‘Yazid! Yazid! Where is that little rascal, Amira? Go and find him. Tell him I want to see him.’
Miguel’s voice echoed in the courtyard and reached the kitchen. Yazid looked at the Dwarf and put his finger on his lips. There was total quiet except for the bubbling of the two large pots containing stock from the bones of meat and game. Then he went and hid behind the platform which had been specially erected in the kitchen to enable the Dwarf to reach the pots and pans. It was no use. Ama walked in and marched straight to the hiding place.
‘Wa Allah! Come on out and greet your great-uncle. Your mother will be very angry if you forget your manners.’
Yazid re-emerged. The Dwarf’s face expressed sympathy.
‘Dwarf?’ asked the boy. ‘Why does Great-Uncle Miguel stink so much? Ama says…’
‘I know what Ama thinks, but we must have a more philosophical answer. You see, young master, any person who inserts himself between the onion and the peel is left with a strong smell.’
Ama glared at the cook and took Yazid by the hand. He broke loose and ran out of the kitchen towards the house. His plan was to avoid the courtyard altogether and try and hide in the bath-chamber by using the secret entrance from the side of the house. But Miguel was waiting for him, and the boy realized he had lost this battle.
‘Peace be upon you, Great-Uncle.’
‘Bless you, my child. I thought we might have a game of chess before lunch.’
Yazid cheered up immediately. In the past, whenever he had suggested a game, the adult world had resisted any incursions into their time and space. Miguel had barely spoken to him on his rare visits, let alone anything else. The boy rushed indoors and returned with his chess-set. He laid the chess-cloth on the table and carefully undid the box. Then, turning his back on the Bishop, he took a Queen in each hand and proffered his closed fists to his great-uncle. Miguel chose the fist which concealed the black Queen. Yazid cursed under his breath. It was at this stage that Miguel noticed the peculiar character of the chess-set. He began to inspect the pieces closely. His voice was hoarse with fear when he spoke.
‘Where did you get this from?’
‘A birthday gift from my father.’
‘Who carved it for you?’
Juan the carpenter’s name was about to be revealed when Yazid remembered that the man sitting before him was a servant of the Church. A stray remark of Ama’s had lodged in his brain as a warning, and now the child’s introspective wisdom came into play.
‘I think it was a friend in Ishbiliya!’
‘Do not lie to me, boy. I have heard so many confessions in my life that I can tell by the inflections in a person’s tone whether or not he is telling the truth, and you are not. I want an answer.’
‘I thought you wanted to play chess.’
Miguel looked at the troubled face of this boy with the shining eyes who sat opposite him and he could not help recalling his own childhood. He had played chess in this very courtyard and on this same piece of cloth. On the three occasions he had played against a master from Qurtuba, Miguel remembered the whole family standing round the table watching with excitement as the master was defeated every time. Then the applause and laughter as his brother would hoist him into the air to celebrate. Most pleased of all was his mother, Asma. He shuddered at the memory and looked up to see Hind, Kulthum and the young visitor from Egypt, Ibn Daud, smiling at him. Hind had seen everything from a distance and had realized that Yazid was in some sort of trouble. It was not too difficult to deduce that this was connected with the chess pieces. Even in his reverie Miguel was clutching the black Queen in his hand.
‘Have you started the game, Yazid?’ she asked innocently.
‘He won’t play. He keeps calling me a liar.’
‘Shame on you, Great-Uncle Miguel,’ said Hind as she hugged her brother. ‘How can you be so cruel?’
Miguel turned towards her, his aquiline nose twitching slightly as a weak smile distorted his cheeks.
‘Who carved these pieces? Where are they from?’
‘Why, Ishbiliya, of course!’
Yazid looked at his sister in wonderment and then went and retrieved the black Queen from Miguel’s clutches. Hind laughed.
‘Play him, Great-Uncle Miguel. You might not win.’
Miguel looked at the boy. Yazid was no longer frightened. A mischievous glimmer had returned to his face. Despite himself the Bishop was once again reminded of his youth. These surroundings, this courtyard and a cheeky nine-year-old looking at him with a hint of insolence. Miguel was reminded of his own challenges to every Christian nobleman who called on his father. Often they succumbed, and how the whole household would celebrate his triumphs.
Strange how that world, so long dead for him, continued to exist in the old house. Miguel felt like playing Yazid after all. He was about to sit down, when Ama signalled that lunch had been served.
‘Did you wash your hands, Miguel?’ Zahra’s shrill voice took the family of Umar bin Abdallah by surprise, but her brother smiled as he looked at her. He knew that voice well.
‘I am not ten years old, Zahra.’
‘I don’t care whether you’re ten or ninety. Go and wash your hands.’
Yazid saw Hind trying to stop herself from laughing and began to giggle in an uncontrolled fashion. This reduced his sister to tears as she still held back her mirth. It was when Zubayda became infected that Miguel realized he had to act fast to stop the entire lunch from degenerating into a circus. He laughed feebly.
‘Amira! You heard Zahra. Come.’
Ama brought a container filled with water, and a young manservant carried in a basin, followed by a kitchen-boy holding a towel. Miguel washed his hands amidst a bemused silence. When he had finished his sister applauded.
‘It was the same when you were a boy. If I shut my eyes I can just hear your screams, with Umm Zaydun and your mother, bless her heart, soaping your head and your body, washing you thoroughly and then flinging you into the bath.’
Zuhayr tensed at this reference to the Lady Asma. He looked at Zahra and Miguel, but there was no trace of emotion. Miguel looked at his sister and nodded.
‘I am delighted to see you back in this house, sister.’
The midday meal was consumed with great passion. The Dwarf, eavesdropping as usual from the adjacent chamber, was satisfied with the level of praise. Compliments flew across the room like tame birds. The peak of perfection for the Dwarf was reached when both Miguel and Zahra spontaneously confirmed that his harrissa was infinitely superior to that prepared by his late and much-lamented father. Only then did the master-cuisinier retire to his kitchen at ease with his craft and the world.
‘I am told that you live in great style in the Bishop’s palace in Qurtuba, attended by priests and your fat son. Why, Miguel?’ Zahra asked her brother. ‘Why did it have to end like this for you?’
Miguel did not reply. Zuhayr studied them closely as they ate. Surely Zahra must know the real reason for Miguel’s decision to cut himself completely from the old ways. Then Umar announced that it was time for the men to depart. Ibn Daud, Yazid and Zuhayr sprang to their feet and excused themselves. They left the room to prepare themselves for the ride to the mosque and Friday prayers.
Zahra and Miguel washed their hands and moved to the courtyard, where a wooden platform covered with carpets had been placed for them to enjoy the winter sunshine. Ama brought a tray whose compartments contained almonds, walnuts, dates and raisins and placed it before them.