by Laila Lalami
MY MOTHER WAS HUDDLED OVER her embroidery when I walked in one summer afternoon. I had spent the day delivering and registering twelve loads of barley to the port, from where they would be shipped to Porto, but I had finished much earlier than I had expected and, rather than spend the evening out, as was often my habit, I had decided to come home. The walk from the port to the house was always pleasant, but at this time of day the streets of Azemmur were still bustling with activity—men sold steamed chickpeas or cooked snails from creaky carts, their voices hoarse from the effort of calling out the price of their wares; women hawked woven baskets or fine linens, holding them before each passerby with one hand, while keeping their haiks in place with the other; children ran to or from the water fountain, bearing pitchers. Then I came across my old teacher. How is your father? he asked me.
He is well, I said, by the grace of God.
Give him my regards.
God willing.
A few more steps, and I was stopped by the silversmith. What a fine tunic you have, he said teasingly. He took the licorice stick out of his mouth and spit straight into the puddle of mud on his right. Be careful, he said, you might get it dirty if you do real work.
I laughed. If you want it so much, just tell me, I replied, and I will sell it to you.
As I rounded the corner toward the house, I came across the baker. Mustafa, he said, can you help me with this load?
Of course. I lifted the baskets and placed them on top of his wheelbarrow.
A beggar boy appeared out of nowhere. A coin, uncle, he asked me.
Run along, I said.
I closed the door of our house behind me and walked straight to the courtyard. My mother looked up from the yellow fabric mounted on her scroll frame, her needle poised in the air, her little finger gracefully maintaining the thread in a taut line. She was sitting with her legs stretched before her. She had the feet of a little girl, small and thin, and her soles were tinted orange from years of henna use. Beside her were a pitcher of water and a plate of figs, the last of the summer season.
Peace be with you, I said.
And upon you be Peace, my son.
I poured myself some water from the pitcher and savored the taste of the lemon slices that floated inside it. Sitting down across from my mother, I asked: Is Father home yet?
He never left, she said. He is in his room, asleep.
It saddened me to hear this. My father had once been the most diligent man in the house—up before the dawn prayer, working on letters and contracts and then meeting with judges and clients until evening—but lately his days were getting shorter and his naps longer. I felt responsible in some way for the melancholy mood he was always in and wished there was something I could do to shake him out of it. Should I buy him a new silk cloak? Or perhaps another pair of leather slippers?
And where are the boys? I asked.
Upstairs, on the roof, my mother said. But you are home early.
The customs clerk arrived on time for once, I said. (The man was new to his position and had not yet learned, like some of his colleagues, to delay everything in exchange for a bribe. But I did not mention this to my mother. Like my father, she did not enjoy hearing about my trade.) What are you working on? I asked.
A belt for Moussa’s daughter, she said.
Moussa had been our neighbor for many years—a cobbler by profession, but a gossip by vocation. He never moved from his stall at the street corner, but somehow he always saw the child stealing a loaf of bread, the woman sneaking out of her house, or the preacher buying a jug of wine. He heard about the quarrel between brothers, the bribe given to a judge, or the concubine kept in secret. And he caught a whiff of the cookfire on the days of Ramadan fast. When I was a young boy, prone to breaking my father’s many rules, I had feared him, but now that I was a grown man I despised him.
She is getting married soon, my mother said.
Who? I asked.
I told you. Moussa’s daughter. The belt is for her bridal gown. And you—when are you going to take a wife?
I had grabbed a fig from the plate and was biting into it when I noticed that my mother’s eyes were watchful—probing, even. I was used to the warm glow of her glance, but now it was fixed upon me with a cold precision. Had she heard about my recent trip to the red house at the edge of town? No, that was impossible. I had gone only twice or thrice, at the urging of one of my suppliers, who had arrived from the province of ash-Shawiyya with excellent wheat and wanted to take advantage of all the entertainments that Azemmur had to offer. Unlike my father, I was not endowed with unbreakable willpower, so I had gone with the man. But at least I was discreet—unless, of course, someone, maybe even our neighbor Moussa, had seen me and reported me to my father. This would have been another severe blow to him from his wayward son. Suddenly I felt certain that I was the cause of my father’s latest bout of melancholia, and the shame of it filled me with despair.
Mustafa, my mother said. She put down her embroidery. Answer me. When are you going to take a wife?
Someday soon, God willing.
But most men your age are already married. Why, I have heard from your father that the fqih’s son is expecting another child …
A child?
Yes, a child. What is wrong with children, my son?
Nothing.
If you had still been studying, it would have made sense to wait before taking a wife. But you are working now, able to support a home and have children of your own.
Mother, I want to look after you and Father.
It is time you looked after yourself. Your father can make some inquiries.
No, Father has not been feeling well. Now is not a good time for him to be worrying about me. We can speak of such things when he is better.
My mother drew her breath to say something, but Yahya and Yusuf, having heard my voice, came running down the stairs—they were giggling, racing one another to the bottom step—and so interrupted our conversation. Mustafa! Mustafa! Look at the sword I made, Yahya said.
Oh, you made it? Yusuf said mockingly. And who made the handle?
Lower your voices, boys, I said. Father is still asleep.
I glanced at the double doors of his room; they were still closed. Nothing stirred inside. Let us go for a walk, I said to my brothers, and allow him to rest.
As Yahya and Yusuf ran to the door ahead of me, already arguing about something new, I thought about what I could do to brighten my father’s mood. The idea came to me, as suddenly as if someone had thrown open a window to let in the light: I would buy my twin brothers new jellabas and take them to meet the fqih of our mosque. I had disappointed my father, but surely they would fulfill his dreams and become, like him, Men of the Book.
5.
THE STORY OF THE MARCH
While Señor Castillo went on his mission to the port of Pánuco, the governor continued his interrogations of the Indians about the precise location of the kingdom of Apalache. So for a long, miserable week, there was nothing to do in Santa María but wait. In the early mornings and in the late afternoons, when the summer heat was bearable, the soldiers came out of their huts and busied themselves however they could; they bartered some of their spoils or they played games of cards. Señor Cabeza de Vaca read his books of poetry. Señor Dorantes listened to the settlers playing the fiddle. But the young Diego went with Father Anselmo on long walks in the woods behind the village. The friar liked to collect the leaves of native plants, leaves he would later press between the pages of a notebook, above neatly written descriptions of their appearance. One afternoon, Diego and Father Anselmo came upon some concealed Indian traps, in which two odd birds with pink, wattling necks had been caught—one was a smallish hen and the other a very large tom, with dark brown and iridescent green feathers.
Where did you get this meat? Señor Dorantes asked when I served him one of the birds’ roasted legs for lunch. He sat on a stool outside his hut and took the bowl from me, his long fingers wrapping greedily arou
nd it.
From your brother, Señor.
El Tigre killed this bird?
He took it from an Indian trap in the woods.
Ah, he said with a chuckle. Diego is not much of a hunter.
Poor Diego, I thought. Always trying, but somehow failing, to get his brother’s approval. Why did my master not pay him any notice? Señor Dorantes looked much older than Diego, so perhaps they had not grown up together, but that alone could not have accounted for the strange distance between them. Oh, what I would not have given to be with my own brothers. They were seventeen years old now, young men already, though in my memory they remained the same little boys who used to run across the courtyard to greet me as soon as I stepped inside our home. Over the years, I had convinced myself that my sacrifice had been enough to spare them the life that was now mine, and sometimes I even dared to imagine that good fortune smiled on them. Had they made their way to the college of the Qarawiyin and fulfilled my father’s dream? Or had they, instead, given up on the scholar’s life and apprenticed with one of my uncles’ friends? I could not know. But it was my desire to know and my yearning for them that dictated everything I did in those days, everything I saw, but chose not to notice or reflect upon.
Where is Diego now? Señor Dorantes asked me.
With the friar Anselmo.
Again?
They went to the river.
Did he at least save some of this meat for Castillo?
No, Señor. He said the meat should be distributed to all those present.
Tell him to check the traps again tomorrow.
Since our departure from Seville, I had seen Señor Dorantes treat Señor Castillo with brotherly care, which I rarely saw him display toward Diego, though Diego was his own flesh and blood. Once, when Señor Castillo had complained that his right glove had a hole in it, Señor Dorantes had reached into his saddlebag for his spare gloves, even as his brother watched, his bare hands resting on the pommel of his saddle.
I waited for Señor Dorantes to eat so that I could do the same. I had saved some scraps, enough to taste the native bird, but not so much that my master would ask me why I was helping myself to some of the meat. In the square, one of the soldiers was trying on a feather headdress from the temple and asking a friend to help him secure it around his head. Then, like an actor in a play, he walked down an imaginary road, his arms on his hips in an effeminate pose, while his comrades laughed and jeered. Across the way, a group of settlers were playing a game of baraja, excitedly calling out the points they scored. Patience, I thought, patience. Soon, we will leave this village for Apalache, where we will find the gold and where I can remind my master of my role in his good fortune.
SEÑOR CASTILLO AND HIS MEN finally emerged from the wilderness a few days later. How pitiful they looked! Their faces were gaunt, a result of the meager rations the governor had allowed for their mission, and their muddy clothes stuck to their bodies. In the hands of a young soldier, the flagpole leaned sideways, as if he no longer had the strength to hold it upright. Slowly, in small clusters, they made their way into the village square. Everyone came to watch them dismount. Did you find the port? the men asked. Did you come across signs of a city? Where is the hatchet you borrowed?
Señor Castillo raised his hand to quiet the hubbub. From the glum look on his face, it was clear he did not bring the good tidings for which he had hoped. Addressing himself only to his fellow captains, he said: We followed the Río Oscuro all the way to the ocean, but we found only a wide and shallow bay. The water never rose higher than our waists.
This news was greeted with silence. Then Señor Castillo took off his helmet and ran his hand through his hair.
What does this mean? Diego asked him finally.
It means we have no idea where the port is, Señor Castillo replied. It means we are lost.
Come now, Diego said. You are letting your emotions govern you.
It is true.
No, it is not, a voice said.
The crowd parted to let Señor Narváez through, and he came to stand in the clearing, in his blue doublet and impeccably clean breeches. The governor had a flair for dramatic announcements. This one was no different—it had the effect of quieting the whole company and shifting its attention to him. Now he looked around him with satisfaction and even a hint of amusement. Hombres, he said, my investigation has revealed that Apalache is not just the name of the kingdom, but also the name of its capital city. Think about it. When we Castilians speak of León, we can mean either the city or the province. Likewise, Apalache is both a kingdom and a capital. This was why the word Apalache caused some confusion in my interrogations. But the prisoners have confirmed for me everything that we already know about the kingdom of Apalache—that it is very rich with gold, that it has many fields, and many people who labor in them. At this moment, we are in the area of Apalache, but we have not yet reached the city of Apalache.
The governor always spoke to the soldiers in a familiar way. He laughed at the coarse jokes they made and, when the occasion presented itself, he was not above making one of his own. This was why the soldiers liked him, even if what he had to say was not what they wanted to hear. But Señor Castillo always sounded like a nobleman, with the full vowels and trilled consonants that would have been better suited for the royal court. Worse, he rarely addressed the soldiers directly, so he seemed aloof even if that was not his intention.
And look at this, Señor Narváez added, holding up a very large and heavy Indian necklace, of the kind that a person of high rank might wear. The necklace was made of white seashells, so small that they looked like beads, and at its center was a golden amulet shaped like an egg. My page found it in the bushes, a quarter of a league upriver.
The page tucked his thumbs in the loops of his belt and looked on with undisguisded pride. The men whistled and cheered and began to talk about conducting a thorough search along the riverbank.
But Señor Castillo interrupted them. So how far is the capital of Apalache?
Ten days, more or less, the governor said. It is impossible to get a precise answer from the savages because their idea of time is not the same as ours. In any case, we have tarried long enough in this village. It is time to resume the march.
And how will we return to the ships?
Exactly as I said before, Castillo. Once we secure Apalache, I will send a contingent to the coast, and from there to the port of Pánuco.
ALTHOUGH SEÑOR NARVÁEZ STILL LED the procession of horsemen, he rarely spoke to his captains, choosing instead to relay his orders to his page, who walked beside him on foot. He seemed annoyed with Señor Castillo for his insistence on a mission to return to the ships and disappointed that it had failed to quell the young hidalgo’s doubts. Now the governor’s gaze was always fixed on the horizon, as if he expected at any moment to catch a glimpse of Apalache; he did not want to miss it. The captains, too, withdrew into a thoughtful silence, all of them anxious now to reach the capital. As we marched deeper into the wilderness, the soldiers no longer sang, and few people spoke.
We were taking a break from the midday heat one day when I heard a distant melody. It sounded like a flute, or many flutes, and I suddenly recalled the words of an old Castilian official, a man who had spent some years in La Española and had been a frequent dinner guest in the captain’s cabin during our trip across the Ocean of Fog and Darkness. The Indians in these parts, the official had said, do not have art. They make some music, but it is very primitive, of the sort that a child could make if he were given a drum. They have no painting, no drawing, no sculpture, no architecture of any sort, none of the things that we Castilians take for granted.
Yet now it seemed that the sound of music was getting closer and clearer. Señor, I said, as a wave of excitement rippled through me. I cupped my right hand around my ear and pointed with the other toward the trees at the edge of the clearing. My master’s eyes widened and he turned toward the sound of the music. Abruptly the governor stood up. He ha
d heard it, too. Others looked up from their food or stopped conversing with one another.
A group of flute players emerged from between the pine trees ahead of us. There must have been twenty of them, walking two by two, playing a beautiful melody on limb-sized instruments. The feeling behind the music seemed to be ancestral, the kind of music one might play at large gatherings or on special occasions rather than around the brazier or the campfire. All the musicians were quite tall, as tall as me, dressed differently than the Indians I had seen before, with elaborately painted deer hides stitched together to cover their private parts. When the last one of them came out from the woods, they lined themselves in a single row against the trees. They turned out to be the advance party of a chief, who arrived now, riding on a servant’s shoulders. His long hair was pulled up in a very high knot that ended in bright red feathers and his body was entirely covered in blue tattoos. Behind him, a retinue of men and boys followed.
It seemed to me that we had come across this tribe of Indians by chance, but it was, of course, just as likely that they had spied us as we entered their territory and had come looking for us. I expected the governor to call upon the notary to speak on his behalf, as he had done with the Indian army at the Río Oscuro, or even to ask for Pablo, his prisoner and chief interpreter, but instead he put his helmet on and advanced toward the cacique himself, his head slightly bowed in salute. An ostrich plume on his helmet had come loose and it drooped with his movement. The Indian leader dismounted and inclined his feathered head, in imitation of the governor.
Pánfilo de Narváez, the governor said. Then, pointing to his eight captains, he gave their names as well.
Dulchanchellin, the Indian chief said. And then he, too, named his deputies.
Señor Narváez reached into his pocket for a string of green glass beads, which he presented to the chief, again inclining his head with a humility this servant of God had not witnessed him display before. The tactic seemed to work: Dulchanchellin looked pleased with the shiny offering. He took off the painted deer hide he wore as a mantle and gave it to Señor Narváez. With these pleasantries out of the way, the governor told the chief, through a combination of gestures and a few words he had learned from Pablo, that he was looking for the capital of Apalache.