‘Such are the men that the believers respect and admire in these degenerate times! Such are the men to whom you proudly open the doors of your houses! Such are the men to whom you sacrifice your daughters, as if to the deities of the time before Islam!’
Before the day was over the whole town was talking of nothing else. The words of the shaikh were reported to the Zarwali himself. Immediately, he sent for my father, insulted Granada and all the Andalusians, and, stuttering with rage, made it clear to him that there was no question of contract, marriage or silkworms, that he charged him immediately to pay back the dinars which he had advanced him, and that the weigh-master and all his family would soon have cause for bitter regret at what had come to pass. Utterly dismayed, Muhammad tried to protest his innocence, but he was thrown out unceremoniously by the Zarwali’s bodyguards.
Often, when a marriage is called off at the last moment in an atmosphere of resentment, and particularly when the fiancé feels that he has been made a fool of, he circulates the rumour that his betrothed was not a virgin, or that she had loose morals, to make it impossible for her to find a husband. I would not have been surprised if the rejected bandit had done this, such was his humiliation.
But never, in my worst nightmares, could I have imagined the vengeance that the Zarwali was contemplating.
The Year of the Knotted Blade of Grass
909 A.H.
26 June 1503 — 13 June 1504
That year had begun slippery, peaceful and studious. On the first day of the year, which came in high summer, we splashed through the streets which had been drenched with water during the preceding nights because of the festival of Mihrajan. Each time I missed my footing, at each muddy pool, I thought of my father, who so detested this festival and the customs connected with it.
I had not seen him since our dispute, may God pardon me one day! But I constantly asked Warda and Mariam for news of him; their replies were rarely reassuring. Having ruined himself to give my sister a rich dowry, and finding himself simultaneously deeply in debt, frustrated in his dreams and deprived of the affection of his family, he sought oblivion in the taverns.
However, for the first weeks of the year he seemed to be recovering slowly from the breach with the Zarwali. He had eventually managed to rent an old residence at the top of a mountain six miles from Fez. It was a bit ramshackle, but had a marvellous view over the city, and had ample land attached to it on which he swore he would produce the best grapes and the best figs of the kingdom; I suspect that he also wanted to produce his own wine, even though the mountain was part of the domain of the Great Mosque. These projects were certainly less grandiose than producing silk; at least they did not put my father at the mercy of a bandit like the Zarwali.
There had been no sign of the latter for months. Had he forgotten his misfortune, would he let bygones be bygones, the man whom it was said had the slightest insult graven in marble? I sometimes asked myself such questions, but these were passing worries which were swept aside by my deep absorption in my studies.
I spent my time in the lecture halls, in the Qarawiyyin Mosque, from midnight to half-past one, in accordance with the summer timetable, the rest of the day at the most famous college in Fez, the madrasa Bu Inania; I slept in the meantime, a little at dawn, a little in the afternoons; inactivity was unbearable, rest seemed superfluous. I was barely fifteen, with a body to shake up, a world to discover, and a passion for reading.
Each day our professors would make us study the commentaries on the Qur’an or the Tradition of the Prophet, and a discussion would commence. From the Scriptures we would often go on to medicine, geography, mathematics or poetry, sometimes even to philosophy or astrology, in spite of the ban on such subjects issued by the sovereign. We had the good fortune to have as teachers men who were learned in all fields of knowledge. To distinguish themselves from the common herd some wound their turbans around high pointed skull caps, like those which I saw worn by doctors during my stay in Rome. We students wore a simple cap.
In spite of their knowledge and their apparel, teachers were for the most part friendly men, patient in explanation, and mindful of the talents of everyone. Sometimes, they would invite us to their homes, to show us their libraries; one had five hundred volumes, another a thousand; yet another had more than three thousand, and they always encouraged us to pay careful attention to our calligraphy in order to be able to copy the most precious books, for it was thus, they said, that knowledge was spread.
When I had a moment between lectures, I would walk as far as the place where the porters stood. If I found Harun there, we would go and drink curdled milk or saunter around the Place of Marvels, where our curiosity was rarely disappointed. If the Ferret was away on an errand I would cross the flower market to go and see Mariam.
We had agreed that each time my father went to the country for the week she would put a knotted blade of grass in a crack in the outside wall. One day, towards the end of Safar, the second month of the year, I went past the house; the knotted blade was there. I pulled the bell rope. Warda shouted from within:
‘My husband is away. I am alone with my daughter. I cannot open the door.’
‘It’s me, Hasan!’
She explained confusedly that some men had come a few minutes before; they had knocked on the door insistently, saying that she must let them in. She was afraid, and Mariam, who looked pale and weak, seemed afraid too.
‘What’s going on here? You both look as if you’ve been crying.’
Their tears began again, but Warda quickly pulled herself together:
‘For the last three days it has been like hell. We dare not go out into the street. The neighbours come all the time to ask if it’s true that…’
Her voice choked, and Mariam continued vacantly:
‘They are asking if I am suffering from the illness.’
When people say ‘the illness’ at Fez they mean leprosy; when they talk of ‘the quarter’ without further designation they mean the leper quarter.
I still had not taken in what they had just told me when I heard a drumming on the door.
‘The police, in the sultan’s name! You are not alone now! A man has just gone inside. He can speak to us.’
I opened the door. There were at least ten people outside, an officer, four women veiled in white, the rest soldiers.
‘Does Mariam, the daughter of Muhammad al-Wazzan the Granadan live here?’
The officer unfolded a piece of paper.
‘This is an order from the shaikh of the lepers. We are to bring the aforesaid Mariam to the quarter.’
A single idea turned over in my head: ‘If this could be an ordinary nightmare!’ I heard myself saying:
‘But this is slander! She has never had a single mark on her body! She is as pure as one of the verses revealed in the Qur’an!’
‘We shall see about that. These four women have been appointed to examine her on the spot.’
They went into one of the rooms with her. Warda tried to follow them but someone stopped her. I stayed outside, my mind in a fog, but trying at the same time to make the officer listen to reason. He answered me calmly, appearing to see my point of view, but ended by replying to each of my outbursts that he was an official, that he had orders to carry out, and that I must speak to the shaikh of the lepers.
After ten minutes, the women came out of the room. Two of them were holding Mariam under her arms and dragging her along. Her eyes were open but her body was limp. No sound came from her throat; she seemed unable to take in what was happening to her. One of the women whispered something in the officer’s ear. He made a sign to one of his men, who covered Mariam with a coarse earth-coloured cloth.