Djalila #3
The house is large. The courtyard is filled with flowers, a fountain splashes.
A tree brings added shade within the cool of the tiled space.
Above our heads stretch two more floors, glimpsed by balconies and carved plasterwork.
The doors are thick wood, painted and carved to a high standard.
This is a wealthy house, equal to or better than Djalila’s old home.
She has done well to secure such a husband.
A woman awaits us, large-breasted, wide-hipped, an air of authority. Slaves stand behind her, other servants peek at us from the entrance to the kitchen.
“I am Hayfa,” she tells Djalila. “Your cook, mistress.”
Djalila says nothing.
“I am Hela,” I tell Hayfa. “I am your mistress’ handmaiden and I will command in her place. My mistress does not like to be troubled with household matters.”
I can see Hayfa wants to contest this statement. Who has ever heard of a handmaiden commanding in her mistress’ place, unless that mistress is old or ill? She frowns but I keep my eyes on her and after a moment she drops her gaze.
“Very well,” she mutters. “As my mistress desires.”
“How many servants are there?” I ask.
“Four,” she says. “And the slaves, of course.” Clearly, she does not think slaves are worth counting.
I nod. “Where are my mistress’ rooms?” I ask.
Hayfa glances warily at Djalila, who has stood in silence throughout all of this. “I will take you,” she says.
The servants and slaves watch us as we make our way up the stairs, no doubt wondering what their new mistress is like, sizing me up and speculating on my excessive power.
There are two rooms for Djalila, a bedroom and a larger room in which she may spend her days if she wishes for privacy.
I hope that I will be able to entice her out of them.
They are well appointed; there is nothing missing that a woman could wish for.
Beautiful carpets and hangings, of course, as one might expect.
The scent of roses throughout the house.
Great carved chests of sweet-smelling wood await our possessions, which the slaves are now carrying up to us.
***
Hayfa shows us other parts of the house. There is a study where Ibrahim can keep track of his wares and sales, where the precious paper patterns are stored for safekeeping. On the shelves there are many books, perhaps more than twenty, great tomes made with skill.
“Your master reads?” I ask Hayfa. I am surprised. The richer merchants of the city can read well enough and certainly they know their numbers, to manage their accounts and supplies, but I know of none that read for pleasure.
“He wanted to be a scholar,” says Hayfa.
“But his father commanded he should take over the carpet business, being the eldest son. Still, he insisted on having books in his home.” She looks at them with a mixture of pride and uneasiness, as though they are wild animals that might bite her.
“He has scholars from the university to eat with him sometimes,” she adds, her tone suggesting that this is a very odd pastime but that she is aware that it somehow makes her master important. “They talk all night.”
I lift one down from the shelf.
“Don’t touch them!” says Hayfa. “Master’s orders are that no-one is to touch them.”
I open the book. “The Book of Fixed Stars,” I read. “It speaks of astronomy, the study of the heavens.”
Hayfa stares at me, dumbfounded. “You can read?”
I nod, still turning the pages. I am impressed that Ibrahim has continued his interest in such things despite his father’s attempts to turn him to a different path.
After this exchange I see that Hayfa treats me with greater respect although she never does get over her wariness of me.
I do not gossip with her, I am no ordinary servant, I have too much power for her to relax in my company.
She keeps to her realm and I keep to mine: she does as I tell her but speaks about me behind my back to the other servants as though I am some strange creature.
***
Djalila is shaking.
“He is a gentle man,” I repeat. I have been saying this all day. “He will be kind to you,” I add, hoping that this is true. “He will not force you. You must trust me.”
She says nothing.
I apply rose perfume to her skin, brush out her long hair, undress her and place the bedcovers around her.
There is a soft knock at the door and Djalila clutches at me, her eyes wide.
“I have to go now,” I say, trying to prise her fingers off my arm.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispers and I feel pity for her but what can I do?
I cannot tell Ibrahim her history, nor can I refuse him entrance to his bride’s bedchamber on their wedding night.
As it is I have arranged for there not to be a crowd gathered about the place, cheering and making lewd comments.
I pull my arm away and stand up, open the door to Ibrahim.
“My mistress is a little shy,” I murmur to him. “You will be patient with her, master?”
He smiles as though I am a fussing old woman. “You may leave us now, Hela,” he says and I bow my head and leave the room.
I wait and I listen. I hear Ibrahim speaking softly with her.
I cannot make out what he is saying, yet he sounds very tender.
There is little response from Djalila, I strain to hear her voice but am not sure she is answering him.
I kneel and pray to Allah for this night to be successful, for Djalila to see that all can be well in the bedchamber.
Instead, I hear a few little cries of fear and pain before there is silence and then Ibrahim’s footsteps warn me to hide myself. I see him leave her room, his brow furrowed, walking swiftly to his own rooms.
Inside Djalila weeps.
“Did he …” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“He tried?”
She nods.
My shoulders slump. “He was gentle?” I ask.
She nods, miserable.
I sigh. “Then it will get better,” I say firmly, though I am doubtful. “You will grow accustomed to him, he is gentle as I promised, he will not force you. You must only grow your courage a little, Djalila.”
She sobs and I must spend half the night comforting her. At breakfast Ibrahim is kind, he speaks softly with her, he offers her warm bread with honey and she takes it from him and tries to smile. I see his face lighten a little, no doubt he thinks the matter will soon be resolved.
***
But the nights pass and the shadows under my eyes grow dark from listening to one failed attempt after another and every night I praise Allah that Ibrahim has not forced himself upon her, as by now many men would have done.
I beg for Ibrahim to have a little more patience.
Meanwhile I try to build up Djalila’s confidence and happiness in her new home.
I try to tempt her out into the streets.
She is a married woman now, not a child, she need not cower in her rooms. Kairouan is a great city, a rich city.
Sitting on the trading routes, it is home to people from across the Maghreb, for one day or a lifetime.
I try to entice her out on the great market days, when thousands of people come from far and wide to buy and sell.
I take her through the souks and suggest she might want to buy fine cloth to have robes made, sweetmeats, jewellery.
Ibrahim is a generous husband; she can buy whatever she wishes for.
But the jostling of the crowds, the blood running in the streets from the hundreds of animals slaughtered, the noise and smells make her shudder and beg to return to our peaceful courtyard, to the safety of her rooms.
I take her into the quieter countryside surrounding the city, where she can see the rich fields swaying with grain, the silvered leaves of ancient olive trees, the fat sheep whose wool supplies her husband with the means to weave the finest carpets of Kairouan.
We watch as, before dawn, pickers bend to pluck rose petals before the heat takes their fragrance.
They will make the rose oil that perfumes the women of the city and makes men tremble with desire.
I try their wares and buy them for the house and workshop, but Djalila says the smell is too much and she turns away, stares at the rising sun’s pale rays and the mists floating in the valleys.
We visit the reservoirs outside the city walls that bring water to the city.
These great pools protect us from droughts and allow the fine households of the city to have playing fountains even in the great heat of summer.
The pools are a deep green colour, dark as the depths of the water.
Ibrahim tries to take Djalila there but she does not like the chatter and noise around her, the attention of other people.
So, I take her there during the daytimes when only street children play near them, splashing each other and laughing.
She watches them as though she would like to join them and once or twice I splash her on purpose, to see if I can make her laugh, if she will forget herself and become the child she left behind but she cannot, she only shrinks from me and begs me not to do it again and so I desist and we sit in silence until I take her home again.