Another of our neighbours, Sa‘d, an old gardener who had recently been struck blind, did not feel able to leave.
‘You can’t plant an old tree in alien soil,’ he would say.
Pious, humble, and fearing God in all things, he had come to hear from the mouth of the shaikh himself that which the ulama versed in the Word and in the righteous Tradition recommended for cases like his own.
‘Hamza and Sa‘d arrived at our house just after the midday prayer,’ my mother remembered. ‘Muhammad let them in, while I withdrew with you upstairs to my part of the house. They had pallid cheeks and false smiles, just like your father, who sat them on some old cushions in a shady corner of the courtyard, only communicating with them in inaudible mumbles. The shaikh arrived an hour later, and it was only then that Muhammad called me to make some fresh syrup.’
Astaghfirullah was accompanied by Hamid, of whose links with the master of the house he was well aware. The old deliverer had been touched by my father’s folly, and if he had seen him often over the past year, it was less from a desire to reason with him than to experience his boldness, his youth and his turbulent passions. That day however, the visit of the fakkak had a solemn air about it. He had once more become the religious dignitary which he was known to be, his withered eyelids screwed up in an attempt at severity, his words the fruit of his long commerce with adversity.
‘All my life I have had to do with captives who dream only to be free, and I cannot understand how a free man of sound mind can voluntarily choose captivity.’
Old Sa‘d was the first to reply:
‘If we all depart, Islam will be rooted out from this land for ever, and when, by the grace of God, the Turks arrive to cross swords with the Rumis, we shall not be there to assist them.’
The solemn voice of Astaghfirullah silenced the gardener:
‘To live in a land conquered by the infidels is forbidden by our religion, just as it is forbidden to eat the flesh of dead animals, blood, and pork, just as murder is forbidden.’
He added, resting his hand heavily on Sa‘d’s shoulder:
‘Every Muslim who stays in Granada increases the number of inhabitants in the land of the infidels and helps to strengthen the enemies of God and His Prophet.’
A tear trickled down the old man’s cheek until it edged its way timidly into the hairs of his beard.
‘I am too old, too ill and too poor to limp along the roads and across the seas. Has not the Prophet said: “Do what is easy for you and do not seek out what is difficult in vain?” ’
Hamid took pity on the gardener, and at the risk of contradicting the shaikh, recited a comforting verse from the Sura of Women in a singsong voice:
‘… except for those who are incapable, men, women and children, who have no means at their disposal and for whom no way is open, to them God can grant absolution, He is the Lord of absolution, the Lord of forgiveness.’
Sa‘d hastened to add:
‘He has spoken the truth, Almighty God.’
Astaghfirullah did not deny the obvious:
‘God is good and his patience is limitless. He does not ask the same things from those who can and those who cannot. If you wish to obey Him by emigrating, but find that you cannot, He knows to read in your heart and to judge you for your intentions. He will not condemn you to hell, but your own hell could well be on this earth and in this land. Your hell will be the daily humiliation for you and the women of your family.’
Suddenly pressing the palms of his hands on the warm ground he turned his whole body round towards my father and then towards the barber, looking at them fixedly:
‘And you, Muhammad? and you, Hamza? Are you also poor and ill? Are you not important people, prominent in the community? What excuse do you have for not obeying the commandments of Islam? Do not hope for pardon or forgiveness if you follow the path of Yahya the renegade, for the Most High is demanding towards those on whom He has showered his blessings.’
The two men, both exceedingly embarrassed, swore that they had no intention of remaining for ever in the land of the infidels, and that they desired only to regulate their affairs so as to depart in good order.
‘Woe to him who trades paradise for earthly things!’ cried Astaghfirullah, while the deliverer, not wanting to attack Muhammad, whom he knew to be in a tense state of mind and capable of foolishness, addressed the two recalcitrants in a fatherly way:
‘Since it has fallen into the hands of the infidels, this city has become a place of infamy for us all. It is a prison, and its door is being slowly closed again. Why not take advantage of this last chance to escape?’
Neither the curses of the preacher nor the remonstrations of the deliverer persuaded my father to leave his city. The day after their meeting, he went to Hamid’s house asking for news of his beloved. Salma suffered in silence and hoped for exile.
‘We were already experiencing,’ she said, ‘the first of the summer heat, but in the gardens of Granada there were few strollers and the flowers had no radiance. The finest houses of the city had been emptied, the shops in the suqs did not display their wares; there was no more hubbub in the streets, even in the poorer quarters. In the public places the Castilian soldiers rubbed shoulders only with beggars, since all the Muslims who valued their honour and had not left were ashamed of exposing themselves to view.’
And she added in a voice full of grief:
‘When one disobeys the Most High, it is better to do so in secret, because to strut about with one’s sin is to sin twofold.’
She repeated this constantly to my father without managing to shake him.
‘The only eyes which see me in the streets of Granada belong to those who have not departed. How can they dare to reproach me?’
Furthermore, he contended, his dearest wish was to distance himself from this city where his honour as a man had been held to ridicule; but he would not flee like a jackal. He would leave with head high and a disdainful air.
Soon came Dhu’l-Qa‘da, the penultimate month of the year, and it was Hamza’s turn to take to the road; urged on by his old mother the midwife, who bombarded him with her lamentations, accusing him of wanting to drag his whole family down to Gehenna, he left without selling his lands, promising to come back by himself in a few months to find a buyer. For Astaghfirullah too the hour of exile had come; he took with him neither gold nor clothing, only a Qur’an and provisions for the journey.
‘Then came Dhu’l-Hijja; the sky became more clouded over and the nights cooler. Your father still persisted obstinately, passing his days between the deliverer and the Genoese, returning in the evenings either exhausted or over-excited, worried or serene, but with never a word about our departure. Then all at once, less than two weeks before the new year, he was possessed by a disconcerting feverishness; he had to go immediately, he had to be in Almeria in three days. Why Almeria? Were there no ports closer at hand, such as Adra, from which Boabdil had embarked, or La Rabita, or Salobrena, or Almunecar? No, it had to be Almeria, and we had to get there in three days. The evening before our departure, Hamid came to wish us a good journey, and I understood that he was privy to Muhammad’s high spirits. I asked him if he too would emigrate. “No”, he replied, “I shall not go until the release of the last Muslim from captivity.” ’
Salma replied:
‘You risk having to stay in the land of the infidel for a long time yet!’
The deliverer smiled enigmatically, but not without an air of melancholy:
‘Sometimes it is necessary to disobey the Most High to obey Him more effectively,’ he murmured, as if only speaking to himself — or perhaps directly to his Creator.