Rafaela was at the end of her tether. She had spent the whole day putting a brave face on things for the children’s sake. Now in the darkness of the night she gave vent to her anguish. ‘But they kill everyone who reaches Barbary! And anyone they don’t murder, they force to work in the fields! How do you imagine—?’
Hernando again motioned for her to be quiet. ‘That is in the cities controlled by the corsairs, or on the Barbary coast. But I know the Moriscos who reach Morocco are well treated. It is a backward kingdom, and the King has understood that the knowledge the people from al-Andalus bring can be of help to him. I’ll find work at the court, and perhaps one day you . . .’
Rafaela stirred restlessly. He knew what she was thinking: they had only rarely spoken of their beliefs, their different religions. The thought of having to live in a Muslim country terrified her.
‘Don’t go on,’ Rafaela interrupted him. ‘I’ve never interfered with your beliefs, Hernando, even when you taught them to our children. Don’t ask me to renounce mine. You already know that when you are no longer here, your children will be brought up in the Christian faith.’
‘All I ask of you’, Hernando said, ‘is that when Muqla comes of age, you give him the copy of the Koran I’ve made. I’ll hide it in a safe place until that day.’
‘By then, he’ll be a Christian, Hernando,’ his wife murmured.
‘He’ll still be Muqla, the boy with blue eyes. He’ll know what to do. Promise me.’
Rafaela didn’t answer.
‘Promise me,’ Hernando insisted.
She sealed her promise with a kiss.
From the moment that the two of them accepted there was nothing to be done about the situation, the days went by in a strange sense of harmony. As always, Hernando went on visiting the mosque to pray in secret. Something had changed, though. He no longer tried to achieve communion with Fátima: now, his prayers called on God to come to the aid of Rafaela and the children who had to stay in Córdoba. He had thought of going to Tetuan with Amin and Laila, finding Fátima and asking her for help. He was even about to send a message to Ephraim, but something the Jew had said stopped him: They will kill you. What if they killed his children too? Tetuan had not received the Moriscos kindly: Shamir and Francisco would doubtless be on their guard against this massive influx. Hernando’s stomach churned at the mere thought of his two little ones being cut to pieces by corsairs.
He walked round the mosque. He decided that he should hide his priceless Koran among the magic forest of columns where the echo of true believers would always be heard. One day he was sure little Muqla would find it. But where could he conceal the holy book?
*
‘Have you gone mad?’ Miguel exclaimed when he heard his plan.
‘It’s not madness,’ Hernando replied, with such determination that the cripple had no doubts he was being entirely serious. ‘It will be the best story you’ve ever told. I need you . . . and Amin.’
‘You want to get the boy mixed up in this?’
‘It’s his duty.’
‘You do realize that if we are found out, the Inquisition will burn us alive?’ said Miguel.
Hernando nodded.
That same morning, the three of them headed for the mosque. Hernando was carrying a strong iron bar and a mallet, hidden in his clothes. Amin was clutching the unbound leaves of the Koran to his chest under his tunic. Miguel hopped along beside them on his crutches. Father and son stood reverentially outside the chapel dedicated to Saint Peter, which had replaced the mihrab, pretending to pray. Miguel was some way behind them, doing the same between the Royal Chapel and the one dedicated to Villaviciosa. Time went by, and Hernando could feel the hand holding his tools becoming covered in sweat. He stared straight ahead of him towards the chapel where he had so often prayed to his own God. Most of the front was blocked by a rough masonry wall built in the interstices of the mosque’s columns. At one end of this wall, exactly opposite the mihrab, the chapel was enclosed behind two grilles that reached the capitals. Behind the wall and the grille lay the sarcophagus of Don Alfonso Fernández de Montemayor, a former governor of the frontier provinces. It was a big, simple sepulchre of white marble, with no carving or decoration apart from a raised band across the top. Half the sarcophagus was visible beyond the grille; the other half was hidden from view behind the wall. Hernando turned to Amin several times, but the boy did not look at all nervous. He stood quietly beside him, straight, solemn-looking and proud as he muttered the Lord’s Prayer and Hail Marys. Was this really madness? thought Hernando. There were so many people . . .
He did not have long to ask himself this, because as usual the attendant of San Pedro’s chapel came up to unlock the grille and prepare for mass. Hernando hesitated. When he looked round he saw Miguel smiling at him, encouraging him to take the plunge. Amin nudged him with his shoulder to indicate that the priest had opened the grille. Hernando nodded to Miguel.
‘God!’ came the cry, resonating throughout the mosque. People began to turn round and saw a cripple dancing excitedly on his crutches. ‘He was here! I saw him!’
Some of the worshippers crowded round Miguel. He went on shouting that he had seen a vision. Hernando glanced first at him, and then at the chapel grille. Alarmed, the priest had emerged and stood by the iron rails.
‘His merciful face appeared over a white dove!’ Miguel was shouting.
Hernando could not stop himself smiling. As ever, he was amazed at people’s credulity. In front of him, an old woman fell to her knees and crossed herself.
‘Yes! I see him! I can see him too!’
Several others joined in, drowning out Miguel’s voice. Many dropped to their knees and pointed to the dome above the high altar, in the opposite direction to the chapel, where Miguel was still proclaiming that he had seen a white dove. The priest ran towards them, joining a group of other clergy, their surplices fluttering as they ran.
‘Now,’ Hernando whispered to his son.
It took only a few strides for them to get inside the chapel. Hernando went to the head of the sarcophagus, which was hidden from view. As he thought he had noticed the day before, the sarcophagus was not sealed, but when he pulled out the iron bar and wedged it under the lid, it seemed impossible to lift. Wrapping the end of the bar in his tunic to muffle the sound, he hit it with the mallet. Flakes of marble came off the lid, but eventually he succeeded in pushing the bar far enough inside to make a lever. It was too heavy: he would never do it. He could hear the din outside the chapel, and realized just how old he was: fifty-six years old. He was an old man, and yet he thought he could lift the enormous, weighty lid on a marble sarcophagus. Amin was waiting patiently by his side, the sheaves of paper in his hand. Hernando was convinced he would never do it.
‘Allah is great!’ he muttered.
He pushed down as hard as he could, but the lid would not budge. Amin watched his father struggle. ‘Allah is great,’ he also whispered. He threw himself on the lever alongside his father.
‘You who give strength,’ Hernando prayed, ‘O Strong and Constant one, help us now!’
The lid was raised a finger’s breadth.
‘Push the sheets of paper in!’ he urged his son through gritted teeth, his face purple from the effort.
Still pressing down on the lever, Amin started to push small bundles of paper through the gap; there was no way he could get the entire book in at once.
‘Keep going!’ Hernando encouraged him. ‘Quickly!’
There were still a few pages left. The only noise behind them was now coming from Miguel, who was ranting on as loudly as he could.
‘Father!’ Hernando suddenly heard from close to the chapel grille.
Hernando almost let go of the bar. Amin stopped pushing pages inside. It was Rafaela’s voice!
‘Father!’ they heard again at the entrance to the chapel.
Rafaela fell to her knees in front of the priest as he made his way back to the chapel. She gripped the hem off his casso
ck firmly to hold him up. ‘Save my husband and children from deportation!’ she begged. Hernando motioned for Amin to hurry. There were only a few pages left. The boy’s hands were trembling so much he could not get the last sheets into the gap. ‘They are good Christians!’ Rafaela pleaded.
‘What are you talking about, woman?’
The priest tried to push past her, but Rafaela flung herself at his feet and kissed them.
‘In God’s name!’ she sobbed. ‘Save them!’
Rafaela tried to prevent the priest moving, until eventually he tugged himself free of her and slipped inside the chapel. She ran after him, closing her eyes as soon as she was beyond the grille.
‘What are you doing here?’
Rafaela could feel her stomach clench as she opened her eyes again: she was greeted with the sight of Hernando and Amin kneeling by the altar, praying to the painting hanging over it at the head of the sarcophagus. Hernando was trying to stuff his tools back under his clothing, while with the other hand he swept the chips of marble that had fallen to the floor back under the sarcophagus. Amin saw what he was doing and imitated him.
‘What does this mean?’ the priest insisted.
‘They are good Christians,’ Rafaela repeated behind him.
Hernando rose to his feet. ‘Father,’ he began, pushing the last bit of marble away with his foot. ‘We were praying for God to intercede on our behalf. We do not deserve to be expelled. We, that is, my children and I—’
‘That’s not my problem,’ the priest answered drily, casting a rapid eye over the altar to make sure nothing had been stolen. ‘Now get out of here,’ he snapped when he was satisfied nothing was missing.
The three of them walked out. When they had gone a few paces, Hernando realized he was trembling. He closed his eyes tight, took a deep breath, and tried to regain control of himself. When he opened his eyes again, he saw his wife staring at him.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘How did you know what I was going to do?’
‘Miguel thought his help might not be enough, so he asked me to come as well.’
Inside the San Pedro chapel, the priest trod on some of the marble dust on the floor. He muttered a curse about filthy Moriscos. Outside, surrounded by an ever-increasing crowd of the faithful, some on their knees, others praying and ceaselessly crossing themselves, Miguel was continuing with his endless story, jerking his head towards where he had seen the tremendous flaming sword Christ was wielding to celebrate the expulsion of heretics from Christian lands. As soon as he saw Hernando, Rafaela and Amin, he fell to the floor as though he had fainted. Curled up in a ball on the ground, he went on with his pantomime, convulsing violently all the while.
They crossed the mosque towards the Patio de los Naranjos. The Christians might expel them from Spain and the lands where they had lived for more than eight centuries, but in front of the mihrab of the Córdoba mosque, the Word revealed in honour of the one God was still at work.
As soon as they had emerged through the Perdón gate, Rafaela came to a halt, as if she wanted to say something.
‘You know where it is hidden,’ her husband forestalled her.
‘But how is Muqla going to recover it?’
‘God will find a way,’ he said, taking her by the arm and leading her affectionately back to their home. ‘Now the Word is where it should remain until our son takes over my work.’
In mid-afternoon, Miguel reappeared. ‘When I came round in the sacristy,’ he explained, winking broadly at them, ‘I told them I couldn’t remember a thing.’
‘And?’ asked Hernando.
‘And they went crazy. They repeated everything I told them back to me. Those priests have so little imagination! Even though they had heard my story, they could not get it straight. They said I had seen a golden sword! I almost corrected them and told them it was a flaming sword, but that would have given me away. Gold is all they can think of! But they did give me some good wine to revive me and to see if I remembered anything.’
‘Thank you, Miguel.’ Hernando was going to tell him that the next time he should not say anything to Rafaela, but then he checked himself. What next time? he said to himself sadly. ‘Thank you,’ he repeated.
As if God wanted to reward them for what they had done, one night Miguel appeared with half a goat, fresh vegetables, oil, and small quantities of spices, herbs, salt, pepper and some white bread.
‘What . . . Where did you get all this?’ Hernando asked, rummaging in the satchel Miguel carried on his back.
Rafaela and the children also crowded round.
‘It looks as if fickle fortune has smiled on us for once,’ said Miguel.
The deportees needed a means of transport for the goods they were allowed to take with them, as well as for their wives, children and old people on what was going to be a long journey. Few of the almost four thousand muleteers who used to roam the trails of Spain remained; most had already been expelled, and those still in the country were hiding in their houses waiting to leave, and had sold the mules and donkeys they could not take with them.
‘People are offering a fortune for just one mule,’ Miguel explained, his eyes fixed on Rafaela and the children as they ran to the kitchen with the food.
While he was begging, Miguel had seen several men jostling each other to hire a simple mule for the journey. And they had sixteen good horses! They were big, strong animals, capable of carrying a lot more weight than a donkey or mule.
‘They’ve never been beasts of burden,’ Hernando said doubtfully.
‘They could be, though, by God they could!’
‘They’ll buck and kick,’ objected Hernando.
‘I won’t feed them. I’ll keep them on water for a few days, and then if they buck . . .’
‘I’m not sure.’ Hernando had a picture of his magnificent steeds laden down with goods and with two or three people on their backs, struggling in the midst of a flood of people that would be much bigger than the one that had set out from Granada at the end of the war in the Alpujarra. ‘I’m not sure,’ he repeated.
‘Well, I am,’ said Miguel. ‘I’ve already done the deals. Some people are willing to pay up to sixty reales per day, there and back. We’ll make many ducats out of this.’
Still not convinced, Hernando stared at the other man.
‘I’ve already settled the debts we had with our suppliers and hired people to help on the journey. When the horses arrive back from Seville, there’ll be no debts to pay off, so Rafaela will be able to sell them – if the duke allows her to. She’ll also have money while all this is going on, and you’ll have enough for the journey and for what you’re permitted to take out of Spain.’
Hernando thought it over, yielded to his friend’s arguments, and finally slapped him on the back. ‘I’ve been thanking you a lot recently,’ he said.
‘Do you remember when you found me at the feet of Volador in the Potro tavern?’ Hernando nodded. ‘Ever since that day, you have nothing to thank me for . . . Still, I like to hear you say it!’ he added, smiling at the emotion his lord and friend was showing.
68
LESS THAN a month after the expulsion of the Moriscos of al-Andalus had been proclaimed, the ones living in Córdoba were forced to leave the city. The interval was so brief there had been little chance of any appeal to the King to modify the ruling. Worse still, the city council agreed not to approach His Majesty with any demand for clemency towards the new Christians: the order was to be carried out to the letter.
The strength of character Rafaela had shown throughout the wait disappeared the day before the one the authorities had chosen for the expulsion. She broke down in despair. She no longer masked her grief from the children, and they soon were weeping alongside her. Contrary to what he had said a few days before, Hernando now told the youngest a lie: they would soon be back, he assured them; they were only going on a short journey. Almost at once he had to turn away so that they would not see him crying as hard as their mother. He en
couraged them to play games, or told them stories they had first heard from Miguel. He gave little Muqla the small waxed tablet to write on. Now five, the boy drew a delicate alif with his stick, copying the way he had seen his brother do it. Why are you doing this, O God? Hernando asked himself before he rubbed the letter out.
After he had prepared a bundle with the few belongings they were permitted to take with them, the last thing Hernando did was to reach inside the hiding place behind the false partition and take out the hand of Fátima and the copy of the gospel of Barnabas he had found in the old minaret in the duke’s palace. He stuffed the gospel into the bag (he planned to hide it under the saddle blanket of one of their mounts, as they used to do with the paper they received from Xátiva), and was about to do the same with the hand of Fátima when he raised it to his lips and kissed it. Although he had done the same many times before, this time he pressed his lips to it as if he never wanted to let go.
That night, when the two of them were in bed together and Rafaela’s tears had dried up, they let the hours go by in silence, as though trying to absorb all the memories of that moment: scents; the night-time creaking of the wooden floors of their house; the water splashing in the fountain down below in the courtyard; an occasional cry from the streets that disturbed the city quiet; the regular breathing of their children they thought they could still hear in the distance.
Rafaela pressed herself against her husband. She refused to think that this would be the last night they would share this bed, that from now on she would have to sleep alone. She spoke almost without thinking: ‘Take me,’ she said.
‘But . . .’ Hernando protested, ruffling her hair.
‘One last time,’ she whispered.
Hernando turned to face her. She had sat up in the bed, and to his surprise, began to take off her nightshift, showing him her full breasts. Then she lay down again, all shyness gone.
The Hand of Fatima Page 90
