That summer, the man came to the city. His head was shaven except for a ring of curly hair that encircled his fleshy, shiny bald crown. His face was stern, bordering on a sickly yellowness. His forehead was wide and his two beady eyes stared out with an inspector’s penetration. He had a hooked nose and two tight, thin lips, the upper of which was slightly fuller than the lower. His torso was excessively lean, and when he spread out his arms from underneath his flowing black robe, he appeared like a frightening giant bat.
The people asked themselves who he was and where he came from. It wasn’t long before they learned to pronounce his name, Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros. He was the archbishop of Toledo who came to them, so they say, from the city of Alcala where he had founded a university. He was a scholar and a faqeeh, a Castilian faqeeh, who came to meet the faqeehs of the Arabs. He reached out to them, treated them with respect, and showered them with gifts.
The town crier announced to the people that Hamid al-Thaghri was going to be released, and that whoever desired to see him in person was free to proceed on the following day to the Church of San Salvador. Abu Mansour was indignant and asked disdainfully, “How can we enter the courtyard of the mosque they turned into a church?”
Saad replied, “The place is ours even though they changed its name. Besides, we’re going not for their sake, but to see a man who is of great concern to all of us. We are his flesh and blood, so is it right that al-Thaghri come out of his long imprisonment only to be alone and deprived of the company of his people? We will carry him on our shoulders from the mosque square, as befitting both him and ourselves.”
Abu Jaafar didn’t utter a word.
On the following day the three of them went to the Albaicin Mosque, which was now called the Church of San Salvador. A great number from the Arab community came out. Some of them were from Malaga, those fortunate enough to have made their way to Granada, men and women alike, who had known al-Thaghri and whose souls had clung to every word he said and every decision he made. The others were citizens of Granada and the surrounding villages who followed the exploits of al-Thaghri, a man who held a warm place in their hearts, that is, next to the place they set aside for Ali,[12] the one who won them over with his feats of heroism and acts of justice.
The people assembled in the courtyard of the mosque and sat cross-legged, pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, waiting in breathless anticipation. Then, Cardinal Cisneros appeared in his long black cassock and, with slow deliberate steps, headed toward the east portico where a large, luxurious throne was placed and upon which he sat. He stared out at the people and they at him. He clapped his hands, and four guards came out escorting an extremely emaciated man dressed in tattered clothing. His hands and feet were bound, and he walked with a bowed head and shuffling feet.
The crowds began to whisper. “Is that Hamid al-Thaghri? Is it possible? Could that really be him?”
“It’s him,” shouted a man from Malaga who had fought alongside him. From row to row the people passed the word that Abu Ali the Malagan recognized him. Some asked who had recognized him. They repeated, “Abu Ali the Malagan.”
With his unusually long and pointed fingers, the cardinal motioned to the guards to untie the prisoner. Then the cardinal spoke. “Now, Hamid, tell the people what you saw.”
Hamid stared out at the crowd, lowered his head, then stole another quick, unsettling look. The crowd seemed to be holding its collective breath. Hamid spoke:
“Yesterday…”
One of the guards shouted at him to speak louder. Hamid cleared his throat, straightened himself up, and raised his voice. “Yesterday, while I was in my cell, I fell asleep.” He stuttered, coughed, and then continued. “While I was sleeping yesterday, a voice called out to me and told me that God wants me…”
He stopped. Several silent moments passed in which it appeared that the man had nothing further to say. He closed his eyes and said: “He wants you to become a Christian. This is His will.”
A dead silence fell over the crowd as though the square, teeming with hundreds of people, was totally deserted. The guards took al-Thaghri away, and the masses of Arabs were jolted by the sudden piping of the organ and the hymns that echoed loudly throughout the courtyard of the mosque. Saad spoke up: “Let’s go, Abu Jaafar. Come, Abu Mansour, let’s go home.” He turned toward Abu Jaafar and was shaken by the tears gushing out of his eyes as though he were a little boy. He put his arm around him and repeated, “Let’s go, Grandfather.” Abu Jaafar shook his head and beckoned with his fingers to Saad who understood immediately that he wanted to stay.
The guards returned with al-Thaghri whose hands and feet were now free of the chains. They had washed his face, combed his hair, and dressed him in a silk robe. Al-Thaghri walked toward the cardinal with slow, heavy steps as though his feet were still in chains. He knelt at the feet of Cisneros who took the small decanter of baptismal water from one of the deacons. He dipped his fingers into the water and sprinkled the drops over al-Thaghri’s forehead as he recited a prayer. Hamid al-Thaghri had chosen for his Christian name Gonzales Fernandez Zegri.
The people had not yet recovered from what had happened, nor had anyone dared to even recall the details or dwell on the painful events when the news traveled in whispers that the Castilians were breaking into all the mosques and schools, and that they were collecting all the books and bringing them to an unknown destination.
For a week, the Paper Makers’ Quarter witnessed unusual activity. The shops closed during the daytime and were kept open all night as a cover-up. Two or three hours after evening prayers the quarter came alive and went to work. Abu Mansour and three of his young employees stood guard over the quarter from a position behind the bathhouse, while Naeem and two others kept watch from the other side.
Behind the doors that were kept slightly opened was the soft glow of candlelight. In every shop you could see the shadows moving back and forth in the flickering light. Cupboards full of books were opened on both sides as the hands moved in and out of them with great care and caution. Large sacks were stuffed, and straw baskets and cartons were filled to the brim. There was the shadow of someone filling a sack and carrying it off, or of someone stuffing a basket, or perhaps two men hoisting together a heavy crate over their shoulders and vanishing into the night. The dark, gloomy street came to life with voiceless phantoms, some sinuous and hunchbacked, others straight as reeds, looking as though they were capped with a strange and mysterious crown on the top of their heads. Some took bizarre shapes like elevated thrones with walking legs. The whole quarter was animated with these silent phantoms whose torsos conjoined with the loads they were carrying, as they communicated with their arms and legs, appearing like eerie phantasmic creatures that come to life only in the black of night and fade away at the crack of dawn.
Abu Jaafar had agreed with his colleagues in the Paper Makers’ Quarter that he would move his books to their houses only under cover of night, and that in the daytime he would take them to their permanent hiding place. He would load them on donkey carts or on the backs of mules camouflaged as household goods and utensils, pretending to be moving house. They all agreed that this should be carried out in stages, quietly and cautiously, in a way that wouldn’t draw any attention. They agreed that the books would be distributed evenly in a number of places, in mountain caves, under the ruins of abandoned houses, and in the vaults of their own homes.
12
Ali Ibn Abi Talib, cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad, is universally revered by Muslims.