Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  "Where did you get the food?" Francho questioned as he dried his refreshed face and upper body on the cloth, which was of a spongy material.

  "At the stalls, with the money you gave me."

  "That was your money; you should have saved it. I can pay for my own food."

  "But you are my friend," the child said simply.

  Pleased with the boy's competence and initiative, Francho fell upon the breakfast, giving Ali a part of the food and milk, which the boy would not have touched first had Francho slept the clock around. Afterward, through the back door and in a tiny, dirt court scattered with rubbish, he found the ramshackle and malodorous privy. When he reentered the house all signs of their breakfast had been cleared away, the table was clean, the dirty water thrown out. Ali had hung his second tunic on a peg and was busy slapping the dust from it with his hands.

  "You don't want to go to the orphans' house, do you?"

  "No, mas— No, Jamal. That is charity."

  "But the Prophet has said that it is as blessed to receive charity as to give it."

  "My mother once told me that it is a sin for an able-bodied man who can work to take the alms meant for the sick and weak. You would not want me to sin?"

  But Francho had already made his decision, although for less pious reasons that had suddenly occurred to him. "How old are you, Ali?"

  "I will be seven next summer."

  "Well, you are a bright boy and you make yourself useful. You shall stay with me if you wish, but only as long as you are obedient and quiet, and keep out from under my feet. Do you understand?"

  The quick joy that lit the sensitive little face was reward enough for his kindness. Francho gave the child his sandals to clean, and the boy took a rag and scampered out to work in the back court so as not to disturb his new benefactor, who now sat frowning in thought.

  He still had three days before testing how seriously the Moor of the grove gave out his word and his ring. His other alternative would be to offer a large bribe to the official in charge of the Sultan's entertainment, but that still meant somehow reaching the man. Nor would it be wise to spoil a possible sponsored introduction with a premature offer to a possibly upright official. He decided it was best to wait the few days and use the time to familiarize himself with the city and with the tenor of the people; information thus gathered might suggest some way to penetrate the Alhambra's inner sanctums.

  Strapping the guembri to his back, for that was the safest place for it, he summoned Ali to retrieve his sandals and then allowed the delighted boy to lead him to various parts of the city and point out the landmarks that the child knew, important streets and mosques, shortcuts between squares, communal buildings such as the solid and impressive public baths which could be found in every quarter, and hostels the child had heard commended for edible food and where they sometimes hired musicians. With Ali chasing behind or before him, Francho elbowed his way through the crowds strolling the great bazaars, or souks, of the lower city, where a vast variety of merchandise, produce, and goods from all over the world was still being offered in spite of the Christians' blockade of Granada's seaports.

  Voices separated themselves out to Francho's receptive ears. Merchants wailed to each other the poor state of business and heaped blame upon Boabdil, as did the muleteers and camel drivers sitting idle for want of shipments and the clerk and talliers looking for employment as businesses cut down their overheads. "He is ruining us!" went the cry in this district. "Let him jail the elements of violence and make a secure peace with the Christians so our ports will be opened, or else let him beat the unbelievers from our gates. But let him do something!" And some just cried to the speakers haranguing in the squares, "Peace, peace, at any price!"

  On the other hand the armorers, the famous weapons makers, the suppliers of uniforms and horses, and all those with something to gain from a large and prepared army railed, "Let us make war! Let the warriors of Allah sweep away the enemy and gain their secure place in Paradise so that as sovereign people we may sell to the world again."

  On ensuing days Francho heard the peasants and farmers of the outlying districts who brought their produce to market grumble, "Our homes and fields will be burned, our mills, our flocks destroyed, our land ruined. Peace! Let us have peace and our lives and we ask no more." In a public bath which Francho patronized one afternoon, for he knew the Moors were modest and he could wrap his hips in a towel to hide his uncircumcised member, he heard the upper classes' vehement disgust with Boabdil's timid policies; they were angry at his placating relationship with a Christian king who had driven so many of them from their homes, and they heaped recriminations upon the Sultan's head for not sending forth the fierce fighting men now available to him. These prosperous citizens were humiliated, and in their extremity a reborn and aggressive desert spirit filled them with a rage to avenge their losses, no matter how costly a final victory.

  And the preachers in the mosques thundered the fiery words of the Koran: "Make war upon those to whom the book has been given who believe not in Allah, make war until they pay tribute out of hand and be humbled!"

  From his outsider's viewpoint Francho thought he could discern the real issue—neither war nor peace but decision, an end to confusion. If tribute were to be paid, let the Sultan root out and silence those who agitated against it. If they were to fight to regain their kingdom and be free of the Christian yoke, then let the Sultan ride on his war horse at the head of his armies, strong and belligerent. But let the Sultan do something!

  What praises he did hear were for the General-in-Chief of the army, Muza Aben Gazul, and his second-in-command, Reduan Venegas, whose forceful, daring feats of courage had made them the idol of every Moorish youth at court and in the streets. These two, and the leaders of the Abencerrage and Zegri clans, were dangerous men who might finally seize the throne and somehow save the Granada Boabdil could only lose. These were Francho's true antagonists, more so than the contemptible Boabdil, who presumed to a throne without the capacity for firm decision and rule.

  In the evenings he returned to his house to help Ali prepare their supper, for the child had cut himself several times slicing onions. The boy glided about softly as a shadow, speaking only when spoken to and so anxious not to displease that Francho gradually relaxed his arm's-length aloofness. When asked about his past the child had little to tell; he had been born in Antequera, where his father had been killed in a Christian raid. His mother fled to Granada the year after, penniless, but made a few piastres a day sewing. She had died of a fever some weeks before, and Ali had slept in alleys and spent the few coins she had left him for food and went about begging for any work he could do.

  Although raised in poverty Ali had been treated kindly and with love; that much Francho could see, for the loss of that love showed in the round, vulnerable eyes, at once so helpful and so uncertain. It was not hard to like the child, and Francho did not regret his decision to keep him fed and sheltered until a better home presented itself. After supper the first evening Francho had visited his contact to establish some emergency signals. And twice, in spite of himself, he went again to the Golden Horn, where the veiled little dancer held the leering, lecherous audience in her throbbing spell, making him hot and sweaty too, and inwardly cursing how long he might have to go celibate in this benighted kingdom because he was uncircumcised.

  ***

  On the appointed day set by the Moor of the pavilion Francho carefully shook out and brushed his simple clothes and with the guembri slung on his back marched through the Albayazin to the bridge over the Darro, a Moor among other Moors, a big, black-bearded, turbaned refugee with the vivid blue eyes and pale olive skin of a mixed-breed and the stolid mien of the Moslem. If his proud bearing was reminiscent of the aristocrat, no one remarked it. If his jaw was clenched because he could not think of a sure substitute for the canceled birthday contest, no one cared. Only Ali, at home, had seen him staring into space, pondering and pondering.

  He might contact on
e of the ensembles of musicians already on the royal roster and pay to join them, but this would give him small latitude to impress Boabdil, and impress Boabdil he must. The Sultan had been known to make confidants of artists he admired, and this was the crux of Tendilla's venturesome scheme. Bribery seemed Francho's only recourse, and if he did not have enough money he would have to steal the rest

  Since the Moslem had no hereditary nobility or landed titles, it was the families of traditional wealth and power and royal officials, high city functionaries, and men of professions who formed the aristocracy inhabiting the lacy palaces on the opposite hill from the teeming Albayazin. The breezy Street of the Gomeres was lined with rustling palm trees, eucalyptus, flowering shrubs, and jetting fountains, and along this way the mansions rose one above the other up the sides of the hill. No grim and gloomy Spanish palaces these. Their delicate cupolas and spires showed above their pastel-painted outer walls, which were inlaid with colored tiles and overhung with vines and rhododendron, and even from without the walls, judging from the Moorish-style villas he had seen in Seville, Francho could imagine the columned courts, airy balconies, and sunny chambers shielded only by lattices that these owners enjoyed.

  These residences reminded him of Leonora, exquisite, delicate, open, and gay. And she would have the finest of these for her own if all his fervent hopes were realized.

  The top of the mount was capped by the irregular sprawl of the Alhambra, called the "Red Palace" from the color of the ruddy earth beneath its heavy stone walls and boxy watchtowers. Along with a busy stream of citizens on foot, in litters or on horseback, Francho finally arrived at the palace-fortress' main entry, a huge, square tower with its Eastern-style arch shaped like a wide horseshoe. There was a gigantic hand graven on its keystone, whereas the keystone of the opposite arch of the barbican was carved with a large key of similar proportions. Francho had seen the hand and key symbol flying from Moorish standards during the campaign of Baza and knew its meaning: the five fingers of the hand designated the Mohammedan creed of fasting, pilgrimage, alms giving, ablution, and war against the infidel. The key symbolized faith and power, it was the key of David transmitted by the Archangel Gabriel to the Prophet Mohammed. It had become traditional for muftis to try petty legal cases beneath this entry arch, and so it was known as the "Gate of Justice."

  People came and went freely through this gate and into the First Plaza, a huge square where merchants displayed their wares to the passing members of the Court, especially looking for the profitable visits of the ladies of the royal harem. Ordinary citizens loitered everywhere, anxious to collar this or that official and plead their business, and troops of soldiers clattered through from the inner courts. Francho strode to the far end of this plaza toward another horseshoe arch with massive closed gates, guarded by glowering Nubian sentries, which marked the entrance to the Sultan's palace.

  "No admittance unless you have a pass," rumbled the red-pantalooned African whose bulk and pike blocked Francho's way.

  "I wish to see the Chief Keeper of the Gate."

  "State your business with him."

  "My business is with the Chief Keeper, not with you. He is expecting me. If you will not admit me, summon him here at once." His peremptory tone did more to impress the sentry than his appearance. Even though the black African curled his thick lip disdainfully, he nodded to a companion, who disappeared through a small door pierced in the great portal, but when Francho started to follow, steady crossed pikes barred his way.

  "That is, I pray he's expecting me," Francho thought, imagining the ire of a Chief Keeper summoned by a poor musician of whom he had never heard.

  The Moor who finally stepped through the door was hard-faced and stocky. His sash was blue as a token of rank, a blue plume surmounted his turban, and his saber scabbard was richly damascened. He surveyed this shabby caller with irritation. "By what right do you claim my attention?" he demanded. "I don't know you at all. Speak quickly or begone."

  "By this right," Francho responded, producing the ring. "And by the request of Abdullah, grandson of Mohammed. You have instructions concerning the minstrel Jamal ibn Ghulam?" He braced, fully expecting a snarl and the gate slammed in his face. But the Chief Keeper examined the ring carefully, and then, with a glimmer of respect in his calculating eyes, nodded to Francho. "Very well. Come with me." And the crossed pikes slithered past each other and withdrew.

  Francho had not much time to gawk at the beauty of the formally planted Second Plaza for the Chief Keeper hurried him through. Still, he could hardly keep from lagging behind as they entered the palace itself, for not even the glowing descriptions from Tendilla and di Lido had prepared him for the Oriental splendor of this royal dwelling. Slender, gilded pillars supported archways wrought like fantastic gold honeycombs whose interstices were colored in glowing vermilion and lapis lazuli, their verges edged with carved pendants which hung like golden stalactites. The walls, traced with fragile and painted plaster filigree, blazed with multicolored tile dados to the height of a man and with gilded moldings adorned with flowing Arabic script in high relief. Everywhere there were tinkling alabaster fountains. And each fretted and airy gallery opened into another even more fancifully opulent.

  Goggle-eyed, peering about and dazzled in spite of himself by the magnificence, Francho realized wryly that he hadn't come too far from the ragged child of Ciudad Real who had gasped at the grandness of hulking Mondejar. The breathtaking glory of the Alhambra so captured his mind that it was only when he actually stood in the chamber of the appointer of royal entertainers that it struck him that his friend of the pavilion had truly kept his bargain.

  The official, Mustafa Ata, glanced at the ring and wobbled his three chins. "Too early, you have come too early; the Sultan is with his council."

  "I shall wait, so it please you," Francho smiled, deducing from the man's great pelf, soft face, and beardlessness that he was a eunuch.

  The entertainment chief rubbed his cheek distractedly and squinted at Francho; his high tone was petulant. "I am told you are an excellent balladeer, Jamal ibn Ghulam. May I believe this?"

  "Indeed, sayed, and even better than you have heard. I have had fine training."

  "Eh? Oh, and from whom?"

  "Hakim of Lucena was my instructor for many years, until the day he died." Francho had garnered the name from Nunez, his own teacher.

  Mustafa Ata raised his eyebrows. "The Prophet's Beard! You must be older than you look. And how did you ever get that old jackel to impart any of his techniques? Well, no matter, he was a master musician and I pray to the Prophet you are too." He hitched up the great belly under his sash and his black brows wriggled fretfully. "These days Shaitan himself would be easier to please than the Grand Sultan. I bring him dancers and singers trained at the Court of Egypt, magnificent each one; poets famous the world over, jugglers, acrobats, flame-swallowers, jesters, tens of harpists and lutists and rebec players; men who fondle poisonous snakes and lanky black freaks from the heart of Africa, painted and feathered and taller than two men together! And which of them catches his fancy to earn a word of praise for this earnest servant? None of them!"

  Mustafa Ata put a thoughtful finger to his pursed lips. "However, there used to be one who delighted him—a singer of ballads with a way of holding the ear—now dead, alas, from the blow of a falling roof tile. My good ruler seems always to be seeking another of his ilk."

  "Perhaps I may please the Sultan enough to take this man's place," Francho ventured. "And of course, should I gain his approval I would give all credit to your astuteness in seeking me out."

  "Ah yes, that would be wise of you, of course. And seven dirhams each month in appreciation, as well." Mustafa Ata heaved his bulk from his low seat and gestured Francho to a leather hassock. "Then let us trust your words are not bigger than your ability. Although I value the opinion of the man who sent you." A small chuckle escaped the cupid's bow lips. "You may sit here until the Sultan is free. I will call you." And the Chief of
Royal Entertainments departed the suite to attend to his various duties.

  Now the shock of coming this far so easily overtook Francho. It was incredible to think that for all his worrying and scheming the past three nights it was the quirk of a chance meeting on the road which had brought him to a private audience with the Sultan—even a better advantage than the contest would have offered. Mentally he begged pardon of the sad-eyed aristocrat of the pavilion for having doubted his word and connections. In fact, he realized he did not even know the man's abode in order to return the ring. Well, he could be found somehow, and thanked.

  The minutes dragged by. He shifted about from one haunch to another. He got up to pace the chamber awhile and then sat down again. An hour or more passed and there was no sign of Mustafa Ata. As time wore on his elation faded, as always diminished by his lack of patience. Cracking his fingers nervously he considered it was only an audition he'd been granted, after all. The greatest hurdle was yet to come, for perhaps he and his cohorts were naive in thinking his musical ability could compare with the famed masters whose artistry had shaped Boabdil's tastes. Even though Tendilla, di Lido, and Nunez too had praised the highly personal renderings Francho gave his songs, the Sultan could turn out indifferent to him.

  In the next few hours he would have the answer to all his years of study and preparation. The sluicegates of his life would open or close in his face, and all was hanging upon the whim of a man deemed weak and vacillating, and hard to please, as Mustafa Ata had complained, who might take a cranky dislike to his face or the timbre of his voice and relegate him to the anonymous pool of musicians on Mustafa's long list.

  He stroked the strings of the finely made instrument Tendilla had made for him as a gift of good luck. "It is truly as I said to that man of the pavilion, that Abdullah," he whispered with bent head to the guembri, his only friend in this exotic and strange place. "If I conquer it will not be by the sword, but by you. Your tongue speaks sweet like an angel, strong like the trump of Gabriel. Do not disappoint me, good companion." When finally, after another miserable hour had passed, Mustafa Ata came to fetch him, he was so weary of waiting he was resigned. He would do the best he knew how and humbly accept the outcome as the Lord would direct it