From then on, he made several excursions to the far bank of the Guadalquivir in the Weary Virgin, which somehow kept surviving the journeys. Hernando and Juan struck up a friendship and their night-time chats about the women in the Berber brothel, beyond the port of Seville, degenerated into good-humoured exchanges of jibes and lewd remarks.
‘How are you going to mount three women at a time if you haven’t the strength to row a boat?’ Hernando mocked him, bailing furiously when the Virgin slowed down and threatened to fill with water from the Guadalquivir on their return journeys.
The friendship also brought Hernando more than the two coins the mule dealer had paid him that first time: he soon received a share of the profits from the wine smuggling. The Potro inn and its atmosphere, full of adventurers, scoundrels and rogues, became his real home. He went on working in the tannery; he needed the respectability that the job gave him in the eyes of the bailiff or the priest from San Nicolás church when they came calling to check that they were turning into good Christians, but his real life was in the Potro.
While the boys from the San Lorenzo or the Santa María districts carried the hides for him from the slaughterhouse, Hernando headed for the Calahorra to plot and plan with Juan and the other dealers. He always smiled to himself when he remembered how he had managed to rid himself of such a thankless task. The first few times, as he was walking back outside the city walls, he had noticed how boys from different neighbourhoods threw stones at each other on the perimeter road and the land around it. The fights had left several dead and quite a few wounded among those careless enough to wander through the area, so that eventually the town council decided to put a stop to them, but the youngsters paid no attention to the orders and the stones went on flying. The first time Hernando found himself caught up in one of these battles involving dozens of stone-throwers, he protected himself with the hides until the fighting eased off. On other days he saw them practising for the next battle. Who could beat a stone-thrower from the Alpujarra? he thought. The wager was a penny. The target was a stick: if they lost, they carried the hides to the tannery; if they won, they got the penny. Hernando lost some money but won most of the bets and while the boys fulfilled their part of the bargain, he went to the Campo de la Verdad where he pretended to gather manure by crawling under the mules. Inevitably, some horse dealer would point to the filthy, foul-smelling Morisco, drag him out by the hair and put him on a palfrey to convince the buyer the horse was tame and had no bad habits. Hernando would collapse on to the saddle like a sack, apparently terrified as if he had never been on a horse before, while the dealer extolled the virtues of an animal capable of putting up with such an inexperienced rider. If the deal was closed, Hernando got his money.
One evening, he helped a man climb the wall of a nunnery in Santa Cruz, waiting on the other side to throw him the return rope while first he listened to the pair giggling and then their passionate moans. But not all his outings were so successful. On one occasion, he joined a group of beggars from outside the city who had no licence to beg in Córdoba. Begging was rigorously controlled in the city and only those authorized by the parish priest were allowed to do it. Once the beggars proved they had made their confession and received communion, they were given a special permit, which they wore around their neck. This allowed them to seek alms within the parish boundaries. One of the illegal beggars had a rare talent for holding his breath until he seemed moribund: his face took on a deathly pallor that convinced everyone who looked at him. They chose Plaza de la Paja, where they sold the buckwheat straw for mattresses, and the beggar collapsed and died, causing a great commotion among the passersby. Hernando and some other cronies approached the body, weeping and begging for alms in order to give him a Christian burial; many of the bystanders were moved by this display, and gave generously. As chance would have it, though, a priest passing through Córdoba had witnessed the same ruse in Toledo, so he went up to the corpse and, much to the indignation of the grieving crowd, began to kick the beggar. At the third kick in the kidneys, the dead man revived. Hernando and his accomplices found themselves forced to flee from the anger of the people they had tricked.
He also worked for the owners of the illegal gaming houses where cards and dice were played. He met a lad a few years older than him by the name of Palomero, whose job was to entice potential customers. Palomero had a special talent for spotting which stranger was looking for a gaming den where he could wager his money and as soon as he saw one he would run after him and cajole him to go to the one run by the Marshal, who paid him. Hernando often helped him, above all preventing the rest of the touts who plied their trade in Plaza del Potro from getting to the gambler Palomero had discovered. He would trip them up, shove them or use any other trick he could think of to keep them away.
‘Thief!’ it occurred to him to shout one night at a young man he could not block and who was heading towards the gambler Palomero was negotiating with.
A guard appeared out of nowhere and threw himself on the young man, but this was no use at all to Palomero since the gambler disappeared in the uproar.
As was bound to happen, Hernando got caught up in lots of brawls, and took many a thump, something that earned him Palomero’s sincere friendship and a bit more money than had been agreed. The two lads chatted, laughed and ate together and Hernando was continually astounded at the faces Palomero could pull.
‘Now?’ he would ask Hernando.
‘No.’
‘What about now?’ he would press after a few moments.
‘No.’
Palomero said he had worked out the trick the Marshal used to fleece not the innocents, the naive people who came to his gaming house, but the swindlers or cardsharps themselves, however expert they might be.
‘He can move the lobe of his right ear while everything else stays completely still,’ he said in amazement. ‘No other muscle in his face moves, not even the rest of his ear! He plays with an accomplice who as soon as he recognizes the signal knows what cards the Marshal has and places his wager. Am I doing it now?’
Hernando burst out laughing at his friend’s contorted face.
‘No. I’m sorry.’
For the most part, with the exception of occasional fiascos like the fake corpse, things were going well for Hernando. So much so that he had already had a word with Juan about making the first payment for a mule: not quite the mule he would have wanted but all he could afford with his money; the dealer gave him a good price. He thought about trading the mule with Brahim in exchange for Fátima. His stepfather would not refuse no matter how much he hated Hernando. It was some time now since he had made any demands of his second wife. Fátima continued her fast, which did not require any great effort given the general shortage of food, so she did not put on any weight and remained painfully thin and listless, not something that held any attraction for Brahim who was always tired from his unaccustomed arduous work in the fields. Aisha played her part in keeping the girl free from worry and satisfied her husband whenever he was up to it. However, ever since Hernando had saved her from the bull in the alleyway, Fátima’s dark eyes sparkled day and night. Hernando had to convince her of his plan.
‘He’ll definitely agree!’ he tried to encourage her. ‘Don’t you see how he gets up at dawn and how he comes back to the house after a day’s work in the fields? He’s wasting away day by day. Brahim is a man of the road; he’s never been a farmer, least of all considering the pittance they pay him. He needs open space. He’ll wash his hands of you. I’m certain of it.’
It was true. Not even Aisha’s by now obvious pregnancy lightened the muleteer’s downcast mood, which only added to his usual bad temper and irritability.
‘He hates you to death,’ pleaded Fátima, aware that in the past few days Brahim had started to look at her lustfully again. When he passed her in the house, he blocked her way and fondled her breasts. The girl, however, chose not to relay her fears to the hopeful Hernando. It was not the only thing she kept from
him these days, she thought sadly.
‘But he loves himself more,’ said Hernando. ‘When I was in my mother’s womb, he accepted me in exchange for a mule. Why wouldn’t he do the same now, when things are far more difficult for him?’
With the four reales he had just got from Don Nicolás he could give Juan the first payment on a mule, he thought as he turned on to the narrow street leading to the tumbledown house they were all crowded into. A young man stationed on the corner motioned to him to be quiet. What was he doing there? He had seen him in the house; he slept with his family in one of the rooms on the top floor . . . What was his name? Hernando went up to him but the boy put a finger to his lips and signalled him to go on.
From the door itself, he became aware of a festive atmosphere that was both unusual and out of place. Drawn by the sound of a Morisco song sung in whispers, he crossed the entrance and headed towards the inside courtyard of the building, which was typical of many houses in Córdoba. The Christians turned these courtyards into gardens festooned with flowers of every colour and scent around the ever-present fountain. In the houses rented by the Moriscos, they were used for everything other than decoration or self-indulgence. Clothes were hung out to dry; they performed their ablutions, washed themselves, worked silk, cooked and even slept there: no flowers could have survived in the midst of all that activity. As Hernando came in, he saw that everyone from the house was gathered in the courtyard or in the rooms on the ground floor. He spotted several new faces. He also caught sight of Hamid. Some people were whispering to each other; others, their eyes shut as if they wished to flee from this huge Córdoban prison, were humming the song he had heard when he came in. In one corner of the courtyard, a man, perhaps facing towards Mecca, was praying. Now he understood the lookout on the corner of the street: gatherings of Moriscos were forbidden, especially to pray, but . . .
‘If you are discovered,’ he reproached Hamid, who had immediately hobbled over to him, ‘there’ll be no way out. The alleyway doesn’t have an exit and the Christians could always gain access through—’
‘Why do you exclude yourself from our gathering, Ibn Hamid?’ the holy man interrupted him.
Hernando was stunned by Hamid’s harsh tone. ‘I . . . No, I’m sorry. You’re right. I meant to say if they discover us.’ Hamid nodded, accepting the apology. ‘What are . . . what is being celebrated? We’re taking a big risk. What are you doing here?’
‘My master has given me leave for a while. I couldn’t waste this day of all days.’
Hernando was not aware of the Christian calendar, much less the Muslim one. Was it some religious feast day?
‘I’m sorry, Hamid, but I don’t know what day this is. What are we celebrating?’ he asked vaguely, looking around at the people. Suddenly, he saw Fátima, with a piece of jewellery in the shape of a golden hand gleaming round her neck. What had become of that hand? Where had she kept it hidden? Fátima looked back at him as if she had sensed eyes on her from a distance. Hernando was about to smile at her but she turned away and lowered her head. What was going on? He looked for Brahim and picked him out him near Fátima. He could not get close to the girl in the courtyard to ask her why she had spurned him like that. ‘What are we celebrating?’ he asked the holy man again, this time in a barely audible voice.
‘Today we have rescued our first brother in faith from slavery,’ Hamid replied solemnly. ‘Him,’ he added, pointing to a man whose cheek bore a letter branded by fire.
Hernando glanced at the Morisco who was standing with a woman and receiving good wishes from all those present. How could such a rescue be so important that Fátima . . .? What was going on?
‘The woman beside him is his wife,’ Hamid continued. ‘She discovered that he was living as a slave in a house belonging to a Córdoba merchant and . . .’ He paused.
‘And?’ Hernando asked, without giving it much thought. What was happening to Fátima? He tried once more to catch her attention, but it was clear she was avoiding him.
‘She called upon the community.’
‘Good.’
‘On her brothers.’
‘Aha,’ murmured Hernando.
‘Everyone gave towards the cost of the ransom. Every Morisco in Córdoba! I too gave some money I had managed to lay my hands on.’
Hernando was surprised again, and looked enquiringly at Hamid.
‘Fátima’, the holy man acknowledged, ‘has been one of the most generous.’
Hernando shook his head as if he wanted to rid himself of the words he had just heard. He felt suddenly so exhausted that nobleman’s four-real coin almost slipped through his fingers. Fátima! One of those who had given the most!
‘That money . . .’ he stammered, ‘that money was to buy her freedom and . . .’
‘Yours?’ added Hamid.
‘Yes,’ Hernando answered firmly, pulling himself together. ‘Mine. Our freedom!’
He looked for Fátima again and found her standing head erect at the other side of the courtyard. This time she held his gaze, certain that Hamid had told him the fate of their money. Fátima had explained to the holy man why they were saving the money and admitted she could not tell Hernando about it. As Hernando watched her a strange feeling crept through him: she was proud and content, the sparkle in her eyes competing with the gleaming brilliance the lights picked out on the gold jewel adorning her neck.
‘Why?’ Hernando asked from a distance.
It was Hamid who answered him. ‘Because you have abandoned your people, Ibn Hamid,’ he reproached him from behind. Hernando did not move. ‘While the rest of us were organizing ourselves, trying to pray in secret, keeping alive our beliefs, or helping those of our people who needed it, you devoted yourself to running around Córdoba like a wastrel.’
Hamid waited a few moments. Hernando was rooted to the spot, bewitched by those black, almond-shaped eyes. ‘It pains me to see my son among the lowest order of those who rule and govern us.’ He noticed that Hernando’s shoulders trembled slightly.
‘You taught me,’ Hernando replied without turning round, ‘you taught me that there is a still lower one: the twelfth order, that of women. Is that why Fátima had to forsake her freedom?’
‘She trusts in God’s mercy. You ought to do likewise. Your bondage, yours and Fátima’s, is not the bondage of men, which can be bought and sold. Your bondage is to our laws, to our beliefs and only our God can decide on that. When Fátima gave me the money and explained what it was for, what you were struggling to achieve, I told her to place her trust in God, not to give up hope. She assured me it would only take one phrase to convince you . . .’
Hernando turned to face the man who had taught him everything. He knew it. He knew which phrase it was, but only by hearing it again did he fully understand its significance: the story that lay behind it, all the sorrows and joys he had shared with Fátima. Hamid half closed his eyes before whispering it: ‘In death, hope is everlasting.’
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‘DISOWN ME! If not, kill me! Force yourself on me if that’s what you want . . . but you will never again have my consent. I swear to God I’ll die before I give myself to you again!’
Brahim’s rage when Fátima rejected his approach was plain even in the room’s half-light. They could see him trembling. Aisha, crouching in a corner, listened to Fátima’s words, torn between fear of how Brahim would respond and pride at the girl’s strength. The young couple with the child on the mattress at the far side of the room clasped each other’s hands and held their breath. Hernando was not there. Brahim stammered something unintelligible. He struck the air repeatedly with his fist and went on snarling and cursing. Fátima held her ground, although she was terrified that one of those blows would strike her face. But it did not happen.
‘You will never be free, however much money the Nazarene raises,’ Brahim roared. ‘Do you understand, woman?’ In the face of his fury, Fátima made no answer. ‘What did you imagine? I am your husband!’ For a moment Fátima thought h
e was going to take her there and then, in front of everybody, but Brahim looked around him and held back. ‘You’re nothing more than a bag of skin and bones. Nobody would want to sleep with you!’ he added with a gesture of contempt before making his way towards Aisha.
Her knees buckled and Fátima fell to the floor, surprised she had managed to stand up to his threats for as long as she had. It was some time before she stopped shaking and began to breathe normally. She had thought a thousand times of the day when, despite how painfully thin and undesirable she looked, Brahim would try to force himself on her. And so it had turned out. Time had worked in her favour, as had the fact that she had handed over all the money they had saved towards the ransom for the first Morisco. The Muslim community had seen this as the first sign that despite being defeated they were still a people united in faith, and it had convinced her once and for all: why should she have to give herself to a man she abhorred? Had she not just given up all possibility of her freedom, her hopes and her future, for the sake of the followers of the Prophet? The community was grateful to her and to Hernando, who gave way in the end. After listening to Hamid’s words, he had looked at her across the courtyard again; she had raised her eyes to the heavens and he followed suit. Then he forgave her with a simple nod of approval. The whole of Córdoba knew about their generosity. Brahim asked where the money had come from and Hamid told him straight out. Fátima felt safer; she knew she could rely on the support of the community – and Brahim was aware of this too. Furthermore, her little Humam was no longer there for him to use as a threat to secure her favours. She thought a lot about that: perhaps . . . perhaps God and the Prophet had decided to free the child from what would have been a terrible burden throughout his life. She owed it to herself and her dead son! As for the possibility that Brahim would treat Aisha badly, as he had done in the Alpujarra, what was a Muslim without sons? Musa and Aquil had not been seen again; nothing was known of them, although they were all on the alert for any news. A number of Moriscos made representations to the town council complaining that the children who had been taken from them were treated like slaves by the families they were placed with, but the Christians took no notice, as they took little notice of the royal decree that forbade Morisco children under the age of eleven being enslaved. Like all the Christian kingdoms, Córdoba had an abundance of children, who were used by their masters as servants or workers until they reached the age of twenty. Aisha was safe enough, Fátima decided: while she was with child and probably while she was nursing the baby, Brahim would not treat her badly, since that would endanger this new, much wanted child.
The Hand of Fatima Page 32
