If her mother or her grandmother, or even Maryama who knew about her book buying, had any idea how she obtained Ibn al-Baytar’s al-Jami’[25] and how much she paid for it, they would accuse her of being insane. Her mother would most likely faint upon hearing it. The day the book with all its parts was brought to her, she held it to her bosom and her heart beat so fast that it felt like it was breaking free from the prison walls of her chest and dancing its way out uninhibitedly. What’s money when you have such an encyclopedia that details the effects of every herb and plant? The wise man is he who buys, and the fool is the one who sells, like those who squander their days and nights racking their brains in an attempt to transform cheap metals into gold. And even if they succeeded, what have they accomplished, since death lurks about, dispatching its emissaries to pierce the walls with fatal diseases, only to make its appearance to strike down and crush the body under the hooves of his stampeding horses? They haven’t succeeded, but merely wasted their lives and their minds.
Saleema was now so bullheadedly certain that illness was in the body. But the thing that subordinated the body to it, that animated it, what could it be, from where did it come, and where did it go? These questions tormented her, but she never lost her resolve. She brought these questions into the realm of her daily research on the many diseases that afflict the body. She would stalk them and produce an array of effective weapons, seeking inspiration from her books and burying herself in her experiments. Her pots, jars, vials, and trunks were full to the brim with fresh and dry herbs, mixtures, ointments, and medicines that sometimes cured and other times failed. She smiled in satisfaction, but never forgot completely the bitterness that sat crouched in the corner of her heart, a bitterness of knowing that any victory she achieved was only partial because death can at any moment unleash its powerful sword and flash its victorious smile.
16
Maryama was famous throughout the neighborhood for her amazing surprises. Her natural intelligence always came to her rescue with good, quick thinking that transforms the bitterness the weak feel when subjugated by the powerful into uproarious laughter, when the tables are turned and the strong becomes weak and the weak holds the upper hand. The neighborhood women exchanged stories without ever tiring of what Maryama said or what Maryama did. Why not, since every story about her filled them with joy and entertainment that filled the drudgery of their lives with humor and laughter.
The latest story to circulate among the women concerned Maryama’s visit to the schoolmaster at the missionary school to convince him that Arab boys are born “like that,” telling him, “And if you don’t believe me, sir, then ask any one of these little boys to pull down his trousers and you can see for yourself. This is the way we Arabs are made, with thick black hair and, please don’t be offended, deprived of that little extra thing your boys are born with.”
Maryama had made the visit after one of her neighbors came crying to her and seeking her advice when her six-year-old boy slipped on the ground while playing and his private parts were exposed. It just so happened that the schoolmaster was standing close by, and when he saw what he saw he flew off the handle. He vowed to notify the authorities at the Office of Inquisition so that they would punish the boy’s family for violating the law. Maryama calmed the woman down and reassured her, “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of it.” On the following day, Maryama went to the school and requested a meeting with the schoolmaster. When she told him what she told him, he shot her a dismissive smile and asked in a stern tone of voice, “Are you trying to mock me?”
“Why would I try to mock you?” answered Maryama with confidence and resolve. “I’m telling you the truth that you don’t know because you’re a Castilian and you don’t know much about Arabs. And because you’re a schoolmaster, it pains me that some Arabs may mock you and accuse you of being ignorant. But if you would be so kind as to come and visit us at home, my husband will be more than happy to show you our son’s private parts and you’ll find it exactly like all the other children even though he’s only three years old. I can also bring you to a neighbor of mine who just delivered a baby boy two days ago, and you will see the same thing. Or, if you prefer, go into the classroom right now and ask the children to expose themselves to you, and you’ll be convinced what I’m telling you is true.”
The schoolmaster was somewhat taken aback by this woman who was sitting in front of him, speaking with such confidence and force of conviction that he surmised she was telling the truth. But to clear any doubt from his mind, he got up and went into the classroom and ordered the boys to lift up their shirts and pull down their trousers. His eyes rotated from one boy to the next and what he saw was a repetition of the same thing. They differed in size or thickness, and some were crooked and others round-tipped. But the boys were similar in that they all lacked, without exception, what the lady called “that little extra thing.” He instructed the boys to cover themselves and he left the class. He went back to the lady who was waiting for the results of the examination. Before he could utter a word about what he had discovered, she blurted out with a satisfied look on her face: “Didn’t I tell you? And you didn’t believe me! You didn’t find a single boy different from the others, right? Now, you must believe me, sir, that just as your skin tends to be white and our skin is darker, your boys are born with that little extra thing and our boys are not, unfortunately.”
“But I heard that Arabs circumcise their children?” he muttered somewhat sheepishly.
“That’s correct. In the old days we used to circumcise girls. But that was a mistake and we mended our ways. But the boys, well, how do we circumcise them?”
Maryama arose from her seat and the schoolmaster bade her farewell, thanking her with profuse apologies for the misunderstanding.
All of Albaicin had a good laugh for the next two weeks, but Hasan was not amused. Rather, he scolded her, telling her that she was putting herself in danger and threatening the safety of the family. “Don’t rely on always being so lucky,” he warned.
But she always seemed to come out of any predicament intact. She maneuvered her way through every situation with quick thinking and intelligence. The neighbors recounted the stories of her antics and they laughed, but not always without a tinge of apprehension: “What if good fortune abandoned Maryama?” The mere thought sent shivers down their spines, but they always laughed. They all loved her simply because she was Maryama, and because her actions gave them moments of pure joy. Many of them were indebted to her for helping them or their children out of a difficulty; God only knows how they would do it without her. These feelings of gratitude were not limited to friends and neighbors, but to people whom Maryama hardly knew at all. Such a situation would sprout an acquaintance and a visit that always blossomed into affection.
Maryama did not know the little boy or his family. She spotted him near the souk in Granada. He looked about eight years old. He was walking merrily with a beaming face, and he was reciting the feastday prayers that he undoubtedly heard from the grown-ups at group prayer meetings held on these days. He was chanting in a melodious voice, “Allah is great, Allah is great, Allah is great, there is no god but Allah. He was true to His promise, He gave victory to His army, and His enemies were defeated.”
25
Ibn al-Baytar was born in Malaga and died in 1248. His work