Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree (15 page)

‘D
WARF, WHEN I GROW
up I want to be a cook, just like you.’

The chief cook, who was sitting over a giant pan grinding a concoction of meat, pulses and wheat with a large wooden pestle, looked at the young boy sitting directly opposite him on a tiny stool and smiled.

‘Yazid bin Umar,’ he said, as he carried on pounding the meat, ‘it is very hard work. You have to learn how to cook hundreds of dishes before anyone will employ you.’

‘I will learn, Dwarf. I promise.’

‘How often have you had
harrissa
?’

‘Hundreds and thousand of times.’

‘Exactly so, young master, but do you know how it is cooked or what ingredients are used to flavour the meat? No, you do not! There are over sixty recipes for this dish alone. I cook it in the style recommended by the great teacher al-Baghdadi, but using herbs and spices of my own choice.’

‘That’s not true. Ama told me that it was your father who taught you everything you know. She says he was the Sultan of cooks.’

‘And who taught him? That Ama of yours is getting too old. Just because she has known me since I was your age, she thinks I have no creative skills of my own. My father was certainly more inventive in the realm of sweets. His date and vermicelli mixture cooked in milk over a low heat to celebrate all the big weddings and festivals was famous throughout al-Andalus. The Sultan of Gharnata was here for your grandfather’s wedding. After tasting the dessert he wanted to take my father away to the al-Hamra, but Ibn Farid, may his soul rest in peace, said “Never.”

‘But in the kingdom of real food he was not as good a cook as my grandfather, and he knew that fact very well. You see, young master, a genius can never rely on the recipes of others. How many pinches of salt? How much pepper? Which herbs? It is not just a question of learning, though that is important, but of instinct. That is the only secret of our craft. It happens like this. You are beginning to cook a favourite dish and you realize that there are no onions in the kitchen. You grind some garlic, ginger, pomegranate seeds and pimentos into a paste and use them instead. Add a tiny cup of fermented grape juice and you have a brand-new dish. The Lady Zubayda, whose generosity is known to all, tastes it when the evening meal is served. She is not deceived. Not even for a single moment. Straight away she realizes that it is something completely new. After the meal I am summoned to appear before her. She congratulates me and then questions me in some detail. Naturally I let her into my secret, but even as I am speaking to her I have forgotten the exact measures of the ingredients I have used. Perhaps I will never cook that dish again, but those who have tasted it once will never forget the unique blend of flavours. A truly good dish, like a great poem, can never be repeated exactly. If you want to be a cook, try and remember what I have just told you.’

Yazid was greatly impressed.

‘Dwarf? Do you think you’re a genius?’

‘Of course, young master. Why else would I be telling you all this? Look at the
harrissa
I am cooking. Come here and observe it carefully.’

Yazid moved his stool close to the cook and peered into the pan.

‘This has been cooking the whole night. In the old days they would only use lamb, but I have often used the meat of calves or chicken or beef, simply in order to vary the flavour. Otherwise your family would begin to get bored with my cooking, and that would upset me greatly.’

‘What have you put in this
harrissa
?’

‘The meat of a whole calf, three cups of rice, four cups containing the hearts of wheat, a cup of brown lentils, a cup of chickpeas. Then I filled the pan with water and let it cook overnight. But before I left the kitchen I put some dried coriander seeds and black cardamoms in a little muslin bag and lowered it into the pan. By the morning the meat had melted completely and now I am grinding it into a paste. But before I serve it for your Friday lunch, what else will I do?’

‘Fry some onions and chillies in clarified butter and pour them on the
harrissa.
’

‘Very good, young master! But the onions must be burnt and floating in the clarified butter. Perhaps next week I will add something to this dish. Perhaps a few eggs fried in butter and sprinkled with herbs and black pepper would mix well with
harrissa,
but it might be too heavy on the stomach just before Friday prayers. What if the pressure was so great that when they bowed their heads before Mecca the other end of their bodies began to emit a foul-smelling wind? That would not be appreciated by those directly in the line of fire.’

Yazid’s laughter was so infectious that it made the Dwarf grin. Then the boy’s face became very serious. A tiny frown appeared on the large forehead. The eyes became intense. A thought had crossed his head.

‘Dwarf?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t you sometimes wish that you were not a dwarf, but a big tall man, like Zuhayr? Then you could have been a knight instead of being in this kitchen all day?’

‘Bless your heart, Yazid bin Umar. Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, in the days when our Prophet, peace be upon him, was still alive, a monkey was caught pissing in a mosque.’

Yazid started giggling.

‘Please do not laugh. It was a very serious offence. The caretaker rushed up to the monkey and shouted: “You blaspheming rascal! Aren’t you frightened that God will punish and transform you into some other creature?” The monkey was unashamed. “It would only be a punishment,” replied the insolent creature, “if he were to turn me into a gazelle!” So you see, my dear young master, I would much rather be a dwarf creating wonderful dishes in your kitchen than a knight constantly in fear of being hunted by other knights.’

‘Yazid! Yazid! Where is that little rascal, Amira? Go and find him. Tell him I want to see him.’

Miguel’s voice echoed in the courtyard and reached the kitchen. Yazid looked at the Dwarf and put his finger on his lips. There was total quiet except for the bubbling of the two large pots containing stock from the bones of meat and game. Then he went and hid behind the platform which had been specially erected in the kitchen to enable the Dwarf to reach the pots and pans. It was no use. Ama walked in and marched straight to the hiding place.

‘Wa Allah! Come on out and greet your great-uncle. Your mother will be very angry if you forget your manners.’

Yazid re-emerged. The Dwarf’s face expressed sympathy.

‘Dwarf?’ asked the boy. ‘Why does Great-Uncle Miguel stink so much? Ama says ...’

‘I know what Ama thinks, but we must have a more philosophical answer. You see, young master, any person who inserts himself between the onion and the peel is left with a strong smell.’

Ama glared at the cook and took Yazid by the hand. He broke loose and ran out of the kitchen towards the house. His plan was to avoid the courtyard altogether and try and hide in the bath-chamber by using the secret entrance from the side of the house. But Miguel was waiting for him, and the boy realized he had lost this battle.

‘Peace be upon you, Great-Uncle.’

‘Bless you, my child. I thought we might have a game of chess before lunch.’

Yazid cheered up immediately. In the past, whenever he had suggested a game, the adult world had resisted any incursions into their time and space. Miguel had barely spoken to him on his rare visits, let alone anything else. The boy rushed indoors and returned with his chess-set. He laid the chess-cloth on the table and carefully undid the box. Then, turning his back on the Bishop, he took a Queen in each hand and proffered his closed fists to his great-uncle. Miguel chose the fist which concealed the black Queen. Yazid cursed under his breath. It was at this stage that Miguel noticed the peculiar character of the chess-set. He began to inspect the pieces closely. His voice was hoarse with fear when he spoke.

‘Where did you get this from?’

‘A birthday gift from my father.’

‘Who carved it for you?’

Juan the carpenter’s name was about to be revealed when Yazid remembered that the man sitting before him was a servant of the Church. A stray remark of Ama’s had lodged in his brain as a warning, and now the child’s introspective wisdom came into play.

‘I think it was a friend in Ishbiliya!’

‘Do not lie to me, boy. I have heard so many confessions in my life that I can tell by the inflections in a person’s tone whether or not he is telling the truth, and you are not. I want an answer.’

‘I thought you wanted to play chess.’

Miguel looked at the troubled face of this boy with the shining eyes who sat opposite him and he could not help recalling his own childhood. He had played chess in this very courtyard and on this same piece of cloth. On the three occasions he had played against a master from Qurtuba, Miguel remembered the whole family standing round the table watching with excitement as the master was defeated every time. Then the applause and laughter as his brother would hoist him into the air to celebrate. Most pleased of all was his mother, Asma. He shuddered at the memory and looked up to see Hind, Kulthum and the young visitor from Egypt, Ibn Daud, smiling at him. Hind had seen everything from a distance and had realized that Yazid was in some sort of trouble. It was not too difficult to deduce that this was connected with the chess pieces. Even in his reverie Miguel was clutching the black Queen in his hand.

‘Have you started the game, Yazid?’ she asked innocently.

‘He won’t play. He keeps calling me a liar.’

‘Shame on you, Great-Uncle Miguel,’ said Hind as she hugged her brother. ‘How can you be so cruel?’

Miguel turned towards her, his aquiline nose twitching slightly as a weak smile distorted his cheeks.

‘Who carved these pieces? Where are they from?’

‘Why, Ishbiliya, of course!’

Yazid looked at his sister in wonderment and then went and retrieved the black Queen from Miguel’s clutches. Hind laughed.

‘Play him, Great-Uncle Miguel. You might not win.’

Miguel looked at the boy. Yazid was no longer frightened. A mischievous glimmer had returned to his face. Despite himself the Bishop was once again reminded of his youth. These surroundings, this courtyard and a cheeky nine-year-old looking at him with a hint of insolence. Miguel was reminded of his own challenges to every Christian nobleman who called on his father. Often they succumbed, and how the whole household would celebrate his triumphs.

Strange how that world, so long dead for him, continued to exist in the old house. Miguel felt like playing Yazid after all. He was about to sit down, when Ama signalled that lunch had been served.

‘Did you wash your hands, Miguel?’ Zahra’s shrill voice took the family of Umar bin Abdallah by surprise, but her brother smiled as he looked at her. He knew that voice well.

‘I am not ten years old, Zahra.’

‘I don’t care whether you’re ten or ninety. Go and wash your hands.’

Yazid saw Hind trying to stop herself from laughing and began to giggle in an uncontrolled fashion. This reduced his sister to tears as she still held back her mirth. It was when Zubayda became infected that Miguel realized he had to act fast to stop the entire lunch from degenerating into a circus. He laughed feebly.

‘Amira! You heard Zahra. Come.’

Ama brought a container filled with water, and a young manservant carried in a basin, followed by a kitchen-boy holding a towel. Miguel washed his hands amidst a bemused silence. When he had finished his sister applauded.

‘It was the same when you were a boy. If I shut my eyes I can just hear your screams, with Umm Zaydun and your mother, bless her heart, soaping your head and your body, washing you thoroughly and then flinging you into the bath.’

Zuhayr tensed at this reference to the Lady Asma. He looked at Zahra and Miguel, but there was no trace of emotion. Miguel looked at his sister and nodded.

‘I am delighted to see you back in this house, sister.’

The midday meal was consumed with great passion. The Dwarf, eavesdropping as usual from the adjacent chamber, was satisfied with the level of praise. Compliments flew across the room like tame birds. The peak of perfection for the Dwarf was reached when both Miguel and Zahra spontaneously confirmed that his
harrissa
was infinitely superior to that prepared by his late and much-lamented father. Only then did the master-cuisinier retire to his kitchen at ease with his craft and the world.

‘I am told that you live in great style in the Bishop’s palace in Qurtuba, attended by priests and your fat son. Why, Miguel?’ Zahra asked her brother. ‘Why did it have to end like this for you?’

Miguel did not reply. Zuhayr studied them closely as they ate. Surely Zahra must know the real reason for Miguel’s decision to cut himself completely from the old ways. Then Umar announced that it was time for the men to depart. Ibn Daud, Yazid and Zuhayr sprang to their feet and excused themselves. They left the room to prepare themselves for the ride to the mosque and Friday prayers.

Zahra and Miguel washed their hands and moved to the courtyard, where a wooden platform covered with carpets had been placed for them to enjoy the winter sunshine. Ama brought a tray whose compartments contained almonds, walnuts, dates and raisins and placed it before them.

‘Allah be praised. It does my heart good to see both of you at home.’

‘Amira,’ instructed Miguel as he picked a date, removed its seed and replaced it with an almond, ‘please ask my niece to join us for a few minutes.’

Ama limped back in to the house as Zahra repeated her question.

‘Why, Miguel? Why?’

Miguel’s heart began to pound. His face, which had become so accustomed to concealing all emotions, suddenly filled with anguish.

‘You really don’t know, do you?’

Zahra shook her head. They saw Zubayda approaching, and what Miguel might or might not have told her remained buried in his heart.

‘Sit down my child,’ said Miguel. ‘I have something important to say to you, and it is best said while the men are away.’

Zubayda sat down next to him.

‘I am intrigued, Uncle Miguel. My ears await your message.’