‘This is your home,’ replied Umar, slightly pompously. ‘Perhaps you should never have left it.’
Hind hugged and kissed Zahra. The old woman was greatly moved by the spontaneity of the gesture.
‘I never knew that you had become a Christian, Great-Aunt.’
‘Nor did I,’ replied Zahra, making Yazid scream with laughter.
‘Did you make it all up to get out of there? Did you?’
Zahra nodded and all of them laughed, but something was worrying Yazid.
‘Then where did you get the crucifix?’
‘Made it myself. Time never intruded in that place. I carved many figures in wood to keep myself from really going mad.’
Yazid left his place and went and sat near Zahra, clutching her hand tightly as if to make sure that she was real.
‘I can tell already that my nephew, like his father, is a good man. Your children are relaxed in your presence. It was never like that with us. Hmmmm. I can smell something good. That Amira has not lost her touch.’ Ama entered with the maize cakes wrapped in cloth to keep them warm. She was followed by the Dwarf, who was carrying a metal container full of bubbling hot milk. Umayma came last with a pot full of raw, brown sugar. The Dwarf bowed to Zahra, who returned his greetings.
‘Is your mother dead or alive, Dwarf?’
‘She died some fifteen years ago, my lady. She was also praying for you.’
‘She should have prayed for herself. Might have been still alive.’
Ama was beginning to prepare the heavenly mixture. Her hands were hidden in a large bowl where she was tearing the soft cakes apart. They crumbled easily. She added some fresh butter and carried on softening the mixture with her hands. Then she signalled to Umayma, who came forward and began to pour on the sugar while Ama’s wrinkled hands continued to mix the ingredients. Finally the fingers withdrew. Zahra clapped her hands and proffered her bowl. Ama cupped her right hand and served her a large handful. The procedure was repeated for the others. Then the hot milk was poured on and the sweet course was taken. For a moment they were too busy savouring the delights of this simple concoction to thank its author.
‘Heaven. It is simply heaven, Amira. What a wonderful heavenly mixture. Now I can die in peace.’
‘I have never tasted such a heavenly mixture before, Ama,’ said Yazid.
‘This heavenly mixture could never have been created for me alone, Ama, could it?’ asked Zuhayr.
‘The taste of this heavenly mixture reminds me of my youth,’ muttered Umar.
Ama was satisfied. The guest and the three men of the house had praised her in public. She had no cause to grumble tonight, Hind thought to herself as she laughed inwardly at the absurdity of this ritual, which dated back to Ibn Farid’s first marriage.
Hind’s bed-chamber had once belonged to Zahra. Now it had been prepared again for the old lady. Hind had moved to a spare chamber in the women’s section of the house, near her mother. Zahra was taken to her room by all the women in the family and Ama. She stood by the doorway in the courtyard and looked at the sky. A tear escaped, and then another.
‘I used to dream about this courtyard every month. Remember the shadows of the pomegranate tree during the full moon, Amira? Remember what we used to say? If the moon is with us, what need do we have for the stars?’
Ama took her arm and gently propelled her through the door as Zubayda, Hind and Kulthum wished her a good night’s sleep.
In another section of the courtyard, Umayma was on her way home after preparing the Lady Zubayda’s bed-chamber, when an arm grabbed her and pulled her into a room.
‘No, master,’ she whispered.
Zuhayr felt her breasts, but as his hands began to roam elsewhere the girl stopped him.
‘I cannot tonight, al-Fahl. I am unclean. If you don’t believe me, dip your hand in and see for yourself.’
His hands fell to his side. He did not reply and Umayma flitted through the door and disappeared.
Hind and Kulthum had returned to their mother’s bed-chamber. They were sitting on the bed watching Zubayda dismantle her hair and then undress.
Umar walked in through the door that connected their chambers.
‘What a strange evening it has been. She was only two years younger than my father. I see a lot of him in her. They were so very close. I know how much he missed her. What a tragedy. What a waste of a life. Zahra could have been something truly great. Did you know she wrote poetry? And it was good. Even our grandfather, at a time when he was still very angry with her, had to admit that to himself…’
There was a knock on the door and Zuhayr entered the room.
‘I heard voices and I knew it must be a family conference.’
‘A family conference would be impossible without Yazid,’ retorted Hind. ‘He is the only one who takes them seriously. Abu was talking about our great-aunt before you galloped into the conversation.’
‘That is what I came to hear. It is not every day that a ghost returns to life. What a woman she must have been. Banished from this house for over fifty years. How well she behaved tonight. No resentments. No anger. Just relief.’
‘She has no cause to be angry with us,’ said their father. ‘We did her no harm.’
‘Who did harm her, father? Who? Why? What was Great-Aunt Zahra’s crime?’
Hind’s impatient voice was edged with an anger she did not attempt to conceal. Without knowing anything about Zahra, except for the odd enigmatic remark from Ama or gossip she had picked up from their cousins in Ishbiliya, she had been touched by the dignity of the old woman. None of the stories tallied with the reality they had experienced today as the real Zahra had sought refuge from the turmoil of Gharnata in her ancestral home.
Umar looked at Zubayda, who nodded gently, and he accepted that there was a strong case for telling the children all he could remember of the mystery surrounding Zahra. There were many things he did not know. Of all those left alive, only Ama knew all the details, and perhaps one other person — barring Great-Uncle Miguel, who seemed to know everything.
‘It was all such a long time ago,’ began Umar bin Abdallah, ‘that I’m not sure I remember all the details. What I am about to tell you was told to me by my mother, who liked Zahra and became very attached to her.
‘I don’t know exactly when Zahra’s tragedy began. My mother used to say that it was the day your great-grandfather Ibn Farid, may he rest in peace, returned to al-Hudayl with his new wife, the Lady Asma. She was only a few years older than Zahra and made no attempt to alter the style or the pattern of life here. She left the management of the household to Grandmother Maryam. It is said that during her first months she was so much in awe of everything that she found it difficult to issue a command to a servant.
‘Zahra and father were very close to their Aunt Maryam. It was she who had brought them up after their mother died. And so, in their hearts, she took their mother’s place. Brother and sister saw Asma’s entry into our house as an intrusion. Nothing improper ever took place, but a gulf had opened between them and their father. There is no doubt the servants played an unhealthy part in this whole affair. They were, after all, aware of Asma’s origins. She had been a Christian kitchen girl, whose mother was still a cook, even though Ibn Farid invited her to leave Don Alvaro’s service and join his household. All this provided endless seams of gossip for the whole village, and especially the kitchen in this house. You would have thought that there would be some fellow-feeling amongst the cooks, at the sudden elevation of one of their kind, but not a bit of it. The Dwarf’s father, in particular, spread a great deal of venom, till one day Ibn Farid sent for him and threatened to execute him personally in the outer courtyard. The threat worked. Slowly, things calmed down. The fever began to abate.