Zuhayr stiffened.
‘Was it the Khamriyya? The Hymn to Wine?’
The old man smiled and nodded. Zuhayr, deeply moved by the story of Ibn Farid’s passion, suddenly burst into song.
‘Let the swelling tide of passion my senses drown!
Pity love’s fuel, this long-smouldering heart,
Nor answer with a frown,
When I would fain behold thee as thou art.
For love is life, and death in love the heaven
Wherein all sins are readily forgiven…’
‘Wa Allah!’ the old man exclaimed. ‘You sing well.’
‘I learnt the words from my father.’
‘And he from his, but it was the first time that was the most important. Should I continue or have you had enough for today? The sun is already shining on the peaks. Your heavenly mixture awaits you at home. If you are tired…’
‘Please continue. Please!’
And the old man continued.
‘The next morning, after breakfast, Beatrice converted to Islam. When offered a choice of Muslim names she appeared puzzled, and so it came about that even her new name was decided by her husband-to-be. Asma. Asma bint Dorothea.
‘Poor child. She had been informed about her impending nuptials when she woke up, early that morning, to clean the kitchen and light the fire. She was in tears. Some hours later, the wedding ceremony took place. It was your great-grandfather’s uncle who, as the only other Muslim present, had to perform the ritual. Ours is a simple religion. Birth, death, marriage, divorce do not involve any elaborate rituals, unlike the system devised by the monks.
‘Ibn Farid was in a hurry because he wanted to present the family with an irreversible fact. Any delay, he felt, could have been fatal. The brothers of Najma and Maryam belonged to that section of the family which specialized in settling disputes with other clans. They were expert assassins. Naturally they would regard it as an outrage that their sister was being bypassed in favour of a Christian slave-girl. Concubines are, as you know, permissible. But this was different. A new mistress of the household was being chosen without their knowledge or consent. She would, no doubt, bear him children. Given time to think they might have tried to kill Beatrice. Ibn Farid was known throughout al-Andalus as “the lion” for his courage, but he could play the fox with equal skill. If he was actually married, he knew that he would have the advantage of his brothers-in-law. Of course his uncle was angry, but he did not quarrel with his nephew in the house of Don Alvaro. That came later.
‘So Ibn Farid and Asma bint Dorothea returned to Qurtuba. They rested for a day and a night before beginning the two-day journey to the kingdom of Gharnata and the safety of al-Hudayl. Unknown to Ibn Farid news had already reached the house, through a special messenger, dispatched by his uncle.
‘The atmosphere in the house was one of mourning. Your grandfather Abdallah, was then eighteen years old, already a man. Your great-aunt, Zahra, was four years younger, the same age as myself. They were walking up and down in the courtyard through which the stream flows, and they were both in a state of great agitation. I was watching them get more and more upset without knowing the cause. When I asked your grandfather he shouted at me: “Son of a dog, get out of here. It is none of your concern.” He had never spoken like that to me before. As the Lady Maryam came out of her room, both of them rushed up to her and embraced her, weeping all the while. My insolence was happily forgotten. I loved your grandfather very much, and what he said to me that day hurt me badly. Later, of course, I understood the reason for his anger, but till that day I had always played with him and Zahra as an equal. Something had changed. Once calm had returned we both tried to return to our habits of the old days, but it was never the same again. I could never forget that he was the young master and he was constantly reminded that I was the son of a serving woman, who had now been assigned the duty of attending to the needs of the Lady Asma.’
At last, thought Zuhayr, he is beginning to talk about himself; but before he could ask a question, the old man had moved on.
‘Lady Maryam was the most gentle of women, even though her tongue could be very cruel if any of the maids, except of course for your Ama, attempted even the tiniest degree of familiarity. I remember her so well. Sometimes she used to go and bathe in a large freshwater pool made by the river. She was preceded by six serving women and followed by another four maid-servants. They held sheets on either side of her to ensure total privacy. The party usually proceeded in silence unless Zahra happened to be with her. Then aunt and niece chattered away and the maids were permitted to laugh at Zahra’s remarks. The servants respected Maryam, but did not like her. Her dead sister’s children worshipped her blindly. For your grandfather and great-aunt she could do no wrong. They knew their father was not happy with her. They felt, the way children usually do, that whatever the problem was it went very deep, but they never stopped loving her.’
The old man stopped abruptly and peered into his listener’s troubled eyes.
‘Something is worrying you, young master? Do you wish to leave now and return another day? The story cannot run away.’
Zuhayr’s eyes had picked up a small figure on the horizon and the dust indicated it was a rider galloping on a mission. He suspected it was a messenger from al-Hudayl.
‘I fear we are about to be interrupted. If the man on horseback is a messenger from our house, I will return at sunrise tomorrow. Could you satisfy my curiosity on one question, before I leave today?’
‘Ask.’
‘Who are you, old man? Your mother served in our house, but who was your father? Could you be a member of our family?’
‘I am not sure. My mother was a piece of the dowry, a serving girl who came with the Lady Najma from Qurtuba when she married Ibn Farid. She must have been sixteen or seventeen years old at the time. My father? Who knows? My mother said that he was a gardener on your estates, who was killed in one of the battles near Malaka the year I was born. It is true that she was married to him, but Heaven alone knows if he was my father. In later years, after the sudden and mysterious death of Asma bint Dorothea and the strange circumstances of my own mother’s demise, I would hear stories about my real father. It was said the seed which produced me was planted by Ibn Farid. It would certainly explain his behaviour in later years, but if that had been the case my mother would have told me herself. I stopped caring much about it.’
Zuhayr was intrigued by this turn of events. He now remembered vaguely the stories Ama used to tell about the tragedy of the Lady Asma, but he could not even recall their outlines. He was desperate to stay and hear it all, but the dust seemed closer.
‘You are still concealing one important fact.’
‘What may that be?’
‘Your name, old man, your name.’
The old man’s head, which had been held erect for all this time, suddenly slumped as he contemplated the patterns on the rug. Then he looked up at Zuhayr and smiled.
‘I have long forgotten the name my mother gave me. Perhaps your Ama or the Dwarf will remember. For too many decades my friends and enemies have known me as Wajid al-Zindiq. That was the name I used when I wrote my first book. It is a name of which I am still very proud.’