Leo Africanus (11 page)

‘Are these children yours?'

She leant unsteadily against a wall, and stammered out a ‘No', immediately followed by a ‘Yes'. Hearing the ‘yes', Juan leapt towards me and snatched me in his arms.

How shall I ever forget the cry which my mother let out? She threw herself on the soldier, scratching him, raining down blows upon him, while I wrestled as best I could. But the young man was not put off. He quickly got rid of me and glanced at his sister reproachfully:

‘So only the girl is yours?'

She said nothing, which was answer enough for Juan.

‘Will you take her with you or leave her to them?'

His tone was so severe that the unfortunate girl took fright.

‘Calm yourself, Juan,' she begged him, ‘I don't want a scandal. Tomorrow I will take my belongings and I will leave for Alcantarilla.'

But the soldier would not listen to this.

‘You're my sister, and you're going to collect your baggage immediately and follow me.'

Encouraged by Warda's about-turn, my father came closer, saying:

‘She is my wife!'

He said it in Arabic and then in bad Castilian. Juan slapped him with all his might, sending him flying across the muddy street. My mother began to wail like a hired mourner, while Warda cried out:

‘Don't hurt him! He has always treated me well. He is my husband!'

The soldier, who had grabbed hold of his sister roughly, hesitated a moment before saying in softer tones:

‘As far as I'm concerned, you were his captive, and you no longer belong to him since we have taken possession of this city. If you tell me that he is your husband, he can keep you, but he must be baptized immediately and a priest must bless your marriage.'

Warda now directed her entreaties towards my father:

‘Accept, Muhammad, otherwise we shall be separated!'

There was a silence. Someone in the crowd cried out:

‘God is great!'

My father, who was still on the ground, got up slowly, walked with dignity towards Warda and said, in a shaking voice: ‘I will give you your clothes and your daughter' before walking towards the house past a line of approving murmurs.

‘He wanted to save face before the neighbours,' said my mother in a detached tone, ‘but all the same he felt diminished and impotent.'

Then she added, doing her best not to be sarcastic:

‘For your father, it was at that moment that Granada really fell into the hands of the enemy.'

For days, Muhammad stayed at home prostrate and inconsolable, refusing even to Join his friends for the meals at the breaking of the Fast, the traditional
iftars
; no one begrudged him this however, because his misfortune was known to all the very evening of Mihrajan, and more than once the neighbours came to bring him, as if to a sick man, the dishes which he had not been able to taste at their houses. Salma made herself inconspicuous, only speaking to him to answer his questions, forbidding me to bother him, not imposing her presence upon him but never being so far from him that he had to ask for anything twice.

If my mother was upset, she kept her spirits up, because she was convinced that time would bring her cousin's sadness to an end. What upset her was to see Muhammad so devoted to his concubine, and especially that this attachment had been so flaunted in front of all the gossips of al-Baisin. When, as a youth, I asked her whether, in spite of everything, she had not been pleased when her rival departed, she denied it vigorously:

‘A sensible wife seeks to be the first of her husband's women, because it is a delusion to wish to be the only one.'

Adding, with feigned cheerfulness:

‘Whatever anyone says about it, being the only wife is no more pleasant than being an only child. You work more, you become bored, and you have to put up with the temper and the demands of the husband by yourself. It is true that there is jealousy and intrigue,
and argument, but at least this takes place at home, because when the husband begins to take his pleasures outside, he is lost to all his wives.'

It was no doubt for this reason that Salma began to panic on the last day of Ramadan, when Muhammad leaped up from his usual place and went out of the house with a determined step. She only learned two days later that he had been to see Hamid, called
al-fakkak
, the old ‘deliverer' of Granada, who had for more than twenty years been involved in the difficult but lucrative task of ransoming Muslim captives in Christian territory.

There had always been, in the land of Andalus, people responsible for looking for prisoners and obtaining their release. They existed not only among our people but also among the Christians, who had long had the custom of nominating an ‘alfaqueque mayor', often a high state official, assisted by numerous other ‘deliverers'. The families of the captives would report their disappearance – a soldier fallen into the hands of the enemy, an inhabitant of a city which had been invested, a peasant girl captured after a raid. The
fakkak
, or one of his representatives, would then begin his investigations, going himself into enemy territory, sometimes to distant lands, disguised as a merchant, or sometimes taking advantage of his rank, to find those who had been lost and discuss the sum required as ransom. Since many families could not pay the sums required, collections were organized, and no alms were more valued by the believers than those which were given to assist in the release of the faithful from captivity. Many pious individuals used to ruin themselves by ransoming captives whom they had often never seen, hoping for no other reward than the benevolence of the Most High. On the other hand, some deliverers were no more than vultures who fed on the misery of families by extorting from them the little money that they had.

Hamid was not of that kind; his modest demeanour bore witness.

‘He welcomed me with the formal courtesy of those accustomed to receive streams of requests,' my father told me, with hesitations which the years had not swept away. ‘He invited me to sit down on a comfortable cushion, and after having duly asked about my health, he begged me to tell him what had led me to him. When I told him, he could not stop himself letting out a loud laugh, which ended with a prolonged burst of coughing. Much offended, I rose to take my
leave, but Hamid took me by the sleeve. “I am your father's age,” he said, “you should not hold it against me. Do not take my laughter as an insult but as a tribute to your incredible effrontery. So, the person you want to recover is not a Muslim girl but a Castilian Christian girl whom you dared to keep captive in your house eighteen months after the fall of Granada, when the first decision taken by the conquerors was to set free, with great ceremony, the seven hundred last Christian captives remaining in our city.” I could only answer “Yes”. He looked at me, regarded my clothes for some time, and judging me to be a respectable person, began to speak slowly and kindly. “My son, I can well understand that you are attached to this woman, and if you tell me that you have always treated her with consideration, and that you cherish the daughter you have had by her, I truly believe you. But as you well know, not all slaves were treated thus, neither here nor in Castile. Most of them passed their days carrying water or making sandals, and at night they were stalled like animals, chains around their feet or necks, in squalid underground caves. Thousands of our brothers still endure this fate, and no one bothers about their deliverance. Think of them, my son, and help me buy some of them back, rather than pursuing a chimera, because, of this you must be certain, never more in the land of Andalus can a Muslim give orders to a Christian man, nor even to a Christian woman. If you are minded to get this woman back, you will have to go through a church.” He uttered an oath, passed the palms of this hands across his face before continuing: “Take refuge in God, and ask Him to grant you patience and resignation.”

‘As I was getting up to go, disappointed and angry,' continued my father, ‘Hamid offered me a final piece of advice in a confidential tone: “In this city there are many war widows, many impoverished orphan girls, many disabled women. There are almost certainly some in your own family. Has not the Book stipulated that those men who can do so should shield them with their protection? It is at the time of the greatest tragedies, such as those which are raining down upon us, that a generous Muslim should take to himself two, three or four wives, because, while increasing his own pleasures, he carries out a praiseworthy act which serves the whole community. Tomorrow is the ‘
id
; think of all those women who will celebrate in tears.” I left the old
fakkak
not knowing whether it was Heaven or Hell that had guided me to his door.'

Even today, I am quite incapable of saying. Because in the end Hamid went about his task with such skill, such devotion, such zeal, that the life of all my family was to be turned upside down by it for many long years to come.

899 A.H.
12 October 1493 – 1 October 1494

‘A lost homeland is like the corpse of a near relative; bury it with respect and believe in eternal life.'

The words of Astaghfirullah sounded in time to the rhythm of the amber rosary which his thin pious fingers told incessantly. Around the preacher were four serious bearded faces, including that of my father Muhammad, four long faces each showing the same distress which the shaikh was stirring up without mercy.

‘Go, emigrate, let God guide your steps, for if you accept to live under submission and humiliation, if you accept to live in a country where the precepts of the Faith are held up to ridicule, where the Book and the Prophet – on whom be prayers and peace! – are insulted daily you will give a shameful image of Islam for which the Most High will call you to account on the Day of Judgement. It is said in the Book that on that Day the angel of death will ask you: “Is not the land of God vast enough? Could you not have left your homeland to seek asylum elsewhere?” Henceforth the fires of hell will be your dwelling place.'

It was in that year of ordeals and heartbreaks that the period of three years allowed to the citizens of Granada to choose between submission and exile came to an end. According to the surrender agreement, we had until the beginning of the Christian year 1495 to decide, but as the crossing to the Maghrib beyond the sea might prove hazardous after the month of October, it was considered better to leave in spring, or, at the latest, in summer. Those who wished to remain behind were known by the epithet already in use to indicate
Muslims living in Christian territory, ‘tamed', ‘mudajjan', corrupted in Castilian to ‘mudejar'. In spite of this derogatory adjective, many of the citizens of Granada still hesitated.

The confabulation taking place in the courtyard of our house in al-Baisin – may God restore it to us – was like a thousand others held that year to discuss the fate of the community, sometimes even of a single one of its members. Astaghfirullah took part whenever he could, his tone lofty but his voice low to indicate that he was now in enemy territory. If he himself had still not taken the road to exile, he hastened to explain, it was solely to turn aside the waverers from the way to perdition.

Waverers were plenty among those present, beginning with my father Muhammad, who had not despaired of retrieving Warda and his daughter, who had sworn that he would not leave without taking them with him, under the very noses of all the soldiers of Aragon and Castile. By dint of insisting, on visit after visit, he had managed to extract a promise from Hamid the deliverer to get a message through to his concubine. In return for a large sum of money he had also succeeded in charging a Genoese merchant called Bartolomeo with a similar mission; he had been living in Granada for a long time, and had made his fortune by ransoming captives. Hence he did not want to leave before he had reaped the fruit of his costly undertakings. His misfortune had turned him into a different person. Oblivious both to the general disapproval and to Salma's tears, he took refuge in his own misery from the miseries encompassing him.

Our neighbour Hamza the barber had other reasons for wavering. He had estates, which he had bought plot by plot, the fruit of twenty years of delicate and lucrative circumcisions, and had vowed not to depart until he had resold everything at a good price, down to the last vine; for that he had to wait, because so many of those who wished to leave, anxious to be on their way, were selling their lands for a song, and would-be buyers were like kings.

‘I want to make those accursed Rumis pay through the nose,' he said in justification.

Astaghfirullah, whom Hamza had always admired, did not want him to remain in a state of impurity, since his blade had purified half the boys of al-Baisin.

Another of our neighbours, Sa‘d, an old gardener who had recently been struck blind, did not feel able to leave.

‘You can't plant an old tree in alien soil,' he would say.