Tariq Ali - Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

‘But how could it happen, al-Zindiq?’

‘That is no mystery. Ever since he was a baby, Meekal was the favourite. He used to bathe with his mother and the other ladies. Amira told me that even though he was sixteen, he would walk in while the Lady Asma was having a bath and often took off his clothes and jumped in with her.

‘She was not yet past her prime. I do not know who initiated what happened, but I can understand her dilemma. She was still a woman, and she still yearned for that one particular joy which had disappeared from her life since the death of Ibn Farid. When it happened it was so warm, so ecstatic, so comfortable, so familiar, that she forgot who she was and who he was and where they were. Then immediately afterwards the memory became a pain, which in her case, could only be removed by death. Who are we to judge her, Zuhayr? How can we ever understand what she felt?’

‘I don’t know — I don’t want to know — but it was madness.’

‘Yes, that it was and the people around her became stern and inflexible. I have a suspicion that the old midwife was encouraged to facilitate the death of both mother and child.’

‘Lady Asma must have regretted converting to our religion.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, if she had remained a worshipper of icons she could have pretended to the world that the appearance of a child in her body was a divine mystery.’

‘You are beginning to sound bitter. It is time you went home.’

‘Come with me, al-Zindiq. You will be welcomed.’

The old man was startled by the suddenness of the invitation.

‘I thank you. I would like to see Zahra, but some other day.’

‘How can you bear this solitude day after day?’

‘I look at it differently. From here I see the sun rise as no other person does, and from here I enjoy the sun set as few others will. Look at it now. Is not that the colour of paradise? And there are my manuscripts, growing by the year. Solitude has its own pleasures my friend.’

‘But what about its pains?’

‘In every twenty-four hours there is always one which is full of anguish and self-pity and confusion and the desire to see other faces, but an hour passes quickly enough. Now fly away my young friend. You have important business to conduct tonight, and do not forget to bring to me the young man who claims he is the descendant of Ibn Khaldun.’

‘Why so sceptical?’

‘Because Ibn Khaldun’s entire family perished in a shipwreck while travelling from Tunis to al-Qahira! Now go, and peace be upon you.’

‘DWARF, WHEN I GROW up I want to be a cook, just like you.’

The chief cook, who was sitting over a giant pan grinding a concoction of meat, pulses and wheat with a large wooden pestle, looked at the young boy sitting directly opposite him on a tiny stool and smiled.

‘Yazid bin Umar,’ he said, as he carried on pounding the meat, ‘it is very hard work. You have to learn how to cook hundreds of dishes before anyone will employ you.’

‘I will learn, Dwarf. I promise.’

‘How often have you had harrissa ?’

‘Hundreds and thousand of times.’

‘Exactly so, young master, but do you know how it is cooked or what ingredients are used to flavour the meat? No, you do not! There are over sixty recipes for this dish alone. I cook it in the style recommended by the great teacher al-Baghdadi, but using herbs and spices of my own choice.’

‘That’s not true. Ama told me that it was your father who taught you everything you know. She says he was the Sultan of cooks.’

‘And who taught him? That Ama of yours is getting too old. Just because she has known me since I was your age, she thinks I have no creative skills of my own. My father was certainly more inventive in the realm of sweets. His date and vermicelli mixture cooked in milk over a low heat to celebrate all the big weddings and festivals was famous throughout al-Andalus. The Sultan of Gharnata was here for your grandfather’s wedding. After tasting the dessert he wanted to take my father away to the al-Hamra, but Ibn Farid, may his soul rest in peace, said “Never.”

‘But in the kingdom of real food he was not as good a cook as my grandfather, and he knew that fact very well. You see, young master, a genius can never rely on the recipes of others. How many pinches of salt? How much pepper? Which herbs? It is not just a question of learning, though that is important, but of instinct. That is the only secret of our craft. It happens like this. You are beginning to cook a favourite dish and you realize that there are no onions in the kitchen. You grind some garlic, ginger, pomegranate seeds and pimentos into a paste and use them instead. Add a tiny cup of fermented grape juice and you have a brand-new dish. The Lady Zubayda, whose generosity is known to all, tastes it when the evening meal is served. She is not deceived. Not even for a single moment. Straight away she realizes that it is something completely new. After the meal I am summoned to appear before her. She congratulates me and then questions me in some detail. Naturally I let her into my secret, but even as I am speaking to her I have forgotten the exact measures of the ingredients I have used. Perhaps I will never cook that dish again, but those who have tasted it once will never forget the unique blend of flavours. A truly good dish, like a great poem, can never be repeated exactly. If you want to be a cook, try and remember what I have just told you.’

Yazid was greatly impressed.

‘Dwarf? Do you think you’re a genius?’

‘Of course, young master. Why else would I be telling you all this? Look at the harrissa I am cooking. Come here and observe it carefully.’

Yazid moved his stool close to the cook and peered into the pan.

‘This has been cooking the whole night. In the old days they would only use lamb, but I have often used the meat of calves or chicken or beef, simply in order to vary the flavour. Otherwise your family would begin to get bored with my cooking, and that would upset me greatly.’

‘What have you put in this harrissa ?’

‘The meat of a whole calf, three cups of rice, four cups containing the hearts of wheat, a cup of brown lentils, a cup of chickpeas. Then I filled the pan with water and let it cook overnight. But before I left the kitchen I put some dried coriander seeds and black cardamoms in a little muslin bag and lowered it into the pan. By the morning the meat had melted completely and now I am grinding it into a paste. But before I serve it for your Friday lunch, what else will I do?’

‘Fry some onions and chillies in clarified butter and pour them on the harrissa. ’

‘Very good, young master! But the onions must be burnt and floating in the clarified butter. Perhaps next week I will add something to this dish. Perhaps a few eggs fried in butter and sprinkled with herbs and black pepper would mix well with harrissa, but it might be too heavy on the stomach just before Friday prayers. What if the pressure was so great that when they bowed their heads before Mecca the other end of their bodies began to emit a foul-smelling wind? That would not be appreciated by those directly in the line of fire.’

Yazid’s laughter was so infectious that it made the Dwarf grin. Then the boy’s face became very serious. A tiny frown appeared on the large forehead. The eyes became intense. A thought had crossed his head.

‘Dwarf?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t you sometimes wish that you were not a dwarf, but a big tall man, like Zuhayr? Then you could have been a knight instead of being in this kitchen all day?’

‘Bless your heart, Yazid bin Umar. Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, in the days when our Prophet, peace be upon him, was still alive, a monkey was caught pissing in a mosque.’