Granada (30 page)

The sun dipped toward the horizon and then disappeared. The moonlight lit up the skies as Naeem held her hands. When the priest asks him where he has been, he'll respond by telling him to go to hell. And to hell with Saad. Don't ever tell me I don't know life and how to live. Damn you, Saad. When he heard himself thinking all this he started to laugh at himself, and Maya laughed as well. He looked into her eyes, then jumped up.

"Now, I'm going to give you a present."

It wasn't important that she didn't understand at first. Now she would.

Under the light of the moon at the edge of the stream that reflected its light, in the presence of Maya, the most beautiful of women, Naeem lifted up his arms, moved his shoulders, and leaned over, first to the left and then to the right. He stiffened his body, clapped his hands, and tapped his heels on the ground. He jumped high in the air as though he were about to fly away. He landed on the ground cross-legged and shook his thighs in consecutive motions. He jumped up and stood clapping his hands, bending and twisting his body in circles, leaping up and down. He moved over to Maya as she was watching him and he wrapped his arms around her waist. He spun her around until they both got dizzy and fell to the ground. They laughed for a long time before Maya leaned over and kissed him on the mouth.

Naeem was unable to concoct a new story every day to explain his absence at a given time. His imagination couldn't come up with enough alibis that would be convincing and not arouse the slightest suspicion. Besides, one hour was no longer enough time to be together, neither to make love nor to learn each other's languages, nor to communicate so little with so many hand gestures and simple phrases, or words he was able to pick up of her language. If only God would bless him to be able to go to sleep one night and miraculously wake up the next day speaking her language fluently. He wanted to tell her a thousand things and hear as much from her, She was his woman, so how could she not know who he was and where he came from. He wondered if Father Miguel would be happy with
his story and allow him to marry her. Father Miguel was a kind man but he was Castilian, and the Castilians have strange habits he found difficult to understand. He decided that it would be best not to tell him. He would learn her language and then go to her father and address him as "Sir," as would be appropriate. He would tell him his story and explain to him that he was not one of those Spaniards who kill the inhabitants of his land or brutally rape the women. Her father would surely take a liking to him and welcome him into the family. Perhaps he would learn Arabic from him because they'll be relatives. And who knows, perhaps God would enable him to take Maya back to Granada. "God have mercy on your soul, Umm Jaafar," he prayed to himself. "If only God had granted you a longer life, I would have brought you a daughter-in-law the likes of which you never imagined. I can hear you saying, 'She looks strange and her language is stranger.' But I would respond that she's a good woman, kind-hearted and beautiful."

"What's gotten into you, Naeem?" asked Father Miguel.

"Do you see something wrong with me, Father?"

"You look so sullen, and sometimes you talk to yourself. You go on like that oblivious to my presence."

"Do I really talk to myself?"

"Yes, you do. I caught you several times, and I'm thinking it may have something to do with your repeated visits to the slaves' huts. Those people practice witchcraft, and they could have put a spell on you."

"I swear to God, Father, those people are very kind and they like me a lot. But now, I remember, did you hear me speaking to myself in Arabic? The truth is, Father, I miss Granada and my friends I left back home. Sometimes I find myself talking to them. Do you realize, Father, that there's only one other person of Arab origin in all this region, and he's the carpenter who works on the other side of the settlement, and I only run into him once in a blue moon. Since there's no one to speak Arabic with, I speak it out loud, imagining that I'm talking to one of my friends back home."

"You should refrain from doing that, or else you'll be stricken
with madness," commented the priest in all seriousness. "Also, the devil could creep into your soul at any moment and turn your words into his favor since what you're saying is not directed to anyone in front of you. If you miss Arabic, then you should read the prayer book I gave you that was translated into Arabic. Didn't you bring it with you?"

"Sorry, Father, I forgot to bring it with me from Granada."

"How negligent can you be!" he said with a reproaching look on his face.

"I'm sorry, Father. I promise I won't talk to myself any more."

Naeem only spoke with Maya in these daily conversations. His desire to speak to her couldn't wait until they mastered each other's language. Even at night in bed, he spoke to her. During the day, while he cleaned the house, prepared the meals, or did the laundry, he spoke to her. He talked to her incessantly, telling her everything about his life, from the time Abu Jaafar stretched out his hand to him and asked him his name until the moment he first saw her while he was bathing by the stream and dove into the water to cover his shame.

Somehow, Naeem communicated to Maya that he wanted to marry her, to meet her family and ask their permission for her hand. She tried to explain to him that her family lived far away, but he wasn't sure whether or not he understood what she was telling him. He asked her repeatedly, but her response was no different from what he understood. After two whole days of painstaking and interrupted conversations, the matter became clear to him. She had come to this region with her husband who had since died. She was left alone. Going back to her family would require a horse, or several weeks of traveling by foot, in either case exposing her to problems with the Spaniards. He thought about asking Father Miguel to give him his horse, but then he would have to tell him the whole story. He may or may not agree. Most likely he wouldn't, Naeem thought. But he had to act.

Naeem cleaned the house from top to bottom, washed Father Miguel's clothes, waited for them to dry and then folded them, and cooked enough food to last the priest three or four days. After that,
he went outside the house, picked a bunch of wildflowers, put some of them in a vase with water, and set them in Father Miguel's library. He tied a bow around the remaining few flowers, and packed them up with a small Quran, a few provisions for the road, and a straw-colored hat he had made secretly and was intending to give to Father Miguel for a Christmas present, but decided instead to give to his bride's father. He certainly couldn't go to him empty-handed.

Just before sunrise, Naeem crept out of the house quietly. He mounted his master's horse and rode it to the stream where Maya was waiting. He mounted her on the horse behind him, and they rode off into the distance.

23

I
t dawned on Hasan as he lay in bed huddled under the covers trying to get warm that his life was much better now. The storm that Maryama raised had calmed down, and their life together had gotten back on course. Her family was released from prison. Her mother was declared innocent of all charges, although her brothers were sentenced to pay a substantial fine that they could not afford. When the Castilians confiscated Abu Ibrahim's house in lieu of payment, Maryama suggested to Hasan that her mother and brothers come and live with them.

"Your mother is more than welcome to come and live with us," he replied. "But your brothers will have to find their own place to live. I have my mother and sister in this house, and they are not blood relatives."

Maryama looked at him suspiciously. "Tell me what's really on your mind, Hasan. No need to think up excuses. You've hosted Omar and Abdel-Kareem before, for several weeks at a time when they were still strangers from Valencia, and not related to you through marriage."

He looked at her in annoyance and didn't respond. When she continued to glare at him, he spoke. "You know what the other reason is, so why bother to say it? But since you want to hear it, then listen! Your brothers have just been released from prison, and they're being watched. I don't want myself or my family to have anything to do with whatever problems may arise."

Maryama said nothing. She no longer broached the subject or alluded to it. But throughout the next three months, she was on edge and easily irritated, yelling at the children for one reason or another, or for no reason at all. She spanked Hisham and she cried at the slightest incident. She met all of Hasan's needs in the way of food and clothing, but she wouldn't engage him in conversation or let him near her in bed.

But patience prevailed and in the passing of weeks and months, she calmed down. One night in bed, Hasan thought about how pleased God must be with him. The state of his affairs and those of his family were stable at a time when stability was rare. Even Saleema, whose defiance and choice of such a strange life caused him so much anxiety, began to fill their house in Albaicin with prestige and gratitude because she had the power of healing, and her treatments cured both the body and the soul—at least that's what people were saying. She inherited Abu Jaafar's high-mindedness and noble heart, and she never refused a request for help, even if there were no means to pay a fee for her services. Maybe that's the reason, Hasan thought, why God rewarded her, and why people lavished their money on her when they had it, and why they lavished their affection when they had money or didn't have it. God bestowed on Saleema wisdom, knowledge, the affection of people, and that little angel, Amal, who filled his house with her joy, her radiant laughter, and her enchanting presence. "What will you give me today, Amal?" The little girl opens her arms and gives him a big hug, saying, "I love you more than the sun, the moon, and Mummy." Hasan beams with pride as the tears well from his eyes. He wished only that Saad would return to complete his peace of mind, that he marry off his remaining daughters, and that Hisham grow up and marry Amal so that he may see their children before he dies.

Hasan spent several hours every day thinking about his welfare and that of his family, or about this thing or that. Even if he went to bed late, he always woke up at the crack of dawn, two or three hours before Maryama, who lay sound asleep next to him, and the other
family members. Only Saleema was awake at that time. The only thing he could do was to lie awake in bed with his thoughts, waiting for the others to get up.

Sometimes he found it difficult waking up in the dark. He would light a candle and follow the shadow of its flicker against the wall or the ceiling. Sometimes he would get up and go into Saleema s room, knock on the door and go in. He would feel comfort in her company and in watching Esperanza's angelic face as she slept.

"What's keeping you up, Hasan? Why can't you sleep?" Saleema asked.

"Nothing, really. I just seem to need only a few hours of sleep."

"Are you sure that's all?"

Her question made him uneasy. He didn't respond.

She lifted her head from the book she was reading and asked, "Do you remember the day you, Saad, Naeem, and I all went to see the Christopher Columbus parade?"

"The day Naeem suddenly disappeared and we didn't know where he went?"

Hasan began to recall some of the details of that day, and a half smile cracked on his face. His features expressed something between sadness and joy.

"We were so young then, Saleema, and we had no idea what was in store for us."

"I sometimes ask myself how our grandchildren will live a hundred years from now."

Hasan had never given it a thought. "God only knows. I never get further than a day in the future when Saad and Naeem come back, and when we marry off our children and see their children." He stopped talking for a moment and then decided to tell Saleema what he wanted to tell her for months. "Would you accept Hisham as a husband for Amal?"

Saleema laughed so loud that the little girl stirred in her bed, but then rolled over and went back to sleep. Her laughing made him uncomfortable and he asked her with a slight tone of annoyance, "Why are you laughing?"

"Because my Aysha is only three years old, and Hisham isn't even nine yet."

"Before you know it she'll be a young women of ten, and Hisham a tall and strapping young man."

"It's premature to be talking about such things, Hasan. And when the time comes, we'll have to face the problem of the Castilian edict banning marriage between relatives."

"They can all go to hell! I'll never give Amal away to a stranger who'll take her away from my house."

Saleema smiled and pretended to go along with Hasan, feeling as if she were participating in an amusing game whose outcome would be in some distant future.

"How will we get the official papers? And when they have children, won't the Castilian law declare them illegal?"

Hasan fidgeted as though he had to solve the problem then and there.

"I will find a way out. Saad is from Malaga and Amal bears his name. I will deny on paper that I'm her uncle and you are her mother."

This time Saleema laughed softly so that she wouldn't wake up the sleeping child. "Why don't you arrange for the marriage contract now?" she asked with playful sarcasm. "Then all we need to do is wait a few years for the children to come of legal age and announce the wedding."

Hasan was offended and brushed aside Saleema's poking fun at him. "What's gotten into you, Saleema? I swear by the Lord of the Kaaba that I love your daughter more than Hisham and all my daughters, those here and those in Valencia whom I miss with all my heart. Good night!" He left her to crawl into bed as was her habit at that early hour in the morning, and went and woke up Maryama to prepare his breakfast before going off to work.

Hasan enjoyed his work at the inn. The only cloud over his head was Abu Mansour with his short temper and lack of self-control. Hasan really didn't need his services when he asked him to work there, but the man was without a job and nothing to keep his
mind occupied. Instead he stayed home and abused his wife and alcohol. He would sit and take one drink after another until he couldn't breathe and his face broke out in red blotches. His verbal abuse would turn physical and the sounds rang out throughout the neighborhood.