The Square of Wonders was the crossroads of a number of busy streets. One of them, which was cluttered with the stalls of booksellers and public letter-writers, led to the entrance of the Great Mosque; another accommodated boot and shoe shops, a third the vendors of bridles, saddles and stirrups, but the fourth at last was the one we always had to take. Here were the milk sellers, whose shops were decked out with majolica vases far more valuable than the goods they sold. But we did not go to these shops but to those who would buy up unsold milk each evening at a low price at their doors, take it home, let it curdle overnight, and sell it the next day, chilled and diluted with water. A thirst-quenching and satisfying drink which strained neither the pockets nor the consciences of the Believers.
For Harun and I the discovery of Fez was just beginning. We would uncover its layers veil by veil, like a bride in her marriage chamber. I have kept a thousand memories of that year, which take me back to the carefree candour of my nine years each time I evoke them. But it is the most painful of them all that I feel obliged to relate here, since, if I did not mention it, I would be failing in my role of faithful witness.
That day, the walk had begun like any other; Harun wanted to nose around, and I was no less curious. We knew that there was a little suburb called al-Mars lying to the west of the city, the mention of which always brought a troubled look to our schoolmaster’s face. Was it far off? Was it dangerous? Others would have asked no further; we were happy to set out.
When we arrived at this suburb around midday, we immediately understood its function. In the streets, women were lounging against the shopfronts, or by the open doors of establishments which could only be taverns. Harun mimicked the beckoning stance of a prostitute. I laughed and imitated the swaying gait of a stout matron.
And what if we went to see what went on in the taverns? We knew that it would be impossible for us to go inside, but we could always have a quick look.
So we go towards the first one. The door is half open, and we poke our two little heads inside. It’s dark, and we can only see a crowd of customers. In the midst of them a shock of flaming red hair stands out. We see nothing else, because someone has already spotted us, and we quickly take to our heels, straight towards the tavern on the adjoining street. It’s no lighter, but our eyes adjust more quickly. We count four heads of hair, about fifteen customers. In the third we have time to make out several faces, a number of gleaming cups, several wine jars. The game continues. Our reckless heads dive into the fourth. It seems lighter. Quite close to the door, we make out a face. That beard, that profile, that stance? I pull back my head and begin to run along the street, fleeing neither the tavern keepers nor their bully boys. The image which I want to leave far behind me is that of my father, seated in the tavern, at a table, with a shock of hair at his side. I have seen him. Harun has certainly recognized him. Has he seen us? I don’t think so.
Since then it has happened to me more than once to go into taverns and streets more sordid than those of al-Mars. But that day the earth opened beneath my feet. It might have been the Day of Judgement. I was ashamed, I was in pain. I did not stop running, the tears pouring down my cheeks, my eyes half closed, my throat hoarse, choking for breath.
Harun followed me, without speaking to me, without touching me, without coming too close. He waited until I was exhausted, until I sat down on the steps of an empty shop. He sat down by my side, still without a word. And then, at the end of an interminable hour, during which I gradually came to myself and calmed down, he stood up, and directed me imperceptibly towards the way home. It was only when we came in sight of Khali’s house at dusk that Harun spoke for the first time:
‘All men have always frequented taverns; all men have always loved wine. Otherwise, why should God have needed to forbid it?’
The very next day, I saw Harun the Ferret again without pain; it was meeting my father that I dreaded. By a happy chance he had to leave for the countryside where he was looking for a plot of land to rent. He came back several weeks later, but by then destiny had already drowned my sufferings and his own in even greater miseries.
The Year of the Inquisitors
904 A.H.
19 August 1498 — 7 August 1499
That year, Hasan the deliverer died under torture in one of the dungeons of the Alhambra; he was no less than eighty years old. There was none more skilled than he in obtaining the release of a captive, but when it came to his own liberation his words seem to have lost their weight. He was a devout and pious man, and if he sometimes made errors of judgement, his intentions were as pure as those of a child until his dying day. He died poor; may God now reveal to him the riches of Eden!
Thousands of others were tortured at the same time. For several months the most dreadful news had been reaching us from our former homeland, but few foresaw the calamity which was to engulf the last Muslims of Andalus.
It all began with the arrival at Granada of a party of inquisitors, religious fanatics who immediately issued a proclamation that all Christians who had converted to Islam should return to their original religion. Some of them reluctantly agreed, but the majority refused, pointing to the agreement concluded before the fall of the city, which expressly guaranteed the converts the right to remain Muslims. To no avail. As far as the inquisitors were concerned, this clause was null and void. Any man who had been baptized and who refused to return to Christianity was considered as a traitor and thus liable to be condemned to death. Several pyres were erected to intimidate the recalcitrant, as had been done for the Jews. Several citizens recanted. A lesser number told themselves that it was better to take flight, even at this late stage, before the trap closed on them again. They were able to take with them only the clothes on their backs.
The inquisitors then decreed that anyone having a Christian ancestor must be compulsorily baptized. One of the first to be affected by this was Hamid, whose grandfather was a Christian captive who had chosen to declare himself for the Witness of Islam. One evening some Castilian soldiers, accompanied by one of the inquisitors, came to his house in our quarter, al-Baisin. Warned in advance, the old man’s neighbours went down into the street to try to prevent his arrest. In vain. The next day, a number of people, including two women, were arrested in other parts of the city. Each time, crowds gathered and the soldiers were obliged to draw their swords to force their way through. Most of the incidents took place in al-Baisin. A newly-built church not far from the house where we used to live was set on fire; in return, two mosques were pillaged. Everyone’s faith was like a raw nerve.
One day, the news came that Hamid had succumbed in his dungeon as a result of the tortures inflicted upon him by the inquisitors. He had resisted conversion to the end, insisting upon the agreement signed by the Christian kings.
When the news of his death became known, appeals to resist resounded in the streets. Alone of all the notables of al-Baisin, Hamid had stayed where he was, not to make accommodation with the enemy, but to continue the mission to which he had devoted his life, to free the captured Muslims. The noble nature of his activities, the fact of his great age, and the suppressed hatreds coming to the surface combined to provoke an immediate reaction on the part of the Muslims. Barricades were put up; soldiers, civil servants and clergy were massacred. It was an insurrection.
Of course, the citizenry was in no condition to take on the army of occupation. With a few crossbows, swords, lances and clubs they managed to prevent the Castilian troops from getting into al-Baisin, and tried to organize themselves into a small army to wage the holy war. But after two days of fighting they were wiped out, and then the massacre began. The authorities proclaimed that the entire Muslim population would be executed for rebellion against the sovereigns, adding insidiously that only those who would accept conversion to Christianity would be spared. Thus the population of Granada became baptized by whole streets. In some villages in the Alpujarra mountains the peasants struck back; they managed to hold out for several weeks and even, it was said, killed the seigneur of Granada who led the expedition against them. But even there it was impossible to resist for long. The villagers were forced to seek terms; several hundred families were allowed to leave, and set themselves up in Fez; some took refuge in the mountains, swearing that no one would ever find them; all the others were baptized. The words ‘Allahu akbar’ could no more be pronounced upon the soil of Andalus, where for eight centuries the voice of the muezzin had called the faithful to prayer. A man could not now say the Fatiha over his father’s corpse. At least, that is, in public, for the Muslims who had been forcibly converted refused to repudiate their religion.