It was a feint. Zuhayr saw that at once. The old man had blundered. Zuhayr now remembered where he had last tasted a similar drink. In the house of Great-Uncle Miguel, near the Great Mosque, in Qurtuba. The old man must have some connection. He must. Zuhayr felt he was close to solving some mystery. What it was he did not know. The old man looked at the expression on the face in front of him and knew instinctively that one of his secrets was close to being uncovered. Before he could embark on a major diversion, his guest decided to go on the offensive.
‘I have a message for you from Ama.’
‘Ama? Ama? What Ama? Which Ama? I do not know any Ama.’
‘My father’s wet-nurse. She’s always been with our family. The whole village knows her. And you, who claim to know everything that goes on in the village, do not know her? It is unbelievable!’
‘Now that you explain it becomes clear. Of course I know who she is and how she always talks of matters which do not concern her. What about her?’
‘She instructed me to inform you that she knew who had stolen three of our egg-laying hens…’
The old man began to roar with laughter at the preposterousness of such a notion. He, a thief?
‘She said that if you did it again she would have you punished in front of the whole village.’
‘Can you see any hens in this cave? Any eggs?’
‘I don’t really care. If you need anything from our house all you have to do is let me know. It will be here within the hour. I was just passing on a message.’
‘Finish your drink. Should I heat some more?’
Zuhayr lifted the goblet and drained it in one gulp. He inspected the old man closely. He could be any age above sixty or perhaps sixty-five. His head was shaved once a week. The snow-white stubble growing on it meant that he was late for his weekly visit to the village barber. He had a very sharp, but small nose, like the beak of a bird, a wrinkled face of olive-brown hues, whose colour varied with the seasons. His eyes dominated everything else. They were not large or striking in the traditional sense, but the very opposite. It was their narrowness which gave them a hypnotic aspect, especially in the middle of heated discussions, when they began to shine like bright lamps in the dark or, as his enemies often said, like those of a cat on heat.
His white beard was trimmed, too neatly trimmed for an ascetic — an indication perhaps of his past. Usually, he was dressed in loose white trousers and a matching shirt. When it was cold he added a dark-brown blanket to the ensemble. Today, as the sun poured into his one-room abode, he was sitting there without a shirt.
It was the wrinkles on his withered chest which gave the real indication of his age. He was, undoubtedly, an old man. But how old? And why that irritating, sphinx-like silence, which contrasted so strangely with his open-minded nature and the fluency of his speech, whenever Zuhayr queried his origins? Not really expecting an answer, the son of Umar bin Abdallah none the less decided to pose the question once again.
‘Who are you, old man?’
‘You mean you really don’t know?’
Zuhayr was taken aback.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Has that Ama of yours never told you? Clearly not. I can see the answer in your face. How incredible! So, they decided to keep quiet after all. Why don’t you ask your parents one day? They know everything there is to know about me. Your search for the truth might be over.’
Zuhayr felt vindicated. So his instincts had been right after all. There was some link with the family.
‘Does Great-Uncle Miguel know who you are?’
The old man’s features clouded. He was displeased. His gaze fixed itself on the remains of the almond drink, and he sunk deep in thought. Suddenly he looked up.
‘How old are you, Zuhayr al-Fahl?’
Zuhayr blushed. From al-Zindiq’s lips, the nickname he had acquired sounded more like an accusation.
‘I will be twenty-three next month.’
‘Good. And why do the villagers call you al-Fahl?’
‘I suppose because I love horse-riding. Even my father says that when he sees me riding Khalid he gets a feeling that the horse and I are one.’
‘Complete nonsense. Mystical rubbish! Do you ever get that feeling?’
‘Well, no. Not really, but it is true that I can get a horse, any horse you know, not just Khalid, to go faster than any of the men in the village.’
‘Ibn Umar, understand one thing. That is not the reason they call you al-Fahl.’
Zuhayr was embarrassed. Was the old devil launching yet another line of attack to protect his own flank?
‘Young master, you know what I’m talking about. It isn’t just riding horses, is it? You jump on their women whenever you get the chance. I am told that you have a taste for deflowering the village virgins. The truth now!’
Zuhayr stood up in a rage.
‘That is a lie. A gross calumny. I have never entered a wench against her will. Anyone who says otherwise I challenge to armed combat. This is not a joking matter.’
‘Nobody has suggested that you force them. How could they be forced when it is your right? What use are wide open legs, if the mind remains closed? Why has my question annoyed you so much? Your father is a decent man, not given to excesses of any sort, but episodes such as these have been taking place in your family for centuries. Hot-blooded fool, sit down. Did you not hear me, sit down.’
Zuhayr did as he was told.
‘Do you know Ibn Hasd, the cobbler?’
Zuhayr was perplexed by the question — what had that venerable figure to do with such a discussion? — but he nodded.
‘Next time you meet him, study his features closely. You might see a resemblance.’
‘To whom?’
‘A general family resemblance, that’s all.’
‘Which family?’
‘Yours, of course. Look for the mark of the Banu Hudayl.’
‘Crazy old man. Ibn Hasd is a Jew. Like his forefathers…’
‘What has that got to do with it? His mother used to be the most beautiful woman in the village. Your great-grandfather, Ibn Farid, espied her bathing in the river one day. He waited for her to finish and then forced her. The result was Ibn Hasd, who really is Ibn Mohammed!’
Zuhayr laughed. ‘At least the old warrior had good taste. Somehow I can’t imagine him as a…’
‘Al-Fahl?’ suggested the old man helpfully.
Zuhayr stood up to take his leave. The sun was high in the sky and he began thinking of Ama’s heavenly mixture. The old man had outwitted him once again.
‘I will take my leave now and I will do as you say. I will ask my father about your history.’
‘Why are you in such a hurry?’
‘Ama promised to make some heavenly mixture and…’
‘Amira and her heavenly mixtures! Does nothing ever change in that cursed house? You have a weakness, Zuhayr al-Fahl. A weakness that will be your undoing. You are too easily convinced. Your friends lead you where they want, you become their tail. You do not question enough. You must think for yourself. Always! It is vital in these times when a simple choice is no longer abstract, but a matter of life or death.’
‘You of all people have no right to say that. Have I not been questioning you for over two years? Have I not been persistent, old man?’
‘Oh yes. I cannot deny that, but why then are you leaving just as I am about to tell you what you wish to know?’
‘But I thought you said that I should ask…’
‘Exactly. It was a ruse to distract you and, as always, it worked. Foolish boy! Your father will never tell you anything. Your mother? To tell the truth I do not know. She is a spirited lady and much respected, but on this matter I think she will follow your father. Remain with me, Ibn Umar. Soon I will tell you all.’
Zuhayr began to tremble in anticipation. The old man heated some water and prepared a container of coffee, after which he moved the cooking utensils to one side and dragged a large, well-used, hand-woven rug to the centre of the cave. He sat down cross-legged and beckoned Zuhayr to join him. When they were both seated, the old man poured out two bowls. He sipped noisily and began to speak.