He slept there too.
So the days went by. Hernando put aside the Koran he was working on and forced himself to write a letter to Fátima. It took him a long time to finish it; it was hard for him to express all he felt on paper. Whenever he tried to concentrate on the words, he was overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and pain. He rejected and tore up many sheets. In the end he wrote to her about Rafaela, his two children and the third about to be born. ‘I didn’t know! I didn’t know you were still alive!’ he scratched with trembling hand. When he had finally written it, he decided to turn to Munir to get the letter to Fátima. Despite the scholar’s cold dismissal of him, Munir was a holy man and would help. Besides, the Moriscos bound for Barbary all left from Valencia. He needed his help! He wrote a second letter to Munir begging him to do so.
One day when he heard Miguel was in Córdoba he called him to the house. He wanted the cripple to find him a trustworthy Morisco mule-driver: he himself was still regarded as an outcast by the community in Córdoba, and had lost all contact with the network of thousands of muleteers who travelled the length and breadth of the country. Miguel, though, was a regular client of the muleteers, from whom he bought and sold all he needed for the horses.
‘I need to get a letter to Jarafuel,’ he said abruptly to the cripple. He was seated at his desk; Miguel stood in front of him, trying to imagine what had made him speak in that way. He had spoken earlier to Rafaela, and she had told him how worried she was about her husband. ‘What are you waiting for?’ snapped Hernando.
‘I know a story about a messenger who brought bad news,’ Miguel replied. ‘Would you like to hear it?’
‘I’m not in the mood for stories, Miguel.’
When Miguel left, the sound of his crutches bumping along the gallery echoed in Hernando’s ears. Now what? He took out the beautiful Koran he was working on; he had not the slightest desire to continue with it. Even so, he murmured some of the suras he had already copied.
‘Whatever he was doing, it looks as though he’s finished.’
Miguel had gone to Rafaela after leaving the library with his master’s instructions to find a muleteer who would take his letter to Jarafuel.
Rafaela looked at him inquisitively, her eyes red with tears.
‘Go and see him,’ Miguel insisted. ‘Fight for him, and for yourself.’
During all the days Hernando had shut himself in the library, Rafaela had not been able to see him once. She had thought she could do so when she took him his food, but he told her to leave it outside the door. Hernando had also asked for a pitcher of clean water for his prayers, which he also left outside the door once he was finished with it. Rafaela found herself constantly listening for the sound of the library door opening so that she could go and change the water. Five times a day.
What had happened to her husband? Rafaela asked herself yet again as she struggled up the stairs to the gallery. Her latest pregnancy was proving more difficult than the others. She hesitated outside the library. Through the open door she could hear the murmur of suras. What if Hernando became angry? She halted and was about to retrace her steps, but the days the two of them had shared before Hernando had left for Toga – the tenderness, laughter, joy and happiness, the love they had declared to each other – made her go in.
Hernando was sitting at his desk. He was following the letters of the Koran while he murmured his prayers, oblivious to everything else. Rafaela came to a halt again: she did not want to destroy what seemed like a magical moment. When Hernando finally became aware of her presence, he saw her still standing on the threshold, her eyes brimming with tears, both hands resting beneath her prominent belly.
‘I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve this treatment. I need to know what’s happening with you . . .’ Rafaela managed to stammer before her voice failed her completely.
Hernando nodded, somewhat coldly, his eyes still fixed on the desk. ‘More than twenty years ago . . .’ he began. But what was the point of telling her? He had never said anything about Fátima or his children to her; she had learnt what she knew from Miguel. ‘You’re right,’ he conceded. ‘You don’t deserve this. I’m sorry. They’re things from the past.’
But the simple fact of apologizing seemed to liberate Hernando. The letter to Fátima was already in Miguel’s hands: who could predict what results it might bring or what Fátima might reply, if indeed she did so? Rafaela wiped the tears from her eyes with one hand, the other still clutching her stomach.
All at once, Hernando realized something: yes, he had failed Fátima, and he would never be free from his sense of guilt about that . . . but he was not going to make the same mistake twice with the person he loved. Without a word, he stood up, came round the desk and enveloped his wife in a tender embrace.
Despite his best efforts to hide his concerns from Rafaela, Hernando could not stop thinking about the revelations his son had made. Rafaela, however, made no further mention of his behaviour, as though the days he had been shut up in the library had never happened. Hernando looked for consolation in his children and in the baby yet to be born. One day he even went to the La Merced cemetery and walked through it until he came to his mother’s tomb. He spoke silently to Aisha.
Why did you do it, Mother?
He tried to find the answer within himself. His mind raced through a thousand possibilities until one thought overtook them all, insistently, that did not really have anything to do with Aisha’s actions. They are alive. Fátima was alive. So were Francisco and Shamir; Inés had probably survived as well. Would he have preferred them all to have died just to alleviate his sorrow? He felt ashamed of himself. Until that moment he had been thinking only of himself, of his guilt, of the cowardice that Francisco had repeatedly accused him of. But the important thing was that they were alive, even if they were distant from him. The idea gave him some respite, but he still needed to know that Fátima forgave him. He anxiously awaited news from Munir, but his expectations turned to bitter disappointment when the holy man returned his letter to Fátima. He had refused to send it on to Tetuan.
Fátima could not help but notice: after Shamir and her son’s visit, three giant Nubian slaves, carrying swords, became part of the household at the palace.
‘It’s for your safety, my lady,’ one of the servants told her. ‘These are troubled times, and your son thought it was a good idea.’
For her safety? Whenever she went out into Tetuan, two of the Nubians followed a couple of paces behind her. Fátima put her suspicions to the test. One morning, accompanied by two slaves whom she gave bundles to carry, she strode towards the Bab Mqabar gate in the city’s northern wall.
Before she could pass through it, the two Nubians stopped her.
‘You cannot leave the city,’ one of them said.
‘I only wish to go to the cemetery,’ Fátima said.
‘It’s not safe, my lady.’
On another day she left her bedroom at first light. She had not got halfway down the corridor before the immense figure of one of the Nubians loomed out of the semi-darkness.
‘Is there something you want?’
‘Water.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll see that some is brought to you. Get some rest.’
So she was a prisoner in her own house! She had not intended to run away, yet she had no idea what to do or think. All she did know was that after years of believing that Hernando had betrayed her, the mere possibility that this had not been the case had stirred up emotions she had pushed to the furthest corners of her mind. Following Brahim’s death, she had devoted herself to running her businesses and saving money with the same cool determination with which Abdul and Shamir attacked Christian ships or the coasts of Spain. She had even forgotten she was a woman. But now something had been reawakened inside her. At night, as she gazed towards the horizon where she thought the mountains of Granada must be, she felt almost imperceptible stirrings that reminded her she had once been capable of loving with her whole being.
<
br /> One afternoon Ephraim came to discuss some business matters with the great lady of Tetuan. After the death of his father, the Jew had become her closest associate in the family business.
‘I need to ask a favour of you, Ephraim,’ she said as he tried to talk numbers and commodities with her.
‘You should know that your son has been to see me,’ the astute Jew whispered in response.
Fátima fixed her beautiful black eyes on him.
‘But it is you I am loyal to, my lady,’ Ephraim added, after a few moments’ silence.
65
In death, hope is everlasting.
The Book of Morisco Ballads, ‘The Ballads of Aben Humeya’
JUAN AND ROSA had a tutor who came every day to give them lessons. As Rafaela was seeing him out one day, she saw a stranger approaching the house. Although Hernando appeared to have recovered his usual calm, Rafaela, who was nearing the end of her pregnancy, was still shaken by any unexpected event. The man, who looked to be aged around forty and was wearing Spanish-style clothes soiled from a long journey, asked if this was the house of Hernando Ruiz. Rafaela nodded, and sent Juan to give his father the message. Hernando did not take long to come to the front door.
‘Peace be with you,’ he greeted the man, thinking he must be one of his tenant farmers or someone interested in buying a horse. ‘What is it you want?’
Ephraim hesitated before speaking. Fortunately this time it had been easy to find Hernando.
‘Peace,’ the Jew replied, staring straight at Hernando.
‘What is it?’ the latter repeated.
‘Can we talk somewhere in private?’
At that moment Hernando realized that this man was more than a horse dealer. Although his accent sounded rather strange, something about him inspired confidence.
‘Come with me.’
They left the doorway and crossed the courtyard.
‘I don’t want to be disturbed,’ Hernando told Rafaela.
They went up to the library, where Hernando could not help but notice the Jew gaze admiringly at the books that were his most precious treasure.
‘I congratulate you,’ Ephraim said, referring to the books. He sat down at the desk. Hernando accepted the compliment, and for a while both men were silent.
‘Your wife Fátima sent me,’ said the Jew at last.
A tremendous shudder ran the length of Hernando’s body. He found himself unable to say a word, and the other man realized it.
‘Fátima needs to know what has become of you,’ Ephraim continued. ‘Many rumours reach Tetuan, but she refuses to believe them unless she hears it from you. First of all, though, I should tell you that about fifteen years ago I came to look for you here in Córdoba, also sent by my lady—’
‘How is she?’ Hernando interrupted him.
They talked the whole day. Hernando told Ephraim all that had happened to him, openly and without omitting the slightest detail. He even told him about his love for Isabel. This was the first time he had opened his heart to anyone with such sincerity. He justified the fact that he was living like a Christian, although he did admit that on occasion, because of the circumstances, he had made the mistake of taking this too far. Why for example had he walked in procession carrying a cross?
‘If I had not shown off like that, my mother would not have died,’ he said, his voice choking with emotion.
After that he told the Jew all about the lead plates.
‘Shamir said that the poor would never benefit from them,’ he admitted. ‘He was probably right.’
‘Perhaps one day the gospel you mention will see the light of day,’ said Ephraim.
‘Perhaps.’ Hernando sighed sadly. ‘But I don’t know what our situation will be by the time that happens. We Moriscos seem to be cursed: the Christians want us all dead, and none of the Muslim rulers has ever done anything to help us. We’re constantly scanning the horizon in the hope of glimpsing an armada from Turkey or Algiers that never comes.’
Ephraim was tempted to argue. Cursed? His own people really were that, in Spain and all the other European kingdoms. The Jews did not even have the consolation of scanning the horizon: there was nobody who could come to their aid. In the end, though, he said nothing. That was not why he was here. Fátima had given him strict instructions: he was to watch and judge Hernando’s words and demeanour. Based on this, he himself had to decide whether to give him her message or to leave without mentioning it. ‘I put all my trust in you,’ Fátima had told him before he left. The Jew had seen enough by now to make up his mind.
‘In death, hope is everlasting,’ he said.
Ephraim could feel the Morisco’s blue eyes staring straight at him, just as his son Abdul had done some time ago when he went to warn the Jew he was on no account to help Fátima in anything related to the ‘miserable traitor’. They had the same eyes, but what a different message they conveyed! The corsair’s eyes flashed with hatred and rancour; Hernando’s showed only an infinite sadness.
How often had Fátima put her trust in death in order to find hope? Hernando thought when he heard that phrase once more. Why was she doing so again?
‘Your wife is a prisoner in her own house,’ said Ephraim, as though he had guessed what was going through the other man’s mind. ‘There are Nubian slaves guarding her day and night.’
‘Because of me?’ Hernando asked faintly.
‘Yes. If you go anywhere near Fátima, they will kill you, and she—’
‘Francisco would kill her as well?’
‘Abdul? I don’t think he has it in him . . . but I’m not sure,’ the Jew corrected himself, remembering the threats the corsair had made. ‘But we mustn’t forget Shamir. The truth is, I don’t know what he might do. In any case, she would be the one to suffer, that’s for sure.’
Ephraim talked to him about Fátima. Hernando finally learnt why his mother had behaved as she did: it was Fátima herself who had asked her to do so. They both wanted to protect him from certain death. He learnt about how Brahim had been murdered, and of the journey Ephraim had made many years before, of Fátima’s letter that Ephraim had read to Aisha when he had been unable to find Hernando, Aisha’s harsh words and the insults he had received from Abbas and the other Moriscos. As he lauded Fátima and praised her beauty, courage and determination, his gaze wavered; Hernando saw in his face feelings that went beyond admiration and felt a sudden pang of jealousy towards this man who lived so close to her. Ephraim also told him about Abdul and Shamir; Inés, now called Maryam, was well: she had married and had several children. He praised his mistress’s skill in business affairs, and insisted on how admired and desired she was in Tetuan. As he held forth, Hernando let his mind wander through his memories, nodding and smiling at the other man’s descriptions.
‘My lady trusts you will keep the oath you once made to her: to bring the Christians to her feet, to the feet of the one God. She wants you to go on working for the cause of your faith in Spain, in the same way you did when you were married,’ he concluded. ‘Her happiness depends on it. It is only through this communion of ideas that she will find peace; that is all she wishes and hopes for. She says that God will unite you again . . . after death.’
‘And until then?’ Hernando muttered under his breath.
Ephraim shook his head. ‘She will never put your life at risk.’ Hernando made as if to reply, but the Jew cut him short with a gesture. ‘You mustn’t put hers under threat either.’
Both men fell silent.
‘I wrote her a letter,’ Hernando eventually said, ‘and tried without success to get it to her.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ephraim, ‘I cannot take it now, and she can’t be in possession of it either. I made the excuse that my journey was for business purposes. If your son or Shamir or the Nubian guards were to discover a letter on any of us . . .’
‘But I have to explain to her!’ Hernando butted in, almost pleading. ‘There’s so much I have to say to her!’
‘And
you can: through me. You know Fátima.’ The Jew shook his head. ‘Of course you know her – far better than I. She was worried about you, but now I’ll be able to give her the happiness I know she craves most of all: don’t you think she’ll make me repeat every last word that you say to me?’ Hernando could not avoid smiling at the thought of Fátima’s impetuous character. Ephraim saw his reaction. ‘She’ll make me do it a thousand times!’
‘And you must do it, and more than a thousand times if need be. Tell her . . . tell her also that I still love her, that I have never stopped doing so. But life . . . Fate was cruel to us both. I’ve spent half my days crying over her death. Ask her for forgiveness for me.’
‘Why do I need to do that?’
‘I have married again . . . and have other children.’
The Jew nodded. ‘She knows already, and understands. Life has not been easy for either of you. Remember: in death, hope is everlasting. That was the first thing she asked me to tell you.’
That night, before he left to return to Tetuan, Ephraim was received as an honoured guest in Hernando’s house. Warned by his host that Rafaela was not at any moment to suspect the real reason for his being there, Ephraim was extremely discreet and perfectly behaved. Behind his courteous appearance, however, he was interested in finding out as much as possible about Hernando’s Christian wife to tell Fátima. What is the woman he has married like? Does he love her? she had wanted to know.
That night, caught up in his memories of Fátima, Hernando was very cold and distant towards Rafaela.
A few days later, with Hernando busy copying the Koran and praying in the mosque, hoping that this would provide the communion at a distance that Fátima was asking him for, Rafaela gave birth to her third child. Lázaro, as the boy was baptized in the presence of Christian godparents (whom Hernando did not even know; they were chosen by the parish priest), broke with the family tradition and was born with huge, clear blue eyes. The newborn bore the stigma with which a Christian priest had poisoned an innocent Morisco girl! Hernando could not stop this thought leaping into his mind as soon as he saw his new son. It had to be a sign from God.
The Hand of Fatima Page 86
