The Hand of Fatima Page 39

  The treasure of our people! Hernando had once more been made the keeper of the true believers’ riches.

  He had to read and learn. To write. To pass on the knowledge and keep the spirit of the Muslims alive. He had accepted Abbas’s proposal without thinking twice about it: the smith then invited him into a tavern, and to his surprise ordered two glasses of wine. They drank them in full view of all the other customers.

  ‘You have to be more Christian than the Christians, while at the same time being a better Muslim than any of us,’ Abbas whispered in his ear.

  Hernando raised his glass and nodded.

  ‘Allah is great,’ he mouthed silently when Abbas raised his own glass for the toast.

  From his room in the silence of the night he could hear the noises of the hundred horses kept in the stables. Some were pawing the ground nervously, others whinnied or snorted. He could also smell them, but how different that smell was from the rotten manure in the tannery! It was a strong, penetrating smell, but it was healthy. The manure from the royal stables was regularly cleaned out and taken to the kitchen gardens the Inquisition owned, which meant it never rotted under the horses’ hooves.

  Hernando closed the Koran. For want of any better hiding place, he put it into the bottom of the clothes chest. He would find a safer place for it, but for now it would be the only thing the chest contained until Fátima came to join him. Perhaps she would fill it with her possessions and clothes – even those of a child! He closed the chest and locked it. Fátima! He was sure he would have accepted the proposal anyway, but when Abbas had told him she was with them, he had no doubts.

  ‘It is our women who teach the children,’ the smith had explained. ‘They are responsible for their education, and they are all glad and proud to do it. It is also a way to avoid any betrayals to the Inquisition. It’s almost unheard of for a child to denounce their mother. You cannot and should not meet with any women to explain doctrine to them: a woman must do that. Nobody suspects a woman meeting other women.’

  34

  THE TWO-MONTH idda came to an end in the middle of a week, but Karim asked Hernando not to go in search of Fátima until after high mass on Sunday. They were not yet married according to the law of Muhammad, and the wedding ceremony, which was to be performed in secret, presented Hernando with a problem: he had no money for the presentation, and without a dowry the ceremony could not be held. Most of his wages had gone to pay the prison governor, and what little he had left barely covered the expenses. He had no gold ring as the law required! How had he not thought of that?

  ‘A cheap ring will do,’ Hamid said, trying to reassure him.

  ‘I don’t even have enough for that,’ replied Hernando, thinking of the expensive silversmiths in the city.

  ‘Iron. It can be made of iron if need be.’

  That Sunday Hernando walked from San Bartolomé church to Calle de los Moriscos in Santa Marina. He crossed the whole city of Córdoba at a leisurely pace, allowing Karim and Fátima to take their time. As he walked, his fingers caressed the magnificent iron ring Abbas had made for him from a scrap of metal. Although his massive hands were very different from the delicate ones of the jewellers, he had even managed to engrave a decorative pattern on it.

  When Hernando reached their street, he was warmly greeted by two young Moriscos who were pretending to be talking but were in fact keeping an eye open for any visiting priest or bailiff. A third young man who appeared out of nowhere accompanied him to Karim’s house, a small, ancient one-storey dwelling with a garden behind it. Like everyone else, Karim had to share it with several other families. The front of the house, though, had been whitewashed by the women, as had most of the humble houses in Calle de los Moriscos. Like the Morisco houses of Granada, all the rooms inside were kept spotlessly clean.

  Jalil, Karim and Hamid headed the small number of guests there to greet Hernando: just enough to make the wedding ceremony a public affair, as required under Muslim law. This was one of the few customs they could maintain in Córdoba. Hamid embraced him, but Hernando could not help thinking about his mother: the second time he had gone to visit Aisha in prison, she had begged him not to come again. ‘You have a good job with the Christians,’ she said, ‘and I’ll be out of here soon. You shouldn’t be seen here, visiting a Morisco woman who has broken the law; besides, they could link you to Brahim, who’s disappeared.’ But how much Hernando wished his mother had been there that day!

  Hamid stepped back, took him by the shoulders, and forced him to turn and look at Fátima, who had just appeared. She was dressed in a borrowed long white tunic, which contrasted sharply with her dark skin, the gleam in her huge black eyes, and her long curly black hair that the women had decorated with brightly coloured tiny flowers. Karim’s wife had given her a delicate white shawl that covered her beautiful locks. Fátima displayed all the splendour of her seventeen years. At the base of her neck, just where Hernando could detect her beating pulse, she wore the forbidden piece of golden jewellery.

  He offered her his hand, and she took it with the same resolution she had shown in all her actions until now. Understanding this, Hernando grasped hers firmly in response. They sought out each other’s eyes and stared into them. Nobody interrupted them; nobody dared even move. Hernando wanted to say that he loved her, but with an almost imperceptible gesture she restrained him, as if she wanted to prolong this moment and enjoy their victory. It was so hard-won! For a few seconds, they both remembered all they had suffered: the forced marriage and how Fátima had been obliged to give herself to Brahim . . .

  ‘I love you,’ said Hernando, although he could guess what thoughts were going through his future wife’s mind.

  Fátima pressed her lips together. She also could guess what he was thinking. Hernando had become a slave out of love for her!

  ‘And I love you, Ibn Hamid.’

  They smiled at each other. Seeing this, Karim’s wife urged them to hurry up. It was dangerous to take too long over the ceremony.

  Hamid pronounced the vows. He seemed to have aged all of a sudden; at times his voice quavered and he repeatedly had to clear his throat in order to keep going. When she was given the rough iron ring, all semblance of composure or serenity deserted Fátima. Her hands trembled as she found the finger it would fit, and then she managed a nervous smile. There was no music or dancing, not even a wedding feast. All they did was pray in whispers facing the kiblah, after which the married pair left Calle de los Moriscos like any other couple. Fátima had taken the flowers out of her hair and changed the white tunic for her normal clothes. Her head was still covered by the white shawl, and she was carrying a small bundle. How much of that chest there still was to fill! thought Hernando when he felt how light her bundle was.

  They hid the hand of Fátima inside the Koran, which they covered with the white shawl, carefully folded by Fátima. As was the custom, they put a small bag of almonds under the mattress. Then for the umpteenth time Fátima roamed through the two rooms, peering here and there, fantasizing over her future with Hernando. Finally she came to a halt with her back to him, next to the washbasin. She gently dipped her fingertips into it, touching the surface of the clean water. But she asked him to leave her on her own until nightfall.

  ‘I’d like to make myself ready for you.’

  Although he could not see her face properly, the sensual tone of her voice told him all he wanted to hear.

  Containing his anxiety, he went down to the stables, which on Sundays were deserted. The only person there was a stable lad, who was lounging about in the yard outside. Hernando went into the stalls and absent-mindedly patted the colts’ haunches and hindquarters. How would Fátima be getting ready for him? She no longer had the white tunic with slits up the sides in which she had received him that first night they had made love, in Ugíjar. It wasn’t in her bundle! He shuddered at the memory of her hard, full breasts outlined against the light, how they had provoked him when he caught glimpses of them swaying as she served him,
caressed him . . .

  He had no time to get out of the way. One of the wild colts recently brought in from pasture kicked out as he went by and caught him on the calf. Hernando felt a sharp pain, and clutched his leg; luckily the colt had not been shod, and gradually the pain subsided. Stupid! Hernando reproached himself for being so careless. Why was he patting horses that were not yet used to human contact? The colt was called Saeta, and its fiery nature had already suggested it would give him more problems than all the others. Hernando went up to it, and Saeta strained at the halter attaching it to the wall. This time keeping careful watch on the colt’s legs, which could kick again at any moment, Hernando stood beside the colt. He waited quietly for it to calm down. At first he said nothing, but began to whisper to it once Saeta had stopped struggling and shifting nervously in the small space it was confined to. Hernando spoke gently for a long while, just as he used to do with La Vieja in the mountains. He made no attempt to get closer or to put a hand on its neck to pat it. Saeta did not look at him, but its ears twitched with each change in his tone of voice. This went on for some time. The colt did not soften, but remained obstinate, tense, staring forward and not making the slightest attempt to turn its head to lick him or nudge him in any way.

  ‘You’ll give way,’ Hernando said when he decided now was not the moment to try to go any further, ‘and the day that happens you’ll surrender completely, more than any of the others,’ he muttered, still wary of the colt’s hooves as he left the stall.

  ‘I’m sure that’s what will happen.’

  Startled, Hernando whirled round when he heard these words. Don Diego López de Haro and José Velasco were watching him. The nobleman was dressed in his finest: slashed breeches in various shades of green, with velvet stockings and shoes; a tight-fitting black sleeveless doublet, with frills at the neck and wrists; a cape and a sword at his waist. José his servant was standing beside him, and the stable lad a few steps behind. How long had they been observing him? Had he said anything wrong when he was talking to the colt? He tried to remember . . . he had spoken to it in Arabic! ‘Did the kick hurt?’ Don Diego asked, pointing to his leg. So they had seen Saeta kicking him – they had been listening from the very start!

  ‘No, your excellency,’ he stammered.

  Don Diego came over and laid a friendly hand on the lad’s shoulder. But this contact unnerved Hernando: he had even recited some suras!

  ‘Do you know why he’s called Saeta?’ The stable master did not wait for his answer. ‘Because he is as rapid and swift as an arrow. He’s also agile and proud, and prances so high with all four legs it’s as if he wants his knees and hocks to touch the sky. I have high hopes for that colt. Take care of him. Take good care of him. Where did you learn about horses?’

  Hernando hesitated. Should he tell him?

  ‘In the Sierra Nevada,’ he said, trying to avoid the question.

  Don Diego tilted his head to one side, as if waiting for some further explanation.

  ‘In the mountains only the brigands had horses,’ he said when none was forthcoming.

  ‘I was . . . I was with Aben Humeya,’ Hernando was forced to admit. ‘I looked after his horses.’

  Don Diego nodded. His right hand was still resting on Hernando’s shoulder. ‘Don Fernando de Válor y de Córdoba,’ he mused. ‘They say he died proclaiming his Christianity. Don John ordered the exhumation of his body in the mountains so that it could be given Christian burial in Guadix.’ The nobleman thought for a few moments. ‘Leave now,’ he told him. ‘Today is Sunday, you can continue tomorrow.’

  Hernando looked towards the windows: the sun was beginning to set. Fátima! He bowed clumsily and rushed out of the stables.

  Don Diego however stood staring at Saeta. ‘I’ve seen lots of men react violently when a colt kicks them or defends itself,’ he commented to his servant without turning towards him. ‘They mistreat them and punish them, and only reinforce their bad habits. This lad on the other hand was gentle with him. Take care of that lad, José. He knows what he’s doing.’

  Hernando ran up the steps leading to his rooms and hammered on the door.

  ‘You’ll have to wait,’ said Fátima from inside.

  ‘Night is falling,’ he heard himself saying in the most naive way.

  ‘You still have to wait,’ she replied firmly.

  He paced up and down the corridor outside the rooms until he was tired of doing so. What was he doing? Time was passing. Should he knock again? He hesitated. In the end he decided to sit down on the floor outside the door. What if someone saw him? What would he say? What if one of the other employees living on the top floor . . .? What if Don Diego himself . . .? But he was downstairs, in the stables. What had he heard of the words he had whispered to the colt? It was forbidden to speak in Arabic. He knew the Moriscos had presented a petition to the city council in which they explained how difficult it was for them not to use the only language they knew. They were calling for a postponement in the application of the royal ordinance to give time for those who did not know Spanish to learn it. Their petition was refused, and so speaking in Arabic was still punishable by fines or imprisonment. What punishment was there for reciting the Koran in Arabic? But Don Diego had not said a word. Could it be true that in the stables, horses were the only religion?

  Several timid taps on the door brought him out of his daydream. What did they mean?

  He heard the tapping again. Fátima was knocking from inside the room.

  Hernando stood up and pushed at the door. It was not barred.

  He stood there, paralysed.

  ‘Close it!’ cried Fátima in the faintest of voices, though there was a smile on her lips.

  He obeyed awkwardly.

  Fátima did not have her slit tunic, so she received him naked. The light from the setting sun and a flickering candle behind her played over her figure. Her breasts seemed to have been painted with henna in a geometric design that rose like a flame to lick the fingers of the hand of Fátima that was once more hanging from her neck. She had also painted her eyes, outlining them in long lines that accentuated their almond shape. A delicious perfume of orange blossom enveloped Hernando as he gazed at his bride’s slender but voluptuous body. The two of them said nothing, and the silence was broken only by their excited breathing.

  ‘Come,’ she said.

  Hernando stepped over to her. When Fátima made no attempt to move, he traced the outline of her breasts with his fingertips. Then, still standing next to her, he fondled her erect nipples. She sighed. When he made to cup one of her breasts in his hand, she stopped him and led him over to the washbasin. There she began gently to undress him and wash his body.

  Hernando spoke his first stumbling words, then gave in to the shivers of delight that ran through his body when one of Fátima’s breasts brushed against him, or as her wet hands ran sensually over his torso, his shoulders, his arms, his abdomen, his groin . . .

  As her hands ran over him, Fátima whispered softly to him: ‘I love you; I want you; make me yours; take me; take me to paradise . . .’

  When she had finished, she flung her arms round his neck.

  ‘You’re the most beautiful woman on earth,’ said Hernando. ‘I’ve waited so long for this . . .’

  Fátima did not let him continue. She raised both her legs and wrapped them round his waist. She was clinging on to him, and started to delicately move until she found his erect penis. They began to pant together as Fátima slid down and he penetrated her, thrusting into her body’s deepest recesses. Supporting her with his arms clutched tightly round her back, Hernando’s muscles began to glisten with sweat. She arched her back and swayed to and fro in search of pleasure. It was she who set the rhythm: she listened closely to his breathing, sighs and unintelligible whispers, stopped occasionally to bite his earlobes and neck, telling him to slow down and promising him everything, before starting her measured dance on his penis once more. In the end, they reached orgasm at the same time.


  Hernando howled with pleasure; Fátima was swept away in an ecstasy that was even louder than her husband’s.

  ‘Bed, take me to the bed,’ she begged him when he made as if to lift her off him. ‘Like this. Carry me like this!’ She clung to him even more tightly. ‘The two of us together,’ she demanded. ‘I love you.’ She tugged playfully at his hair as he carried her over to the nuptial bed. ‘Don’t withdraw. Love me. Stay inside me . . .’

  Still clinging to each other, they fell on to the bed. They kissed and caressed until Fátima could feel desire stirring in him once more. They made love again passionately, as if it were the first time. Then she got up and made lemonade, and brought it to the bed with some dried fruit. While Hernando was eating, she licked him all over his body, moving like a cat until he joined in the game and tried to reach her with his tongue as she flitted from side to side.

  That night the two of them explored time and again the ancient paths of love and pleasure.

  35

  Feast of the Immaculate Conception, 8 December 1573

  THEY HAD been married for seven months. Aisha had served her sixty-day sentence and was released. Hernando obtained permission from the administrator for Aisha and little Shamir to share their rooms above the stables. Fátima was five months pregnant; Saeta had finally surrendered to his tender care. He had not spoken to the horse in Arabic again. On their wedding night, as they lay in bed, covered with sweat, he had explained to Fátima what had happened with the colt and Don Diego.