The Apprentice's Masterpiece (8 page)

But the guard who has led me
into this room is just a young man,
barely older than me.

We don't speak.
I regard him.
He's normal as stone.
No skulls are laced
into his belt.
His fingers are grimy, but don't
end in claws.

Our eyes meet,
only once.
What had I hoped for?
A smile? An offer of friendship?
Some small sympathy?

All that is there
is a flicker of joy—
that I am I,
and he has fortune enough
to be he.

Communion

It sits on the table directly between us
like bread to be shared.
My masterpiece.

But my Inquisitor
is not hungry to see
what talent I have.

He reads me instead.
I've told him I write Spanish well,
and also a few basic Arabic words.
That sparked his regard for a moment.

But he doesn't trust me.
He points at my book.
Did you know, young master,
that this
Hercules
is unlawful?
That it is now on our List
of Heretical Books?

I look astonished.
It's not pretend.

“Well,” he asks,
“what should be done
with your masterpiece?”

I rise to the challenge. I've come this far.
“Why, burn it of course, Holy Father,” I say.
“The Church knows best in all things, I believe.”

“But all that hard work—”
He is testing. “Each page
testifies to your art.”

Two can play at knowing
the right words to say.

“I hope, Reverend Father, to fill
many more pages than that
in the course of my service
to you.”

Looking for Work (2)

“Is this
really
what you came for?”
The friar leans close.
I can smell the remnants
of lunch on his breath.

What choice do I have?
I say yes.

I have no love for Señor Ortiz.
But the eyes of that doctor
dance through my conscience.
And the warm way he and Papa
shook hands.

So I've said what I say
at every strange house.
A talented scribe,
sadly out of work.

I came to
them
, after all.
If I don't pretend
that a job was the reason,
the Office will never
leave us alone.

Questions (2)

I was so calm when I woke up
this morning, so determined
to ferry this plan.

Now that it's done,
my mind roils with questions.

How will I tell Mama and Papa,
and even Amir?

(Will I tell them?)

Then, in two, too-short days,
when I start, how will I bear it?

(Will I bear it?)

Priests tell of men, desperate men,
selling their souls to the devil.

Is that what I've done?

Whose words will I put
into parchment and ink—
the denouncers? Or, perhaps,
the denounced?

And which would I rather?

I'd rather be
underground.

TWO
Amir

Cordoba, Castile and Malaga, Granada
1486–87

Falcon

Like a fool, I go.
Or, like a falcon.

Let me explain.

Young boys
believe falcons are noble.
They are, after all,
kept by kings.

But here's how they train such a bird.
Tie its feet to a stick.
Strap leather blinders upon its poor eyes.
When these come off,
it has forgotten the whole notion
of freedom.

Ramon has commanded I go
to his “lady” as if I were still
his little slave boy.

What he doesn't know:
Papa (I call him that at
his
bidding)
gave me my freedom
three months ago.

Yet I am sent off
like a clever pet. To make
Master
's excuse to a spoiled,
shallow girl.

Break

You're not supposed to speak up.

For centuries the emirs of Granada
—
Muslim
kings—kept their bitter mouths shut.

They paid for the privilege of staying
in al-Andalus, the land they once proudly
called theirs.

When the collectors came calling from up in Castile,
the proud Southern Muslims paid up.

But every such story must end
with a change.

Our break in the chain was Abu al-Hassan.
When the King's envoy came to him for the tax,
al-Hassan sent him away.

“We do have a mint here,” smiled the emir.
“But the weaklings who used it
to make coins for Christians are all dead and gone.
Today our mint makes only
scimitars' blades.”

Since then, war's been brewing.
The Christian army—
led by Fernando, the King—
has many new toys and is eager to play.

I bet, were I the emir,
I'd have paid peace's price.

Watch how I'll be with Ramon, in a day:
all too glad to forgive and make nice.

How?

Still,
how can I go back?

It's not just Ramon.

It's also this fact:
it's better I've gone.

If I stick around,
that Señor Ortiz will never relent.

He will chase them from there
as sure as the lion
chases the stag.

The Cathedral of Santa María

I wait.

This jewel of Cordoba
wasn't always a church.

Muslims came here
from all over al-Andalus
to say Friday prayers.

As a child in Granada
I heard of it often.

They've kept its lacework of pillars and arches.
Its splendid mosaics iced in pure gold.

But they've ruined its balance,
its simple form.

The Christians have plopped a vast choir pit—
pompous wood benches, cold, tomb-gray stone—

right in the middle. To the Christians,
it's progress. But to us few Muslim faithful

who still haunt these streets, it's
a blight. Like rouge on the face

of a ten-year-old girl, glowing without it,
just as she was.

Even the Christians don't seem to respect it.
Its courtyard, where Muslims once washed

before prayers, is famous these days
for trysts between lovers.

It is said that the mosque once contained magic.

Even filled up with thousands of the faithful,
there still felt like room for ten thousand more.

It seemed to be made,
so the chroniclers say, out of shadow and light.

Now it's no more than dead marble and stone.

Lady

I've been lost in these thoughts.
So I jump when I hear boots on the tile.

A clipped, low laugh.
Not the voice of a girl.

Then, she arrives.
Swoops onto the scene like a lady at court.
Willing all eyes upon her.
Can't this girl be discreet?

Once more I think,
What
does he see?
Then I recall how angry I am.
She and Ramon are made for each other, that's all.

Will she not use her head? Stand in a less glaring spot?

If a Muslim is seen
with a Christian girl of her class—and alone…

Perhaps her honor is not dear to her.
But I like my head attached to its neck.

Now she's humming, if it
could be called that. Have I really found things
too quiet these days?
The voice of this girl could scare dragons
from out of their caves.

A Little White Square

That low laugh again. I look: there.
A clutch of young men in one corner. They ooze
trouble.

I don't know what they're up to.
But I don't need Hafiz to guess
they aren't here to pray.
If they see me with Bea—

But I can't wait all day!
I stride right toward her.
Why should I fear those common thugs?

She looks up at me like I'm a boil
filled with pus.
“Ramon's very sorry,” I say.
“He had an engagement, and so
could not come.”
She stands there, confused.
You'd think I'd just said,
“Ramon's grown three heads.”

The men in the corner are quiet.
Eavesdropping, of course.
I must be polite.

“Señorita Alvarez,” I begin,
“I've been asked by Ramon
to give you a gift.”

“Oh, let's get it over with,”
snorts our heroine: it's hardly becoming.
And she thrusts something at me.
It's either a token wrapped
in a white handkerchief
or else the hankie itself is the gift.
These chivalrous rites are ludicrous.
With this worthless square,
a woman pledges her heart!

I am just reaching into my sack
to pull out her gift
when it happens.
For not the first time
the world as I know it
comes to an end.

Rain

I brace for that shrill voice of Bea's,
expect her to shout out
at least one
help
.

What a fool.

All I hear is the thuds of their kicks
and the hard metal rain
of their blows.

Still

I'm as still as a corpse.
No good fighting back now.

Are they gone? Better wait.
But how long can I lie here?
The day's on the wane.
If I'm caught after curfew
by the wrong men,
no excuse in the world—even being
near death—will save me from jail.

All is still. I must risk it. I open one eye.

The toe of a boot hits
like cannon-shot.

One of my attackers
has returned for more.

He starts to come at me again.
What happens next I can barely remember.
Even harder is it to explain.

With the one drop of strength
that remains in my arm,
I strain for my sack, lying by me on the ground.
I thrust my hand in and grab for the knife.
Pull it out. As it comes, its sheath falls,
like magic, to the ground.
I've no strength to fight, but perhaps I can keep
the knife fast in my grip.

A loud yelp of pain, as if from a dog
that's been caught by the wheels of a cart.
My attacker, in moving to grab me,
grazed his meaty paw
on the point of my knife.

He looks at me, stunned—for a moment.
Sucks a bloodied knuckle and swears.
But he comes no closer.
His fun is done for the day.

Yet, just as he turns to run off,
he sends me a message.
He looks in my eyes.
And he smiles.

Alarm

I am fading.
My legs lack the strength
to hold me upright.

But what can I do?
Raise the hue and cry?
When a citizen sounds the alarm,
all must drop what they're doing and help.

That awful smile stops me.

It seemed to say,
Rat on me if you dare.
You are a Moor, and we
are at war with your kind.
Even if people believed
I attacked you,
would they really care?

Guardian

Papa told me
of a wonderful book he'd once copied.
It had tales of the heavens
and maps of the sky.

When he had finished
inking the names,
a gilder drew lines between stars
in pure gold.

The book quoted something
a rabbi once said (“Though
it called him a monk!” Papa scoffed):

Each blade of grass
has a guardian star
which strikes it and says to it,
Grow!

My eyes scour the heavens.
Does one of those stars
look out for me now?

Tricks

Night is turning to day when I wake.
I drag myself up,
though I've nowhere to go.

No one I pass stops to offer
me help. They seem angry, in fact.

They scowl at my wounds
and they show me their backs.

Are this limp and this blood
only tricks I've invented?

Props I've designed to rob peace
from their sleep?

Manumission

I saved up my money.
Washed clothes to help them
put food on their table.
But then, without telling Mama or Papa,
I doubled my clients.

There I was in the dark hours of morning,
scrubbing cloth in the Guadalquivir.
Ramon complains he can't sleep
with me there, but the truth is,
he can, and he does—like a log.
Not once did he hear me
creep out.

Papa was shocked
when I showed him my handful of coins.
Then he retrieved a piece of parchment.
It seemed to shine brighter
than a whole chest of maravedis:
it lit up his face.

“I'd already prepared this, Amir.
I hope the Arabic is halfway correct.”

I, Isidore Benveniste, hereby manumit Amir,
son of Aman Ibn Nazir of Granada.

Manumit
. Every slave knows that word.
The thought of its sound often sings us to sleep.

There were more fancy lines in his beautiful script.

I was free! “I won't take your money, Amir.
In fact, had I some of my own, it is I who'd pay you.
You have taught me so much.”

Mama came in.
“Amir,” she said kindly,
“will you stay on as what you've become?
As our son?”

The Muslim Quarter

I'm ashamed to admit it,
but apart from my Friday
prayers at the mosque,
I've steered clear of this place.

It reminds me too much of all I have lost.
My birthplace. My home.
(And now I've lost two.)

I go deeper in than I've ventured before.
The mosque sits on the fringe of the quarter,
where the Christians can keep it under
their eye.

In the few streets behind, though, Mudejares
live by the handfuls of hundreds.