the door she called out, "One dinar and a half, and that is my last word, you robber. In advance." She extended a pudgy, steady hand.
He could tell from her tone she would go no lower. "So be it. If I go hungry I will at least starve sheltered."
He gave her the gold and silver coins, and she bit the gold one, then dropped them with satisfaction into her ample bosom. Her suspicious attitude relaxed. "Give me an hour to collect my belongings," she said, "and tonight I will stay with a neighbor. I shall come in the morning on this day every month to collect my rent. Make sure you are here." She told him her name and asked for his, then admonished him to take care not to break her pitchers or tear her blankets. "I could have gotten my price, I can tell you," she simpered with fluttering lashes behind the big shawl as she left, "but you have gentle manners and I have a big heart."
The boy was waiting for him in the darkening alley. Francho gave the child some coins and saw the liquid eyes widen with pleasure at the amount. Then he strode off to the Golden Horn to wait while his landlady packed.
The common room of the inn, reached by a short flight of stone steps, was below the level of the street; the wailing sound of a flute accompanied by a small drum rose above a babble of voices as Francho pushed aside a wooden screen and found himself in a sea of turbans bobbing in the purple gloom. He picked his way through the badly ventilated space to an unoccupied mat on a platform against the wall. Everyone sat cross-legged and Francho did likewise, grateful to be off his feet, placing his knapsack beside him. Not much light came from the lamps suspended from the rafters; only a cleared space in the center of the room boasted some bright lanterns in a ring around it.
The music could hardly struggle over the racket of the guests' chatter and the rattle of crockery as it was set or taken off the ankle-high table before each person. Some men drank tiny cups of thick, black and bitter kavah, some had mugs of nabidh, a fermented drink made from honey and dates, and some drank wine dispensed from bloated goat skins dangling from hooks at the rear—the Prophet's injunction against intoxicating beverages being commonly ignored in Granada. Francho called for some wine and a roun
d flat of bread. He was too fascinated by the surroundings to give attention to heartier food.
The whitewashed walls seemed bluish-purple in the dim light; the atmosphere was heavy, almost sinister in the murk, in spite of the loud laughter and talk. The whining music was heavily Arabic and was played by African musicians, dark and impassive. Here and there groups of unemployed soldiers could be recognized, for they still wore their fighting costumes; baggy, knee-length pantaloons, wide red sashes, and spiked metal helmets atop their turbans. The pungent, strangely appealing smell of the black kavah climbed above other odors in the airless place, hanging over the turbaned men hunched over the tiny tables, their bearded faces shadowed and indistinct.
A jingling dancer slid among the tables, deftly avoiding the hands that grasped and pinched, and the music quickened in tempo when she reached the cleared space. An unctuous, greasy man, his robe tight around his huge girth—the proprietor, evidently—announced the dancer's name and that she hoped to amuse and entertain the gentlemen, to which he got an eager chorus of "Aye!" and "Dance, let her dance!"
Francho had seen some Moorish dancers perform at the Spanish Court, but this girl danced with an aggressive, overt sexuality that was new to him. The several cups of wine he downed on an empty stomach were of poor quality, the bread was coarse, but he did not notice. His whole attention was riveted on the wriggling dancer, the fascinating tsing-tsing of the tiny metal disks attached to her thumbs and third fingers, the jingling of the bracelets and baubles adorning her bare arms and ankles. The wide, white pantaloons she wore, tight only over the hips and at the ankles, were slit from waist to ankle in four places so that as she swooped and whirled the audience got tantalizing glimpses of bare and pretty brown legs. Her short, sleeveless jacket left her undulating, rippling midriff bare, and in her navel there was set a flashing red stone.
The girl was small and infinitely sinuous; her graceful arms writhed seductively as the drum beat grew agitated and the flute wailed in a high-pitched frenzy. All that could be seen of her face was expressive black eyes rimmed with kohl over and under the lower lashes and painted indigo on the upper lids; the rest of her features and her hair were heavily veiled. As the drum beat more frantically and the flute shrilled, the dancer sank to the floor, leaning back against her heels, torso rippling, arms writhing above her, thighs wide open, the slit pantaloons giving glimpses of the soft brown flesh. Her eyes closed in ecstasy as her body arched tautly. The audience of panting men moaned as one, and gold and silver coins fell in a shower to the clearing about her.
Of one piece with the shouting, stimulated audience Francho watched the small body arch up again and again as the explicit dance heightened to a climax and he felt the heat of excitement in his groin, and his breath stuck in the back of his throat. As with every other man there he desired to embrace that quivering body and to pull the veil from the face of the seductive houri. The presence of the veil, in fact, was more than intriguing, it was unusual. In the relaxed mores of Granada only the most conservative of women hid their faces totally. Most, especially the upper classes, wore a yashmak, a small veil of quite transparent chiffon, an accessory of fashion more intriguing than modest. But public entertainers were seldom covered.
The woman rose up from the floor with the fluidity of a snake and circled her hips. As the drum ceased with a final thump and the flute trailed off, the dancer quickly scooped up the considerable number of coins, executed a clinking, low salaam, and backed out through a curtained door guarded by the smirking proprietor. There was a storm of calls and hoots and stomping, which the paunchy one finally quieted by shouting that his dancer would return after a while.
Slightly rocky from the wine and the dancer's effect on his nervous system, Francho paid his account and left, emerging into a street suddenly grown dark and quieter. The greasy smell of cooking rose from outdoor braziers. A few late denizens hurried past the blind beggar squatting below the single flaring torch fixed at the entrance to the Golden Horn whining, "Alms for the love of Allah, master, alms..."
Francho was annoyed to see light flickering through the one small window of the house he had rented. He was very tired; he wanted to fall on his pallet and mull over his plans until sleep overtook him. "Shaitan seize that woman!" he cursed under his breath. "Does it take her this long to collect her few miserable belongings?" Worried that perhaps she had changed her mind and he would yet have to sleep in a doorway, he quickened his step and pushed open the door. A small charcoal fire burned in the hearth and on a mat before the warmth lay Ali Afsah, curled in sleep like a trusting puppy. At the sound of the door closing the boy awoke, startled, then scrambled up rubbing his eyes.
"What are you doing in my house?" Francho demanded, just as startled.
"I... I have made you a fire, master," the youngster responded hopefully.
Frowning, Francho approached to loom over the child. "I asked for no fire. You must go home. I have no further need of you. A boy that pesters after he has been amply paid is in need of a beating."
The child blanched and Francho felt evil for deliberately frightening him, for the menacing expression showing on his face was really more surly than he felt. But he wanted the child to leave for good and not come back to cadge for more coins in the morning along with a gaggle of ragged friends who would swarm on the doorstep begging and whimpering.
"Please, master, but I have no home. Can I not work for you? See, I have made a fire and I have drawn water for you from the well, and I can sweep and scrub and wash your clothes, and—and polish your guembri?"
In spite of himself Francho laughed. "My guembri does not need polishing, grasshopper, and I can't afford a servant. If you have no home why don't you appeal to the preachers at the mosque? They will see you are placed in an orphans' home."
The small, shaven pate drooped, the thin shoulders slumped. "I have tried. But the orphans' houses are too crowded; there is no more room. Please let me stay with you, master," the piping voice quavered. "I will work hard and I eat very little. I will do everything you tell me and I am very strong." In the huge eyes there was a poignant gleam of hope.
Francho surveyed the fragile frame that claimed to be so strong, clucked in annoyance, and turned away, depositing his knapsack in a corner. Of all the things he didn't need it was to be burdened with a homeless brat, a baby, really. The child was so starved his tender ribs showed through the patched tunic. It was unfair of the boy to attach himself to the first good prospect he saw—people had their own problems, they didn't need new responsibilities. But—he too had once been homeless and not even so defenselessly young, and Tía Esperanza had sheltered him and loved him and given him the chance to survive. It would not kill him to keep the boy for a while and be on the lookout for a good home for him.
He looked the waif over and knew he could not be the one to erase the childish trust yet left in the boy, that eager, puppyish hope that all would be well. Ali waited silently, a pathetic little creature, aching to please. "Well," Francho grumbled, "since you are here you can stay the night. In the morning I will take you to the mosque and see that you are accepted."
With a happy grin the boy rushed forward. "Let me take off your sandals, master, I will wash your feet...."
"I will take off my own sandals." Francho rummaged in his backpack and found a remnant of bread and cheese he was too tired to eat. "Here, if you are hungry. And you may rest on that pallet for tonight. It is softer than the floor."
"Thank you, master."
"Do not call me master. My name is Jamal." Irritated, Francho pushed his shoulder through the curtain to the second room and pulled off his turban and clothes in the dark, letting them lie where they dropped. He sat on the pallet to knead and rub his blistered feet, then lay down to plan for the morrow. But his eyes closed and in hardly a minute he had drifted off into deep, dreamless slumber.
When he awoke in the morning he thought he was back at Alcala and lay for a moment with sleep-fogged eyes until a vendor hawking eggs
in the street penetrated his consciousness. His stomach growled its emptiness and he remembered he had given the last of his food to Ali. He would have to make his way to the food stalls with a hole in his belly. A plague on everything! Muttering, he dressed in a fresh tunic from his knapsack and pushed aside the cotton drape. Ali was waiting for him, bright-eyed and eager.
"Good morning, master."
"Don't call me master!"
"Good morning, Jamal."
"Good morning, then," Francho replied sourly, wondering why he had taken on this unwonted responsibility. Then he stopped in surprise. A cloth was set on the little table before the glowing brazier and it held a round loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, a bowl of oranges, dried fruits and raisins in another bowl, and a small pitcher of foamy milk. There was a cracked earthenware plate, a knife and a mug, and a mat was already arranged on the floor upon which he might sit cross-legged. In a corner another mat held a jug of water and a bowl and a clean cloth from the cupboard. It was a heartening sight for a grimy, hungry man.
With a quick, noncommittal look at the boy, Francho knelt and poured water into the bowl. He removed his tunic again and with a small bit of coarse soap from his backpack vigorously washed his hands, face, neck, chest, and underarms. Ali watched him cheerfully.
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