The Apprentice's Masterpiece Read online

  He was strangled before he was burned—

  out of mercy. In the end, he’d repented.

  But his eyes remained open.

  We stood and watched.

  When the flames reached his head,

  you couldn’t see much.

  His hair, catching fire, haloed smoke.

  Yet after a while I did notice something

  dropping to the ground.

  We were far back in that crowd.

  By decree, the whole of Cordoba was there

  to witness the spectacle.

  In the dreams, though, the eyeball returns in

  horrid detail.

  It’s as close as a pea might be,

  on my plate.

  Little Lies

  When I wake from these dreams

  I am sweating and shouting.

  Mama hears and comes in.

  She is angry, I know.

  Not with me. At the fact

  we’re all made to watch

  these foul shows.

  Yet she consoles me.

  We even try

  to make it a joke.

  “Did you see the eyeball?” she’ll ask me.

  “Was it red and bloodshot from his drinking

  too much for his last hurrah?”

  Once or twice I have woken in tears, like a child.

  Mama tells me, those times, that I’m safe.

  We’re all safe.

  Everything will be fine.

  She knows I don’t really believe it.

  Neither does she.

  But there’s something amazing

  about those bland words.

  Those little lies that claim

  our lives are normal.

  To say them, to hear them,

  feels gutsy. It’s as close

  to rebellion, maybe,

  we will ever come.

  Parchment

  Now Yuce Tinto is gone!

  No one has seen him

  for one month at least.

  Not even in church.

  He is the man

  who sells us our parchment.

  He has a kind heart.

  His prices are always

  too cheap by half.

  Papa sends me. Yuce

  has no wife. Maybe he’s ill,

  helpless in his bed.

  No one’s there.

  His home’s been ransacked.

  Shreds of parchment and paper

  lie strewn like plucked feathers

  all over the floor.

  Everything points to the Inquisition.

  Yuce, too, is a converso.

  And I once heard him say

  that Jews and Muslims can

  go to heaven, if they are good people.

  Who knows to whom else

  he’s said such rash things?

  Poor Yuce.

  He had a big mouth—

  and many friends.

  Both spell danger.

  But together…

  Mama cries when she hears it.

  “What will become of that poor,

  gentle man?”

  I’m selfish. Our one source for parchment

  has just disappeared.

  Without it, we can’t do our work.

  So it’s like we’ve no food.

  What will become, my poor, gentle Mama,

  of us?

  Collecting

  First, it was dead butterflies.

  For a while, Roman coins

  I’d find in the earth.

  But this type of collection?

  It doesn’t suit me.

  At long last, I can roam

  through these streets. Yet I’d rather

  be home in my room.

  No one likes to pay debts.

  Not even clients who once mussed my hair

  and brought me sweet treats.

  They make promises.

  (Those come cheap.)

  One gives me a barren old hen

  in exchange for a prayer book

  that took eight days to copy.

  I pass by the mansion

  of Don Barico.

  He owes nothing.

  In fact, he always pays in advance.

  Often he’ll even add wonderful gifts.

  Plump partridge pies.

  Candied almonds. Soft leather covers

  for books.

  I sigh. The word candied haunts me

  all the way to our door.

  Gift

  I’m scarcely inside

  when I hear a knock.

  There stands Don Barico himself,

  as if he’s been conjured

  by my wishful thoughts.

  But what twisted magic is this?

  There’s no partridge pie in his arms.

  Instead, at his side, stands a boy.

  Well, I think he’s a boy.

  There’s a thin line of hair

  just above his top lip.

  (There’s more above mine.)

  But the rest of him—lost

  in a mountain of cloth.

  His robes touch the ground,

  hiding even his shoes.

  His hair in his turban could be

  long or short or painted magenta,

  for all I can see it.

  There are two things, though,

  you can’t miss.

  On his robe, just below his right shoulder,

  the red patch of the Moors.

  Above it, on his cheek, a black S.

  Inked or burned, I can’t tell,

  right into his nut-colored skin.

  Don Barico hasn’t brought us a present.

  He’s brought us a slave.

  Monkeys

  I love Mama’s laugh.

  And God knows, it’s a rare enough creature

  these days.

  But this time, it’s wrong.

  “Look at them stare at each other,” she says.

  “Like two nervous monkeys

  peering over their barrels!”

  No, I was just looking, not staring.

  He’s the one who won’t quit.

  Like I’m the strange one.

  The stranger.

  We Are Four

  Never mind what we’ll do with a fourth mouth to feed

  when there’s barely enough for ourselves.

  What will we do with two more working hands?

  No commissions, no parchment,

  not even much ink.

  Plus, he’s another

  person to fear.

  I’ve heard of some slaves, malcontents,

  behaving like spies.

  One insult from their masters:

  they run to the Office.

  They tell the first tale, no matter how false,

  to enter their minds.

  Papa, it’s true, is a master scribe.

  As am I, for that matter.

  Most masters have servants.

  Who cares?

  We’ve always done fine

  on our own, thank you kindly.

  Papa’s no fool. It won’t be a day

  before he sends this Moor back.

  Arabic

  “Amir is still learning

  his Spanish, Ramon. You

  must help him.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Ha.

  My friends and I talk

  about him

  even though

  he’s right here.

  Like speaking aloud

  with a donkey around.

  He looks at us, straight.

  Sometimes he blinks

  like a fly’s flown too close.

  But even could he decode

  what we say, well,

  aren’t his ears

  tucked too tight

  in that turban of his?

  Shoo

  Mama and Amir

  now rule the kitchen.

  I brood by the hearth—

  it’s just me sitt
ing here, so it hasn’t

  been lit—and try not to listen.

  Even with Mama,

  he doesn’t say much.

  But she doesn’t give up.

  She babbles on, drowning

  his silence with streams

  of her talk.

  When Papa or I try to help

  with the meals, she just shoos us.

  We are clueless and clumsy.

  But Amir can do things.

  Well, wait till I tell

  the boys in the quarter

  he can cook like a girl!

  Strut

  Amir drops

  the docility act

  when we’re out of doors.

  Everyone knows he’s our slave:

  I’ve told them.

  But he struts like an equal.

  He holds his head high.

  They all can see it.

  This kid, Paco, said,

  “He makes like he

  is the master of you!”

  Companion

  One thing I’ll say:

  with Amir here, Mama and Papa

  don’t nag me as much about going out.

  I know why. They think I can’t

  get into trouble

  with him as their spy.

  What do they fear? That I’ll scale

  the high wall of a convent

  if I’m left alone?

  We’re sent to the market;

  I choose a route so roundabout

  I feel dizzy. (If I’m stuck

  with this guy, I vow to have fun.)

  Amir narrows his eyes

  but says nothing.

  What can he say?

  The streets wind like serpents.

  For some reason I think of

  a story I know, of Hercules.

  As an infant, he cast

  a swarm of snakes from his cradle.

  He must have owned slaves.

  Did he permit them to walk

  by his side, as I do?

  Retort

  We turn from some alley

  (I admit it: we’re lost)

  right into their midst.

  A long line of men in fine robes.

  On their shoulders, a dais.

  There, clad in silk, sits a tall Virgin Mary

  just as if she were real, and a queen.

  The men seem to glow in their pride.

  Women stand alongside,

  throwing petals of roses at the men’s feet.

  From a high window nearby

  someone wails, “Nuestra Señora!”

  Our beloved lady!

  The voice is so full

  of both sorrow and joy

  it prickles my neck.

  Then, out the side of one eye,

  I see a swoop of cloth.

  It’s Amir, down on his belly,

  lips to the ground.

  This has been law since the Christians

  won Cordoba back from the Moors.

  All Muslims must prostrate themselves

  when an image of Mary or Christ

  proceeds past.

  Amir stands.

  He catches me staring.

  “You kneel in your church,

  do you not?” he asks.

  His Spanish—I gawk—

  is smooth as glass.

  Questions

  So it seems that Amir’s understood

  every word that I’ve said.

  He tries not to smile

  as I come to grips with his trick.

  But there’s the smallest of smirks,

  like the spout of his mouth

  has a minuscule crack.

  Now, at the market,

  he speaks to the merchants,

  asking for this many olives (only a few)

  or that much salt. (I can’t say

  I mind this: I hate to shop.)

  But on the walk home

  we say not a peep.

  Of what could we speak?

  What I most want to ask

  I know I should not.

  Why’s he a slave? Did he steal something?

  Kill?

  Has he ever been sold

  in a market himself?

  How many times

  has his back felt a whip?

  Does a person—kind of like cramps

  in your hands when you write—

  get used to it?

  Do slaves dread tomorrows?

  Plan escape? Dream of death?

  I make it a game. Imagine I’ll ask him

  whatever I want (though I won’t).

  By the time we are home

  I’ve chosen two.

  What do you hope for?

  That’s one. And the second:

  what do you fear?

  If I were a slave,

  I think I’d fear nothing.

  Sure, I would dread

  every lash of the whip.

  But dread and fear

  are not the same thing.

  What’s there to fear

  when you have nothing left?

  Pupil

  After supper, the roles

  are reversed.

  I help Mama clean up,

  like a servant.

  I guess washing dishes is easy enough—

  even for blockheads like me.

  Papa and Amir sit out

  by the fire.

  (Yes, for him, it is lit!)

  They scribble away

  on two separate slates.

  (Amir’s got an old one

  of mine. No, no one’s asked

  if I’d mind.)

  What do they write?

  What else but Arabic?

  You see, our Moorish slave

  is teaching Papa—master scribe—

  how to write!

  Mama must see me scowling.

  “Try to be gracious,” she scolds.

  “He may be a slave,

  but Señor Barico brought him here

  for a reason. He was meant

  as a gift to Papa.

  A great one.”

  I nod, say good night.

  (Is that gracious enough?)

  But I think: Mama has lost

  all her fine talent

  for comforting me!

  Pity

  Can it get any worse?

  Now I’m pitied

  by our slave!

  “My language is so difficult.”

  He wears a kind smile.

  “Many great men do not know it.”

  I see. He thinks I think less

  of Papa for this.

  But that’s not the problem.

  No one’s thought to teach me Arabic.

  So I think less of myself.

  Can you blame me?

  The Kingdom barely knows I exist.

  And now I’m old rags

  here in my own house.

  Ache

  And why Arabic?

  What makes it

  such a great gift?

  Hebrew—though it might

  get us arrested—

  that I could see

  Papa wanting to learn.

  Hebrew is tied to us,

  to who we are.

  Is Papa so quick

  to forget this?

  Listen to them!

  They’re at it again.

  Studying, reading.

  Talking language stew.

  Mama waits up, dozing

  by the fire.

  I retire, but I hear them.

  Their sound makes a lump

  down deep in my belly.

  It feels like I’ve wolfed a whole bushel

  of berries, rotten and soft.

  Mark of the Slave

  When Amir and Papa finish at last

  with their work for the night,

  Amir comes to sleep in my room.

  Aren’t slaves meant to sleep

  on the staircase or something?

  It’s not that
he snores.

  In fact, he’s too quiet.

  And that thing on his face

  gives me nightmares.

  Night after night,

  he lies the same way.

  On his left side.

  Cheek against sky.

  So unless the night’s shade

  is blacker than pitch,

  I can see that S.

  It shines up from his face

  like some dark star.

  What manner of man

  burned that mark?

  A Christian? A Jew?

  A slave-trading Moor?

  Does it matter?

  Most nights, the S is the last

  thing I see before my eyes close.

  And the first thing I see upon waking—

  whether or not

  I’ve opened my eyes.

  Al-Burak

  Amir and I walk to the well

  at the end of our street.

  A voice from the grate

  of a high dark window.

  “Hey!”

  I look up. The sun blinds my eyes.

  “Fly away, al-Burak!”

  Should I defend him?

  Is a master dishonored

  by taunts to a slave?

  A rock falls near my foot.

  And a second.

  Amir’s far ahead.

  The rocks, and the name, are for me.

  It rankles.

  We conversos are as used to rude names

  as an ass is to slaps.

  Marrano. Turncoat.

  Jewish wolf in sheep’s skin.

  Al-Burak—that’s—a new one.

  I can’t help it.

  I like to know what I’m called.

  It sounds Arabic. I’ll ask Amir.

  No, I won’t.

  A man in the market

  called him damned shit-skinned cur.

  He’d laugh to know I was irked

  by this one little slur.

  Proud

  We don’t speak a word

  on the way home.

  I try to act calm, but I’m not.

  Water sloshes and jumps

  from my pail like the drops are at sea

  and abandoning ship.

  The black cloud’s above me

  all through dinner.

  Everyone’s quiet.

  It’s clear they can see it.

  “You’re a fool,” Amir says

  as he helps clear the plates.

  “Don’t you know al-Burak

  was a magical steed?

  “It carried my prophet, Muhammad,

  on its back up to heaven.

  I myself would be proud

  to be called such a thing.”

  That figures.

  Amir is just proud to be—

  well, Amir.

  That’s the difference, I guess,

  between him and me.

  But how can I be proud?