by Amin Maalouf
The rest of the year was entirely taken up with endless undertakings and interminable secret meetings. Sometimes, people outside the family would join us, contributing their advice, and sharing our disappointments. They were mostly Granadans, but there were also two of my friends. One was Harun, of course, who was soon going to make my problem his own, to the point of taking it away from me altogether. The other was called Ahmad. At the college he was called the Lame One. Calling him to mind, I cannot prevent my pen from ceasing its tortuous scratchings, and to stop for a moment thoughtful and perplexed. As far away as Tunis, Cairo, Mecca, even Naples, I have heard men speak of the Lame One, and I always wonder whether this old friend of mine will leave any traces on the pages of history, or whether he will pass across the memory of men as a bold swimmer crosses the Nile, without affecting its flow or its floods. However my duty as chronicler is to forget my resentment and to recount, as faithfully as I can, what I have known of Ahmad since the day that year when he came into the classroom for the first time, greeted by the laughter and sarcastic remarks of the other students. The young Fassis are merciless towards outsiders, especially when they seem to have come straight from the province where they were born, and particularly if they have some physical infirmity.
The Lame One had let his eyes wander round the room, as if taking note of every smile, every grin, and then came to sit down next to me, whether because it was the nearest place for him to sit or because he had seen that I was looking at him differently. He shook me vigorously by the hand, but his words were not a simple greeting:
‘Like me, you are a foreigner in this accursed city.’
His tone was not questioning, his voice not low. I looked round with embarrassment. He started again:
‘Don’t be afraid of the Fassis, they are too crammed with knowledge to retain a drop of courage.’
He was almost shouting. I felt that I was becoming involved unwillingly in a dispute that had nothing to do with me. I tried to extricate myself, saying light-heartedly:
‘How can you say that, if you are coming to seek knowledge in one of the madrasas of Fez?’
He gave me a condescending smile.
‘I do not seek knowledge, because it weighs the hands down more certainly than a chain. Have you ever seen a doctor of the Law command an army, or found a kingdom?’
While he was talking, the professor came into the room, his gait dignified, his silhouette imposing. As a mark of respect, the whole class stood up.
‘How do you expect a man to fight with that thing wobbling on his head?’
I was already regretting that Ahmad had come and sat next to me. I looked at him in horror.
‘Lower your voice, I beg you, the master will hear.’
He gave me a fatherly slap on the back.
‘Don’t be so timid! When you were a child, didn’t you speak out the truth that the oldest ones kept secret? Well, you were right then. You must find the time of innocence in yourself again, because that was also the time of courage.’
As if to illustrate what he had just said, he got up, limped towards the professor’s raised chair and addressed him without respect, in a manner which silenced the slightest noise in the room:
‘My name is Ahmad, son of Sharif Sa‘di, descendant of the House of the Prophet, on whom be prayers and peace! If you see me limp, it is because I was wounded last year fighting the Portuguese when they invaded the territories of the Sous.’
I don’t know if he was more closely related to the Messenger of God than I am; as far as his deformity was concerned, he had been lame since birth, as I was to learn later from one of his friends. Two lies, then, but they intimidated everyone present, including the professor.
Ahmad went back to his seat, his head high. From his first day at the college, he became the most respected and admired of all the students. He always went about surrounded by a host of devoted fellow students, who laughed at his jokes, trembled at his rages, and shared all his enmities.
And these were very tenacious. One day, one of our teachers, a Fassi from an old family, had dared to cast doubt on the ancestry to which the Lame One laid claim. This opinion could not be disregarded lightly, since this professor was the most famous in the college, and had recently obtained the honour of giving the weekly sermon in the Great Mosque. At the time, Ahmad did not reply, and simply smiled enigmatically at the students’ questioning looks. The following Friday, the whole class took itself off to hear the preacher. He had hardly uttered the first words when the Lame One was seized with an interminable fit of coughing. Gradually, other coughers took over, and after a minute or so thousands of throats were being noisily cleared in unison, a strange infection which lasted to the end of the sermon, to the extent that the faithful went back to their homes without having understood so much as a word. Henceforth the professor took care not to speak of Ahmad, nor of his noble but doubtful ancestry.
I myself never followed in the Lame One’s wake, and he certainly respected me for it. We only saw each other alone, sometimes at my house and sometimes at his quarters in the madrasa itself, where there were rooms reserved for students whose families did not live in Fez; his people lived on the edges of the kingdom of Marrakesh.
I must say that even when we were alone together, some of his attitudes repelled me, bothered me, even sometimes frightened me. But he could also appear generous and faithful, and that was how he seemed to me that year, attentive in my periods of dejection, always finding the right tone to get me back on my feet again.
I greatly needed his company, and that of Harun, even if they both seemed unable to save Mariam. Only my uncle seemed in a position to take the necessary steps. He met lawyers, amirs of the army, the dignitaries of the kingdom; some were reassuring, others embarrassed, still others promised a solution before the next feast. We only let go of one hopeful possibility to cling on to another, equally in vain.
Until, that is, Khali succeeded, after a thousand intercessions, in approaching the sovereign’s eldest son, Prince Muhammad, called the Portuguese, because he had been taken prisoner at the age of seven in the town of Arzila and led away to captivity in Portugal for many years. He was now forty, the same age as my uncle, and they stayed a long time together, discussing poetry and the misfortunes of Andalus. And when, after two hours, Khali brought up the problem of Mariam, the prince seemed very indignant and promised to bring the matter to the ears of his father.
He had no time to do so, for, by a strange coincidence, the sultan died the very next day after my uncle’s visit to the palace.
To say that my relations wept for long over the old monarch would be a pure lie, not only because the Zarwali was his friend, but also because the connections just established between his son and Khali seemed to augur well for us.
The Year of the Caravan
910 A.H.
14 June 1504 – 3 June 1505
That year was the occasion of my first long journey, which was to take me across the Atlas, Sijilmassa and Numidia, towards the Saharan expanse, and then towards Timbuktu, mysterious city of the land of the Blacks.
Khali had been commanded by the new Sultan of Fez to take a message to the powerful sovereign of the Soudan, Askia Muhammad Touré, announcing his accession and promising to establish the most cordial relations between their two kingdoms. As he had promised me five years earlier, at the time of his journey to the Orient, my uncle invited me to come with him; I had discussed it with my father, who, out of consideration for my beard, which was silky but already thick, no longer thought of standing in my way.
The caravan had set off in the first cool days of autumn, two hundred animals strong, carrying men, provisions and presents. We had camel guards to protect us for the whole length of the journey, as well as cavalrymen who would return when we reached the Sahara. There were also camel drivers and experienced guides, as well as enough servants to make the embassy appear important in the eyes of our hosts. To the official procession were also attached, with my uncle
’s permission, several merchants with their wares, intending to take advantage both of the royal protection for the duration of the journey and of the favourable treatment which we would surely receive at Timbuktu.
The preparations had been too meticulous, too long drawn out for my liking. During the last days before departure, I could neither sleep nor read. My breathing was difficult and heavy. I needed to leave at once, to hold on tightly high up on the camel’s hump, to be engulfed in the vast wastes where men, animals, water, sand and gold all have the same colour, the same worth, the same irreplaceable futility.
I discovered very soon that one could also become immersed in the caravan. When the wayfarers know that, for weeks and months, they must proceed in the same direction, confront the same perils, live, eat, pray, enjoy themselves, grieve, and sometimes die, together, they cease to be strangers to each other; no vice remains hidden, no artifice can last. Seen from afar, a caravan looks like a procession; from close to, it is a village, with its stories, jokes, nicknames, intrigues, conflicts, reconciliations, nights of singing and poetry, a village for which all lands are far away, even the land one comes from, or the land one is crossing. I badly needed such distance to forget the crushing miseries of Fez, the relentlessness of the Zarwali, the faceless cruelty of the shaikh of the lepers.
On the same day that we left, we passed through the town of Sefrou, at the foot of the Atlas mountains, fifteen miles from Fez. The inhabitants were rich, but they were shabbily dressed, their clothes all stained with oil, because a prince of the royal house had built himself a residence there and overburdened with taxes anyone who gave the slightest sign of prosperity. Passing down the main street, my uncle brought his horse up level with me to whisper in my ear:
‘If anyone tells you that avarice is the daughter of necessity, tell him that he is mistaken. It is taxation which has begotten avarice!’
Not far from Sefrou, the caravan took the pass through which the road to Numidia runs. Two days later we were in the middle of a forest, near the ruins of an ancient city called ‘Ain al-Asnam, the Spring of the Idols. There was a temple there where men and women used to meet in the evening at a certain time of the year. Having finished the ritual sacrifices, they would put out the lights, and each man would take his pleasure with the woman whom providence had placed by his side. They passed the night together in this fashion, and in the morning they were reminded that for a year none of the women present was allowed to go to her husband. The children who were born during that period were brought up by the priests of the temple. The temple had been destroyed, and the whole city as well, after the Muslim conquest; but the name had survived as sole witness of the age of ignorance.
Two days later we passed near a mountain village which was strewn about with ancient remains. It is called ‘The Hundred Wells’, because there are wells in the vicinity of such depth that they are thought to be caves. It is said that one of them had several levels, with walled rooms on the inside, some large, others small, but all fitted out. That is why treasure seekers come specially from Fez to make the descent, with the help of ropes and lanterns. Some never come to the surface again.
A week after leaving Fez we went through a place called Umm Junaiba, where a curious custom survives: there is a water course, along which the caravans walk, and it is said that anyone who passes along there must jump and dance as he walks, otherwise he will be struck with quartan ague. Our whole company set to it cheerfully, even myself, even the guards, even the great merchants, some from a spirit of fun, others out of superstition, still others to avoid the insect bites, all except my uncle who considered that his dignity as ambassador prevented him from taking part in such pranks. He was to regret it bitterly.
We were already in the high mountains over which, even in autumn, an unpredictable icy wind blows from the north. In such high places, where the climate is so harsh, I did not expect to find people so well dressed and certainly not so well educated. In particular, in one of the coldest mountain ranges, there is a tribe called Mestasa whose principal occupation was to copy books, in the most beautiful handwriting, and sell them in the Maghrib and abroad. In one village alone, an old Genoese merchant living in Fez, Master Thomasso de Marino, who had come along with the caravan, and with whom I often conversed, bought a hundred of these volumes, each with marvellous calligraphy and bound in leather. He explained to me that the ulama and the notables in the land of the Blacks bought many such books, and that it was a very lucrative trade.
As we had stopped for the night in this area, I accompanied the Genoese to a dinner given by his supplier. The house was well built, with marble and majolica, with fine woollen hangings on the walls, the floor covered with carpets, also made of wool, but in pleasing colours. All the guests seemed extremely prosperous, and I could not forbear to ask my host, choosing my words with extreme care, a question which was burning on my lips: how did it come to pass that the people of this cold and mountainous country were so well endowed with possessions and knowledge?
The master of the house burst out laughing:
‘In short you want to know why the people of these mountains are not all boors, beggars or tramps?’
I would not have put it like that, but that was really what interested me.
‘Know, my young visitor, that the greatest gift that the Most High can bestow upon a man is to cause him to be born in a high mountain across which the caravans pass. The highway brings knowledge and riches, the mountain provides protection and liberty. You, the people of the cities, have all the gold and all the books within reach, but you have princes, before whom you bow your heads . . .’
He suddenly became circumspect:
‘May I talk to you like an old uncle talking to his nephew, like an old shaikh to a disciple, without deviating in any way from the teachings of life? Will you promise me not to take offence?’
My broad smile encouraged him to continue.
‘If you live in a city, you agree to set aside all dignity, all self-respect in exchange for the protection of a sultan, who makes you pay dearly for it even when he is no longer capable of assuring it. When you live far from the cities, but in the plains or on the hills, you escape the sultan, his soldiers and his tax-collectors; however, you are at the mercy of marauding nomadic tribes, Arabs, sometimes even Berbers, who overrun the country, and you can never even build a wall without fearing that it will soon be pulled down. If you live in an inaccessible place far off the highway, you are of course safe from subjugation and attack, but, if you have no exchanges with other regions, you end up by living like an animal, ignorant, impoverished and frightened.’
He offered me a goblet of wine, which I refused politely. He poured one for himself, and swallowed a mouthful before continuing:
‘We alone are privileged: we see passing through our villages the people of Fez, of Numidia, of the land of the Blacks, merchants, notables, students or ulama; they each bring us a piece of gold, or a garment, a book, to read or copy, or perhaps only a story, an anecdote, a word; thus, with the passing of the caravans we accumulate riches and knowledge, in the shelter of these inaccessible mountains which we share with the eagles, the crows and the lions, our companions in dignity.’
I recounted these words to my uncle, who sighed without saying anything and then raised his eyes to heaven. I do not know whether this was to put himself in the hands of the Creator or to observe the flight of a bird of prey.
Our next stage was through the mountains of Ziz, so called because a river of that name has its source within them. The inhabitants of that region belong to a formidable Berber tribe, the Zanaga. They are sturdy men, wearing woollen tunics next to the skin, and wrapping rags around their legs which serve as shoes. Summer and winter, they go about bare-headed. I can never describe these people without remembering something extraordinary about them, which seems almost miraculous: a vast number of snakes go round among the houses, as mild and friendly as cats or little dogs. When anyone begins to eat, the snakes ga
ther around him to eat up the crumbs of bread and other food which is left for them.
During the third week of our journey we hurtled down the Ziz mountains, through countless palm-gardens full of delicious tender fruit, towards the plain which leads to Sijilmassa. Or rather, I should say, to where this town so admired by previous generations of travellers was located. It was said that it had been founded by Alexander the Great himself, that its main street used to run the length of half a day’s march, that each of its houses was surrounded by a garden and an orchard, and that it used to contain prestigious mosques and madrasas of renown.
Of its walls, once so high, only a few sections remain, half-ruined, and covered with grass and moss. Of its population, there remain only various hostile clans, each living with its chief in a fortified village near to the ruins of the former Sijilmassa. Their main concern is to make life difficult for the clan living in the neighbouring village. They seem merciless towards each other, going so far as to destroy the water channels, cutting the palm trees down to the ground, encouraging the nomadic tribes to lay waste the lands and houses of their enemies, so that it seems to me that they deserve their fate.
We had planned to stay three days on the territory of Sijilmassa, to rest men and beasts, to buy some provisions and repair some of our tackle; but it was written that we should stay there several months, since, the very day after our arrival, my uncle fell ill. He sometimes shivered during the day, although the heat was stifling, and sometimes sweated from all his pores during the night, when it was as cold as it had been in the high mountains. A Jewish merchant from the caravan, who was well versed in the science of medicine, diagnosed a quartan ague, which seemed a punishment for Khali’s refusal to make obeisance to the custom of dancing at Umm Junaiba. God alone is master of reward and chastisement!
I was constantly at my uncle’s bedside, attentive to his slightest movement, the smallest sign of pain on his face, watching over him sometimes for hours at a time, while he slept restlessly. I felt that he had suddenly aged, become weak and helpless, while two days earlier he had been able to hold an audience spellbound with his tales of the Rum, of lions or of serpents. Thanks to his gifts as a poet and orator, and also to his vast knowledge, he had impressed Muhammad the Portuguese, who had summoned him to his presence every week since his accession. There was talk that he would be appointed a counsellor, or secretary, or provincial governor.
