‘If that is your opinion I will not object any further.’
‘Mayya, I want our daughter to be happy. I will give them money to build a house wherever they wish.’
‘I do not wish her to leave Palermo.’
‘That, too, will be her choice and not ours.’
When she left the room, he looked at the shelves and sighed. If he did leave Palermo or Siqilliya these books would have to travel with him. He would never leave them behind. Realising it would be difficult to take them all, he began to make lists in his head of the books he would not miss. He might not be able to convince Mayya or Balkis to leave with him, but the books had no choice.
The silk tunic caressing his body made him think of Balkis, a mother for the first time. Her son would become the centre of her existence and she would settle down in the palace till she felt it was time to reproduce once again.
He took up her letter.
Muhammad,
I had thought of so many different names for you, but they sounded silly when written down and I wasted a lot of papyrus. They can only be spoken, so you will have to wait. I never thought the pain of separation could hurt so much till I left you three months ago. It did not only hurt me inside, but on the way back I developed a headache, a really bad one that had never ailed me before. What does the physician recommend? Don’t suggest a cold infusion of almonds, milk and honey. It does not work.
I sit and write a few lines to you each day so that when the time comes I can add a line about our child. Sometimes I become tearful at the thought of it not knowing that you are his real father. Will we ever tell him? I can hear your voice: given your husband has been so kind and considerate why deny him the pleasure of pretending this is his child. And of course I agree, but…. And Mayya? How is she and how are you together? Has the child been born? Boy or girl?
It was an awful journey to Siracusa with a storm at sea near Messina, where we were forced to spend the night after leaving Palermo. I remembered our journey together. It must have taken the same time but it felt so quick. I suppose being heavy with your child doesn’t improve one’s humour. In Siracusa I thought of you a great deal and for some days could not eat any food. My kind and considerate husband was close to sending you a message asking you to join us, but however much I would have loved that, I thought of Mayya and her state and knew it was wrong. So I stopped him. He makes no demands of me and I know he has a woman in the palace who serves his needs. I think he told you about her. I’m pleased because it was not pleasant when he came to my bed. He is so fat and apart from the physical discomfort I also suffered a mental strain. Does the silk tunic fit you well?
There are so many things I wanted to discuss with you in Palermo, but we became so absorbed in each other that there was no time for lofty discussions. I wanted to ask what you thought of the poetry of Ibn Hamdis. I’m really angry with myself for never asking you. My husband — but you probably know this — belongs to the same family and we have all his poems in the library and some of them in very fine editions. You see, I’m even beginning to use your language! Some of them I find too sentimental. He was not ‘banished from paradise’. He left. I mean, if he was going to miss Siqilliya so much, why did he go in the first place and then why not come back and re-live the pleasures of his youth? His brothers stayed. The family estate is intact. So his memories of Siqilliya do not excite me, though you try saying that to a Siracusan. Can you imagine my husband, who has calmly accepted that we are lovers and that you are the father of the son who will inherit his estates, who has never spoken a harsh word to me, became red with anger when I told him that Ibn Hamdis was not a very good poet compared to Ibn Quzman, Ibn Hazm and Abu Nuwas. He shouted, called me ignorant and left the room like a mountain on fire. Later he came and apologised. A few days after this occurred, I found a poem by Ibn Hamdis that really made me laugh. I wanted you to laugh with me, but you were not here. Read the words aloud to yourself and imagine both of us inside your silk tunic:
A cloistered nun unlocked her convent,
and we were her night visitors.
The fragrance of a liquor brought us to her,
one that revealed to your nose her secrets…
I placed my silver on her scale,
and from the jug she poured her gold.
We offered betrothal to four of her daughters,
so that pleasure might deflower their innocence.
I want to know what you think about this and his Siqilliyan poems.
Muhammad, last night I was told an awful story and could not sleep. My husband came to see if I needed anything and with him was his awful sister who you and I spoke of once before. She is very tall with a large cucumber of a nose, breasts the size of water-melons and a loud, grating voice and I’ve always wanted to suggest to her that she join a band of wandering hermaphrodites and enjoy life. She came in, looked at my son on my breast and said, ‘Praise be to Allah for this miracle.’ It was on the edge of my tongue to say, ‘Praise be to Muhammad’ but I restrained myself. Then I began to feel a pain in my insides and I screamed at her to leave my chamber. The maid rushed in from next door, but it was nothing. My husband came back later to apologise for his sister. I said she was a serpent nourished by Satan. And then he sat down and told me this story, which horrified me:
‘She is my half-sister, Balkis, and please understand she has had a hard life. My parents did not get on with each other and my mother must have been in a state of permanent sadness. When I was eight years old my father left Siracusa and went to live in Noto for six months. My mother was far from heartbroken, as you can imagine. She committed an indiscretion with a cousin and became pregnant. When my father returned he asked whose child it was but she did not speak. He never spoke to her again. That child was my sister who you hate so much. She was not treated well in our household. I don’t think my father even spoke her name. Not once. As a result, she became our mother’s favourite. This annoyed the rest of us and we were all unpleasant to her. When many years later my father left for Palermo to conduct some business, my mother’s cousin who had fathered my half-sister returned to the house. My half-sister was seventeen years old. One night in a drunken frenzy the cousin forced himself on his daughter. She became pregnant. My mother had her lover thrown out of the house. As I remember, he was actually stoned. My brothers and I lived in that large house but had no idea what had taken place till later. They tell me herbal concoctions were used to get rid of the child and they succeeded, but she never recovered. When I heard the story from a cousin, I confronted my mother. She wept and admitted it was true. She blamed my father’s coldness and cruelty and I’m sure there is some truth in that, but I always recall my father as dark visaged, tall, dignified and simple in his tastes. In any event, after learning of this tragedy, I went out of my way to be nice to my half-sister. Like you, my brothers cannot bear the sight of her, which is unjust. She is our only sister. I don’t expect you to like her, but try and understand. She’s perfectly harmless.’
Muhammad, my dearest and closest, isn’t that upsetting. The problem is that the woman is malicious and evil and I still hate her. I try and imagine what you would say in this situation.