‘I think what she did not tell you was that Great-Aunt Zahra was as sane as you or me. She was sent there on the express orders of her father, the year before he died. He believed that her behaviour was designed explicitly to punish him for forbidding her to marry you. That is what my mother told me.’
‘Great men like Ibn Farid always saw themselves at the centre of everything. Could he not see that the Lady Zahra was punishing herself?’
‘She was quite moved to see her brother, you know. Even though Ama told us that she used to loathe Miguel. When we asked why, Ama’s face became as hard as a rock. Did Miguel play any part in your banishment, al-Zindiq? I’m sure he must have spied on you.’
Al-Zindiq cupped his face in his hands and stared downwards at the earth. Then he raised his head and Zuhayr saw the pain clearly reflected in his eyes. His wrinkled face had suddenly become taut. How strange, thought Zuhayr, he reacts exactly like Ama.
‘I am sorry, old man. I did not mean to revive hurtful memories. Forgive me.’
Al-Zindiq spoke in a strange voice.
‘For you, Miguel is an apostate who betrayed the colour green for their hymns and wooden icons. You see him swaggering around as the Bishop of Qurtuba, blaspheming against your religion, and you are ashamed that he is related to you. Am I not correct?’
Zuhayr nodded earnestly.
‘Yet what if I were to tell you that as a boy, Meekal al-Malek was full of life and fun? Far from spying on me and running to tell tales to his father, he wanted Zahra and me to be happy. He would play chess with such passion that if he had done nothing else he would still be remembered as the inventor of at least three opening moves which could not be matched by the masters of the game in this peninsula, let alone the likes of me or even the Dwarf’s father, who was a player of some distinction. He would often engage in philosophical battles with his tutors, which revealed such a precocious streak that it frightened all of us, especially his mother. There was so much promise in him that Ibn Farid used to say to the Lady Asma: “Do not let the maids stare at him in admiration. They will afflict him with the Evil Eye.” Later, after what happened, many of us recalled what his father had said so many years ago. It was my mother, Lady Asma’s maid and confidante, who used to look after Miguel. He was often in our quarters and I was very fond of him.’
‘How then did his ship sink to the bottom?’ asked Zuhayr. ‘What is the mystery? How did he get ill? What happened, al-Zindiq?’
‘Are you sure you want to know? There are some things which are best left alone.’
‘I must know, and you are the only one who will tell me.’
The old man sighed. He knew that this was not true. Amira probably knew much more than he had ever been told, but whether either of them knew everything was open to question.
Two women, and they alone, had known the whole truth. Lady Asma and her trusted serving woman. My much-loved mother, thought this lonely old man on the top of the hill. Both were dead, and Wajid al-Zindiq was certain that his mother had been poisoned. The family of Hudayl did not trust in fate. They had felt that only the cemetery could ensure total silence. Who had taken the decision? Al-Zindiq did not believe for a moment that it could have been Umar’s father, Abdallah bin Farid. It was not in his character or temperament. Perhaps it had been Hisham of Gharnata, a great believer in tying up loose ends. It made no difference except that the exact details of what happened had died with her.
Some years later, al-Zindiq and Amira had sat down one evening and pieced together everything they knew regarding the tragedy. There was still no way of knowing whether their version was accurate or not, and it was for that reason that al-Zindiq was reluctant to talk.
‘Al-Zindiq, you promised you would tell me everything.’
‘Very well, but remember one thing, al-Fahl. What I am about to recount may not be the whole truth. I have no way of knowing.’
‘Please! Let me be the judge.’
‘When your great-grandfather died, both your grandmothers were distraught. The Lady Maryam had not shared his bed for many years, but still she loved him. Ibn Farid died in his sleep. When the Lady Asma went to his bed she pressed his shoulders and the back of his head as was her norm, but there was no response. When she realized that life had flown out of him she screamed: “Maryam! Maryam! A calamity has befallen us.” My mother said it was the most heart-rending cry she had ever heard. Both wives consoled each other as best they could.
‘A year later the Lady Maryam was buried. It was a slow and terrible death. Her tongue was covered with a black growth and she was in terrible pain. She pleaded for poison, but your grandfather would not hear of it. The best physicians from Gharnata and Ishbiliya were sent for, but they were helpless before the scourge which had planted itself in her mouth and was spreading throughout her body. Ibn Sina once said that this disease has no known cause and no known cure. He was of the opinion that in some cases the cause lay in the accumulation of bad humours trapped in the patient’s mind. I have not studied such cases and am, therefore, not in a position to comment. In any event, whatever the cause, Lady Maryam died almost exactly a year after Ibn Farid. My mother used to say that her heart had been in mourning for twenty years before the death of her husband.
‘Lady Asma was now left alone. Zahra was in the maristan. Meekal was a growing boy and not much inclined to stay within the confines of the house. Your grandfather was a kind man, but not renowned for his agility of mind. His wife, your grandmother, was similar in character. Lady Asma spent a lot of time with your father, who was then about eight years old. He became a substitute for the love she used to lavish on her late husband. Outside the family it was my mother who became her closest friend. Her own mother, the old cook Dorothea, despite repeated requests, refused to come and live in the house. Whenever she did come the quality of the food served in the house improved immeasurably. She would make short, but memorable visits. Unforgettable because she used to bake small almond cakes, which melted in our mouths. She was truly a very fine cook and the Dwarf’s father learnt a great deal from her. He also fell in love with her, and there were stories that — but let me not digress. The fact is that if Dorothea had come and lived with Asma after Ibn Farid’s death, the tragedy might never have happened.’
Zuhayr had been so absorbed in the story that he had, till now, controlled his curiosity. As a young boy, listening to the unending tales of family history, he had often irritated his father by persistent questions in pursuit of some tangential detail. Dorothea’s refusal to relinquish her master and to follow her daughter to al-Hudayl had been puzzling him for some time, and so he interrupted the story-teller.
‘I find that odd, al-Zindiq. Why? I mean in Don Alvaro’s house she was just a cook. Here she would have lived in comfort till she died.’
‘I do not know, Ibn Umar. She was a very decent woman. I think she simply felt embarrassed at being the mother-in-law of such a notable as Ibn Farid. Perhaps, from a distance, it was easier to accept her sudden elevation. Much to Ibn Farid’s annoyance she would refuse to stay in the house. My mother would vacate our room in the servants’ quarters and that is where she slept.’
‘What was the tragedy, al-Zindiq? What happened? I have a feeling that time may defeat us once again, and I would not like that to happen.’
‘You mean why did Lady Asma die and who killed my mother?’
‘Exactly. Lady Asma was not old was she?’
‘No, and there lay the problem. She was still young, full of life and proud of her body. She had only borne two sons.’