The Mapmaker's Daughter (23 page)

A door creaks, and a nun with a face the color of fireplace ashes enters the room. Her shoulders are slumped, and she is very thin. She comes to the grille. “I am Sister Maria Teresa,” she says. “I told them there must be some mistake.”

She looks more closely. “Amalia!” she whispers.

I wish I could tell her she is looking well. Though Luisa is only in her twenties, the convent has robbed her of the life that once sparkled in her.

Her pallid face flushes. “Susana told me you renounced our Lord, and now you consort with the ones who killed him.”

I sit back, stunned that she hasn’t made any pretense she is glad to see me or even given me a chance to greet her. “I am living as a Jew, if that’s what you mean,”

“You are a baptized Christian. You have no right to go back.”

“I have the same right you do to follow God where he calls me.”

“Comparing Jews to the servants of the Lord?”

“They are my people,” I say. “Your people too, and servants of the Lord just the same. Do they know about our family here?”

“All the converso nuns have extra prayers and penances to atone for our blood. I’ve spent my life trying to set it right, and then you—” Her mouth twists, searching for words harsh enough for me.

Luisa’s eyes take in every gloomy corner to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “You are not my sister, do you hear me? I told the nun who came to get me that it was someone from Susana’s husband’s family. You forced me to lie.”

I’ve had enough. “I haven’t forced you to do anything. You are responsible for your actions. Or isn’t that what they teach you? It would be if you were a Jew.”

I get up to leave and put on Ester’s cloak. Luisa’s eyes open wide and her hand flies to her mouth when she sees the badge. “Oh!” she says in a strangled gasp.

Though her words have been harsh, her lost vitality and dreary life overwhelm me, and my eyes fill with tears. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I whisper.

She looks up, her face blotchy with tears. “Were you wearing the cloak when you came in?”

“Of course not.”

“I would spend the rest of my life on my knees if you had been. There aren’t enough prayers for what you have done.”

“We’ve made our choices.” I place the cloak over my arm with the badge hidden in its folds, knowing that we both have equally strong reasons to keep my secret from getting out. “If you want to spend your life torturing yourself for my transgressions, I think you are doing it for nothing.”

“I will pray for you.” Crossing herself, she gets up as I leave.

“Pray for the soul of your church,” I say over my shoulder. “That’s the best way to pray for me, and for every Jew in Spain.”

***

I have one final matter weighing on my heart, and my last morning in Sevilla, wearing my own cloak, I set out for the Christian cemetery. Inside, I recognize the stone cross over the grave of my mother and her dead children. I pray quietly for a moment and then bend down to dig up some of the dirt with a trowel I carried in a cloth-lined basket.

I take it to the Jewish cemetery. When I find the tree I am looking for, my knees give way, and I sink to the ground, so weak with grief for my lost family that I cannot even cry. I stare in silence at the ground until I am strong enough to stand. Taking a handful of dirt from my basket, I bring my mother’s spirit here.

“O God, full of compassion, who dwells on high, grant true rest to the soul of my mother Rosaura…” As I sprinkle the contents of the basket over the spot where the locks of my dead brothers are buried, my voice floats away from this mournful place. “May the All-Merciful One shelter her with the cover of his wings forever.” I look up into a blistering blue sky. “And may she rest in peace.”

15

RONDA 1452

The tents shudder and flap in the dying breeze of late afternoon as we stop near the border of the Caliphate of Granada. Pack mules and carts carry tents, supplies, and all of our possessions during the day, and though there is a carriage for Eliana and me to ride in, it bounces so badly in the ruts in the dirt road that most of the time I am on horseback, with my daughter tucked in front of me.

When the afternoon shadows grow long, we stop with our retinue of guards and servants, who set up camp before the first stars come out. The guards carry the banner of the Duke of Medina-Sidonia, and his protection keeps us safe from bandits and army deserters wandering the countryside. That and the blessing of dry weather have enabled us to enjoy the scenery, and except for saddle weariness, I am glad to be out day after day enjoying the ever-changing light and the wild beauty of southern Castile.

At night, Eliana and I share a tent, and after she is asleep, Jamil and I walk under the winter sky outside the circle of the camp, in a silence broken only by the boasting and laughter of the men around the fire and the howls of wolves in the distance. When we feel the cold, we slip into Jamil’s tent. We shiver at first between the furs and blankets before our bodies grow warm with desire, and we throw off the covers, our naked bodies glistening in the lamplight.

I often sit astride him as we make love, moving my hips in slow circles, as I lean forward to brush my breasts against his chest. We explore with our tongues every surface of our mouths, every crevice in our teeth, and then we break apart to pass our lips over bellies or arms with the delicacy of silk drawn over fine hairs, or taking mouthfuls of flesh in tender bites, as if we cannot be content until we have made each other part of ourselves.

Afterward, I slip back to my tent and crawl under covers warmed by my daughter’s body. There I sleep sweetly until voices wake me at dawn.

***

Jamil brings his mount alongside mine a few days later to tell me that we are now in the Caliphate of Granada. He points to a town perched atop imposing hills in the east. “That’s Ronda. Sawwar lives there.”

Sawwar. Jamil’s work makes him unable to care for his ten-year-old son, and Jamil’s sister Rashida has raised him from the time he was two, when Jamil’s wife, Najat, died in childbirth. I had known we would be stopping here, as the route safest from marauders and bandits was along this road, but Jamil has said nothing for days, and I have had no chance to prepare myself. I look toward Ronda, upset to find myself here without warning.

He misreads the expression on my face as apprehension about the long and precarious switchback trail leading from the valley to the town. “It’s best to walk, but it’s not as bad as it looks,” he tells me, not realizing that what I am worried about isn’t the trail, but my imminent encounter with Rashida and Sawwar. As we start the ascent, I feel a childish jealousy about having to share him and anxiety so fierce it makes me not notice the narrowness of the path or the precipitous drop to the valley if we should stumble and fall.

Shortly before dusk, we stop in front of the Palacio de Mondragon, a dignified-looking house with a walled garden on both sides. The moment Jamil knocks, Rashida opens the door

“We saw you down in the valley! Come in!” Her eyes acknowledge me with a crinkling smile that says she will greet me properly once she has embraced her brother. After we are properly introduced, she ushers us into a colorful tiled courtyard dotted with huge pots of flowers forced to bloom in midwinter, and smelling at once grassy, pungent, and sweet.

Jamil’s sister, the wife of Hassan el Zegri, the Marques de Mondragon and Governor of Ronda, is older than I expected. Wisps of gray hair peek out from under her head covering, and her face is creased from the Andalusian sun. She is tall with narrow shoulders, but the contours of her ample hips are apparent under her loose tunic and short-sleeved cloak. The family’s Berber roots have given her the same blue eyes as Jamil, and she is one of the most striking women I have ever seen.

Sawwar is not at home. Mondragon and he went off that morning to check on the animals to be slaughtered for Eid al-Adha, the celebration of the end of the pilgrimage season to Mecca. They aren’t likely to be home until after dark.

“Just as well, because you need to go to the baths,” Rashida teases, tugging her brother’s dust-coated burnoose before turning to me. “Tomorrow is the day for the women. For now, I’ll have the servants draw some water and bring you and your daughter some fresh clothes.”

I see to Eliana’s bath first, standing her in the bucket and dribbling water over her with a sea sponge until the water is gray. Fresh water is prepared for me, but I cannot linger in the delights of washing the journey from my body, for Rashida comes in to tell me that Sawwar is home and Jamil is with him.

She gives me a square garment with openings for my head and arms and a sash for my waist, and when she sees me trying to pat down my wet, disheveled hair she drapes a sheer scarf over my head and arranges it neatly around my neck. “It’s the real reason we hide our hair,” she says with a laugh. “Not to have to worry about it.” She hands me an embroidered cloak woven in crimson wool so supple it flutters as I follow her into the courtyard.

Jamil lights up at the sight of me as he stands grinning with his arm around Sawwar’s shoulders. He gives Sawwar a gentle nudge and he comes forward, bowing to me. “Salaam. Ahlan wa Sahlan,” he says, welcoming me to Ronda with sober green eyes flecked with gold. “I am Sawwar ibn Jamil.”

“Salaam.” I say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Ana Amalia um Eliana bint Jehuda al Sevilla,” I say in the Muslim fashion, including both my father and my child in my own name, but substituting my grandfather’s birth name, Jehuda, for the alienating Christian name, Jaume, he was forced to bear.

Eliana is pressing into me to convey that she doesn’t like this strange boy. It’s late and she’s tired, but I know Eliana will never agree to go to bed unless I am with her. I make my excuses, and we go into the bedroom we will share at Palacio de Mondragon.

“What’s the matter?” I ask her, settling in under the covers. “Don’t you like Sawwar?”

“He’s all right.” She sniffs. “He’s a boy.”

“Since when have you cared about that?”

“Since—forever.” She worms her body in closer to mine.

“You like Isaac, don’t you?” I tease.

She rolls over on her back. “Isaac’s not a boy.”

“Well, what is he then?”

“I don’t know!” She sighs, obviously annoyed that I don’t understand. I look over at her, disbelieving. Is it possible for a girl of six to be in love?

“I wish he were here instead of that Sawwar,” she whispers.

I cradle her in my arms. “I miss everyone too, but we’ll make friends in Granada. Jamil says there’s a girl in the palace for you to play with.” I feel her body stiffening, and I know she is struggling not to cry. “We’ll have Jamil to ourselves again in a day or two. And just think, Sawwar might be jealous of you because you have his father all the time. Have you thought about that?”

“No.”

“And you know I’m counting on you to be polite to him while we’re here.”

Eliana exhales loudly in resignation. “All right. I’ll feel a little sorry for him, and I’ll be good.” She pulls away and lies on her back again. “But I’m glad he’s not coming with us. And I still like Isaac more.”

***

The following morning, Jamil and Sawwar accompany us part way to the baths. At the end of town, we look down on a chasm where a river is visible occasionally through thick vegetation. We’re too far up to hear the sound of water, although the air is full of the cries of birds that roost in the soft cliffs and fly out to catch insects on the wing.

“It’s easy to see why the Christians haven’t captured Ronda,” Jamil says, gesturing from our perch to the plains below. “Although there are a few paths to the river from here.” He pulls Sawwar to him. “For boys like this one, who frighten their aunt to death by climbing cliffs.”

Sawwar hurls a pebble into the gorge, and we watch it glint in the sunlight as it makes its long fall to the river. Jamil throws another, and when it becomes a happy game between father and son, Rashida and I head for the baths.

Light streams through star-shaped openings in the vaulted ceiling, dappling the colored tiles that decorate the floor and arches of the entry. Potted trees and flowering baskets line the walls, and the fragrance of bark, summer meadows, and incense wafts in the air.

In a room down a short, dark corridor, light shines through high windows onto patterned tile steps leading into a glistening pool. I drop the sheet wrapping my body, and the sweet caress of the water on my weary limbs sets my mind adrift. I don’t know how much time passes before I hear Rashida’s voice. Barely above a whisper, her words echo off the tile walls.

“It was a terrible thing when Jamil’s wife died,” she says. “Najat was a lovely woman, and Jamil mourned her to a point I thought was dangerous. He didn’t eat because he said food tied him to this world and he wanted to be closer to her in the next.”

She looks away as if peering into the past, and I wonder why she has chosen to confide these things so quickly. “He clung to Sawwar as if the father was the child, but we finally convinced him that the boy was better off here than with a governess in Granada.”

Najat’s death is my gain
, I can’t stop from thinking, though I hate myself for having such thoughts. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, and I do mean it.

Rashida pushes the water away with gentle circles of her hands. “I can see why Jamil loves you,” she says. “He says you’re as kind as you are lovely. Wait until you’ve been in Granada a few months—you’ll take to Muslim ways.”

I want to tell her I am not looking to change, but I know she only means to be reassuring. And that other thing she said… “How do you know Jamil loves me?” I ask.

“The way he stands, the way he holds his head. The way he says your name.” She steps out of the pool and motions to me to follow to another room. “Women can tell.”

When we are finished with the hot and cold pools, I slip on the loose clothing and scarf Rashida has lent me for the rest of the journey. She’s right about the speed with which I will take to some Muslim ways. Already the idea of returning to my dirty and confining travel dress disgusts me.