Radwa Ashour - Granada

On that first night Saad approached her gently and timidly, and she in turn responded to him without understanding what it was that allowed her to do so. When their bodies joined as one, a tranquility the likes of which she had never known enveloped them. It was a tranquility that released in her an overflow of affection, meekness, and tenderness she had never experienced before.

On the third night Saad told her stories of the sea and of anchored ships that set sail and returned. He spoke of Malaga, which lies between the sea and the mountains. On top of the mountains there is a castle and a fortress. The fortress has high walls, and it is magnificent to behold. And although its magnificence doesn’t compare with that of Alhambra, it is more awesome and glorious because it sparks in your soul strange feelings of fear and security at the same time. Malaga is a big city with many buildings, gardens, and verdant mountain pastures cultivated with fig, olive, and orange trees, as well as grape vines and palm trees. He asked her if she ever saw a rainfall over the vineyards. The dark rain clouds in the sky block out all but the slightest bit of sunshine that penetrates the vines and pierces through their lush verdure, producing brilliant flashes of yellow made even more radiant by the raindrops, which then appear as the morning dew. He told her about this one field that sat next to his house, and that even though they didn’t own it, it was theirs alone to feast their eyes on.

“My father’s name was Muhammad Abdel-Azeez al-Hareeri whose family came from a long line of silk weavers. He was a tall man with a dark, olive complexion and finely chiseled features. He had thick, curly hair like mine and jet black piercing eyes that added to his towering presence. My grandfather lived with us, too. He looked a lot like my father although old age made him look short and frail. He spent much time in prayer, and he always had prayer beads twirled around his fingers even when he wasn’t praying. He shouted at us whenever we made too much noise, but I wasn’t afraid of him. I don’t know why I wasn’t.

“My mother’s name was Aysha. She was a fair-skinned, plump, and jolly woman. She laughed a lot and her face always lit up when she did. Every year my father would weave her an exquisite piece of silk and with it she made a dress she’d wear on the fifteenth night of the month of Shaaban, the first night of Ramadan, and the night of Laylat al-Qadr. [17] The 27th of the month of Ramadan is the night on which, according to Quran: 97, the Quran was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad. She also wore it on the two grand feasts [18] The first is Eid al-Fitr (the feast of the breaking of the fast), which marks the end of Ramadan, and the second is Eid al-Adha (the feast of the sacrifice), which falls forty days after the end of Ramadan when Muslims commemorate Abraham’s acceptance to sacrifice his son to God. and whenever she was invited to a wedding. What I remember most is a blue silk dress and a black caftan with white embroidery.

“My sister Nafeesa was four years younger than I. My mother loved to say how no sooner did she wean me than she suckled Nafeesa. I remember holding her and rocking her to sleep. I can even remember the first steps she took as she toddled in the foyer, and how I used to give her piggyback rides and run beside her as she raced through the vineyard laughing.”

Saad’s face was pale and drawn and Saleema did everything she could to keep from crying. They had lost all track of time and didn’t notice that the sun had risen. Nor could the early dawn call to prayer remind them of the time since the Castilians now forbade it. Saad stood up to change his clothes and get ready for work. He had no desire to go on with his story, but Saleema persisted.

For the next three nights he recounted all the details of the siege of Malaga and its inevitable defeat after the horrendous cannon fire from both land and sea. “The Castilians besieged the city, first by shooting ignited arrows and then with cannons that could kill you with their screeching sounds before their shells even hit the ground. Then their troops attacked the city and installed bells and crucifixes in the mosques. And over the citadel, all the city gates and every public building their flags were hoisted.

“Several days after the Catholic monarchs issued the orders to distribute rations of wheat to the people, my grandfather passed away, hungry and defeated. Starvation also took my little sister Nafeesa, or perhaps it was fear that killed her. My mother wept and lamented, ‘What good will the wheat do us now?’ But in the end she did go and return with our allotted ration. She kneaded the flour, baked bread, and said, ‘Eat!’ And so I did.

“At first they told us that the residents would be able to contribute collectively to the ransom from their money, jewelry, and other possessions, in the amount of thirty gold doubloons per head, including children and infants. It was reported that there were fifteen thousand residents in Malaga, so how could they come up with the exorbitant amounts that the Castilians were demanding? They dispatched a delegation to Granada and they even sought help from North Africa.

“The Castilians rounded up as many citizens as they could lay their hands on, and proclaiming that the amount of ransom collected was not complete, they announced that every citizen of Malaga was to be treated as a servant to the king and queen of Castile and Aragon to do with them as they pleased. The royal couple agreed to exchange a third of them for Spanish soldiers held captive in Morocco. Another third was condemned to a life of hard labor to compensate for the expenses incurred by the Castilian treasury to finance the war. The remaining third, most of whom were women, were parceled out as gifts to the Pope, European nobility, the Royal Court notables, and the military commanders. My mother was among this last third.

“I was screaming when they came to take her away. I wept and struck the sides of my face repeatedly. A Castilian soldier took pity on me and patted me on the head, trying to reassure me that everything would be all right. He told me about his children who were my age. I was eight at the time. He said, ‘Stay with me, and no one will lay a finger on you. I’ll take you home and raise you with my own children.’ I stayed with him for one month in Malaga, and when we set out to go where he lived, that is, me and this man who’s name was Jose Blanco, I escaped on the way.”

Saleema sat next to Saad as he was telling her all of this. Her back was slightly arched, her head tilted, and her hands resting on her stomach. A quiver rushed through her body, her head throbbed, and her insides contracted in cramps. She jumped up from the bed and rushed out of the room and went to the bathroom. When she got to the door and opened it, she bumped into her mother, and they both let out a scream at the same time. Then Saleema continued her way to the bathroom and vomited. Her grandmother brewed some mint leaves and made her a hot, steaming infusion. It was noontime. Her mother watched her closely and said, “I think you’re better now. You don’t look as pale. Don’t you feel better?”

“What were you doing behind the door, Mother?” Saleema asked as she looked her mother straight in the eye.

Hasan’s eyes first fell on her in the tavern. She had a pair of castanets wrapped around the tips of her fingers and she was gyrating to the rhythms of three musicians. One of them was an older man who had a leather strap wrapped around his right shoulder that cut across his chest and went down to his waist, and that held a large, round drum he beat with two small wooden sticks. The two younger men were playing woodwinds that made their cheeks puffy and their faces ruddy.