Hernando had had to learn to distinguish between them all. At the top of the list came the chaplain, the chamberlain, the valet and lady-in-waiting. These were followed by the head steward and the head groom, the clerk and the treasurer. Behind these came the victualler, the cellarer, the steward, the keeper of the silverware; the purchaser, the dispenser, the administrator, and the scribe. Then there were the children’s governesses and teachers. Finally the rest of the servants, tens of them: mostly male; some free, others slaves, among which were several Moriscos. Last of all were half a dozen page boys.
Doña Lucía had insisted that Hernando be instructed in courtly manners, primarily those of the table, which was one of the most important ceremonies at which gentlemen had to distinguish themselves. The duchess had taken this decision following Hernando’s first meal at the long table where she and the duke, the chaplain and the eleven hidalgos sat. That day, the pages and footmen served a first course of capons and pigeons, mutton, kid and suckling pigs. Then the usual stew Christians ate, cooked with chicken, mutton, beef and vegetables all seasoned with a stock of pork fat. After that were the white-meat delicacies: slow-cooked chicken breasts in a sauce of sugar, milk and rice flour, and to finish, pastry cakes and fruit. Sitting at the duke’s right hand, Hernando found himself confronted with silver forks, knives and spoons, all neatly arranged; plates and cups, crystal goblets and glasses, salt cellars, napkins, and a bowl of water the page brought him. As the hidalgos and the chaplain looked on with amusement, Hernando was about to lift the bowl to his lips when he was embarrassed to see the duke wink at him before proceeding to wash his hands in it.
Doña Lucía had no intention of tolerating such a lack of manners at her table. When they finished eating, the Morisco was called to a private room where the duke and duchess awaited him. Don Alfonso was sitting in an armchair, his eyes downcast and looking rather uncomfortable, as if he had found himself obliged to yield to his wife’s demands. In marked contrast to the duke, Doña Lucía was waiting standing up, her expression haughty, dressed all in black except for the delicate white lace edging her neckline. Hernando could not help but compare her with Muslim women, who were always demure and retiring when meeting strangers. Unlike them, but in common with all noble Christian women, Doña Lucía showed no such reserve, although, like any respectable lady, she tried to conceal her charms: she bound her breasts after flattening them with strips of lead, and tried to make her complexion as pale as possible, even going to the length of swallowing bits of clay.
‘Hernando, we can’t . . .’ she began. The duke cleared his throat, so that Doña Lucía sighed and softened her tone. ‘Hernando, it would greatly please the duke and me if you were to receive instruction in etiquette.’
They assigned him to the oldest of the relatives living in the palace, a cousin of the duke by the name of Sancho, a foppish hidalgo. He took on the task with some reluctance, and for almost a year taught Hernando how to use the cutlery, how to conduct himself in public and how to dress. He even insisted on trying to correct the pronunciation of Hernando’s aljamiado, which, in common with that of all the Moriscos, suffered from certain phonetic defects, among them the tendency to convert the s’s into x’s and vice versa.
Hernando bore Don Sancho’s daily lessons stoically. He was so depressed at that point that he did not even register the humiliation of being treated like a child; he simply obeyed unthinkingly, until one day the hidalgo airily suggested he learn to dance, as if this might please him.
‘You should learn the steps,’ Don Sancho announced, prancing round the room where they studied. ‘Floretas, saltos, encajes, campanelas,’ he recited, skipping around clumsily and tracing a circle with one foot, ‘cabriolas.’ At this, Hernando turned on his heel and left the room in silence. ‘Cuatropeados,’ he heard the hidalgo calling from the room, ‘giradas . . .’
From that day on, Doña Lucía considered that the Morisco was fit to live alongside them. She knew he was hardly likely to find himself in a situation where he’d have to demonstrate his talents in the art of dance, and considered his instruction finished. Yet, despite his new airs and graces, the snubs he suffered in the palace whenever Don Alfonso was not present showed no signs of abating.
The night of that Friday when Hernando had confessed to Arbasia he could not find God in his images, the palace dined on fresh fish caught in the Guadalquivir. On the days of abstinence the fourteen guests’ conversations were distinctly more sober and serious than when they dined on meats and pork fat. It was well known that many, the priest among them, subsequently visited the kitchen for bread, ham and blood sausage. During the dinner, Hernando paid no attention to the conversation between the hidalgos, the chaplain or Doña Lucía, who presided majestically over the long table. They in turn took no notice of him.
He longed to go the library, where he took refuge every night amongst the nearly three hundred books Don Alfonso had collected. As soon as the duchess decreed that dinner was over, he did exactly that. Fortunately for him, he had been excluded from the interminable nightly gatherings where they read books out loud or sang. He crossed several rooms and two courtyards before reaching what they called the library courtyard, behind which was the great reading room. He had spent several days immersed in reading The Araucaniad, whose first part had been published fifteen years previously, but that night he had no intention of continuing with this interesting book. Arbasia’s words that afternoon, when he had quoted Leonardo da Vinci and spoken of seeking God in images, had made him think of an exhange he had once had with Don Julián in the silence of that same chapel.
‘Read, because your God is magnanimous. It is He who has taught man to use the quill.’
‘What do these verses mean?’ Hernando asked him.
‘They assert that calligraphy is a divine link between the believers and God. We must honour the revealed word. Through calligraphy we can visualize the Revelation of the divine word. All the great calligraphers have striven to embellish the Word. The faithful must be able to find the Revelation written in their places of prayer so that they always remember it and have it in front of their eyes, and the more beautiful it is the better.’
During the days when they both copied Korans, Don Julián talked to him about the different types of calligraphy, principally Kufic, chosen by the Ummayads of Córdoba to consecrate the mosque, or the Nasrid script used in the Alhambra in Granada. But whilst they took pleasure in discussing the strokes or the magnificent effects some calligraphers achieved using several colours, they did not look for beauty in their own writings; the more copies of the Koran they could offer the community the better, and speed was not compatible with perfection.
That night, after entering the library and turning up the lamps, Hernando had only one thing on his mind: to take quill pen and paper, and surrender himself to God, just as Arbasia did through his paintings. He could already visualize the first sura of the Koran neatly scripted in the Arabic of Andalusia: the vertical strokes of the rectilinear letters, which then lengthened into fluid curves; the superscript characters in black, red or green. Would there be coloured ink in the library? Neither the secretary nor Don Alfonso’s scribe used it in their writings. In that case, he would have to buy it. Where could he find some?
Thinking this, Hernando sat down at a desk, surrounded by books stacked on delicately carved shelves of fine woods. As he expected, there was no coloured ink. Hernando examined the quills, inks and sheets of paper. He should practise first, he decided. He inked one of the quills and carefully, taking pleasure in the stroke, drew a large letter. The alif, the first letter of the Arabic alphabet, was described in ancient times as being long and sensuously curved like the human body. He drew the head with its brow, the chest and the back, the stomach . . .
A burst of laughter in the courtyard made him jump. He shuddered. What was he doing? His palms were sweating so much he nearly knocked the inkwell over; he grabbed the paper and quickly folded it to hide it under his shirt. With his
heart pounding in his chest, he listened as the laughter and footsteps moved away to the far end of the courtyard. He hadn’t been thinking, he reproached himself while he felt his heartbeats return to normal. He could not dedicate himself to Arabic calligraphy in a Christian duke’s library, where one of the hidalgos or a servant could enter at any moment! But nor could he shut himself away in his bedchamber, he thought after considering the possibility. He had spent two years going regularly to the library after dinner, whilst the others read or sang until Doña Lucía retired to her apartments, leaving them free to go in search of Córdoba’s night-time pleasures. They would be suspicious of a change in his habits. Besides, where was he going to keep the writing implements and paper? The servants, and perhaps not only them, went through his belongings – he had noticed it from the beginning – even what he kept in the large chest under lock and key; someone had made a copy of the key, he deduced when for the third time he realized they had searched his things. From his first day in the palace he had kept the golden hand of Fátima, his only treasure, hidden in the fold of a coloured tapestry depicting the scene of a wild boar hunt in the mountains; it was safe there. But to hide quills, inks and paper . . . it was impossible!
Where could he write without the risk of being discovered? Hernando ran his gaze over the large library: it was a rectangular room with a door at either end. Between the bookshelves and the barred windows looking out on to the gallery and courtyard were a large table and chairs, with lamps for reading, and three separate desks. There were no hiding places. He noticed a third door at the back of the room, squeezed between the bookcases, which gave access to the ancient minaret set against a corner of the palace. He had occasionally wandered inside the minaret, but all he found there was nostalgia, as he imagined the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. It was a simple, narrow square tower, with a central pillar around which steps spiralled upwards. He had to find a place to write, even if it meant altering his habits or doing so outside the palace in another house. Why not? He pulled the crumpled paper out from his shirt and contemplated the alif. The character seemed different from everything he had written until then; it was infused with a devotion that his previous attempts had lacked. He made to tear up the paper, but changed his mind: this was the first thing he had written in which he tried to represent God, in the same way as Arbasia did with his holy images.
Where could he conceal his work? He got up and, taking a lamp, walked around the library, discounting possible hiding places. Finally he found himself at the foot of the minaret stairs. It did not look as if anybody went there often; the stairs were full of fine sand from the crumbling old stone blocks. That tower had not been repaired in centuries, possibly because of what it represented for the Christians. He started to ascend, holding on to the central pillar. Some of the stones moved. What if he could hide his papers beneath one? He touched them carefully, trying to find a suitable one. Suddenly, halfway up, one of the stones gave way. Hernando brought the light closer: it had not been a single stone, but a couple of them next to each other had shifted, exposing an almost imperceptible crevice. What was it? He pushed firmly and displaced the stones: a small secret door appeared, which opened on to a tiny hollow inside the pillar itself.
He brought the light up to it; the lantern shook in his hand as he came across a casket: the only thing that could fit into such a tiny space. It was made of an embossed leather and ironwork in a style very different from that of the chests found in the palace, most of which were in the Mudéjar style, inlaid with bone, ebony and boxwood, or made in Córdoba and adorned with embossed leather. He pulled the casket out and, bringing the lamp nearer, knelt on the stairs to examine it: the leather was well crafted, and amidst several plant motifs, he made out an alif similar to the one he had just traced. It could not be anything but an alif!
He brought it as close to the light as he could and swept the dust from the leather. He coughed. Then he lifted the flame of the lamp to the characters he had just cleaned, running his fingertips over the worn letters as he read them: ‘Muham . . . ibn Abi Amir. Al-Mansur!’ he murmured reverently. He could read little more. A shiver ran down his spine. It was a small Muslim chest from the time of the great leader Almanzor! What was it doing hidden there? He sat down on the floor. If only he could open it!
He inspected the lock fixing the two iron strips across the middle of of the casket. How could he get it open? As his fingers played with the fastening, the aged, rotten stitching gave way with a faint noise. The strip of iron came gently off the leather and Hernando found himself with the lock in his hand. After a few moments’ hesitation he knelt down once more and reverently opened the lid.
He shone the light inside and found several books written in Arabic.
45
CESARE ARBASIA lived alone in a house near the cathedral, beside the market square. The night he invited Hernando to dine he had the courtesy to avoid pork fat together with radishes, turnips and carrots, which the Moriscos considered food for pigs and consequently hated.
‘What I haven’t managed to achieve’, confessed the painter before dinner, whilst the two drank lemonade in the gallery overlooking a pristine courtyard, ‘is for the meat to have been sacrificed in accordance with your laws.’
‘We have not been able to allow ourselves those foods for a long time now. We live protected by the taqiya, a dispensation that permits believers to conceal their faith when under threat, persecution or compulsion. God will understand. Only very occasionally, in isolated farmhouses lost in the countryside, can some of our brothers slaughter animals according to our customs.’
Both men exchanged silent glances, breathing the perfume of flowers in the spring night. Hernando took the opportunity to take a sip of lemonade and allow the scent to transport him with the memory of another similar courtyard and the laughter of his children as they played with the water. That very morning he had seen the final face Arbasia had painted in the fresco of the Last Supper that embellished the chapel of the sacrarium. The painting appeared on the triangular gable at the entrance, above the niche destined to house the body of Christ, the most sacred spot. Hernando could not take his eyes off the figure who sat on the Lord’s left, embraced by Him: it looked like . . . it looked like a woman!
‘I have to talk to you,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the female figure.
‘Wait. Not here,’ the painter had answered, following the Morisco’s gaze and sensing his confusion.
That was when he invited him to dine at his house for the first time.
With the ever-present murmur of water in the fountain, they chatted a while until the master decided to take the initiative: ‘What did you want to talk to me about? The painting?’
‘I understood only the twelve apostles were present at the Last Supper. Why have you painted a woman being embraced by Jesus Christ?’
‘It is Saint John.’
‘But . . .’
‘It’s Saint John, Hernando, don’t argue.’
‘All right,’ Hernando agreed. ‘Listen to me then, because there is something I want to tell you. About a month ago in the ancient minaret by the duke’s palace I found copies in Arabic of several books, together with a note from a scribe of the court of the caliphs. In the two years I have spent in the duke’s house I have read much about al-Mansur, whom the Christians call Almanzor. He was the military leader of Caliph Hisham II, and the greatest general in the history of Muslim Córdoba. He attacked as far north as Barcelona and even Santiago de Compostela, where he allowed his horse to drink water from inside the cathedral. He had the bells from there carried by Christians to Córdoba, where they were melted down and turned into lamps for the mosque. Many years later, King Fernando “the Saint”, avenged that insult.’
Arbasia listened carefully, sipping lemonade.
‘But Almanzor was also a religious fanatic, which led him to commit vile crimes against culture and science. Hisham’s father, al-Hakam II, was one of the most learned caliphs of Córdoba.
He was determined to gather together all of mankind’s knowledge in the city. He sent emissaries to the far corners of the globe with instructions to bring back all the books and scientific treatises they found. He built up a library of more than four hundred thousand volumes. Can you imagine? Four hundred thousand volumes! More books than in the library of Alexandria or in the one now to be found in papal Rome.’
Hernando paused to take a drink and check the effect of his words on the artist who nodded slightly, as if trying to imagine such a treasure trove of knowledge.
‘Well,’ Hernando went on, ‘Almanzor decreed that apart from those relating to medicine and mathematics, all the books that deviated from or were not related to the revealed word, must be burnt: books of astrology, poetry, music, logic, philosophy . . . of all the known arts and sciences! Thousands of books, each unique and full of wisdom not to be found elseswhere, burnt in Córdoba! Almanzor himself threw them on to the pyre.’
‘What barbarity! What madness!’ whispered the master.
‘In the letter I found in the chest, the scribe explained everything I’ve told you about the burning as well as the attempt on his part to save the content of some of the books for posterity. Unlike Almanzor, he believed they deserved to survive, even if only in the form of copies that he made in great haste, without fine calligraphy or corrections or even lines.’
‘Four hundred thousand volumes!’Arbasia lamented with a sigh.
‘Yes,’ agreed Hernando. ‘It seems the library’s catalogue alone took up forty-four volumes of fifty pages each.’
The Hand of Fatima Page 58
