The Apprentice's Masterpiece
Page 6
“It’s just—”
I don’t want to insult her.
“My parents—we rarely eat pork.
It’s so costly, you know,” I hasten to add.
The minute it’s out,
I want it back in.
Bea stares. Those luscious lips gape.
Take care, I should tell her, or you’ll swallow bugs.
I cover my panic
with an awkward kiss.
She at first pulls away.
And then
she returns it.
Heirlooms
After lunching at Bea’s,
I see our small rooms
with new eyes.
Though Bea’s house is three times
the size of our place,
it is ten times more cluttered.
Theirs is filled up with objects.
Paintings and vases. Carpets
and crests.
All of it seems very old.
Much of it bears the Alvarez crest.
One thing is certain:
there’s no mistaking
whose house you’re in.
Our home is tasteful and, thanks
to Mama, always clean.
But what do we own
that says who we are?
Poem
Amir seems to think I’m out of my mind.
“Where have you been? Do your eyes see nothing?
This is no time for roses and moons!”
Is he jealous? Bea’s pretty. Has he kissed any girl?
I can’t tell you why, but I want him to like her.
His scorn is a fly in my cup full of wine.
“Come on”—this will get him—
“Help me write her a poem.”
He narrows his eyes. “As you will,” he says, soft.
“Bring me your slate.”
Here’s what he writes.
Your lips are as red
as the blood on the hands
of your father.
“That will fire up her passion,
Ramon, don’t you think?”
Edict of Grace
Over the course of one month,
explains Father Perez,
we are invited to tell on ourselves.
For these thirty days, punishments
will be several shades lighter.
Now is the time
to come clean to the Office.
The queue the next morning
at the alcazar
winds through three streets.
Papa tells us of the last
such Edict of Grace.
People owned up to things
they’d not dreamed of till then,
let alone done.
What’s the catch?
Well, for one thing,
although they don’t burn you right then,
they do record all that you say
in their file. It will be there
if—or, when—you err again.
Repeat offenders
don’t fare so well.
For another, they fine you.
The Church coffers bulge
from the fantastic tales
people spin for the Grace
just to keep themselves safe
—so they think—
in the future.
One more thing: they won’t let you go
till you rat on others.
“Surely,” they’ll say, “you
did not act alone in these things
that you did? Don’t hold your tongue.
We know that you live in the world,
and have eyes.
What more can you tell us before you go home?”
Ink
Back from Friday prayers
with Amir. We dawdled.
Papa will scold us,
I’m sure.
I’m wrong.
His mind is elsewhere.
“Papa,” I ask,
“are you unwell?”
He says not to worry—
he was just resting. Sleep, he says,
still clasps him by one hand.
His nice turn of phrase
draws my glance there.
We’ve finished the last
of the work that we have.
And yet Papa’s fingers
are stained with fresh ink.
Garrucha
Manuel and Lope know all the tortures.
Prisoners, if released,
must swear solemn oaths
not to say what they’ve seen.
But Lope’s uncle is involved
with the Office. He loves
to scare ladies at dinner
with gory details.
Lope favors one called the garrucha.
The accused hangs
by the wrists from a pulley.
Heavy weights are attached
to his feet.
They raise him up slowly.
Then let him fall
with a jerk.
His arms pull out
of their sockets.
And sometimes
his legs.
Lope assures us
it really hurts.
He adores nothing more
than acting this out.
He dangles from trees,
piercing the air with fake screams.
Lope’s a strange boy.
He and his uncle
must surely be cut
from the same bolt of cloth.
Sure
It must be a book
inside Papa’s wall.
One that leaves tired hands
spotted with ink.
Is he writing something, then,
after all?
Does it contain things
he could burn for?
Why don’t I sneak in
and see for myself
rather than twisting my brain
into knots?
Because. What if I knew,
and then was arrested?
I am weak.
How would I withstand
the garrucha?
To condemn my papa
with my cowardice—
I couldn’t take that.
So my arms and kneecaps
go dead with terror
each time I creep near his door.
Papa, your secret is safe—
if only from me.
I can’t go in.
Condition
I’d wondered, of late,
why the footstomps above
had shushed to a halt.
We’d known Señor Ortiz
was still in the house.
His fine horse is there
when I pass by the stables
in Trinidad Street.
His servant still shuffles about
in señor’s bedroom.
I know, for it’s right above mine.
But lately the house has felt
like it’s waiting.
And now comes the letter.
Señor Ortiz has the dreaded Smallpox!
He may die.
He dances already
on Death’s ashen palm.
All the Reaper must do, now, is choose.
Should he, should he not, close
his strong, bony fingers and squeeze?
We’re astonished:
if señor dies, says the letter,
the house will be ours.
As well as the shop.
There’s a condition.
We must show loyalty
to our Queen and King.
We must, says the letter, cast the Moor out.
If we’re to go on having a home
Amir must once more have none.
Too Long!
Papa goes up
to reason
with him.
Mama says it takes reason to reason,
and Señor Ortiz, sadly, has none.
Papa’s not daunted.
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“I’m every bit as unreasonable
as he is,” Papa says.
That’s a good thing?
And is it reason
to spend hours in a room
with a man who has Pox?
One more bell
has just sounded.
Time marches on.
Will my ox-stubborn papa
never come down?
Señor’s Answer
is no.
Papa says
we must think
about where we might go.
He mentions Granada.
Amir’s eyes light up.
I, too, feel a pang.
Haven’t I dreamed
of seeing the world?
But this is our home.
And travel takes strength.
Does Mama have it?
And Papa?
Señor Ortiz is changing his will.
This whole house—the house, might I add,
that used to be ours—will go to the Church!
You know what that means.
The Inquisitors.
If he dies, Papa says,
they’ll be here to lay claim
before señor’s body
is put in the ground.
They’ve arrested so many New Christians
of late. Even I, who love numbers,
would not want to count them.
The Queen’s alcazar
can’t hold them all.
Some people wait years
before their trials start.
Waiting takes space!
Once, when I wasn’t permitted
to do what I pleased,
I said my own room
was a prison cell.
Had I glimpsed, without knowing,
the dark final fate of our home?
Question
Mama and Papa talk half the night.
Amir’s awake too.
I have a new question
to ask Amir.
How does it feel
to throw your kind master
out of his home?
Front Door
Most people who call
on Señor Ortiz
know to use the back door.
The front one is ours.
(In my grandfather’s day,
it belonged to the servants.)
This doctor is not from our quarter,
and he doesn’t know.
Or maybe he’s not all that keen
to be seen.
He wears no strange hat
like the ones in old books.
But his beard is as long
as his arms.
Nearly hidden beneath it,
just right of his heart:
a yellow patch.
He’s a Jew.
If they learn he has been here,
Smallpox will be
the least of our woes.
Penitent
I still meet with Bea.
My world may be ending,
but that only leads me
to think of her more.
I even remember to compliment her.
I look for silk, for gold thread—
any small thing that I might have missed.
But the skirt is the old one!
This sack, she had said.
Girls are confusing.
“Don’t look at my clothes!”
She’s noticed my gaze. “I’m ashamed!”
It takes much kissing and coaxing
(not that I mind)
before she’ll explain.
“Mama confessed for the Edict of Grace.
She told them she once bought some meat
from a wandering Jew.
They fined her three hundred maravedis,
and Papa won’t pay. He says
we must sell off our new clothes instead!
Oh, Ramon—I wish I were dead.”
But couldn’t he stop it? He’s a familiari!
She looks at me like I am simple.
“My father’s the one who said,
‘Turn yourself in.’”
She dabs at her eyes for a minute.
But when she looks up, they are slits.
“You know, Ramon,
maybe he was right.
If ever again there’s an Edict of Grace—
Better to tell on yourself
than be told on.
I’m sure you’ve done something.
No, don’t tell me.
Tell them.”
Waiting
We wait for señor to die
or to live.
Papa once claimed that waiting
is food for the soul.
Think of a pen, he told me.
When a new one is made,
we must stand it in sand
to strengthen the feather.
After one week of patience,
the quill is more pliant.
Less likely to break.
I’m sorry, Papa, but some waiting
just leads to despair.
What’s more, it costs money!
It’s hardly fair.
Why, when there’s nothing to do,
do we still need to eat?
I go looking for work.
The doors in the quarter
are lids on sealed coffins.
In other words,
shut.
I’m not choosy.
Amir’s washing clothes
for Señora Ducal.
I must find something too!
I can’t let the pennies
earned by our slave be what feed us.
At last, near the end
of a dark crooked street,
a door is swung open.
There stands a grizzled old man
as spindly as a broom.
He looks me over
through a fearsome squint.
Then he spits.
The hands that killed Christ
will never be clean.
He sticks out his chin as he says it.
Spittle lands
in my wide-open eye.
Get out of here, Jew.
Tail
It’s as if
I’m walk-
ing around
with horns—
devil’s horns—
in place of
my ears.
Or a tail
instead of
no tail.
It’s invisible,
but might
spring out
hey-ho!
at any
bad moment.
Of which
there is
hardly a shortage,
these days.
I’m more angry
than scared. I’ve
done nothing
wrong.
But in this time
and this place
that particular
armor is thinner
than paper.
Stain
I must do something.
If we seem like Jews
to some half-blind old man,
how long will the Office
leave us alone? They say
they deal only with Christians.
But then they say Christians
are more prone to err
if their blood is unclean.
We don’t boast about
our Jewish ancestors.
We bury our pride
deep down in our hearts.
There must be something.
Some mark or some stain
that singles us out.
They will come looking.
Every last thing that they see will be judged.
Even if that book Papa hides
is no more than a clandestine copy
of Plants of Castile, they’re bound
to find something else.
In Seville, a man burned for saying
tha
t God and Allah are the same.
I’ve heard Papa say things more shocking
than that! Mama, as well.
And what about me? I don’t study
the Edicts of Faith like I should,
so I don’t know what not to do.
I could be arrested for anything—
for picking my nose
with the incorrect finger!
Guides
I have an idea.
A way to save, all at once,
Papa, our home,
and even Amir.
But it scares me.
I remember one thing
from the Edict of Faith.
No Christians may use Jewish doctors.
Even a potion that’s sold by a Jew
might as well be a poison—so sure a ticket
is it to a very good seat at the auto-da-fé.
What if Señor Ortiz
were arrested?
I scare me.
There are two angels appointed
to each man on Earth.
A good one,
to protect him.
And a not-so-good one,
to sometimes put him
to the test.
Which of my angels
is singing
right now?
The Alcazar
Come back in a fortnight?
They must be mad!
It’s not just that I’ve wasted
all day in that line.
It took all the courage I had
to lift up my fist
to their door.
On Second Thought
Here comes that broom-man.
Shrink, Ramon, into this wall.
He doesn’t see me,
or, if he does, looks
right through.
As if I am a window
in a fancy new home,
covered, but only with glass.
Instead, he starts shouting
at Señora Monzon. She’s as pure
an Old Christian as there is
in Castile.
The man shows his fist.
“Get lost, you Jewess!”
The señora ignores him.
A man passing by on his horse only laughs.
“You crazy old bugger,” says this hidalgo.
“You see Jews in the very
blades of the grass!”
So…
So,
it seems I overreacted.
True,
Señor Ortiz will probably die—
few survive the Smallpox.
I would never have come up with that plan
if that weren’t the case.
Still,
death doesn’t stop
the Inquisition.
At every auto-da-fé
I’ve seen people long dead
burned at the stake.
They dig up their bones
for the purpose.
I suppose it is better