Leo Africanus (21 page)

To be friends at thirteen, with just the suggestion of a beard, and to declare war against injustice; from the distance of twenty years it looks like the picture of bliss. But at the time, what frustration, what suffering! It was true that I had two sound reasons for throwing myself into the fray. The first was the subtle appeal for help which Mariam had made to me on the way to Meknes, whose suppressed anguish I could now fully measure. The second was the Great Recitation, an occasion to inspire my adolescence with the pride of
knowing the precepts of the Faith and the determination that they should not be ridiculed.

To understand the significance of the Great Recitation in the life of a believer, one must have lived at Fez, a city of learning which seems to have been constructed around the schools, the
madrasas
, just as some villages are built around a fountain or a saint's tomb. When, after several years of patient memorization, one reaches the point of knowing by heart each
sura
and each verse of the Qur'an, when one is pronounced ready for the Great Recitation by the schoolmaster, one immediately passes from childhood to man's estate, from anonymity to fame. It is the time when some start work, and others are admitted to the college, the fount of knowledge and authority.

The ceremony organized on this occasion gave the young Fassi the sense of having entered the world of the might. That was in any case what I felt on that day. Dressed in silk like the son of an amir, mounted on the back of a thoroughbred, followed by a slave carrying a large umbrella, I passed through the streets surrounded by the pupils in my class singing in unison. At the side of the road, several passers-by waved at me, and I waved at them in turn. From time to time a familiar face: Khali, my mother, two girl cousins, some neighbours, Hamza the barber and the boys from the hammam, and, a little to one side under a porch, Warda and Mariam.

My father was waiting for me in the reception room, where a banquet was to be held in my honour. He was carrying under his arm the new robe which I was to present to the schoolmaster as a token of gratitude. He gazed at me with disarming emotion.

I looked back at him. All at once, so many images of him clustered in my head: moving, when he told me the story of Granada; affectionate, when he caressed my neck; terrifying, when he repudiated my mother; hateful, when he sacrificed my sister; pitiable, slumped at the table in a tavern. How many truths did I want to shout down at him from the back of my horse! But I knew that my tongue would be tied once more when my feet touched the ground, when I would have to return the horse and silks to the person who lent them, when I would cease to be the short-lived hero of the Great Recitation.

908 A.H.
7 July 1502 – 25 June 1503

‘The Zarwali was never the poor shepherd that he claims. And he never discovered any treasure. The truth is that for many years he was a bandit, a highway robber and a murderer, and the fortune he started off with was simply the result of a quarter of a century of plunder. But there is worse to come.'

Harun had ferreted wonderfully week after week, but, in spite of my frequent entreaties he had refused to give me the slightest inkling until he had completed his investigation.

That day he had come to wait for me in front of the Qarawiyyin Mosque. I had a lecture from three until five in the morning given by a learned Syrian who was visiting Fez. Harun had given up his studies and was already wearing the short grubby habit of the porters; he was just about to begin his day's work.

‘The worst thing,' pursued the Ferret, ‘is that this character is insanely jealous, always convinced that his wives are trying to betray him, particularly the youngest and most beautiful ones. A denunciation, a slander, an insinuation on the part of one of her rivals is enough for the poor unfortunate to be strangled. The Zarwali's eunuchs then make the crime look like an accident, a drowning, a fatal fall, an acute tonsilitis. At least three women have died in circumstances which are suspicious to say the least.'

We paced up and down under the arcades of the mosque, which were bright with the light from countless oil lamps. Harun remained silent, awaiting my reaction. I was too overcome to make the slightest sound. Admittedly, I knew that the man whom my sister
was going to marry was capable of many misdeeds, and it was for that reason that I sought to prevent the marriage. But it was now no longer a question of sparing an adolescent girl from a dull and dreary existence; it had become a matter of saving her from the grip of an assassin, a bloodthirsty monster. The Ferret was no less worried than I, but he was not the kind to waste time in lamentation.

‘When is the ceremony to take place?'

‘In two months at the most. The contract is signed, the preparations are already under way, my father is collecting the dowry, he has ordered the sheets for the bed and the ceremonial mattresses, and Mariam's dress is already made.'

‘You must talk to your father, to him alone, for if anyone else becomes involved he will become obstinate and nothing will prevent this evil coming to pass.'

I followed his advice, except in one small detail: I asked my mother for confirmation from Sarah that Harun's information was correct. Gaudy Sarah indeed confirmed it in its entirety a week later, after having made me swear on the Qur'an that I would never mention her name in any connection with the matter. I needed this additional evidence to be able to confront my father without the least shred of doubt lurking in my mind.

In spite of this I spent the whole night turning in my head how I could best first bring up the subject, then withstand the attacks which it would provoke, and finally, if the Most High showed Himself understanding towards me, somehow carry the day. A thousand arguments and counter-arguments went backwards and forwards in my head, from the cleverest to the tritest, but none remained convincing until morning, so that I had to face my father the next day without the slightest idea, without even the beginnings of a case.

‘I want to say something to you which may displease you.'

He was in the middle of eating, as was his custom every morning, his bowl of wheat gruel, sitting on a leather cushion in a corner of the yard.

‘Have you done something stupid?'

‘It has nothing to do with me.'

I took my courage in both hands:

‘Ever since people have become aware that my sister is going to marry the Zarwali, I have been told the most disturbing things about him.'

The bowl at his lips, he inhaled loudly.

‘By whom? There's no lack of jealousy in this town!'

I turned a deaf ear.

‘It's said that several of his wives have been strangled!'

‘If anyone says anything like that to you again, you can teli him that if those women were punished, they deserved it, and that in our family the girls have always been beyond reproach.'

‘Are you sure that Mariam will be happy with –'

‘Mind your own business.'

He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and got up to go. I clung to him miserably:

‘Don't go like that! Let me speak to you!'

‘I have promised your sister to this man, and I am a man of my word. Furthermore, we have signed the contract, and the marriage will take place in a few weeks' time. Instead of staying here listening to these lies, make yourself useful! Go to the mattress-makers and see if they are getting on with the job.'

‘I refuse to have any part in anything to do with this marr –'

A slap. So violent that my head went round and round for several long seconds. Behind me I heard the muffled cries of Warda and Mariam who had heard the entire conversation, hidden behind a door. My father held my jaw in his hand, gripping it tightly and shaking it feverishly.

‘Never say “I refuse” to me again! Never speak to me again in this tone!'

I do not know what came over me that moment. I was as if another person was speaking through my mouth:

‘I would never have spoken to you like that if I had not seen you seated in a tavern!'

Seconds later I regretted what I had said. To the end of my days I shall regret having pronounced those words. I would rather he had slapped me again, that he had beaten me all over, than see him collapsing on his cushion with a dazed air, his head in his hands. What good would it have done to try to apologize? I went out of his house, chasing myself away; I walked straight on for hours, not greeting anyone, not seeing anyone, my head empty and aching. That night I slept neither at my father's nor at my uncle's. I arrived at Harun's house in the evening, lay down on a mat, and did not get up again.

Until morning. It was Friday. Opening my eyes, I saw my friend
staring at me. I had the impression he had been in the same place for hours.

‘A little longer and you would have missed the midday prayer.'

He was scarcely exaggerating as the sun was high in the sky.

‘When you arrived last night you looked as if you had just killed your father, as we say.'

I could manage only a twisted grimace. I told him what had happened.

‘You were wrong to say that to him. But he is at fault as well, and more so than you, because he is handing over his daughter to a murderer. Are you going to let him commit a crime against your sister to make up for your own offence?'

That was precisely what I was about to do. But put like that it seemed despicable.

‘I could go to Khali, he will find ways of convincing my father.'

‘Open your eyes, it's not your father who has to be convinced.'

‘But Mariam can't refuse to marry him! If she dared to make the slightest sound he would break her bones!'

‘There's the fiancé.'

I didn't understand. I mustn't have woken up properly.

‘The Zarwali?'

‘Himself, and don't look at me like that. Get up and follow me.'

On the way, he explained his idea to me. We were not going to knock on the rich bandit's door, but on the door of an old man who had nothing whatever to do with my sister's marriage. But who was the only one who could still prevent it.

Astaghfirullah.

He opened the door to us himself. I had never seen him without his turban; he seemed almost naked, and twice as gaunt. He had not been out all day, because he had been suffering from a pain in his side since two Fridays past. He was seventy-nine years old, he told us, and he thought he had lived long enough, ‘but God is the only judge'.

The arrival of two downcast-looking boys puzzled him.

‘I hope that you have not come to bring me bad tidings.'

Harun began to speak, and I let him do so. It was his idea, and up to him to take it to its conclusion.

‘Bad tidings, indeed, but not a death. A marriage against the Law of God, is that not bad tidings?'

‘Who is getting married?'

‘Hasan's sister, Mariam . . .'

‘The Rumiyya's daughter?'

‘Her mother doesn't count. Since the weigh-master is a Muslim, his daughter is also a Muslim.'

The shaikh looked at the Ferret approvingly.

‘Who are you? I don't know you.'

‘I am Harun, son of Abbas the porter.'

‘Go on. Your words are pleasing to my ears.'

Thus encouraged, my friend explained the purpose of our mission. He did not linger over the fate of the Zarwali's wives, because he knew that this argument would not strike home with Astaghfirullah. On the other hand, he mentioned the fiancé's debauchery, his relations with his former wives, and then he dwelt at length on his past, on his massacres of travellers, ‘particularly the first emigrants from Andalus', on his plunder of the Rif.

‘What you have said would be enough to send a man to the fires of Hell until the end of time. But what proofs do you have? Which witnesses can you summon?'

Harun was all humility.

‘My friend and I are too young, we have only just completed the Great Recitation, and our word does not carry much weight. We do not know a great deal about life, and it may be that we are indignant about matters which appear perfectly normal to other people. Now that we have said all that we know, and now that we have acted according to our consciences, it is up to you, our venerated shaikh, to see what must be done.'

When we were outside again I looked at the Ferret dubiously. He seemed quite certain about what he had done.

‘I really believe what I said to him. We have done everything we could. Now we just have to wait.'

But his playful air indicated otherwise.

‘I think you're gloating,' I said, ‘but I don't at all understand why.'

‘Perhaps Astaghfirullah doesn't know me, but I have known him for years. And I have every confidence in his atrocious character.'

The next day, the shaikh seemed to have been restored to health. His turban could be seen circulating feverishly in the suqs, fluttering under the porticos, before sweeping into a hammam. The following Friday, at the hour when the largest crowds were gathered, he spoke in his usual mosque, the one most attended by the emigrants from
Andalus. In the most candid manner he began to describe ‘the exemplary life of a greatly respected man whom I shall not name', mentioning his banditry, his plunderings and his debauchery in such precise terms that eventually all the audience was whispering the Zarwali's name although he himself had never mentioned it once.

‘Such are the men that the believers respect and admire in these degenerate times! Such are the men to whom you proudly open the doors of your houses! Such are the men to whom you sacrifice your daughters, as if to the deities of the time before Islam!'

Before the day was over the whole town was talking of nothing else. The words of the shaikh were reported to the Zarwali himself. Immediately, he sent for my father, insulted Granada and all the Andalusians, and, stuttering with rage, made it clear to him that there was no question of contract, marriage or silkworms, that he charged him immediately to pay back the dinars which he had advanced him, and that the weigh-master and all his family would soon have cause for bitter regret at what had come to pass. Utterly dismayed, Muhammad tried to protest his innocence, but he was thrown out unceremoniously by the Zarwali's bodyguards.