Cervantes Street (21 page)

* * *

I was getting physically weaker, and my spirit was as shattered as it had ever been, when one day Abu said to me: “I have good news for you, Miguel: I heard from a man close to my master that you will soon be released from this cell. Arnaut Mamí will probably ask to see you before you are sent back to the bagnio, so I will have to increase your lashings—it’s better for both of us if you look like you’ve been receiving your punishment. But don’t worry, I’ll soften the strokes so you are not killed.”

As the lashings increased, it was no use trying to hold back my screams. I could not block out the excruciating pain inflicted on my flesh. My back became swollen and the skin began to tear. The lashes would have hurt more if I hadn’t known they were coming to an end soon. As I bled, I lay with my face resting on the ground, breathing in the stench of the blood-soaked earth.

One morning soon thereafter Abu informed me, “My master left Algiers a few days ago. I have orders to release you from the cell today. I will walk you back to Bagnio Beylic.” Then he handed me a little blue bottle. “Apply this balm to your skin, Miguel. It will prevent the wounds from getting infected with maggots and will make them heal soon.”

Abu gently helped me to get up, but my legs would not hold my skinny frame. With my friend’s help I took a few steps. The chains around my feet had never felt heavier. I dropped on my knees to the ground. After a while, the fresh air began to revive me. While I sat still on the ground, Abu left the enclosure and returned with a large bucket of water and a bar of soap. As he helped me to remove my rotten garments, I handed him back his copy of
Lazarillo
.

“I heard you laugh in there many times,” he said. “I knew that if you could laugh, you’d survive.”

Abu poured water over my naked body while I soaped myself. The pain in my wounds made me moan and contort. I tried to soap my head, but my hair was so matted that water would not penetrate the thick shell. When I finished washing, Yessid handed me the two pieces of clothing given to all prisoners when they were released.

On the way back to Bagnio Beylic, I was so weak I leaned on Yessid’s arm. The outside world seemed unreal. At that moment I thought I understood what Lazarus must have felt like when he returned from death. Before I passed through the doors of the bagnio, Abu said, “Take good care of yourself, Miguel. Despite the circumstances, I thank Allah that we met again. But remember, we cannot be friends in Algiers. If we ever run into each other in the casbah, you must not talk to me. If my master finds out that we are friendly with each other, I will lose my employment and be punished. Who knows,” he added, “we might meet again someday, away from this country, in a place where Moors and Christians can live side by side in peace.” He turned around and walked away so fast I did not have a chance to speak.

* * *

Weeks went by before I was strong enough to wander into the casbah. How I missed Sancho; I had no idea how much I had come to depend on the fat man. I survived this period after my release thanks to the generosity of my fellow inmates, to whom I became a symbol of our resistance. They gave me any bits of food they could spare. One man gave me several sheets of paper and an inkpot. “Write about this place,” he said. “Make sure the suffering of our martyrs has not been in vain.”

At that moment when my future was still so bleak, a human angel entered my life. I will preface her story with some verses by Ibn Hazn of Córdoba:

Were I to conquer your heart

The entire earth and the human race

Would be to me but motes of dust

And the citizens of this country, insects.

Her name was Zoraida; I called her Lela Zahara in the plays I later wrote about my years of captivity, and Zorayda in the story “The Captive’s Tale” in
Don Quixote
. There is no letter as rich or elegant as the last letter of the Spanish alphabet: it contains a 7, an
L
, and a sideways
N
. It is as much a portal as it is a letter, an initiation to a mystery. The first letter of her name contained the key to Zoraida, who was many things at once: Muslim by blood, a Christian in her soul, the most beautiful woman my eyes had ever seen, and the noblest Algerian.

Agi Morato, a Moor of high rank, was the alcaide of Bagnio Beylic. His residence shared a wall with our courtyard. It was a tall wall with two oval windows near the top; the shutters were always closed. The windows were too high up for any captive to try to escape through; they might as well have been sealed.

Following my failed escape attempt, I had acquired in Algiers a reputation as a valiant and fearless poet. Sancho had been right when he told me the night we met that poets and madmen were revered by the Moors as holy men. Nobody bothered me when I chose to stay alone in the bagnio writing my poems. It was at this time that I began to write down ideas for possible plays. One day my works would be performed, and from beyond the grave my writings would inform the world about what our men suffered in captivity. My works would incite the Christian nations to attack and destroy the Algerian pirates. These thoughts were my only consolation.

One morning in the courtyard, leaning my back against the wall of Agi Morato’s house, I was engrossed writing a letter to my parents when I heard little pebbles pelting the floor near me. I glanced around and saw no one nearby. I continued writing, and another pebble hit the floor. I looked up at the wall behind me: a rod emerged from one of the windows that was always shut; a thin rope dropped from the tip of it. It resembled a toy fishing device made by a boy. At the end of the rope was a tiny white bundle attached with a white ribbon. The guards were at their usual posts, but distracted by the life of the casbah. I placed my writing instruments on the floor and went to inspect the strange object. The bundle turned out to be a white handkerchief tied in a knot. I undid the knot, then the rope went back up immediately and the rod disappeared behind the window.

I returned to my writing place, sat down with my back against the wall, and drew up my knees, sheltering the handkerchief in the space between my legs and my chest. Inside were ten small pieces of gold. Was this a dream? Was my mind playing tricks on me? I bit one of the coins—it was solid gold. From the window a woman’s hand waved at me and then was pulled back inside. The window closed again. It was as if the shutters had never opened.

What was the meaning of this? Should I move away from that spot and never come close to it again? Was Arnaut Mamí testing me? Was this a trick to draw me into conspiracy again? My achy bones, my scarred skin, and my despondent mind had not yet recovered from the months I had spent holed up. Who was this woman? Had Mamí asked her to lure me into a trap? It was best to resist the flights of my wild imagination. In case she was still watching me, I crossed my arms over my chest in the Moorish style, to show my gratitude.

I tied the gold coins in the handkerchief, which was made of the softest cloth and was delicately scented with a perfume of lotuses, and left the bagnio in a hurry. I hoped walking until I was exhausted would drain the intense emotions pent up in my body. In Sancho’s absence, there was no one with whom I could share the strange happening. Even the usual bustling life of the casbah could not dispel the woman’s hand from my mind. Was she an angel or a devil? And why had she selected me? Could she be an abducted Christian who had been forced to become a renegade and marry Agi Morato? It was known that his harem was filled with Christian women.

Not wanting to arouse the slightest suspicion, I refrained from asking questions about the woman. In Algiers I had learned not to trust even my thoughts. Superstitious captives feared that the agents of the beylerbey could read their dreams while they slept.

I waited for another sign from the house, and for many days I did not leave the bagnio. But there was always a sick captive who stayed behind, or a person of rank in Spain who could borrow from moneylenders in Algiers: they could stay all day in the bagnio sleeping or playing cards. For weeks nothing happened; I began to think that my benefactress would never try to contact me again.

One morning when I found myself momentarily alone, the rope dropped again near to me with another small bundle tied at the end of it. I grabbed it quickly. Wrapped in a perfumed handkerchief, I found a balled-up sheet of fancy paper. Again the rope was quickly removed and the shutter closed. I held in my hand—I counted twice to make sure I was not hallucinating—forty crowns of Spanish gold. The letter was signed with the drawing of a cross. The calligraphy of the writer was exquisite:

Christian,

I have to be brief, but I swear by the holy name of Lela Marien—the blessed Virgin—that I am your friend. Tomorrow midmorning, in the section of the souk where herbal medicines are sold, an old woman will approach you. Her name is Loubna. Do not speak to her. She will show you the palm of her hand, on which you will see a cross drawn in ashes.

Follow her, but make sure that no one is following you. Walk behind her at a distance. She will lead you to a remote part of the casbah where you will meet a young Moorish gentleman.

Do not ask him any questions, but follow him.

Was fate playing another cruel trick with me? Regardless of the dangers, I had to find out what was behind all this. If necessary, I would risk torture all over again if it meant there was a glimmer of hope that I could escape from Algiers. After my thwarted first escape attempt, I was more determined than ever to taste again the sweetness of freedom. Freedom is a slave’s Holy Grail; without it, his life has no meaning.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I wished Sancho had been around so that I could share my disquiet with him. How admirable of my noble friend to risk a terrifying death knowing his chances of survival were infinitesimal. At least Sancho was at peace now. Death had restored to him what every slave was robbed of—his dignity.

The next morning, I followed the instructions of my mysterious benefactress and met Loubna in the casbah. I trailed her at a distance, until the crowds thinned out and we reached the edge of a forest of pines behind one of the great houses of Algiers. She entered it and I walked behind her. In a sheltered spot we met a young Moor dressed in splendid clothes. “Follow me,” he said. The old maid turned around and began retracing our steps. The young man walked fast, deeper into a thicker, darker part of the woods. I was too excited to feel any fear. I noted the youth’s gentle voice, his lithe steps, his long neck, his pink lips, and his soft manner. Stopping under a tall rock, he faced me and removed his turban—whereupon long black hair cascaded to his shoulders. I was flabbergasted: my eyes had never beheld such a beautiful woman.

“I’m the one who dropped the money from the window,” she said. “I’ve been watching you for a while, and have seen you telling stories to the other captives. I have come to the conclusion that you’re unlike any of the other men in the bagnio, and that you’re the only one I can trust.”

“Who are you?” I asked. “Why have you blessed me with your trust?”

“My parents gave me the Moorish name of Zoraida, but my Christian name is María,” she said. “I’m Agi Morato’s daughter; that’s all I can tell you now. Later I will answer your questions. I have prepared this billet which will explain many things.” She pulled out a small envelope from her sleeve and handed it to me. “Read it later. Now you must listen to me carefully because I don’t know when we will get another chance to speak to each other face-to-face. Don’t worry about being discovered here: my maid will start singing if there’s anybody coming this way. I’m in a desperate situation and the passage of time is my enemy. I’ve had many suitors from all along the Barbary Coast and from as far away as Arabia, but to the dismay of my father, who is entering an advanced age, I’ve turned down all of them. Father has informed me that Muley Maluco, king of Fez, has asked for my hand in marriage. My father is planning for a wedding at the end of October. The king is a good man, cultivated and kind, which pleases me.” She paused to stare at me briefly, as if to make sure I followed her story. “But I don’t love him. My father, as you may have heard, is very wealthy and I have access to a great deal of his fortune in gold escudos and jewels. I will provide you with funds in gold so you can purchase a well-built vessel to carry me to Spain, where I hope to enter a convent. I know you will not betray me. Your gallantry and bravery are well-known in Algiers—you are admired even by your enemies.”

Her words made me dizzy. I felt as if God had sent an angel to carry me back to Spain.

“I know you are good and honest,” she went on. “My people are deceitful, and there’s no one I can trust, except my loyal maid, who also wants to go to Spain with me. She’s an old Christian woman bought by my father many years ago, when she was a girl. She wants to return to Spain before she dies, to die in the bosom of the only true church. Await my instructions, sir. Tomorrow in the market, in the same place where you met Loubna today, she will hand you the funds you will need to start preparing for this enterprise. I have to go now. We must step with the caution of cheetahs.”

I dropped to my knees. “I vow to serve you with all my strength,” I said. “I pledge to defend you against any harm.”

She extended her hand, in which she held a handkerchief, which she surrendered to me. Then she turned around and disappeared among the trees, leaving me inebriated with the heavenly scent of her body. I lay on my back on the pine needles and moss that carpeted the ground, with her handkerchief spread across my nose and lips. I closed my eyes and stayed in that position oblivious to the passage of time. I wanted that moment of perfect happiness never to end. If this was a dream, I did not want to awaken from it.

When I began to get cold, I found my way out of the woods and directed my steps to the little plaza in front of the ruins of the ancient Christian church. There were no people around. I squatted on a large rock from which I could see the harbor. For the first time since my arrival in Algiers, the Mediterranean looked conquerable. Zoraida’s billet read: