The Taste of Translation

by Anne Gambling

  Zamrak shrugs. I am surrounded by beauty, by beauty in the making, yet I feel I cannot express it in words worthy of Allah or our Lord al-Gani!

  Pah, this is no time for a fit of nerves, she chides. You are our best and brightest poet!

  She reaches out and touches his hand. The pen is at your command, she says. Whatever you think, whatever you feel, courses your veins and emerges as script on a scroll which the artisans apply to our walls. Your words forever immortalised in our palace – is that not grand enough a thought to inspire you?

  He stares at the blank page in his lap.

  She tries again: You have been promoted to my brother’s private secretary, granted the special task to compose all qasidas, now and evermore, to commemorate the glory of our kingdom. And we – oh lucky we! – to live inside the book of verse you create!

  Zamrak looks up from the page to her smiling face.

  A daunting thought, he whispers. In my wildest dreams, as a child born into the modesty of the Albaicin, into the poor circumstances of my parents’ home, never did I think such a day would come. Thanks be to Allah.

  And also our master al-Khatib, she reminds him. Allah gave you your gifts, but it was al-Khatib who saw how they could be put to best use at court.

  Yes, I owe much to my master’s faith and patronage. Which is why I am so hesitant now! Perhaps all will come to nought because I am unworthy!

  Nay, she coos. You are nervous at this first grand occasion, that is all. Over time, it will come faster, easier. Look at how al-Khatib writes!

  She laughs at a sudden thought. Imagine – perhaps a day will come when words flow from your pen-nib so easily that you grow bored and yearn for an alternate occupation!

  Now he smiles. No child, he says, shaking his head, that could never be. This love of words, of expression, resides so deep within my heart that a miner could not unpick it from the core.

  He breathes deep, fills his lungs, and says: So leave me, small one, and I will return to task. Thanks be for your belief and the craft we share.

  You are my companion in verse, she says, rising. How could I not wish for your success?

  She walks away but at the entrance to the hall, turns and calls: Oh, and I think you must find a new nickname for me. I am no longer a child, the small one who enjoined the flight to the Maghreb. Grins at her joke and is gone.

  Zamrak looks after her, and yes, sees now the beauty of the woman she has become, feels again the gentle pressure of her fingers as she stayed his nerves and encouraged him to rejoin the script. Her eyes had looked deep into his own as she spoke of his talents.

  Lover, he thinks. I would call you lover. And emotion floods his pen as it takes to the scroll:

  I am the garden that adorns beauty itself

  Look at my beauty and you’ll know my noble rank!

  The five Pleiades take refuge here by night,

  Where the gentle zephyr rises to greet the dawn;

  My luminous dome has no equal on this earth,

  Replete with grace and charms, both hidden and revealed.

  The anniversary of the Prophet’s birth is upon us. Celebrations will continue throughout the day and into the night. We shall praise our three Lords – al-Gani; the Prophet Muhammad; Allah, the Most Merciful and Compassionate – and all their fine works.

  The women of the harem are excited. They chatter like small birds, making their eyes luscious pools into which a lover drowns. But I escape to the kitchens and watch as they take a fat lamb, skinned and cleaned, remove its stomach and put in a stuffed goose. Sara joins my witness.

  Think, she says. In the stuffed goose is already a stuffed hen in which is a stuffed pigeon in which is a stuffed thrush in which is a stuffed quail.

  I shake my head in wonder. Will it be ready in time? There is so much to bake!

  She laughs. Oh, there is more – once the sheep is done, it is put into the cavity of a calf, then back in the hot oven till the calf is cooked!

  We celebrate in the gardens, on the patios, in the galleries. There are sermons, there are speeches. There are displays of horsemanship where we salute Saffaar’s cavalry and Esha stands proud in her sash. Later there will be dancing.

  Mumu leads a tour of inspection through the first Hall of the madrasa, pointing out the elaborate dome high above our heads.

  See how it catches and reflects the shifting light of the sun in its stars? he says. The rotation of the heavens is within our grasp!

  The audience sighs in wonder.

  This room will be our concert hall, for recitals, poetry, music, he announces. The acoustics are perfect. Sister, he turns to me, make your recital of Attar and let us inaugurate this great salon.

  I lift the lute, pluck a single note. Caught by the dome, it sounds as if a droplet of water, suddenly suspended in the sun’s glare, is spun round with delight, its echo resonating as I begin:

  Such a beauty has visited our night

  That the world is lit by her face tonight.

  No need for either candles or moonlight,

  Nor for Venus’ light in the heavens tonight.

  In our gathering her face shines,

  So the sun is shamed and hides away tonight.

  Such happiness ensues from this dusk

  Venus and Jupiter are conjunct tonight.

  Such joy, with no foes in our party

  Meeting friends is the reward tonight.

  Don’t let this bliss awake by the cruel dawn

  For I’m intimate with a kind friend tonight.

  No one can come between you and me now

  For our solitude is concealed by the night.

  Minstrel, play your passionate tunes;

  Play the song of praise for lovers tonight.

  All the story is stamped by Attar’s pain;

  The sweet songs of the minstrels tonight.

  There is much murmuring of praise but Mumu calls for silence and, turning to Esha and myself, says:

  I have named this salon the Hall of the Two Sisters, dedicated to your presence in my life. You are my moons, the lily light of all heaven’s moons, polished to perfection.

  I can see the glint of tears in his eyes as he points to the two slabs of marble at the hall’s entrance.

  We are overwhelmed, kneel before our brother and caliph, catch up the hem of his robes to kiss. But he laughs, grasps our arms and pulls us into a family embrace as the court cheers its delight, lifting our joy into the air.

  The evening’s dancing is held in the Mexuar. Braziers hiss and crackle, candelabras of bronze and glass flood the hall in warming light. Cymbals, lutes, reed pipes, tambourines, women’s voices – all are enjoined in uplifting ring songs.

  In the shadows thrown by marble columns, Zamrak finds her, merged into mosaic, a coloured symphony of embroidered silken thread, her ever-present lemon veil a shimmer of starlight, her eyes etched in the deepest kohl, bracelets circling the slimmest of wrists, sash tight across her virginal hips.

  I have composed a verse for you, he whispers close to her mouth. Oh, to clasp those lips now in a kiss which drowns all memories unmade!

  Really? she says with the innocence of the child some part of her still cups. Am I that precious in your sight?

  When you smile, you unveil a bed of daisies,

  While your sweet saliva is the milk of Paradise –

  Tell me, standing there in your embroidered sash,

  Have I any hope of winning your love?

  Oh, she says. How sweet! Is it on a scroll? Could I have it?

  I composed it just now, he says, but yes, on a scroll for your safe-keeping shall it be.

  But – and at this he sweeps a hand, unseen, against the curve of her throat – did you listen to the words? Did you reflect on their import?

  I – I – Laleima frowns. What do you mean?

  Have I any hope of winning your love?

  Oh, she says and looks into his eyes. Something new is there, a hunger not remarked
before. You mean this? These are not simply words upon a scroll?

  They are words graven on my heart, he responds, taking her hand and placing it to his breast. Have I any hope of winning your love?

  Her fright becomes a nervous laugh directed full in his face.

  This is too sudden! she cries. By the light of the sun you are my friend in verse, and now in the moon’s gaze you would my lover be? Shakes her head at the silliness of it all and laughs afresh.

  Come, she says. Let us dance and forget this folly. It will keep the cold from stinging like scorpions. And they enjoin the zambra, where for a while she forgets what has passed while he remembers it all the more clearly.

  Take care, says Esha. Look – he is becoming drunk. On the wine as much as his lust for you.

  Oh, Laleima scoffs. You read too much into these things. Why can he not pay court if he wishes? Why can I not refuse if that is my wont?

  Take care, she repeats through gritted teeth. This has been a very successful day for him. All have feted the beauty of his words adorning the beauty of our walls. He will not take kindly to being refused this day.

  Well, I shall dance with him some more and all will be put to rights. And skips over to where he rests against a pillar to tug on his beard.

  Too tired for another dance? she teases.

  His smile is wide. Never! And they twirl off around the room.

  I have been composing more odes, he confides in her ear.

  Careful, she says. If my brother hears, he may think you wish not to compose for his glory, but only my own!

  I have enough words for all, he replies with a grin. And more than enough for you:

  Your face the colour of warmed honey

  In which Allah has set the dark jewels of your eyes.

  Oh! Dear Allah that I never be blinded!

  To see not that I bathe in your smile’s moonshine!

  She claps her hands, but dances away from his arms and ardour.

  Now see, she explains, when he pursues her to the far corner of the salon. My rings are flooded with the moon’s prismic light. They shimmer like stained glass. Which is real? Which is echo, reflection? To whom do I bow? She of the sky, or she of the hand? It is the same effect with the words we compose – their beauty lies in illusion. We are poets, yes. But lovers? No.

  Oh? he retorts. There is no illusion to the face I see before me which inspires my verse. Just as there is no illusion to the sound of the lute or the swirled robes of the dancers in their silvered girdles.

  Golden candlelight licks your face, he says. That is no illusion. I wish to do likewise. That, too, would no illusion be.

  It is late, later, later still. There is no way to elude his pursuit.

  You are my gazelle, he growls. And I your devouring lion.

  Her eyes close. Weary of the dance, the chase, too unschooled in the rituals of coquetry. What is enough, too much, a border crossed, uncrossed, how to grab back at territory relinquished? How to say no, wait, go?

  He touches her face beneath the veil, grasps the pendant about her neck, lets his hand rest there, and lower still, where beads of sweat course a track between her breasts.

  I could kiss them away, he offers, his breath moist on her cheek. I could taste of your salt, become drunk on your scent.

  She rouses herself, laughs, turns away. But what is the tremor in her belly, the quiver of that place between her thighs?

  A hand seeks out the curve of her hip, a new verse her ear:

  Let me taste of your fruits

  In the river of love

  Between your firm banks

  I would rest my tongue

  More words in pursuit:

  Let me search out the source in the folds of your flower

  Perfume my wine with the scent of your skin

  To the stars I grant witness, for silence they vow.

  The sun knows not when I sleep with his moon.

  Spent, the gazelle ready to fall and surrender to the sharp teeth which would rend her flesh asunder. From somewhere deep within, she wonders why words are enough to set juices aflame and prays to Allah to keep her chaste.

  Esha an apparition at her side.

  Come, she says. It is time we found our beds.

  Late. Or early. As the mood takes you, as the universe finds you. You are Zamrak – this night, this party, this all, is you. All feted your triumph, you are taller, broader, at al-Gani’s side.

  The sun’s rays bespeak the new day. No need of a candle to prepare the parchment at your dais. How the pen quivers with excitement! To write again of the passion you would express in her presence:

  Oh, the coolness of that mouth, how it quenched my burning thirst!

  Oh, the heat of those sighs, how they caused my heart to melt!

  And the heady scent of ambergris and aloe all around.

  For desire is exquisite, but never quite as much.

  As when it comes upon you just as you fall asleep!

  Master, I seek your advice.

  al-Khatib looked up from his writing. What is it, my boy?

  A sudden bout of nerves twisted Zamrak’s face into a strange grimace.

  I have fallen in love with the princess, he confessed. I would ask our Lord for permission to wed.

  Mmmmm. al-Khatib sat back on his heels. This will not be a simple matter. There is the promise of her father …

  I – I – am hopeful.

  Then take your suit to al-Gani and we shall see.

  The caliph laughed. Oh no, Zamrak. She a princess of royal blood and you a court poet born to Granadan peasants? If I had wanted, I could have secured a good marriage for her, with a Merinid prince no less. But no, I did not pursue that course to have my private secretary become my brother-in-law!

  He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes and said: You are a fine servant, Zamrak. But you will never my kin be.

  But the promise of her father, sire? That she may choose?

  She has mentioned nothing. al-Gani had already returned to his papers. If and when she does, I will be sure to let you know.

  And, he said, lifting his eyes a last lingering time, I will also be sure to tell her my humble opinion of the matter.

  Well, said Esha, as they sat in her mirador tower. I did warn you.

  But – but – what did I do to encourage his suit? We only played with words, with poetry! We only danced as others danced!

  Men will see what they want to see, what they want to believe, she counselled. Our brother has settled the matter. You would do well to be very cool in his presence from now on.

  Then I have lost a friend, Laleima sighed, staring at the courtyard cypresses, full flush with unripe fruit. He was my companion of the pen and for that I am sorry.

  Nine

  Ibn Khaldun has arrived at court. It will be a long-ish visit, he says awkwardly to my brother, then laughs at his dilemma. Exile can be a tricky business. It seems I have offended several kingdoms without ever an intention of same. You will have to give me an occupation, my friend. I shall not be a burden.

  Never! al-Gani snorts. You are our guest! Sit and write your treatises, make what you will, study at the madrasa or contemplate in the privacy of your apartments. Who am I to not offer you refuge? God knows we understand the feeling well!

  Khaldun calls for a servant to display the gifts he has brought – a superb enamelled goblet from Egypt decorated with entwined leaves and fruits, stone amulets inscribed with verses from the Qur’an for each lady of the court and for Esha and myself, delicate rock crystal bottles.

  Look at them! he says excitedly, passing them into our hands. The scientist al-Biruni was enthralled by this material – crystal fast-frozen within its clay bed. Imagine – water frozen, never to unfreeze!

  And indeed, the perfection lies within this unity – the fineness of air fused with the clarity of water. We handle the bottles with infinite care, marvelling at how they catch and hold the candlelight, vials which sparkle with hidden
magic.

  For al-Khatib and Zamrak, Khaldun has brought brass pen boxes from Syria, inlaid with silver, gold and copper, decorated with birds and floral ornament, and filled with pens, ink and reed nibs. The inscription from the Qur’an has our scholars well-pleased:

  He who taught by the pen taught man that which he knew not.

  Finally, for al-Gani, a crystal-hilted dagger, its blade Damascus steel, its sheath encrusted with jewels. Ah, but not finally, for he draws something more from a silken sheaf.

  This is for you, Princess, he says to me before turning swiftly to my brother to beg forgiveness for his boldness.

  My Lord, he stammers, once seen, I could not imagine another person who would so-value such a unique artefact.

  Alright, grins Mumu. We are all enthralled. Pray show this precious treasure.

  It is a writing box. From China – a land so far to the East it takes many months to reach, as many to cross, and as many to return. The script is foreign, the decoration likewise, the materials of its construction alien to my eye. Yet I am thrilled by the sight of it!

  The script on the lid is a verse from their Tao Te Ching, an ancient book of wisdoms, Khaldun explains. I have found their traditions and beliefs have much in common with the words of our sages.

  What does it say? I ask. These strange characters confound me!

  He smiles. A Chinese courtier helped me translate the verses. This one says:

  Rivers and streams are born of the ocean

  All creation is born of Tao

  Just as all water flows back to become the ocean

  All creation flows back to become Tao

  It seems the Chinese believe in the energy of a seamless whole, a Unity of Being much like Ibn Arabi describes, he says and points to the central motif on the lid, a circular design conjoining dark and light shapes.

  Are these fish? I ask.

  Perhaps, he agrees, but see how the shapes nest one to the other? They are opposites, dark and light, yet together form a whole, a symmetry of two become one. They call it the yin and the yang:

  All beings support yin and embrace yang

  And the interplay of these two forces

  Fills the universe

  Yet only at the still-point,

  Between the breathing in and the breathing out,

  Can one capture these two in perfect harmony.

  They each have tiny spots filled with the other’s colour, I notice.