Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree (6 page)

‘Nobody has suggested that you force them. How could they be forced when it is your right? What use are wide open legs, if the mind remains closed? Why has my question annoyed you so much? Your father is a decent man, not given to excesses of any sort, but episodes such as these have been taking place in your family for centuries. Hot-blooded fool, sit down. Did you not hear me, sit down.’

Zuhayr did as he was told.

‘Do you know Ibn Hasd, the cobbler?’

Zuhayr was perplexed by the question—what had that venerable figure to do with such a discussion?—but he nodded.

‘Next time you meet him, study his features closely. You might see a resemblance.’

‘To whom?’

‘A general family resemblance, that’s all.’

‘Which family?’

‘Yours, of course. Look for the mark of the Banu Hudayl.’

‘Crazy old man. Ibn Hasd is a Jew. Like his forefathers ...’

‘What has that got to do with it? His mother used to be the most beautiful woman in the village. Your great-grandfather, Ibn Farid, espied her bathing in the river one day. He waited for her to finish and then forced her. The result was Ibn Hasd, who really is Ibn Mohammed!’

Zuhayr laughed. ‘At least the old warrior had good taste. Somehow I can’t imagine him as a ...’

‘Al-Fahl?’ suggested the old man helpfully.

Zuhayr stood up to take his leave. The sun was high in the sky and he began thinking of Ama’s heavenly mixture. The old man had outwitted him once again.

‘I will take my leave now and I will do as you say. I will ask my father about your history.’

‘Why are you in such a hurry?’

‘Ama promised to make some heavenly mixture and ...’

‘Amira and her heavenly mixtures! Does nothing ever change in that cursed house? You have a weakness, Zuhayr al-Fahl. A weakness that will be your undoing. You are too easily convinced. Your friends lead you where they want, you become their tail. You do not question enough. You must think for yourself. Always! It is vital in these times when a simple choice is no longer abstract, but a matter of life or death.’

‘You of all people have no right to say that. Have I not been questioning you for over two years? Have I not been persistent, old man?’

‘Oh yes. I cannot deny that, but why then are you leaving just as I am about to tell you what you wish to know?’

‘But I thought you said that I should ask ...’

‘Exactly. It was a ruse to distract you and, as always, it worked. Foolish boy! Your father will never tell you anything. Your mother? To tell the truth I do not know. She is a spirited lady and much respected, but on this matter I think she will follow your father. Remain with me, Ibn Umar. Soon I will tell you all.’

Zuhayr began to tremble in anticipation. The old man heated some water and prepared a container of coffee, after which he moved the cooking utensils to one side and dragged a large, well-used, hand-woven rug to the centre of the cave. He sat down cross-legged and beckoned Zuhayr to join him. When they were both seated, the old man poured out two bowls. He sipped noisily and began to speak.

‘We thought the old days might end everywhere else, but never in our Gharnata. We were convinced that the kingdom of Islam would survive in al-Andalus, but we underestimated our own capacity for self-destruction. Those days will never return, and do you know why? Because the self-styled defenders of the faith quarrelled amongst themselves, killed each other, and proved incapable of uniting against the Christians. In the end it was too late.

‘When Sultan Abu Abdullah was looking for the last time on his lost kingdom, he started to weep, whereupon his mother, the Lady Ayesha, remarked: “You may well weep like a woman, for what you could not defend like a man.” I always felt this was unfair. By that time the Christians had overwhelming military superiority. We used to think that the Sultan of Turkey might send us help, and look-outs were posted in Malaka, but nothing came. All that was just fifteen years ago. The times I am going to tell you about are almost a hundred years old.

‘Your great-grandfather, Ibn Farid, was an exceptional soldier. It is said that he was more feared by the Christian knights than even Ibn Kassim, and that, believe me, is saying a lot. Once at the siege of Medina Sid he rode out alone on his steed and galloped to the tent of the Castilian King. “Oh King of the Christians,” he shouted. “I challenge each and every one of your knights to personal combat. The Emir has instructed me to tell you that if I am felled by one of your men we will open the gates to you, but if, by the time the sun sets, I am still on my horse, then you must retreat.”

‘Their King, knowing your great-grandfather’s reputation, was reluctant to agree, but the Christian knights rebelled. They felt that to refuse such an offer was an insult to their manhood. So the offer was accepted. And what had to happen, happened. When the sun had set, the lord of the Banu Hudayl was dripping with blood, but he was still on his horse. Nearly sixty Christian knights lay dead. The siege was lifted ... for a week. Then they came back, took the garrison by surprise, and ultimately won, but Ibn Farid had returned to al-Hudayl by that time.

‘Your grandfather Abdallah was only two years old when his much-loved mother, the Lady Najma, died giving birth to your Great-Aunt Zahra. Her younger sister, the Lady Maryam took her place and became a mother to the two children. And what a mother. It is said that the children grew up believing that she was their real mother.’

Zuhayr was beginning to get impatient. ‘Are you sure this is the story of
your
life? It sounds more like mine. I was brought up on fairy stories about my great-grandfather.’

Al-Zindiq’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Zuhayr. ‘If you interrupt me once more, I will never discuss the matter with you again. Is that clear?’

Zuhayr indicated his agreement to these harsh conditions and the old man resumed the tale.

‘But there were problems. Ibn Farid showed great respect and affection to his new wife, but passion there was none. Maryam could substitute for her sister in every other way, but not in your great-grandfather’s bed. He simply lost the use of that implement with which every man has been endowed. Many physicians and healers came to see him. Restorative potions of the most exotic sort arrived and were poured down his throat to revive his lost ardour. Nothing happened. Beautiful virgins were paraded before his bed, but nothing moved.

‘What they did not realize was that diseases of the mind cannot be cured like those of the body. You see, my young friend, when the spirits are low the cock does not crow! Are you sure you don’t know any of this?’

Zuhayr shook his head.

‘I am truly surprised to learn that. Both Ama and the Dwarf know every detail. One of them should have told you.’ And the old man expressed his disapproval of the pair he had named by sniffing violently and spitting the phlegm out of the cave with both skill and accuracy.

‘Please do not stop now. I must know it all,’ said Zuhayr, in a voice which was both pleading and impatient. The old man smiled as he poured out some more coffee.

‘One day when Ibn Farid was visiting his uncle in Qurtuba, the two of them rode out of the city to the village of a Christian nobleman whose family and yours had been friends since the fall of Ishbiliya. The nobleman, Don Alvaro, was not at home. Nor was his lady. But while they were waiting a young serving maid brought in some fruit and drinks. She must have been fifteen or sixteen years old at the most.

‘Her name was Beatrice and she was a beautifully shaped creature. Her skin was the colour of ripe apricots, her eyes were the shape of almonds, and her whole face smiled. I saw her soon afterwards and even as a boy it was difficult not to be affected by her beauty. Ibn Farid could not take his eyes off her. His uncle realized straight away what had happened. He attempted to leave, but your great-grandfather refused to stir from the house. His uncle later told the family that even then he had a presentiment that Ibn Farid was heading for the precipice, but all his warnings and fears and evil portents were of no avail. Ibn Farid was known for his obstinacy.

‘When Don Alvaro returned with his sons, they were delighted to see the visitors. A feast was prepared. Beds were made ready. There was no question of the two men being permitted to return to Qurtuba that night. A messenger was dispatched to inform the family that Ibn Farid would not be returning till the next day. You can guess how delighted he was. Finally, late at night, the great warrior meekly asked his host about the maid.

‘“You too, my friend, you too?” said Don Alvaro. “Beatrice is the daughter of Dorothea, our cook. What is it that you desire? If you want to bed the wench it could, no doubt, be arranged.”

‘Imagine Don Alvaro’s surprise when his generous response led to Ibn Farid rising from his cushions, red in the face with anger, and challenging his host to a duel. Don Alvaro realized that the matter was serious. He stood up and hugged Ibn Farid. “What is it you desire my friend?” Everyone became silent. Ibn Farid’s voice was choked with emotion. “I want her for my wife, that is all.” His uncle fainted at this stage, though he had probably just succumbed to the alcohol. What could Don Alvaro say? He said the girl’s father was dead and he would have to ask Dorothea, but he was candid enough to make it clear that, since the woman was in his employment, a refusal was most unlikely.

‘Your great-grandfather could not wait. “Summon her now!” Don Alvaro did as he was told. A perplexed and puzzled Dorothea arrived and bowed to the assembled company. “Oh Dorothea,” Don Alvaro began, “my guests have enjoyed your food a great deal and this great knight, Ibn Farid, compliments you on your cooking. He also compliments you on the beauty of young Beatrice. We who have seen her grow up these last few years take her features for granted, but to any outside she appears devastating. Have you any plans for her marriage?” Poor woman, what could she say? She too was very striking, with her magnificent frame and flowing red hair which reached her knees. She was stunned by the enquiry. She shook her head in disbelief. “Well then,” Don Alvaro continued, “I have good news for you. My friend, Ibn Farid, wants her for his wife. Understand? His wife for all time, not a concubine for one night! He will pay you a handsome dowry. What do you say?”

‘You can imagine, Ibn Umar, the state of that poor woman. She started weeping, which moved Ibn Farid, and he spoke and explained to her once again that his intentions were fully honourable. She looked then at Don Alvaro and said: “As you please, my Lord. She has no father. You decide.” And Don Alvaro decided at that very moment that on the next morning Beatrice would become your great-grandmother number three. More wine was consumed. Such joy, we were later told, had not been seen on the face of your ancestor since the day your grandfather was born. He was in the seventh heaven. He began to sing, and he did so with such obvious joy and passion that the infection spread and they all joined him. He never forgot that poem and it was sung in your home regularly from that time on.’

Zuhayr stiffened.

‘Was it the Khamriyya? The Hymn to Wine?’

The old man smiled and nodded. Zuhayr, deeply moved by the story of Ibn Farid’s passion, suddenly burst into song.

‘Let the swelling tide of passion my senses drown!

Pity love’s fuel, this long-smouldering heart,

Nor answer with a frown,

When I would fain behold thee as thou art.

For love is life, and death in love the heaven

Wherein all sins are readily forgiven ...’

‘Wa Allah!’ the old man exclaimed. ‘You sing well.’

‘I learnt the words from my father.’

‘And he from his, but it was the first time that was the most important. Should I continue or have you had enough for today? The sun is already shining on the peaks. Your heavenly mixture awaits you at home. If you are tired ...’

‘Please continue. Please!’

And the old man continued.

‘The next morning, after breakfast, Beatrice converted to Islam. When offered a choice of Muslim names she appeared puzzled, and so it came about that even her new name was decided by her husband-to-be. Asma. Asma bint Dorothea.

‘Poor child. She had been informed about her impending nuptials when she woke up, early that morning, to clean the kitchen and light the fire. She was in tears. Some hours later, the wedding ceremony took place. It was your great-grandfather’s uncle who, as the only other Muslim present, had to perform the ritual. Ours is a simple religion. Birth, death, marriage, divorce do not involve any elaborate rituals, unlike the system devised by the monks.

‘Ibn Farid was in a hurry because he wanted to present the family with an irreversible fact. Any delay, he felt, could have been fatal. The brothers of Najma and Maryam belonged to that section of the family which specialized in settling disputes with other clans. They were expert assassins. Naturally they would regard it as an outrage that their sister was being bypassed in favour of a Christian slave-girl. Concubines are, as you know, permissible. But this was different. A new mistress of the household was being chosen without their knowledge or consent. She would, no doubt, bear him children. Given time to think they might have tried to kill Beatrice. Ibn Farid was known throughout al-Andalus as “the lion” for his courage, but he could play the fox with equal skill. If he was actually married, he knew that he would have the advantage of his brothers-in-law. Of course his uncle was angry, but he did not quarrel with his nephew in the house of Don Alvaro. That came later.

‘So Ibn Farid and Asma bint Dorothea returned to Qurtuba. They rested for a day and a night before beginning the two-day journey to the kingdom of Gharnata and the safety of al-Hudayl. Unknown to Ibn Farid news had already reached the house, through a special messenger, dispatched by his uncle.

‘The atmosphere in the house was one of mourning. Your grandfather Abdallah, was then eighteen years old, already a man. Your great-aunt, Zahra, was four years younger, the same age as myself. They were walking up and down in the courtyard through which the stream flows, and they were both in a state of great agitation. I was watching them get more and more upset without knowing the cause. When I asked your grandfather he shouted at me: “Son of a dog, get out of here. It is none of your concern.” He had never spoken like that to me before. As the Lady Maryam came out of her room, both of them rushed up to her and embraced her, weeping all the while. My insolence was happily forgotten. I loved your grandfather very much, and what he said to me that day hurt me badly. Later, of course, I understood the reason for his anger, but till that day I had always played with him and Zahra as an equal. Something had changed. Once calm had returned we both tried to return to our habits of the old days, but it was never the same again. I could never forget that he was the young master and he was constantly reminded that I was the son of a serving woman, who had now been assigned the duty of attending to the needs of the Lady Asma.’