Mumu shook his head. I have no wife and none of the concubines sits within my heart. In fact I have given them no thought since this episode began. And seemed surprised by his admission. They are fickle, he sighed with a shrug of weary shoulders. And will surely climb atop Ismail when he tells of the jewels in his trousers.
He gestured to al-Khatib to present me. I have two sisters who are dearer than life itself, he explained. Laleima is here, but her sister … And he told the sultan of Esha’s plight.
Abu Salim shook his head. A bad business, he muttered. We must think on the best tactic – to restore your sister to your side, and you to your throne. He tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne, then slowly smiled. Perhaps a simple scroll will suffice, he mused. It all depends on what is said therein. And whom I trust to deliver it.
It is beyond my wildest imaginings! Only some months and Esha freed and sitting before me here in our palace in Fez!
It was amazing, she said with shining eyes. I was so afraid at the beginning. My women were commanded to stitch bridal gowns and I was presented to my betrothed in the presence of Ismail and the vizier who was meant for you.
Urghh, she grimaced. They were as odious as each other. A date for the marriage was discussed. But all of a sudden, they were readying an escort for me to leave instead!
She nibbled a date, her eyes far away, before continuing in a flurry of delight.
It was like a dream. I was escorted from the Madinat by a delegation led by this beautiful prince, Saffaar Salim. My caravan was lavish, servants attended me, all my jewels, gowns, furniture packed. How lucky I was, and how awful your journey must have been!
Her face downturned an instant, but she kissed my cheek and immediately brightened as she resumed this tale worthy of The Arabian Nights.
During the journey, Saffaar told me how it came about – that he and his men were sent as a peace mission to Ismail, but with the message that there would only be peace if I were returned to my brother’s side in exile, she explained. If I were married and my virginity taken, Ismail would find himself ringed by enemies, the Merinids of the Maghreb and the Christians of Castile.
Imagine! she cried. A war because of me! Saffaar said it was only bluff, but it worked!
So Ismail was asked what his answer would be, she went on. Saffaar said he turned white with fright and consulted one of his advisors – I’m sure to check my virginity had not been taken within the last several minutes, Esha giggled – but then, his brow matted with sweat, said he was able to agree terms.
Oh, but Saffaar said he did not believe the word of a usurper. Apparently Ismail’s guards drew their swords at this disrespect, but he did not flinch, instead telling them he would only believe my word. For before Allah, he said, I would never be able to tell an untruth.
Esha gave herself time to draw breath and me time to digest her story. My head was spinning!
Well, I said, having finally worked out the chain of events, what happened then?
She grinned. I was summoned into the hall. Oh! And found this beautiful man before me! Think, sister, I was trembling behind my veil for the sight of him is enough to make you swoon. Don’t you think so? Is he not the sun and the moon and all the stars of the seven heavens?
Pah! I said. Go on with the story!
Alright. She wrinkled her nose at me. He told me how important it was to be honest, and to speak clearly and then asked:
Are you yet a virgin?
Oh, how I blushed and hid behind my veil! But of course, I answered him truthfully although I did not know what fate my answer would bring. I only thought that if I were to open to anyone, it would be him. He’s just so –
Finally she was without words.
Oh, she sighed. I am in love, and traced her finger round the edge of a bowl. He is so wonderful. He rescued me and I want only to give myself to him.
Who? I teased.
Seven
It was not long before life in Fez took on a routine as pleasant as at home in Granada – our apartments were large and comfortable, a full retinue of servants stood at our disposal. We enjoyed liberties here. When not at my lessons, I could accompany Sara’s visits to the markets of the medina. We were simply women of a noble household, neither restricted to court nor with formal duties to perform. Nevertheless, I felt for her loss. She had had no word as to the fate of her brother, Pablo, the loyal and true captain of Mumu’s personal guard at the time of the coup, and if it were possible, we grew even closer during this time.
One day, she said: Let us visit the market. The day is bright, and your brother al-Gani plans a feast this evening. There is a special courtier he wishes to present.
My master, al-Khatib, return today from his travels as well, I said.
Sara’s eyes crinkled. So it will be a double celebration.
We made for the Talaa Kebira with the eunuchs, dodging mule carts hauling wares to and from the different merchants, their drivers shouting at any who blocked their way through the tangled alleys of the suq. The clamour of the market, the sheer delight of discovery – what next would we find around the next corner? – was constant entertainment, and as Sara hired a porter to carry our purchases I walked ahead toward a cloth merchant’s stall which had caught my eye.
I think I will have new robes made for this evening, I announced. To celebrate my master’s return.
The merchant screwed his eyes into a tight ball at this seemingly impossible task, but nevertheless rushed in search of a female servant to take my measurements. I chose a cloth of ivory silk with a faint ruby thread wending its way through the folds.
It reminds me of the Vega at dawn, I told Sara. This is a day to honour home.
Later, as we passed a butcher and his hanging rows of skinned sheep, Sara mused: What shall we instruct the cook to prepare? A lamb tagine or fish?
I grinned. Why not both?
The merchants were in fine mood – there was a warmth to the air at last. Spring had come and the chill of early morn gave way to the fragrant scent of orange blossom. We passed stalls where women chose chickens to be fresh-slaughtered, their plucked feathers a downy cloud in our midst. We gathered eggs from hay baskets, their just-laid warmth a surprise to my hand. Sara called for lemons preserved in salted water, and ordered black and green olives from nearby orchards. At the spice stall, we chose cinnamon and saffron, coriander and paprika.
The porter groaned under his load but we still needed to collect the bread rounds left at the ferrane earlier to be baked. The baker searched out our khubzes, stamped with the crest of the pomegranate, our Nasrid Granada, and slid each in turn from the brick oven with his long wooden paddle.
Back in the palace, I busied myself in the kitchen.
Oh, what a slave you would make! the cook teased with twinkling eyes.
I brought charred peppers and tomatoes from the oven for her to peel into salads, and filled the tagines – into one went sardines, swordfish and snapper, together with tomatoes, potatoes, coriander and spices; into the other the lamb, candied lemons, nuts and cumin. As she began to prepare the couscous, I was called away to bathe and dress. My new gown had arrived from the harried merchant.
All evening I sat by al-Khatib, listening to his tales of journeys made throughout the Maghreb and the time spent at the madrasa in Sala of his old friend, Marzuq, as well as his visits to several Sufis orders there.
The brotherhoods meet, worship and sing in private sanctuaries, he explained. The dervishes whirl and dance as if lifted by the wind. When many are so-engaged, there is a clear and intense light, and the presence of Allah feels very, very near.
Oh, if I could express my love for Allah so! I cried.
al-Khatib smiled. When our exile is at end, he said, I hope al-Gani will build a madrasa in our Madinat where Sufis can practice. Then you shall know your dervishes.
During the feast Mumu presented his new friend, the wealthy scholar Ibn Khaldun, an earnest and learned man who reminded me of ho
w my master must have been in his youth.
Khaldun expressed interest in my studies. The grammar, poetry, natural sciences, Islamic law and Qur’an commentaries which consumed his time also filled mine.
You have gifts, he commended. And fortunate that, as a girl, your gifts have not been buried beneath swathes of cloth and kohl, henna and jewels.
I smiled at his small joke.
Averroes said that women’s talents are badly underutilised in our society, he continued. In fact, he even pondered on whether there may be philosophers and rulers among your sex.
Ibn Arabi spoke similarly, I said. He served several Sufi masters who were women and believed men and women equally capable at every level of social or spiritual quest.
What led you on this course? he asked and listened to my explanation with respect. My father also fell to the Black Death, he lamented.
It was the will of Allah for many to be taken, I sighed.
Khaldun chewed meditatively on a walnut. Yet, if one looks beyond the death of loved ones to the whole of humanity, he said, the scale of loss from this one event … To think that this destructive plague could arrive and swallow up so many of the good things of civilisation and wipe them out in an instant ...
He clicked his fingers and paused into the echo. It was as if suddenly civilisation had been shocked into silence, as if the voice of existence had called for oblivion and the world had responded to its call.
But why?
He shook his head. I have no answer. I am a scholar and can only comment on what I observe. Yet, in the end, I feel it means that we are all impotent in the face of destiny.
Unless our destiny is at one with Allah’s, I countered.
He inclined his head and smiled calmly with his eyes into the space left by my response. Kind and brown were his eyes, set into a handsome face topped by a turban of the finest cloth.
This then was Ibn Khaldun, the first man to seek my hand in marriage, when I was thirteen and he twenty-seven, my brother’s friend and advisor, the one they would later call sage. Indeed he went to Mumu next day and confirmed his wish to court the youngest sister of an exiled caliph. And in the weeks that followed, in between sitting and discussing deep matters of philosophy and science, history and fate, al-Gani would touch his friend lightly on the arm and say that if any were worthy to show suit, it would be him. But my brother had to respect the gift of our father.
Khaldun demurred. We would remain friends unless I indicated otherwise. But I could not. The small toys of this life were nothing compared to a divine Beloved.
We have just received word. Ismail is dead! Murdered after only a year by one of our cousins – the ridiculous Abu Said, addicted to hashish, a boorish lout. Oh – to see him! I shudder at the memory of his sweaty face and dull eyes, the nervous tics which afflict his body.
We sit at table while Mumu reads aloud from the scroll.
This new king calls himself Muhammad VI! And grins. This will be easier than I thought, he says and calls for al-Khatib to prepare a scroll for Pedro of Castile.
Oh, and Esha, shall we begin negotiations for your marriage to this great prince you sigh about?
We all cheer as she flies into his arms, squealing her delight.
Preparations for the wedding proceed apace. I tell Sara about my idea for a gift – a couch where the lovers may lie as one and reflect on their good fortune at finding each other in this labyrinth of life. Its upholstery I conceive in leather, the finest from the workshops that line the city’s river.
I want it to look like the domed ceiling of Father’s Hall of the Ambassadors with its seven heavens, I explain, and begin colouring the stars in their different hues on the sketch I have made.
Sara accompanies me to the riverbank where mules are piled high with slaughter-house fresh skins – goat, sheep, cow, camel. We hold small vials of jasmine beneath our noses to distract us from the smell. The Royal Tanner himself attends us, wiping his dye-stained hands before kissing the hem of my gown, hands which have spent years washing, treating, smoothing and colouring the hides in these huge, ancient vats.
He pours over my drawings. We will need many pigments, many mixes, to make the distinctions so clear between these mosaic zones, he says quietly, pointing to the different areas on the parchment. Red from poppies, orange from henna, brown from cedarwood, white from mint. I will need to coax each shade a little brighter, or a little softer, to simulate the retreat of the heavens.
He bows low. Your plan is beyond wonder, he says. Alchemy of the finest order.
We have celebrated. It is done. Esha comes to tell us of her wedding night – of his loving caresses, his tickles and teases, his experience in all the arts.
The concubines taught him well, she giggles.
Mumu sighs into his wine. Concubines … sometimes it is all too wearing! He groans and falls back on his couch. Each night! And then to ride and practise the arts of war each daylight hour? I am sapped of energy. I want only to sleep!
We toss cushions at his prone form, offer mock concern. But –
Wait! I cry. I have been reading of late in the books of Maimonides. Perhaps his medical knowledge will help. And rush off to the library, pull open the chests to search out the required volume of the learned Jew’s works.
Here it is, I report on return. An aid to virility … Mmmm. I scan the headings. Yes, found it. Here he writes that when one is confronted with the problem of a multitude of young maidens available each night … Ahhh, yes, he has a remedy. So, we’ll need:
A litre of carrot oil, another of radish oil, a quarter litre of mustard oil – all combined. Then – oh dear – mix in a half litre of live saffron-coloured ants? This must be placed in the sun for a week and then – um – massaged on your – ah – instrument – um – regularly.
How regularly? Esha asks.
I shake my head. He does not say. And then look up to be confronted by their faces.
This is not fantasy! I cry. I have read exactly what he wrote!
Impossible! says Mumu, wrenching the book from my grasp. He begins to read and his face blanches to the linen of his robes. Perhaps I will just eat more fruit, he gulps.
And let the girls provide more of the action? quips Esha.
Home! Pedro of Castile has sent word of a trap for the usurper. By the time we receive his scroll, he claims, Abu Said will be dead.
Mumu grins widely as he reads the news. Pedro plans to fell him himself, he chuckles. What a treat!
al-Khatib is cautious. Perhaps it is best if you go ahead, my Lord, to be sure Granada is ready for the return of your court.
Yes, Mumu agrees. I will ride ahead with my guard. Saffaar shall command the cavalry. Prepare the caravans, he instructs al-Khatib, but do not leave Fez until I send word.
Eight
If I knew every language of every kingdom on the face of this Earth, I could not describe the joy I felt coming home after three years’ exile. The colour, the mood, the light of the Vega – I was speechless in their sight! I wept as the first mountains came into view. I cried aloud when the forested hills above the Generalife were spied. I disturbed the women so much with each frantic parting of curtains they threatened to tumble me out of the caravan and make me walk all the way!
This is too much, Esha grumbled. We wish to rest!
Alright, I countered, I shall ride instead. And called for my horse.
Now I could concentrate on the road that led me home and at last it was the Madinat al-Hamra herself atop the ridge of the Sabika which rose out of the haze, parting the mists of steamy late afternoon.
You are back in your cradle, my master observed, riding alongside. A child left and a woman has returned.
Yes, I laughed, giddy with happiness. A child has a woman become.
Sheer madness, our joy. And greeted by Mumu covered in plaster dust? More madness! We laughed at his complexion, kissed his powdered face.
Have you become a fair Christian in homage to
Pedro? Esha teased.
We are working! he said, sweeping wide his arms around a construction zone of mammoth proportions. We are building! To the glory of Allah, to the glory of our kingdom, we are building a madrasa within the palace.
Ibn al-Khatib bowed low. Thank you, my Lord. Worthy homage from a worthy caliph.
Ha! my brother laughed, clapping him on the back. You knew this would be, old friend. How can you sow such seeds in exile without expecting some tiny thread of thought to seep into this thick skull? And he rapped his knuckles on his head, sending another cloud of dust into the air.
Yet it seems you work alone, Esha said. You are smothered in lime and plaster from head to toe, and in your oldest robes! Is this how you would display your kingly status?
Why not? he retorted. I am of a mind to share my artisans’ labour. Their work inspires me, and it is my palace after all. He grinned. And I want to host a grand celebration to present what we have done so far.
Perhaps in conjunction with the Prophet’s birthday this coming winter? al-Khatib suggested as the eunuchs were summoned to escort us to our apartments.
Mistress, said a voice behind me, and I turned to find Rasool kneeling there.
It has been too long, he said lifting his black eyes to my face and smiling deeply, fully. But the gods told me you would return when you would a woman become.
Zamrak sits cross-legged in the middle of a hall-in-the-making, pen in hand, scroll at the ready, awaiting inspiration. Around him, artisans bustle with busyness. Tilework is attached to walls, the cupola nears completion above, small cedar blocks in the ceiling’s design are painted in vibrant hues. Everywhere the sounds of hammering and scraping, and the sight of colours reflected by the wink of an inquisitive sun. al-Gani’s deadline has been set. Each task is critical.
Laleima enters the hall and joins him on the floor where dusty robes are a matter of course.
The salon grows more beautiful day by day, she remarks and looks down at his parchment. How goes your work?
The Taste of Translation Page 5
