The Hand of Fatima

by Ildefonso Falcones

  ‘Tell the pilot to prepare a skiff for me to go ashore in,’ Fátima ordered one of the three Nubian slaves Ephraim had bought for her. Her previous slaves, brought in by Shamir to protect her, had performed their task well; there was no reason that these new ones under her direct command should not do the same. ‘Go on!’ she shouted at one of them who was staring doubtfully at her. ‘You can accompany me. No,’ she changed her mind, thinking of the commotion that the three giant Negroes would cause. ‘Tell the pilot to find four armed seamen to come with me.’

  She had to get off the ship. She would only find Hernando if she could look directly among the crowds on the Arenal. She had the necessary papers and authorizations. As ever, Ephraim had done all she had asked, she reflected with a smile. The lady from Tetuan figured as the owner of the caravel, with permission to take her human cargo to Barbary. Nobody would cause her any trouble on the Arenal, she thought, but just in case – she felt for the purse full of gold coins she had hidden under her dress – she had enough money to bribe all the Christian soldiers patrolling the shore.

  She slipped agilely into the skiff, and was soon seated on one of its benches, together with a servant woman and four Catalan seamen whom the pilot had placed at her disposal.

  Once on shore, the seamen cleared a way for her, and Fátima began to go round the Arenal, fixing her big black eyes on anyone who stared at her with curiosity. What would her husband look like now?

  Exhausted, defeated, Rafaela collapsed on to a tree stump by the side of the road to Seville. She set Salma and Musa down, but they kept on crying even though they had travelled the last part of the way in their mother’s arms. Only five-year-old Muqla had withstood the ordeal in silence, as if he really understood the importance of their journey. But Rafaela could not go on. They had been walking for several days, trying to catch up with the deportees from Córdoba, who were only half a day ahead of them, and yet they were still behind them. Half a day! The two little ones could not go even half a league further. The slow progress exasperated Rafaela, although she sensed that the exiles were probably travelling equally slowly. She had thrown away the basket of food when she picked the two children up. With one on each arm she had tried to make more rapid progress, but now she too felt she could not go on. Her legs and arms were aching. Her feet were cut, and the muscles on her back seemed to be on the point of exploding. And still the little ones were wailing!

  Time passed, with the empty fields silent all round her, and the children sobbing by her side. Rafaela stared at the horizon, imagining where Seville must be.

  ‘Come on, Mother. Get up.’ It was Muqla insisting, just as she buried her face in her hands. She shook her head. It was impossible!

  ‘Get to your feet,’ the boy repeated, tugging at her arm.

  Rafaela tried to stand up, but her legs gave way as soon as she put any weight on them. She had to sit down once more.

  ‘We’ll just rest for a while,’ she said, trying to reassure him. ‘Then we’ll set off again.’

  She looked closely at him. His blue eyes shone brightly, but the rest of him – his clothes and his worn-out shoes looked as wretched as those worn by any of the street urchins begging in the streets of Córdoba. But those eyes of his . . . could it be that Hernando was right to put so much faith in this young boy?

  ‘We’ve already rested a lot,’ Muqla complained.

  ‘I know.’ Rafaela opened her arms wide for her son to seek shelter there. ‘I know, my love,’ she whispered in his ear when he came to her.

  The rest did not help her recover. The winter cold seeped into her body, and instead of relaxing, her muscles contracted in painful spasms until they had completely seized up. The two little ones were playing happily in the grass of a nearby field. Muqla was keeping an eye on them, although he was also watching his mother, ready to renew their march as soon as he saw her get up from the tree stump.

  They would never do it, sighed Rafaela. Tears were the only thing that came easily to her stiff body. They slid freely down her cheeks. Hernando and the older children would board a ship headed for Barbary. She would lose them for ever.

  Her anguish made her forget her physical pain. Her body was racked with sobs. What would become of them? She was starting to feel faint when all of a sudden she heard a clamour in the distance. Muqla appeared as if from nowhere by her side, staring back along the path.

  ‘They’ll help us, Mother,’ he encouraged her, feeling for her hand.

  A long column of people and horses appeared in the distance. These were the Moriscos expelled from Castro del Río, Cañete and many other villages. They were also headed for Seville. Rafaela dried her tears, fought the pain in her body, and stood up. She hid with her children a few paces back from the path, and when the column passed in front of them and she could check there were no soldiers guarding them, she picked up the little ones and slipped in among the others. A few Moriscos looked enquiringly at them, but did not regard them as important: they were all headed for exile, so what did it matter if a few more joined them? She did not think twice about it, but took money from her purse and gave a generous amount to a muleteer to allow Salma and Musa to perch on top of the huge bundles on one of the mules. They might reach Seville in time! The mere thought gave her the strength to put one foot in front of the other. Muqla walked alongside her, hand in hand, a smile on his face.

  Fátima had to endure the stench of thousands of people forced together in the worst conditions imaginable. But the shouting, the smoke from fires and cooking, the way she was jostled despite being protected by the seamen, having to slide around in mud, fight her way past some groups lamenting their lot and others consoling themselves with wild dancing and singing, and wander aimlessly up and down, often finding herself going round in circles, eventually convinced her this was not the way to find Hernando. She had been shut away within the golden walls of her luxurious palace for too long, and now found that she was perspiring freely. She tried to control her nerves: the last thing she wanted was to appear filthy and unkempt before Ibn Hamid after all these years.

  She asked some soldiers if they knew Hernando. They stared at her as if she were mad, and then burst out laughing.

  ‘They don’t have names. All these dogs are the same!’ one of them spat.

  She found a stone bench to sit on close by the city wall.

  ‘You,’ she said, pointing to three of the Catalan seamen, ‘go and look for a man called Hernando Ruiz from Juviles, a village in the Alpujarra. He’s come with the people from Córdoba. He’s fifty-six, and has blue eyes.’ Wonderful blue eyes, she thought to herself. ’He has a boy and a girl with him. I’ll wait here. I’ll pay you handsomely if you find him – all of you,’ she added, to satisfy the one who was staying to guard her.

  The men split up and hurried off in different directions.

  While in the port of Seville these Catalan seamen were mingling with the Moriscos, searching everywhere and shouting if anyone had seen Hernando, shaking those they thought were not paying them attention, Rafaela was trying to contain her impatience and match the slow pace of the column of deportees. Hope had eased her pain, but she seemed to be the only one in a hurry. The others dragged their feet in silence, heads sunk on their shoulders. ‘Take heart!’ she would have liked to shout at them. ‘Run!’ As if he could read her thoughts, little Muqla, still clutching her hand, raised his face to her. Rafaela squeezed his hand, using the other to stroke the other two, who were dozing up on the mule’s load.

  ‘The man you are looking for is over there, my lady,’ said one of the seamen, pointing towards the Gold tower. ‘He’s with some horses.’

  Fátima got up from the bench where she had been sitting. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I talked with him. He told me he is Hernando Ruiz, from Juviles.’

  Fátima felt a shudder run down her body. ‘Did you tell him . . .?’ Her voice quavered. ‘Did you tell him someone was looking for him?’

  The seaman hesitated. So
meone from Córdoba had pointed out a man who was standing with a group of horses, his back to them. The seaman had simply seized the man by the shoulder and turned him round. He had asked his name, and when he had replied, set off as quickly as he could to claim his reward. ‘No,’ he admitted.

  ‘Take me to him,’ Fátima ordered.

  The seaman pointed him out: he was the man who was facing away from them and talking to a cripple on crutches. People carrying bundles on their backs constantly blocked her view. When she reached near the spot where he stood, Fátima trembled and came to a halt. Incapable of going a step further, she waited for him to turn round. The seaman halted by her side: what was the matter with her now? He gestured once more at the Morisco. Miguel, who was facing them, recognized the man who had spoken to Hernando a few moments earlier. He nodded to his companion, and said: ‘I think someone is looking for you.’

  Hernando turned round. He did so slowly, as though already expecting something out of the ordinary. He saw the seaman a few paces away from him. Next to him stood a woman. He could not see her face because at that moment someone crossed in front of them. Then he saw a pair of black eyes staring straight at him. He could not breathe . . . Fátima! Their eyes met, and locked. Hernando felt an uncontrollable rush of emotions paralysing his senses. He could not move. Fátima!

  When the walls of Seville came into sight, it was Muqla who had to tug on his mother’s hand to stop her speeding up still more. The Moriscos were going even more slowly! She heard sighs all around her. A woman’s terrible wailing rose above the sound of animals’ hoofs and thousands of shuffling feet. An old man walking close beside them shook his head and clicked his tongue just once, as if incapable of expressing any more pain than with this one feeble complaint.

  ‘Walk!’ one of the soldiers shouted.

  ‘Keep going!’ cried another one.

  ‘Get a move on, you dumb beasts!’ a third soldier taunted them.

  Rafaela glanced down at her son as the other soldiers laughed at the joke. Stay with the rest of them, the boy seemed to be saying silently to her. Don’t stand out in any way now. We’ll get there! He smiled reassuringly, and then immediately wiped all trace of emotion from his face. But Rafaela did not want to give in to the despair that seemed to have overtaken the Moriscos. She let go of Muqla’s hand and gently shook Musa.

  ‘Come on, little one, wake up!’ she said, before realizing that the mule-driver was staring at her in surprise.

  She hesitated, but then shook Salma as well. ‘We’ve arrived,’ she whispered in her ear, trying to hide her anxiety from the muleteer.

  The little girl muttered a few words and opened her eyes, but then closed them again, overwhelmed by tiredness. Rafaela lifted her down, and held her tight in her arms.

  ‘Your father is waiting for us!’ she whispered once more, this time concealing her lips in the girl’s tousled hair.

  It was Fátima who broke the spell. She shut her eyes and pressed her lips together. At last! she seemed to be saying to Hernando. She walked slowly towards him, her black eyes filled with tears.

  Hernando could only stare at her. Thirty years had not diminished her beauty. A jumble of memories fought their way to the surface of his mind. As she reached his side, he began to tremble like a child. ‘Fátima!’ he whispered.

  She stared at him for a moment, her eyes running tenderly over his features. His face was very different from the one she remembered. The years had left their mark, but the blue of his eyes was the same as when she had fallen in love with him in the Alpujarra.

  She did not dare touch him. She had to clasp her hands to stop herself throwing her arms round his neck and smothering him in kisses. Without meaning to, a passerby bumped into her. Hernando caught hold of her to prevent her falling. She felt his hand on her skin and shuddered.

  ‘It’s been such a long time,’ he murmured at last. He still had hold of her hand, the same one that had stroked him on so many nights.

  Fátima sighed and the two of them came together in a tight embrace. For a few seconds, in the midst of all the noise and confusion, they stood immobile, listening to each other’s breathing, caught up in a thousand and one memories. He drank in the perfume of her hair, clutching her to him as hard as he could, as if he never wanted to let her go again.

  ‘I’ve dreamt so often—’ he started to say into her ear, but Fátima would not let him go on. Pulling her head back, she kissed him on the mouth: an ardent, sad kiss, which he encouraged by slipping his hands round the back of her neck.

  Emerging at that moment from among the horses, Miguel and the children looked on in utter amazement.

  The column of deportees from Castro del Río skirted the city walls and made their way past the company of guards stationed at the points of access to the Arenal. They started to mingle with the other Moriscos, while Rafaela halted to get her bearings. She knew what to look for. It must be easy to spot sixteen horses even in this crowd: that was where Hernando and the children would be.

  ‘Keep your eye on your brother and sister and stay close to me. Don’t get lost,’ she warned Muqla, setting off towards a cart drawn up nearby.

  As soon as she reached it, she climbed up on to the driver’s platform without so much as a by your leave.

  ‘Hey,’ shouted a man, trying to stop her. Rafaela had already foreseen that, and slipped determinedly past him. ‘What are you doing?’ the driver insisted, pulling at her skirt.

  A few seconds were all she needed. Resisting his tugs, she stood on tiptoe on the seat, staring all round the Arenal. Sixteen horses. It can’t be that difficult, she told herself. The man made to climb up as well, but Muqla reacted and flung himself round his legs. As the driver tried to kick himself free of the little urchin’s grip, a crowd of curious onlookers gathered round them. Sixteen horses! Rafaela kept repeating to herself, only half listening to the man shouting and the efforts her son was making to hold him back.

  ‘There they are!’ she cried out in surprise.

  The horses stood out clearly at the foot of a magnificent tower that rose from the shore at the opposite end of the Arenal.

  She jumped down from the cart like a young girl. She did not even feel the pain in her feet when she hit the ground.

  ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said to the cart-driver. ‘Let the gentleman go, Muqla.’ The boy relaxed his grip, and scampered off to avoid another kick. ‘Come on, children!’

  Forcing a path through the onlookers, she made her way proudly towards the tower. She smiled as she crossed the Arenal, pushing people aside when she had to.

  ‘We’ve done it, children!’ she repeated.

  She was carrying the two smaller ones in her arms again, while Muqla struggled to keep up beside them.

  ‘I don’t want to be parted from you ever again,’ Fátima had exclaimed as they separated after their prolonged kiss.

  They were still standing close to one another, searching each other’s faces and trying to smooth away the lines age had brought to them. For a few moments they were once again the young muleteer from the Alpujarra and the girl who had waited for him. The time that had gone by since then seemed to evaporate. The two of them were there, together again; the past was lost in the emotion of their reunion.

  ‘Come with me to Constantinople,’ said Fátima. ‘You and your children. We will lack for nothing. I have money, Ibn Hamid, a lot of money. There is nothing and no one to stop me. Neither of us will face any dangers. We’ll be able to start all over again.’

  As Hernando heard this, a shadow of doubt flitted across his face.

  ‘We’ll have money sent to the rest of your family,’ Fátima said hurriedly. ‘Ephraim will take care of it. They won’t want for anything either, I swear.’ Fátima gave him no time to think, but went on talking hastily, passionately. Amin and Laila stared at each other open-mouthed, unconsciously creeping closer to Miguel as they listened to this strange woman who had kissed their father. ‘I have a ship. I have all the permits nece
ssary to transport our brothers in faith to Barbary. Then we two can continue on to the East. We’ll soon be installed in a huge house – No! A palace! We deserve it! We’ll have all we want. And we’ll be happy the way we used to be, as if all these years had not happened, discovering each other again every day . . .’

  Hernando was caught up in an endless whirl of sensation and emotion. Fátima! The memories swept back into his mind in a tumultuous flood. The distant communion he had felt for Fátima in recent years, like a faint beacon lighting his way, had suddenly become a tangible, marvellous reality. It was . . . it was as though his body and spirit had both suddenly reawakened to life, allowing feelings he had deliberately suppressed to come to the surface. How much they had loved each other over all those years! Fátima was there, in front of him, pouring out her hopes in an impassioned, endless stream. How could he ever have thought that all their love had vanished into thin air?