by Amin Maalouf
‘But Mariam can’t refuse to marry him! If she dared to make the slightest sound he would break her bones!’
‘There’s the fiancé.’
I didn’t understand. I mustn’t have woken up properly.
‘The Zarwali?’
‘Himself, and don’t look at me like that. Get up and follow me.’
On the way, he explained his idea to me. We were not going to knock on the rich bandit’s door, but on the door of an old man who had nothing whatever to do with my sister’s marriage. But who was the only one who could still prevent it.
Astaghfirullah.
He opened the door to us himself. I had never seen him without his turban; he seemed almost naked, and twice as gaunt. He had not been out all day, because he had been suffering from a pain in his side since two Fridays past. He was seventy-nine years old, he told us, and he thought he had lived long enough, ‘but God is the only judge’.
The arrival of two downcast-looking boys puzzled him.
‘I hope that you have not come to bring me bad tidings.’
Harun began to speak, and I let him do so. It was his idea, and up to him to take it to its conclusion.
‘Bad tidings, indeed, but not a death. A marriage against the Law of God, is that not bad tidings?’
‘Who is getting married?’
‘Hasan’s sister, Mariam . . .’
‘The Rumiyya’s daughter?’
‘Her mother doesn’t count. Since the weigh-master is a Muslim, his daughter is also a Muslim.’
The shaikh looked at the Ferret approvingly.
‘Who are you? I don’t know you.’
‘I am Harun, son of Abbas the porter.’
‘Go on. Your words are pleasing to my ears.’
Thus encouraged, my friend explained the purpose of our mission. He did not linger over the fate of the Zarwali’s wives, because he knew that this argument would not strike home with Astaghfirullah. On the other hand, he mentioned the fiancé’s debauchery, his relations with his former wives, and then he dwelt at length on his past, on his massacres of travellers, ‘particularly the first emigrants from Andalus’, on his plunder of the Rif.
‘What you have said would be enough to send a man to the fires of Hell until the end of time. But what proofs do you have? Which witnesses can you summon?’
Harun was all humility.
‘My friend and I are too young, we have only just completed the Great Recitation, and our word does not carry much weight. We do not know a great deal about life, and it may be that we are indignant about matters which appear perfectly normal to other people. Now that we have said all that we know, and now that we have acted according to our consciences, it is up to you, our venerated shaikh, to see what must be done.’
When we were outside again I looked at the Ferret dubiously. He seemed quite certain about what he had done.
‘I really believe what I said to him. We have done everything we could. Now we just have to wait.’
But his playful air indicated otherwise.
‘I think you’re gloating,’ I said, ‘but I don’t at all understand why.’
‘Perhaps Astaghfirullah doesn’t know me, but I have known him for years. And I have every confidence in his atrocious character.’
The next day, the shaikh seemed to have been restored to health. His turban could be seen circulating feverishly in the suqs, fluttering under the porticos, before sweeping into a hammam. The following Friday, at the hour when the largest crowds were gathered, he spoke in his usual mosque, the one most attended by the emigrants from Andalus. In the most candid manner he began to describe ‘the exemplary life of a greatly respected man whom I shall not name’, mentioning his banditry, his plunderings and his debauchery in such precise terms that eventually all the audience was whispering the Zarwali’s name although he himself had never mentioned it once.
‘Such are the men that the believers respect and admire in these degenerate times! Such are the men to whom you proudly open the doors of your houses! Such are the men to whom you sacrifice your daughters, as if to the deities of the time before Islam!’
Before the day was over the whole town was talking of nothing else. The words of the shaikh were reported to the Zarwali himself. Immediately, he sent for my father, insulted Granada and all the Andalusians, and, stuttering with rage, made it clear to him that there was no question of contract, marriage or silkworms, that he charged him immediately to pay back the dinars which he had advanced him, and that the weigh-master and all his family would soon have cause for bitter regret at what had come to pass. Utterly dismayed, Muhammad tried to protest his innocence, but he was thrown out unceremoniously by the Zarwali’s bodyguards.
Often, when a marriage is called off at the last moment in an atmosphere of resentment, and particularly when the fiancé feels that he has been made a fool of, he circulates the rumour that his betrothed was not a virgin, or that she had loose morals, to make it impossible for her to find a husband. I would not have been surprised if the rejected bandit had done this, such was his humiliation.
But never, in my worst nightmares, could I have imagined the vengeance that the Zarwali was contemplating.
The Year of the Knotted Blade of Grass
909 A.H.
26 June 1503 – 13 June 1504
That year had begun slippery, peaceful and studious. On the first day of the year, which came in high summer, we splashed through the streets which had been drenched with water during the preceding nights because of the festival of Mihrajan. Each time I missed my footing, at each muddy pool, I thought of my father, who so detested this festival and the customs connected with it.
I had not seen him since our dispute, may God pardon me one day! But I constantly asked Warda and Mariam for news of him; their replies were rarely reassuring. Having ruined himself to give my sister a rich dowry, and finding himself simultaneously deeply in debt, frustrated in his dreams and deprived of the affection of his family, he sought oblivion in the taverns.
However, for the first weeks of the year he seemed to be recovering slowly from the breach with the Zarwali. He had eventually managed to rent an old residence at the top of a mountain six miles from Fez. It was a bit ramshackle, but had a marvellous view over the city, and had ample land attached to it on which he swore he would produce the best grapes and the best figs of the kingdom; I suspect that he also wanted to produce his own wine, even though the mountain was part of the domain of the Great Mosque. These projects were certainly less grandiose than producing silk; at least they did not put my father at the mercy of a bandit like the Zarwali.
There had been no sign of the latter for months. Had he forgotten his misfortune, would he let bygones be bygones, the man whom it was said had the slightest insult graven in marble? I sometimes asked myself such questions, but these were passing worries which were swept aside by my deep absorption in my studies.
I spent my time in the lecture halls, in the Qarawiyyin Mosque, from midnight to half-past one, in accordance with the summer timetable, the rest of the day at the most famous college in Fez, the madrasa Bu Inania; I slept in the meantime, a little at dawn, a little in the afternoons; inactivity was unbearable, rest seemed superfluous. I was barely fifteen, with a body to shake up, a world to discover, and a passion for reading.
Each day our professors would make us study the commentaries on the Qur’an or the Tradition of the Prophet, and a discussion would commence. From the Scriptures we would often go on to medicine, geography, mathematics or poetry, sometimes even to philosophy or astrology, in spite of the ban on such subjects issued by the sovereign. We had the good fortune to have as teachers men who were learned in all fields of knowledge. To distinguish themselves from the common herd some wound their turbans around high pointed skull caps, like those which I saw worn by doctors during my stay in Rome. We students wore a simple cap.
In spite of their knowledge and their apparel, teachers were for the most part friendly men, patient in ex
planation, and mindful of the talents of everyone. Sometimes, they would invite us to their homes, to show us their libraries; one had five hundred volumes, another a thousand; yet another had more than three thousand, and they always encouraged us to pay careful attention to our calligraphy in order to be able to copy the most precious books, for it was thus, they said, that knowledge was spread.
When I had a moment between lectures, I would walk as far as the place where the porters stood. If I found Harun there, we would go and drink curdled milk or saunter around the Place of Marvels, where our curiosity was rarely disappointed. If the Ferret was away on an errand I would cross the flower market to go and see Mariam.
We had agreed that each time my father went to the country for the week she would put a knotted blade of grass in a crack in the outside wall. One day, towards the end of Safar, the second month of the year, I went past the house; the knotted blade was there. I pulled the bell rope. Warda shouted from within:
‘My husband is away. I am alone with my daughter. I cannot open the door.’
‘It’s me, Hasan!’
She explained confusedly that some men had come a few minutes before; they had knocked on the door insistently, saying that she must let them in. She was afraid, and Mariam, who looked pale and weak, seemed afraid too.
‘What’s going on here? You both look as if you’ve been crying.’
Their tears began again, but Warda quickly pulled herself together:
‘For the last three days it has been like hell. We dare not go out into the street. The neighbours come all the time to ask if it’s true that . . .’
Her voice choked, and Mariam continued vacantly:
‘They are asking if I am suffering from the illness.’
When people say ‘the illness’ at Fez they mean leprosy; when they talk of ‘the quarter’ without further designation they mean the leper quarter.
I still had not taken in what they had just told me when I heard a drumming on the door.
‘The police, in the sultan’s name! You are not alone now! A man has just gone inside. He can speak to us.’
I opened the door. There were at least ten people outside, an officer, four women veiled in white, the rest soldiers.
‘Does Mariam, the daughter of Muhammad al-Wazzan the Granadan live here?’
The officer unfolded a piece of paper.
‘This is an order from the shaikh of the lepers. We are to bring the aforesaid Mariam to the quarter.’
A single idea turned over in my head: ‘If this could be an ordinary nightmare!’ I heard myself saying:
‘But this is slander! She has never had a single mark on her body! She is as pure as one of the verses revealed in the Qur’an!’
‘We shall see about that. These four women have been appointed to examine her on the spot.’
They went into one of the rooms with her. Warda tried to follow them but someone stopped her. I stayed outside, my mind in a fog, but trying at the same time to make the officer listen to reason. He answered me calmly, appearing to see my point of view, but ended by replying to each of my outbursts that he was an official, that he had orders to carry out, and that I must speak to the shaikh of the lepers.
After ten minutes, the women came out of the room. Two of them were holding Mariam under her arms and dragging her along. Her eyes were open but her body was limp. No sound came from her throat; she seemed unable to take in what was happening to her. One of the women whispered something in the officer’s ear. He made a sign to one of his men, who covered Mariam with a coarse earth-coloured cloth.
‘Your sister is ill. We must take her with us.’
I tried to intervene; they thrust me roughly aside. And the sinister procession set off. At the end of the cul-de-sac a few idlers were gathered. I cried out, threatened, gesticulated. But Warda came after me, pleading:
‘Come back, by Heaven, you mustn’t bring out the whole neighbourhood. Your sister can never be married.’
I went back towards the house, slammed the door, and began to hammer the walls with my fists, oblivious to the pain. Warda came up to me. She was weeping, but her mind was clear.
‘Wait until they have gone and then go and talk to your uncle. He has good relations with the palace. He can get her back.’
She held me by the sleeve and pulled me back.
‘Calm yourself, your hands are raw.’
My arms fell heavily on Warda’s shoulders; I embraced her fiercely, without unclenching my fists, as if I was still hammering at the wall. She subsided against me. Her tears ran down my neck; her hair covered my eyes; I could only inhale her breath, burning, humid and perfumed. I was not thinking of her; she was not thinking of me. Our bodies did not exist for us. But they suddenly came into existence for themselves, kindled by anger. I had never before felt conscious of myself as a man, nor been conscious of her as a woman. She was thirty-two, old enough to be a grandmother, but her face had no lines, and her hair was jet black. I no longer dared to move, for fear I might give myself away, or to speak, for fear of sending her away, nor even to open my eyes, for fear of having to recognize that I was entwined with the only woman rigorously forbidden to me, my father’s wife.
Where did her mind wander during those moments? Did she feel herself drifting like me towards the intermingling of pleasure? I don’t think so. Was she just numb, body and soul all swollen up? Did she simply need to clutch hold of the only human being who would share her anguish? I shall never know, for we never spoke of it; never did our words or actions ever recall that a moment had existed in which we were man and woman, bound together by the pitiless fingers of Destiny.
It was incumbent upon her to withdraw. She did so imperceptibly, with these words of tender parting:
‘Go, Hasan my son, God will come to our aid. You are the best brother that Mariam could have!’
I ran, counting my steps to myself so that my mind would not dwell on anything else. As far as Khali’s house.
My uncle listened to me without showing any signs of emotion, but I could see that he was moved, more than I had expected, given the complete absence of relations between himself and my sister. When I finished my story, he explained:
‘The shaikh of the lepers is a power in the land. He alone is entitled to remove from Fez those who have been infected, and he alone has authority over the denizens of the quarter. Few qadis dare oppose his decisions, and the sultan himself only rarely takes it upon himself to interfere in his gruesome domain. Furthermore, he is extremely rich, for many among the believers bequeath their properties for the benefit of the quarter, either because the illness has afflicted their family, or because they take pity at the sight of these unfortunates. And the shaikh administers all the revenues. He uses part of it to provide food, lodging and treatment for the sufferers, but there are substantial sums left over which he uses in all sorts of shady ways to increase his personal wealth. It is highly likely that he has some business association with the Zarwali, and that he has agreed to help him to take vengeance upon us.’
I had distinctly heard my uncle say ‘us’! My surprise did not elude him.
‘You have known for a long time what I think of your father’s obsession with this Rumiyya. He lost his head one day, because she very nearly left him, because he thought his honour was at stake, because he wanted, in his way, to take revenge on the Castilians. Since then, he has never recovered his good judgement. But what has just happened concerns neither Muhammad nor Warda, nor even poor Mariam; the whole Granadan community of Fez is being held up to ridicule by the Zarwali. We have to fight, even for the daughter of the Rumiyya. A community begins to fall apart the moment it agrees to abandon the weakest of its members.’
His arguments mattered little; his attitude gave me new hope.
‘Do you think we shall be able to save my sister?’
‘Ask the Most High to bring you hope and patience! We have to fight the most powerful and devilish individuals. You know that the Zarwali is a friend o
f the sultan?’
‘But if Mariam has to stay in the quarter for long, she really will become a leper.’
‘You must go and see her, tell her that she must not mix with the others, and bring her turtle flesh to eat, which helps to fight the illness. Above all, she should always keep her face covered with a veil impregnated with vinegar.’
I carried these counsels to Warda. She obtained the appropriate items and when my father returned to town a few days later she went with him to the edge of the quarter. A watchman called Mariam, who came to see them. She looked disoriented, overwhelmed, haggard, with bloodshot eyes in her pallid face. A stream separated her from her parents, but they could speak to her, promise her a speedy deliverance and give her their advice. They gave the things they wanted taken to her to the watchman, slipping a few dirhams into his hand.
I was waiting for them in front of the door of the house when they returned. My father made as if not to see me. I knelt on the ground and took his hand, pressing it to my lips. After several long seconds he took it away, passed it over my face, and then patted my neck. I got up and threw myself into his arms.
‘Make us something to eat,’ he said to Warda in a broken voice. ‘We need to discuss the matter.’
She hastened to do so.
Neither he nor I said very much. At that point, the important thing was to be together, man to man for the first time, seated on the same mat, dipping our hands in the same fashion into the same dish of couscous. Mariam’s engagement had torn us apart; her ordeal hastened our reconciliation. It would also reunite Muhammad with my mother’s family.
That evening, Khali came to my father’s house, whose threshold he had not crossed since our arrival at Fez ten years earlier. Warda treated him as an honoured guest, offered him orgeat syrup and placed an enormous basket full of grapes, apricots, pears and plums in front of him. In return, he gave her kindly smiles and words of comfort. Then she withdrew behind a door to let us discuss the matter together.
