by Laila Lalami
Hijama, the healer said, can relieve pain, whether old or new. It improves the flow of blood in your body, it builds up your endurance, it restores your youth. If you fall from a horse and sprain your knee, if you slip on the floor of the hammam and hurt your back, if you carry crates in the port and injure your shoulders—all these things can be helped with hijama.
Now the patient was covered with hot glasses, little towers of different colors on the black field of his back. Though it was unbearably hot in the tent by then, he did not move or complain—a good sign, I thought. When the healer began taking the glasses off, each one left behind it a raised circle.
The tent was silent now, united in its desire to see whether the treatment would work. The patient took a deep breath, as if waking from a long and pleasant dream. It was only when he sat up that I noticed he had only one arm, but before I could turn on my heel, I came face-to-face with my father. We stared at each other, each surprised to have found the other in such a place. The healer gave my father a glass of water. Drink, he said, to your health.
But my father pushed the glass away. With his one good hand, he pulled me up by the hood of my jellaba and kicked me all the way back to the msid, where, upon receiving custody of me, the fqih proceeded to cane my feet until they swelled—my punishment for skipping school.
It was often like this with my beloved father. His years of training at the Qarawiyin had instilled in him a deep belief in the importance of learning, the necessity of discipline, and the rightness of our faith. Unlike my mother, who nourished me with stories, both real and imagined, my father, though he loved me, often spoke to me only to correct me or to advise me, and so I learned to keep my peace whenever I was in his presence. Hoping to cure me of my love for the souq and to breed in me an interest in the law, he began to take me with him whenever he met his customers. But I maintained my silence. Silence taught me to observe. Silence made me invisible to those who speak. Year after year, I witnessed my father write contracts for other people, and I began to wonder what it would be like to be a rich merchant, instead of a simple recorder.
3.
THE STORY OF THE ILLUSION
The three Castilians who were killed in the Battle of the Río Oscuro were buried under the pale light of a crescent moon, in a ceremony overseen by the commissary. In the bushes, the grasshoppers were singing, so the old friar had to raise his voice over their frenetic chants in order to be heard. My brothers, he said. These men of faith and honor were devoted to God our Lord and to His Majesty the King, for it was in the service of both that they came to the Indies. They have fallen in battle, but their courage and sacrifice will remain. The commissary spoke in the level voice and practiced formulas of a cleric who had spent much of his life in the farthest corners of the empire, where death was at once spectacular in its violence and common in its frequency.
The young friars standing behind him looked on with terror, especially the one who was swinging the incense, a wispy lad by the name of Father Anselmo. I remember him well, not just because of what happened much later on the Island of Misfortune, but because he stood out immediately among his brothers in brown robes. He was the youngest of them and yet the tallest; he had thick, carrot-colored hair around his shaved crown; and he was afflicted with a terrible and unpredictable stutter. This impediment made him the occasional target of jokes—good-natured jokes, for the most part, though sometimes people’s impatience with him was colored by meanness.
I did not stay to witness the three bodies being lowered into hastily dug graves because I had to prepare the evening meal for Señor Dorantes. When I went to draw water at the Río Oscuro, I found that the Indians killed in the battle, some fifteen of them, had been piled under a cypress tree. The dark heap of bodies, with arms and legs jutting out at odd angles, smelled of decaying flesh. The odor wrapped itself around my throat like a noose and made it impossible for me to breathe. Some of the bodies had been mutilated, I noticed, their noses, ears, or fingers cut out by the soldiers and hung from strings as keepsakes. Flies hovered around in a constant and unnerving drone. Altogether the heap gave me the impression of some creature of the underworld, lying in wait for whoever might cross its path. And indeed the Castilians moved carefully around it, without looking at it or speaking of it, as if they might wake it by sight or speech.
I went about my tasks that night, but all the while I kept thinking that it could have been me in one of the three graves, shovelfuls of earth thrown upon my unwashed and unshrouded body, my soul unprepared for my meeting with the Angel of Death, while a group of Christians above me delivered prayers in a foreign idiom. Or, if the battle had ended differently, if the Indians had won, perhaps I would have been piled with others under a cypress tree, my mortal flesh food for vultures and vermin. Either of these fates was repulsive to me—all I wanted was to return home, where I could die among my own kind.
Sleep eluded me that night. Holding on to my newly acquired hatchet, I tossed and turned, listening to the sound of unfamiliar animals in the distance and trying to ignore the smell of the dead bodies, which had begun to spread all around the camp. As soon as the moon began its descent in the west, I rose to start the fire and prepare the morning meal. Sunlight found me on the bloodstained riverbank, gathering my master’s things and getting ready for the march to Apalache.
Señor Dorantes was a light traveler. Many of the items he had chosen to bring from the Gracia de Dios—his clothes, linens, dishes, a few jars of salve, some cotton padding for his armor, a set of scales—fit in one traveling bag, which this servant of God had to carry on his back. But the other noblemen were less practical. In his saddlebag, the young Señor Castillo carried his treasured but cumbersome chessboard, which was a gift from his deceased brother. For this reason, he never lent it to others who might wish to play with it, but only used it for himself and his closest friends. As for Señor Cabeza de Vaca, the treasurer, he had brought with him several leather-bound books of poetry. Whenever he found the time, he would open one of his books at a random page and begin to read, sometimes declaiming the verses of Garcilaso de la Vega for the enjoyment of the other officers: cuando me paro a contemplar mi estado, y a ver los pasos por do me han traído …
Once the company was ready to depart, the governor forced his Indian captives down a native path that led deep into the wilderness. Take us to Apalache, he commanded. He followed them on horse, with his officers trailing behind him, their armor clanging and creaking in the quiet morning air. The gray metal of their livery looked out of place in the wilderness, alien and uncomfortable.
As the sun rose in the sky, the air grew hot and damp. Farther away from the river, the horses began to kick up dust, which made it even more difficult to breathe, so I wrapped a rag around my nose and mouth, in the style of the caravan merchants who came to Azemmur from the south. They would dismount in the marketplace, calling out to one another to water the animals or set up a tent, and then they would slowly unwrap their blue scarves from their heads and faces, revealing a dyed beard or a beaked nose or a surprisingly young face. My friends and I would run up to them to find out what they were bringing for sale on market day, whether it was jars of indigo and argan oil, or trinkets of gold and silver, or something else entirely, something exotic we could puzzle over as we sat in throngs, cracking sunflower seeds and watching the tents being set up. Memories of my hometown came to me at odd moments, just like this, when I least expected them, as if my grief liked to ambush me. I tried to push the images to the back of my mind, telling myself I would think of them only when I had a quiet moment alone.
Are they any good? Señor Dorantes asked suddenly. He was speaking of the fruits of the Florida palm trees, which I picked as we marched, collecting them in the pocket of my breeches so that I could eat them at mealtimes. Their strange taste had already grown ordinary on my tongue.
I pulled the rag from my face. They are fine, Señor.
My master’s hair had already started to grow, shooting out in
tiny spikes from beneath his helmet. He rode with his back very straight, one fist holding the reins and the other resting on his thigh. We were in a clearing now, but in spite of the sun and the heat the horse shivered.
Abejorro’s ears are leaning sideways, Señor Dorantes said.
He loved that horse dearly, had been riding him since he was a young lad on his father’s estate near Salamanca, and was particularly sensitive to his moods and needs. I stepped out of my master’s shade to get a better look at Abejorro; it was true, his ears were lowered.
I hope, Señor Dorantes said, his tone halfway between a warning and a threat, that you haven’t been giving him some of that fruit you keep eating.
No, Señor.
A horde of mosquitoes moved drunkenly toward me, and I untied the red rag from my neck to swat at them. They were diabolically persistent, a species unlike any I had seen before, a torment for every one of us. All day long, the mosquitoes hummed and the men slapped their arms and legs, like a procession of penitents. I yearned for some lemon and garlic, a mixture my mother used to rub on me to protect me from these parasites in the summer, but despite its richness the Land of the Indians did not have any lemon trees.
That palm fruit could make him sick, my master said.
I did not give it to him, Señor.
As if to expose my lie, Abejorro’s stomach growled loudly, to which my master responded by casting me a grim look. I had grown attached to Abejorro during the journey across the Ocean of Fog and Darkness, so I hated to see him remain hungry after he had finished his feed. I had given him only a small handful of fruit. Now I put my ear on his belly, just behind his ribs, but the gurgling sounds I heard seemed ordinary to me.
If anything happens to my horse, my master said, I will flog you.
The memory of the Indians being whipped came to me, unbidden. It seemed to me I could still hear their howls of pain reverberating against the walls of the storehouse in Portillo.
Just then, Abejorro defecated; Señor Dorantes and I both turned to look. It is hard and dry, I said. He needs more water, Señor. That is all.
Señor Dorantes chewed on his lower lip. Although the horses had been watered at the river, they were kept on strict rations during the march, because the porters could not carry large amounts of water and it was impossible to know how long we would have to walk before we came to another clean source.
I will find him some more water, I said.
How?
The ration master is Portuguese. I will speak to him.
Very well.
As I turned to go, my master called after me. Estebanico.
Señor?
Do not get caught.
The governor was exceedingly strict about rations, so of course I had to be discreet. I walked back to the end of the procession until I found the ration master. He was a man of middle age, with a sweaty forehead and a thick beard. I did not know him well, having conversed with him only when necessity demanded it. Still, I made my request, speaking to him not in Spanish but in his native language, which I had learned as a child in Azemmur. I hoped that this would earn me some goodwill, but his only reply was to ask me, Why should I give you more water?
I told you. My master’s horse is ill.
You know the rules.
The horse could die in this heat. Have some mercy, I beg you.
Mercy is from God. I only ration the water.
But I have no money.
You have this.
The ration master reached for the hatchet I had tied around my neck, and which I had taken from the Indian who had tried to kill me. As a slave in Seville, I had not been allowed to carry a weapon, but here in the Indies, Señor Dorantes had not asked me to relinquish this native ax. Its blade was made of limestone, so finely sharpened it could easily cut through thick pinewood, and its handle was painted in a pattern of white and blue stripes. I put my hand on the weapon to stop the ration master from taking it. It was the only means I had to defend myself in case of an attack. But when I thought of what might happen if Abejorro fell ill—and what might happen to me as a result—I relented. Gingerly, the ration master put his finger on the blade, and when it cut a sliver of his skin, he whistled in admiration. Let him take the hatchet, I said to myself. Let him take the hatchet if it means I can help Abejorro and elude the whip.
Well done, Señor Dorantes said when I reported to him that I had secured a larger ration for the horse. He did not ask how I had managed that feat. Instead, he turned back toward the sunlight and I took my usual place, one step behind him, in his shadow.
THE GOVERNOR HAD ORDERED the Indian captives to take us to the kingdom of Apalache, but they led us into a village of thatched-roof dwellings, arranged in a half-moon against a horizon of pine trees. It was barely larger than Portillo, the fishing settlement where I had found the gold. Inside the firepits, I noticed, the ash was fine and white. Animal bones, all of them picked clean, were drying in the sun. A lone sandal sat in the middle of the square. The colors of the village—the brown of thatched roofs, the red of doorway blankets, the green of ripening corn in the field—seemed to blend together in the hazy heat. I felt dizzy and had to steady myself against Abejorro’s saddle.
From the height of his horse, with his hand shielding his eyes from the light, Señor Narváez spoke: Search the village.
His page repeated the order in a loud voice, so that no one would miss it. Search the village!
The soldiers fanned out through the settlement. They turned the blankets upside down, patted the animal hides that hung on rails, ran their hands through stored beans, checked water urns, and looked inside cooking pots, but none of them reported any trace of gold.
By then, I had tethered Abejorro to a tree and was following Señor Dorantes and Señor Castillo as they walked about. They went in and out of a few homes—simple huts that contained little more than bedding made of animal fur, baskets for storing food, or a few children’s toys. Then they entered the largest lodge, which was the temple. It had a high ceiling and a dirt floor, now covered with the soldiers’ bootprints. A few wooden idols sat along the far end of the lodge, three in the shape of eagles and two in the shape of panthers. Hanging from the ceiling on opposite walls were a dozen ceremonial headdresses, of the same kind as those we had seen in Portillo.
The two señores were walking back and forth along the temple walls, looking for anything of value, when suddenly Señor Castillo stopped in front of one the headdresses; it stood out from the others because it had red and yellow parrot feathers instead of black and brown hawk feathers. The leather strap that maintained the parrot plumes in place was decorated with a multitude of beads and charms, arranged in several neat rows. Señor Castillo unhooked the headdress from its string and in a voice high with excitement he called out: Dorantes. Look at this.
In three strides, my master was standing beside his friend. Señor Castillo dislodged one of the charms with his thumbnail and held it up to the light that came in from the doorway. Motes of dust floated in the air, which carried with it the faint smell of pine trees. In the distance, a horse moaned with exhaustion.
Gold? Señor Dorantes whispered.
His tone was conspiratorial. Instantly, I was reminded of the time he had asked this servant of God to commit a sin on his behalf: to eavesdrop on a private meeting. This happened in Santo Domingo, on the island of La Española, where the armada had stopped for supplies on its way to La Florida. Señor Cabeza de Vaca, the treasurer, had asked to speak to Señor Narváez in private, a request that made my master think he was trying to arrange for a position as lieutenant governor of the new territory. While the treasurer and the governor ate their lunch in the dining room of an inn, I sat underneath the open window and listened. If I had been found, I knew, my master would have denied any knowledge of my mission and instead would have beaten me for spying on his gentleman friends.
It was a hot, humid day, but even as sweat trickled down my back and with a fly exploring the spaces betwe
en my toes, I did not dare move a muscle. I could hear the governor complaining about how difficult it was to find an experienced pilot. None of those I have spoken to, he was saying, are familiar with the western seas.
He threw a chicken bone out of the window—uncouth behavior, but it did not surprise me coming from him—and it landed in one of the bushes on my left. I flattened my back against the wall even further.
I have heard of one pilot, Señor Cabeza de Vaca replied, by the name of Miruelo, who claims he was part of the voyage of Ponce de León, and that he can take us to La Florida.
For the remainder of the meal, they discussed hiring this man. I did not hear Señor Cabeza de Vaca ask for the position of lieutenant and I did not hear the governor promise him one, yet when I reported the conversation to Señor Dorantes, his doubts grew stronger, not weaker. My master was an ambitious man, and ambition made him suspicious of his rivals.
Señor Castillo had trouble removing the rest of the golden charms with his thumbnail, for they were sealed to the leather with glue.
Here, I said, offering him my rusty pocketknife.
Perfect, Señor Dorantes said, patting me on the back. This gesture, this little gesture, nourished the dream I had conceived when I found the pebble of gold.
Once the headdress was stripped of its spangles, we returned to the square, just in time to hear the governor say that he had given the name Santa María to the village. He received the charms from Señor Castillo’s cupped hands and examined them under the harsh afternoon sun. Then he sent spit shooting out of his mouth in a long, straight line. This is gold, he confirmed.
The charms were passed around to the handful of officers and friars who were standing near the governor. A mosquito flew into one of Señor Cabeza de Vaca’s ears and he slapped himself, tilting his head sideways to get it out, but all the while he held on to one of the golden charms, turning it between his fingers. The commissary was saying something about the urgency of destroying the heathen idols in the temple. Quietly, the governor spoke. Did anyone else find any gold?