by Laila Lalami
The captains stopped talking and looked at each other. One of them had found an arrowhead made of gold and another had come across what looked like a small silver earring, but no one had brought back as much gold as Señor Castillo. So this is all of it, Señor Narváez said.
Señor Castillo cleared his throat and seemed about to say something when the governor held up his palm to stop him. In a thin voice, he ordered one of the carpenters and one of the prisoners brought to him. From the carpenter, a Portuguese man with a slight limp and a bushy beard, who went by the name of Álvaro Fernándes, he borrowed a hammer and nails. Then he had two of his soldiers force the Indian prisoner to sit on his knees, with his hands before him, in a pose that reminded me of a man at prayer.
Listen to me carefully, the governor said. Is this Apalache?
The prisoner nodded. He was thin and very long-limbed, and on his right shoulder there was a birthmark in the shape of a circle.
This is Apalache? The governor crouched in front of the man, so that he could look him in the eye.
The prisoner nodded again. His eyes were like dark pools, filled to the brim with attention.
It cannot be Apalache. There is little gold here.
The man seemed to hesitate now. Then he nodded again.
Are you telling me the truth? And with this, the governor brought the hammer down on the man’s little finger.
Howling with pain, the man yanked his hand, but the soldiers restrained him and put it back down on the ground. The shattered nail oozed blood, and the knuckle was broken.
Fernándes, the carpenter whose innocent tools had been turned into instruments of torture, walked away toward the huts, but all the officers stood, waiting for an answer to the governor’s question. Where is Apalache?
I wish I could say that I protested. I wish I could say that I enjoined the governor to leave the poor man alone. But I was afraid to speak. I am a slave now, I told myself, I am not one of them. I cannot interfere in matters between the Spaniards and the Indians.
The governor hammered another finger, blind to the blood that now streaked the earth.
Señor, I whispered, shall I go prepare you something to eat? I wanted to walk as far away from the square as I could, to go someplace where I would not have to see what was being done to the prisoner. Señor Dorantes did not hear me or did not wish to answer. I tried again—louder this time. Señor.
My master finally turned toward me, but before he could answer, someone called out, Don Pánfilo, please. Please. It was the youngest of the friars, Father Anselmo, leaning so far forward he seemed about to fall. With all eyes on him now, his voice rose to a higher register, and he began to stutter. P-p-please stop, he said. Th-th-this man d-d-does not know a-a-anything.
The commissary gave Father Anselmo a deeply censuring look, and the red-haired friar bit his lower lip, as if to force himself to say no more. His face, already burned by the sun, turned a dangerous shade of pink. Now he cast his eyes down on his sandaled feet, like a reprimanded child. From somewhere near the village came the call of a strange animal—I could not tell if it was beast or fowl—but otherwise it was quiet, all the officers waiting for the governor to say something in return.
Señor Narváez stood up slowly and, rubbing the soreness from his knees, handed the hammer to his page. Take the prisoner away, he said.
BUT THE INTERROGATIONS DID not stop—they continued for several days, in the privacy of a special hut. Señor Narváez was nothing if not a patient and thorough man. In the presence of at least one of his officers, he spoke to each prisoner and then compared the prisoner’s answers to the ones that had been given by the others. After he had questioned all of them, he did it again, perhaps to see if they had changed their minds. Whenever the guards walked a prisoner back to the holding cell, the commissary and one of his friars would appear. The first would go to the governor to inquire about the progress of the investigation; the other would wash the Indians’ wounds and dress them in strips of cloth.
So for a few days, I was spared the sight of pain. I heard the howling, but I did not have to see it. Still, as I swept the hut that had been requisitioned for Señor Dorantes, as I picked corn for his meals or washed his clothes with the last scrap of Castile soap I still had—women’s tasks, tasks my bondage had reduced me to and from which I longed to be freed—I had ample time to imagine the prisoners’ pain. I knew what it was like to be whipped, to protest, to proclaim one’s innocence only to be whipped with greater fury, and to find that the beatings subside only in the face of complete and unquestioning surrender. On my neck, I still had a scar made by the heel of my first owner, a man everyone in Seville regarded as kind and devout and generous. Señor Dorantes had not beaten me, but that did not mean that he would not start—all it meant was that I had managed to avoid his ire thus far.
It took me a day and a half to gather the courage to smuggle some food to the Indians. I could not give them nuts or fruit, because I feared that the guards would find an errant nut or a fallen seed, and would question the prisoners about its provenance. Using an Indian pestle and mortar, I ground some corn and made flatbreads, which I hid until the prison guard had to go to the necessary.
The night was warm and dark. The only light came from the torches that had been placed along the path that led to the river. When I slipped inside the cell, I heard the movements of the prisoners and smelled their presence before my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Two of them lay on blankets in the corner, asleep or pretending to sleep. The others were huddled together, with their knees against their chests. The man whose nails had been hammered in the village square recognized me and recoiled when he saw me reach into my pocket. I brought out the flatbread and pressed it into his bandaged hands. Seeing this, the others reached out for the bread, too. I wanted to speak their language, but I would have needed to spend time with them in order to learn the cadences of their native tongue. For now, silence was our only idiom.
How strange I must have seemed to them: not a conqueror, but the slave of a conqueror, who had brought them the small comfort of a little food. Perhaps this led them to think of me as a good man, a decent man. But these prisoners did not know, and I could not explain to them, that I had once traded in slaves. I had sent three men into a life of bondage, without pausing to consider my role in this evil. Now that I had become a slave myself, it shamed me that, even without meaning to, I still caused the suffering of others. It was my find—the pebble of gold—that had unleashed the violence of Señor Narváez upon them. They had bruises everywhere, on their faces, their chests, their arms, and their legs. Did they know where the kingdom of Apalache was? And would they tell the governor? If I could have spoken their language, I would have counseled them to tell the governor everything, because he was the sort of man who would only desist after he had gained his heart’s desire. But not a word passed between us that night. I stepped out carefully and ran back to my sleeping mat, outside Señor Dorantes’s lodge, hoping that no one had seen me.
HAVING HAD SO LITTLE SLEEP, I felt especially tired the next morning, and was dozing under the shade of an oak tree. It was warm, but a merciful breeze blew. A few paces away from me, Señor Dorantes was playing a game of chess with Señor Castillo and whenever one of them scored a point, his squeals of delight would jolt me awake. Take that, Gordo, Señor Dorantes said, moving his knight on the board. Gordo was his nickname for Señor Castillo, a little joke at the expense of a young man who, in reality, was very thin.
He had a way with nicknames, my master. Mochuelo was Señor Albaniz, because of his deep-set eyes. Zanahoria was poor Father Anselmo, on account of his red hair. Cabeza de Mono had been my master’s little invention, too, though of course he never said it to the treasurer’s face. And he had several nicknames for his brother, Diego: Chato, because of his pug nose; Flaco, because he was a little thick around the middle; El Tigre, because he was shy and sometimes even fearful.
Señor Castillo rubbed his chin in an exaggerated manne
r, as if Señor Dorantes’s move had puzzled him, then he slammed his rook down and discarded the knight. And what do you think of that? His voice was filled with childish joy.
I was woken up for good when Señor Narváez walked by, returning from the interrogation cell. For some reason, he was alone, without his page. He wore a red doublet and his boots looked freshly shined in spite of the dust. Buenos días, he said with a friendly smile.
He was already on his way when Señor Castillo stood up suddenly and called after him. Don Pánfilo, if I may have a moment.
The governor gave the young señor a sharp look. Even on the best of days, his black eye patch gave his face a forbidding air, but when he was annoyed the effect could be repulsive. What is it, Castillo?
Don Pánfilo, I noticed that the Río Oscuro had a strong current.
It did indeed. But we managed.
Yes. But I thought—I thought—what if it is a tributary of the Río de las Palmas or even the Río de las Palmas itself? I could take a few men with me and go to where the river meets the ocean. We would look for the port of Pánuco, where we can tell our crews about our location and procure more rations for our march.
The response of Señor Narváez was a mix of disbelief and mockery: You want me to spare rations so you can procure more rations?
It was a mystery to me why a man like the governor, who always welcomed the opinions of his officers, felt the need to belittle the young Señor Castillo, or indeed why Señor Castillo did not respond angrily to the provocations. He was either incapable of noticing them or unwilling to respond to them. Or perhaps he was just young—so young that he had not yet learned to greet the orders of his superiors with meekness and respect.
Don Pánfilo, Señor Castillo said, obviously this is not about the rations.
What is it, then? We will go to the port after we reach Apalache, not before.
Señor Castillo ran his hands through his hair and turned toward Señor Dorantes, who was still seated on an Indian bench beside their game of chess. It was a beautiful board, made with polished ebony and ivory, a bright, clean pattern of white and black. The wind picked up now, rustling the branches of the trees around us and disturbing the shadows on the ground.
Señor Dorantes stood up. I think what Castillo is trying to say is that, as we get farther away from the coast, it is just a good precaution to chart a way to the ships and back.
And what if the Río Oscuro is not a tributary of the Río de las Palmas? the governor asked.
At the very least, Señor Castillo said, the river will lead us to a harbor. We can leave a message on the shore to signal our location. Maybe tie it to a flagpole, so that any passing ship can see it. Just as a precaution.
Fine. Take twenty-five men and go to the port. We will remain in this village for a few more days until I am finished with my investigation.
The governor left, and Señor Dorantes returned to his game of chess. Pavo Real, he said between his teeth.
Pavo Real was the nickname Señor Dorantes had given to Señor Narváez, because the governor took as careful care of his appearance as a peacock. But my master had no nickname for me. A nickname is something you use to tease someone, whether out of spite or out of affection, whereas all the things he called me were said without a hint of humor or irony: El Moro, El Negro, El Arabe. On most days, he did not even call me anything. He did not need to—I was always right behind him.
4.
THE STORY OF AZEMMUR
Listen, my mother said. Let me tell you a story.
She was sitting on a stool, shelling beans into a bowl wedged between her knees. Beside her, on the brazier, the grease from a shoulder of lamb crackled in the cooking pot; from time to time, she prodded the meat with a long-handled spoon and turned it over. Her shadow danced on the kitchen wall, where jars of oil and barrels of wheat and barley were arranged in a neat row. In the space between us, my twin brothers were crawling on the floor, while my sister, Zainab, was kneading dough for the bread, her kerchief slipping halfway down her hair with the force of her movements. When the loaves were ready, I would have to take them to the neighborhood oven, but for now I could still sit by the fire.
It was an afternoon in winter, and the light from the doorway was dim. I had come straight from my father’s bedroom, running in my slippers across the wet courtyard to the kitchen; I craved the warmth of the brazier as much as I needed my mother’s company. Once again, I had disappointed my father—I had deserted the msid for the souq, where our neighbor Moussa had seen me. With a promptness born of malice, he had reported my whereabouts to my beloved father, who duly questioned me about the day’s lessons and found that I had failed to learn them. He had given me a look full of displeasure, which was much worse than if he had punished me, the way he used to when I was a younger boy. Now that I was thirteen, nearly as tall as him, he had taken to quietly shaking his head at my stubborn folly.
Mustafa, my mother said.
I did not reply. I sat with my knees drawn into my chest and, after a moment, I lowered my forehead upon my knees. The scholar’s life, which my father worked so hard to provide for me, held neither the dangers nor the delights of the marketplace; I found no enjoyment in it. Worse: I felt guilty for not enjoying it. It seemed to me that I could never measure up to my father’s ambitions.
Mustafa, my mother said again.
I looked up. Her face had begun to show signs of middle age, but her eyes were still luminous and kind. My brother Yusuf, perhaps sensing my sadness, had crawled toward me and now he thrust up his stubby fingers in the air, begging to be picked up. I seated him on my knees. He was still teething, and I let him gnaw on one of my fingers.
Listen, my mother said. Once there was and there was not, in olden times, a poor slipper-mender whose wife died in childbirth, leaving him with two boys and an infant girl. The boys he took with him to his workshop, but the girl he placed with her aunt, who was an embroiderer. The aunt taught the girl everything she knew: how to choose fabric, how to select threads, how to marry colors, how to disguise an imperfect stitch behind a looped one. Best of all, she taught the girl all the embroidery patterns that had been passed down from generation to generation, patterns that could not be trusted to paper, but had to be committed to memory. By the time she was fourteen, the apprentice surpassed the mistress. She even began to invent new patterns. Her fame spread throughout our fortunate kingdom until, one day, a company of women musicians from the sultan’s court came to commission caftans from her.
The girl set to work immediately. She chose a dark blue silk, upon which she embroidered eight-pointed stars in silver thread, giving the fabric the appearance of a starry night sky. The caftans, she hoped, would look beautiful on the musicians. But the more she thought about the court, the more curious she became. What did the sultan’s palace look like? Was it true, as the musicians had said, that the marble in his courtyard was so clear that you would mistake it for a mirror? Had it really taken ninety-two artisans a year to decorate the ceilings of his reception rooms? Were there truly grapevines hanging over the walls of his courtyard, so that passing guests could eat from them?
To a girl who had spent her entire life bent over her embroidery scrolls, the musicians’ stories seemed too good to be true. But Satan, may he be cursed, continued to tempt her. She was so tormented by her curiosity that, surreptitiously, she made one additional caftan—this one for herself—and when the musicians came to pick up their garments, the girl donned the precious caftan and followed them into the palace.
How right the musicians had been! The palace was dazzling. Mouth agape, the girl stared at everything around her. The arched ceilings and colorful rugs were unlike anything she had ever seen in the city. Dozens of guests sat on the divans, attended to by servants who brought in platter after silver platter of succulent dishes. But, while the girl was still entranced by the riches around her, the sultan came in. With his dark turban and his long, green cloak, he was as imposing as a monarch could be. He
sat down on the throne and, with a snap of the fingers, asked for wine and entertainment.
The musicians came forward. A hush fell on the assembly at the sight of the magnificent caftans, though the sultan barely took any notice. Then each of the ladies picked up her instrument—the flute, the guenbri, the kamanja. Hoping to keep up her deceit, the girl took up the lute. She knew nothing about music and could not have guessed that she had chosen the most difficult of all instruments. As soon as the company started performing, the sultan frowned. Who dared to play such discordant notes in his presence? The musicians themselves stopped and looked. And the girl, who had foolishly continued to pluck at her strings, was unmasked.
The sultan’s mekhazniya fell upon her and, beating her this way and that, threw her out of the palace. Caftan in tatters, feet bare, hands broken, the girl returned home, where her aunt tried to nurse her back to health. But the fractures did not heal properly and the girl’s precious fingers became deformed. She could no longer make the delicate patterns that had made her so famous.
My mother had come to the end of her story. Only then did I notice that she had finished shelling the beans and tossed them into the cooking pot. The smell of the meat stew now filled the kitchen. My brother had fallen asleep on my lap, his legs dangling on either side of my knees, his little hand still gripping my finger; now it was covered with baby spittle.
My mother had accustomed me to fairy tales in which it was easy for me to imagine myself, so I remained quiet as I thought about the Story of the Embroiderer and the Sultan. Was I the embroiderer, who should have been content with her gift and not sought out that which was beyond her reach? Or was the story about my father? Was he like the sultan, so enamored with his entertainment that he fails to notice the embroiderer’s talent? I could not be sure, but I knew better than to ask her, because my mother would have told me that stories are not riddles; they do not have a simple answer. All I knew was that the weight on my chest no longer felt as heavy, because my mother’s stories always entertained me, and, by so doing, soothed me.