A Divided Inheritance (24 page)

‘Ah, Daria. Expecting the Spanish army, are we?’ he said.

‘You know what they’re like,’ she laughed. ‘If I don’t make enough, they’ll be fighting over the last mouthful like dogs – despite all their noble
talk.’ Luisa giggled along with her.

‘How was it at the pottery today?’ Papa asked, his arm round Luisa’s shoulders as they went to the door. He waved a farewell at Daria, who nodded, used to their routine. Luisa
and her father talked as they went, and the men training with swords and bucklers never so much as looked twice at them.

‘Good,’ Luisa replied to him. ‘I’m enjoying pressing the olambrillas for the tiles in the new hospital. Unusual octagonal moulds, and the glazes are beautiful. Every time
Hammam lifts them from the kiln I think how beautiful they look. Turquoise and green like the river. They’re like the ones in the Alcazar, Hammam says. But these are for beggars and the
infirm to enjoy. Makes a change.’

‘You should have seen the tiles in my old mosque in Granada, they were glorious. You know my nose must have been a hair’s breadth from them so often I knew the patterns by heart.
That, and the dusty soles of Jamete’s feet. He always knelt in front of me.’ Papa’s laugh was lined with sorrow. ‘But they smashed the tiles in the last uprising. They razed
the mosque to the ground. I remember seeing the shards in the street, and people stooping, picking them up, unable to believe anyone could have taken a hammer to something so beautiful.’

Luisa said nothing, but squeezed his arm. She was used to him talking this way, as if one of those shards had lodged itself in his mind and, try as he might, he was unable to free himself of the
pain of it. Mama could always soothe him. She understood him, understood his strange moods and contradictions.

They walked companionably, taking their time. She had her hand always on his arm to guide him, lest he should trip over some unseen hazard.

‘The new student, Girard Thibault, he is not bad. By his voice I thought he would not have the patience for study, but I was wrong. We’ve been working on Plato’s solids, the
dodecahedron – looking at the principle of twelve, how the archetype unfolds into everything. The planetary signs, the twelve maidens at the well in the Qu’ran –’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said, having heard it all before.

‘Anyway, when I brought out the Agrippa, he sat with it and I swear he never moved the whole afternoon. I could hear his breath on the pages. He’s a good draughtsman, too, by all
accounts; he’s shown señor some of his sketches.’

‘I know. He asked if he could draw my portrait. Huh. I said no, of course, I don’t want –’ she paused a moment to bow and greet another of their neighbours returning from
the market place.

Papa took the opportunity to interrupt. ‘Well, you should have agreed. Thibault is a mild young man, and of gentle blood. He would mean nothing by it except to sharpen his draughtsmanship.
Besides, he knows it has always been a tradition in our culture to respect the woman.’

‘I can’t say I’ve noticed,’ she replied, immediately bristling.

‘No, I’m being serious. You are the keepers of the tradition, the long line of blood stretching back to infinity.’ He stopped, pulled her into the shade. ‘Lalla, Luisa,
they want rid of us. There is talk again of us being exiled from Spain, sending the
conversos
back. And when that happens, many will fight – fight for our land and our livelihoods.
And as they must, many will die.’

She did not look him in the face, but pulled again on his arm.

He did not come. ‘You do not want to believe it, but it is true. Then you will be the torchbearers, you women. Remember the story of Job and Rahma. It has always been so.’

‘It is just rumour.’

‘But rumour starts somewhere, like a small spring. Soon it gathers more water until it is a river, wide as the Guadalquivir.’

She set off walking again, tugging on his sleeve. She did not want to believe it. It was just tattle as usual, this talk of exile. She had known nothing but Spain since she was scrubbed in the
water of the river on the day she was born. She was Spanish to the core. Why did her father insist on calling her Lalla, when he knew everyone else called her Luisa, a good solid Spanish name? What
use had she for the name of some half-mad Sufi from centuries ago?

He could not be right. There were too many
conversos
in Seville; the authorities surely would not be able to expel them all. She tugged again at Papa’s sleeve in exasperation to
make him keep up. Seville was her city, and she loved every last stone of it.

The stories that Papa was so fond of telling, about the expulsion from Granada, that was forty years ago. It was just history. He could only have been a boy then, he probably didn’t
understand. And he would keep bringing up those old Muslim tales, like the story of Rahma, who carried the ailing Job and his faith to the tribe of Israel. It sounded archaic, all the business of
carrying the word of Allah, as if it were somehow a basket on someone’s head. Besides, she certainly did not want the sort of responsibility Rahma had.

Anyway, if there was to be an uprising, Papa would be too old and blind to be a part of it. No, they would leave the Sevillians alone, peaceable as they were. They were no threat to anyone, she
thought, they had been there too long, they were no raw incomers. She chewed on this as they walked, impatient with Papa, internally rebelling against his hand on her sleeve.

When they reached Triana, she let go and hurried on ahead. Papa knew every turn in the street by feel, and here they were amongst friends. She burst through the door to find Mama had already put
out the mat on the floor, the board with the barley bread, and the bowls steaming with fragrant couscous and
cazuela blanca
. She was all smiles to see them as usual.

‘Luisa!’ her brother Husain leapt up at her and wound his skinny knees round her waist.

‘How’s my little monkey?’ She grinned at him, and tickled him under the arms until he was forced to release his grip from round her neck and wriggle down.

‘Will you cut me the crust?’ he said. ‘I’m starving. Look, I helped Mama make the twist in the bread.’

She squatted and pushed her skirts aside and picked up the knife to cut the loaf. Behind her she heard Papa come in and go through the back to the yard to strip and wash.

Husain jumped up and rushed after him. ‘Papa! Papa!’

But Papa sent him away. ‘Later, my little chap, give a man a chance to clean up.’ Papa made all these ablutions every day, even though she told him it was a waste of time and he
would probably not be any holier by doing it. He frowned at her when she said this, and Mama told her to have more respect.

‘Are you nearly done?’ Luisa shouted, through the opening to the yard. ‘We’re hungry!’

‘Let him have his way,’ Mama said. ‘If it makes him feel good, let him do it.’

‘But we’re not supposed to, you know we’re not.’

‘Where’s the harm in being clean?’

‘Yes, where’s the harm in being clean?’ echoed Husain, who was always the grubbiest child in the barrio.

She sighed. Papa insisted on clinging to the old ways like a raft, even though it would bring him nothing but trouble.

Mama went to close the shutters tight, Papa blessed the food, and then they ate. They hunkered down, feet tucked underneath out of view. The oil in the lamps gave a smoky haze to the room, a
musky scent that mingled with the smell of cooking. Papa and Mama ate silently, to give the food their full attention. Their silent meals were so different from the busy tables in the market place.
But she was used to it; it had been like this every day since she was born.

And it was good to be grateful. Often there was a shortage of bread and meat because Papa wouldn’t allow them to have meat unless it had been blessed by someone, and if his friend Patricio
the priest could not come then they went without. Today there was a small portion of dried lamb cooked in olive oil, from the last time he came. Patricio did not understand their Muslim ways but he
liked to play chess with Papa, and he was happy to bless their meat.

‘A blessing costs nothing,’ he always said.

Husain used his bread to scoop the last grains of couscous from his bowl.

‘It was good, Ayamena. I think the lamb is better for stewing.’ Papa said.

‘Mm, hmm,’ grunted Husain, still with his mouth full.

‘Nonsense, Nicolao, it was tough and you know it.’ Mama pointed to a bit of gristle on the edge of her plate.

‘It wasn’t so bad,’ Papa said.

‘Susana’s family don’t bother with the blessing of the meat. So they have fresh meat every day,’ Luisa said.

Mama gave her a warning look, but Papa did not rise to her bait. Mama bustled to put the water to heat on the fire so that they could have their mint tea. Luisa watched her bending over the
flames, holding the fabric of her manto with one hand to keep it from catching. After a few moments the water bubbled and she poured a hissing steam over the leaves. A shout from outside made her
pause midstream. Luisa ran towards the door to see what was going on.

‘No!’ shouted Papa. Something in his voice stopped her in her tracks. She hovered in the middle of the room. Mama placed the pot on the trivet very carefully as though it might
break.

‘What’s the—’

‘Sssh.’ Mama hushed Husain with a hand on the shoulder. Time stopped. Their listening was so intense it was almost a noise.

Wood splintering and a woman’s scream.

‘Don’t move,’ Mama mouthed. Husain questioned Luisa with his wide eyes. She shook her head as Mama tiptoed to the shutter and put her eye to the crack where the two boards
met.

‘Men from the Inquisitor’s,’ she whispered. ‘They’ve staved in Alma’s door.’

‘Come away from that window,’ Papa hissed, stumbling to his feet, but she did not come. ‘Ayamena!’ His voice was harsher.

Alma’s voice wailed from outside, ‘Leave us alone, we weren’t doing anything wrong. We were just eating, that’s all.’

There was another noise like a thud, and Mama gasped and recoiled from the window. Husain wrapped his arms over his head and crawled away to the corner of the room.

‘What is it?’ The piece of bread still in Papa’s hand dropped to the floor.

Mama did not answer and Luisa pressed up behind her to try to see through the crack. Mama would not let her near and all she could see was a sliver of bright blue sky like a shining needle above
the buildings. Mama’s hands were clutching the sill as she balanced on the balls of her feet.

The window went dark for a moment, and there was the sound of a scuffle – and then something hit the ground.

Immediately Alma’s voice cried from outside, ‘Please, no. Don’t hurt him, he’s old and sick.’

Papa blundered towards the door, but Mama leapt before him. ‘No,’ she spat. ‘Do you want to risk us all? Sit down and be quiet.’ Papa tried to push past her but she was
blazing now, like a cornered tigress. ‘You stupid man,’ she hissed, beating at him with her fists, ‘what do you think you can do? You can’t even see to shave your
face!’

Father seemed to slump then, and move away from the door. In the silence they heard the clank of metal and chain. Mama’s mouth trembled. She staggered to hold Papa in a clumsy embrace.
‘There, there. I didn’t mean it.’ Over his shoulder Mama caught sight of Husain, watching the whole scene through a gap between his fingers, and hurried to envelop him in the
folds of her galedrilla.

Luisa took her chance and ran to the shutters. Through the crack she saw the black leather breastplates of the King’s militia, the Inquisition. Their swords were unsheathed and one of them
held the scourge. He slapped the knotted thongs against his boot. Alma, Daria’s mother, had been chained neck to foot.

‘This one now,’ said the smallest soldier.

They fastened the chains to Alma’s ankles. She did not move, her face was grey as chalk, her eyes blank, fixed on something on the ground. Luisa could not tear her eyes away. She could
just see part of a tangled heap of blood-spattered clothes, and the torn flesh of a naked back, wizened and wrinkled as a raisin in the sun. Her hand came to her mouth as the man began to moan and
move. Tears started in her eyes. It was Merin, Daria’s father.

‘Lazy dog,’ one of the guards said. ‘Get up.’ And he flicked the whip at Merin’s back. ‘Your neighbour says he smelt meat cooking on Friday. The smoke came
from your chimney.’

‘No, no. He’s mistaken,’ called Alma. ‘It was smoked herring. We’re good Christians. Ask anybody.’

‘The court will decide that. We’re to take you all. And anyone else who eats at your table.’

Luisa pulled away. Nausea engulfed her. She cowered back away from the window and spat saliva into the corner.

‘Keep quiet,’ mouthed Mama, urgently, with one hand dragging the reluctant Husain to her side. She reached with the other to grab Luisa by the arm.

They huddled together, the whole family, pressed to the floor of the sleeping alcove, arms tight around each other, straining to hear what was happening in the street outside.

A sudden hammering on the door jolted Mama to her feet. Papa’s heart beat against Luisa’s shoulder. Mama’s eyes were wide and staring; Luisa felt a hot tear run from
Husain’s face on to her own but she dared not move.

Outside the door a voice said, ‘Nobody in. Shall we burn it?’

‘No,’ came another voice, ‘it’s next door to the armourer’s. We don’t want to risk setting light to that.’

‘Why? It won’t matter.’

‘It will to Don Rodriguez. He told me this man’s the best leather beater in town. He makes the armour for all the King’s men. You can take responsibility if we do. I
don’t want Don Rodriguez to find out I had anything to do with it.’

‘He won’t know it was us.’

‘Well, I’m not doing it. He’d soon find out who torched his favourite armourer. Come on, let’s take these in. We’ll tell Don Rodriguez to warn the leather beater to
get out, and come back tomorrow. Then we can clear the whole infested yard.’

A crack from a whip made Luisa shrink closer to Papa. They could hear chains moving away. They lay there quiet for a long while. She saw with horror that Papa’s lips were quivering and his
eyes leaking tears.