by Laila Lalami
As for me, I tried to recover from my leg wound. I washed it thoroughly and wrapped it in a clean cloth boiled in an infusion of oak bark, a remedy I had seen my aunt use whenever my uncles hurt themselves in their workshop. I gave great thanks to God that we remained in Apalache after I was injured, because in truth I could not have walked even a league on that leg, let alone the five or six leagues per day we usually covered in our march. I made myself a cane and hobbled around on it, attending to the cooking, cleaning, and mending.
Other men in the company had not been so lucky: nine had died in the battle against the Indians and three others later, of their wounds. They were buried, one after the other, in a small plot at the edge of the capital, their graveside prayers once again delegated to the young friar, Father Anselmo, who was becoming popular among the men. After the morning mass, after his brothers in brown robes retired to their huts, he would stay and play the fiddle. He played tunes from the old country, some mournful, others joyous, his long fingers moving gracefully on the instrument. The men—disappointed, fatigued, fearful, or sick—would listen and, for a few moments, they would forget about the lost gold, the long march, or the Indians waiting in the bushes.
But then, after the music had stopped and they had returned to their chores, the men would start to remember. Quarrels would erupt between them about little things, things that had not mattered when all they had to do was march and hope, but now seemed to matter a great deal: who received better quarters, who should be entitled to larger rations, who would inherit a dead man’s armor or his boots. So the commissary spent much of his time adjudicating quarrels, trying to keep the peace as best as he could by means of difficult compromises.
Throughout all this, the governor was absent—he was busy with his interrogations of the cacique Kamasha and with the scouting missions he organized around the city. Then, one evening, he invited the commissary and the captains to meet him in the Indian temple. It was cool inside the hall—there had been two thunderstorms that day and the air felt new, with fewer flies and mosquitoes to torment us. A large cross of rough timber stood against the northern wall, where the wooden idols had once been, and the round baskets that had sat on the pedestals were gone, leaving behind only dark circles on the brown mats. The governor’s candelabras had been lost in one of the swamps we crossed, so his servant had used wooden torches to light the bare table on which he served dinner—it was a good dinner, with roasted rabbit meat, cooked beans, and some fresh corn, although it was more modest than what was usually served for such councils. While the captains took their seats on benches, waiting for their leader to speak, I stood against the wall, waiting to refill my master’s cup or clear his plate.
The governor stood up. He wore a gray doublet, but the edges of it were becoming yellow and there was a hole in his breeches, just above his left knee. Esteemed señores, he said. The cacique Kamasha has informed me that Apalache is a kingdom of many cities, but none is bigger or richer than this one, and that, on the contrary, the other cities are much poorer. However, about eight days’ march south of here, he says, there is another city called Aute, which is very close to the ocean and has a great many quantities of corn, beans, and fish. My plan is to march to Aute, from where we can send a party to the Río de las Palmas. Since the city is on the coast, and since it has its own food reserves, we can stay there for as long as is necessary until we make contact with our ships. And of course, once we have the ships, we will sail along the coast until we find an area more suitable for settlement than this one.
The governor invited all the captains to give their opinions. It occurred to me that his insistence on seeking the counsel of others was his best quality, yet it was strangely coupled with an inability to take their advice. It was quiet in the temple for a long while, the only noise coming from the clattering of the officers’ utensils, but as usual it was Señor Castillo who spoke first. I agree that we should leave this place, he said. But we rushed into Apalache without the proper precautions, so we must learn from our mistake and not rush out of the city without taking the proper precautions.
Rushing? We have been here three weeks, Castillo, the governor said.
How can we trust what the cacique is telling us? He wants us out of his capital, he will say anything to make us leave.
His deputy said the same thing. As well the servant who was caught alongside them. Do you think they all conferred on what to say beforehand? I will remind you that I had them questioned separately.
Señor Castillo looked around him for support. But, although many of the officers agreed with him, none dared to speak so plainly to the governor and all were quite content to let him argue their case and be reprimanded in their place. His voice rose to a higher register. We cannot take their agreement for proof, he said. Remember, all of the prisoners you questioned said that Apalache had great quantities of gold. And now we know this to be untrue. We should indeed return to the coast, but we should not follow the prisoners’ advice on how to get there.
I have sent three scouting missions, the governor said, and none found a shorter trail to the ocean.
This is why I warned against letting the ships sail away while we went into the interior.
It is easy to criticize a plan when you do not have to make one. And may I add, Castillo, that your behavior since our landing in this territory has been so contrarian as to verge on the mutinous.
The word hung in the air like an accusation—you could almost see it in the way the captains shifted in their seats or looked away from Señor Castillo, as if they might be tainted by the allegation.
Señor Dorantes alone came to his friend’s defense. Don Pánfilo, Castillo was merely offering his opinion, as you yourself asked.
Reluctantly, Señor Castillo said: Don Pánfilo, it was not my intention to dispute your authority. The decision is yours.
You would do well to remember it, the governor said.
With the charge of mutiny averted, the air shifted again. The commissary picked up a walnut from the bowl at the center of the table and used the handle of his knife to crack it open.
The safest thing to do, Señor Cabeza de Vaca said, is to return to Portillo and walk from there to the port. The chief pilot did say that it was no more than twenty leagues from that point.
But Señor Dorantes objected. No, he said. We do not have enough provisions for a return march.
The treasurer picked up a rabbit bone from his plate and held it up like a piece of evidence. We can hunt, he said. There are deer, rabbit, and fowl all about …
What if the hunt does not yield enough food for everyone in the company? Do you want to see three hundred men fight over the meat? If we want to return to the coast swiftly, we need to have enough rations for six weeks at the very least.
Then what do you suggest, Dorantes?
Find a shorter way to the coast.
The governor smiled. That is why I want to go to Aute, he said. It is only eight days from here. Arm yourselves with patience, I beg you. When we return to the ships, we will continue along the coast until we find an area more appropriate for settlement. And I shall not forget those who have served His Majesty loyally.
The governor looked pointedly at Señor Cabeza de Vaca, seeking his endorsement, but the treasurer kept his eyes on his plate and remained silent, as if he feared supporting this new proposal, only to be proven wrong later and be blamed for its failure. Although there was no great enthusiasm for the plan among the captains, I think they all knew that our situation in Apalache was intolerable: we simply could not stay in the city, surrounded by so many people who wanted it back. The Indians feared muskets and were powerless against them, but our reserves of ammunition were not limitless. What would happen when we ran out?
The governor closed the meeting by saying that he would hold another council in a day or two, once all the captains had had a chance to think about the plan. Yet early the next morning, when we were still eating the morning meal, the governor sent his page
to inform all the captains that he had made his decision: we were to go to Aute. Once again, I marched behind my master into the unknown, led by a governor who, though he retained the use of one eye, was the blindest man I had ever met.
8.
THE STORY OF SEVILLE
All around me, voices rose and fell. Shackled slaves spoke in an overlapping multitude of languages, this one asking after an uncle, this other comforting a child, and yet these others arguing about a piece of moldy bread, their cries periodically interrupted by the bleating of goats from the animal stalls. But for a long time, I kept to my silence, wrapping myself in it like an old, comfortable cloak. I think I was still trying to apprehend the consequences of what I had done. For hours on end, I revisited the long sequence of events that had led me from the soft divans and rhythmic guenbris of my graduation feast to the timber bench and jangling chains of the caravel Jacinta, sailing with frightening speed toward the city of Seville. I had played my part in these events—I had made my decisions freely and independently at each juncture, and yet I was stunned by the turn my life had taken. The elders teach us: give glory to God, who can alter all fates. One day you could be selling slaves, the next you could be sold as a slave.
The hunger I had felt so keenly in Azemmur was tamed now, if not satisfied, by the hard bread the sailors distributed once a day, though it was quickly replaced by a renewed acquaintance with all of my body’s other senses and needs. My head itched from the lice my neighbor, an old man with pockmarks dotting his face, had given me. My soiled clothes stuck to my skin, because I could not bring myself to use, on command and with little notice, the bucket that was passed up and down the gallery twice a day. My limbs grew stiff from sitting in damp and narrow quarters. My throat hurt, my feet swelled, my wrists bled. Above all, my heart ached with longing for my family.
My family. They had, all of them, learned to accept their fates. Without complaint my sister had spent her girlhood watching over our twin brothers, and without protest she had returned home after her divorce. My brothers went to school every day hoping to fulfill my father’s dreams, dreams I had cruelly broken and then bequeathed to them. My mother had left her beloved people and her distinguished hometown in order to follow my father to Azemmur.
As for me, I had made a habit of defying my fate. Perhaps I could do that now and find a way back to my old life. I thought of the elder al-Dib, my employer in Azemmur, who had been born to a slavewoman, but had earned his freedom as a youth. Perhaps I could do the same. Perhaps my talent would be recognized by my master, who would let me purchase my freedom; or perhaps my misery would touch the heart of an Andalusian Muslim, who would free me from bondage in order to earn the favor of our Lord. To overcome my fear, I shackled myself with hope, its links heavier than any metal known to man.
Having convinced myself that my condition was temporary, I set about trying to survive it. I taught myself to ignore the stench of excretions, the moans of delirium, the sight of private parts. I learned to push back into my throat the rising taste of vomit. I tried to watch out for the rats. I slept only when my exhaustion overpowered my discomfort. And I passed the time by listening to the stories the women told their children, after the guards had left and the doors were locked for the night. In the darkness of the lower deck, the women brought to life a world entire, a world where sly girls outwitted hungry ghouls and where simple cobblers saved powerful sultans, so that at times it seemed to me I could see the ghouls’ sharp teeth or the sultan’s embroidered slippers.
Then, early one morning, the anchor was dropped, its tug faintly resonating through the varnished wood under my feet. I listened to the footsteps on the upper deck. Did the customs officer come aboard to greet the captain? Was that the stevedore inquiring about the merchandise? Then at last the deck door was flung wide open. A rush of cold air blasted into the lower deck, where it met with the suppressed heat and terrified silence of two hundred slaves. Row by row, we were unshackled and led up the stairs.
When I reached the upper deck, the blinding white light made me recoil in pain and I staggered like a drunkard, but after three weeks in closed quarters I was so hungry for the untainted smell of open air that I took my hands off my face. Seville reeked of fried fish, but its air was not briny, and there was a whiff of smoke coming from somewhere in the port. The morning chill gave me goose bumps and I put my arms around me, all the while steadying myself on my feet. Finally, I opened my eyes.
All around me were men whose faces were covered in brightly colored kerchiefs, with openings for the eyes. They carried long sticks, with which they prodded me to the way out. As I went down the ship’s rope ladder, I saw that I was on a wide river. It ran fast, just like the Umm er-Rbi’, and yet its sound, the particular melody it made as it rumbled beneath the ship, was different. Later, when I would learn that this river was called the Guadalquivir, the Arabic name would at once delight me with its familiarity and repulse me with its reminder of my personal humiliation. The city of Seville did not have a pier like the one in Azemmur, so we had to be taken by rowboat to the riverbank. The sky above was a turquoise blue, cut through by the black masts and white sails of the ships around us.
On the shore, a man whose face was hidden behind a yellow kerchief was separating the healthy from the lame, the sturdy from the weak, the young from the old. He jabbed me with a stick, and then pointed me to the first line. All around me, the port hummed with the sounds of sailors, officers, porters, and scribes, each hurriedly going about his business. Two men standing next to a tall stack of crates were having a loud argument, I remember, and one of them seized the other by his collar. Beyond the port, the city’s white, square homes were slowly rising from their slumber. Carts creaked on the cobblestone. Horses clopped in the distance. Somewhere, I knew, a father was sitting down for a morning meal with his family. Somewhere, a child was receiving her bowl of milk. Somewhere, a brother was closing the door of his house behind him as he went to work. And I was here, at the port, ready to be sold once again.
A man with a red kerchief grouped a dozen of us together, the way farmers collect their eggs or bakers their loaves, tied our hands to one another with thick rope, and led us away from the port. It was a long and painful walk, because we were all weak from hunger and idleness. Periodically one of us fell and had to be helped up, but our wretched procession drew no stares of interest or curiosity from the many people we passed. Each one went about his business without the slightest pause. At a bend in the road I caught the first glimpse of an imposing tower, which looked very much like the minarets at home. What is the name of that tower? I asked the man with the red kerchief. La Giralda, he said without turning. I had heard of La Giralda years earlier—it had been built by the Almohad sultans as a replica of the Kutubiya in Marrakesh—and I had even fantasized of seeing it someday, but never under these circumstances.
Around the corner from La Giralda, we stopped in front of a tall edifice, with large wooden doors and an imposing facade. As we ascended the marble steps, an older man in our group slipped and fell and we all tumbled in a pile over him. The slave merchant clicked his tongue at the delay we were causing him—his long day, already filled with labor, was made more difficult by our clumsiness. The fallen man stood up, his palm over his broken tooth and bloodied lips, even as the merchant pulled roughly on the rope and led us toward the entrance.
We were brought before an imam of the Christian faith, a man of freckled complexion and colorless eyes, who spoke an ancient tongue I did not understand. I could detect no pattern to the words that poured like a river out of his mouth, but I listened nonetheless, to distract myself from my thirst and my hunger. He wore a robe of immaculate white, with carefully embroidered edges. Behind him, a stained glass window colored the morning light in various shades of red, yellow, and blue. Though I had been taught to distrust pictures of the human form, I could not help staring at the white woman with a babe in arms and the brilliantly attired men gathered around her. They seemed remo
ved from our untidy and disgraceful world, engaged in their own story, unconcerned about the scene unfolding beneath them.
Being the tallest man in my family, I was used to lowering my head when I passed through the doorway of our house and to seeing my knees stick out when I sat on my heels next to my uncles. Yet here, in this high-ceilinged church, I felt small and helpless. My hands were tied together and bound to the slaves on either side of me. If one of us moved his hands or feet in order to find a more comfortable stance, the slave merchant pulled on the rope to force the insurgent back in line. With a snap, the priest closed his book and laid it carefully on a table beside him. He nodded to the merchant, who nudged the first in our group forward, a woman with wide, protruding eyes. The priest’s fingers traced a cross in the air, over her face and chest. I looked at him unblinkingly, all the while wondering what the action meant and why he repeated it with each one of us. It was not until much later that I understood the significance of the sign on our bodies. I had entered the church as the servant of God Mustafa ibn Muhammad ibn Abdussalam al-Zamori; I left it as Esteban. Just Esteban—converted and orphaned in one gesture.
The slave merchant led us out of the cathedral. He pulled his red kerchief back up over his nose to protect himself against the smell of his charges. Walking with the swiftness of a man determined to make the most of his day, he led us back to the port and to a holding pen guarded by dogs. In truth, there was no need for them since we were all so tired and hungry we would not have had the power to run far. The four women in our group went to huddle together on the far side of the holding pen. I had trouble speaking to them, on account of the fact that they spoke a different variety of Tamazight than I did, but by and by I gathered that they were the daughters of farmers who had suffered great hardship during the drought. Two of the men told me they were from Guinea and had been sold on the slave markets there, then transported to Azemmur, and from there to Seville. Just before nightfall, a man brought us bowls of cold soup. We called the name of God over our food, each in our own language and custom, and ate hungrily.