by Laila Lalami
You have a story for every occasion, I said. I meant it as a compliment, though I disguised it as a complaint.
Nothing new has ever happened to a son of Adam, she said. Everything has already been lived and everything has already been told. If only we listened to the stories.
Zainab washed the dough from her hands in a bowl of water. She took my brother Yusuf into her arms. The bread is ready, she told me.
But I was still trying to make sense of my mother’s story about the embroiderer. If I was like her, then what was my talent? Was it really to become a notary public or could it be something—anything—else?
Still, I picked up the bread tray and, swiftly pulling the hood of my jellaba over my head, went out into the street. The world outside was cloaked in darkness. The lamplighter’s rounds had not yet brought him to our street, but I managed to find my way by the glow of the oil lamps in the shops that were still open. A pair of Portuguese soldiers passed me, quarreling in their nasally tongue about something or other. In my pocket was the money my mother had given me, though I did not need it because I had convinced the baker to let me sweep his floors in exchange for baking our bread. With my mother’s coins, I thought, I could go to the souq on Tuesday.
IF MY FATHER WAS ASKED about the circumstances under which he lost an arm, he never failed to finish his story by saying he was not sorry to have spoken up about the Portuguese tax. He had reason to repeat this when, one summer afternoon in the year 919 of the Hegira, town criers announced that the governor of Azemmur had refused to pay the tribute to the Christians. Finally! my father said when I told him the news. He was sitting under the pomegranate tree in the courtyard, but even in the shade of its branches I could see his eyes glinting with delight. He drew on his pipe, savored the taste of his kif for a long moment, then tilted his head back to blow out the pale lavender smoke. It was rare for me to see my father display his pleasure in anything, let alone the physical pleasure of smoking. So I sat down across from him and, resting my back against the tiled wall, watched him.
Let me tell you, Mustafa, he said. He launched into the Story of How He Lost His Arm—an account of the events that had taken place on the day I was born and that in my mother’s telling I had come to know as the Story of My Birth. My father’s tale ended at the moment when his arm was being severed and he lost consciousness. Now he smiled grimly and pointed the stem of his pipe toward me. My son, he said, this country is besieged by Castilians in the north and Portuguese in the west. I tell you, I would give up my other arm if it would free our city from intruders.
I remember being amused by my father’s pledge and thinking it nothing more than the bravado of a scholar. But, for several weeks, he was a changed man. He did not haggle over the price of his services; he did not check on my attendance at school; he managed to escape a vicious cold that my brother Yahya had caught; and, rather than rush to the mosque for tarawih prayers, he took the time to linger with us after dinner. And all this, I thought, because the governor had refused to pay the Portuguese? My father and uncles had always paid the tax when it was asked of them, even though they did it grudgingly. My uncles’ workshop thrived. All of my cousins had made good marriage matches and a successful metalworker had come that year to speak to my father about Zainab. Our family was known and respected everywhere in Azemmur. Was that not enough? But I had just turned fifteen and I did not yet understand that there are things far more valuable than private comfort or public admiration.
My father’s new enthusiasm was dampened only slightly when five hundred Portuguese caravels appeared on the blue horizon of Azemmur. From the rooftop of our home, I saw the ships gliding closer, their billowing white sails dotting the line where the sky touched the ocean. With his usual bluster, my father said: If they want a fight, they will have it.
But in the days that followed, their cannons stayed silent—the Portuguese had chosen the way of the siege. Now we had to live in a state of uncertainty.
That night, I joined my father and uncles for dinner, taking my seat around the copper tray table that was set up in a shaded corner of the courtyard. My twin brothers, who were old enough now to eat their meals with us men, arrived late. Yahya carried the pitcher and the bowl, while Yusuf had the towel, though they argued about whose turn it was to pour the water over our hands.
But you did it yesterday, Yusuf said, his voice rising to a shrill.
Without spilling half of it on the way, Yahya replied.
I never spill.
Yes, you do.
There is no need to quarrel, I chided. Yusuf, you can carry the pitcher tomorrow, God willing.
We all took turns washing our hands. To put a stop to their squabbling, I separated my brothers, making Yusuf sit on my right side and Yahya on my left.
In the name of God, my uncle Abdullah said, reaching into the dish filled with couscous. Steam rose from the chicken and carrots that lay in the middle, their sweet and savory smells mingling in the air. We began to eat, and, while listening to my father talk about the siege of the harbor, I cut my brothers’ meat into pieces small enough for them to handle.
Of course the Portuguese want to hold on to Azemmur, my father was saying, now for the third time. But we will defeat them. You will see. He raised his forefinger in the air, with grains of couscous still stuck to it.
My uncle Abdullah regarded my father with the keen indulgence he always reserved for him, but it seemed he could not hold himself back. How will we defeat them? he asked.
With our soldiers.
Whose soldiers?
The governor’s soldiers, of course.
Brother, the governor does not have enough soldiers.
My father was quiet for a moment as he thought about this. Then he sat back against the wall. We can join the governor’s forces, he said.
Who will join them?
I will, he said fiercely, his only thumb pointed at his chest.
Come now, Brother, you are not a soldier. This was not said in meanness or in anger, and yet my father remained quiet, as though he had been insulted.
I can fight, I said hotly. And so can you, I told my uncles.
It was my younger uncle, Omar, who replied. My son, what will we fight the Portuguese with? They have eighteen thousand men. They have cannons and weapons and powder and armor and horses, and we have only our tools. The governor barely has three hundred men to his name. We must wait for the sultan in Fes to send his army.
Yes, my father said, his face alight with reckless hope. The sultan will come to our aid. God willing, he will send reinforcements.
Then my father began to tell us how, five and seventy years earlier, the sultan had sent his vizier Yahya al-Wattasi to rescue the city of Tangier from the Portuguese. Al-Wattasi had rallied troops from around the country, forced Henry the Navigator to retreat, and even starved him into submission. It was a story of courage and determination and it sounded so simple, the way he told it: round up all the soldiers and throw out the intruders.
I was about to reply when Yahya found a wishbone. He reached over me to hand it to Yusuf, who innocently took the side presented to him and tugged on it—when the bone broke, he was left with the short end. He put it on the table in front of him and quietly started eating again, ignoring Yahya’s mocking smile. Yusuf had a very gentle soul; he always fell for his twin brother’s rigged games.
I looked at my father then. His face shone with such hope that I did not have the heart to tell him that when I went to the souq on Tuesday, I had heard rumors that the sultan had sent his army to quell a rebellion in the south. Already, the siege of our harbor had ground all trade with the Christians to a halt and made it impossible to get to the merchandise that sat on the other side of the Umm er-Rbi’ River. Even the chicken we were eating I had procured from a merchant for whom I sometimes ran errands, though my father, perpetually engaged in conversations with other notaries and scholars, never suspected it.
A week later, when the Portuguese soldiers starte
d their assault, the governor’s forces could offer them little resistance.
Azemmur fell.
Only then did my father’s mood turn somber. We should have known better than to rely on that devious sultan, the burtuqali, he said. Muhammad al-Burtuqali had earned his nickname because, as a child, he had been held hostage for seven years by the Portuguese while a treaty between our two kingdoms was negotiated. My father doubted both the will and the ability of a man named Muhammad the Portuguese to actually fight them. Over the next few months, my father and I watched helplessly as a fort was built at the edge of the town, hiding our horizon behind high walls, and a white flag with the red shield of the infidel king was hoisted over the tower. The tax was levied again.
Patience, my father counseled. They will leave. They must.
My beloved father was right.
They did leave, though neither he nor I would be there to witness it.
AFTER THE BATTLE OF AZEMMUR, my father’s dark eyes acquired a melancholy expression that never left them. Wrapped in his white linen cloak, he floated quietly in and out of our bustling house, absorbed in thoughts he did not share with any of us. Nothing pleased him—an invitation from my grandfather to visit Fes drew only a shrug of the shoulders; a bowl of pomegranate fruit, lovingly peeled and sprinkled with rosewater, was left untouched next to his pipe; a close shave in the barber’s chair no longer brought a smile to his face; a new shirt with silver trimming and black velvet buttons was put on with the same hurry as any old house shirt. And nothing vexed him, either—not my brothers getting into mischief, not my aunt Aisha’s terrible cooking, not even my sister playing the tambourine. It is a terrible thing to see your father a broken man, a terrible thing, but I was young and selfish and did not fully understand what was happening to him.
In spite of my lackluster attendance and poor performance, I had eventually learned the principles of Arabic grammar, memorized the Qur’an, and was ready to graduate from the msid. Or perhaps the fqih had tired of me: I was the oldest student in his school now, all of the boys my age having long ago earned their credentials. Either way, I was thrilled to be finished and I hoped that the celebrations we were planning in my honor would lift my father’s spirits. It was a spring day, I remember, and the air was filled with the promise of rain. I waited at the door of the msid, surrounded by my schoolmates and my fqih until my uncle Omar brought the horse, a white stallion rented for the occasion and adorned with colorful green garlands. I mounted it and was led through the crooked streets of my hometown, with friends and strangers alike cheering me on, until we reached our house, where my father awaited me. Behind him, the blue door was wide open—I could see our guests and neighbors filling our courtyard, all of them calling out congratulations or trilling joy-cries as I dismounted. I walked into our receiving room and sat on an elevated cushion, surrounded by our guests.
May God bless you, they said.
May He grant you a long life.
I remember the day you were born.
I was the one who carried him through that door.
Look at him now!
A learned man.
Recite something for us, son.
My father offered our guests cakes and sweets, and danced when the guenbri was played, but a part of him, a part more vibrant and more vital than a limb, seemed to me to be absent, as clearly as if it had been severed by a knife. He remained in this contemplative mood all evening, emerging from it only after everyone had left, and it was to ask me what it was I wanted to do with my life. We were alone—my uncles were walking the fqih home and my mother and aunt were cleaning up in the kitchen. All around us were empty platters, half-filled glasses, and cushions strewn on the floor.
I gave my father the dutiful answer he expected of me. Father, I said, I will do whatever you think is best.
But tell me, my son. What do you wish to do?
His eyes seemed softer now and, encouraged by the kindness in them, I managed to say, Father, I want to be a merchant.
A merchant?
If I had said I wanted to become a hammam attendant or a street musician, he would not have looked more surprised. He stared at me speechlessly. The elders teach us: if you must drown, let it be in a deep well, not in a shallow pond. So I went on, Father, I have always liked the souq. I like watching merchants convince buyers with the yarns they spin, how they persuade someone to buy something he did not know he wanted. And then the offer, the haggling, the resolution: all the give-and-take of a sale. That is what I would enjoy doing.
My son, he said, the life of a notary is a noble one. You practice the law that God and His Messenger have laid down for us and you serve the people of your town. You receive honest earnings that can support a home.
A fine occupation, I said.
But you do not wish to be a notary?
No.
Then why not join your uncles in carpentry?
I have no inclination for carpentry, Father.
My father spoke to me at length that day. He told me that I would do well to choose law or carpentry, that law was the labor of the mind and carpentry the labor of the hands, whereas trade was neither. He warned me that trade would open the door to greed and greed was an inconsiderate guest; it would bring its evil relations with it. I should consider, he said, an occupation for which I would be well prepared by my family and which would honor them. But, just as a deaf man cannot heed a warning to watch out for the horse cart, I would not listen to his appeals. And it seemed he no longer had it in him to compel me. I tried to put some sense into you, he said, but I failed.
So my father asked a friend of his, a notary who often worked with the famous al-Dib family, to introduce me to them. The sons of al-Dib were the most successful merchants in town, being the descendants of refugees from Portugal, and therefore fluent in the country’s language and familiar with its customs. They warehoused the merchandise they purchased from the Christians and sold it to the Muslims in the Dukkala region, or stored the merchandise they bought from the Muslims and sold it to the Christian merchants. In this way, wheat and barley grown in Dukkala was shipped to Portugal, while Azemmur received glass, cotton, and weapons.
Over the next few years, I learned how to preserve wax from the heat and how to parcel it out, how to tell if a roll of linen was from England or from Flanders, how to transport glass from one end of town to the other without breaking it, how to select the kind of woven materials that would sell in Portugal or Spain, how to clean a weapon of its powder so it would look new, and most of all, how to get the best price for any of the goods in which I traded. I learned a lot from my apprenticeship and eventually I became a trusted partner of al-Dib, earning commissions that made me rich. I had a fireplace built in the largest room of our house; I bought fine rugs and silver chests; I paid for Zainab’s wedding.
I felt that I had finally realized my dream, that I had become exactly the sort of man I wanted, a man of means and power, a man whose contracts were recorded by flattering notaries. But as time went on, I fell for the magic of numbers and the allure of profit. I was preoccupied only with the price of things and neglected to consider their value. So long as I managed to sell at a higher price, it no longer mattered to me what it was I sold, whether glass or grain, wax or weapons, or even, I am ashamed to say, especially in consideration of my later fate—slaves.
THE COMMERCE OF HUMAN FLESH came to tempt me one spring morning when I was negotiating the price of seven loads of wheat destined for Lisbon. The farmer selling the grain, a middle-aged man with a narrow face and thin lips that gave the impression of avarice, brought with him three slaves he had unexpectedly inherited from an old uncle. Do you know of a buyer? he asked me, lifting his skullcap and scratching his head. His accent hinted to an upbringing deep in the country, somewhere east of Khenifra.
Why do you want to sell them? I asked.
I know not what else to do with them, he replied. They are too old to be of much use to me on the farm. Still, this one is a go
od cobbler and the other two can work metal.
The cobbler had small, heavy-lidded eyes that seemed to take no interest in the world they beheld. But the two metalworkers watched me, their eyes pleading silently as I dug my hands inside each bag of wheat to gauge its quality. The sun was in my face. Beads of sweat rolled down my cheeks in a continuous stream. And in my ears was the din of the marketplace: carts creaked, vendors quarreled, water-sellers rang their bells.
The farmer spoke again. How about it? Seventy-five for all three.
I stopped appraising the grain and began to appraise the farmer. Strands of white ran through his beard. He held the strap of his leather satchel with two hands, as if he feared someone might snatch it from him at any moment. Did he really want to sell three skilled slaves for that little? Did he not know how much they were worth? The Portuguese were buying slaves by the hundreds from all their trading posts along the continent, and he could surely sell these three at the port before nightfall. Or he could free them and allow them to return home and live out their lives among their people. I opened my mouth, but instead of an admonition to release these men from bondage, out came a price. Sixty for all three, I said.
From that sale, I derived a profit of one hundred and fifty reais, the most I had made in a single transaction. I was stunned at how easy it had been and how high the proceeds. If I felt any guilt, I quieted it by telling myself that I had not done anything that others had not done before me. The sultan of our kingdom, the governor of our province, and the nobles of our city—they all owned slaves. I ignored the teachings of our Messenger, that all men are brothers, and that there is no difference among them save in the goodness of their actions. With neither care nor deliberation, I consigned these three men to a life of slavery and went to a tavern to celebrate.