“Bearers…good and brave; to heaven with her!”

Suddenly, el Paso of Our Lady of Sorrows was elevated by order of the elder of the brotherhood as the smoke from the wax candles left a smooth trail in the night’s air.

For anyone who was born in Cordoba, this scene was nothing new. But Juan de Mengíbar felt in that instant a pressure in his stomach and a hot, dense wave that clouded his eyes for a moment leaving him speechless. His abated breath was then let out by an unknown presence; something like a promise fulfilled only in time.

It was 1901, the year Juan was seventeen. In Cordoba, calendars only recorded the turn of the century. The city remained steadfast; lively, stoic and traditional, yet somehow endowed with an undeniable skill for mockery.

Like every year, the smell of basil, and horse manure from the cavalries was overcome by the springtime aromas of orange blossom and jasmine. The sound of water fountains, the conversations between the women mingling there with their pitchers and the racket made by the children playing in the streets was all brought to a standstill as the processions made the city eerily pulsate along with its solemn steps.

Holy week went by along with the May Crosses festival, and so did another year. At the family-run silversmiths, Juan continued to work under the watchful eye of his grandfather, Antonio. He was a smart kid who learned quickly. His grandfather thought that of late he appeared more settled, but at the same time nervous. It was as if Juan was expecting something to happen, that on the one hand he wasn’t letting on about and yet at the same time was disturbing to him. It was only an impression, but it was obvious he was no longer as impatient as he used to be in wanting to leave the workshop so he could be with his friends at the Fuente del Potro. He preferred more to take his time working on the most delicate pieces in the workshop; searching for new shapes, different combinations and unknown glints of light. His grandfather sang while working on a brooch.

“Through the narrow streets
leading to your house,
my soul wanders.”

“I’m thinking…”
“what, grandpa?”

“If you leave tomorrow
my girl, you will feel them
paved with my tears.”

His grandfather could sing that song all day long.

“Grandfather...”
“yes?”
“You were thinking.”
“Yes, I was thinking that it is now time to write to Said. He will have things to teach you.”

The ship arrived in Tangiers at noon, the sun was reflecting fiercely off the facades, while the sea breeze whirled through his hair. Said Amar was waiting for him. He hugged Juan tightly.

“Your grandfather has never misled me; you’re just like him. Let’s see if you’re as skilled as he is in using a hole-punch.”

Said was one of the most reputable jewellers in Tangiers. He and Antonio de Mengíbar met when they were young and have since maintained a close friendship and a professional and loyal working relationship. There were no secrets between them. People might have thought they were in competition together, but they knew that sharing their discoveries was a pleasure; a pleasure that was the achievement itself as it was an ardent.

In Tangier, Juan found himself a master and a reference to the youth of his grandfather who he would never look at in the same way after Said told of the laughs and the adventures he and his grandfather used to have in the old days. The days passed beneath the white lights of the workshop, and time spent there was accompanied by walks in the Kasbah and the charm of los zocos. Tangier was a mosaic; a dazzling place.

One night, Juan went up to the flat rooftop for a breath of fresh air. In the house opposite, a family of women were dyeing their hands with henna. Juan was struck by a young girl who was singing while lying down as she was being painted. Night after night he went back to the rooftop and again the young lady sang the same melody. One night she suddenly glanced over at him. It was the first time their eyes had met. Thereafter, every evening became something of a date for both of them. One morning, Juan decided to hide behind the door, for however long it took, for her to come out.

“Through the narrow streets
leading to your house,
my soul wanders.”

When she did finally come out, accompanied by a maid, he followed her through the labyrinth of the medina up to where she arrived at the Zoco Grande. There, as she stopped at a stall, Juan approached her:

“Your name, just your name,” he asked.
“Manaar,” she replied.
“Manaar?”
“That’s what my grandmother was called; a very brave woman indeed. I was her first grandchild. The name means house of light; go now.”

Two days later, the maid, who accompanied Manaar, handed Juan a note. In it, there was only one sentence which was very clear: “I will meet you at the rooftop tomorrow night when everyone has retired.” Waiting can be infinite and a thousand years may escape like a speeding gazelle. That’s what Manaar said later when talking about her song and it was very true.

A ladder served to bridge the short distance between the two houses. Manaar was waiting expectantly. While embracing her, Juan felt like there was a knot inside him being untied that had been bound for a long time and the words ‘to heaven with her’, returning to resonate. If heaven existed, it was certainly on that rooftop in Tangiers. Manaar put her veil around Juan’s neck and smiled. Her name did her justice. Everything about her radiated light; she was without shadows or doubts.

Immersed in each others company and oblivious to time, they were completely unaware of the threat looming over them.

“You swine, you will regret this.”

The voice came from behind Juan’s back. Juan reacted with force but before he knew it, a knife came across his cheek forcing his face to the front. Then the flash of another blade came out of the darkness straight onto Manaar’s neck.

“Don’t move or it will cost you dearly!” Whispered the voice.

Manaar wanted to break free so she bit the hand that held her and in the scuffle the pearls of her necklace rolled on the ground. A third man, guided by the maid, then appeared. The newcomer helped restrain Juan whilst Manaar was dragged into the house. They had been betrayed by the maid. It was two against one and they were armed. Juan put up no resistance. He relaxed his body in the hope they might think he had been weakened, believing this might be his only chance of escape. He noticed the pressure on his neck was slightly easing. He kicked out at the younger of the two, knocking him to the ground. Juan then turned around to face the attacker who had held him, but he was too strong while his accomplice quickly got to his feet. The blows came one after the other, deliberate and with precision. Juan had no chance and collapsed. Again, he heard that threatening voice:

“You will learn not to look at what is not yours.”

It was a clean cut.

“Get rid of that ladder,” said the voice as it grew fainter.

Shortly after, dawn broke. He never knew how he had got out of there. He was told he lay unconscious for several days and had lost his eye. Two weeks later, after recovering fully, he abandoned Said’s house and headed for the port. Moving down the narrow streets, he slowly made his way home, dragging himself to the rhythm of the old folk song.

“If you leave tomorrow
my girl, you will feel them
paved with my tears.”

During the return trip, Juan realised that he no longer wanted to stay in Cordoba. The world was too attractive to turn away. He loved boats. He felt the sea was a good option, perhaps the best, so he found work on a merchant ship bound for Brazil. When it was time to go, Antonio de Mengíbar hugged him.

“Good luck son; everything will be fine.”

In parting, his grandfather wanted to say something. For a moment he seemed to hold back, but then he unbuttoned his shirt revealing a scar on his chest.

“It says Manaar; now you know.”