A third group believed that he neither drowned himself nor was killed, but rather that he escaped to the mountains to train men and prepare for battle. And yet a fourth group held the view that drowning or not drowning made no difference whatsoever, but that these were not his times, nor ours. So, why don’t we either carry off what we can of our possessions and depart, they thought, or remain as Muslims, entrusting ourselves to God and the new rulers, and live out the remainder of our lives in peace.
How could this be? This question was like a sharp knife that made a deep incision in Abu Jaafar’s soul, and like everyone else it made him wary just to think about it, let alone discuss it with others. He was pondering this question when the town crier passed by, announcing the articles of the new agreement. He walked out toward him until he stood right next to him. Abu Jaafar listened carefully to all the terms of the agreement, beginning with the decree that the king of Granada, his military officers, the judges and chamberlains, scholars and lawyers, as well as all other public officials, turn over the reins of power in a period not to exceed sixty days. Then the last term was read out, which decreed that King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella be granted the exclusive right to execute the terms of the treaty, and to pass this right on to their sons and grandsons and whomever succeeded them to the throne. When the town crier moved on to another place Abu Jaafar remained close behind.
The people of Granada always kept their ears to the ground and were prone to gathering as much information as possible. Whenever the town crier announced an item of news, or the imam at the mosque ascended the pulpit before the Friday prayer to expound upon a given subject, whether to explain or defend it, they listened out of a need for reassurance or for something to hold on to, and they were quick to fill the gaps left by any missing information from these public pronouncements. But this time, in spite of the fact that neither the town crier nor the imam announced anything concerning the Alhambra meeting, Abu Jaafar, like everyone else, knew what had transpired there:
Abu Qasim Ibn Abdel-Malik and Yusuf Ibn Kumasha, the two ministers appointed by the king to negotiate, entered the Grand Hall in the company of De Safra, the representative of the king of Aragon and the queen of Castile. All three carried copies of the treaty to read. The young king Abu ’Abdallah Muhammad sobbed,[6] lamenting the fact that he was ill-fated to be a king condemned to witness the fall of his realm. All the other ministers, the admirals and generals, and the religious leaders, wept in silence as they chanted over and over again, “There is no power or strength save in God,” and “There is no escape from what God has decreed.” Mousa Ibn Abi Ghassan objected vehemently to the agreement and demanded that those in attendance reject it outright. But when he found no one to support him, he stormed out of the castle in a fit of anger, mounted his horse, and disappeared. The attendees repeated, “There is no escape from what God has decreed,” and assured themselves that the conditions of the treaty were the best that they could attain. As tears flowed from their eyes, they signed.
Abu Jaafar wondered how a king could commit himself to surrender his kingdom, and how the military and legal authorities of the land, along with all its lawful citizens, could acquiesce to hand over, in abject obedience, the Alhambra citadel, the fortress town and its towers, as well as the city gates of Granada and Albaicin, including the adjacent villages.
He walked behind the town crier who was surrounded by a dense mob of townspeople. People avoided looking at one another in the eye, and they tilted their heads to hide their broken reflections and trembling eyelids. They walked with their arms closely held to their sides. They moved their heavy feet slowly, in an atmosphere of silence eerily reinforced by the ringing voice of the town crier and the rustling of dry, yellow leaves.
When the town crier went away and the crowd dissipated, Abu Jaafar found himself walking alone in the cold of night, not heading toward any particular place, but just letting his two feet wander through the streets that they knew only too well. He was telling himself that this ill-fated king was not their first and wouldn’t be their last, and that Abu Abdallah would go away and that no one else, ill-fated or not, would replace him except Christian kings. His insides convulsed at this thought and he quickly dismissed it from his mind, closing the door on it, and replacing it with concise facts and logical reasoning. Everything changes except the face of Almighty God. Hadn’t Sultan Yusuf al-Mul concluded a more humiliating treaty with the Castilians, and hadn’t Sultan Aysar then come along, abrogated it, and declared war on them? And hadn’t Sultan Abu Hasan at first agreed to pay the poll tax, then reneged when he dispatched his enemies to inform the king and queen of Castile that our treasuries would only be minting swords these days? And that ill-fated pubescent, didn’t he begin his rule by fighting them until he was captured? Who knows what will happen tomorrow? He’s not the first of them, nor the last. They’ve all come and gone, may Granada remain safe and sound, with God’s permission and will, he intoned.
Abu Jaafar was making every effort to calm his soul, which felt at that moment like a caged bird flapping its wings in fear of a sharp pointed knife. He was telling himself over and over again that Granada was safe and that it would survive. He jammed his mind with words, and extended his hand through the netting to his soul, stroking its wet feathers and its quivering body, soothing and caressing it, singing to it a soft lullaby to rock it to sleep.
The morning sun was changing direction above the streets until it eventually disappeared. Abu Jaafar continued his walk until he found himself at the bank of the River Genii. He stared into its waters and the phantom of the naked woman appeared as though coming out of the water toward him. He fixed his gaze more closely, and this time could only see the ripples of the water. Then she reappeared on the surface of the water, ivory-like, growing bigger in death, until she covered the entire surface of the river. He stood motionless and began to sweat profusely.
2
Abu Mansour was sitting on the proprietor’s bench in the bathhouse to the right of the front door. He mumbled a response to the two men’s greetings, then pointed to the closet where they kept the clean folded towels. Saad took three towels and followed his master up three steps that lead to the western wing, where he helped him take off his clothes and cover up his nakedness with a loincloth he wrapped around his waist. He carefully folded his master’s clothes and placed them in a large silk garment bag. Then he took off his own clothes except for his drawers and put them into an old sack. He handed both bundles to Abu Mansour who kept his head bowed down and said nothing.
Before entering the bath proper, the master went into the toilet while Saad sat waiting on one of the benches. There were only three other men in the central foyer. Two of them sat on a bench opposite Saad, while the third, a tall, lean man, paced back and forth, crossing the large foyer from the front door to the back door.
Saad was wondering what was wrong with Abu Mansour. He wanted to know if he was sick but didn’t dare ask. It wasn’t like him to sit at the entrance to the bathhouse like all the other bathhouse owners. He would rather have one of his employees sit there and take the customers’ belongings while he would skitter about, shuffling hurriedly from one room to another, bringing soap to a client or a basin to another, or perhaps a loincloth or a towel to whomever asked for one. He would stop to tell an amusing story or crack a joke that would make everyone roar with laughter. He was a portly man in his fifties, or maybe even his forties. He had a ruddy complexion, finely chiseled features, and a smooth, sleek beard. He had a small head and a big paunch that jounced whenever he laughed. But today, he just sat there, sullen-faced, greeting no one and saying nothing.
6
Abu ’Abdallah b. Muhammad, best known in the west as Boabdil, was the last Muslim ruler in Spain.