by Tariq Ali
Two women, and they alone, had known the whole truth. Lady Asma and her trusted serving woman. My much-loved mother, thought this lonely old man on the top of the hill. Both were dead, and Wajid al-Zindiq was certain that his mother had been poisoned. The family of Hudayl did not trust in fate. They had felt that only the cemetery could ensure total silence. Who had taken the decision? Al-Zindiq did not believe for a moment that it could have been Umar’s father, Abdallah bin Farid. It was not in his character or temperament. Perhaps it had been Hisham of Gharnata, a great believer in tying up loose ends. It made no difference except that the exact details of what happened had died with her.
Some years later, al-Zindiq and Amira had sat down one evening and pieced together everything they knew regarding the tragedy. There was still no way of knowing whether their version was accurate or not, and it was for that reason that al-Zindiq was reluctant to talk.
‘Al-Zindiq, you promised you would tell me everything.’
‘Very well, but remember one thing, al-Fahl. What I am about to recount may not be the whole truth. I have no way of knowing.’
‘Please! Let me be the judge.’
‘When your great-grandfather died, both your grandmothers were distraught. The Lady Maryam had not shared his bed for many years, but still she loved him. Ibn Farid died in his sleep. When the Lady Asma went to his bed she pressed his shoulders and the back of his head as was her norm, but there was no response. When she realized that life had flown out of him she screamed: “Maryam! Maryam! A calamity has befallen us.” My mother said it was the most heart-rending cry she had ever heard. Both wives consoled each other as best they could.
‘A year later the Lady Maryam was buried. It was a slow and terrible death. Her tongue was covered with a black growth and she was in terrible pain. She pleaded for poison, but your grandfather would not hear of it. The best physicians from Gharnata and Ishbiliya were sent for, but they were helpless before the scourge which had planted itself in her mouth and was spreading throughout her body. Ibn Sina once said that this disease has no known cause and no known cure. He was of the opinion that in some cases the cause lay in the accumulation of bad humours trapped in the patient’s mind. I have not studied such cases and am, therefore, not in a position to comment. In any event, whatever the cause, Lady Maryam died almost exactly a year after Ibn Farid. My mother used to say that her heart had been in mourning for twenty years before the death of her husband.
‘Lady Asma was now left alone. Zahra was in the maristan. Meekal was a growing boy and not much inclined to stay within the confines of the house. Your grandfather was a kind man, but not renowned for his agility of mind. His wife, your grandmother, was similar in character. Lady Asma spent a lot of time with your father, who was then about eight years old. He became a substitute for the love she used to lavish on her late husband. Outside the family it was my mother who became her closest friend. Her own mother, the old cook Dorothea, despite repeated requests, refused to come and live in the house. Whenever she did come the quality of the food served in the house improved immeasurably. She would make short, but memorable visits. Unforgettable because she used to bake small almond cakes, which melted in our mouths. She was truly a very fine cook and the Dwarf’s father learnt a great deal from her. He also fell in love with her, and there were stories that—but let me not digress. The fact is that if Dorothea had come and lived with Asma after Ibn Farid’s death, the tragedy might never have happened.’
Zuhayr had been so absorbed in the story that he had, till now, controlled his curiosity. As a young boy, listening to the unending tales of family history, he had often irritated his father by persistent questions in pursuit of some tangential detail. Dorothea’s refusal to relinquish her master and to follow her daughter to al-Hudayl had been puzzling him for some time, and so he interrupted the story-teller.
‘I find that odd, al-Zindiq. Why? I mean in Don Alvaro’s house she was just a cook. Here she would have lived in comfort till she died.’
‘I do not know, Ibn Umar. She was a very decent woman. I think she simply felt embarrassed at being the mother-in-law of such a notable as Ibn Farid. Perhaps, from a distance, it was easier to accept her sudden elevation. Much to Ibn Farid’s annoyance she would refuse to stay in the house. My mother would vacate our room in the servants’ quarters and that is where she slept.’
‘What was the tragedy, al-Zindiq? What happened? I have a feeling that time may defeat us once again, and I would not like that to happen.’
‘You mean why did Lady Asma die and who killed my mother?’
‘Exactly. Lady Asma was not old was she?’
‘No, and there lay the problem. She was still young, full of life and proud of her body. She had only borne two sons.’
‘Great-Uncles Miguel and Walid.’
‘Exactly. Walid’s death was a terrible shock to us all. Just imagine if your Yazid were suddenly to contract a fever and die. You see, even the thought pains you. Lady Asma was ready to bear many more children when your great-grandfather decided to retire from this life. Mother told me that there were many suitors for the widow of Ibn Farid, but they were all refused. Your grandfather Abdallah would not hear of his father’s wife being treated like any other woman. So Lady Asma lived in seclusion surrounded by her family.
‘Your great-uncle Hisham had married just before Ibn Farid died and resumed his trading activities in Gharnata—activities, I may say, which were regarded with displeasure by all except his mother. For a son of the Banu Hudayl to become a tradesman in the market-place was nothing short of sacrilege. An insult to the honour of the family. It had its poets and philosophers and statesmen and warriors, and even a crazed painter whose erotic art, it is said, was greatly appreciated by the Caliph in Qurtuba, but they had all been based firmly on the land. Now the nephew of Ibn Farid was negotiating with merchants and haggling with owners of ships and actually enjoying every minute of his life. If Hisham had only pretended to be unhappy he might have been forgiven. Ibn Farid was livid, but having expelled one child he did not wish to break with another, and in any case the Lady Asma would not have tolerated any nonsense.’
‘But this sounds like madness. Were not the Banu Hudayl descended from Bedouin warriors, who certainly traded and haggled with caravans every day of their lives, before coming to the Maghreb? Do you not agree?’
‘Wholeheartedly. Think of it, my al-Fahl. Descendants of nomadic warriors who marched from Arabia to the Maghreb had lost the urge to travel and become so attached to the land that a member of the family deciding otherwise was treated as a heretic.’
Zuhayr, who was very close to the children of Ibn Hisham, was intrigued by the displeasure their grandfather had incurred.
‘I am not sure I agree with you. I mean, even in the desert our forefathers had contempt for the town-dwellers. I remember Ama telling me as a child how only parasites lived in towns.’
Al-Zindiq laughed. ‘Yes, she would. Amira was always an effective carrier of other people’s prejudices. But you see, my al-Fahl, towns have a political importance which villages such as yours lack. What do you produce? Silks. What do they produce? Power. Ibn Khaldun once wrote ...’
Zuhayr suddenly realized that the old fox was about to trap him into a lengthy discussion on the philosophy of history and the interminable debate on urban existence versus rural life, and so he stopped him.
‘Al-Zindiq, how did Lady Asma die? I do not wish to ask this question again.’
The old man smiled with his eyes and his face was wreathed in wrinkles. In the space of a second those very same eyes were filled with a foreboding of disaster. He wanted to change the subject, but Zuhayr was staring at him. His soft bearded face wore a grim expression and suddenly revealed a firmness which surprised al-Zindiq. He breathed heavily.
‘Six years after Ibn Farid died, the Lady Asma became pregnant.’
‘How? who?’ asked Zuhayr in a hoarse, agonized whisper.
‘Three people knew the truth. M
y mother and the other two. My mother and Lady Asma are dead. That leaves one person.’
‘I know that, you old fool.’ Zuhayr was angry.
‘Yes, yes, young Zuhayr al-Fahl. You feel upset. You knew none of these people, but still your pride is hurt.’
Strange, thought al-Zindiq, how much it has affected this boy. What has it to do with him? The infernal power of yesterday’s ghosts still fuelling our passions? It is too late to stop now. He stroked Zuhayr’s face and patted his back as he gave him a glass of water.
‘You can imagine the atmosphere in the house when this became known. The old ladies of the family, many of whom had been presumed dead from gluttony long ago, suddenly reappeared, descending on the house from Qurtuba, Balansiya, Ishbiliya and Gharnata. Bad news always travels fast. The Lady Asma did not come out of her room. My mother acted as the mediator between her and these old witches. An old midwife from Gharnata, considered an expert in the art of removing unwanted children from the womb, began her work, with my mother at her side. Her operation was successful. The embarrassment was removed. A week later, Lady Asma died. Some poison had entered the stream of her blood. But that was not all. When your grandfather and grandmother went to see her, Lady Asma whispered in your grandmother’s ear that she wanted to die. She had lost the will to live. The shame was unbearable. Hisham and his wife were in the house with their son, who was another great favourite of the Lady Asma and used to spend weeks at the house. That is how Ibn Hisham became so close to your father. As for Meekal, he fell very ill himself. He did not go and see his mother on her death-bed. Nor did she send for him.’
‘But who was, it al-Zindiq? How can pure water in a jug turn overnight into sour milk?’
‘My mother did not see it happen, but the Lady Asma told her everything there was to know. Three weeks later my mother herself was dead. She had never been ill in her life. I had come to the village and asked for permission to attend Lady Asma’s funeral. This was considered improper, but I did manage to speak to my mother. She insisted on speaking in riddles. She would not name the person, but from a combination of what she said to me that night and what Amira had observed with her own eyes, what had happened became clear to us—or so we imagined.’
Zuhayr’s breathing had become heavier, and the blood rose to his face in anticipation as al-Zindiq paused to drink some water.
‘Tell me, old man. Tell me!’
‘You know that house well, Zuhayr bin Umar. Lady Asma was in the rooms where your mother now lives. Tell me something. Is any strange man or even a male servant ever allowed into those quarters?’
Zuhayr shook his head.
‘Which males can come and go as they please, apart from your father?’
‘I suppose Yazid and myself.’
‘Exactly.’
For a minute Zuhayr could not comprehend what he had been told. It hit him like an unexpected blow on the skull. He looked at the old story-teller in horror.
‘You do not mean ... you cannot mean ...’ But the name refused to trip off his tongue. It was al-Zindiq who finally had to speak the name.
‘Meekal. Miguel. What difference does it make?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘How can I be? But it is the only supposition. Everyone noticed weeks before the pregnancy was discovered that Meekal was behaving in a very strange fashion. He had stopped going to the baths in the village to peep at the naked women. He stopped laughing. His beardless face became heavy and morose. His eyes were heavy with lack of sleep. Physicians arrived from Gharnata, but what could they do? The illness was beyond their cures. So they prescribed sea air, fresh fruits and herbal infusions. Your great-uncle was sent off to Malaka for a month. Just being away from that house must have had a beneficial effect.
‘When he returned he did look much better. But, to the surprise of all those who had no idea of the inner torment which was consuming him, he never went near his mother’s chamber. I think she spoke with him once. At her funeral he was inconsolable. He wept for forty days. After that he fell ill for a long time. His health never returned. The Meekal I knew had also died. The tragedy claimed three lives. The Bishop of Qurtuba is a ghost.’
‘But how could it happen, al-Zindiq?’
‘That is no mystery. Ever since he was a baby, Meekal was the favourite. He used to bathe with his mother and the other ladies. Amira told me that even though he was sixteen, he would walk in while the Lady Asma was having a bath and often took off his clothes and jumped in with her.
‘She was not yet past her prime. I do not know who initiated what happened, but I can understand her dilemma. She was still a woman, and she still yearned for that one particular joy which had disappeared from her life since the death of Ibn Farid. When it happened it was so warm, so ecstatic, so comfortable, so familiar, that she forgot who she was and who he was and where they were. Then immediately afterwards the memory became a pain, which in her case, could only be removed by death. Who are we to judge her, Zuhayr? How can we ever understand what she felt?’
‘I don’t know—I don’t want to know—but it was madness.’
‘Yes, that it was and the people around her became stern and inflexible. I have a suspicion that the old midwife was encouraged to facilitate the death of both mother and child.’
‘Lady Asma must have regretted converting to our religion.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, if she had remained a worshipper of icons she could have pretended to the world that the appearance of a child in her body was a divine mystery.’
‘You are beginning to sound bitter. It is time you went home.’
‘Come with me, al-Zindiq. You will be welcomed.’
The old man was startled by the suddenness of the invitation.
‘I thank you. I would like to see Zahra, but some other day.’
‘How can you bear this solitude day after day?’
‘I look at it differently. From here I see the sun rise as no other person does, and from here I enjoy the sun set as few others will. Look at it now. Is not that the colour of paradise? And there are my manuscripts, growing by the year. Solitude has its own pleasures my friend.’
‘But what about its pains?’
‘In every twenty-four hours there is always one which is full of anguish and self-pity and confusion and the desire to see other faces, but an hour passes quickly enough. Now fly away my young friend. You have important business to conduct tonight, and do not forget to bring to me the young man who claims he is the descendant of Ibn Khaldun.’
‘Why so sceptical?’
‘Because Ibn Khaldun’s entire family perished in a shipwreck while travelling from Tunis to al-Qahira! Now go, and peace be upon you.’
Chapter 6
‘DWARF, WHEN I GROW up I want to be a cook, just like you.’
The chief cook, who was sitting over a giant pan grinding a concoction of meat, pulses and wheat with a large wooden pestle, looked at the young boy sitting directly opposite him on a tiny stool and smiled.
‘Yazid bin Umar,’ he said, as he carried on pounding the meat, ‘it is very hard work. You have to learn how to cook hundreds of dishes before anyone will employ you.’
‘I will learn, Dwarf. I promise.’
‘How often have you had harrissa?’
‘Hundreds and thousand of times.’
‘Exactly so, young master, but do you know how it is cooked or what ingredients are used to flavour the meat? No, you do not! There are over sixty recipes for this dish alone. I cook it in the style recommended by the great teacher al-Baghdadi, but using herbs and spices of my own choice.’
‘That’s not true. Ama told me that it was your father who taught you everything you know. She says he was the Sultan of cooks.’
‘And who taught him? That Ama of yours is getting too old. Just because she has known me since I was your age, she thinks I have no creative skills of my own. My father was certainly more inventive in the realm of sweets. His date and v
ermicelli mixture cooked in milk over a low heat to celebrate all the big weddings and festivals was famous throughout al-Andalus. The Sultan of Gharnata was here for your grandfather’s wedding. After tasting the dessert he wanted to take my father away to the al-Hamra, but Ibn Farid, may his soul rest in peace, said “Never.”
‘But in the kingdom of real food he was not as good a cook as my grandfather, and he knew that fact very well. You see, young master, a genius can never rely on the recipes of others. How many pinches of salt? How much pepper? Which herbs? It is not just a question of learning, though that is important, but of instinct. That is the only secret of our craft. It happens like this. You are beginning to cook a favourite dish and you realize that there are no onions in the kitchen. You grind some garlic, ginger, pomegranate seeds and pimentos into a paste and use them instead. Add a tiny cup of fermented grape juice and you have a brand-new dish. The Lady Zubayda, whose generosity is known to all, tastes it when the evening meal is served. She is not deceived. Not even for a single moment. Straight away she realizes that it is something completely new. After the meal I am summoned to appear before her. She congratulates me and then questions me in some detail. Naturally I let her into my secret, but even as I am speaking to her I have forgotten the exact measures of the ingredients I have used. Perhaps I will never cook that dish again, but those who have tasted it once will never forget the unique blend of flavours. A truly good dish, like a great poem, can never be repeated exactly. If you want to be a cook, try and remember what I have just told you.’
Yazid was greatly impressed.
‘Dwarf? Do you think you’re a genius?’
‘Of course, young master. Why else would I be telling you all this? Look at the harrissa I am cooking. Come here and observe it carefully.’
Yazid moved his stool close to the cook and peered into the pan.
‘This has been cooking the whole night. In the old days they would only use lamb, but I have often used the meat of calves or chicken or beef, simply in order to vary the flavour. Otherwise your family would begin to get bored with my cooking, and that would upset me greatly.’
