Cervantes Street (18 page)

Mohamed Ramdane eventually arrived at his home—one of the finest palaces in Algiers. Before he went through the front door, Rodrigo turned around, winked his left eye almost imperceptibly, and raised his left eyebrow in the direction of a turret to the right of the main door.

Pine trees and dense bushes made a green refuge below the turret. I hid there and waited, but there was no sign from Rodrigo. Had I misunderstood him? Had something gone wrong? Minutes and seconds had never stretched so long. Hours seemed as long as years. I had trouble breathing. As the day grew hotter, and the sun beat directly above my head, I began to sweat even though I was in the shade. Then, as the sun dawdled west, and the afternoon brought cooling breezes and with them the song of birds, I got chilly and began to shiver. I was determined not to leave yet, even when the evening star appeared in the crimson sky. But when I heard the last call of the mosque before the doors of the bagnio closed for the night, I left my hideout and hurried back.

With the exception of Sancho, I had to keep the momentous news to myself. Information was a currency in Algiers, especially among captives who passed it on to the guards for monetary rewards and to catch the favorable attention of their masters, who might eventually free or adopt them.

The following morning, I did not return to the souk. Day after day, I waited in the little wood under the turret, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of Rodrigo. My meager funds were quickly exhausted, as I had abandoned telling stories in the souk.

Two weeks went by. One afternoon I was dozing, my back resting against a tree, when I was startled by a dull thump on the bed of pine needles that covered the ground. I discovered near my feet an object the size of my fist and wrapped in a piece of fabric. Rodrigo must have thrown it at me while I was asleep. I looked up but saw no sign of my brother. Quickly, I grabbed the object and untied its knot. Inside, there was a balled-up sheet of paper. As I unfolded it, a gold coin fell out. It was more valuable than any coin I had seen in Algiers, but that was nothing compared to the joy I felt when I recognized Rodrigo’s handwriting.

Dear brother:

I’ve prayed every night that in their divine mercifulness, Jesus Christ and His Holy Mother would intercede with God so that I could see you again. The happiness I felt when I saw you in the souk can compare to no other.

You can’t imagine how worried I’ve been about you with your bad hand. You look thin but in good health. As for me, despite the daily humiliations of the life of a slave, I would be remiss not to mention that my masters don’t beat me, and that they treat me with the respect due to a teacher, because Moors value education and respect their teachers. I’m never threatened with being sold to another master, or sent to Turkey, or being branded with a cross on the soles of my feet. I’m fed plenty of couscous, lamb, and dates, and I have two changes of clothes.

My master’s children have taken a liking to me. Their innocent souls haven’t been poisoned yet by the Muslim faith, so they don’t despise me for being a Christian. They are curious about Spain, and Mohamed Ramdane has instructed me to teach them Spanish, along with music. I tell you all this so you won’t worry about me, and if you can write to our parents please let them know I am not treated cruelly, and that—God willing—I will make it to freedom someday soon. Every waking moment, I dream of going back to our beloved Spain and joining you and our parents and sisters. Some of the other house slaves have lived here longer than I’ve been alive. I can bear this life for the present, but not for years and years.

If your circumstances allow it, wait for me hidden in the pines every Tuesday afternoon, when the children go with their father to visit their grandparents. I will be looking for you. I’m not paid wages, but my master is so pleased with the children’s education that sometimes he shows his appreciation with a gold coin. Please use the one I’ve enclosed as you see fit. It would make me very happy to know that you have used it to make your life a little more pleasant.

Your brother who loves you and dreams of going back to Spain with you,

Rodrigo

To avoid attracting attention to myself, I went back to telling stories in the souk. But I reserved Tuesday afternoons to wait under the turret for a message from my brother.

Hatching an escape plan became my main concern. First, I concluded, I needed to find a few men who were desperate enough not to be afraid of the brutal punishment that befell those who failed in their escape attempts. But other than Sancho, whom could I trust in the bagnio? Sancho had pointed out the unsavory characters, the untrustworthy men, and the Christians who were honorable in their actions. We arrived at a list of a handful of men we could approach without fear of being betrayed.

We had set a date to start approaching the men we’d selected when word got to the bagnio that a mission of Trinitarian priests had arrived in Algiers to conduct negotiations to buy the freedom of Spanish captives and slaves. The Trinitarian monks made these trips at least once a year. The money they brought from Spain was collected from funds provided by the crown, the families of the captives, and the church. The captives who were members of rich families would be the first ones to be liberated. For the rest of us, who relied on the availability of charitable funds, the wait could go on for years, even decades, and in some cases for the rest of our lives.

The morning following their arrival, the Trinitarians were waiting outside for the Spanish captives as the doors of the bagnio opened. Our men rushed toward the monks to inquire whether their names were on the list of captives to be ransomed. I was not in a hurry: it was unlikely my parents could have raised the money. Sancho took me by the hand and dragged me with him. “Come, Miguel,” he said. “You never know. Greater miracles have happened.”

There was no ransom money for Sancho, as was to be expected. He shook his head, rolled his eyes, and nudged me in the direction of our rescuers.

I took a deep breath, exhaled, and yelled, more to please Sancho than because I believed my name could possibly be on that list, “What news have you for Miguel de Cervantes?”

“Is that you, my son?” one of the brothers asked, as he ran a finger down his list.

My heart beat so hard I could hear no other noise.

“We have good news for you and your brother Rodrigo. We have six hundred ducats to purchase your freedom.”

I felt faint, but Sancho’s crushing hug kept me on my feet. He kissed my cheeks as tears ran down his face. He seemed so happy that you would think he was the one about to be released. All I could think was: Where could my family have raised such a large sum of money? What sacrifices had they made for us?

“Where’s Rodrigo?” the monk asked.

I regained my composure and told them the name of my brother’s master.

* * *

The following day, my fellow captives who could pay their ransoms and I accompanied the Trinitarians to Arnaut Mamí’s palace. All of us belonged to him. When we arrived at the grand chamber where he conducted his business, Rodrigo was already there; Mohamed Ramdane and his two children were with him. We embraced for the first time in almost three years, but before we had an opportunity to say much to each other, Mamí’s guards separated us.

Our case came up first because there were two of us. “As for the young one,” Mamí said, indicating my brother, “you will have to buy his freedom directly from Mohamed Ramdane.”

Ramdane’s daughter and son stood by my brother. I judged the girl to be around fifteen, and her brother a few years younger. I disbelieved my ears when I heard the girl say, “Papá, Master Rodrigo has been the best teacher we could have ever hoped for. Sohrab and I would like him to go back to his family without a ransom.”

Ramdane seemed as surprised as I was. He was about to respond to his daughter, when she dropped on her knees and kissed her father’s hand. “Dear Father, think how painful it would be if we were taken away from you. Master Rodrigo is a good man, Father. Allah will shower you and our family with many blessings for this act of kindness.”

“Stop crying, my daughter. Please get up,” Ramdane said, taking the girl’s hands, pulling her off the floor and embracing her. “You know your father can’t deny you anything.” He addressed Mamí: “Your Lordship, Rodrigo Cervantes has earned the love of my children and my respect. He’s free to go. I will take no money for his freedom because he has given my family gifts that no amount of money can buy. May he go in peace. Blessed be the Prophet.”

(I learned later from my brother that Ramdane’s children had secretly converted to Christianity and that was the reason why they wanted Rodrigo to go back to Spain.)

“If you want to give away your property, that’s your business,” Mamí said, making a face of disgust. “In that case,” he addressed the Trinitarians, “are you prepared to pay his ransom?” He pointed at me with his bejeweled index finger.

“We can pay for Miguel Cervantes the six hundred gold ducats that we had for the ransom of the two brothers,” the Trinitarian who conducted the negotiations said.

Mamí erupted in a high-pitched laugh, which he cut as abruptly as it had started. “I know how important this cripple is,” he blurted out. “He’s a protégé of your Don John of Austria and a hero of Lepanto. I also understand he’s a poet who has important friends in Rome. I want eight hundred gold ducats for his freedom. And if you’re not ready to meet my price, I suggest we move on to other business.”

Rodrigo dropped to his knees and addressed Mamí: “Your Excellency, I beg you, if you let my brother go I offer to be your slave. My brother is the eldest, Your Grace, the head of our family. My elderly parents need him. I’m strong and healthy. But my brother cannot continue living in the bagnio and be expected to survive much longer.”

Mamí whispered with great animation to a man sitting next to him. I could not let Rodrigo sacrifice himself on my behalf. “Rodrigo,” I said, “it’s because you are young and healthy, and have many talents, that you should return to Spain first. You can find work and help our parents in their old age. If I return to Spain instead of you, I will only be a burden to them. There is little I can do with one good arm to improve the conditions of their lives.” With as much conviction in my voice as I could muster, I added, “As your older brother I order you to go; I order you to accept my wishes for you. Besides, dear brother, your master has been kind and generous to give you the gift of your freedom and you must show your great thanks to him by leaving Algiers, as those are his wishes and the wishes of his children.”

“Enough of this,” Mamí cried, “the cripple stays. And to you, young man,” he pointed at Rodrigo, “be gone before I change my mind and keep you too.”

I embraced Rodrigo one last time. “Tell our parents to pray for me and not to despair. I know I will return to Spain, I promise.”

Despite my confident words, I knew that once Rodrigo left there was a chance I would never see him, or my parents, or set foot on Spanish soil, again.

* * *

As the preparations were being made for the ship carrying Rodrigo and the ransomed men back to freedom, the December rains came. They were a prelude to the arrival of Algerian winter. When the black clouds poured open over Algiers on their way to Africa’s interior, they washed the layers of sand and grime off the exteriors of the buildings and the streets; bushes and trees turned a brilliant green; flowers bloomed everywhere; the casbah smelled of honeysuckle at twilight; and the cupolas of the palaces and the minarets of the mosques shimmered gold and turquoise, as if newly minted. Algerians flooded the streets in clean clothes, smiling, after scrubbing themselves for hours in the hammams.

From a solitary, tiny plaza near the high point of the casbah, which had a full view of the port, I saw the vessel carrying Rodrigo to freedom lift anchor, billow its sails, and aim its prow in the direction of Spain. The winter rains made the Mediterranean look fuller, placid, sated.

In the days, weeks, and months following Rodrigo’s departure, my despair grew. One single thought occupied me: my freedom. I was determined to die in the attempt, if necessary. What was life worth if I couldn’t see my parents before they died?

In all fairness to the Moors and Turks, I have to mention here that they allowed Christian captives to practice and observe our religion and celebrate its rites. In the midst of my misery, our religion was the one solace I could turn to. Only my faith in God comforted me during that time. Priests were allowed to say Mass on Sundays and holy days and to offer Communion. Without the presence of these men of God, hundreds of slaves would have been enticed to become renegades. On many nights, even the most hardened and wicked among us prayed for the souls of the men who had been tortured to death that day. We knew the same fate awaited us at any moment—all we had to do was incur the ire of Arnaut Mamí or Hassan Pasha.

Christians were allowed to own taverns in the bagnio. These establishments kept our men in servitude, as the unfortunates—myself included—spent on spirits every coin for which we had had to sweat blood. But the soul-robbing life of captivity was only bearable if you were drunk. Some Muslims frequented the taverns to drink out of public view. At the end of the day, when the pashas announced the closing of the gate, they dragged the drunken Muslims by their feet and rolled them down the street, to the plaza below Bagnio Beylic.

In one of these taverns, a renegade from Málaga who went by the Arab name of Ahmed, but who was known to everyone as El Dorador
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engaged me in conversation. After I had finished telling one of my tales in the souk, he praised my talent for storytelling. My mind and body were warmed by wine, so I bit his hook when he offered to buy me a pint of wine. We chatted about daily life in Algiers, then he asked, “Now that your brother has returned to Spain, you must be desperate to go back home?”

I said nothing. Sancho had warned me, “You cannot be too cautious in this pit of cobras, my friend. Be especially wary of renegades who seek to snare Christians to curry favor with their masters.”