Cervantes Street (23 page)

I was overcome with joy when I saw Zoraida in the silvery moonlight, standing by the open door. Loubna accompanied her. “I couldn’t meet you at the appointed place because my father didn’t go to bed until a short while ago. I think he suspects something,” she explained softly. Rows of pearls roped her neck; bracelets of gold, encrusted with diamonds, adorned her arms and her ankles. “Follow me this way.”

Our men were amazed to hear a Moorish woman speaking like a Castilian. She instructed the men, “Make sure not to make any noise. My father has a light sleep.”

I said to my compatriots, “Let no harm fall to anyone living in this house. I want no blood spilled.”

We followed Zoraida down a dark corridor, which led to her chamber. She pointed to a row of mother-of-pearl coffers on a table. I opened one of them: it was filled with gold coins. Another one overflowed with jewels. We picked up the coffers and left the room. We were close to the front door when, in our rush to get away, a man slipped on the mosaics and knocked a metal ornament off the wall. It hit the bare floor, clattering like a cymbal. We froze on our feet momentarily.

Holding a burning candle, Agi Morato stepped out of his apartment in his sleeping garments. “Lights, lights!” he shouted. “Christian thieves! Christian thieves!”

One of our men rushed toward Agi Morato and thumped him on the forehead with the handle of his dagger. He dropped to the floor, unconscious. How could I have been prepared for this? Zoraida ran to her father’s side, kneeled on the floor, and gently cradled his head. “Please, wake up, dearest,” she implored. “Forgive me, Father.” To us, she said, “ I beg you, gentlemen, do not harm him.”

The commotion had awakened the rest of the servants. Two Moors, wielding pistols and carrying torches, ran toward our stunned party. When the servants saw themselves outnumbered, they surrendered their arms.

“I don’t want any bloodshed,” I repeated. “Disarm these men, tie their hands and feet, and cover their mouths.” The subdued servants were dragged to Agi Morato’s apartment and left there.

Servant women huddled together trembling in the corridor and watched us with terror shining in their eyes.

I had to take Zoraida away from the house before more servants came forward to defend their master. But Zoraida made no effort to get up from the floor; her father’s head rested on her lap.

Agi Morato began to come to his senses. When he saw Zoraida he said, weakly, “Daughter, go to your chamber and lock your door. Do not open it until I tell you.”

Zoraida lowered her eyes and began to shed copious tears.

Agi Morato realized his daughter’s complicity. “The betrayal of one’s child is the most painful of all punishments,” he said to her. “How could you do this to me, who gave you life, who nurtured you and protected you, who thought of your well-being every day of your life? May Allah strike me dead!” he wailed.

We were all transfixed by this scene, until Abdul spoke: “We’ve lost too much time. Let’s bring my master with us. Any minute we delay here we’re putting our escape at risk.”

Two of our men helped Agi Morato get back on his feet. He stepped out of the house without further protestations, as if the betrayal of his daughter and his most trusted servant was too much for him to bear. Zoraida walked behind him but Agi Morato refused to acknowledge her. Abdul led the way down a path in the orchard that would end at the sea. We were crossing a stream when Agi Morato fell in a faint.

“Go ahead,” Abdul said to us. “I cannot leave my master behind. Prepare to man the oars. We will be there as soon as he’s revived.”

“I’Il stay with Abdul to help him,” I offered.

“I can’t leave my father behind in this condition,” Zoraida said to her maid. “Go with the Christians. We will join you as soon as my father is conscious again.” Loubna protested but Zoraida was firm: “This is an order. Go; there’s no time to waste.”

Don Manuel Ulacia, one of the Castilian noblemen, said, “You are endangering all of us, Cervantes. Leave the old man behind. We can’t take him to Spain with us.”

“I’m in charge here,” I reminded him. “Do as I say or I’ll consider your words an act of insubordination.”

If the Dominicans had not intervened, I probably would have been killed then and there. Finally, one of the Castilians said, “If you are not there when we are ready to sail, we will leave you behind.”

“I’ll take that risk,” I said.

The men left, accompanied by a reluctant Loubna.

Abdul had propped Agi Morato’s limp body against the trunk of a willow that grew at the water’s edge. Zoraida cupped some water in her hands to wet her father’s forehead and cheeks. He opened his eyes. Overcome with joy, Zoraida embraced him.

“What have you done, my daughter?” Agi Morato murmured with such sorrow in his voice that I was moved to compassion for him.

“I won’t lie to you, dear Father,” Zoraida said. “It was I who financed this enterprise with your coffers. May God forgive me, but after you brought Azucena to live with us, I secretly became a Christian. Once I saw the light of the true God, I could not return to the old darkness. I’ve been reborn, Father.”

“Don’t you know, blood of my blood, that you have offended Mohammed? You’re no longer my daughter,” Agi Morato rasped with difficulty. “You have offended the Prophet so you could become a whore like the Christian women. I curse the hour you were born of my seed and your mother’s womb. By the name of Allah, the only true God, I disown you. From this moment forward, you’re nothing to me.”

“Father, Mohammed is not my Lord. I only answer to the Christian God.”

“I curse you! I curse you forever!” Agi Morato screamed, his entire body shaking. Then he pulled a dagger from under his robe and, before anyone could react, plunged it between Zoraida’s breasts. Her back hit the mossy ground; her quivering hands, like broken wings, fluttered in my direction. Agi Morato drew the bloody dagger from his daughter’s body and with ferocity stabbed himself once, twice, in the vicinity of his heart. Staring at me, holding the dagger in his chest with both hands, he mumbled, “I swear by Allah that if I had any strength left, I would remove your heart with my own hands and feed it to the jackals of the desert. May Allah punish you with His mighty wrath and His divine righteousness.” Then he fell forward and his face hit the rushing stream. His hair floated, spreading like dark algae tendrils on the water’s surface.

I took Zoraida in my arms. She was still alive, and my tears washed her face. “Don’t cry for me, Miguel. It’s not wise to mourn for those who die and go to heaven,” she whispered. “To die in this manner is but to begin a new and better life. In this world I was far richer in pain than in gold ducats. Now, for the first time, I’m the richest woman in the world because no one else can welcome death so willingly. I die so happily in your arms, Miguel, that death herself must envy me.”

“Sun of my darkest days,” I said, weeping, “when I dragged my chained feet up and down the harsh streets of Algiers, I dreamed of the day when my fevered forehead would be cooled by the touch of your beautiful hands.”

“May Lela Marien protect and bless you,” she said. “Kiss me . . . on my lips.”

As I placed my lips on hers, Zoraida’s last breath slipped out of her body.

* * *

Two of our men returned to look for me. When they saw Agi Morato was dead and the lifeless body of Zoraida cradled in my arms, they dropped to their knees and said the Lord’s Prayer aloud.

“It’s time to go,” Don Eduardo Ospina said, getting up and making the sign of the cross. “We have to leave now, if we want to have a chance to reach Spain.”

“Go without me,” I said. “If I returned with you, freedom to me would taste like hemlock. Go with a tranquil heart, my friends. Take advantage of the cover of night to put as much distance as you can between yourselves and Hassan Pasha’s ships. Do not delay. Freedom is waiting for you. I only ask that one of you goes to see my parents. Don’t tell them about this tragedy; but tell them I will return soon.”

The men gave me their word, we embraced, and they left. “I must bury my master as soon as possible,” Abdul said, lifting Agi Morato’s corpse in his arms. I knew Muslims are buried without delay. He walked up the stream and soon disappeared, leaving me alone with Zoraida. I took her in my arms and walked toward the seashore to find a place to bury her. I found a small cave on a hill facing the sea. I deposited her body inside, but not before all my tears had been shed. In death, Zoraida would be looking in the direction of Spain and the life she had wanted so much for herself.

To protect her human form from being desecrated by the beasts of the desert, I sealed the entrance to the cave with rocks. I worked without interruption. Using just one hand, it took many hours. By the time I finished my fingers were raw and bleeding profusely. The rising sun had tinged the horizon rose. I looked in the direction of Spain: the vessel carrying my friends could not be seen. The serene sea would deliver them on Spanish soil by the next morning.

The morning star glittering in the dawn sky was the only witness to my misery. I let my feet decide my fate. I could have walked south toward the Sahara to die; instead I headed for Algiers, for the bagnio, where I could at least die surrounded by other slaves. I would give myself up. I hoped I would be killed, because life without Zoraida—God forgive me!—meant nothing to me.

I walked for days in the wilderness, disoriented, sleeping during the day and resuming my journey at night. I took no precautions, ready to let the beasts of the desert feed on my wretched flesh. As I approached Algiers, I noticed in the distance a dark cloud advancing toward it from beyond the Sahara. What was it? This was not a rain cloud. It shifted shape as it advanced, making a deafening droning din. As the swirling obsidian cloud got closer, its furious monotonous whirring grew louder and louder.

It was not the sound of thunder, or the howling produced by the dusty siroccos, but a chattering in a language that could be spoken only in the netherworld. I hurried so that I could get back inside the bagnio before the ominous cloud arrived.

I entered through the gates of Bagnio Beylic and approached the pashas on duty to turn myself in. They were not interested in apprehending me: they were too concerned about their own lives.

The cloud stopped advancing and stationed itself above the nearby hills, waiting. A searing wind blew from the desert for several days and nights but brought no sand with it. By then everyone knew the cloud was the voracious African locusts against which there was no human defense. Everyone had heard of the plagues of the locusts in the past, but it had been many years since they had last descended upon Algiers that only Talal, the old madman who prayed naked in the plazas all day and all night, had any memory of them.

Talal ranted on the steps of the holiest mosque: “The locusts have returned, they will eat anything green until the land is bare and you have nothing but your own feces to feed on. Fog will shroud your faces, and globules of fire will fall from the sky and burn your skin and bore holes in your bones and skulls. All sinful cities on earth have their time of reckoning and yours has come. Allah will punish you, Algerians, for all your offenses against Him. Allah has sent the locusts to you as a reminder of His righteousness and to punish the abomination of your ways. Beware of those who disbelieve the signs of Allah. Only the strict believers will be saved. The sinners will serve as kindling to stoke the fires of hell. Allah’s punishment will be severe. The offenders will wander forever in a labyrinth of fire. Ask for Allah’s forgiveness, pray to Mohammed to intercede for you. Blessed be the name of Allah, the all powerful, the Avenging One.”

The devout and the fearful flocked the mosques. Rich people began feeding the poor. Everywhere in the city, Algerians prayed in the direction of Mecca, promising to make their journey as soon as the cloud of death passed. In the public squares, Algerians begged Allah for clemency, promising to change their sinful ways, to observe fasting during Ramadan, to stop drinking alcohol, to stop eating pork, to stop practicing sodomy, to stop stealing and cheating in their business deals.

One morning, after the mosques had called for dawn prayers, there was no sign of the sun in the sky. A quivering ebony tent covered the entire city, and it hissed like a swarm of demons. By midday locusts rained like a raging tempest on Algiers. They fell so thickly that people couldn’t see farther than an arm’s length. The pests invaded the houses, filled the drinking wells, hid in the cooking pots, found their way inside locked coffers, sealed peoples’ throats and choked them to death. Even in the privacy of their sleeping chambers, people had to shout in order to hear one another. Sometimes the locusts gathered so thickly in one spot that people died for lack of air. I staggered around with my nose, mouth, and ears covered by a scarf.

The mosques now overflowed with penitents who recited the Qu’ran until their voices gave out. An imam preached, “Allah has compassion for His people. Allah forgives. Allah is all compassionate.” The verses of the Qu’ran were recited in the plazas, in the mosques, in the houses of the wealthy and the dwellings of the poor. But the recitation of these verses did nothing to placate the locusts.

Their hissing only got louder. No matter how many you squashed with brooms, or any other object you could slam them with against the floors or the walls or the cobble-stoned streets, the locusts just seemed to multiply. I gave up trying to sleep and wandered around dazed, praying to God to take mercy on me so that I could join Zoraida soon. No one could sleep, no one could rest; there was no place to hide from the plague.

The people of Algiers had reached the end of their desperation and had become resigned to dying when, late that night, a raging wind blowing from Africa’s bowels swept over the city for hours. By daylight it looked as if every single locust had been buried in the sea. Algerians prayed on their knees in front of their homes, thanking Allah for ending their torment.

The world we woke up to was colorless: the green hills behind the city were as bare as the desert, as naked as rocks, and the leaves of every tree, every little shrub, as well as the flowers in the gardens, the fruit in the orchards, the herbs that grew wild or in pots in the courtyards, had been consumed.