Tariq Ali - Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

Yazid was lost in his own world. He was in the pomegranate glade, pretending to be a Moorish knight. His sword was a stick, whose end he had sharpened with his knife — the knife Zuhayr had given him on his tenth birthday and which he proudly wore in his belt whenever there were visitors. He was galloping up and down in a frenzied fashion, waving his make-believe sword and decapitating every pomegranate within reach. Soon he had tired of the fantasy and sitting down on the grass, he split open one of the vanquished fruits and began to drink its juice, spitting out the chewed seeds after every mouthful.

‘You know something, Hind? I think Zuhayr will die. Abu and Ummi think the same. I could tell from the way they looked when Ibn Basit was telling them about the duel. I wish Ummi had let me go with you. I’ve never been on a boat. Never crossed the sea. Never seen Fes. They say it’s just like Gharnata.’

Yazid stopped suddenly. He thought he had heard footsteps and the rustling of the gorse which surrounded the glade. Ever since he had been surprised by Umayma and the other servants that day he had become much more cautious and always on the look-out for intruders. He wished he had never seen Ibn Daud and Hind kissing each other. If he had not told his mother, she would not have spoken to Hind and, who knows, perhaps the wedding might have been delayed. Hind might still have been here. What a strange wedding it had been. No feasts. No celebrations. No display of fireworks. Just the qadi from the village and the family. He giggled at the memory of how he had almost dropped the al-koran on Ibn Daud’s head, bringing a smile even to the face of the qadi. The Dwarf had excelled himself that day. The sweetmeats, in particular, tasted as if they had been cooked in paradise.

Three days later Hind had gone. It had been a time of sadness, but Hind had spent more time with him than with Ibn Daud. They had gone for long walks. Hind had shown him her favourite haunts in the mountain and by the river and she had, as always, talked to him seriously.

‘I wish you could come with me for a while. I really do,’ she had told him the day before she left. ‘I’m not leaving you, just this house. I could not bear the thought of living here with Ibn Daud. We must live where he feels comfortable and in control of the surroundings. This is Abu’s house, and after him it will belong to Zuhayr and you and your children. You do understand me, don’t you Yazid? I love you more than before and I will always think of you. Perhaps next year when we come to visit we can take you away for a month or two.’

Yazid had not been able to say very much in response. He had simply clutched her hand tight as they walked back to the house. Yazid did not wish to think about it any more, and was quite relieved at the interruption.

‘Ah! It is the young master himself. And pray what are you doing here on your own?’

The familiar, hateful voice belonged to his father’s chief steward Ubaydallah, who, like his father before him, kept a record of every single transaction enacted on the estate. He had a much better idea of the exact amount of land which Umar owned, or how much rent had accrued in which village, or the exact amount of money from the sale of dried fruits last year, or how much wheat and rice was stored in underground granaries and their specific locations.

Yazid did not like Ubaydallah. The man’s blatant insincerity and his exaggerated show of unfelt affection had never deceived the boy.

‘I was taking a walk,’ replied Yazid in a cold voice as he rose and assumed the most adult posture he could manage. ‘And now I am returning to the house for my midday meal. And you, Ubaydallah? What brings you to the house at this time?’

‘I think the answer to that question had better be given directly to the master. May I walk back with you?’

‘You may,’ replied Yazid as he put both his hands behind his back and strode back towards the house. He had heard Ama say a hundred thousand times that Ubaydallah was a rogue and a thief, that he had stolen land, food and money from the estate for decades and that his son had opened three shops on the proceeds — two in Qurtuba and one in Gharnata. He had decided not to speak to the man for the rest of the journey, but he changed his mind.

‘Tell me something, Ubaydallah.’ Yazid spoke in the unique and infinitely superior tone of a landowner. ‘How are your son’s shops doing? I am told that one can buy any and every luxury in them.’

The question took the old steward by surprise. The insolent young pup, he thought to himself. He must have picked something up from the cartloads of kitchen gossip. Umar bin Abdallah would never stoop to discuss such matters at his table. Aloud he was unctuous to the point of absurdity.

‘How nice of you to think of my boy, young master. He is doing well, thanks be to Allah and, of course, to your family. It was your father who paid for his education and insisted that he find work in the city. It is a debt which can never be repaid. I am told that you are a ferocious reader of books, young master. Everyone in the village talks about it. I told them: “You just wait. Yazid bin Umar will soon begin to write books of learning.”’

Without looking at the man, Yazid smiled in acknowledgement of the remark. The flattery made no impact on him at all. This was not just because Yazid did not trust Ubaydallah. In this respect the boy was very much like his father and mother. Words of praise slipped off him like water off leaves in the fountain. It was a sense of inherited pride. A feeling that the Banu Hudayl was so naturally advantaged that they did not need anybody else’s favours. For Yazid, like his father and grandfather before him, an offering of wheat-cakes sweetened with the syrup of dates from a poor peasant meant much more than the silk shawls showered on the ladies of the house by Ubaydallah and his son. It was what the gift meant to the giver that determined their attitude.

Ubaydallah was babbling on, but the boy had stopped listening. He did not believe any of this nonsense, but the very fact that he had forced Ubaydallah to speak to him as he would have addressed Zuhayr was, he felt, something of a triumph. As they walked through the main gate, known in the village after its builder as Bab al-Farid, Ubaydallah lowered his head in a half-bow. Yazid acknowledged the gesture with an imperceptible nod of his head as they went their separate ways. The elderly man hurried to the kitchen. The boy maintained his posture and did not relax till he had entered the house.

‘Where have you been?’ whispered Umayma outside the dining-room. ‘Everyone else has finished.’

Yazid ignored her and rushed into the room. The first thing he noticed was Ibn Basit’s absence. This depressed him. His face fell. A distant look appeared on his face as he fingered the medallion Hind had left him as a token of her love. Inside it, black like the night, was a lock of her hair.

‘Has he gone, Abu?’

His father nodded as he picked at a dark red grape from the silver tray bedecked with fruit. Zubayda served Yazid some cucumbers cooked in their own water with a dash of clarified butter, black pepper and red chilli seeds. He ate it quickly and then consumed a salad consisting of radishes, onions and tomatoes, soaked in yoghurt and the juice of fresh limes.

‘Did Ibn Basit say anything else? Did he give you any idea when Zuhayr would visit us?’

Zubayda shook her head.

‘He did not know the exact day, but he thought it would be soon. Now will you please have some fruit, Yazid. It will bring the colour back to your cheeks.’

As four servants entered to clear the table, the most senior amongst them knelt on the floor and muttered a few words close to his master’s ear. A look of disdain appeared on Umar’s face. ‘What does he want at this time? Show him to my study and stay there with him till I arrive.’