The Unfortunate Son (19 page)

Bes put his hands on his hips and said, “Such a pretty lad. Perhaps I can persuade Tariq to buy you as a toy for the harem.” He smiled crookedly. “The boat captain wanted to cut your neck, but me? I would cut you elsewhere.” Bes raised his voice to a very high pitch. “You could be the fairest eunuch in the land, with your sun-yellow hair and your blue-sky eyes.”

Luc said nothing.

Bes chewed the nail of his pinkie and tilted his head. “Or maybe I will sell you to Tariq’s son. Mohammed has a stable of slaves whom he rents out by the day. They break stones and dig ditches. Sometimes his slaves are harnessed to pull heavy wagons like oxen. The worst work for whoever will pay the most. Mohammed cares nothing if the slave dies, so long as he is paid for the full day.”

Bes floured a board and rolled dough to create pies of pigeon and fig. He grilled eggplant slices slathered in garlicky olive oil. He baked almond cakes with honey and currants. The little man had never taken more care, and Luc, meanwhile, busied himself in the courtyard, where a low table was set for Salah and his honored company. The late-February
afternoon sun was hot, but the shaded courtyard was cool; the fountain water tinkled and pealed, and the birds chirped and trilled. Dust puffed from the pillows that Luc beat; he fetched extra cushions. He scrubbed the floor tiles until the iridescence of the blue and green glazes caught the light. He collected every lantern in the house, filled each one with oil, and trimmed every wick. Bes produced a saffron-and-aqua cloth to cover the table. With the candles and lamps, the pots of night-blooming jasmine, and the bright pillows, the courtyard was enchanting, and all was ready.

Luc found Salah asleep, and he gently woke the old man as the call for evening prayer sounded from the minarets of Bizerte. With Luc’s help, the old man changed into a freshly laundered white caftan. Luc filled a basin with water, and Salah washed his face and his arms to his elbows. After he washed his feet, he knelt on his prayer rug with Luc’s help.

“Leave me now,” murmured Salah. “There is dirt under your nails. The Prophet said that cleanliness is half the faith. Surely you can accept that much of my religion.”

Luc went out to the courtyard and scrubbed his hands and his face. Ever since the morning when Salah was ill, months earlier, Luc had helped him walk to a nearby bathhouse, a
hammam
, where both the man and his slave were scoured and steamed. A bath had been a rare event in Luc’s old life, but in this world, bathing was weekly. Not just for the wealthy, but for everyone.
Hammams
peppered the city; they were centers of the community. And Salah’s faith called
for him to wash before each of the five daily prayers, as well. Salah repeatedly reminded Luc that Allah loved those who accepted him and those who were clean.

Salah often talked of his faith, and although Luc listened, he held on to the faith of his birth. He knew that he was no longer the simple boy who herded pigs or fished, but he was not from this place; his home and his heart were across the sea.

TARIQ AND HIS SON sailed in, trailed by servants bearing gifts for Salah. One led a new lamb, another clutched three plump hens. One man carried a caged gray parrot with a gray beak, lemon eyes, and red tail feathers; the handsome bird laughed like a girl and whistled like a man. More servants followed with baskets of pale pistachio nuts, rosy pomegranates, and yellow bananas, and they presented bright copper trays with pyramids of orange turmeric and umber cinnamon. A child servant carried a ball of straw in a silver bowl.

Bes pointed to the bowl and said to Luc, “Snow.”

Luc frowned.

“Inside the straw is a ball of snow. Cold snow from the mountains,” said Bes, with a smirk.

In his studies with Salah, Luc had read about snow, but he had never seen it. Salah handed the bowl to Luc and winked as Luc wiggled his little finger under the straw to touch the snow.

Tariq and his son were gigantic, almost as tall as Salah, and enormously fat. Each was draped in a brightly striped silk robe and stuffed into a vest embroidered with threads of gold and silver. Their turbans were pinned with feathered jewels, and as they passed, Luc smelled the heavy scent of precious oils.

Salah was seated, and Luc helped him stand to greet his guests.

“Salaam,” said Salah with a low bow. “A rare pleasure. You honor me with your presence. There was no need for these wondrous gifts.”

“You honor us, Hakim,” said Tariq, bowing as low. “In all the lands where I have traveled, there is no one as learned or as wise as you.”

His son, Mohammed, bowed to the old man and proffered a crimson leather folio.

Tariq held up his hand. “Later.
That
gift must be saved for the end of the evening.”

Mohammed blushed and handed the book to a servant.

“Now, let our humble meal begin,” said Salah. With a snap of his fingers, he directed everyone to sit.

Luc passed a basin of lemon water, and each man washed his hands. Bes appeared from the kitchen with a burnished copper bowl of couscous, which he placed in the center of the
table, removing the lid with a bow. Each man dipped his right hand into the aromatic grain and began to eat. Luc followed Bes to the kitchen, and together they returned with the feast. Each dish was fragrant and perfect, and the men ate and talked. Luc and Bes sat just beyond the table with the merchant’s servants and waited for Salah and his guests to finish.

“We have just returned from our journeys, wise one,” said Mohammed proudly. “We took musk from India to the king of Timbuktu. And now to you, as well.”

Mohammed pulled a tiny crystal flask of dark purple grains from the pouch on his belt. Using his thumb and his forefinger, he jimmied out the wooden stopper; for a moment, the air filled with a delightful, earthy smell. He replaced the stopper and handed the bottle to Salah, who turned to hand it to Luc.

“My hands are not trustworthy for something so precious.”

“We took musk and many other goods,” continued Tariq. “Baskets of Christian wheat and salted fish. Wool cloth from the merchants of Genoa, barrels of wine from Sicily, vats of oily anchovies from Marseille, rice from here. All this we carried by camel caravan through the desert. An endless journey, sleeping through torrid days, traveling by night with burning torches. Finally we reached the salt mines of the Tuareg and their miserable villages of salt bricks and camel skins.”

“Dreadful places with bitter water and biting flies,” added Mohammed.

Tariq continued. “The slaves in the salt mines last maybe a month. The lucky ones die within their first week.”

Bes elbowed Luc in the ribs. “That should have been your fate.”

“We traded the Tuareg for great slabs of salt and continued through the desert. The Sahara mocks anyone who pretends to know his way. The wind will take a hill from one spot and throw it to another. Our lives depended on the skill of our blind guide, who plotted our way though the desert with his soul and his heart, and, most importantly, with his nose,” said Tariq, tapping the side of his own long nose. “At last, we reached Timbuktu near the River Niger.”

“Where we saw crocodiles as big as fishing boats,” added Mohammed. “Man-eaters.”

“Timbuktu is an impressive city, a Muslim place with an old and massive mosque,” continued Tariq. “There is a fine university with many black scholars, and the city is ruled by a learned king. We visited his palace. He is as dark as his ebony throne; a dignified, wise king. But before us, he had an audience with a savage tribe from the south.”

Mohammed interrupted, “Cannibals! The king presented them with a slave girl, and they ate her.”

Bes clapped his hands. “I hear the palm of the hand is the best cut.”

Salah shook his head and put a finger to his lips, and Tariq rolled his eyes and continued.

“I thank Allah that we returned safely and with much
profit. Timbuktu is truly a city of gold. They have so much gold that they will trade it for equal weights of salt. One visit will make a man rich enough for his lifetime.”

“That is good, for I never wish to make that journey again,” added his son. “The mosquitoes alone nearly bled me to death.”

Tariq frowned at Mohammed and turned to his host.

“Salah, even in Timbuktu, your fame is great. We dined with a scholar who asked if we knew of you. I was proud to reply that I counted you among my dearest friends.”

“I am honored to be so counted,” said Salah.

Then Tariq signaled to Mohammed for the crimson folio. “This I acquired in Genoa. It is a printing of a letter from a Genoan admiral who sailed for the infernal King Ferdinand. May all Ferdinand’s ships end their voyages on the bottom of the sea.”

Mohammed handed the folio to Salah.

“This is the account of the admiral who crossed the Atlantic and reached the islands off the coast of China,” said Mohammed.

Salah raised an eyebrow and smiled. “China? I have heard of this man although I thought he claimed to have reached India by crossing the Atlantic. Either the world is smaller than I thought, or Asia is greater. Perhaps both. In any event, it is a wondrous gift. A great treasure. Luc, take this to my room along with the musk.”

As Luc rose, Bes came forward. “Master, I was thinking that you should make a gift to your guests.”

Salah frowned.

Bes persisted. “Luc would be an extraordinary addition to their harem.”

Bes bowed to Tariq. “
Sayyid
, you must see his golden hair. It rivals the gold you brought from Timbuktu.”

Tariq squinted at Luc, who had turned to leave but stopped.

“That slave? Come here,” demanded Tariq.

Luc looked at his master, wide-eyed, his heart thumping, his hands suddenly cold. Salah glared at Bes and turned to Tariq.

“I would not dream of it. Bes failed to tell you that the boy is unfortunate. If he removed his turban, you would see that he was born with but one ear.”

“One ear?” Mohammed frowned. “Hideous! Why do you keep such a freak?”

“Allah has a reason for all his creations. Who am I to question? I care not if my servants are deformed. It is how they perform that matters,” answered Salah.

Tariq shrugged. “Well, the short one has a big mouth.”

“Yes,” said Salah. “A man’s ruin lies in his tongue. I doubt you would want him, but Bes is yours for the asking.”

JANUARY TURNED UNSEASONABLY warm, with bright days and cool nights, but the wind blustered, and the sea was rough. Pons fished occasionally, although since Luc had been taken, he rarely went out in his boat. He fished from the shore, wading in to his knees and casting his net with a twirl. He brought home barely enough fish for himself, Mattie, and Beatrice. Through the dark winter days, he and Beatrice wove baskets and made ropes and mended nets. Mattie was carving a set of chessmen for Saint Olive’s new young priest. When Father Émile had visited the cottage in the course of acquainting himself with his new parish, he had been amazed and delighted by her fish. He asked if he might commission her to carve a chess set for him. He described the
thirty-two pieces she would have to shape, and Mattie agreed to undertake the work.

“Your talent is a wonder, Mattie. Surely it is a gift from the Lord.”

Mattie looked at the young priest with one eye closed and a big smile. “A gift, eh? Well then, I suppose I must make your chess set for free.”

Father Émile flashed the silver coin in his palm. “I expected to pay you, Mattie.”

She shook her head. “A fortune, that is. But I’d rather have your prayers.”

“Especially if you’ll pray to the Lord to return Luc to us,” said Beatrice.

Mattie sighed and shook her head. “I was thinking of asking for more fish,” she muttered under her breath.

Each day, her knife peeled away curls of linden wood until a rook or a bishop or a knight emerged. The rooks looked very much like the Church of Saint Olive, and the bishops resembled Father Émile. He came once during the first week to see her work, twice the second week, and by the third week, the priest in his black cassock was stopping by every afternoon. Each day his smile grew wider.

“The king has the face of a certain fisherman, does he not?” asked the priest one afternoon.

Pons smiled. “I’ll wager the queen won’t look like that fisherman’s sister.”

“Don’t you take that bet, Father,” said Mattie, as she
unwrapped an unfinished figure. It was a beautiful queen, and she looked like Beatrice.

“More like a princess,” said Pons, and Beatrice rolled her eyes.

Each of Mattie’s pawns resembled a different inhabitant of the village of Mouette, and Father Émile delighted in identifying his new parishioners.

One day in early March, the four of them were sitting at the table sharing bread and cheese that Father Émile had brought. Father Émile was teaching Pons and Beatrice about the game of chess. Mattie had no interest in learning.

“Why would I waste good light playing when I could be carving?” she asked.

Before Émile could answer, there was a knock on the door. Cadeau barked. His bark was echoed from outside. All four rose, and Pons opened the door and found two young horsemen. Cadeau was nose to nose with a dog who was almost his twin; but unlike Luc’s dog Cadeau, who was brown everywhere except his muzzle, this dog had two white paws. The horsemen were both tall; one had very dark hair, and the other had light brown curls. The man with the curled hair tipped his feathered hat to Pons. He wore a maroon cape and wide charcoal britches with tall leather boots.

“Old man, good day. I am looking for my niece, the lady Beatrice. Are you Pons?”

Pons nodded.

“I am Bertrand, and this is my neighbor, Louis, who had business to attend to nearby.”

Pons straightened his shirt and patted his hair down. He bowed. “Sirs, please come in. We have only very humble fare, but you are welcome to share it. Your niece is inside.”

Bertrand pointed to Cadeau as the two dogs sniffed each other, tails wagging. “Is that your dog?” he asked.

Pons replied with a puzzled look and pointed to the visitors’s dog. “Yours, sir?” he asked.