The Other Half of My Soul (24 page)

twenty-eight

All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.

—Galileo Galilei

Approaching Málaga, Rami and Rayna stayed glued to the window, taking in the aerial view of the land. After a smooth landing, they retrieved their baggage and checked through customs. Like two children beginning their first day of kindergarten, they were bursting with excitement and anxiety. They made their way to the car rental and were informed that only manual transmissions were available. When Rayna said that she had never driven anything but an automatic, Rami countered, “I can do it. I learned to drive on my father’s old Mercedes.”

The agent placed a form in front of him to sign and asked to see a credit card, passport, and driver’s license. After reviewing the documents and noting Rami’s age, the man refused to rent the car. “All foreign drivers must be at least twenty-five,” he announced in Spanish. “It is our rule.” From his wallet, Rami extracted some money and hinted that rules can sometimes be broken. The man smiled, handed Rami a set of keys, and warned, “Spanish drivers are skillful, fast, and crazy. Spain’s roads are excellent, narrow, and winding. Be careful!”

* * *

Checking into the hotel room, they unpacked, then went out for a walk to stretch their legs and explore the locale. Nearing a small church, they politely waited while a parade of lively, well-dressed Spaniards made their way into the chapel. Catching sight of the bride, Rayna exclaimed, “Look Rami, it’s a wedding! Let’s go inside.” She tugged at his arm.

He gave her a look of uncertainty.

“Come on. We’ll be very quiet.” Pulling him in, she spied two seats in the rear by the door. The Catholic wedding ceremony, Andalucían style, gave the couple their very first glimpse inside a church. Enchanted by the ceremony, they waited until the priest announced the couple to be husband and wife before retreating as inconspicuously as they had intruded.

Under a blue Mediterranean sky, they spent the rest of the day exploring the little shops and making whimsical purchases. Soon, daylight began to fade and hunger crept into their bellies. Coming upon a restaurant crowded with natives, they went inside. As they dined on fresh vegetables, baked fish, and rice, spirited flamenco dancers entertained them with rhythmic stomping and flamboyant movements. Distracted by the gaiety, they lost track of time until their body clocks reminded them of just how sleepy they were. After paying the bill, the two returned to the hotel. Tomorrow they would drive to Ronda, the birthplace of bullfighting.

* * *

Rami steered the car over the gorge, crossing the narrow bridge that linked the old city of Ronda with its commercial district on the other side of the mountain. Under the hot afternoon sun, Rami and Rayna took their seats among an energetic crowd anxious for the drama of the bullfight to begin. Rami took Rayna’s hand. Rayna shook her head, “I hope I have the stomach to sit through this.”

Three groups, each fighting two bulls, warmed up the audience. Cheers rang out when all the bullfighters appeared to signal that the
corrida
had begun. The
matador
taunted the bull with his
muleta
.
Picadors
on horseback goaded the animal with steel-pointed lances to weaken its shoulder muscles.
Banderilleros
stuck spikes into the bull’s back, provoking him into a frenzy.

From the beginning, Rayna found the sport hard to watch. When the matador returned, gesturing with his red cape and thrusting the sword straight into the bull’s heart, Rayna covered her eyes. The audience applauded wildly. The corpse was dragged away. Music played, handkerchiefs waved, and the matador was carried out in glory on the shoulders of his men.

Rayna hated the goriness of it all and could not understand how people took pleasure in an innocent animal being heartlessly provoked to its death. Rami, on the other hand, had never seen a bullfight. Rayna was annoyed with him for being so engrossed in the unfolding production. Angrily, she declared, “It was a sick spectacle. How could you have liked it?”

“But this is part of Spain, its people, its culture. You do not need to approve of . . .”

“You’re right. I don’t need to approve. Reminds me of Yousef, goading people just like that poor bull was goaded.”

* * *

Day after day, the lovers peeled away at their itinerary. At the beach on Costa del Sol, Rami’s eyes widened at the bare-breasted women basking in the sun, walking along the water’s edge, bathing in the Mediterranean, playing in the sand with their young children. “How could they? Naked for all to see.” Rami was appalled. “This would never happen in Syria. Is there no shame? No decency to cover up?”

“But this is part of Spain, its people, its culture. You do not need to approve.” She echoed his own words back to him. “At the bullfight, I covered my eyes. Why can’t you do the same?”

Rami’s agitation amplified. “It is not the same. You will not ever parade around like these shameless harlots. You are not allowed.”

Rayna suppressed her amusement and took his hand. “You need to calm down, and we need to leave this beach.”

* * *

On Monday, August 10, 1998, the anticipated leap from teen years to adulthood was upon them. Deliberately, Rami and Rayna saved this twentieth birthday milestone to venture into Córdoba, the city that loomed in their past.

Córdoba is a university town with churches, monuments, and museums. It is the home of both La Mezquita, the famous mosque which was once the seat of the Western Caliphate, and La Sinagoga, the only surviving medieval synagogue.

“Where to first?” Rami asked.

“First to La Mezquita, then to La Sinagoga.”

* * *

Advancing through a courtyard of orange trees, they followed the path leading into the building’s interior. With amazement, they canvassed the display of one thousand columns supporting an endless chain of horseshoe-shaped arches decorated in alternating stripes of red brick and white stone. While marveling at the imposing relic, a spell suddenly overcame Rayna. In a daze, she walked to the far end of the room where an octagonal chamber set into the wall housed the mihrab. “Something is not right,” she fretted. “Do you see? We have to move it. The mihrab must face east toward Mecca.” Deeply stirred by some mystical power, Rayna placed her hands on the chamber and tried to forcefully dislodge it.

Concerned, Rami tried to steady his wife’s hands.
How could she know that the location of the mihrab is not where it should be?
“Come, Rayna. Come, rrawhee. Let us sit down.” He tried coaxing her away from the mihrab, but Rayna would not budge.

As if cemented to the center of gravity, her feet stood firmly. “We must restore the mihrab to its proper place . . . over there. It belongs over there.” Frantically, she tugged at the chamber. Visitors stared. An attendant started toward them. Gently, Rami edged Rayna to the wooden pews, easing her down into a seat. Rami was now painfully aware of Rayna’s hypnotic state.

“When I was a little girl, my
jidaw
used to come here to pray, many times every day. At special times, I would come with him. He taught me what no one else would.” Droplets trickled down her cheeks, “I miss him so much.”

“I know you do.” Rami’s vision under the influence of the yaje plant was now all too real.
Rayna had been a Moor living here in Córdoba during the time of the Spanish Inquisition. With all my heart, I loved her then as I love her now
. Rami tightened his grip around Rayna. “Come, we must go visit La Sinagoga.” Back out on the street, Rayna’s hypnotic trance vanished, leaving her with no memory of the occurrence.

* * *

The pair drifted down the labyrinth of narrow winding streets, passing whitewashed homes, colorful courtyards, and a myriad of shops. Turning onto the cramped Calle de los Judíos, Rami and Rayna encountered tour groups queued all the way up the street. The couple stepped into line and waited their turn. The scorching sun beat down. Rami took two bottles of water from his backpack and handed one to Rayna.

In time, the line grew shorter. As they advanced to the front, the ancient synagogue with its white stucco exterior, arched entranceway, and Hebrew inscription overhead called out to Rami. Stepping inside the archaic structure, he gazed up, surprised at his recollection of the high ceiling. Holding onto Rayna, he moved into a shallow foyer and touched the white stucco walls of the Mudejar style decoration dating from the fourteenth century. To the left, a stairway led to a balcony once reserved for the women. Straight ahead, a small sanctuary had been secured for the men. A semi-circular arch where the holy scrolls of the Torah had been housed was now nothing but an empty space. Mindful of Rayna, Rami held tightly to her hand and guided her toward the cubicle. He stretched to touch the inside but it was higher than his reach. Tears moistened his lashes.
The Torah. The sacred teachings of my people. The Catholics destroyed even this. For what? For intolerance.
Reminders of man’s inhumanity to man invaded Rami’s thoughts. Staring at the panel above the cubicle, he read the Hebrew scripture:
Oh, God, listen and take haste to rebuild Jerusalem
.

* * *

The tourists outside were growing impatient. Two guides inside hurried the visitors along. Holding hands, the couple left the old synagogue. The intensity of the morning had siphoned their energy.

“How were you able to read the Hebrew inscription above the ark? You don’t know Hebrew,” Rayna said, as they walked through the maze of streets looking for a place to eat.

“Something very strange happened. I cannot explain it, except that the words flowed from my lips. The synagogue connected me to . . .”

“Tell me. Connected you to what?”

“To a past. To a life before . . .” Rami’s voice broke off. “Let us get some lunch.”

They stumbled onto an old-world restaurant with a skylit patio decorated with hanging plants and colorful glazed tiles. Sitting at a small table, they looked over the limited menu, then ordered cold gazpacho soup and tortilla española. While waiting for the food to come, they reflected on the morning’s daunting experiences. Rami reached across the table and drew Rayna’s palm to his cheek, holding it there for several seconds. “Five hundred years ago, I lost you. The hand of Allah has intervened to reunite us. Do you believe that?”

Rayna shivered. A chill went through her. “We’ll never really know.”

* * *

From the brochure, Rayna read, “The Alhambra is the best preserved medieval palace in the world. The exquisite Moorish craftsmanship of the rooms, the decorative tiling in the courtyards, the intricate wooden carvings, and the majestic columns and ceilings make the Alhambra one of the seven man-made wonders on earth.”

Casually, they strolled through a succession of walkways, patios, geometric pools, and fragrant plantings. All around, Arabic inscriptions set in stucco praised Allah. “Granada is a place I have always wanted to come, since I was a child . . . more even than going to Mecca.” Rami looked at his watch, then lovingly put his arm around Rayna’s shoulders. “We have been here five hours.”

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.”

* * *

Leaving the Alhambra behind, they drove into a little Moroccan village in Arrayanes and inquired about a place to eat. A frail, elderly man with wrinkled skin raised his cane and pointed to a café down the street. “You eat halal?” he asked in Arabic. Rami nodded. The man’s smile exposed several missing teeth. Rami handed him ten pesetas.

The establishment was packed with diners. “A table for two will be a while. An hour or more,” said the young Moroccan host. “If you would like to share, a table for four is available now.” He tactfully glanced at the couple who had just entered directly behind them.

Rayna tugged at Rami’s arm. “Let’s,” she whispered.

Reluctantly, Rami smiled at the strangers, “Would you be willing?”

Edmund was a towering, handsome mulatto in his early thirties, a Harry Belafonte look-alike, a successful executive in his father’s aerospace company. Inga was a twenty-seven-year-old attractive blue-eyed blonde from Sweden, a stay-at-home mother with two small children. They lived in Bethesda, Maryland. This was their fourth trip to southern Spain, the place where they had first met.

Instantly, a camaraderie between the two couples took hold. Midway through the meal, they began making plans to visit Morocco. “We’ve been there before. If you don’t know your way around, it can get pretty harrowing. Why don’t we pick you up in front of your hotel at eight tomorrow?” Edmund suggested.

“We’ll be waiting. Thank you,” Rayna responded appreciatively.

On their last day in Spain, Rami and Rayna would venture into the dark unknown. The excursion across the Straits represented a past that once separated them. It was an odyssey they were compelled to make. Edmund and Inga were a stroke of fate.

* * *

At eight sharp, Rami and Rayna climbed into the back seat. “
Buenos días
.”

“Buenos días. That’s the extent of my Spanish,” Inga laughed. “If you haven’t had breakfast, there are fresh sweet rolls in the white bag next to you. We already had our share.”

“Thank you. You’re kind.” Rayna lifted the bag. She handed a roll to Rami, then took one for herself.

Heading south on the hour-long drive to Gibraltar, the four found as much to talk about as they had the night before. Edmund had tried to dissuade Rami and Rayna from going to Ceuta, but Inga convinced her husband otherwise. “We always visit Tangiers. The change will be nice.”

Edmund offered the few facts he had learned of Ceuta. “It’s owned by Spain, but it’s in Morocco. The town has a large military presence. Not much to do except expensive duty-free shopping. At the hotel desk, they told me of a good place to have lunch there, and the best ice cream, too. The restaurant may be the only worthwhile part of the visit.” Edmund shook his head and rolled his eyes, still unable to grasp why the young couple wanted to go to Ceuta.