Granada (24 page)

On one particular morning, Maryama left the house early and waited outside the church with a throng of people whose hearts were in their mouths just like hers. There were also crowds of Castilians who came to watch and listen. She stretched her neck, and her heart began to beat fast when she noticed the procession approaching. There was a line of the accused dressed in liturgical garb, walking barefoot, with ropes around their necks and a candle in hand. They entered the church to perform the rituals of penance. The crowd was blocking her view, so she rushed inside and occupied a place where she could see everything. This is what she always did, whether in the burning heat of summer or the bitter cold of winter, she waited. She waited until she heard the beating of drums and the blowing of bugles, and she saw the clerics, the officers of the Inquisition, and the town notables approaching as the penitents marched behind them. The officials sat in places designated especially for them while the penitents sat in rows close by. Her eyes searched in every direction, oblivious to the increasing crowds and the rising clamor. She strained to listen as all her senses descended upon her ears and followed what the official read of the accusations and the sentences. He moved from one name to the next, from one sentence to the next until he finished without mentioning any of her family. She dragged herself back home disappointed. She hadn't gone there to see a man whipped or a woman burned as a sentence. She left with the courtyard behind her bellowing with the shouts of the Castilian masses who had come to participate in the festivities and watch the exciting events. There were even among them people who had a brother, a daughter, or a neighbor found guilty.

Maryama always came home from these occasions drained, eyes lowered, and often so weak that she took to her bed for several days, exhausted and defeated. She would tell herself or Hasan that she would never go back again, but as soon as an announcement of a new ceremony was made, she would prepare herself and count the days until she left the house early in the morning.

"I see you're not getting ready for Mass," Hasan said to Maryama one Sunday morning.

It was the day after one of the auto-da-fé processions. "I'm exhausted, Hasan, and I'm not up to it."

"They're watching us, Maryama," he insisted. "They took your mother and brothers, and they're keeping an eye on us. Pull yourself together, and let God give you strength."

She obeyed him, and the family all went to church. Except for Saleema, who had made up her mind years ago that she would never go to church, even if they bound her hands and feet and dragged her with a team of horses. Hasan no longer broached the subject with her, even though he insisted on taking his wife, mother, and children with him, if only to throw dust in their eyes. The family took up a whole row of seats in the church. Hasan sat on the aisle seat, next to him was his mother, and after her the children. Maryama sat at the opposite end of Hasan.

The dim light, the ancientness of the church, and the faint voice of the priest only added to Maryama's sadness. She sat with her head bowed and a grave expression on her face. Her torso was bent somewhat forward, and she looked as though she were staring at her two palms opened and resting on her lap. She wasn't staring at her palms, but rather at the faces of those whom she saw the day before at the penitents' procession. They were pale, frowning faces with lowered eyes and absent looks, made all the more gaunt by expressions of worry and fear. Underneath the long, flowing liturgical garments that concealed the body, the emaciation was evident on their bodies, not to mention the vestiges of the torture and suffering of those lonely nights in the dark dungeons inhabited by rats and by the ghosts of those killed by loneliness or burned at the stake. Among those pronounced guilty was a young girl her daughter Kuqaya's age whom she couldn't keep her eyes off no matter how hard she tried. Even after she left, Maryama couldn't stop thinking about her, and she would even see her in her sleep that night. Maryama was startled when the organ music rang out suddenly. A shiver ran through her body and the tears welled from her eyes. She lifted her head a little and through her tears she saw him. He was so close she could practically touch him if only she held out her hand.

He was directly to her right. She stared at him closely. She
looked first at his bare feet and dangling legs and then lifted her eyes toward his thin, naked torso to his narrow shoulders. Then she saw his tilted head and the crown of thorns he was wearing. She stared at his ribs bulging from his rib cage, and at his eyes shut tight in humbling pain. His arms were stretched out on the wooden cross, and her eyes fixed on each of his palms with a nail driven through his flesh and onto the cross. Then she looked at his face once again. It was sad and dejected, worn out by suffering. Its only communication to her was the slight tilt of the head.

Maryama stood up and took two steps forward. She knelt and stretched out her hand to touch the two bare feet. It appeared as though she was going to ask for his intercession, but when she got near and touched him, her heart grew heavy and she murmured, "There was peace on me the day I was born, and will be the day I die, and on the day I will be raised from the dead. This was Jesus, son of Mary—a true account, they contend."
¹
The two arms stretched out on the cross were like wings he spread out to her in love and mercy. Maryama asked for nothing, but opened her arms and wrapped them around his legs, and she tilted her head forward and kissed them.

1.Quran (Mary 19): 33-34.

17

F
ather Miguel proposed to Naeem that he accompany him on his journey to the new world. The invitation came as a surprise to Naeem, and he didn't know what to say. He asked his employer to give him a few days to think it over. Had Saad not left him in such a callous way, he wouldn't give a second's thought to leaving. But he felt like a branch severed from its tree. Why shouldn't he travel to a new world, or even an old one, or to hell for that matter? What's the difference between one place and another? he thought. He didn't have a wife or children, and he didn't have his friend. Even Umm Jaafar had passed on and now lies in the folds of the earth. Besides, Father Miguel is a kind and gentle man. He doesn't mistreat him. In fact, he roils whenever he hears news about the Office of Inquisition and its oppressive treatment of Arabs and other people. The priest speaks of the new world as if it were Paradise in its beauty and riches. So, why not travel? But what if Saad came back? Why hadn't he returned, three years later, without a trace or a word?

Naeem lived his life injured by the wound of Saad's sudden departure and burdened by a constant worry that led to endless questions. Did Saad go to North Africa, or is he in the mountains? Is he working with the freedom fighters from the attack ships, or is he hiding in some mountain cave plotting in secrecy with his comrades? Did something horrible happen to him? Did he take a second wife, and did God bless him with a son or daughter? He wondered where he was and what he was doing at every moment. Did he ever
think about his friend Naeem, or did he forget him the day he left Granada without even saying good-bye?

Naeem accepted Father Miguel's proposal. Two days before departure, he paid a visit to Hasan and his family to bid them farewell. Umm Hasan greeted the news in tears, but the children were fired up and bombarded Naeem with questions about the new world he was going to. Naeem laughed and explained to them that he hadn't seen it yet to tell them anything about it. "When I return, God willing, I'll bring back lots of stories and lots of gold as well! They say it's a land paved with gold and silver." He was laughing because he didn't believe a word of these fanciful rumors.

Hasan sat in silence, watching Naeem closely. The idea of his departure was more than he could bear. He thought about Saad's departure and dreaded the thought of going on with his life without any support. "When will you be back, Naeem?" he asked.

"Probably in a year or two. Father Miguel says that the purpose of the trip is to write a book. He wants to see everything himself and document his findings in a book." Naeem dug into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and gave it to Hasan. "If Saad should return during my absence, give this letter to him. You know how much I miss him and how hurt I was when he left. Tell him I won't be long in my journey. Tell him . . . well, don't tell him anything. I've written it all down in the letter. Could I say good-bye to Saleema?"

One of Hasan's daughters ran ahead of him and told Saleema he was coming. He went into her room but stood there fumbling for words. Finally, he spoke. "I'm going on a trip to the new world with Father Miguel."

Saleema looked straight at him, and he thought he detected a gleam in her eye or perhaps a twitch in her cheek. She didn't say a word, but she extended her hand and shook his. As he turned around to leave the room, he heard her call out, "Don't be angry with Saad, Naeem. You know how much he loves you." He turned around to look at her and saw a tear trickle down her cheek. He then rushed out of the house so that no one would see him crying.

Did Naeem cry out to Saad that night so loud that Saad heard
him from a distant village? Does the voice of a man reach his friend across the mountains and plains? On that very night, Saad saw his friend in a dream. They were together, along with Hasan and Saleema, all standing around Abu Jaafar whose imposing stature towered above them. His face radiated light as he guided the children in their work. Hasan was arranging the folios of a manuscript and measuring the leather for the binding. Naeem was leaning forward meticulously sketching a series of letters for the title page, drawing them in floral designs alternating between fine and broad strokes. "Where ever did Naeem get such beautiful penmanship?" Abu Jaafar would ask. Saad was looking over his shoulder, and Saleema stood at the door of the workshop with her gazelle, reminding everyone that the book will be hers. "Patience, Saleema," cautioned Abu Jaafar. "We need to finish it first, and then we'll give it you."

When Saad awoke the next morning recalling the details of his dream, he wondered whether he missed them so much that he dreamed of them and whether this dream was a vision or an omen for a reunion. The thought even occurred to him that they were calling out to him and that his heart had heard the call. He decided it was time to go down to Granada to see them.

Three years had passed since he first went to live among the young freedom fighters in a mountain village far from the eyes of strangers. He crossed the rugged and unpaved mountain roads the Castilians didn't know about, carrying supplies and letters to the freedom fighters who launched their attacks by sea, inflicting casualties on both the Castilian army and its government. He also helped in expediting the safe arrival to the coastal areas of the villagers who chose to emigrate. When they received word from a certain village, they would sneak off in the dark of night and meet with the elders to make all the necessary arrangements. On the appointed day, Saad and his companions would guide all those who wanted to leave through untrodden mountain passes, like silent phantoms feeling their way under the protection of darkness, as the hearts of the nocturnal travelers pounded in their chests, without a
murmur, a song, or a chant. And when the specter of the shore loomed before them, the children grew wild with excitement and jumped for joy, and the grown-ups moved eagerly to load their children and their possessions onto the ships. Their eyes shone with the hope of salvation, and then became clouded by the memory of an olive tree they left behind and basil stalks they'll never lay at the graves of their fathers. They climbed aboard and are rocked by the small boats that will take them out to the big ships that will take them far away.

Saleema was seated as usual with her head buried in a book, absorbing its every detail by the light of her lantern, when she heard a voice. She turned around and then went back to her book, thinking to herself, "I must be imagining things!" When she heard the voice again, she was certain it was Saad calling out to her. She ran outside the house and saw him in the dark courtyard. He stretched out his arms and embraced her as she embraced him. They kissed, and she took him by the hand, and he followed her into the house as the rest of the household slept.

In her room Saad sheepishly sat facing her not knowing what to say. She was looking at him, clearly ill at ease. He had been gone for thirty-nine months, but it seemed to her like ten years, and she wondered whether it was because she missed him so much or because of the gray hair around his temples and the wrinkles on his forehead and under his eyes brought on by the icy winds or the burning sun. "You've been gone for so long, Saad," she said, breaking the silence.

He went over to her and they connected in a furious embrace, spurred on by a craving in the body and deprivation in the soul that not only sought, but demanded, union. He seized her and she seized him, and the wave of union lifted them high. They gasped between life and death, as one wave crashes into another, bringing to the surface deep, dark blue ripples that blaze with the heat of a hot, burning sun. They gasped as the body jolts, and the soul inside it quickly follows, and when the shore of coming looms on the horizon, the sea gulls burst forth and joyously light up the skies with their whiteness.

At the shore of coming they basked in the calm. They spoke at length, in hushed voices, and when the morning birds began to chirp, they fell into a deep sleep.

Saad's unexpected arrival brought to the house a feeling of such bliss that it seemed like a feast day. The house filled with happy excitement, and Hasan was by far the most exhilarated, laughing as he hadn't done in years. He joked with Saad, told him stories, and bombarded him with questions, soaking up every detail. The children and Umm Hasan finally had to protest, as Hasan wasn't giving them a chance to talk to Saad.

Saad could hardly believe that three years had already passed since he left them. Ruqaya and her younger sister, whom he had left as children, had become young women, and it wouldn't come as a surprise to him if someone came knocking on Hasan's door asking for their hands in marriage. And little Hisham, whom he last saw as a toddler and who only knew two or three words, was now talking effortlessly, understanding and responding to everything that was said to him. He told Saad that next year he would be going to school to learn to read and write.

"Will you be learning Arabic or Spanish, Hisham?" Saad asked.

"In school we learn Spanish, but at home my father will teach me Arabic like he taught my sisters."

Saad laughed, pleased with the boy's cleverness.

"Light some incense, and protect him from my evil eye," he said to Umm Hasan.

Hasan laughed, but his mother did not. She started to intone the expression, "God forgive . . ." but finished it with a mutter under her breath clear enough to be read on her lips.

Neither Saleema nor Maryama joined the men. They decided to go out early and buy food from the market. Maryama had convinced Saleema to go with her, saying that this wasn't any ordinary day. As soon as they reached some distance from the house, Maryama turned to Saleema and gave her a sly look. "Last night was some night, right?"

Saleema blushed a crimson red in embarrassment and answered, "So, what shall we buy for dinner?"