Radwa Ashour - Granada

Maryama always came home from these occasions drained, eyes lowered, and often so weak that she took to her bed for several days, exhausted and defeated. She would tell herself or Hasan that she would never go back again, but as soon as an announcement of a new ceremony was made, she would prepare herself and count the days until she left the house early in the morning.

“I see you’re not getting ready for Mass,” Hasan said to Maryama one Sunday morning.

It was the day after one of the auto-da-fé processions. “I’m exhausted, Hasan, and I’m not up to it.”

“They’re watching us, Maryama,” he insisted. “They took your mother and brothers, and they’re keeping an eye on us. Pull yourself together, and let God give you strength.”

She obeyed him, and the family all went to church. Except for Saleema, who had made up her mind years ago that she would never go to church, even if they bound her hands and feet and dragged her with a team of horses. Hasan no longer broached the subject with her, even though he insisted on taking his wife, mother, and children with him, if only to throw dust in their eyes. The family took up a whole row of seats in the church. Hasan sat on the aisle seat, next to him was his mother, and after her the children. Maryama sat at the opposite end of Hasan.

The dim light, the ancientness of the church, and the faint voice of the priest only added to Maryama’s sadness. She sat with her head bowed and a grave expression on her face. Her torso was bent somewhat forward, and she looked as though she were staring at her two palms opened and resting on her lap. She wasn’t staring at her palms, but rather at the faces of those whom she saw the day before at the penitents’ procession. They were pale, frowning faces with lowered eyes and absent looks, made all the more gaunt by expressions of worry and fear. Underneath the long, flowing liturgical garments that concealed the body, the emaciation was evident on their bodies, not to mention the vestiges of the torture and suffering of those lonely nights in the dark dungeons inhabited by rats and by the ghosts of those killed by loneliness or burned at the stake. Among those pronounced guilty was a young girl her daughter Kuqaya’s age whom she couldn’t keep her eyes off no matter how hard she tried. Even after she left, Maryama couldn’t stop thinking about her, and she would even see her in her sleep that night. Maryama was startled when the organ music rang out suddenly. A shiver ran through her body and the tears welled from her eyes. She lifted her head a little and through her tears she saw him. He was so close she could practically touch him if only she held out her hand.

He was directly to her right. She stared at him closely. She looked first at his bare feet and dangling legs and then lifted her eyes toward his thin, naked torso to his narrow shoulders. Then she saw his tilted head and the crown of thorns he was wearing. She stared at his ribs bulging from his rib cage, and at his eyes shut tight in humbling pain. His arms were stretched out on the wooden cross, and her eyes fixed on each of his palms with a nail driven through his flesh and onto the cross. Then she looked at his face once again. It was sad and dejected, worn out by suffering. Its only communication to her was the slight tilt of the head.

Maryama stood up and took two steps forward. She knelt and stretched out her hand to touch the two bare feet. It appeared as though she was going to ask for his intercession, but when she got near and touched him, her heart grew heavy and she murmured, “There was peace on me the day I was born, and will be the day I die, and on the day I will be raised from the dead. This was Jesus, son of Mary — a true account, they contend.” [26] Quran (Mary 19): 33–34. The two arms stretched out on the cross were like wings he spread out to her in love and mercy. Maryama asked for nothing, but opened her arms and wrapped them around his legs, and she tilted her head forward and kissed them.

Father Miguel proposed to Naeem that he accompany him on his journey to the new world. The invitation came as a surprise to Naeem, and he didn’t know what to say. He asked his employer to give him a few days to think it over. Had Saad not left him in such a callous way, he wouldn’t give a second’s thought to leaving. But he felt like a branch severed from its tree. Why shouldn’t he travel to a new world, or even an old one, or to hell for that matter? What’s the difference between one place and another? he thought. He didn’t have a wife or children, and he didn’t have his friend. Even Umm Jaafar had passed on and now lies in the folds of the earth. Besides, Father Miguel is a kind and gentle man. He doesn’t mistreat him. In fact, he roils whenever he hears news about the Office of Inquisition and its oppressive treatment of Arabs and other people. The priest speaks of the new world as if it were Paradise in its beauty and riches. So, why not travel? But what if Saad came back? Why hadn’t he returned, three years later, without a trace or a word?

Naeem lived his life injured by the wound of Saad’s sudden departure and burdened by a constant worry that led to endless questions. Did Saad go to North Africa, or is he in the mountains? Is he working with the freedom fighters from the attack ships, or is he hiding in some mountain cave plotting in secrecy with his comrades? Did something horrible happen to him? Did he take a second wife, and did God bless him with a son or daughter? He wondered where he was and what he was doing at every moment. Did he ever think about his friend Naeem, or did he forget him the day he left Granada without even saying good-bye?

Naeem accepted Father Miguel’s proposal. Two days before departure, he paid a visit to Hasan and his family to bid them farewell. Umm Hasan greeted the news in tears, but the children were fired up and bombarded Naeem with questions about the new world he was going to. Naeem laughed and explained to them that he hadn’t seen it yet to tell them anything about it. “When I return, God willing, I’ll bring back lots of stories and lots of gold as well! They say it’s a land paved with gold and silver.” He was laughing because he didn’t believe a word of these fanciful rumors.

Hasan sat in silence, watching Naeem closely. The idea of his departure was more than he could bear. He thought about Saad’s departure and dreaded the thought of going on with his life without any support. “When will you be back, Naeem?” he asked.

“Probably in a year or two. Father Miguel says that the purpose of the trip is to write a book. He wants to see everything himself and document his findings in a book.” Naeem dug into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and gave it to Hasan. “If Saad should return during my absence, give this letter to him. You know how much I miss him and how hurt I was when he left. Tell him I won’t be long in my journey. Tell him… well, don’t tell him anything. I’ve written it all down in the letter. Could I say good-bye to Saleema?”

One of Hasan’s daughters ran ahead of him and told Saleema he was coming. He went into her room but stood there fumbling for words. Finally, he spoke. “I’m going on a trip to the new world with Father Miguel.”

Saleema looked straight at him, and he thought he detected a gleam in her eye or perhaps a twitch in her cheek. She didn’t say a word, but she extended her hand and shook his. As he turned around to leave the room, he heard her call out, “Don’t be angry with Saad, Naeem. You know how much he loves you.” He turned around to look at her and saw a tear trickle down her cheek. He then rushed out of the house so that no one would see him crying.

Did Naeem cry out to Saad that night so loud that Saad heard him from a distant village? Does the voice of a man reach his friend across the mountains and plains? On that very night, Saad saw his friend in a dream. They were together, along with Hasan and Saleema, all standing around Abu Jaafar whose imposing stature towered above them. His face radiated light as he guided the children in their work. Hasan was arranging the folios of a manuscript and measuring the leather for the binding. Naeem was leaning forward meticulously sketching a series of letters for the title page, drawing them in floral designs alternating between fine and broad strokes. “Where ever did Naeem get such beautiful penmanship?” Abu Jaafar would ask. Saad was looking over his shoulder, and Saleema stood at the door of the workshop with her gazelle, reminding everyone that the book will be hers. “Patience, Saleema,” cautioned Abu Jaafar. “We need to finish it first, and then we’ll give it you.”