The Taste of Translation

by Anne Gambling

  Zamrak sits apart from the conversation at table, his brow clouded. Watching her, watching him, he believes to know it now, and follows when they leave separately but together.

  He hears their murmurs, imagines the coupling to come.

  His hand is bound in white gauze, yet he feels anew the wound’s pain, the pulse of vein up and through a thin veil to open the gash afresh. A bandage soaked in a bloodied heart’s ache soon drips to marble. Pools. Congeals.

  So this is your work, Christian, he spits.

  It is Sara who bears witness. A scuffed and smeared trail leads her to the watcher’s apartments, and she hurries to al-Khatib with the answer, the one that so much says.

  Now, he instructs. There can be no delay.

  She finds them at a midnight supper of quail – two small birds roasted, bound as one, fragrantly filled and heady with spice.

  She hears her mistress say: We are like the oak tree and the cypress. We stand not in each other’s shadow, but separate, apart.

  And sees Sébastien kiss the cool of her hands, press them to love-warmed cheeks.

  But our roots entwine beneath the earth, speak one to the other, he rejoins. We are of different kinds and will ever-be. Still I know you as I know myself. For different kinds can melt as one. If they so choose. If they believe.

  I have chosen, she says. I understand Rumi’s verse:

  I have no companion but love,

  No beginning, no end, no dawn.

  This night she has brought her Chinese writing box. She removes brushes and inks, spreads parchment before her and copies the nested fishes etched into its lid onto the page. Into the light shape she scripts an S, into the dark an L. In Latin is the gift for him from her, no end or beginning to this circle bound by the dance.

  This is my marriage contract, she says. This is my promise. As it is written in your scriptures:

  Love never fails.

  Sara wrings her hands in the shadows, sees the beauty of a life unlived rise up and overwhelm her with a cry for what can never be.

  The lovers start at the intrusion.

  Your master has called for you, she murmurs.

  The gazelle caught in the hunter’s sight, his hand a font of energy in her own.

  Let me walk with you, he says. Let us share this fate. For in my scriptures it also says:

  There is no fear in love, for perfect love casts out fear.

  I do not fear, and her eyes are clear as she states this truth. But needs be I must walk alone. Of this I am certain.

  She places her fingers to her lips, then to his. And in this hour of all hours is not surprised that a verse from Zamrak presents itself in her thoughts:

  The pennants of morning are unfurled.

  Night’s bell has tolled, it is time to travel on.

  Later, al-Khatib comes to him and says: Leave tonight. The hunt is fortuitous – it will be some weeks before al-Gani knows. By then you are safely in Castile and we can make arrangements for the princess’s future.

  You could send her to me, Sébastien pleads. We could begin life afresh in Christian lands.

  The vizier snorts. Do not be so naive. Would you spend your whole life looking over your shoulder, waiting for al-Gani’s captain of cavalry to cut you down with a swift sabre and return her for punishment? Is that the life afresh you would share?

  She has farewelled you, he continues more softly, and lays a hand on the boy’s shoulder. You must do the same. Let love be both poison and cure, the serpent’s venom which heals through its pain. Do not let your love spill over into a matter of state where it will curdle and atrophy, drown in a mire of political turmoil. Leave, pray. Do not play with God’s mercy.

  Before dawn horses are saddled. Sara has beseeched her brother to provide him with safe passage to the border.

  But Pablo has already made a decision of his own.

  Tell al-Gani I am ill when they leave for the hunt, he says to al-Khatib and then turns to Sébastien. As I first brought you here, so will I leave. If they come to hunt you, I will stand at your side. Love is no crime.

  al-Khatib nods, sighs. Yes, you would probably be the assassin sent, a Christian with the task a fellow Christian to murder. It would certainly serve some courtiers’ purposes.

  Here, says Sara, pressing a pouch into Sébastien’s hand.

  It contains a stone, an amethyst disc on which script is etched:

  A Beloved unlike all others.

  He alone has touched my heart.

  And although absent from sight and touch,

  He is ever present in my heart.

  It is a ghazal from the Sufi Rabi’a which she carved herself, Sara says, her voice cracking. It rested beneath her pillow each night.

  Pablo is at his elbow, urging him to hurry. There is the twitter of birds in the pre-dawn, the stirring of soldiers on the battlements, and they ride swift across the Vega.

  The amulet is safe in a pouch about his neck. Yet a sudden slice to the heart pulls him short, and he slows his mount to a trot, pain searing his chest with each breath taken.

  It is time to turn, to take a last look at the Madinat in her glory, the soft glow of dawn’s burnt light at her back. And yes, there he sees a figure atop the tower, wrapped in the weft of lightening sky, her hand raised, sketching words of farewell.

  Borne on the wind, they sail. To where he is and whence he goes. Away.

  Twenty-four

  I wish to bathe! I call to Sara. I must warm these frigid bones, open my skin to the steam. Slake it clean!

  Ready for reinvention.

  The wind is high risen. It rocks the cypresses in the garden, teases the waters of the pool, reflections lost in a soup of confusion, sight of self drowned beneath. The wind is high risen, on this, the day he left. I linger not in my thoughts, but cross the patio before resolve is lost.

  Servants assemble in the gallery of the hammam to disrobe me and make their preparations. I don a plain linen shift, ready to descend the stairs and do this thing. Yet my plan not a plan, just an opening of pores to the warmth of the steam, a submission to what will be.

  As easy as hooking a toe into the hem of my shift and letting gravity do the rest down a steep flight of stairs. As easy as looking over my shoulder to answer a servant’s cheeky remark but neither halting forward motion, nor watching. And a few moments later lain prone, no longer whole, concerned maids cradling my head.

  Oh, but to will it? To look down the staircase, anticipate the action and know its consequence? I would tremble, steady myself on the rail, search for the hem with my toe. Too deliberate an action and as such unachievable. No thought or it will not work. The toe must find the hem of its own accord, the step fade from view, the staircase there, then not there.

  Perhaps my mouth will open, a shout issue forth or a faint cry of surprise. To be expected, from an unborn child soon a pool of blood to be.

  After it happens, they note the bruise forming on my knee, the graze upon my chin. My ankle has swelled.

  But I still wish to bathe! I cry.

  Sara shakes her head at this insanity, steps onto the marble block.

  Head back, she sighs. Close your eyes.

  Water cascades my hair, I feel its thick-lustred sheet fall heavy at my back. Rid me of this sin! Open wide my pores! Forgive me of this death!

  I stand naked in the sight of Allah, but closed eyes only see within. Where there are sparks, stars, a wide red silent scream. And a woman’s cry much like my own as her fall goes very slowly past me.

  Blood flows. Thick, sticky, warm.

  More than a memory, less than a life, a breath, a heart beat. A river of shame between slim thighs.

  Blood flows, and does not stop.

  Twenty-five

  I can see a small bird from my window. He plays hide and seek with his companions among the holes cut deep into the stucco relief around the patio columns. Sometimes seen, sometimes not. Peepholes, spy glasses, windows to other worlds. Pee
p out, peep in, hop to, hop fro. Flutter your wings, ruffle your feathers, chirrup your joy. I promise I shan’t give you away.

  Sara is at my bedside. The tears are slowing, but still well up when I think afresh on my crime.

  What is this madness? Esha cries, rushing into the room. What have you done?

  I turn my shamed face away, close the veils on this draped universe, look for my feathered friend. Perhaps, just perhaps, past the curtains, past the carpets and hangings, there is a small opening, a tunnel through and out.

  Oh, tiny sparrow, if I shrink to your size and press through that space, to where shall I fly? To where shall my longing take me? To the freezing snows of the Sierra Nevada, my feet bare and iced, mind cleared to see forever? What do I ponder if not the infinite beyond? What do I see if not these finite palace walls?

  The bleeding has stopped, Sara tells my sister. It was sudden, a full rush, but now nothing. What does that mean?

  It means you have not done this thing properly! says Esha, full of anger. But suddenly softens, catches me up in her arms.

  Oh, my small sister, why did you harm yourself so? Why was the Christian so important?

  Love, I whisper, eyes fixed on the sparrow.

  Call for Rasool, Esha instructs. I would know what his magic can tell us.

  The eunuch places his hands on my belly, moves them softly, gently across the hidden pattern of organs within, breathes low and deep, his sight within.

  Your child lives, he says, waking from the vision. He grins at me. His heartbeat is strong, he wants not to be sacrificed.

  I weep afresh. Allah has not punished. He has forgiven!

  A verse from Hafiz bursts from my lips:

  Love,

  Give me back my wings,

  Lift me,

  Lift me nearer.

  Esha rises from her stool. I must speak with al-Khatib. We need to do this thing properly –

  No! I cry, suddenly sure and hold my body tight. No! It is the will of Allah. Our love shall be brought forth into the world – his soul shall be born in this form.

  His? Esha strokes my hair with maternal warmth.

  I know. I carry a father’s son.

  Twenty-six

  Only some days have passed but she feels well, uplifted, buoyed by fresh joy. Allah’s sign is clear – this she believes, and decides to visit her mother’s grave in the Rawda.

  Sara grimaces. Mistress, are you sure? I would prefer that you rest!

  I have rested enough! It is a beautiful day, the wind has dropped, the birds delight in their games. I too would enjoy a day in the garden.

  Ah. But to observe joy when you feel none, to witness love when all you swallow is a bitter pill? A difficult task for one such as he. And so he waits in the patio as she seeks to return to the harem after dusk prayers, a wicked shadow masking a lonely heart’s desire.

  You are well again, little star, he sneers. Over your heartache at the Christian’s cowardly flight?

  She lowers her head, pulls close her veil.

  He steps into her path and says: I have nothing but pity for you. Indeed, I know the feeling of loss well. But perhaps I can soothe your anguish as well as my own? For I have an idea.

  And he begins the slow circling of a cornered gazelle.

  Yes, I have an idea. An idea to encompass us both. For perhaps, one day, soon, there will be a need for a new chief vizier. Something may happen to remove al-Khatib from his place of importance – who knows? But perhaps, one day, soon, al-Gani may hear the story of your dalliance with the Christian and the role al-Khatib played in the intrigue. Perhaps al-Gani will come to me, distraught at the betrayal visited upon him by his chief advisor and his beautiful baby sister, and may wish for a servant more loyal to accompany him the rest of his days.

  He stops before her, a silken thread of words binds her tight. He is certain of his position now, the low crouch before the spring. To grip the neck of the fragile doe, break its slender bough with one swift crack.

  Perhaps all this will come to pass. One day. Soon, he breathes into her veil. Long, hot, heavy.

  And waits – a good sign, he thinks, this silence of hers.

  Or, there is another perhaps you may like to consider. Where you seek out your brother upon his return from the hunt, confess your love for me and plead with him for our union in marriage.

  Again he waits. As long as it takes, he thinks.

  I can see your breast rise and fall within your gown, he says. I can see your heart beat hard against the slim twigs of bones so easily splintered.

  Yes, her voice a small tremor. I see how you watch me, Sir. Perhaps you also see that I would sooner take my own life, cut out this heart by my own hand than submit to you in marriage!

  There. It is said, spoken. It is what will be.

  Zamrak smirks. You think you have a choice? What choice will you have when the sultan knows you are no virgin? Even then you will be forced to submit to me, the reward of a grateful king more than happy that I accept a whore as my wife. Such a sacrifice I would make to heal such deep wounds in the royal house!

  I will not submit to evil. For that is the sum of your soul.

  He grips her wrist in reply. Hark! One more squeeze and it will snap.

  She gasps in pain but still he holds fast.

  You will be mine, he says through gritted teeth, spit curdling in his beard.

  Oh! Her child has called. The deep primal ache of lifeblood threatens to drain afresh. She crumples.

  No more games, he growls, letting her fall. I will have my way. And strides away from the patio’s trembling light.

  Rasool has heard, heard what cannot be heard with the ear. He who carries fresh linens to the harem hears in his heart this cry for help.

  She is but a smudge on the patio marble, a shadow shrinking from the moon’s embrace.

  The eunuch thinks long as he smoothes damp hair from her forehead, releasing pain from her brow with a muttered incantation. He thinks long on the arts of his ancestors, their magic as deep as his darkly-oiled skin.

  And leaves the linens to lap and flow where they have been dropped, afloat on the cool edge of the pool. Rather, it is Laleima he carries to the women, her feather-light form a precious jewel in his arms.

  Twenty-seven

  al-Khatib is all business. Leave, he advises, the sooner the better to ward off Zamrak’s scheming. It will ensure you are far beyond the borders of the kingdom by the time the hunting party returns.

  He hands her papers prepared with new identities. Your brother-in-law is conducting negotiations at court in Fez, he says. Hand him this letter from your sister. It will be enough to set you on the path to a new life.

  Esha hugs her tight. Where will you make for? So I can write?

  No sister, this is farewell. And she turns away from eyes which reflect her own pain.

  Look to the stars, Laleima says. There I will write my letters of love.

  Do I know you? Saffaar Salim says to the pilgrim admitted to his presence.

  Perhaps. I bring a letter from your wife.

  She remains bowed on the floor some paces distant from his couch, offering silent prayers for this man’s compassion.

  A messenger interrupts their audience with an urgent despatch from the Nasrid Sultan, Muhammad V. He reads, coughs, once-twice, dismisses the messenger.

  No reply, sir?

  None as yet.

  So, he says to the huddled form at his feet when they are alone. This is a proper mess.

  Does he know I am here?

  No. Saffaar rises and begins to pace the tiled floor, his slippers scuffing through harried thoughts. No, he only suspects. A similar despatch was evidently sent to Sevilla.

  We will not stay. We only pass through.

  Where do you make for? Ayesha’s letter offers no clue.

  I could not burden her with knowledge, knowing she may be forced to tell. Our destination and route remains secret.

  But ho
w am I to help? he says in frustration. For help I will and must – for your sake, Ayesha’s, mine. He shakes his head. I do not like the tone of al-Gani’s despatch. He has turned or been turned, and he scrunches the parchment in his hand.

  Zamrak, she says. He is most likely the voice behind the words.

  Saffaar is puzzled. If the sultan no longer listens to the counsel of al-Khatib –

  Stops suddenly, not wishing to contemplate the possibility, but continues despite himself. That snake! For all his pretty poetry, there is something untoward at his core.

  Yes, she sighs, and he would use that sick core to curdle hate in my brother’s heart, breed paranoia in his mind.

  He still pursues you?

  I care not for myself. But my brother? My master? By leaving, perhaps things will settle, return to how they were. Perhaps my brother will remember who he really is with Esha’s counsel. Perhaps al-Khatib’s favour will return. Perhaps … One day. Soon.

  She stops, suddenly chill, trapped in the memory of Zamrak’s perhaps.

  He comes and takes her hand, leads her to the couch where they sit as equals, sister and brother-in-law, bound.

  I will return, he says. My business here can be cut short. I can return to al-Gani, to Ayesha, to lend support and confirm to your brother that you have not passed this way.

  She lets out her breath in a long-held whoosh and he hugs her tight.

  So, he says, clapping his hands with a laugh. If it is not Laleima, little star, with whom I have sat, tell me, who is it?

  I am Maryam, from an aristocratic Sevillan family exiled to our ancestral estates in the kingdom of Granada last century. With the death of my father and husband, I am making the hajj to Mecca and have sold property to fund the caravan. I have brought greetings from your old slave … ummm …

  Habib, he prompts.

  Yes, Habib, who was most recently in my employ. We will pray at the Andalusian mosque here in the city for safe passage during the next stage of our journey, and leave tomorrow by the Bab Ftuh gate.

  Saffaar inclines his head. A good story. Believable. But once a day out of Fez?