It is cool in her mirador on this burning afternoon. Heat shimmers off the parched lawn of the Rawda, and a maid brings linen already stitched, the various parts of a tiny vest brought together, melded into one.
My task simply to sprinkle a rosewater blessing and embroider subtle bands over each shoulder. A simple enough design, I know it by heart, a cross-hatch of threads in blue and gold, single strands locked in embrace, and around the hem a thin stream of red to intersect the fabric’s motif.
But I keep making mistakes with the single red thread. The perfection of the day crumbles as I unpick my work, over and over, till the blood of pin-pricked fingertips stains this innocent labour.
Blood – this is no thin red stream but one which soaks, floods, an ache which grips me anew as I again see the clearing and the unsheathed dagger. What do I do with this? What do I do with a memory which has not yet come to pass?
All I can do is call for a fresh tunic, feign fatigue, hand it to Sara to embroider in my stead and look up and into the coloured glass of the dome which catches the last rays of the day. Blue, green, red, all trapped by wood and thrown into the room to transform me into rainbow light.
See? the sun winks. Your pain is well-hid.
Esha arrives, all excitement.
Saffaar is back! she cries. The visitors were well-advanced and they met along the road not far from Granada. Look there, she points. Already he escorts them to their quarters.
Isn’t he handsome? she chatters on. Oh, my heart leaps and my thighs quiver at just the sight of him in his armour!
Yes, I agree in a monotone of longing.
Some two years it has been but I still know the stride, the blonde curls, the slight form clothed in the robes of a Christian court. And the pain shifts north to my heart as twilight etches the mountains against their woven web of sky.
The evening star greets me, maids collect their sewing and leave. Esha rushes off again.
I know not what to do. Yes, I loved and lay with him from afar in a dream which collapsed time and space, dissolved All into the One. But now? Now he is near. Very near. And I know not what to do.
al-Khatib sits at his parchment.
You told me not that his return was written in the stars.
I was informed only several days ago by a messenger sent ahead to request an escort from the border, he remarks, still writing. I did not know it would be of such import to you. I thought all that was past. And finally looks up.
Love is never past.
I see. He nods, sighs, puts down his pen.
Nothing lasting can come of this union, you know that. Your moments will be fleeting if that is what you choose. But I will remain discrete. Pray to Allah, the Most Compassionate and Merciful, to keep your secret safe.
The aging vizier rocks back on his heels after she leaves, scratches his chin, rakes fingers through a seldom-tangled beard. Indeed, he had cast her horoscope for just this moment, this pre-destined moment.
Ah Laleima, little star, he sighs. I pray you are strong enough to bear the suffering that will come of this.
Across the Patio of the Myrtles, past candles enough to guide a traveller’s passage from this world to the next, I glide. But stop on the threshold to the gallery staircase to look back at the pool.
Not a breath of air shifts the water, our whole palace afloat on a small mirrored sea, and I walk back to consult the mirror – I and the moon clear within the pool, the turrets of Father’s tower solid at my back. Full, this eve, is the moon, sucking all the sun’s radiance into herself and firing it into the world, into the pool, back up to herself, this heavenly mirror mirrored.
Yet where do I search for my truth? In the pool? In the sky? In my heart? Has he been my lover since I dreamed it so? Will he ever, always be, in the truth of the pool? Has the infinite absorbed us before even a kiss has been shared in this plane of illusion? Words form in my understanding:
There is only one Laleima.
Now I know the truth. I of the pool am she of the path. But can I ever tell my master he is wrong? That something lasting has flooded the pool and exists in the heavens where time is unknown?
The moon has her shadow shed, like the serpent its skin, or the weary wayfarer his cloak, forty days and nights afoot. A painful passage from what was to what will be but a verse cupped within shall ease my metamorphosis:
I try to think on you
But all I see is love.
Inside
There is you.
Sun – warm and gold,
Pure molten joy.
Inside
There is you. Also me.
Twenty
So, says al-Gani, hand outstretched for a servant to refill his goblet. You have returned to us, Christian, to this small but perfect oasis, separated from our neighbours by seas of religion, from our brothers by seas of time. Indeed it is a pleasure that you have sailed the seas which separate, to share news of your court – pray tell, what of Pedro, why this mission?
They sit cross-legged at table in the Barca. al-Gani presents a festive mood for his visitors – a sumptuous repast has been prepared, music plays in the patio. Late summer jasmine, its scent heady in the heat, is threaded into garlands or placed, trailing and flowing, into niche vases.
All is as well as it can be, my Lord, is Sébastien’s response. Skirmishes continue between the king and his half-brothers. Ever do they seek to wrest the throne from his grasp.
al-Gani snorts. Skirmishes? The battle of Nagera this past spring was slightly more than a skirmish, surely.
Turning to the table at large, he says: More than 70,000 horsemen and foot soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder on either side!
Sébastien demurs. Yes, a major battle, but Don Pedro was ably assisted by the Black Prince, Edward of Aquitaine, son of the English King. The attack was ferocious, but broke swiftly and unexpectedly. A miraculous day.
Humph, they give themselves too little credit for their skill in battle! says al-Gani. But Allah was clearly smiling all the same.
Don Pedro said it was the protective power of your ruby which helped secure the victory. The spirit in which you gifted the stone lives on, for he has since bequeathed it to the Black Prince.
The caliph hoots with laughter. Father’s stone now in the hands of English royalty? An unexpected path!
Yet one which bespeaks the value of friendship across kingdoms, my Lord, Sébastien reminds him.
True, too true. But now, Christian, what of your mission? Why so many in your retinue?
The translator smiles. Simply because, despite all Pedro’s trials, he remains overwhelmed by the beauty of the works brought back from your fine halls, my task now to return with his gift of thanks for your generosity of spirit.
More gifts? al-Gani throws wide his hands in mock exasperation.
I lead a group of Christian artists. Just as your artisans worked magic on the Alcazar of Sevilla, they are here to offer the same.
The sultan nibbles on an almond. What would they do?
Our style is to decorate ceilings with paintings, he explains. I have told Pedro of the glory of your Royal Library, the great hall in the madrasa where so many scripted treasures are kept. He was of the opinion that portraits of some of your most learned scholars and writers could be painted on its ceiling, as if to observe those who read their treatises below.
Mmmm, al-Gani thinks long. I have heard of your penchant for portraits. But on a ceiling? al-Khatib, what is your opinion?
My Lord, methinks our young Christian has described in great detail the wonders of the Madinat al-Hamra, and perhaps whispered in his sovereign’s ear a suggestion Pedro has taken to heart? It is a generous offer, and one which would confirm the close relation between your kingdoms.
Then it is settled. Set you artists to work, my friend. But what will you do? Unless you plan to hang from the ceiling with a brush in your hand?
Sébastien chuckles. Nay, my Lord, I comport only with words. I ha
ve brought several volumes to be translated and added to your rich trove. One especially is precious to our hearts – the Cantigas de Santa Maria which Pedro’s ancestor Alfonso commissioned a century ago. It is a compendium of religious thought, instruction in the social graces and legends from which we draw inspiration.
Excellent! al-Gani is enthusiasm itself. Sister, are you keen to enjoin this work?
Laleima’s hand instinctively shifts to her veil, drawing it close across a fast-flushing cheek. If it so pleases you, Brother.
Good. Zamrak, once the translation is complete, prepare a treatise about the texts and their messages. Consult my sister. I am sure she will be a worthy partner in this task.
As you wish, Sire. It is hard to keep his expression level, thinking all the while he would begin slowly this time, mask his ardour with softer entreats.
But you, Christian! al-Gani says. Not too long at your task or overseeing your artists’ labours. I am of a mind to enjoin you in the life of the court. The coming weeks bring the excitement of the hunt. You shall be my guest at this event. And he reclines on his divan, calls for a concubine, affairs of state at end.
The guests drift in and out between patio and salon. It is late, the columns’ shadows lengthen with each further drip of candle wax, and in one’s dark embrace, he waits for her to pass.
My prayers go with you into your dreams, Lady.
She returns his bow, brushes his fingertips with hers. I thank you for your wishes, and return them.
Carried by a breath, inhaled by desire, he knows where to find her.
Twenty-one
Sara leads her mistress along silent halls to the apartments of al-Khatib made ready for this moment.
As long as breath is sustained, as long as stars shine, ever as a new sun rises or a last moon sets, for all days that have been, for all yet to come, this forever moment will exist. Stilled.
The jalousies are open to the moon’s passage through the heavens, to the owl’s hoot from the tower, to the rush of fragrant water through the acquiea of the patio. A lone cypress resides in this place, tall-grown to hug the sky. Jasmine twirls up marble columns. Lilies, irises, flood sunken gardens. Yet the night air is chill. A brazier warms limbs not glued in embrace, charcoal sizzling with thyme. The lovers merge with the walls of cobalt blue, bottle green, ochre red, pure white, slip-sliding through a mosaic medley, these two who are honeyed pearls, lying as one, like fresh minted coin.
Because of you, all that is within me has been brought to surface, she says. Love no longer a hidden treasure.
A kiss shared, full, content, before he rises above her, begins afresh the slow melt into fluid forms of gently woven and painterly strokes.
Complete, she says, wiping the tears from his cheeks.
Complete, he says, kissing the salt from her fingers.
Soon he sleeps, fingers locked in her hair. Smoothing damp curls from his forehead, she composes a ghazal to her religion of love:
I feel you quiver as sleep is pierced.
The bow, once taut, its arrow sprung.
Time slips like a cloak in its timeless slide.
To where the peace of Oneness lies.
In the privacy of this apartment, he shows her Cantiga 103 of the Alfonso manuscript. Six miniatures narrate the story: a monk prostrate before the Virgin; a fountain appearing where before there was none; a bird singing atop a tree in the garden; the monk staying, transfixed, for its song knows no time; then returning to the monastery where everything seems different; and the monks he greets strangers to his sight.
He plucks the lute with an experienced hand, lifts his voice into the air:
As soon as the monk had finished his prayer,
He heard a small bird begin to sing such a sweet song
That he remained there and kept his eyes fixed upon it.
He who serves the Virgin well will go to Paradise.
Such great pleasure he took in such a beautiful song
That a long 300 years he remained there, or longer,
Believing that he was there, the same as only a short time.
He who serves the Virgin well will go to Paradise.
This verse sustained me, he confesses. I tried to believe, as this monk believed, that time matters not, for we are ever-as-one in eternity.
Yet the pain of leaving you! he suddenly cries. I warrant that an arm sliced off in battle would not cause as much anguish, for truly it was anguish of the soul. I searched the scriptures, the writings of our saints for some sign of hope. I searched far for this knowledge to keep me whole, calm enough to draw breath, one after the other each day.
He wrings his hands, weeps in his desire to explain all this to her. The pain in my heart when I lay with my wife! The pain of not being with you doubled by the pain I brought her. Because I could not give myself to her, because I am ever here, in my heart, with you.
He draws breath, sighs, says: The writings of St Augustine helped me to think not in terms of past or future, but an eternal present where time is neither perceived nor indeed existent. For in eternity, nothing moves into the past. It simply cannot, for all exists now in a different space. I found I could close my eyes and be with you in a madinat of memory. Even as the world turned, day to night and night to day, my sight could be on you, my fixed star. Just as the monk fixed his gaze on the Virgin’s singing bird and did not remark the three hundred years which passed in his meditation, so could I live.
Oh, my love – can you imagine how this helped lighten my heart? I could close my eyes, quiet my senses, and be with you! Ever. Now.
But see, Laleima? He weeps on, even though he smiles, laughs, like one drunk on love. Pain rules his destiny, as it remains yours. When the stillness, the closed eye, the private meditation slips from the ever-now, pain is your only reward.
She watches as he turns to another scripture. St Paul’s letter to the Corinthians:
Love suffers long,
Bears all things, believes all things,
Hopes all things, endures all things,
Love never fails.
I will not fail you, he promises. Whatever pain, whatever sacrifice, whatever penalty, I will suffer it. My love will never fail you.
I know, she says. I know.
Twenty-two
Too hot to hunt, al-Gani laments. Come, let us stay our boredom with a little entertainment, and calls for a servant to ready his falcon.
They walk down from the Generalife through to the meadow below the orchard. The falcon’s claws bite hard into the studded leather gauntlets the caliph wears to his elbow, and a crate of pigeons stands ready if no grouse or partridge can be flushed.
Is she not beautiful?
He removes the falcon’s plumed leather hood, unhooks the tether from the jesses. She tosses her head, bells tinkle at her leg while he gently strokes her dark wing, buff breast. Coos his love.
She is my assassin of the air! he cries and throws her skyward where she flies high, very high, climbing the thermals.
Look! She has spotted a partridge. His excitement is infectious. Now watch!
The swift dive, wings tucked tight against her body. As sudden as a teardrop, as sudden as its fall from an eye caught in the sun’s glare. There! The quarry pierced, the reward snared.
Oh, he says. It heats my blood each time. Holds out his arm for the falcon’s return, feeds her a sliver of meat. My queen, he says, replacing the plumed hood over dark eyes.
The artists are busy in the library, the smell of paint heady in the heat.
Let us take the texts and retire to the cool breezes of the Generalife, says Zamrak. The activities of the hunt should not disturb us.
But this day al-Gani had led his courtiers to the meadow to present a display of falconry. From where they sit in the mirador, all can be viewed at leisure.
Oh – look! Her eyes shine. Did you see how swift and deft Mumu’s falcon pierced the partridge’s heart? Her talons a lethal dagger!
There is a new scent to her, a muskiness or ripeness, as if her breasts are fuller, her eyes brighter, rounder. He sees the beauty of the gazelle in full flush, virginal no more.
The hunt enjoined, he would reach for her now, pull her to him, crush himself to her. He sweats, turns away. If he could but begin slowly as planned!
Zamrak – is all well?
His breath quick, pale sweat beads his brow. Impossible. He turns back to her, grasps her wrist, pulls her hand to his heart.
Wallada – see how you enflame me? Please, please let me hope!
She rises, swift, slips from his sweat-soaked claws. Flies free. Again.
This hand, this hand. Damn the hand that let her go!
He bites hard down on his knuckle, tastes blood, his own feast of flesh. And drinks of unrequited desire:
I was with my love without a spy. And my chastity pleaded long to forsake me.
Twenty-three
A last evening at the Generalife. On the morrow the men would ride out for a hunting party of some weeks, the last of the season.
Are you sure you will not join us, Christian? al-Gani asks. It is a wonderful respite from the affairs of state, to ride and hunt all day, sleep beneath the heavens each night. I remember well my nights as a child on the hunt. A lute strummed, a flute blown, a low voice sending me into my dreams.
His eyes shine with memory, and he laughs, shakes his head at wonder recalled.
It is as if we are our nomadic ancestors made whole again, he says, our lives open to the four horizons, blown by the four winds, watched over by Allah’s universe. Out there I feel at one with the world, like a tiny speck on the face of existence but still with the light of God’s love in my breast. Out there I forget I am sultan, become once again the boy, the son of my fathers, free of spirit, unshackled from duty, ready for adventure.
Come, he smiles and pats his guest on the knee. Come and see what it is to be a boy again.
Your offer is indeed generous, my Lord, says Sébastien, and the pleasure of re-creating the firesides of our primal past sorely tempting. But needs be I must finish my work and return to Sevilla before first snows close the mountain pass.
The Taste of Translation Page 11
