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Fate had given us an appointment in the street of the Old Castle Wall. My father was walking in front, holding Mariam in one hand and me in the other, exchanging a word or two with each neighbour that he passed; my mother was a couple of steps behind, closely followed by Warda, when suddenly Warda cried ‘Juan!’ and stood stock still. On our right, a young moustachioed soldier stopped in turn, with a little drunken hiccup, trying with some difficulty to identify the veiled woman who had addressed him thus. My father immediately sensed the danger, and leaped towards his concubine, seized her urgently by the elbow, and said in a low voice:

‘Let’s go home, Warda! In the name of Jesus the Messiah, let’s go home!’

His tone was imploring, because the said Juan was accompanied by four other soldiers, all visibly drunk and armed, like him, with imposing halberds; all the other passers-by had drawn aside, in order to watch the drama without being involved in it. Warda explained with a cry:

‘It’s my brother!’

Then she advanced towards the young man, who was still dumbfounded:

‘Juan, I am Esmeralda, your sister!’

With these words she pulled her right hand from Muhammad’s clenched fist and deftly raised her veil. The soldier stepped forward, held her for several moments by the shoulders, and held her closely to him. My father turned pale and began to tremble. He realized that he was about to lose Warda, and even more serious, that he would be humiliated in front of the whole quarter, his virility impugned.

As for me, I did not understand anything of the drama unfolding before my childish eyes. I can only remember clearly the moment when the soldier grabbed hold of me. He had just said to Warda that she should accompany him and return to their village, which he called Alcantarilla. She suddenly began to hesitate. Although she had expressed her spontaneous delight at finding her brother again after five years in captivity, she was not sure that she wanted to leave my father’s house to go back to her own family, burdened with a daughter which a Moor had fathered upon her. She would certainly no longer find a husband. She had not been unhappy in the house of Muhammad the weigh-master, who had fed her, clothed her, and not left her on her own more than two nights on end. And then, after having lived in a city like Granada, even in times of desolation, the prospect of returning to bury herself in a little village near Murcia was not enticing. It could be imagined that such thoughts were running through her head when her brother shook her impatiently:

‘Are these children yours?’

She leant unsteadily against a wall, and stammered out a ‘No’, immediately followed by a ‘Yes’. Hearing the ‘yes’, Juan leapt towards me and snatched me in his arms.

How shall I ever forget the cry which my mother let out? She threw herself on the soldier, scratching him, raining down blows upon him, while I wrestled as best I could. But the young man was not put off. He quickly got rid of me and glanced at his sister reproachfully:

‘So only the girl is yours?’

She said nothing, which was answer enough for Juan.

‘Will you take her with you or leave her to them?’

His tone was so severe that the unfortunate girl took fright.

‘Calm yourself, Juan,’ she begged him, ‘I don’t want a scandal. Tomorrow I will take my belongings and I will leave for Alcantarilla.’

But the soldier would not listen to this.

‘You’re my sister, and you’re going to collect your baggage immediately and follow me.’

Encouraged by Warda’s about-turn, my father came closer, saying:

‘She is my wife!’

He said it in Arabic and then in bad Castilian. Juan slapped him with all his might, sending him flying across the muddy street. My mother began to wail like a hired mourner, while Warda cried out:

‘Don’t hurt him! He has always treated me well. He is my husband!’

The soldier, who had grabbed hold of his sister roughly, hesitated a moment before saying in softer tones:

‘As far as I’m concerned, you were his captive, and you no longer belong to him since we have taken possession of this city. If you tell me that he is your husband, he can keep you, but he must be baptized immediately and a priest must bless your marriage.’

Warda now directed her entreaties towards my father:

‘Accept, Muhammad, otherwise we shall be separated!’

There was a silence. Someone in the crowd cried out:

‘God is great!’

My father, who was still on the ground, got up slowly, walked with dignity towards Warda and said, in a shaking voice: ‘I will give you your clothes and your daughter’ before walking towards the house past a line of approving murmurs.

‘He wanted to save face before the neighbours,’ said my mother in a detached tone, ‘but all the same he felt diminished and impotent.’

Then she added, doing her best not to be sarcastic:

‘For your father, it was at that moment that Granada really fell into the hands of the enemy.’

For days, Muhammad stayed at home prostrate and inconsolable, refusing even to Join his friends for the meals at the breaking of the Fast, the traditional iftars; no one begrudged him this however, because his misfortune was known to all the very evening of Mihrajan, and more than once the neighbours came to bring him, as if to a sick man, the dishes which he had not been able to taste at their houses. Salma made herself inconspicuous, only speaking to him to answer his questions, forbidding me to bother him, not imposing her presence upon him but never being so far from him that he had to ask for anything twice.

If my mother was upset, she kept her spirits up, because she was convinced that time would bring her cousin’s sadness to an end. What upset her was to see Muhammad so devoted to his concubine, and especially that this attachment had been so flaunted in front of all the gossips of al-Baisin. When, as a youth, I asked her whether, in spite of everything, she had not been pleased when her rival departed, she denied it vigorously:

‘A sensible wife seeks to be the first of her husband’s women, because it is a delusion to wish to be the only one.’

Adding, with feigned cheerfulness:

‘Whatever anyone says about it, being the only wife is no more pleasant than being an only child. You work more, you become bored, and you have to put up with the temper and the demands of the husband by yourself. It is true that there is jealousy and intrigue, and argument, but at least this takes place at home, because when the husband begins to take his pleasures outside, he is lost to all his wives.’

It was no doubt for this reason that Salma began to panic on the last day of Ramadan, when Muhammad leaped up from his usual place and went out of the house with a determined step. She only learned two days later that he had been to see Hamid, called al-fakkak, the old ‘deliverer’ of Granada, who had for more than twenty years been involved in the difficult but lucrative task of ransoming Muslim captives in Christian territory.

There had always been, in the land of Andalus, people responsible for looking for prisoners and obtaining their release. They existed not only among our people but also among the Christians, who had long had the custom of nominating an ‘alfaqueque mayor’, often a high state official, assisted by numerous other ‘deliverers’. The families of the captives would report their disappearance — a soldier fallen into the hands of the enemy, an inhabitant of a city which had been invested, a peasant girl captured after a raid. The fakkak, or one of his representatives, would then begin his investigations, going himself into enemy territory, sometimes to distant lands, disguised as a merchant, or sometimes taking advantage of his rank, to find those who had been lost and discuss the sum required as ransom. Since many families could not pay the sums required, collections were organized, and no alms were more valued by the believers than those which were given to assist in the release of the faithful from captivity. Many pious individuals used to ruin themselves by ransoming captives whom they had often never seen, hoping for no other reward than the benevolence of the Most High. On the other hand, some deliverers were no more than vultures who fed on the misery of families by extorting from them the little money that they had.