The Hand of Fatima

  ‘Heretics!’

  ‘Lutherans!’

  These insults to the resistance of the citizens of Haarlem did not distract Hernando. His attention was on what he recognised as the scraping of the worn-out shoe that Hamid dragged along the pavement, that strange rhythm that had accompanied his childhood. Hernando raised his fingers to his eyes to wipe away the tears. The two figures continued moving away from him, indifferent to the people and the noise, to the arguments and laughter, to the whole world! A small muleteer, stooping and toothless, a rogue and trickster. An elderly man, lame and tired of life, wise and saintly. Hernando fought to control the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He clenched his fists and shook his arms imperceptibly. Restraining himself, he could feel the tension in every muscle as he watched how slowly the holy man was crossing the square.

  He saw them reach Calle de los Silleros and then Calle de los Toqueros. Then they turned and went round the charity hospital. Hernando scanned the crowd, certain that, like him, everyone must have been aware of that magic couple who had disappeared down the Calle de Armas. But they had not. Nobody else seemed to have paid the slightest attention, and his closest neighbours continued listening to the tales of the disabled soldier.

  ‘They owed us more than twenty months’ pay, and they stopped us from plundering the city! All the money the city paid to prevent the pillage went to the King!’ the blind man shouted, thumping the table and spilling his glass of wine. His passion roused, he sought to justify the mutiny led by the infantry soldiers after the taking of Haarlem. ‘As a punishment they did not pay the sick and wounded like me any of the money they owed us!’

  What did he care about this blind man and his fate in that other religious war the Catholic King Philip had supported? thought Hernando as he crossed the square, forcing himself not to run.

  They were waiting for him a short distance away in Calle de Armas, both men dimly lit by the glow cast from candles at the feet of a life-sized statue of the Virgin Mary behind a beautiful grille. The street seemed deserted. Juan saw him approach but Hamid didn’t; he still had his head down in defeat.

  Hernando stopped in front of him and took his hands. Words failed him. Without lifting his eyes from the floor the holy man studied the hands that held his. His eyes moved to the boots that Hernando had worn since his appointment as a rider in the royal stables. That very morning Hamid had walked next to him.

  ‘Hamid ibn Hamid,’ he whispered, at last lifting his face.

  ‘You are free,’ Hernando said, struggling to get the words out. Before the scholar could respond, he threw himself into his arms and burst out sobbing.

  The next morning, in the presence of the public scribe, and with Hamid already under Fátima’s care in the stables, Juan and the landlord signed the contract of sale of the brothel slave named Francisco. As if he was dealing with an animal, the landlord did not sell him as healthy, but detailed each and every physical defect that Hamid possessed, both obvious and hidden. For his part, Juan renounced all right to complain about the slave’s present or future faults. With this, buyer and seller accepted the deal in front of two witnesses, and the scribe signed the corresponding document.

  A little later, in front of another scribe and another two witnesses, so that the landlord would not find out about it, Juan dictated the letter of manumission in favour of his slave Francisco. He granted him his freedom and renounced any powers that the law gave him over his freed slave.

  As they left the scribe’s house, Hernando kissed the letter of manumission. He wanted to reward his friend with a gold crown, but the muleteer refused it.

  ‘My lad,’ he said, ‘we were wrong to fantasize about the women of Barbary. None of them can have buttocks like the ones I got to feel yesterday, even though I did not manage to get any further. You were right,’ he added, placing a hand on Hernando’s shoulder. ‘I have grown old.’

  ‘No . . .’ Hernando tried to contradict him.

  ‘You know where to find me,’ the muleteer said by way of goodbye.

  Hernando watched him go. As Juan moved off, Hernando thought he was walking slightly more erect than the day before.

  38

  May 1579

  ROSES, WALLFLOWERS, lemon- and orange-tree blossom: thousands of flowers! During those spring nights, the small courtyard of the new house where Hernando lived with his family gave off a heady mix of scents. The courtyard was paved with flagstones, inlaid with pebbles forming a star. At its centre was a plain stone fountain, which permanently spouted crystal-clear water. Despite the fact that Córdoba had problems with waste water and its network of sewers, which caused frequent typhoid outbreaks and all kinds of endemic stomach illnesses, especially in the poorer districts of La Ajerquía, it also possessed thirty-nine springs and numerous wells that made good use of the endless supply of precious mountain water. The old city centre, with its intricate layout of streets and alleyways, had the best water distribution. And it was here, in Calle de los Barberos, that Hernando rented a small house belonging to the cathedral chapter. Over the centuries the Church had acquired many houses in the city.

  The house and courtyard had all the typical features of the Roman domus. Roman houses had inspired the first dwellings in the city, and were later taken by the Muslims as the model for their own houses: an oasis with flowers and water; paradises hidden from the outside. Boxed in between two similar buildings, the rectangular courtyard was closed in on one side by a blank wall, which constituted the party wall with the adjacent house. Along the three remaining sides ran corridors that gave access to the rooms, the central courtyard being surrounded by a covered colonnade. Wooden beams supported a first-floor gallery with wooden railings. This was covered by a roof of small tiles alternately curving either upwards or downwards, which acted as gutters to collect rainwater. Access to the dwelling was by a cool hallway almost as big as a room, the lower half lined with coloured tiles. This entrance was closed to the street by a wooden door and to the central courtyard by a wrought-iron gate. The kitchen, a living room, the latrine and another tiny room occupied the ground floor. On the floor above were four more rooms, reached by the open gallery.

  The idea of moving to their own house had been on Hernando’s mind ever since his salary was increased and Hamid had arrived. The old scholar ended up accepting both his freedom and the protection Hernando offered him as a natural consequence of the bond that they both considered as strong as any family relationship. However, unlike Aisha, who had insisted on going to work in the silk industry, Hamid shut himself away in the rooms above the stables where he prayed, thought and read the Koran. He made good use of the privacy offered by a place where horses were the only religion. He also took on the education of the three children, Hernando’s two and Shamir, Aisha’s son, as his personal responsibility.

  But even though all those arguments were enough in themselves for Hernando to consider it was time to look for a new house, there was another even more pressing and selfish reason that drove him to pursue the idea. The couple were trying for another child. They wanted one, but their intimacy was compromised by the close presence of their family. They made love, yes, but hidden beneath the sheets, with their movements restricted and their gasps of pleasure stifled. Both hated not being able to enjoy each other freely. Inhibited by the presence of the old holy man, Fátima avoided using the essences and perfumes that had made their love-making so delicious. There was no foreplay, no touching, no stroking, kissing or licking. The thousand positions they had come to enjoy uninhibited were now restricted to what they could manage concealed under the sheets. There was no sign of a pregnancy.

  ‘My vagina can’t milk your penis,’ moaned Fátima one day. ‘I can’t relax. I need to be able to hold you tightly inside me, gripping and squeezing, until I draw out every drop of life that you can give me.’

  This was the most pressing reason to find a new house. Aisha, Fátima, Hernando and the children established themselves on the first floor. H
amid took the remaining room on the ground floor, so at last Fátima could relax.

  The continuation of the straight Calle de los Barberos, where there was a shrine to Our Lady of Sorrows, was named after the Muslim leader Almanzor because it was the site of one of his palaces. From the house it was easy to see the cathedral’s entrance tower, the former minaret that rose proudly above the rooftops. Using that as a reference point and a superficial consultation of the stars from the courtyard, Hamid calculated the precise direction of the kiblah and made a slight incision in the wall of his room, towards which he directed his prayers.

  The money Hernando earned from the stables allowed them to live comfortably, but that particular house would not have been an option were it not for the reduced rent they obtained, thanks to Don Julián’s intervention before the cathedral chapter. This was how the priest thanked Hernando for his selfless effort in making copies of the Koran, the benefits of which went straight to the cause.

  ‘If the Arabic language is lost then so are its laws,’ Don Julián reminded him one day in the privacy of the library.

  That maxim, already invoked in the war in the Alpujarra, was seen as a priority by the diverse communities of Moriscos spread across all the Spanish realms. The Moriscos defied the Christians’ insistence that they abandon the use of Arabic in their daily lives, and their efforts to make them do so were generally in vain. The nobles of those realms, interested only in keeping the Moriscos working for them for next to nothing, were lax about the use of the Arabic language in their lands. However, the municipalities, the Church and the Inquisition, by royal order, made this maxim their own, converting it into one of their banners. The Morisco communities fought back. They secretly promoted madrasas or Koranic schools, but above all they provided the Muslims with prohibited and sacrilegious copies of the divine book, for which a network of copiers was created all over Spain.

  ‘I’ve finally found some,’ Don Julián said one night, laying a sheet of brand-new paper on the table where Hernando worked. They were alone in the library. It was late: the office of compline had ended several hours earlier, and the cathedral had been cleared of the odd assortment of characters who populated it during the day. Among them were the criminal elements who sought sanctuary in the holy place and spent the nights in the cloisters of the entrance garden, safe from the action of common justice, because the bailiffs could not enter the church to arrest them. Hernando recalled the many colourful scenes he had witnessed, and smiled to himself when he heard the gatekeepers running about trying to get some dogs, and that night even a pig, out of the holy precincts.

  Before picking it up, Hernando stroked the sheet with his fingertips. It was coarse, with an excessively satin finish. The surface was uneven and there was no watermark to prove its origin.

  ‘I’ve plenty more sheets,’ said the priest with a triumphant smile as Hernando carefully weighed the sheet in his hand. It was noticeably longer and wider than the usual ones. ‘Don’t be surprised,’ the priest added, seeing his student’s reaction. ‘It’s made by hand, in secret, in the houses of Moriscos from Xátiva.’

  Xátiva was one of the largest towns in the kingdom of Valencia. A quarter of the residents were Moriscos or new Christians but, as in many parts of that Mediterranean realm, the town was surrounded by small villages where almost all the inhabitants were Moriscos. Thanks to Muslim advances in its manufacture, they had been making paper in Xátiva for more than four centuries. The Christian monarchs granted privileges to the Xátiva Morisco authorities and protected the industry, with the result that many Moriscos worked making paper in their own homes, using old cloth and garments as raw material. These domestic industries now surreptitiously supplied the Morisco community with paper, although of poor quality. Buying paper in sufficient quantities for making copies of books was highly complicated and always suspect.

  Although printing had been invented over a century earlier, manuscripts were still widely copied by hand. The publishing of printed books was still in the hands of a very few individuals. Ordinary people, the great majority of whom were illiterate, had neither access to reading matter nor interest in its publication. The great lords who did possess sufficient capital to set up a printing business refused to compromise their honour by spending money on commercial activities unworthy of their status. By the 1580s there was just one portable printing press in Córdoba, used almost as a hobby by the only printer. This meant the trade in paper was almost non-existent. The cathedral chapter ordered its religious books from printers in other cities, such as Seville.

  ‘How did you get hold of it?’ asked Hernando.

  ‘Through Karim.’

  ‘And the customs house on the bridge?’

  Don Julián winked. ‘It’s simple enough, though expensive, to hide sheets of paper under the saddles of mules or horses.’

  Hernando nodded and again stroked the rough sheet of paper with his fingertips. The priest insisted he charge for his work, but Hernando invested all the money in projects like the liberation of Morisco slaves. Not for anything in the world would he have wanted to become rich by propagating his faith.

  So it was that when his training was complete Hernando began to reproduce Korans. He used classical Arabic but with the calligraphy of the copyists, speed and clarity taking precedence over aesthetics. Between the lines of Arabic, he wrote the translation of the suras in aljamiado, so that all the readers would be able to understand them. They hid the sheets of paper amongst the numerous parchments in the cathedral library. Thanks to Karim, the copies they made were distributed throughout the realm of Córdoba, where they had a great need for these religious texts because, unlike the Morisco communities of Valencia, Catalonia and Aragón, their exodus meant they had none available.

  While Hernando dedicated himself to the forbidden transcription of the revealed book, Fátima took on the verbal transmission of her people’s culture to the Morisco women. This enabled them to do the same with their children and husbands.

  With the patient help of Hernando and Hamid, who lovingly examined and corrected her, she had learnt by heart some of the suras of the Koran, precepts of the Sunna and the best-known Morisco prophecies. Fátima went shopping every day, her hair covered with her precious embroidered white shawl. Afterwards she amused herself with what appeared to be nothing more than innocent meetings of small groups of women of leisure getting together to gossip in one of their houses over a glass of lemonade.

  Sometimes she left home at the same time as Hernando, and the two of them enjoyed a prolonged goodbye before going their separate ways. It became a kind of game: one of them would always turn to watch proudly how the other went to fulfil the duty imposed on them by God for which their people were so grateful. Sometimes both did, and they would catch each other’s eye. Smiling, they would then encourage each other on their way with almost imperceptible hand gestures.

  ‘It is our responsibility to transmit our people’s laws to the children,’ Fátima encouraged the other women. ‘The priests want them to forget, and we can’t allow that. The men work and return home exhausted when their children are already asleep. Besides, a child will never denounce their mother to the Christians.’

  She recited some of the teachings of the Koran over and again to small groups of women, who repeated them softly. Afterwards she added the interpretation Hamid had given her.

  Day after day, Fátima repeated her teachings to different audiences. Always, after having dealt with some Koranic precept, the women begged her to recite a gufur or jofor. These were the prophecies made expressly for their people, for the Muslims of al-Andalus, and they trusted them implicitly. They foretold the return of their customs, their culture and their laws. Their victory!

  ‘The Turks will march with their armies to Rome, and the Christians will not escape, except for those who return to the law of the Prophet; the rest will be captured or killed,’ she repeated. ‘Do you all understand? This day has already arrived: the Christians have defeated us.
Why?’

  ‘Because we have forsaken our God,’ an old woman, familiar with the prophecy, answered despondently on one occasion.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Fátima. ‘Because Córdoba has become a place of vice and sin. Because all of al-Andalus has succumbed to the arrogance of heresy.’

  At this, many of the women lowered their gaze in shame. Wasn’t it true? Hadn’t they been lax in the performance of their obligations? All the Moriscos felt guilty and accepted the punishment: the Christian occupation of their lands, slavery and disgrace.

  ‘But don’t despair,’ Fátima tried to encourage them. ‘According to the divine book, the prophecy goes on. Fortunately, have you not seen the Christians triumph throughout the earth, only to be defeated within a few days of their victory? This is God’s judgement; both before and after it was the believers who were jubilant in victory. He is the one who helps His servants, and God’s promise will not fail one jot.’

  One by one they looked up at Fátima again, the light of hope in their eyes.

  ‘We must fight!’ she exhorted them. ‘We can’t resign ourselves to misfortune! God awaits us. The prophecies will be fulfilled!’

  One spring evening Hernando was returning home wearily. During the day he had helped prepare more than forty horses for a journey to the port of Cartagena, where a ship was waiting to transport them to Genoa and then on to Austria. King Philip had decided to present these superb specimens to his nephew the Emperor, and to the archdukes, the Dukes of Savoy and Mantua. As the King had ordered, first of all they selected the horses to be sent to Madrid for him and the Prince. Then they selected the steeds to be offered as a gift. Don Diego López de Haro had spent all day at the stables. He chose and rejected animals, hesitated and changed his mind. He let the riders, including Hernando, advise him as to which were the best horses for the monarch.