The Taste of Translation

by Anne Gambling

  Yes, says Khaldun eagerly. And that is the interesting thing – the dark has a light spot, the light a dark. Through these spots their souls can speak to each other because each force contains the seed of the other. They may even flow into and become the other through these pathways.

  He shakes his head and says: I am unsure but I expect it is similar to Ibn Arabi’s philosophy that no matter what faith, what language, what culture, what land we arise from, there is something in the core of our hearts which dissolves such differences.

  Love, I say. Love is the core, and recite from the master’s words:

  My heart has become capable of every form:

  It is a pasture for gazelles and a convent for Christian monks,

  And a temple for idols, and the pilgrim's Ka'ba,

  And the tables of the Torah and the book of the Qur’an.

  I follow the religion of Love, whichever way his camels take.

  My religion and my faith is the true religion.

  Gifts, al-Gani mumbles, meditatively scratching his chin, as my friend and I continue to inspect this wondrous gift and its strange contents. There are no nibs, but animal hair brushes, no ink wells, but stick, stone and water dropper. As Khaldun starts to explain the writing art of the Chinese, Mumu suddenly claps his hands.

  My friend, he announces, I do believe I know how you may fill your days in exile! And we look up into his excited face as he says: You are well aware that I am indebted to the Castilian Don Pedro for restoring us to our home.

  Of course, my Lord. He is a sovereign worthy of your esteem.

  Quite. It seems he builds a new palace within the Alcazar of his father which will follow our design here. Apparently it was a suggestion from his advisor, the Jew Halevi. It seems he built his synagogue in Toledo in the Nasrid style. So, you would do me a great service by attending Pedro’s court and offering several of our master artisans to assist in this work.

  Certainly, my Lord. A worthy proposal.

  Mumu grins and turns to a servant. Bring the astrolabe of my father.

  The heavenly device is tiny, fitting comfortably within the palm of his hand, its Moorish, Gothic, Hebrew decoration forming a seamless whole.

  Yes, he says softly, this intricate jewel will express my wish to live in peace, convivencia, we Peoples of the Book. He hands the disc to Khaldun. With this, Pedro will understand the import of your mission.

  And I smile with quiet joy into this moment. My brother, the philosopher king, believes in Ibn Arabi’s religion of love.

  Laleima sits with Khaldun. Four years since they first met, she is more than of age.

  But I cannot give myself to you, she says. I am certain of my path, I wish only to serve Allah.

  Forgive my quiet sorrow, he sighs, but I will try to think on you as a Sufi woman of old, like Rabi’a of whom Jami says:

  If all women were like the one we have mentioned,

  Then women would be preferred to men.

  For the female is no shame for the sun,

  Nor is the male an honour for the moon.

  Rabi’a was very special, she replies. They say her fingertips glowed like lamps at night, so filled was she by the light of God’s love.

  She smoothes her robes, sighs long. My love is very meagre by comparison. I fail constantly in my devotions!

  Do not be too harsh on yourself, he soothes. You are young, we are each on a journey – how many reach the enlightenment of a saint in the lifetime Allah grants us? Yet is it not enough to try? To seek meaning in whatever work we make?

  I often wonder if I should shed the robes of a princess and don the woollen garment of the Sufi. Perhaps that would help me see further, better?

  But you are not yet convinced, that I can see. There is the girl who seeks to play, there is the woman who is called to retreat. Khaldun smiles. I do not know how you will reconcile this.

  Zamrak observes their conversation from where he lingers before the table of treasures gifted by his rival, trailing a hand over the smooth lacquer of her writing box, listening as Laleima says: I worry I do not love enough.

  He listens on as Khaldun says: With love comes pain. Desire burns as it couples, equalling that which it tears apart.

  Now he turns, her writing box in hand. What is this? he jokes. You would use a lesson to woo an impressionable student?

  Nay, laughs Khaldun. Our princess clearly has no interest in the suit of any mortal, least of all the man who sits at her elbow. And excuses himself from their presence.

  Laleima looks up into Zamrak’s flushed face, cannot read its expression but hears well enough when he spits:

  Perhaps, little star, you should look to the symbol on your new toy. Contemplate, instead of their nested coupling, the price exacted in separating their fusion. Then you would know the pain Allah demands of your love.

  He thrusts the box into her hand and leaves.

  Khaldun’s audience with Don Pedro was in a grand receiving hall. Together with gold-embroidered saddles and bridles on the floor at his feet for the Arabian thoroughbreds tethered in the entrance yard, was al-Gani’s fine astrolabe cradled in his hand.

  Pedro was well-pleased with his visitor. My doctor has told me much of your ancestry – how your family was Sevillan before the fall. He has also sung your praises – as a diplomat, scholar, historian. Is anything beyond you, Moor?

  Ibn Zarzar is a doctor and astronomer of the first order, Khaldun replied. I thank him for his kind words. We were at the court of Abu Inan together.

  Yes, Pedro agreed, I was very fortunate when he consented to enter my service. And, knowing now of your skills, a proposition has occurred to me – I could return to you your ancestors’ assets and you could enter my service as a nobleman of the Castilian court. What think you, Moor? Could you be tempted to stay?

  Khaldun could not hide his surprise. Sire, you are indeed generous and I thank you for your offer! But – he hesitated – I believe my fate lies elsewhere. For I have a mind to travel, and learn much of the world. Please do not consider me ungrateful. I am more than honoured, if only my destiny were as you perceived. Alas … he trailed off.

  Ha! Pedro laughed. Once a diplomat, always a diplomat.

  Next day, the king led the delegation on a tour of inspection through the new rooms of the Alcazar where craftsmen stamped out lattice screens and plasterers shaped arches. Pure-white arabesques were sculpted to each available surface, barely dry but dripping with ornamentation.

  What is this thing your al-Gani is so fond of inscribing on his walls? he asked. The words of some ancestor or other?

  Wa la ghalib ila Allah, my Lord, Khaldun said. It means: There is no victor but God.

  Mmmm, yes. Pedro scratched his beard and turned to his Chamberlain, Lopez. Too true – there is no victor but God. See to it that the artisans include this in their work.

  My friend, he said, turning back to Khaldun, when you return for Granada, translators shall accompany you. I am of a mind to learn more of the wisdoms of your philosophers, poets and scholars and to awaken each morning to their truths on my walls.

  So you are the translator, said Khaldun, noting the fine broad brow, the clear blue eyes, the earnest expression of a scholar not far beyond youth. And you have come all this way from the famous Toledo School for our audience?

  Sébastien de la Fuentes bowed. I am of French ancestry, he explained. My grandfather made his apprenticeship as a translator in the court of Alfonso when the School was much larger. Nevertheless, my father continued the tradition and remains, to this day, Don Pedro’s chief sculptor of the written word.

  And you, the son of the son of the son, are entrusted with this mission to Granada?

  Both my king and my employer believe me capable of the task, he replied. But the tremor in his voice belied such surety.

  Khaldun bade the man sit and softened his tone. Born into a world of words, your job is to read into the written that which is spoken by the heart. Translation is an art
– whereby the foreign becomes familiar.

  Yes, said Sébastien, taking up the theme hungrily. We take great works from the libraries and monasteries of the known world, and make understandable that which was previously un-understood. Mostly I work between Latin and Castilian – like his ancestor, Alfonso, Don Pedro seeks to invest all his kingdom’s subjects with knowledge. Its value is minute if it remains wrapped only in the warp and weft of scholarly tongues.

  Then you know not Arabic?

  I understand the spoken word, but written script is beyond my grasp, he admitted. My assistant is Mozarab – a Jew who has grown up in your world. He will read aloud the Arabic text in Castilian which I will transcribe into Latin. I am simply a conduit.

  But a learned one I hope, Khaldun rejoined. What if the text concerns alchemy or divination, astronomy or the mathematic sciences? Does your Mozarab know enough to give you the correct information? Do you know enough to understand its import?

  Sébastien smiled. Ibrahim is very experienced, we have worked together many times before and on such varied topics. And you will return to Granada with us, will you not? If something is beyond our understanding, are we at liberty to request your intervention? On behalf of inadequate knowledge?

  Khaldun saw the twinkle in the other’s eye. They would talk further on the journey.

  Ten

  Preparations made, the companions ready to depart, their escort included one Pablo de Luca.

  I am going home, he grinned.

  You know Granada? Sébastien asked.

  My family has served the Nasrids for generations, my sister is handmaiden to a princess, and I was captain of our Lord al-Gani’s personal guard until – and at this he winced – a coup some year past. I was bound and gagged to prevent raising the alarm, but they were poorly trained captors and by God’s hand, I could escape and seek refuge in Pedro’s court. Now he has generously granted my wish to return whence I belong.

  They enjoined a leisurely first day’s ride to Carmona to farewell the king at his summer palace before taking to the road in earnest. The land climbed sharply, some hundred metres above the plain, as they approached the walled city. Solid since the time of Caesar, the setting sun burnt the fortress which loomed above them a deep shimmering gold.

  When my ancestors came to al-Andalus, Khaldun said, they settled here in Carmona with a small group of their countrymen. That was some five centuries ago. Later their descendents moved to Sevilla.

  But then left? Sébastien’s Mozarab asked.

  He shrugged in return. Who did not? They were part of the great exodus last century after the Christians’ victory and sought exile in Tunis where I was born. Yet I feel well here, he smiled. It is home, of a kind.

  They approached the Puerta de Sevilla gate and were granted leave to continue along the Calle Real to the Alcazar, wending their way along its narrow cobbled street between the high-walled facades of whitewashed houses. The horses’ hooves announced their arrival far in advance, and the king expected them to join him at table in an hour.

  The translator stands upon the ramparts to farewell a slow-sinking sun which bathes the broad plain the colour of oranges left too long upon the branch.

  A grand sight, says Khaldun, joining him. Only a moment before it was painted pale straw as far as the eye could see.

  He points out the direction of their journey, heading south-east across the plains – wooded with wild olive amongst wheat and corn – toward the next white village of Marchena.

  We should make Granada in ten to fourteen days, he says. Monasteries and fortresses will grant us nightly shelter until we cross the mountains into Nasrid lands.

  Sébastien squints into the approaching dusk. I think I see them, he says.

  Ah, Khaldun laughs. Those mountains to the south are not our destination. We ride far to the east before crossing, and then further on you shall see mountains rising like ice palaces from the plains, perfect white clouds on a cloudless day.

  They move to the patio where Don Pedro laments that his relation to a Nasrid sultan is closer than to his own kin.

  I am always at war! he complains, and weary beyond my years. Look, he says, this describes well my pain. And draws their attention to the fountain at the patio’s centre, its inscription:

  Oh sweet and cleansing water

  Crystal clear as the source of the fountain

  The architect has placed you here

  In order to erase from memory blood shed

  In the most cruel of wars between princes

  Sons of the same king.

  But sire, al-Gani also had family rivalries with which to contend, Khaldun reminds him. Only through your friendship and support did he have the opportunity to resume his throne.

  Yes, Pedro laughs, and look at the gift I receive in return!

  He calls for a servant to bring him the ruby, holds the great egg of a stone in the palm of his hand, cradles it in the lamplight.

  It glows with an inner fire, does it not? he says. And shocks me with its beauty.

  He passes the gem to Khaldun who says: I have heard tell of this stone, a gift from al-Gani’s father to his mother from mines cut deep into the mountains east of Persia.

  Ah, says Pedro. A fine gift from a man of honour. Your king is not one to speak words of friendship while a dagger lies hidden under his cloak.

  He settles himself comfortably, calls for more wine, grins and says: Do you know how easy it was to restore your caliph to his throne?

  His guests shift in their seats, the lamplight catching their eyes’ desire to hear Don Pedro’s story.

  I invited Abu Said to Sevilla for peace talks, the king begins. He brought with him many treasures, I know not why, because he had no intention of parting with them. However, his retinue only extended to some few hundred horsemen.

  Imagine! he says, suddenly sitting forward, his goblet of wine slopping. He wore pearls the size of pigeons’ eggs about his neck! And bounced some seven hundred rubies in a leathern strap on his knee! That pretender, he snorts, saying he wanted my support in his quarrel with your al-Gani. Whom, he said, had ill-treated and trampled his subjects. And that he was more worthy and had, in fact, been chosen by the people. What rot!

  Pedro sips his wine and smiles slowly. So we invited him and his ministers to dine, tied the usurper to a stake and used him as target practice. I am pleased to say I threw the lethal lance.

  But murder at table? My Lord! Khaldun is shocked.

  Don Pedro shrugs. It affects not my appetite. And sits back with his glass raised, ready to be refilled.

  Ah Khaldun, he says. You tell of a court flooded with poets and philosophers, of scholars and their wonderful manuscripts. My ancestor, Alfonso, knew how valuable the translations were which arrived from your lands; many volumes were copied from your masters during his reign. Now I want to learn of your words – what new words have been scripted since his time. There have been too many wars, and there has been too much bloodshed. Let us use this time, this brief respite from worldly strife, to share words again.

  Sébastien woke with the sun, threw wide the shutters and let the ruby colours of dawn flood his chamber. The wind had lifted overnight, its passage borne from the warm seas to the south.

  They made an early start and by nightfall had reached the monastery of Santa Maria, high on a rocky outcrop – open to the four winds, in full sight of their Lord. Here the wind bit and clawed with a ferocity born of its birth in crystal snows still far to the east. Yet the alabaster pillars of the Sierra Nevada could be seen clearly from their tower lodging, rising like ships’ sails of permanently billowed cloth, and giving Pablo his first glimpse of home.

  At dinner that evening at a long oak table in the refectory, they listened to the low chant of liturgy rising from the chapel.

  It is the same God to whom we all pray, Pablo said to the Christian, Moor and Jew at table. Your translations, he turned to Sébastien, will enjoin a great tradition of sharing between
our cultures.

  His companion smiled. Indeed I feel like a spinner at her wheel, transforming the wool of the sheep into the skein of the bobbin.

  Ah, said Khaldun, but sometimes the wool breaks, or the thread becomes matted and tangled. Sometimes words are misunderstood, intentions fall foul of their original conception. Or the spindle pricks the spinner’s finger. Blood can spill.

  You think of us as Infidels, Pablo said, and I understand your reasons well.

  The Moor nodded. During the Holy Wars, terrible crimes were committed to those who meant you no harm.

  Sébastien stared into his mead and said: My heart aches each time I think about what happened when the Crusaders took Jerusalem. Our ancestors massacred Muslims for a week or more, tens of thousands alone killed in the mosque where they sought refuge.

  And even we Jews, Ibrahim nudged him, were not spared. Gathered in the synagogue, our kin were burned alive. How could they destroy the tomb of Abraham from whom all our faiths are descended?

  They spared no one, Pablo snorted, not even their fellow Christians – the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was expelled with their Greek, Copt and Syrian priests. It was madness, their regime of hate. It’s as if Christ had never preached loving one’s neighbour as oneself!

  We had to wait for Saladin, Khaldun humphed.

  Yes, said Pablo, a Christian telling a Muslim story. Saladin’s mission was to retake the Holy City and restore it to shared faith. His emirs had strict orders – no Christian would be touched, neither massacre nor plunder tolerated. He was a true and just leader.

  Unlike the English Richard, Khaldun interrupted. Where Saladin released prisoners, Richard put them to the sword. Before the city walls of Acre alone, he ordered thousands of soldiers, their women and children to be roped together, an enormous mass of flesh felled by sabres, lances, even stones! Until all cries were stilled.

  Sébastien shuddered. Into the silence left by a shared story, Pablo sipped from his goblet and said: Tales from the past guide our passage in this life as much as the teachings in our Holy Books. Pedro’s court is true and just, but my home is Granada and serving al-Gani.