Nora knew she was talking about the key that had been stolen from the tombstone in the British Cemetery. But how had the sheikh got his hands on it? Was he connected to the Shayba Clan of keyholders in some way? She remembered the drawing on a piece of paper, which the two men had compared with the key from al-Shaybi’s grave.
“I found this drawing right here inside this book, The Necklace of the Dove, the last thing al-Shaybi was reading before he left.”
Suddenly the woman seemed tired, and she snapped The Necklace of the Dove firmly closed on the drawing and handed it to Nora. With the same firmness she propelled them out the door and closed it silently behind them, but not before pointing a warning finger at Nora: “It’s been waiting for you all these years.”
The moment the door closed and they heard the finality of the key turning in the lock, they woke up with a start. They stood, amazed, in front of the desolate-looking door; the copy of The Necklace of the Dove in Nora’s hand was the only evidence that what had just happened to them hadn’t been a product of their imagination.
They were driving aimlessly when they glimpsed a column of smoke rising from Toledo. Nora felt a tug at her heart. Up in Toledo, crowds were watching the fire consuming the old school and its large library.
She placed a hand on the steering wheel and turned to Rafi. “Listen,” she said urgently, “I’m not interested in war of any kind, not even for the sake of a key that will unlock the four rivers of Paradise. Let’s forget about that story. It doesn’t concern me. Just take me back to Madrid, please.”
“Anywhere but Madrid, I’m begging you.”
“Madrid.” She was desperate.
“I’m sure I can—”
She interrupted him softly. “The sheikh is the only way I’ll get back.”
Amulet
YUSUF PUT DOWN THE SHEETS OF PARCHMENT HE’D BEEN READING AND HANDED them to Nasser. He walked away, limping slightly as he always did, while Nasser eagerly picked up where he’d left off:
THE VOICE OF THEIR AGED PRIESTESS rose up from the very bottom of my fever to confirm that I was pregnant with you. Once they heard that, they took me to the hidden springs where my body was washed and soaked for days before they placed me in the shadow of their tar idol. My skin was humanly supple once more.
When al-Ghatafani appeared, leading my still-saddled camel, I didn’t bat an eyelid; I supposed he was just another one of the hallucinations rising up from my delirium. No one stopped us when we rode past the wall in the mountains by the Devil’s Horns.
“They’re sending you away to give birth in the bed of a chief from an influential tribe.” Neither one of us knew whether I was carrying his seed or that of the Devil’s Horns.
We were received by ecstatic dogs wagging their tails, girls dressed in red, and the gurgle of running water as we approached the Sabkha tribe.
“Sheikh Sa’d is the chief of the most powerful tribe in the desert. They’re descended from Wa’il and Rabi’a ibn Nizar,” al-Ghatafani said to reassure me. The palm trees stirred a longing for Khaybar in my heart. It had been an age since I’d been bathed in the sight of green. Sheikh Sa’d ibn Ibrahim ibn Ka’b’s men came out to meet us and make sure that we were safe and in good health. Najd was in uproar. There were reports that Muhammad ibn Abd Allah’s followers were planning to seize the Najd trade route. Ayif al-Ghatafani and I were taken to the sheikh’s house, which was surrounded by his loyal servants, and we stood by the mud-brick door, which was always open. Sheikh Sa’d was on his way out when our eyes met; a falcon fell from his eyes straight into the trap in my eyes. For nights on end, I’d been gathering my magical powers to carve a cradle for you in the arms of that peerless knight of the desert. I didn’t fail you. The tribe lit torches and married me to their sheikh. I lay in his bed and gave him my body, though he had no idea that you were already inside of me. In seven months, I would give birth to you in that bed and you would carry his pedigree.
Don Quixote
OUTSIDE THE HOTEL, AS THEY WERE SAYING GOODBYE, RAFI HANDED HER TWO CDs. “This is de Falla’s Don Quixote, and this is the one I promised you, Bach’s St. Matthew Passion.” She took the CDs from him and put them in her large pocket. She smiled.
“We need to listen to things we can’t comprehend so we can learn to comprehend the things we can’t hear.” She reminded him of Señora Mirano, and he suddenly heard her voice in his mind:
“I once read that people consider St. Matthew Passion to be the most beautiful piece in the history of Western music. They say that Bach was as strict about music as a rabbi is about the Halacha. That’s the law that Jewish philosophers like Spinoza rebelled against because they felt it was too concerned with outward behavior, instead of the faith in one’s heart. They said it made a robot of man and a façade of religion. Bach’s music exists within harsh tradition; an act of obedience, a deep study of pleasure. Through his pure orthodoxy, he builds something greater than orthodoxy, which allows us to plumb aesthetic depths that we can discover within forms themselves. It allows us to find the source within the solid construction. He recreates exhausted possibilities.”
Without thinking, he brushed her hair out of her eyes with his shaky hand and tucked it behind her ear. Her forehead tingled.
“Don’t listen to things you can’t comprehend, just listen to the joy in the music. Don’t try to examine every drop of water, the important thing is for our bodies to be exposed to the pleasure of the rain.” She wanted to laugh. Whenever a man was sweet to her, she giggled like a child. She listened to him, patronizing, protective. She knew he could tell how inexperienced she was the entire time. The shame in her blushing temples receded when he looked as if he were about to say goodbye.
“Don’t force yourself to think about what could never happen. I can’t remember who it was who said: in the limitlessness surrounded by walls on four sides, and within the thick fortification of nuclear reactors, there is a being about to come to life and rise up. The great transformation happens through the greatest of explosions.” The sound of his own words annoyed him as they listened to what sounded like last words, like goodbye.
A little girl got loose of the hand of her mother, a beggar, and ran ahead. She stopped a few steps away from Nora and stared with big eyes. The girl was encouraged by Nora’s smile and came closer. Shyly and in her sweet Spanish, the girl asked Nora, “What’s your name?”
Rafi could sense her hesitation, but he had no intention of translating it for her. He was certain that Nora had understood the question. He watched as a tear rose up out of Nora’s hesitation and slid down her cheek. The name Nora was like a dam keeping the story of her past and present at bay. Rafi didn’t know what to do. He said, “Her name is Bella,” to the girl in Spanish to smooth things over. Nora took off her black leather bracelet and wrapped it around the wrist of the little girl, who surprised her with a quick kiss on her wrist and a “gracias” before running off to show it to her mother. Rafi noticed there was a strip of metal on the bracelet, but he wasn’t sure what was engraved on it. It looked like the peaks of some towers or maybe it was just a brand: A&A.