Amin Maalouf - Leo Africanus

The arrival of two downcast-looking boys puzzled him.

‘I hope that you have not come to bring me bad tidings.’

Harun began to speak, and I let him do so. It was his idea, and up to him to take it to its conclusion.

‘Bad tidings, indeed, but not a death. A marriage against the Law of God, is that not bad tidings?’

‘Who is getting married?’

‘Hasan’s sister, Mariam…’

‘The Rumiyya’s daughter?’

‘Her mother doesn’t count. Since the weigh-master is a Muslim, his daughter is also a Muslim.’

The shaikh looked at the Ferret approvingly.

‘Who are you? I don’t know you.’

‘I am Harun, son of Abbas the porter.’

‘Go on. Your words are pleasing to my ears.’

Thus encouraged, my friend explained the purpose of our mission. He did not linger over the fate of the Zarwali’s wives, because he knew that this argument would not strike home with Astaghfirullah. On the other hand, he mentioned the fiancé’s debauchery, his relations with his former wives, and then he dwelt at length on his past, on his massacres of travellers, ‘particularly the first emigrants from Andalus’, on his plunder of the Rif.

‘What you have said would be enough to send a man to the fires of Hell until the end of time. But what proofs do you have? Which witnesses can you summon?’

Harun was all humility.

‘My friend and I are too young, we have only just completed the Great Recitation, and our word does not carry much weight. We do not know a great deal about life, and it may be that we are indignant about matters which appear perfectly normal to other people. Now that we have said all that we know, and now that we have acted according to our consciences, it is up to you, our venerated shaikh, to see what must be done.’

When we were outside again I looked at the Ferret dubiously. He seemed quite certain about what he had done.

‘I really believe what I said to him. We have done everything we could. Now we just have to wait.’

But his playful air indicated otherwise.

‘I think you’re gloating,’ I said, ‘but I don’t at all understand why.’

‘Perhaps Astaghfirullah doesn’t know me, but I have known him for years. And I have every confidence in his atrocious character.’

The next day, the shaikh seemed to have been restored to health. His turban could be seen circulating feverishly in the suqs, fluttering under the porticos, before sweeping into a hammam. The following Friday, at the hour when the largest crowds were gathered, he spoke in his usual mosque, the one most attended by the emigrants from Andalus. In the most candid manner he began to describe ‘the exemplary life of a greatly respected man whom I shall not name’, mentioning his banditry, his plunderings and his debauchery in such precise terms that eventually all the audience was whispering the Zarwali’s name although he himself had never mentioned it once.

‘Such are the men that the believers respect and admire in these degenerate times! Such are the men to whom you proudly open the doors of your houses! Such are the men to whom you sacrifice your daughters, as if to the deities of the time before Islam!’

Before the day was over the whole town was talking of nothing else. The words of the shaikh were reported to the Zarwali himself. Immediately, he sent for my father, insulted Granada and all the Andalusians, and, stuttering with rage, made it clear to him that there was no question of contract, marriage or silkworms, that he charged him immediately to pay back the dinars which he had advanced him, and that the weigh-master and all his family would soon have cause for bitter regret at what had come to pass. Utterly dismayed, Muhammad tried to protest his innocence, but he was thrown out unceremoniously by the Zarwali’s bodyguards.

Often, when a marriage is called off at the last moment in an atmosphere of resentment, and particularly when the fiancé feels that he has been made a fool of, he circulates the rumour that his betrothed was not a virgin, or that she had loose morals, to make it impossible for her to find a husband. I would not have been surprised if the rejected bandit had done this, such was his humiliation.

But never, in my worst nightmares, could I have imagined the vengeance that the Zarwali was contemplating.

909 A.H.

26 June 1503 — 13 June 1504

That year had begun slippery, peaceful and studious. On the first day of the year, which came in high summer, we splashed through the streets which had been drenched with water during the preceding nights because of the festival of Mihrajan. Each time I missed my footing, at each muddy pool, I thought of my father, who so detested this festival and the customs connected with it.

I had not seen him since our dispute, may God pardon me one day! But I constantly asked Warda and Mariam for news of him; their replies were rarely reassuring. Having ruined himself to give my sister a rich dowry, and finding himself simultaneously deeply in debt, frustrated in his dreams and deprived of the affection of his family, he sought oblivion in the taverns.

However, for the first weeks of the year he seemed to be recovering slowly from the breach with the Zarwali. He had eventually managed to rent an old residence at the top of a mountain six miles from Fez. It was a bit ramshackle, but had a marvellous view over the city, and had ample land attached to it on which he swore he would produce the best grapes and the best figs of the kingdom; I suspect that he also wanted to produce his own wine, even though the mountain was part of the domain of the Great Mosque. These projects were certainly less grandiose than producing silk; at least they did not put my father at the mercy of a bandit like the Zarwali.

There had been no sign of the latter for months. Had he forgotten his misfortune, would he let bygones be bygones, the man whom it was said had the slightest insult graven in marble? I sometimes asked myself such questions, but these were passing worries which were swept aside by my deep absorption in my studies.

I spent my time in the lecture halls, in the Qarawiyyin Mosque, from midnight to half-past one, in accordance with the summer timetable, the rest of the day at the most famous college in Fez, the madrasa Bu Inania; I slept in the meantime, a little at dawn, a little in the afternoons; inactivity was unbearable, rest seemed superfluous. I was barely fifteen, with a body to shake up, a world to discover, and a passion for reading.

Each day our professors would make us study the commentaries on the Qur’an or the Tradition of the Prophet, and a discussion would commence. From the Scriptures we would often go on to medicine, geography, mathematics or poetry, sometimes even to philosophy or astrology, in spite of the ban on such subjects issued by the sovereign. We had the good fortune to have as teachers men who were learned in all fields of knowledge. To distinguish themselves from the common herd some wound their turbans around high pointed skull caps, like those which I saw worn by doctors during my stay in Rome. We students wore a simple cap.

In spite of their knowledge and their apparel, teachers were for the most part friendly men, patient in explanation, and mindful of the talents of everyone. Sometimes, they would invite us to their homes, to show us their libraries; one had five hundred volumes, another a thousand; yet another had more than three thousand, and they always encouraged us to pay careful attention to our calligraphy in order to be able to copy the most precious books, for it was thus, they said, that knowledge was spread.

When I had a moment between lectures, I would walk as far as the place where the porters stood. If I found Harun there, we would go and drink curdled milk or saunter around the Place of Marvels, where our curiosity was rarely disappointed. If the Ferret was away on an errand I would cross the flower market to go and see Mariam.