Granada (17 page)

"That poor man, Abu Mansour! They closed down his bathhouse."

"I must tell you, sir, that I'm afraid my friend might go to the cobbler in the next neighborhood, and they'll give us some fierce competition."

His boss stood silent for a moment, and Naeem saw no other recourse than to cut right to the matter.

"Say, why don't you ask Saad to come and work with us?"

"I'm in no position to pay wages to two workers. Besides, there's not enough work for that."

That sly fox! Naeem thought to himself. Everyone in the neighborhood knew what a penny-pincher he was and how much gold he was able to hoard. Some even claim that he keeps his money stashed at home in three large vessels. Should he convince him there's too much work and it can't be done with one employee alone?

"But I swear to you, boss, there's a lot of work, thank God! And if we're two, we can get twice as much done."

"But I can't afford to pay two wages!"

Thinking there was no use pursuing this line of argument, Naeem changed his strategy. "Allow me to speak truthfully. I won't beat around the bush since you're my patron who's treated me with respect and never refused me anything.

"Truthfully?"

"The truth is that I made a marriage proposal."

"Did you find yourself a bride?"

"I haven't found one yet, but I've hired a matchmaker. I also found a job that pays more money, and that will allow me to save what I need to take care of a family. But I said to myself that this is not the conduct of a gentleman, to leave a job suddenly, just like that, and abandon your boss. So I went to my friend and asked him to come back to his former profession."

"Then you want to quit working with me?"

"God forbid, sir! It's just that I am compelled to accept another job I don't want, but I need the wages."

"Is this friend of yours trustworthy? Can I depend on him?"

"Far more than me, sir."

"Then let me see him."

"Shall I go and fetch him?" Naeem asked as he sprinted to his feet.

"Not now. Finish what you're working on, and then you can go and bring him."

When he finished his work, he darted out and headed toward Abu Jaafar's house. He ran through the side streets taking shortcuts until he reached their quarter. He then realized that he hadn't thought about what he was going to say to Saad when he asks him about the job he was leaving the cobbler's shop for. He needed to fabricate a convincing story that wouldn't arouse any suspicion on his friend's part. Naeem backtracked and walked on slowly, thinking; of a solution to his latest dilemma.

11

I
n the dark of night Abu Mansour stole away to his bathhouse, and when he arrived he paused for a few moments before taking out the key from his pocket. He inserted it into the keyhole and turned it twice, slowly. He pushed in the door and entered. Although he shut the door behind him gently, it made a loud squeaking sound that he was sure all of Albaicin heard. Despite the pitch-black darkness, Abu Mansour didn't need to grope his way but rather proceeded five steps to the left and walked up three stairs. He stretched out his arm, took down the lantern, lit it, and put it back in its place. Then he went over and lit two smaller lamps, first on one side and then two more on the other.

He went over to the bench and sat down. He tilted his head backward slightly and closed his eyes as though he were giving himself over to sleep. He had no need at all to open his eyes or light the lanterns to decipher the details of the place, but he nevertheless opened them wide and began to inspect. There was the square carpeted courtyard as well as the four high arches that connected to a circular dome with drawings of leaves and branches in shades of a deep, rich olive green. And on the triangles that separate one arch from the other were drawings of Cordova with its Grand Mosque, its gardens and palaces. Abu Mansour stared at the pictures, then lifted his head and looked up at the dome. His eyes fell on the surface that held up the dome, counting the windows around it that he knew to be twelve. He counted them. Then his eyes moved over to the two cabinets facing one another before ascending three steps
where they fell upon the three benches covered with rugs and carpets. On the wall behind the benches, there were pairs of niches, some holding lanterns and others for the folded towels that emitted the scent of dried lavender trussed into tiny cloth sacks pressed in between the folds.

Abu Mansour lifted his arms and leaned them against the back of the bench. He closed his eyes and saw his father yelling angrily and slapping him across the face, and himself running out of the house with the intention of never returning to that family that imprisons its sons, generation after generation, in a cage built by the madness of an old grandfather. The story of the grandfather, who, in actuality, was the father of his grandfather's grandfather, was a family heirloom passed down from grandmother to grandfather, father, mother, aunt, and uncle, amassing detail upon tireless and endless detail as though it summarized all of existence.

The great-grandfather who emigrated from Cordova after its fall more than two hundred years ago, leaving behind his house and his bathhouse, arrived in Granada with nothing more than his wife and children, a little money in his pocket, and one solitary persistent desire that he wanted nothing more than to fulfill. What he dreamed by night and accomplished by day and all that he did in between was focused on this one desire: to build a bathhouse more grand than the one he once owned. So he left his wife and children and traveled to Syria to see for himself if what they say is true, that the bathhouses of Syria are more beautiful than those of Cordova. He made the journey, he looked around and compared. He came back two years later. The ship let him off at Malaga from where he returned in a procession of five donkeys. He rode one, the Damascene architect he brought back with him rode another, and he loaded the three remaining with all the things he bought to make a bathhouse from Damascus, Cairo, and Alexandria. When he came into the house to see his wife and unload his cargo, she burst into tears, not only because he forgot to bring her a piece of fine Damascene silk, but because he brought back nothing for his daughter's wedding present, and because he came back with nothing for his
son who awaited dutifully the father's return to announce his own engagement.

Afeef began to build his bathhouse. He spent two whole years, day and night, supervising the construction. In the winter months he wrapped himself in an old woolen cloak, and in the summer he would only wear a light Tunisian jersey. In the bitter cold or scorching heat, he remained with the architect, the builders, and carpenters. They'd finish one door and he would shout in disappointment, "Do you call that a door? To me its's just a slab of wood!" They'd react in bewilderment as they stepped back to inspect their delicately and meticulously carved workmanship. But Afeef dreamed of all the beautiful doors he saw in Cairo, Syria, and Cordova. "I'll provide the wood and pay you whatever you want. But for God's sake, you have to make a new door!"

The door, the pond, the marble fountain, the floral engravings on the dome, the chest, the bench, and the pendant lamp, all these things robbed Afeef of his time and money. He could always borrow the money, but how could he borrow time? Only one week after the completion of the bathhouse, Afeef passed away, leaving his wife and seven children heavily indebted to family, friends, and neighbors. But his children and grandchildren worked in the bathhouse, and God provided them with a decent living. They worked very hard and the Zayn Bathhouse of Afeef the Cordovan was a sight to behold and a comfort to the body, and with it the family settled the grandfather's debts.

Abu Mansour stood up and went over to the chest he used as a safety deposit box where customers put their bundles of clothing and money. It was a long rectangular chest that rested on four wooden legs several inches from the ground. It was made of walnut wood carved with floral designs that intersected and crisscrossed, inlaid with pieces of ivory in square and triangular patterns whose bright creamy white contrasted sharply with the old dark wood.

Abu Mansour inserted the key into the metal lock and lifted the top of the chest. There was a small Quran inside as well as a hand
kerchief folded over some dried lavender flowers that diffused its overwhelming scent into his nose and chest.

"I
don't
want
to
work
in
the
bathhouse."

"What
do
you
want?
To
run
around
with
musicians
and
get
drunk
and
sing?"

"That's
better
than
working
in
a
bathhouse!"

His father slapped him on the face. Young people can be hard, they can be foolish, and they can be blind. Only now he understood what his father had feared. It wasn't just a bathhouse but a family history, and he was the only one left to preserve it. He felt the tears swelling in his eyes. His father died while he kept company with musicians playing his lute. When he found out, he returned to his mother. She gave him the key. He opened the bathhouse and refurbished it. He was eighteen years old.

Forty years he's been holding onto this key that his father once carried, and before him his father and his father's father, opening that door that the carpenters worked on so laboriously to carve that plain slab of wood into a medley of geometric patterns and incisions that you immediately recognize as though you were seeing your own reflection in a mirror.

Abu Mansour got up and sauntered toward the central foyer in the middle of which was an octagonal pink stone pool with a marble spout in the shape of a flower from which the water gushed out. It was he who added the pool and remodeled the wash rooms on the sides. He was also the one who bought the lantern made of leaded glass.

Abu Mansour left the central foyer and went to the inner bath where everything was as it had always been. The heating bench divided the area south to north. There were water basins on both sides, the small pool and the large pool, five marble sinks, and a floor tiled with rose-colored marble with blackened trim. This was the great-grandfather's vision and what the builders did to realize it.

Abu Mansour saw all of this with eyes wandering in close inspection. The lamps that hung from the arches on opposite sides emitted their refracting light onto the dark walls. He lay down on
the heating bench, which was now cold. The stoker hadn't come and the fire hadn't been lit. He stretched out his arms and closed his eyes. A year's worth of sleep overtook him. In his sleep he saw himself as a boy with nothing more that a faint shadow of a mustache over his upper lip. He was sitting cross-legged in front of the furnace room basking in its warmth, clutching his lute and strumming its strings as he hummed a few melodies. His solitude was broken by an older man with a powerful build and taller than usual. "Get up, boy!"

He stood up, put his lute aside, and undressed the older man. He dipped the Meccan water scoop into hot water from the basin and poured it over him. Then he washed his body and lathered his hair and beard. He scrubbed and rinsed it. He clipped his fingernails and toenails and washed them thoroughly. As he was bathing him, his heart pounded in fear and shivers ran through his body. When he finished he asked the old man in a stuttering voice, "Are you my grandfather, Afeef?"

The old man looked him straight in the eye, and his fear grew more intense. There was a gleam in his eye and a piercing stare.

"Yes. I am your grandfather, Muhy al-Deen. How is it that you didn't recognize me?"

He flustered and dropped the brass scoop, creating a loud clanking noise as it hit the floor.

The old man stood up and leaned over and picked up the scoop from the floor. He filled it with water and ordered him to sit down.

"Did you wash my feet?" he asked.

"I washed them."

"Then it's your turn."

The old man leaned down toward the boy's feet and started to wash them gently. As he did this, water gushed from his eyes and soaked his beard, and his tears mixed with the water from the Meccan scoop from which he was pouring.

12

D
espite the hardships of managing daily life, especially under the humiliating pressures of occupation, life in the home of Abu Jaafar was relatively comfortable. The house was open and imbued with the spirit of its inhabitants. Umm Jaafar was the pillar of strength that raised its roof high, filling it with the aromas of the bread she made, the lavender flowers she dried, and the oil she pressed from the olives from Ainadamar. She filled it with her carefree, hearty laughter as she watched her children, happy and healthy despite everything. Hasan was in love with Maryama whose belly swelled with the child she was expecting. Saleema was growing up, unruly and distracted, in the shadow of Saad who was sympathetic despite the sadness in his eyes that overpowered him every so often and carried him off to a faraway place where no one could reach him. In her heart of hearts, Umm Jaafar intoned, "Thanks be to God," in the hope that God would continue to bestow His blessings on them and bring her grandchildren to fill the house with the raucous noise of life.

Saleema was in her seventh month the day she came rushing in to her grandmother, gasping for air. Her grandmother scolded her for her reckless behavior before she even told her what was wrong. But Saleema paid no attention to her grandmother's scolding. She seemed more terrified than angry, saying over and over again that she couldn't understand what made her lie on the floor without moving a muscle. Umm Jaafar followed Saleema out to the court
yard where the gazelle was lying on her side, her body stiff and her eyes like glass.