by Tariq Ali
‘Ximenes!’ hissed Zuhayr. His great-aunt smiled.
‘The same. He had instructed his monks to start the forced conversions. What better place to choose than the maristan? They did not need to threaten us, but they did. From henceforth only those who believed in the virginity of Mary and the divine status of Jesus would be permitted to stay. As you know alcohol is not permitted, and when the inmates saw these priests with their flasks of wine, they happily drank the blood of Christ. So the conversions proceeded smoothly.
‘When it came to me, I told them: “Nothing is easier for me than abstinence from things unlawful, but I have news for you. I do not drink the devil’s piss and yet I am already a convert of my own free will. In fact, much revered fathers, that is the reason my family sent me here. They thought I must have lost possession of my faculties when I announced that I had become a devoted follower of your Church.” The poor priests were puzzled. I suppose they could have thought that I was really mad and chosen to ignore my story. For that reason, I pointed to the crucifix around my neck. And do you know something, children? It worked.
‘The next morning I was taken to meet the Captain-General at the al-Hamra. Imagine, an inmate of a maristan meeting the representative of the Castilian King! He was most courteous. I told him what had happened to me. When he realized that I was the daughter of Ibn Farid he nearly fainted. He told me that he had heard stories of your great-grandfather’s valour from his father and he immediately proceeded to tell me some of them. I knew them all, but I did not let him realize that and listened attentively to every word, smiling and gesturing at the right moments. The fact that it was my father’s temper that had landed me in the maristan was somehow ignored by both of us. He asked me what I thought of the situation in Gharnata. I told him that forty years ago I had asked the Almighty to do me a very big favour and I was still praying for my desire to be granted before I died. “What is that favour, madame?” the Captain-General enquired. “To give me strength not to meddle with that which does not concern me.”’
Yazid started giggling at the way she was mimicking both the Captain-General and herself, and everyone laughed, even Kulthum, who had been overawed by the arrival of this mythical figure. Zahra, delighted with the effect of her stories, continued the tale. ‘You may think this was an act of cowardice on my part, and you would be right. You see, my children, I wanted to get out. If I had told the truth ... if I had let him know what I felt when that evil Ximenes burnt our books, I might still have been in the maristan or sent to some convent. You know they took all of us from the maristan to witness the bonfire of our culture. I thought then of this house and all the manuscripts in our library—Ibn Hazm, Ibn Khaldun, Ibn Rushd, Ibn Sina. At least here they would survive. I could have told the Captain-General all that, but they would never then have believed that I was sane. And my air of indifference had the effect I desired.
‘The Captain-General rose, bowed and kissed my hand. “Rest assured, my dear lady, that you shall be escorted to your family estates as soon as you wish with an armed guard.” Then he took his leave and I was brought back to the maristan. You can imagine my state. I had not left that building for four whole decades. I was preparing calmly for death and then all this happened. Incidentally, you must send those books away. Ship them to the University in al-Qahira or to Fes. Here they will never survive. Now I have nothing more to say. I only hope that I do not come as a burden.’
‘This is your home,’ replied Umar, slightly pompously. ‘Perhaps you should never have left it.’
Hind hugged and kissed Zahra. The old woman was greatly moved by the spontaneity of the gesture.
‘I never knew that you had become a Christian, Great-Aunt.’
‘Nor did I,’ replied Zahra, making Yazid scream with laughter.
‘Did you make it all up to get out of there? Did you?’
Zahra nodded and all of them laughed, but something was worrying Yazid.
‘Then where did you get the crucifix?’
‘Made it myself. Time never intruded in that place. I carved many figures in wood to keep myself from really going mad.’
Yazid left his place and went and sat near Zahra, clutching her hand tightly as if to make sure that she was real.
‘I can tell already that my nephew, like his father, is a good man. Your children are relaxed in your presence. It was never like that with us. Hmmmm. I can smell something good. That Amira has not lost her touch.’ Ama entered with the maize cakes wrapped in cloth to keep them warm. She was followed by the Dwarf, who was carrying a metal container full of bubbling hot milk. Umayma came last with a pot full of raw, brown sugar. The Dwarf bowed to Zahra, who returned his greetings.
‘Is your mother dead or alive, Dwarf?’
‘She died some fifteen years ago, my lady. She was also praying for you.’
‘She should have prayed for herself. Might have been still alive.’
Ama was beginning to prepare the heavenly mixture. Her hands were hidden in a large bowl where she was tearing the soft cakes apart. They crumbled easily. She added some fresh butter and carried on softening the mixture with her hands. Then she signalled to Umayma, who came forward and began to pour on the sugar while Ama’s wrinkled hands continued to mix the ingredients. Finally the fingers withdrew. Zahra clapped her hands and proffered her bowl. Ama cupped her right hand and served her a large handful. The procedure was repeated for the others. Then the hot milk was poured on and the sweet course was taken. For a moment they were too busy savouring the delights of this simple concoction to thank its author.
‘Heaven. It is simply heaven, Amira. What a wonderful heavenly mixture. Now I can die in peace.’
‘I have never tasted such a heavenly mixture before, Ama,’ said Yazid.
‘This heavenly mixture could never have been created for me alone, Ama, could it?’ asked Zuhayr.
‘The taste of this heavenly mixture reminds me of my youth,’ muttered Umar.
Ama was satisfied. The guest and the three men of the house had praised her in public. She had no cause to grumble tonight, Hind thought to herself as she laughed inwardly at the absurdity of this ritual, which dated back to Ibn Farid’s first marriage.
Hind’s bed-chamber had once belonged to Zahra. Now it had been prepared again for the old lady. Hind had moved to a spare chamber in the women’s section of the house, near her mother. Zahra was taken to her room by all the women in the family and Ama. She stood by the doorway in the courtyard and looked at the sky. A tear escaped, and then another.
‘I used to dream about this courtyard every month. Remember the shadows of the pomegranate tree during the full moon, Amira? Remember what we used to say? If the moon is with us, what need do we have for the stars?’
Ama took her arm and gently propelled her through the door as Zubayda, Hind and Kulthum wished her a good night’s sleep.
In another section of the courtyard, Umayma was on her way home after preparing the Lady Zubayda’s bed-chamber, when an arm grabbed her and pulled her into a room.
‘No, master,’ she whispered.
Zuhayr felt her breasts, but as his hands began to roam elsewhere the girl stopped him.
‘I cannot tonight, al-Fahl. I am unclean. If you don’t believe me, dip your hand in and see for yourself.’
His hands fell to his side. He did not reply and Umayma flitted through the door and disappeared.
Hind and Kulthum had returned to their mother’s bed-chamber. They were sitting on the bed watching Zubayda dismantle her hair and then undress.
Umar walked in through the door that connected their chambers.
‘What a strange evening it has been. She was only two years younger than my father. I see a lot of him in her. They were so very close. I know how much he missed her. What a tragedy. What a waste of a life. Zahra could have been something truly great. Did you know she wrote poetry? And it was good. Even our grandfather, at a time when he was still very angry with her, had to admit that to himself ...’
There was a knock on the door and Zuhayr entered the room.
‘I heard voices and I knew it must be a family conference.’
‘A family conference would be impossible without Yazid,’ retorted Hind. ‘He is the only one who takes them seriously. Abu was talking about our great-aunt before you galloped into the conversation.’
‘That is what I came to hear. It is not every day that a ghost returns to life. What a woman she must have been. Banished from this house for over fifty years. How well she behaved tonight. No resentments. No anger. Just relief.’
‘She has no cause to be angry with us,’ said their father. ‘We did her no harm.’
‘Who did harm her, father? Who? Why? What was Great-Aunt Zahra’s crime?’
Hind’s impatient voice was edged with an anger she did not attempt to conceal. Without knowing anything about Zahra, except for the odd enigmatic remark from Ama or gossip she had picked up from their cousins in Ishbiliya, she had been touched by the dignity of the old woman. None of the stories tallied with the reality they had experienced today as the real Zahra had sought refuge from the turmoil of Gharnata in her ancestral home.
Umar looked at Zubayda, who nodded gently, and he accepted that there was a strong case for telling the children all he could remember of the mystery surrounding Zahra. There were many things he did not know. Of all those left alive, only Ama knew all the details, and perhaps one other person—barring Great-Uncle Miguel, who seemed to know everything.
‘It was all such a long time ago,’ began Umar bin Abdallah, ‘that I’m not sure I remember all the details. What I am about to tell you was told to me by my mother, who liked Zahra and became very attached to her.
‘I don’t know exactly when Zahra’s tragedy began. My mother used to say that it was the day your great-grandfather Ibn Farid, may he rest in peace, returned to al-Hudayl with his new wife, the Lady Asma. She was only a few years older than Zahra and made no attempt to alter the style or the pattern of life here. She left the management of the household to Grandmother Maryam. It is said that during her first months she was so much in awe of everything that she found it difficult to issue a command to a servant.
‘Zahra and father were very close to their Aunt Maryam. It was she who had brought them up after their mother died. And so, in their hearts, she took their mother’s place. Brother and sister saw Asma’s entry into our house as an intrusion. Nothing improper ever took place, but a gulf had opened between them and their father. There is no doubt the servants played an unhealthy part in this whole affair. They were, after all, aware of Asma’s origins. She had been a Christian kitchen girl, whose mother was still a cook, even though Ibn Farid invited her to leave Don Alvaro’s service and join his household. All this provided endless seams of gossip for the whole village, and especially the kitchen in this house. You would have thought that there would be some fellow-feeling amongst the cooks, at the sudden elevation of one of their kind, but not a bit of it. The Dwarf’s father, in particular, spread a great deal of venom, till one day Ibn Farid sent for him and threatened to execute him personally in the outer courtyard. The threat worked. Slowly, things calmed down. The fever began to abate.
‘The trouble was that the servants had not even bothered to lower their voices when the children were present and the disease was infectious. Zahra became extremely disaffected. Ibn Farid had been the centre of her life. He had married Asma and Zahra felt betrayed. Simply in order to snub her father, she turned down every suitor. She withdrew more and more into herself. She could go for days without talking to anyone.
‘Of course Ibn Farid had foreseen the effect of his marriage in the village. He was not unaware of the problems. For that reason he had hired a whole retinue of maids in Qurtuba to serve Asma, knowing that their primary loyalty would be to their new mistress. At their head he placed an older woman who had served in our family for many years but had run foul of Grandmother Najma’s tongue and had been exiled from the house. She had become a washerwoman in the village.
‘This woman had a son whose father was either a seller of figs in Qurtuba or one of our retainers who died in a siege near Malaka or ... heaven alone knows. He was an extremely intelligent boy, and well educated thanks to the generosity of the Banu Hudayl. He studied with the same tutors as did my father and Aunt Zahra. Unlike them, he read a great deal and knew the work of the masters of philosophy, history, mathematics, theology and even medicine. He knew the books in our library better than anyone in the family. His name was Mohammed ibn Zaydun. He was also good-looking.
‘Your great-aunt fell in love with him. It was Ibn Zaydun who brought her out of her depression. It was he who encouraged her to write poetry, to think of the world outside this house and even beyond the frontiers of al-Andalus. He explained the circumstances of Ibn Farid’s marriage and convinced Zahra that it was not the fault of the Lady Asma. Thus he brought them together.
‘I think it was the knowledge that this servant’s boy had succeeded where he himself had failed so abysmally that caused Ibn Farid to develop an intense dislike for Ibn Zaydun. On one occasion he was heard to say: “If that boy is not careful with his tongue it might cost him his neck.” He began to punish the boy. He insisted that Mohammed be sent to work in the fields and learn a trade like anyone else. He suggested that Juan’s father could teach him carpentry or Ibn Hasd the skills of shoemaking. The boy was wise beyond his years. He felt the anger of his master, but he also understood the cause and began to shun the inner courtyard. Both Zahra and Asma pleaded with Ibn Farid not to be so rough on the young man. I think it was Grandmother Asma who finally succeeded in persuading my grandfather to let Ibn Zaydun teach Zahra and my father the principles of mathematics in a methodical way.
‘My father was rarely present. He was often away hunting or staying with our family in Gharnata. And so it was that Mohammed ibn Zaydun and Zahra bint Najma were in each other’s company every single day. What had to happen happened ...’
Hind’s eyes were gleaming with excitement.
‘But why did they not just run away? I would have done so.’
‘All in good time, Hind. All in good time. There was a problem in the shape of another young woman. Like Zahra she was very beautiful, but unlike Zahra she was the daughter of an old retainer and worked as a young serving girl. Not so different from our Umayma. She was extremely intelligent, but without any formal learning, and she too wanted Ibn Zaydun for her husband. Naturally, Ibn Farid thought this was an excellent idea and instructed the parents of both to arrange the nuptials.
‘Zahra went mad. Perhaps I should not use that word. Let us say that she was in a very discomposed state when Ibn Zaydun told her what was being planned. She forced him to meet her that night in the pomegranate grove just outside the house ...’
Hind shrieked with laughter, which was so infectious that everyone began to smile except Zuhayr. Her father demanded an explanation.
‘Some things never change, do they brother? Fancy them meeting in the pomegranate grove!’
Zuhayr’s complexion changed colour. His father understood the reference, smiled and diverted attention from his first-born by continuing Zahra’s story.
‘That night they acted as if they were husband and wife. The next morning Zahra went to Grandmother Asma and told her what had happened. Asma was shocked and told Zahra that on no account could she let her marry the son of her maid-servant ...’
‘But ...’ Hind was beginning to interrupt till she saw the frown on her father’s face and stopped.
‘Yes Hind, I know, but there is never any logic in such matters. Asma did not want Zahra to repeat her own experience. It is a contradiction of course, but not uncommon. Your mother will remember that when Great-Uncle Rahim-Allah married a courtesan, she turned out to be the most puritanical of the great-aunts. Fiercely loyal to her husband and unbending in her attitude to adultery and other such vices. It is, I suppose, one of the consequences of what the master Ibn Khaldun might have refe
rred to as the dilemma of shifting social locations. Once you have climbed all the way up the ladder from the lowest rung, you can never stop looking down upon those less fortunate than yourself.
‘To return to the story. One night when Zahra and Ibn Zaydun were trysting in their favourite spot, unknown to them they had been followed by Zahra’s rival. She watched everything. Everything. The next morning she reported the whole affair directly to Ibn Farid. He did not doubt her word for a moment. He must have felt that his instinctive dislike of the washerwoman’s son had been vindicated. He was heard to roar at the top of his voice: “Fifty gold dinars to the person who will bring that boy to me.”
‘I think if Ibn Zaydun had been caught that day, my grandfather would have had him castrated on the spot. Fortunately for our lover, he had been dispatched early in the morning on an errand to Gharnata. On hearing of what lay in store for him if he returned, his mother, warned by Grandmother Asma, sent a friend from the village to warn the boy. Ibn Zaydun simply disappeared. He was never seen in the village again while Ibn Farid was alive ...’
‘Father,’ Kulthum enquired in her soft, obedient voice, ‘who was Great-Aunt’s rival?’
‘Why, child, I thought all of you might have guessed after the events of this evening. It was Ama!’
‘Ama!’ all three of them shouted.
‘Shhhh!’ said Zubayda. ‘She’ll come running if she hears you shouting in that fashion.’
They looked at each other in silence. It was Hind who spoke first.
‘And Great-Aunt Zahra?’
‘Your great-grandfather sent for her in the presence of both my grandmothers. They pleaded with him to forgive her. Zahra herself was defiant. Perhaps we can ask her now, but my mother told me that Zahra is supposed to have said: “Why should you be the only one to marry someone of your choice? I love Asma both as the wife of your choice and as my friend. Why could you not accept Ibn Zaydun?” It was then that he struck her and she cursed him and cursed him till Ibn Farid, feeling ashamed of himself, but not to the extent of begging her forgiveness, turned his back on her and walked out of the room. The very next day she left this house. Never came back till last night. What she did in Qurtuba, I do not know. You will have to ask someone else.’
