The Apprentice's Masterpiece Read online

  in a town to the South.

  There was him and his sister

  and no food for their mouths.

  The Queen advised mercy

  on account of his age.

  But this boy was a Jew.

  Before she could stop it

  he was strung up by men

  of the sheriff’s. All who passed through

  the gate of St. James would see him there.

  Beside him, the motto:

  et justum es.

  It is just.

  When I hear about this

  I remember that hand

  creeping under my bed.

  And sleep isn’t easy,

  for once. I lie in the dawn

  and count sheep instead.

  Confession

  Most Jews left this place

  ten years ago.

  The Queen made it law:

  every Jew in al-Andalus

  must be baptized a Christian

  or leave. Then followed those

  four little words, favorites of queens:

  on pain of death.

  The few who defy her

  hide in cellars and shadows

  and caves underground.

  I’m not really here. They have

  less substance than ghosts.

  The priests say the Jews

  don’t think Christ is God,

  so they are our foes.

  They’re left on this Earth

  to remind us why Christians are better.

  We must shun them the way

  we would shrink from the Plague.

  Mama tells me all souls are equal,

  at least in God’s eyes.

  Then says it’s heresy

  to argue with priests.

  Do you doubt I’m confused?

  I only know this:

  we used to be Jews.

  Baptisms

  When a new bell is cast

  and raised to its belfry,

  it is baptized like a child.

  The bishop anoints it with salt

  and with oil. Then he pours

  holy water over its metal head.

  My great-great-grandparents

  were baptized too.

  They had as much choice

  as one of those bells.

  The riots those days, so I’m told,

  were worse—far, far worse—

  than the ones I’ve lived through.

  The Black Plague was raging.

  A third of all Europe died

  from the sickness.

  Fingers were pointed.

  The Jews, it was said,

  had poisoned the wells.

  Not all were killed. Many Jews chose

  to be baptized, to save themselves.

  Others were held down by crowds

  and given the rite no matter

  their will.

  So Mama’s ancestors became Christians.

  Even their surnames were changed.

  And Papa’s? My papa will speak

  only of good—or should I say great.

  How my great-great-grandfather

  was a great, great scribe.

  How he spoke and wrote Hebrew and Arabic

  with more than just ease—with finesse.

  By the end of his life he had served

  a caliph and a king.

  That end came too soon.

  Mama told me.

  Instead of baptism, my great-great-grandfather

  chose death.

  He took his own life, and the life

  of his wife.

  So which of these great ancestors

  made the best choice?

  Landlord

  Señor Ortiz

  is home for a spell.

  I can tell by those stomps

  on the ceiling, all day

  and night.

  He acts, says Mama,

  like he’s guilty of something.

  As if he’s afraid to take off his boots

  in case he must run.

  What from? I ask her.

  But Papa says, “Raquel, shush.

  How do we like it

  when people talk rubbish

  of us?”

  Dinner Guest

  Once a week—when he’s here—

  Señor Ortiz deigns to come down

  and dine. Our table is humble,

  but he doesn’t mind.

  He eats his plate clean every time.

  I crave talk of adventures, and ships,

  and exotic lands. Señor Ortiz

  plies the coast of the Kingdom,

  selling rich silks from the East.

  But our landlord dislikes

  my constant questions.

  He’s one of those people

  who thinks children’s voices

  are irksome to God.

  Whenever he’s here, we have to eat pork.

  I hate the stuff.

  But it’s the menu of choice

  when company comes.

  Eating pork is a sign.

  It says you have left

  being Jewish behind.

  So good Christians must show—

  whether they like pork or no—

  that they can’t get enough.

  Edict of Faith

  Today after Mass

  we were required to swear

  our allegiance once more.

  That’s the third time this year.

  A huge crucifix was held

  in the air by two priests.

  We crossed ourselves, raised our

  right hands. Swore to support and uphold

  the Holy Office—as well as its agents on Earth.

  The Inquisitors.

  How, you might ask, does a peon like me

  “uphold” the Office?

  It’s easy. It’s all outlined

  in the Edict of Faith.

  They read it to us

  every chance they get.

  It goes on forever.

  It speaks of transgressions that might

  cost your life. Yet men fall asleep!

  I can sum up the Edict

  in one word: observe.

  Neighbor, watch neighbor.

  Friend, spy on friend.

  If one of us errs,

  we all suffer.

  What to do then?

  Tell Mother Church.

  Don’t worry your poor

  little head about proof.

  We’ll believe you.

  Heresy is a plague

  and it spreads through people’s souls

  like fire through straw.

  Don’t let the small things escape you.

  Does brother change to clean clothes

  near the end of the week? That’s a sign.

  He’s observing the Saturday Sabbath:

  the day of the Jews.

  Does sister refuse to eat pork?

  That’s a sign. She’s following

  old Jewish laws about food.

  Does cousin cross his fingers behind him

  while praising God? Spit on the ground during

  Mass? Seem to smile when the Holy Virgin—

  her statue—goes past?

  Sign, sign, sign.

  These people’s souls are crying in need.

  You must save them.

  Better to burn here on Earth

  than be lost to the hellfire forever.

  Commission

  Pigs’ feet this time.

  I never thought supper

  would end!

  Plates finally empty,

  the table is cleared.

  Papa brings out one book

  we do own outright—the record

  of all our accounts in the shop.

  “Why so much credit?” whines Señor Ortiz.

  You see, besides owning the house,

  he is now partner in the shop.

  So he says what he likes.

  He thinks we’ve no talen
t for money.

  And I must say, he’s right.

  If someone can’t pay,

  we’ll copy for pies, or for paper,

  or for some future favor.

  Papa says good comes around

  in the end. But there aren’t

  enough turns left in the Earth

  for people to pay back what they owe us.

  By the time the señor stands to go,

  Papa’s brow is down near his nose.

  There’s good news: our landlord sails

  for Lisbon tomorrow.

  And he’s left us a job.

  “One that pays,” Papa says with a smile.

  Or is that a grimace?

  It’s a stupid how-to for ladies at court.

  How to dress. How many cloves

  will cure rancid breath. How—

  I’m not joking—to hold in your farts.

  The patron needs fifty copies. By week’s end!

  So you see what’s become of my art.

  House Break

  I’ve done nothing but copy

  for days.

  (Well, yes, on Sunday, we did break

  for church.)

  Each night when light fails

  we must cease our labors.

  Parchment’s too precious to risk candle flame.

  Our work at an end, I want to escape.

  But since they hanged that young boy,

  Mama and Papa prefer I stay in.

  I’ve nothing to hide.

  We are good Christians.

  We keep all the fasts.

  Who in this world would waste time

  to hurt me?

  One night, I can’t stand it.

  It’s a feast day. Curfew is lifted—

  for all but Ramon! I can hear the fiesta

  from here. The streets sound alive

  with people and song.

  An ear to the door—

  they’re asleep. It’s not hard to tell.

  Both Mama and Papa snore like wild boars.

  Free!

  No thought to direction. I run.

  All roads lead to the river: the Guadalquivir.

  I’m there before long.

  The water wheel’s idle, but still I can hear

  soft patters of splash. And then,

  a girl’s giggle. A boy’s coaxing voice.

  Are such moments for me?

  Or will I go to my grave

  having held in my hands

  nothing softer than pages

  made from cowhides and sheepskins?

  Sabbath

  Sundays, I am allowed out of doors for,

  as my parents put it,

  “a few hours of play.”

  You’d think I was five, not fifteen!

  And even this freedom—a product

  of fear.

  If, on Sundays, you stay in your house,

  the friars will think

  you have something to hide.

  Are you working in there?

  Perhaps eating meat?

  Both are forbidden on the Sabbath.

  They’re for secret Jews, and heretics.

  Such monsters must burn.

  So Sundays, it’s safer outside than in.

  Next Easter, there is to be

  a royal joust. Though it’s many months off,

  the boys in the quarter think of

  nothing else.

  We practice with great concentration,

  as if there’s a chance we’ll be knighted

  tomorrow and asked to compete.

  Our lances are branches

  we’ve stripped from a tree.

  But with my pumice stone

  I sharpen their tips, just a bit.

  Lope is taking things too much

  to heart. Manuel has him down

  and shouts, “Die, Jewish dog!”

  Lope springs up as if scorpion-stung.

  “Don’t you dare call me that, you—

  Marrano pig! Your mouth stinks of garlic,

  the food of the Jews!”

  “Well, you just plain stink!”

  And that does it. The retort is so feeble

  we all three start laughing.

  But later that day I remember their faces

  and long for sunrise.

  To get back to work,

  where words are safe.

  Dinner Guests

  They don’t always leave

  the spying to us.

  One Friday, three men

  storm in as we sup.

  Fridays are fast days:

  no Christian eats meat.

  They peer into the pot

  with such somber scowls,

  I swallow a laugh.

  It’s only fish.

  You can see they’re upset

  it’s not adafina—Jewish meat stew.

  Or—better yet—the head

  of a bishop or two.

  Then they leave.

  No Goodnight or God Save You or even

  a grunt.

  Sliding

  I’ve heard whispers.

  Some New Christians err.

  “Backsliding,” it’s called.

  They may hide Jewish objects—

  menorahs or prayer shawls, perhaps—

  in their homes.

  Or maybe they light candles on Fridays,

  to prepare for a Saturday Sabbath—the choice

  of the Jews.

  And they might say, “Dio,” not “Dios,” meaning:

  only one God.

  That’s Jewish too.

  My parents don’t do

  any of this.

  They are good Catholics.

  Mama prays to the Virgin

  even when no one is there

  to take note.

  But—

  In the tiny, dark room

  where both of them sleep,

  there’s a hole. You can’t see it

  unless

  you know where to look.

  I know.

  I went past one night.

  I heard a faint scrape.

  Looked through the keyhole.

  I wish I had not.

  Papa was crouching down near his bed,

  replacing a stone in the wall.

  His movements were careful, as if

  he were sliding a delicate loaf

  of fine bread into an oven.

  Perhaps the stone had come loose.

  He was just mending it.

  It is, after all, a very old house.

  But my heart tells me no.

  There is something inside

  the recess in the wall.

  The scariest part?

  Because of that Edict of Faith

  we pledged to at Mass,

  I’m under oath

  to find out just what.

  Shoes

  Father Cuesta, our priest,

  is gone from the church!

  A new man, Father Perez,

  preaches the sermon.

  He’s stiff as a shirt

  that’s been dried in the sun.

  The rumors are flying.

  They say Father Cuesta,

  a converso, you see,

  was praying with Jews.

  And not only that:

  he wore, so they say, the communion host—

  the incarnate body of Christ—in his shoes!

  The new Father listed

  the tortures of hell.

  I peeked at Papa.

  I know hellfire and demons

  aren’t things he believes.

  I heard they pulled off his shoes in the square.

  Father Cuesta’s, that is.

  Two bloody circles, red on white, were in there.

  He swore they weren’t hosts.

  He’d given his life up to God:

  why would he want to torture his son?

  The circles of white were just

  morsels of cotton to ease his sore feet.r />
  So they said he was blistered

  from going barefoot on Pesach,

  the Passover fast of the Jews.

  Poor Father Cuesta.

  (He’s sentenced to burn.)

  The moral is this:

  you’re doomed if they start

  to think of your shoes.

  Guilds

  I’m not your best guide

  to how these things work.

  All I know is you sure can’t avoid them.

  There are guilds for every Cordoban trade—

  or just about. Guilds for breadmakers.

  Guilds for blacksmiths. Guilds, even,

  for cleaning latrines

  where men shit.

  From what I can tell,

  these guilds are like clubs.

  They have meetings and rules.

  There are fees.

  What’s most important,

  at least so it seems: each guild

  has its own robes for processions.

  We haven’t had a guild in a while.

  But things are changing. There is talk

  of a printing press coming to Spain.

  Scribes will lose work. They must organize.

  That’s all well and good.

  I like fancy clothes.

  Yet that’s not all there is to the rumor.

  Guilds are known for prizing pure blood.

  There’ll be no parades

  for conversos like us.

  Sure Enough

  The guild of the parchmenters

  is well established.

  Its members have heard

  of this new guild of scribes.

  And been persuaded the guilds

  must work together.

  Business is business.

  The short of it is, they’ve been told

  not to sell us their wares.

  Parchment must be saved

  for true Christian scribes.

  And we’re not true Christians?

  Do they think we mix our

  “Jewish blood” with the ink

  in order to write invisible lies?

  Papa is livid.

  What will we write on, our foreheads?

  A scribe without parchment, he says,

  is just like a voice

  in a world with no ears.

  Baptisms (2)

  Here’s what I don’t get.

  They once were obsessed

  with baptizing Jews.

  My ancestors did what they wanted.

  Those of us who remain

  are all Christians now.

  There is barely a Jew left in al-Andalus.

  Why do they hate us so,

  still?

  Auto-da-fé

  I dream that flames kiss

  my kneecaps.

  Or a man strangles me

  while a crowd shouts for blood.

  Peace be with you, Benveniste!

  But most often I dream of the man with the eye.