Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree by Tariq Ali Read Free Book Online

don’t really care. If you need anything from our house all you have to do is let me know. It will be here within the hour. I was just passing on a message.’
    ‘Finish your drink. Should I heat some more?’
    Zuhayr lifted the goblet and drained it in one gulp. He inspected the old man closely. He could be any age above sixty or perhaps sixty-five. His head was shaved once a week. The snow-white stubble growing on it meant that he was late for his weekly visit to the village barber. He had a very sharp, but small nose, like the beak of a bird, a wrinkled face of olive-brown hues, whose colour varied with the seasons. His eyes dominated everything else. They were not large or striking in the traditional sense, but the very opposite. It was their narrowness which gave them a hypnotic aspect, especially in the middle of heated discussions, when they began to shine like bright lamps in the dark or, as his enemies often said, like those of a cat on heat.
    His white beard was trimmed, too neatly trimmed for an ascetic—an indication perhaps of his past. Usually, he was dressed in loose white trousers and a matching shirt. When it was cold he added a dark-brown blanket to the ensemble. Today, as the sun poured into his one-room abode, he was sitting there without a shirt.
    It was the wrinkles on his withered chest which gave the real indication of his age. He was, undoubtedly, an old man. But how old? And why that irritating, sphinx-like silence, which contrasted so strangely with his open-minded nature and the fluency of his speech, whenever Zuhayr queried his origins? Not really expecting an answer, the son of Umar bin Abdallah none the less decided to pose the question once again.
    ‘Who are you, old man?’
    ‘You mean you really don’t know?’
    Zuhayr was taken aback.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Has that Ama of yours never told you? Clearly not. I can see the answer in your face. How incredible! So, they decided to keep quiet after all. Why don’t you ask your parents one day? They know everything there is to know about me. Your search for the truth might be over.’
    Zuhayr felt vindicated. So his instincts had been right after all. There was some link with the family.
    ‘Does Great-Uncle Miguel know who you are?’
    The old man’s features clouded. He was displeased. His gaze fixed itself on the remains of the almond drink, and he sunk deep in thought. Suddenly he looked up.
    ‘How old are you, Zuhayr al-Fahl?’
    Zuhayr blushed. From al-Zindiq’s lips, the nickname he had acquired sounded more like an accusation.
    ‘I will be twenty-three next month.’
    ‘Good. And why do the villagers call you al-Fahl?’
    ‘I suppose because I love horse-riding. Even my father says that when he sees me riding Khalid he gets a feeling that the horse and I are one.’
    ‘Complete nonsense. Mystical rubbish! Do you ever get that feeling?’
    ‘Well, no. Not really, but it is true that I can get a horse, any horse you know, not just Khalid, to go faster than any of the men in the village.’
    ‘Ibn Umar, understand one thing. That is not the reason they call you al-Fahl.’
    Zuhayr was embarrassed. Was the old devil launching yet another line of attack to protect his own flank?
    ‘Young master, you know what I’m talking about. It isn’t just riding horses, is it? You jump on their women whenever you get the chance. I am told that you have a taste for deflowering the village virgins. The truth now!’
    Zuhayr stood up in a rage.
    ‘That is a lie. A gross calumny. I have never entered a wench against her will. Anyone who says otherwise I challenge to armed combat. This is not a joking matter.’
    ‘Nobody has suggested that you force them. How could they be forced when it is your right? What use are wide open legs, if the mind remains closed? Why has my question annoyed you so much? Your father is a decent man, not given to excesses of any sort, but episodes such as these have been taking place in your family for