Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

Chapter 3

YAZID HAD WOKEN UP from his afternoon sleep, trembling slightly, with sweat pouring down his face. His mother, lying next to him, was anxious at seeing her last-born in this state. She wiped his face with a linen cloth soaked in rose-water and felt his forehead. It was as cool as the afternoon breezes in the courtyard. There was no cause for alarm.

‘Are you feeling unwell my son?’

‘No. I just had a strange dream. It was so real, Ummi. Why are afternoon dreams more real? Is it because our sleep is lighter?’

‘Perhaps. Want to tell me about it?’

‘I dreamt of the Mosque in Qurtuba. It was so beautiful, Mother. And then Great-Uncle Miguel entered and began to pour bottles of blood everywhere. I tried to stop him, but he hit me…’

‘What we see in dreams outdoes reality,’ Zubayda interrupted him. She did not like the continuous attacks on Miguel which the children were fed by Ama, and so she tried to divert her son’s mind. ‘But all that one could dream of the Great Mosque in Qurtuba falls short of the truth. One day we shall take you to see its magnificent arches. As for Miguel…’ She sighed.

Zuhayr, on his way to the bath, had overheard the conversation and entered his mother’s room silently, just in time to hear Yazid’s condemnation of the Bishop of Qurtuba.

‘I don’t like him. I never have. He always squeezes my cheeks too hard. Ama says one can’t expect anything better. She said that his mother, the Lady Asma, didn’t like him either. You know, Mother, once I heard Ama and the Dwarf talking to each other about the Lady Asma. Ama said that it was Miguel who killed her. Is that true?’

Zubayda’s face turned ashen. She gave an unconvincing little laugh. ‘What foolishness is this? Of course Miguel did not kill his mother! Your father would be shocked to hear you talk in this fashion. Your Ama talks a lot of nonsense. You must not believe everything she says.’

‘Are you sure of that, Mother?’ asked Zuhayr in a mocking tone.

His voice startled both of them. Yazid leapt up and jumped straight into his arms. The brothers embraced and kissed each other. Their mother smiled.

‘The cub is safely back with its protector. You were greatly missed this morning. Yazid has been wandering about annoying everyone including himself. What did that old man have to say that was so interesting?’

Zuhayr’s answer to the predictable question had been carefully worked out on his ride back to the house.

‘The tragedy of al-Andalus. The failure of our way of life to survive. He thinks we are at the terminus of our history. He is a very learned man, Mother. A true scholar. What do you know about him? He simply refuses to talk about himself.’

‘Ask Ama,’ said Yazid. ‘She knows all about him.’

‘I am going to tell Ama that in future she must keep her imagination under control and be careful when Yazid is present.’

Zuhayr smiled, and was about to enter the discussion on Ama and the merits of her many pronouncements, but he suddenly caught his mother’s eye and the warning was clear. She had sat up in bed and a peremptory command soon followed.

‘Go and bathe, Zuhayr. Your hair is full of dust.’

‘And he smells of horse-sweat!’ added Yazid, pulling a face.

The brothers left and Zubayda clapped her hands. Two maids-in-waiting entered the room. One carried a mirror and two combs. Without a word they began to gently massage the head of their mistress, two pairs of hands working in perfect symmetry. The twenty fingers, delicate and firm at the same time, covered the entire area from the forehead to the nape. In the background Zubayda could only hear the sound of water. When she felt her inner balance restored she signalled that they should cease their labours.

The two women settled down on the floor and, as Zubayda shifted her body and positioned herself on the edge of the bed, they began to work on her feet. The younger of the two, Umayma, was new to this task and her nervousness revealed itself in her inability to use the force necessary to knead her mistress’s left heel.

‘What are they saying in the village?’ inquired Zubayda. Umayma had only recently been promoted to wait on her and she wanted to put the girl at her ease. The young maid-servant blushed on being addressed by her mistress and mumbled a few incoherent thoughts about the great respect everyone in the village had for the Banu Hudayl. Her older and more experienced colleague, Khadija, came to the rescue.

‘All the talk is about Zuhayr bin Umar slapping the face of the infidel, my lady.’

‘Zuhayr bin Umar is a rash fool! What does the talk say?’

Umayma had succeeded in suppressing a giggle, but Zubayda’s informality reassured her and she responded clearly.

‘The younger people agree with Ibn Umar, my lady, but many of the elders were displeased. They wondered whether the Christian had not been put up to the provocation and Ibn Hasd, the cobbler was worried. He thought they might send soldiers to attack al-Hudayl and take all of us prisoner. He said that…’

‘Ibn Hasd is full of doom in good times, my lady.’

Khadija was worried lest Umayma gave too much away, and wanted to steer the conversation to safer waters, but Zubayda was insistent.

‘Quiet. Tell me girl, what did Ibn Hasd say?’

‘I cannot remember everything my lady, but he said that our sweet daydreams were over and soon we would wake up shivering.’

Zubayda smiled.

‘He is a good man even when he thinks unhappy thoughts. A stone from the hand of a friend is like an apple. Have you taken my clothes to the hammam?’

Umayma nodded. Zubayda dismissed the pair with a tilt of her head. She knew full well that the cobbler was only expressing what the whole village felt. There was a great feeling of uncertainty. For the first time in six hundred years, the villagers of al-Hudayl were being confronted with the possibility of a life without a future for their children. There were a thousand and one stories circulating throughout Gharnata of what had happened after the Reconquest of Qurtuba and Ishbiliya. Each refugee had arrived with tales of terror and random bestiality. What had left a very deep imprint was the detailed descriptions of how land and estates and property in several towns had been seized by the Catholic Church and the Crown. It was this that the villagers feared more than anything else. They did not want to be driven off the lands which they and their ancestors before them had cultivated for centuries. If the only way to save their homes was to convert, then many would undergo that ordeal in order to survive. First among them would be the family steward, Ubaydallah, whose only gods were security and wealth.

Zubayda determined to discuss these problems with her husband and reach a decision. The villagers were looking towards the Banu Hudayl for an answer. She knew they must be frightened by Zuhayr’s impulsiveness. Umar must go to the mosque on Friday. People wanted to be reassured.

As Zubayda walked through the courtyard she saw her sons playing chess. She observed the game for a minute and was amused to notice that the giant scowl disfiguring Zuhayr’s features was a sure sign that Yazid was on the verge of victory. His young voice was excited as he announced his triumph: ‘I always win when I have the black Queen on my side!’

‘What are you saying, wretch? Control your tongue. Chess must be played in total silence. That is the first rule of the game. You chatter away like a crow on heat.’

‘Your Sultan is trapped by my Queen,’ said Yazid. ‘I only spoke when I knew the game was over. No reason to get ill-tempered. Why should a drowning man be worried by rain?’

Zuhayr, angry at being defeated by a nine-year-old, laid his King on the table, gave a very weak laugh and stalked off.

‘I’ll see you at dinner, wretch!’

Yazid smiled at the Queen. He was collecting the pieces and stowing them in their special box when an old retainer, his face pale with fear as if he had seen a ghost, ran into the courtyard. Ama came out of the kitchen. He whispered something in her ear. Yazid had never seen the old woman look so worried. Could it be that a Christian army was invading al-Hudayl? Before he could rush to the tower and find out for himself, his father appeared on the scene, followed by Ama.

Yazid, not wanting to be left out, walked over casually to his father and held his hand. Umar smiled at him, but frowned at the servant.

‘Are you sure? There can be no mistake?’

‘None, my Lord. I saw the party with my own eyes pass through the village. There were two Christian soldiers accompanying the Lady and people were worried. It was Ibn Hasd who recognized her and told me to ride as fast as I could and let you know.’

‘Wa Allah! After all these years. Go, man. Eat something before you return. Ama will take you to the kitchen. Yazid, go and tell your mother I wish to speak to her. After that inform your brother and sisters that we have a guest with us tonight. I want them to join me here so that we can greet our visitor as a family. Run, boy.’

Zahra bint Najma had exchanged a word with the cobbler, but otherwise she had not replied to the greetings addressed to her by the village elders. She had nodded slightly to acknowledge their presence, but nothing more. Once her cart had passed through the narrow streets of the village and reached the clump of trees from which the house was so clearly visible, she told the carter to follow the rough path that ran parallel to the stream.

‘Go with the water till you see the house of the Banu Hudayl,’ she said, her frail voice beginning to shake with emotion. She had never thought that she would live to see her home again. The tears, controlled for decades, burst with the quiet fury of a swollen river overflowing its banks. They are nothing now but memories, she told herself.

She had thought that in the course of half a century she had purged her system so thoroughly that hardly anything was left inside. How deceptive existence can be. Her first glance at the house told her that nothing had been erased. As she saw the familiar landscapes she remembered everything so vividly that it began to hurt again. There was the orchard of pomegranate trees. She smiled as the cart-horse slowed down, exhausted by the long journey, and drank some water from the stream. Even though it was autumn she could shut her eyes and smell the orchards.

‘Are you sure you weren’t observed?’ His voice nervous and excited.

‘Only by the moon! I can hear your heart beating.’

No more words were said that night till they had parted just before dawn.

‘You will be my wife!’

‘I want none other.’

She opened her eyes and drank in the last rays of the sun. Nothing had changed here. There were the giant walls and the tower. The gates were open as usual. Winter was already in the air. The scent of the soil overpowered her senses. The gentle noise and silken water of the stream that flowed through that courtyard and into the tanks that serviced the hammam — it was just as she recalled it all those years ago. And Abdallah’s boy, Umar, was now master of this domain.

She felt the Christian soldiers with her grow suddenly tense, and soon she saw the cause. Three horsemen, dressed in blinding white robes and turbans, were riding towards her. The cart stopped.

Umar bin Abdallah and his two sons, Zuhayr and Yazid, reined in their horses and saluted the old lady.

‘Peace be upon you, my father’s sister. Welcome home.’

‘When I left you were four years old. Your mother was always telling me to be more strict with you. Come here.’

Umar dismounted and walked to the cart. She kissed him on his head.

‘Let us go home,’ she whispered.

As they reached the entrance to the house, they saw the older servants waiting outside. Zahra disembarked as Ama limped forward and hugged her.

‘Bismallah, bismallah. Welcome to your old home, my lady,’ said Ama as the tears flowed down her face.

‘I’m glad you’re still alive, Amira. I really am. The past is forgotten and I do not wish it to return,’ Zahra replied as the two ancients looked at each other.

Then she was escorted indoors, where Zubayda, Hind and Kulthum bowed and made their welcomes. Zahra inspected each of them in turn and then turned round to see if Yazid was following her. He was and she grabbed his turban and threw it in the air. This gesture relieved the tension as everyone laughed. Zahra knelt on the cushion and hugged Yazid. The boy, feeling instinctively that the act was genuine, reciprocated the affection.

‘Great-Aunt Zahra, Ama told me you’ve been locked up in the maristan in Gharnata for forty years, but you don’t seem mad at all.’

Umar frowned at his son as a wave of nervousness gripped the family, but Hind roared with laughter.

‘I agree with Yazid. Why did you not come sooner?’

Zahra smiled.

‘At first I did not think that I would be welcome. Then I just did not think.’

Ama, followed by two young maids, walked in with towels and clean clothes.

‘May Allah bless you, my lady. Your bath is ready. These girls will help you.’

‘Thank you, Amira. After that I must eat something.’

‘Dinner is ready, Aunt,’ Zubayda interjected. ‘We were waiting to eat with you.’

Ama took Zahra by the arm and they walked out into the courtyard, followed by the two maid-servants. Hind waited till they were out of earshot.

‘Father! Great-Aunt Zahra is not mad, is she? Was she ever mad?’

Umar shrugged his shoulders and exchanged a rapid glance with Zubayda. ‘I do not know, child. We were all told that she had lost her mind in Qurtuba. They sent her back here, but she refused to marry and started wandering about the hills on her own reciting blasphemous verses. I must confess I was never convinced about her illness. It seemed too convenient. My father adored her and was very unhappy at the decision, but Ibn Farid was a very hard man. We must make her last years happy ones.’

Hind was not prepared to change the subject.

‘But Father, why did you never go to the maristan and visit her. Why?’

‘I felt it might be too painful for her. I did think about it sometimes, but something always stopped me. My father used to go and see her, but each time he returned home in such a state of depression that he could not smile for weeks. I suppose I did not wish to reawaken those memories. But she is here now, my daughter and I’m sure that she will answer all your questions. Aunt Zahra was never renowned for her discretion.’

‘I don’t want you to imagine that we ignored her existence,’ said Zubayda. ‘Till last week fresh clothes and fruit were being sent to her every week on our behalf by your father’s cousin Hisham.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Yazid in a very adult tone, which, much to his annoyance, made them all laugh and he had to turn away to conceal his own smile.

If there had been any doubts left about Zahra’s sanity, they were all dispelled during dinner. She talked and laughed with such ease that it seemed as if she had always been part of their household. At one stage, when the discussion had inevitably moved to the tragedy of al-Andalus, the old lady revealed a politically perceptive streak that surprised Zubayda.

‘Why did we go into decline? We fell prey to the fool’s sense of honour! Do you know what that is Hind? Yazid? Zuhayr? No? Fools regard forgiveness as wrong.’

It was Hind who finally asked the question in everyone’s mind.

‘Great-Aunt, how did you get permission to leave the maristan? What happened?’

The old lady seemed genuinely surprised. ‘You mean you don’t know?’

Everyone shook their heads.

‘We always were isolated from the rest of the world in this place. The whole of Gharnata is talking about what happened in the maristan. I thought you knew.’ She began to chuckle. ‘I’d better tell you, I suppose. Is there anything to sweeten the palate, niece?’

Before Zubayda could reply, Ama, who had been waiting patiently for them to finish the main part of the meal, spoke. ‘Would my lady like some heavenly mixture?’

‘Heavenly mixture! You remembered, Amira?’

‘Yes, I did remember,’ said Ama, ‘but I was going to make some anyway for Zuhayr’s breakfast, except that he did not return from his long ride till after midday. All the ingredients have been ready since the morning. The cornflour is kneaded and waiting to be shaped into cakes and baked. I will not be long.’

Seeing that they were all looking at her expectantly, Zahra realized that it was time to tell them, and so she began to recount the momentous incidents which had brought about a sudden change in her life.

‘Ten days ago some friars arrived and began to enquire about the religion of the inmates. The majority were followers of the Prophet. The rest were Jews and there were a few Christians. The monks told the authorities that the Archbishop from Tulaytula…’

‘Ximenes!’ hissed Zuhayr. His great-aunt smiled.

‘The same. He had instructed his monks to start the forced conversions. What better place to choose than the maristan? They did not need to threaten us, but they did. From henceforth only those who believed in the virginity of Mary and the divine status of Jesus would be permitted to stay. As you know alcohol is not permitted, and when the inmates saw these priests with their flasks of wine, they happily drank the blood of Christ. So the conversions proceeded smoothly.

‘When it came to me, I told them: “Nothing is easier for me than abstinence from things unlawful, but I have news for you. I do not drink the devil’s piss and yet I am already a convert of my own free will. In fact, much revered fathers, that is the reason my family sent me here. They thought I must have lost possession of my faculties when I announced that I had become a devoted follower of your Church.” The poor priests were puzzled. I suppose they could have thought that I was really mad and chosen to ignore my story. For that reason, I pointed to the crucifix around my neck. And do you know something, children? It worked.

‘The next morning I was taken to meet the Captain-General at the al-Hamra. Imagine, an inmate of a maristan meeting the representative of the Castilian King! He was most courteous. I told him what had happened to me. When he realized that I was the daughter of Ibn Farid he nearly fainted. He told me that he had heard stories of your great-grandfather’s valour from his father and he immediately proceeded to tell me some of them. I knew them all, but I did not let him realize that and listened attentively to every word, smiling and gesturing at the right moments. The fact that it was my father’s temper that had landed me in the maristan was somehow ignored by both of us. He asked me what I thought of the situation in Gharnata. I told him that forty years ago I had asked the Almighty to do me a very big favour and I was still praying for my desire to be granted before I died. “What is that favour, madame?” the Captain-General enquired. “To give me strength not to meddle with that which does not concern me.”’

Yazid started giggling at the way she was mimicking both the Captain-General and herself, and everyone laughed, even Kulthum, who had been overawed by the arrival of this mythical figure. Zahra, delighted with the effect of her stories, continued the tale. ‘You may think this was an act of cowardice on my part, and you would be right. You see, my children, I wanted to get out. If I had told the truth… if I had let him know what I felt when that evil Ximenes burnt our books, I might still have been in the maristan or sent to some convent. You know they took all of us from the maristan to witness the bonfire of our culture. I thought then of this house and all the manuscripts in our library — Ibn Hazm, Ibn Khaldun, Ibn Rushd, Ibn Sina. At least here they would survive. I could have told the Captain-General all that, but they would never then have believed that I was sane. And my air of indifference had the effect I desired.

‘The Captain-General rose, bowed and kissed my hand. “Rest assured, my dear lady, that you shall be escorted to your family estates as soon as you wish with an armed guard.” Then he took his leave and I was brought back to the maristan. You can imagine my state. I had not left that building for four whole decades. I was preparing calmly for death and then all this happened. Incidentally, you must send those books away. Ship them to the University in al-Qahira or to Fes. Here they will never survive. Now I have nothing more to say. I only hope that I do not come as a burden.’

‘This is your home,’ replied Umar, slightly pompously. ‘Perhaps you should never have left it.’

Hind hugged and kissed Zahra. The old woman was greatly moved by the spontaneity of the gesture.

‘I never knew that you had become a Christian, Great-Aunt.’

‘Nor did I,’ replied Zahra, making Yazid scream with laughter.

‘Did you make it all up to get out of there? Did you?’

Zahra nodded and all of them laughed, but something was worrying Yazid.

‘Then where did you get the crucifix?’

‘Made it myself. Time never intruded in that place. I carved many figures in wood to keep myself from really going mad.’

Yazid left his place and went and sat near Zahra, clutching her hand tightly as if to make sure that she was real.

‘I can tell already that my nephew, like his father, is a good man. Your children are relaxed in your presence. It was never like that with us. Hmmmm. I can smell something good. That Amira has not lost her touch.’ Ama entered with the maize cakes wrapped in cloth to keep them warm. She was followed by the Dwarf, who was carrying a metal container full of bubbling hot milk. Umayma came last with a pot full of raw, brown sugar. The Dwarf bowed to Zahra, who returned his greetings.

‘Is your mother dead or alive, Dwarf?’

‘She died some fifteen years ago, my lady. She was also praying for you.’

‘She should have prayed for herself. Might have been still alive.’

Ama was beginning to prepare the heavenly mixture. Her hands were hidden in a large bowl where she was tearing the soft cakes apart. They crumbled easily. She added some fresh butter and carried on softening the mixture with her hands. Then she signalled to Umayma, who came forward and began to pour on the sugar while Ama’s wrinkled hands continued to mix the ingredients. Finally the fingers withdrew. Zahra clapped her hands and proffered her bowl. Ama cupped her right hand and served her a large handful. The procedure was repeated for the others. Then the hot milk was poured on and the sweet course was taken. For a moment they were too busy savouring the delights of this simple concoction to thank its author.

‘Heaven. It is simply heaven, Amira. What a wonderful heavenly mixture. Now I can die in peace.’

‘I have never tasted such a heavenly mixture before, Ama,’ said Yazid.

‘This heavenly mixture could never have been created for me alone, Ama, could it?’ asked Zuhayr.

‘The taste of this heavenly mixture reminds me of my youth,’ muttered Umar.

Ama was satisfied. The guest and the three men of the house had praised her in public. She had no cause to grumble tonight, Hind thought to herself as she laughed inwardly at the absurdity of this ritual, which dated back to Ibn Farid’s first marriage.

Hind’s bed-chamber had once belonged to Zahra. Now it had been prepared again for the old lady. Hind had moved to a spare chamber in the women’s section of the house, near her mother. Zahra was taken to her room by all the women in the family and Ama. She stood by the doorway in the courtyard and looked at the sky. A tear escaped, and then another.

‘I used to dream about this courtyard every month. Remember the shadows of the pomegranate tree during the full moon, Amira? Remember what we used to say? If the moon is with us, what need do we have for the stars?’

Ama took her arm and gently propelled her through the door as Zubayda, Hind and Kulthum wished her a good night’s sleep.

In another section of the courtyard, Umayma was on her way home after preparing the Lady Zubayda’s bed-chamber, when an arm grabbed her and pulled her into a room.

‘No, master,’ she whispered.

Zuhayr felt her breasts, but as his hands began to roam elsewhere the girl stopped him.

‘I cannot tonight, al-Fahl. I am unclean. If you don’t believe me, dip your hand in and see for yourself.’

His hands fell to his side. He did not reply and Umayma flitted through the door and disappeared.

Hind and Kulthum had returned to their mother’s bed-chamber. They were sitting on the bed watching Zubayda dismantle her hair and then undress.

Umar walked in through the door that connected their chambers.

‘What a strange evening it has been. She was only two years younger than my father. I see a lot of him in her. They were so very close. I know how much he missed her. What a tragedy. What a waste of a life. Zahra could have been something truly great. Did you know she wrote poetry? And it was good. Even our grandfather, at a time when he was still very angry with her, had to admit that to himself…’

There was a knock on the door and Zuhayr entered the room.

‘I heard voices and I knew it must be a family conference.’

‘A family conference would be impossible without Yazid,’ retorted Hind. ‘He is the only one who takes them seriously. Abu was talking about our great-aunt before you galloped into the conversation.’

‘That is what I came to hear. It is not every day that a ghost returns to life. What a woman she must have been. Banished from this house for over fifty years. How well she behaved tonight. No resentments. No anger. Just relief.’

‘She has no cause to be angry with us,’ said their father. ‘We did her no harm.’

‘Who did harm her, father? Who? Why? What was Great-Aunt Zahra’s crime?’

Hind’s impatient voice was edged with an anger she did not attempt to conceal. Without knowing anything about Zahra, except for the odd enigmatic remark from Ama or gossip she had picked up from their cousins in Ishbiliya, she had been touched by the dignity of the old woman. None of the stories tallied with the reality they had experienced today as the real Zahra had sought refuge from the turmoil of Gharnata in her ancestral home.

Umar looked at Zubayda, who nodded gently, and he accepted that there was a strong case for telling the children all he could remember of the mystery surrounding Zahra. There were many things he did not know. Of all those left alive, only Ama knew all the details, and perhaps one other person — barring Great-Uncle Miguel, who seemed to know everything.

‘It was all such a long time ago,’ began Umar bin Abdallah, ‘that I’m not sure I remember all the details. What I am about to tell you was told to me by my mother, who liked Zahra and became very attached to her.

‘I don’t know exactly when Zahra’s tragedy began. My mother used to say that it was the day your great-grandfather Ibn Farid, may he rest in peace, returned to al-Hudayl with his new wife, the Lady Asma. She was only a few years older than Zahra and made no attempt to alter the style or the pattern of life here. She left the management of the household to Grandmother Maryam. It is said that during her first months she was so much in awe of everything that she found it difficult to issue a command to a servant.

‘Zahra and father were very close to their Aunt Maryam. It was she who had brought them up after their mother died. And so, in their hearts, she took their mother’s place. Brother and sister saw Asma’s entry into our house as an intrusion. Nothing improper ever took place, but a gulf had opened between them and their father. There is no doubt the servants played an unhealthy part in this whole affair. They were, after all, aware of Asma’s origins. She had been a Christian kitchen girl, whose mother was still a cook, even though Ibn Farid invited her to leave Don Alvaro’s service and join his household. All this provided endless seams of gossip for the whole village, and especially the kitchen in this house. You would have thought that there would be some fellow-feeling amongst the cooks, at the sudden elevation of one of their kind, but not a bit of it. The Dwarf’s father, in particular, spread a great deal of venom, till one day Ibn Farid sent for him and threatened to execute him personally in the outer courtyard. The threat worked. Slowly, things calmed down. The fever began to abate.

‘The trouble was that the servants had not even bothered to lower their voices when the children were present and the disease was infectious. Zahra became extremely disaffected. Ibn Farid had been the centre of her life. He had married Asma and Zahra felt betrayed. Simply in order to snub her father, she turned down every suitor. She withdrew more and more into herself. She could go for days without talking to anyone.

‘Of course Ibn Farid had foreseen the effect of his marriage in the village. He was not unaware of the problems. For that reason he had hired a whole retinue of maids in Qurtuba to serve Asma, knowing that their primary loyalty would be to their new mistress. At their head he placed an older woman who had served in our family for many years but had run foul of Grandmother Najma’s tongue and had been exiled from the house. She had become a washerwoman in the village.

‘This woman had a son whose father was either a seller of figs in Qurtuba or one of our retainers who died in a siege near Malaka or… heaven alone knows. He was an extremely intelligent boy, and well educated thanks to the generosity of the Banu Hudayl. He studied with the same tutors as did my father and Aunt Zahra. Unlike them, he read a great deal and knew the work of the masters of philosophy, history, mathematics, theology and even medicine. He knew the books in our library better than anyone in the family. His name was Mohammed ibn Zaydun. He was also good-looking.

‘Your great-aunt fell in love with him. It was Ibn Zaydun who brought her out of her depression. It was he who encouraged her to write poetry, to think of the world outside this house and even beyond the frontiers of al-Andalus. He explained the circumstances of Ibn Farid’s marriage and convinced Zahra that it was not the fault of the Lady Asma. Thus he brought them together.

‘I think it was the knowledge that this servant’s boy had succeeded where he himself had failed so abysmally that caused Ibn Farid to develop an intense dislike for Ibn Zaydun. On one occasion he was heard to say: “If that boy is not careful with his tongue it might cost him his neck.” He began to punish the boy. He insisted that Mohammed be sent to work in the fields and learn a trade like anyone else. He suggested that Juan’s father could teach him carpentry or Ibn Hasd the skills of shoemaking. The boy was wise beyond his years. He felt the anger of his master, but he also understood the cause and began to shun the inner courtyard. Both Zahra and Asma pleaded with Ibn Farid not to be so rough on the young man. I think it was Grandmother Asma who finally succeeded in persuading my grandfather to let Ibn Zaydun teach Zahra and my father the principles of mathematics in a methodical way.

‘My father was rarely present. He was often away hunting or staying with our family in Gharnata. And so it was that Mohammed ibn Zaydun and Zahra bint Najma were in each other’s company every single day. What had to happen happened…’

Hind’s eyes were gleaming with excitement.

‘But why did they not just run away? I would have done so.’

‘All in good time, Hind. All in good time. There was a problem in the shape of another young woman. Like Zahra she was very beautiful, but unlike Zahra she was the daughter of an old retainer and worked as a young serving girl. Not so different from our Umayma. She was extremely intelligent, but without any formal learning, and she too wanted Ibn Zaydun for her husband. Naturally, Ibn Farid thought this was an excellent idea and instructed the parents of both to arrange the nuptials.

‘Zahra went mad. Perhaps I should not use that word. Let us say that she was in a very discomposed state when Ibn Zaydun told her what was being planned. She forced him to meet her that night in the pomegranate grove just outside the house…’

Hind shrieked with laughter, which was so infectious that everyone began to smile except Zuhayr. Her father demanded an explanation.

‘Some things never change, do they brother? Fancy them meeting in the pomegranate grove!’

Zuhayr’s complexion changed colour. His father understood the reference, smiled and diverted attention from his first-born by continuing Zahra’s story.

‘That night they acted as if they were husband and wife. The next morning Zahra went to Grandmother Asma and told her what had happened. Asma was shocked and told Zahra that on no account could she let her marry the son of her maid-servant…’

‘But…’ Hind was beginning to interrupt till she saw the frown on her father’s face and stopped.

‘Yes Hind, I know, but there is never any logic in such matters. Asma did not want Zahra to repeat her own experience. It is a contradiction of course, but not uncommon. Your mother will remember that when Great-Uncle Rahim-Allah married a courtesan, she turned out to be the most puritanical of the great-aunts. Fiercely loyal to her husband and unbending in her attitude to adultery and other such vices. It is, I suppose, one of the consequences of what the master Ibn Khaldun might have referred to as the dilemma of shifting social locations. Once you have climbed all the way up the ladder from the lowest rung, you can never stop looking down upon those less fortunate than yourself.

‘To return to the story. One night when Zahra and Ibn Zaydun were trysting in their favourite spot, unknown to them they had been followed by Zahra’s rival. She watched everything. Everything. The next morning she reported the whole affair directly to Ibn Farid. He did not doubt her word for a moment. He must have felt that his instinctive dislike of the washerwoman’s son had been vindicated. He was heard to roar at the top of his voice: “Fifty gold dinars to the person who will bring that boy to me.”

‘I think if Ibn Zaydun had been caught that day, my grandfather would have had him castrated on the spot. Fortunately for our lover, he had been dispatched early in the morning on an errand to Gharnata. On hearing of what lay in store for him if he returned, his mother, warned by Grandmother Asma, sent a friend from the village to warn the boy. Ibn Zaydun simply disappeared. He was never seen in the village again while Ibn Farid was alive…’

‘Father,’ Kulthum enquired in her soft, obedient voice, ‘who was Great-Aunt’s rival?’

‘Why, child, I thought all of you might have guessed after the events of this evening. It was Ama!’

‘Ama!’ all three of them shouted.

‘Shhhh!’ said Zubayda. ‘She’ll come running if she hears you shouting in that fashion.’

They looked at each other in silence. It was Hind who spoke first.

‘And Great-Aunt Zahra?’

‘Your great-grandfather sent for her in the presence of both my grandmothers. They pleaded with him to forgive her. Zahra herself was defiant. Perhaps we can ask her now, but my mother told me that Zahra is supposed to have said: “Why should you be the only one to marry someone of your choice? I love Asma both as the wife of your choice and as my friend. Why could you not accept Ibn Zaydun?” It was then that he struck her and she cursed him and cursed him till Ibn Farid, feeling ashamed of himself, but not to the extent of begging her forgiveness, turned his back on her and walked out of the room. The very next day she left this house. Never came back till last night. What she did in Qurtuba, I do not know. You will have to ask someone else.’

While the children of Umar bin Abdallah were reflecting on their great-aunt’s tragic story, the subject of all their thoughts was preparing to dismiss Ama and retire for the night. Zahra had carefully avoided all mention of Ibn Zaydun. She did not want any apologies. They would have been half-a-century too late in any case. It was all over and she genuinely did not bear any grudges. The two old women had spent the evening discussing the state of the Banu Hudayl. Zahra had wanted to know everything, and in Ama she had found the only person who could tell everything.

Ama had told her the circumstances, not sparing any detail, in which her brother Abdallah had died, after he had been thrown by a horse he had trained and bred himself, and how his wife had only survived him for a year.

‘Even on his death-bed he thought about you and made young Umar swear on the al-koran that a regular supply of food and clothes would be sent to you. He never got over your absence.’

Zahra sighed and a sad smile tugged at her face.

‘Our childhood memories were so closely intertwined you know…’

Then she stopped, as if the memory of her brother had led her to others. The look on her face reminded Ama of the old days. She must be seeing him in her mind’s eye, Ama thought to herself. I wish she would talk about him. What is there to hide now?

It was as if Zahra had read her old rival’s thoughts. ‘Whatever became of Mohammed ibn Zaydun?’ Zahra tried to sound very casual, but her heart was beating faster. ‘Is he dead?’

‘No, my lady. He is alive. He changed his name, you know. He calls himself Wajid al-Zindiq and lives on a hill a few miles from here. Zuhayr ibn Umar sees him regularly, but does not know his past. He too is sent food from the house. Umar bin Abdallah insisted we did that, once we had discovered the identity of the man who had moved into that cave on the hill. This very morning Zuhayr was with him for several hours.’

Zahra was so excited by this piece of news that her heartbeats sounded like gunshots in Ama’s ears.

‘I must sleep now. Peace be upon you, Amira.’

‘And upon you, my lady. May God bless you.’

‘He has not done that for a very long time, Amira.’

Ama left the room with the lamp. As she stepped outside she heard Zahra say something. She was about to return to the chamber, but it was obvious that Ibn Farid’s daughter was thinking aloud. Ama remained rooted to the tile in the courtyard on which she stood.

‘The first time. Remember Mohammed?’ Zahra was talking to herself. ‘It was like the opening of a flower. Our eyes were shining, full of hope and our hearts were leaping. Why did you never come back to me?’