Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

Chapter 5

‘TRUTH CANNOT CONTRADICT TRUTH. True or false, Zuhayr al-Fahl?’

‘True. How could it be otherwise? It is written in the al-koran, is it not?’

‘Is that the only reason it is true?’

‘Well… I mean, if it is written in the al-koran… Listen old man, I did not come here today to debate blasphemy!’

‘I will ask you another question. Is it legitimate to unite what is given by reason and that which is provided by tradition?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You suppose so! Do they teach you nothing these days? Bearded fools! I pose a dilemma which has confused our theologians for centuries and all you can say is “I suppose so.” Not good enough. In my day young men were taught to be more rigorous. Have you never read the writings of Ibn Rushd, one of our greatest thinkers? A truly great man who the Christians of Europe know as Averroës? You must have read his books. There are four of them in your father’s library.’

Zuhayr felt embarrassed and humiliated.

‘I was taught them, but in such a way that they made no sense to me. My teacher said that Ibn Rushd may have been a learned man, but he was a heretic!’

‘How the ignorant spread ignorance. The accusation was false. Ibn Rushd was a great philosopher, imbued with genius. He was wrong, in my opinion, but not for the reasons given by the fool who was hired to teach you theology. In order to resolve what he thought was the contradiction between reason and tradition, he accepted the teachings of the mystics. There were apparent meanings and hidden meanings. Now it is true that appearance and reality are not always the same, but Ibn Rushd insisted that allegorical interpretations were a necessary corollary to the truth. That was a great pity, but I do not think that in stating it he was inspired by any base motives.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Zuhayr with irritation. ‘He may have felt that it was the only way to extend knowledge and survive.’

‘He was completely sincere,’ al-Zindiq asserted with a certainty derived from old age. ‘He once said that what had hurt him the most in his life was when he took his son for Friday prayers and a crowd of turbulent illiterates threw them out. It was not just the humiliation, which undoubtedly upset him, but the knowledge that the passions of the uneducated were about to drown the most modern religion in the world. As for myself, I think Ibn Rushd was not heretical enough. He accepted the idea of a Universe completely in thrall to God.’

Zuhayr shivered.

‘Are you cold boy?’

‘No, it is your words that frighten me. I did not come here to discuss philosophy or trade theological insults with you. If you wish to test your ideas we can organize a grand debate in the outer courtyard of our house between you and the Imam from the mosque, but with all of us as the judges. I am sure my sister Hind will defend you, but be careful. Her support is not dissimilar to that provided by a rope to a hanging man!’

Al-Zindiq laughed. ‘I am sorry. When you arrived so suddenly without warning I was working on a manuscript. My whole life’s work, which is an attempt to draw together all the strands of the theological wars which have plagued our religion. My head was so full of those thoughts that I began to inflict them on you. Now tell me all about your visit to Gharnata.’

Zuhayr sighed with relief. He recounted the events of the last few days without sparing a single detail. As he spoke about how they had decided not to accept any further humiliations without resistance, al-Zindiq’s ear caught the note of a familiar passion. How often he had heard young men in their prime eager to lay down their lives to protect their honour. He did not want another life wasted. He looked at Zuhayr and an image of the young man in a white shroud flashed through his head. Al-Zindiq trembled. Zuhayr misjudged the slight movement. He thought that, for once, he had infected the sage with some of his excitement.

‘What is to be done, al-Zindiq? What is your advice?’

Zuhayr was expecting his friends from Gharnata later that day. It would inspire them with so much confidence if they knew that the old man had decided to back their project. He had been talking for well over an hour, outlining Musa’s objections to their plan and Ibn Daud’s response to such feeble-mindedness. It was time he let al-Zindiq talk.

Zuhayr had never needed the old man as much as he did now, for underneath the bravado, the great-grandson of Ibn Farid was racked with serious doubts. What if they all perished in the attempt? If the result of their deaths was the rebirth of Muslim Gharnata, then the sacrifice would have been worth every life, but was that likely? Suppose their rashness led to the elimination of every believer in the old kingdom, their lives cut short by the knights of Ximenes de Cisneros? Zuhayr was still not sure that it was the right time to depart from this world.

Al-Zindiq began his counter-offensive by asking what appeared to be an innocent question.

‘So Ibn Daud al-Misri says he is the great-grandson of Ibn Khaldun?’

Zuhayr nodded eagerly.

‘Why that suspicious tone? How can you doubt his word without having ever seen him?’

‘He sounds headstrong and rash. His great-grandfather would not have suggested such a course of action. He would have argued that without a strong sense of social solidarity in the camp of the believers, there could be no victory. It was the absence of this solidarity amongst the followers of the Prophet that led to the decline in al-Andalus. How can you recreate what no longer exists? Their armies will crush you. It will be like an elephant stepping on an ant.’

‘We know that, but it is our only hope. Ibn Daud said that a people which is defeated and subjugated by others soon disappears.’

‘Spoken like his great-grandfather! But does he not understand that we have already been defeated and are now being subjugated? Bring him to me. Bring them all to me tonight and let us discuss the matter again and with the seriousness that it deserves. It is not your lives alone that could be lost. A great deal more is at stake. Does your father know?’

Zuhayr shook his head.

‘I would like to tell him, but Great-Uncle Miguel has arrived to see Great-Aunt Zahra…’

Zuhayr stopped himself, but it was too late. The forbidden name had been uttered. He looked at al-Zindiq who smiled. ‘I was wondering when you intended to mention her. The village is talking of nothing else. It does not matter now, boy. It was a long time ago. I was going to tell you the last time, but your servant’s arrival sealed my lips. So now you know why al-Zindiq is banished, but also provided with food.’

‘If you loved her, why did you not go to Qurtuba and find her? She would have married you.’

‘The heat and cold that remains in our body is never constant, Ibn Umar. At first I was frightened of her father — he had threatened to slay me if I was seen near Qurtuba. But there was something else.’

‘What?’

‘Perhaps Zahra did love me all those years ago. Perhaps. She had strange ways of demonstrating her affection.’

Zuhayr was perplexed.

‘What do you mean?’

After three months in Qurtuba she was seen climbing atop every Christian nobleman who smiled at her. This went on for many years. Too many years. When I heard the stories of her adventures I fell ill for a long time, but I recovered. It cured me. The malady disappeared. I felt free again, even though my heart forgot what the sun used to look like.’

‘And you forgot Great-Aunt Zahra?’

‘I did not say that, did I? How could I ever forget? But the gates were tightly closed. Then I heard other stories about similar incidents with other men. After that I stuffed my ears with cotton wool. Many, many years later Amira told me that the lady was in the Gharnata maristan.’

‘I think what she did not tell you was that Great-Aunt Zahra was as sane as you or me. She was sent there on the express orders of her father, the year before he died. He believed that her behaviour was designed explicitly to punish him for forbidding her to marry you. That is what my mother told me.’

‘Great men like Ibn Farid always saw themselves at the centre of everything. Could he not see that the Lady Zahra was punishing herself?’

‘She was quite moved to see her brother, you know. Even though Ama told us that she used to loathe Miguel. When we asked why, Ama’s face became as hard as a rock. Did Miguel play any part in your banishment, al-Zindiq? I’m sure he must have spied on you.’

Al-Zindiq cupped his face in his hands and stared downwards at the earth. Then he raised his head and Zuhayr saw the pain clearly reflected in his eyes. His wrinkled face had suddenly become taut. How strange, thought Zuhayr, he reacts exactly like Ama.

‘I am sorry, old man. I did not mean to revive hurtful memories. Forgive me.’

Al-Zindiq spoke in a strange voice.

‘For you, Miguel is an apostate who betrayed the colour green for their hymns and wooden icons. You see him swaggering around as the Bishop of Qurtuba, blaspheming against your religion, and you are ashamed that he is related to you. Am I not correct?’

Zuhayr nodded earnestly.

‘Yet what if I were to tell you that as a boy, Meekal al-Malek was full of life and fun? Far from spying on me and running to tell tales to his father, he wanted Zahra and me to be happy. He would play chess with such passion that if he had done nothing else he would still be remembered as the inventor of at least three opening moves which could not be matched by the masters of the game in this peninsula, let alone the likes of me or even the Dwarf’s father, who was a player of some distinction. He would often engage in philosophical battles with his tutors, which revealed such a precocious streak that it frightened all of us, especially his mother. There was so much promise in him that Ibn Farid used to say to the Lady Asma: “Do not let the maids stare at him in admiration. They will afflict him with the Evil Eye.” Later, after what happened, many of us recalled what his father had said so many years ago. It was my mother, Lady Asma’s maid and confidante, who used to look after Miguel. He was often in our quarters and I was very fond of him.’

‘How then did his ship sink to the bottom?’ asked Zuhayr. ‘What is the mystery? How did he get ill? What happened, al-Zindiq?’

‘Are you sure you want to know? There are some things which are best left alone.’

‘I must know, and you are the only one who will tell me.’

The old man sighed. He knew that this was not true. Amira probably knew much more than he had ever been told, but whether either of them knew everything was open to question.

Two women, and they alone, had known the whole truth. Lady Asma and her trusted serving woman. My much-loved mother, thought this lonely old man on the top of the hill. Both were dead, and Wajid al-Zindiq was certain that his mother had been poisoned. The family of Hudayl did not trust in fate. They had felt that only the cemetery could ensure total silence. Who had taken the decision? Al-Zindiq did not believe for a moment that it could have been Umar’s father, Abdallah bin Farid. It was not in his character or temperament. Perhaps it had been Hisham of Gharnata, a great believer in tying up loose ends. It made no difference except that the exact details of what happened had died with her.

Some years later, al-Zindiq and Amira had sat down one evening and pieced together everything they knew regarding the tragedy. There was still no way of knowing whether their version was accurate or not, and it was for that reason that al-Zindiq was reluctant to talk.

‘Al-Zindiq, you promised you would tell me everything.’

‘Very well, but remember one thing, al-Fahl. What I am about to recount may not be the whole truth. I have no way of knowing.’

‘Please! Let me be the judge.’

‘When your great-grandfather died, both your grandmothers were distraught. The Lady Maryam had not shared his bed for many years, but still she loved him. Ibn Farid died in his sleep. When the Lady Asma went to his bed she pressed his shoulders and the back of his head as was her norm, but there was no response. When she realized that life had flown out of him she screamed: “Maryam! Maryam! A calamity has befallen us.” My mother said it was the most heart-rending cry she had ever heard. Both wives consoled each other as best they could.

‘A year later the Lady Maryam was buried. It was a slow and terrible death. Her tongue was covered with a black growth and she was in terrible pain. She pleaded for poison, but your grandfather would not hear of it. The best physicians from Gharnata and Ishbiliya were sent for, but they were helpless before the scourge which had planted itself in her mouth and was spreading throughout her body. Ibn Sina once said that this disease has no known cause and no known cure. He was of the opinion that in some cases the cause lay in the accumulation of bad humours trapped in the patient’s mind. I have not studied such cases and am, therefore, not in a position to comment. In any event, whatever the cause, Lady Maryam died almost exactly a year after Ibn Farid. My mother used to say that her heart had been in mourning for twenty years before the death of her husband.

‘Lady Asma was now left alone. Zahra was in the maristan. Meekal was a growing boy and not much inclined to stay within the confines of the house. Your grandfather was a kind man, but not renowned for his agility of mind. His wife, your grandmother, was similar in character. Lady Asma spent a lot of time with your father, who was then about eight years old. He became a substitute for the love she used to lavish on her late husband. Outside the family it was my mother who became her closest friend. Her own mother, the old cook Dorothea, despite repeated requests, refused to come and live in the house. Whenever she did come the quality of the food served in the house improved immeasurably. She would make short, but memorable visits. Unforgettable because she used to bake small almond cakes, which melted in our mouths. She was truly a very fine cook and the Dwarf’s father learnt a great deal from her. He also fell in love with her, and there were stories that — but let me not digress. The fact is that if Dorothea had come and lived with Asma after Ibn Farid’s death, the tragedy might never have happened.’

Zuhayr had been so absorbed in the story that he had, till now, controlled his curiosity. As a young boy, listening to the unending tales of family history, he had often irritated his father by persistent questions in pursuit of some tangential detail. Dorothea’s refusal to relinquish her master and to follow her daughter to al-Hudayl had been puzzling him for some time, and so he interrupted the story-teller.

‘I find that odd, al-Zindiq. Why? I mean in Don Alvaro’s house she was just a cook. Here she would have lived in comfort till she died.’

‘I do not know, Ibn Umar. She was a very decent woman. I think she simply felt embarrassed at being the mother-in-law of such a notable as Ibn Farid. Perhaps, from a distance, it was easier to accept her sudden elevation. Much to Ibn Farid’s annoyance she would refuse to stay in the house. My mother would vacate our room in the servants’ quarters and that is where she slept.’

‘What was the tragedy, al-Zindiq? What happened? I have a feeling that time may defeat us once again, and I would not like that to happen.’

‘You mean why did Lady Asma die and who killed my mother?’

‘Exactly. Lady Asma was not old was she?’

‘No, and there lay the problem. She was still young, full of life and proud of her body. She had only borne two sons.’

‘Great-Uncles Miguel and Walid.’

‘Exactly. Walid’s death was a terrible shock to us all. Just imagine if your Yazid were suddenly to contract a fever and die. You see, even the thought pains you. Lady Asma was ready to bear many more children when your great-grandfather decided to retire from this life. Mother told me that there were many suitors for the widow of Ibn Farid, but they were all refused. Your grandfather Abdallah would not hear of his father’s wife being treated like any other woman. So Lady Asma lived in seclusion surrounded by her family.

‘Your great-uncle Hisham had married just before Ibn Farid died and resumed his trading activities in Gharnata — activities, I may say, which were regarded with displeasure by all except his mother. For a son of the Banu Hudayl to become a tradesman in the market-place was nothing short of sacrilege. An insult to the honour of the family. It had its poets and philosophers and statesmen and warriors, and even a crazed painter whose erotic art, it is said, was greatly appreciated by the Caliph in Qurtuba, but they had all been based firmly on the land. Now the nephew of Ibn Farid was negotiating with merchants and haggling with owners of ships and actually enjoying every minute of his life. If Hisham had only pretended to be unhappy he might have been forgiven. Ibn Farid was livid, but having expelled one child he did not wish to break with another, and in any case the Lady Asma would not have tolerated any nonsense.’

‘But this sounds like madness. Were not the Banu Hudayl descended from Bedouin warriors, who certainly traded and haggled with caravans every day of their lives, before coming to the Maghreb? Do you not agree?’

‘Wholeheartedly. Think of it, my al-Fahl. Descendants of nomadic warriors who marched from Arabia to the Maghreb had lost the urge to travel and become so attached to the land that a member of the family deciding otherwise was treated as a heretic.’

Zuhayr, who was very close to the children of Ibn Hisham, was intrigued by the displeasure their grandfather had incurred.

‘I am not sure I agree with you. I mean, even in the desert our forefathers had contempt for the town-dwellers. I remember Ama telling me as a child how only parasites lived in towns.’

Al-Zindiq laughed. ‘Yes, she would. Amira was always an effective carrier of other people’s prejudices. But you see, my al-Fahl, towns have a political importance which villages such as yours lack. What do you produce? Silks. What do they produce? Power. Ibn Khaldun once wrote…’

Zuhayr suddenly realized that the old fox was about to trap him into a lengthy discussion on the philosophy of history and the interminable debate on urban existence versus rural life, and so he stopped him.

‘Al-Zindiq, how did Lady Asma die? I do not wish to ask this question again.’

The old man smiled with his eyes and his face was wreathed in wrinkles. In the space of a second those very same eyes were filled with a foreboding of disaster. He wanted to change the subject, but Zuhayr was staring at him. His soft bearded face wore a grim expression and suddenly revealed a firmness which surprised al-Zindiq. He breathed heavily.

‘Six years after Ibn Farid died, the Lady Asma became pregnant.’

‘How? who?’ asked Zuhayr in a hoarse, agonized whisper.

‘Three people knew the truth. My mother and the other two. My mother and Lady Asma are dead. That leaves one person.’

‘I know that, you old fool.’ Zuhayr was angry.

‘Yes, yes, young Zuhayr al-Fahl. You feel upset. You knew none of these people, but still your pride is hurt.’

Strange, thought al-Zindiq, how much it has affected this boy. What has it to do with him? The infernal power of yesterday’s ghosts still fuelling our passions? It is too late to stop now. He stroked Zuhayr’s face and patted his back as he gave him a glass of water.

‘You can imagine the atmosphere in the house when this became known. The old ladies of the family, many of whom had been presumed dead from gluttony long ago, suddenly reappeared, descending on the house from Qurtuba, Balansiya, Ishbiliya and Gharnata. Bad news always travels fast. The Lady Asma did not come out of her room. My mother acted as the mediator between her and these old witches. An old midwife from Gharnata, considered an expert in the art of removing unwanted children from the womb, began her work, with my mother at her side. Her operation was successful. The embarrassment was removed. A week later, Lady Asma died. Some poison had entered the stream of her blood. But that was not all. When your grandfather and grandmother went to see her, Lady Asma whispered in your grandmother’s ear that she wanted to die. She had lost the will to live. The shame was unbearable. Hisham and his wife were in the house with their son, who was another great favourite of the Lady Asma and used to spend weeks at the house. That is how Ibn Hisham became so close to your father. As for Meekal, he fell very ill himself. He did not go and see his mother on her death-bed. Nor did she send for him.’

‘But who was, it al-Zindiq? How can pure water in a jug turn overnight into sour milk?’

‘My mother did not see it happen, but the Lady Asma told her everything there was to know. Three weeks later my mother herself was dead. She had never been ill in her life. I had come to the village and asked for permission to attend Lady Asma’s funeral. This was considered improper, but I did manage to speak to my mother. She insisted on speaking in riddles. She would not name the person, but from a combination of what she said to me that night and what Amira had observed with her own eyes, what had happened became clear to us — or so we imagined.’

Zuhayr’s breathing had become heavier, and the blood rose to his face in anticipation as al-Zindiq paused to drink some water.

‘Tell me, old man. Tell me!’

‘You know that house well, Zuhayr bin Umar. Lady Asma was in the rooms where your mother now lives. Tell me something. Is any strange man or even a male servant ever allowed into those quarters?’

Zuhayr shook his head.

‘Which males can come and go as they please, apart from your father?’

‘I suppose Yazid and myself.’

‘Exactly.’

For a minute Zuhayr could not comprehend what he had been told. It hit him like an unexpected blow on the skull. He looked at the old story-teller in horror.

‘You do not mean… you cannot mean…’ But the name refused to trip off his tongue. It was al-Zindiq who finally had to speak the name.

‘Meekal. Miguel. What difference does it make?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘How can I be? But it is the only supposition. Everyone noticed weeks before the pregnancy was discovered that Meekal was behaving in a very strange fashion. He had stopped going to the baths in the village to peep at the naked women. He stopped laughing. His beardless face became heavy and morose. His eyes were heavy with lack of sleep. Physicians arrived from Gharnata, but what could they do? The illness was beyond their cures. So they prescribed sea air, fresh fruits and herbal infusions. Your great-uncle was sent off to Malaka for a month. Just being away from that house must have had a beneficial effect.

‘When he returned he did look much better. But, to the surprise of all those who had no idea of the inner torment which was consuming him, he never went near his mother’s chamber. I think she spoke with him once. At her funeral he was inconsolable. He wept for forty days. After that he fell ill for a long time. His health never returned. The Meekal I knew had also died. The tragedy claimed three lives. The Bishop of Qurtuba is a ghost.’

‘But how could it happen, al-Zindiq?’

‘That is no mystery. Ever since he was a baby, Meekal was the favourite. He used to bathe with his mother and the other ladies. Amira told me that even though he was sixteen, he would walk in while the Lady Asma was having a bath and often took off his clothes and jumped in with her.

‘She was not yet past her prime. I do not know who initiated what happened, but I can understand her dilemma. She was still a woman, and she still yearned for that one particular joy which had disappeared from her life since the death of Ibn Farid. When it happened it was so warm, so ecstatic, so comfortable, so familiar, that she forgot who she was and who he was and where they were. Then immediately afterwards the memory became a pain, which in her case, could only be removed by death. Who are we to judge her, Zuhayr? How can we ever understand what she felt?’

‘I don’t know — I don’t want to know — but it was madness.’

‘Yes, that it was and the people around her became stern and inflexible. I have a suspicion that the old midwife was encouraged to facilitate the death of both mother and child.’

‘Lady Asma must have regretted converting to our religion.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, if she had remained a worshipper of icons she could have pretended to the world that the appearance of a child in her body was a divine mystery.’

‘You are beginning to sound bitter. It is time you went home.’

‘Come with me, al-Zindiq. You will be welcomed.’

The old man was startled by the suddenness of the invitation.

‘I thank you. I would like to see Zahra, but some other day.’

‘How can you bear this solitude day after day?’

‘I look at it differently. From here I see the sun rise as no other person does, and from here I enjoy the sun set as few others will. Look at it now. Is not that the colour of paradise? And there are my manuscripts, growing by the year. Solitude has its own pleasures my friend.’

‘But what about its pains?’

‘In every twenty-four hours there is always one which is full of anguish and self-pity and confusion and the desire to see other faces, but an hour passes quickly enough. Now fly away my young friend. You have important business to conduct tonight, and do not forget to bring to me the young man who claims he is the descendant of Ibn Khaldun.’

‘Why so sceptical?’

‘Because Ibn Khaldun’s entire family perished in a shipwreck while travelling from Tunis to al-Qahira! Now go, and peace be upon you.’