The Apprentice's Masterpiece (2 page)

I was just four. Mama tells me
we traveled by night to flee
Cordoba. By day, we hid.

Those who stood fast were attacked.
They were beaten with clubs.
With fists and stones.
One man we heard of
was dragged from a cart till he died.

So, why come back?
Good question.

We stayed just six months
in Gibraltar.
All Mama will say is,
“It didn't work.”

It must have been bad
to be worse than this.
Now we're no more than servants
in our own home.

Fur

It's bizarre. I remember one thing
from the riots—so vividly
that it seems like this morning,
not ten years ago.

I am covered in soft, warming fur.
I think someone—an Old Christian
magician?—may have transformed me
into a rabbit.

I tell Mama this now,
my face burning. I'm fifteen!
What a babyish thing
to think you remember.
But I can't get it out of my head.

She gapes at me.
“Isidore,” she calls,
“come and hear this.”
Papa joins us.

Mama recounts it.
An Old Christian lady
saw us from her window.
We were crouched in a ditch.
Brave soul, she came out.
“Follow me,” she whispered.

She hid us inside a vast trunk of coats
all that day, wedging
it
open
a crack for some air.

Well, all
I
remember
is the feel of fur.
They shake their heads.
“Isn't it—almost—quite funny?” asks Papa.
“‘Changed into a rabbit!'”

We sit there and stare
at one another.
We can't seem to laugh.

The Scribes in Their Shop

Not every scribe
has such a small world.

Some books are made
by a whole troop of hands.

I've heard of a Bible, in Latin,
taking fifty-three masters a winter
to make it. (It was for the Queen).

Ten illuminators
just to draw and ink in
the gold-covered letters
beginning each page.

I'm not complaining.
I've come to like it this way.
Papa and I, bent over our desks.
We share tools, and a language,
and one enemy: the sun going down.

Mama can't really read,
but she helps.
Scrapes parchment with stone
so it's supple and smooth for our ink.
Sometimes she sets out the lines
for our letters. Her hand never trembles.

A quiet army of three: Papa, Mama, and me.
Six days in a week, I love it.
But part of me—perhaps it's the seventh-day part—
dreams a much different life.
Of knights, and explorers,
and of how in the world
I might ever become one.

Bookworm

Papa doesn't just love
the swoop and the swerve
of copying words.

Each morning he's up
before even the birds,
boring his eyes into books.

He must read every page
before it is copied.
Once we are through, the book
will sail back out the door—
and our lives.

Even ten years past
the times
—
that's what we all call the riots—
business is not, Mama says, what it was.
Though our days teem with words,
we can't afford to buy books of our own.

None of this makes Papa bitter.
Books are treasures, he tells me.
But their lives are fragile—
more fragile than wings
of dried butterflies.
Books have three of the deadliest foes
on this Earth:
fire, water, and ignorant men.
(Worms are bad too,
but they work more slowly.)

Still, books are the finest treasures of all.
You need only feast once with your eyes
and your heart.

And you'll be full with their wisdom
forever.

Cats

The world could ignite,
or turn pink, or end:
Mama and I would sleep
through it.

We're like cats in the sun.
We won't rise.
Not until we can bow
to our bowls of hot chocolate
and creamy goat's milk.

Papa makes breakfast,
then back to his books.
He shakes his head,
sad for us, as he goes.

I think it's a blessing,
this gift for deep sleep.
In Cordoba, churches and chapels
dot every street.
Ringing us round like a choker
with infinite loops of beads
within beads.

Each church has a bell
that sounds eight times a day.
There is matins at dawn, and lauds
sometime later, and then vespers
deep in the pitch black of night.

There are other names, too, that
I always forget. Papa says they mark hours
when the monks must say prayers.
But I think they're some kind of torture
the Church has devised. Either that
or they chime every time
some flea-bitten monk thinks of scratching
his head!

Fear

One dark dawn, I do wake.
A man like a mountain
is yanking the mattress
from under my back.

He mirrors the soldiers
who ride through my sleeps.
Sword at his side. On his cloak,
the lion and castle—the sign
of our good King and Queen.

The sheriff, says Papa.
Out for a thief
who's slipped from his grasp.

What is so precious
they feel they must shake
growing boys from their beds?
Mama is cross. She, too, has been woken.

Then I look. She is the one
who is shaking.

Justice

Days later, we hear it.
A boy, after all.
Much younger than me.
He wasn't yet ten.
Made off with a chalice,
plated with gold.
Small bounty at best.
But he hanged.

He was starving. An orphan.
Tried to trade it for cakes
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 talent 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.