The Apprentice's Masterpiece (16 page)

Of course I've no papers
to prove that he's mine.

(Though I do have a paper
—I don't say this—
to prove that he's not.)

This wolf wants an arm and a leg for Amir.
I couldn't meet it if I saved
all my pay for a year.

All through this horrible haggling
I feel Amir's eyes on the back of my head.
I can just hear his thoughts:
Good old Ramon, now trading in slaves
instead of just trying to boss them around!

Desperate

I take Hafiz back to the stall
where I bought him.

When the bookseller sees
the pages I've torn
for my secret stories,
he laughs in my face.

“What have you used
this poor treasure for?
Archery practice?”

I offer to take
only half what I paid.
“I'm desperate,” I plead.

“Who isn't these days? Look, my friend.
The truth is, as soon as you bought this,
I sold your fine horse.
And so made more money that day
than I did all year. Okay?
No one buys books anymore.
Least of all ones in the Arabic tongue.
Now—God and Allah be with you.
Please get lost.”

Ink

I don't cease my work with the stories,
but I have to admit that my heart's not quite in it.

The cramped little letters seem to crawl through
my fingers, then sink in sharp claws.
By the end of the day I can barely lift up the needle
to sew them away.

I ask Saint Katarina for help.
She's the patron of scribes,
though I've always thought her a curious choice.

When the Byzantine Emperor cut off her head,
her blood gushed out white as cow's milk.

I think if you cut off
my
head
a river of ink would pour out.

There's so much left on my fingers by nightfall,
my bedsheets are spotted with black when I wake.
Starry sky in reverse.

Still, I pray.
To her, and to anyone up there who'll
listen.
What more, in this life, can I do?

Tremble

At the end of one workday
I look at the piles of fine objects before me.
Then I look at the guard. Sleeping, as always.
It's normally me
who must rouse him.

There's a necklace—
taken from one Señora Aldez.

The story she told
was rather dull.

But the treasure itself—

It sits
whispering.

It could—
I am certain—
buy back Amir.

My hand trembles:
not just from my work
with the words.

I take it.

Temper

Maybe wives' tales about wolves
have some truth. They say they smell fear.

As soon as the captain
sees me on the dock, he starts to roar.

Get the hell out of here!
I'm in no mood for you.

But—

No buts!
If I set foot
on his ship one more time—
even in
front
of his ship—
he will kill me.

I believe him.

I'm so shaken up
I do a dense thing.

I throw the necklace
into the sea.

I've already turned in
the ledger today.
Someone, not long from now,
will read it and ask what's become
of the treasure of Señora Aldez.

Proclamation

We are permitted to leave our posts
for the herald's announcement.

One monk is verily hopping with glee.
“Get out there, my boys! It's not
every day you can witness
the making of history!”

I've grown accustomed
to shrinking stories
into a few lines.

I'll do the same here.

By July 31—that's six months from now—
every Jew left in Spain must be gone from her shores.

It is rumored that Don Abravanel, the wealthiest Jew
remaining in Spain, had very near changed
the mind of the Queen.

If she let the Jews stay, the Don promised,
he would raise enough money to pay for five wars.
Every maravedi would go to the Crown.

At that moment, the Inquisitor Torquemada
rushed into the room. Threw three pieces of silver
at the Queen's feet. “So, too,” he hissed,
“Judas sold Christ for a few coins.”

Torquemada knows well the heart of the Queen.
His little drama worked like the charm
of a wizard.
“Our mind is made up,” she was heard to intone.
“In six months' time, all Jews must go.”

A Thought

So many ships are crammed in the port
I nearly lose track of which one's Amir's.
Jews pour into Malaga from all over Spain.
They make right away for the ships.
Places are scarce; their chance for a square of ship floor
is too easy to miss.

And the journey is much worse by land.
Bandits hide there; they'll slit your belly.
Everyone knows, goes the thinking,
that Jews swallow gold!

It burns me to think of the greedy wolf-captain
reaping reward from this misery.
His ship, like them all,
is near full up already.

Here's a thought.
What if I posed as a Jew, unbaptized,
waiting to flee like the rest?
It would at least get me onto that ship
with Amir!

Sewing (3)

It's back to the Cordoban days,
when I spent all my nights caged indoors,
holed up like a girl.

My last night on dry land, if all goes well.
How do I spend it?
Not drinking, or fighting, or
chasing women.
I'm
sewing
!
I wonder what some of the tough torturers
I feast with would say to that!

My words frame Hafiz's like
arabesques you see in the fanciest books.
I've used only half of the pages so far,
but I'm praying that Papa will think them
a start.

Perhaps I should mail them to him
before my next move.
But remember what happened to
his
precious book. Better not.

One last time, I open the hem of my cloak.
In go these stories. Plus Amir's poems,
and Papa's letter making him free.

I am ready.

Inspector

I storm on the ship
like my time is pure gold.
“Make way, people, please.
Make way!”
A friar is tailing the Jews as they walk
up the plank. One last chance at conversion!
Him, too, I push past.

Of course, it hasn't been
quite as hasty as this.
I've been hiding, watching the ship,
since the dawn.
I know that captains on duty
keep logs of events even when they're ashore.
They write in these books three or four times each day.

So I waited until the wolf
had descended below.
Then seized my chance.
And it's worked!
I am on.

I didn't prepare
for what might come next.
A hundred Jews cram here
in the hold. There's scarcely
enough air to share for a day.

Now all of their eyes are aimed at me,
and, more sharply, the crest on my cloak.
I see fear, and hatred,
and the end of hope.
Someone spits.

With their eyes still upon me
I take off the cloak.
Turn it inside out.
Hope no one remarks
on the patchwork of thread at the hem.

Still they scowl. I want to shout.
Believe me, I'd like nothing more
than to volley this trophy of the Office
straight into the sea.

But I can't.
Inside this one hateful garment
lie the scraps of my hope.
They are all that I have
to win back the love of my father.

Jerusalem!

I crouch in a corner
of the ship's hold.
If I go long enough without moving,
I reason, these Jews will forget me.

They do.
They gather instead
around a young couple.
Four men hold an old,
tattered quilt by its corners
to shelter their heads.
I have heard Jews are wed
beneath canopies.
Could this makeshift event
be that holy rite?

There's a smiling old man
in the center of things. Now
a small glass is placed at his feet.
He stomps and it shatters.
Everyone shouts,
Jerusalem!
There is singing and dancing
well into the night.

These people are joyful
because they are one.
They may no longer have houses,
or even a country.

But their customs—right down
to each shard of that glass—
are their own.
Is there not, in those,
a kind of home?

I don't know these customs.
I don't belong here.
But then,
where do I?

Missing

Only one touch is missing
from this wedding—
something to eat!

Four more months until July 31.
What will we live on? Good cheer?
Shattered glass?

Friend

I see the next morning how we'll survive.
A crate with stale bread and a barrel of water
are left in the doorway, as if we are pigs.

I don't want to stand out
until I form a plan.
I stay put.
Who needs to eat
every
day?

The hold's twice as hot
as an armpit in hell.
I can't help it. I drowse.

When I wake, at my side
there's a chunk of stale bread.

A young boy smiles to himself
as I eat.
I don't merit his kindness.
Oh, well.

The stomach, I learned
long ago,
has no soul.

Move

I've been here for six days
and not made a move.
I must come up with a plan—any plan—
soon!

And what of these Jews?
No one knows when this ship will set sail.
Who's to say we won't sit here in this hold
the four full months more?

These people won't make it.
The weather gets warmer.
They start to fall ill.

One night I'm so hot I'm sure I will burst
like a blister. Has the fever bit me?

I smell smoke. I bolt up. I'm awake.

The ship is alight.
Someone screams.

“Fire!” goes the call.
Everywhere, panic. Women
and men charge like animals
for the single door to the deck.
Far above, I hear splashes of some who've got out,
throwing themselves in the sea.

Can't they go faster?
Just behind me, part of the hold's roof collapses.
A beam licks the air with a fiery tongue.

I'm almost through. Then I remember—
the slaves
. Who will unchain them?

Keys

At last I'm on deck.
It's just like a scene
from a painting. Not a nice one.
A scene of the end of the world.

My eyes scour the crowd for the bosun.
I've been haunting ships long enough
—
one man, I know, keeps the keys.

The wolf-captain sees me.
He screams in outrage, pointing my way.
This man is mad! Who cares that I'm here
in the midst of all this?

I was wrong. The keys to this ship
aren't kept by the bosun.
The wolf lifts a great ring of them
over his head. He looks straight at me.

And he pulls back his thick, tree-trunk arm.
Throws the keys, far as he can, into
the sea.

Last Masterpiece

A scream rends the air.

A child lies in flames
at my feet.

I recognize him.
It's the boy who left bread
by my side in the hold.

Even were he the captain himself—
or the Inquisitor Torquemada—
I know what Papa
would want me to do.

One quick look around me.
I see only slaves.
I have no time to wonder
how they got free. What concerns me
is what they wear. Nothing
but raggedy cloth at his loins, every one.

So I've no choice.
Unclasp the pin at my throat.
Take a deep breath.
Then lunge on the boy.
I smother the flames
with my last masterpiece.

My fine cloak
and its contents:
ashes and smoke.

Death's Boat

I watch the boy rise.
Without a look back
he jumps into the water.

Flecks of burnt cloth trail behind
like a faithful flutter of the tiniest bats.

He swims toward something:
I can't quite make it out.
By the light from the fire
I see a black shape.

Is it a boat?
If it is, who mans it?
Is it the vessel I've read of so often
in stories—the one that is steered
by Charon, Death's servant?
It takes you across the Sea of Forgetting—
straight to hell.

Well, what hell could be worse
than this burning ship?
Flames hug the heels
of my boots.

I, too, jump in and swim.

Reach

The sea churns with wild limbs.
All still alive make for the shadow boat.

Though my boots weigh me down,
somehow I manage.
I stay afloat.

I can see, now, a hand.
It performs the same motion
again and again.
The hand is held out.
A desperate arm grasps it.
The swimmer is pulled
up to the life raft.

It's my turn.
The hand reaches.
The man it belongs to
is looking behind him.
“Squeeze in. Make room.
Lie upon one another
if you have to.”

It takes me a moment to grasp
what he's said:
the words are Arabic.

I hesitate.
When the man feels
that his hand is still empty,
he looks.
And so once again
I am facing Amir.

Both of us wait—for a heartbeat.
Men more deserving
clamor for help just behind me.

I will drop my arm and turn back.
I decide that.

But Amir grabs it first
with two hands
and I'm up.

Moment

Jews, a few crewmen, and
many slaves.
We squat on this raft thick as fish
in a net.

Far more were trapped on that ship.
It burns on the shore, their funeral pyre.
Most of our raftmates watch it with wide eyes,
unable not to.
But Amir and I, though our faces are turned to the ship,
watch each other.

I finally ask. “How did you do it?”
He holds out his palm.
An old friend is there:
a pumice stone.
But it's chiseled into
a very fine point.
Fine enough, I don't doubt,
for picking padlocks.

“We've been unlocked for days,”
Amir says. “Awaiting our moment.
Then the moment chose us.”

Divining (2)

Behind on the shore
waits the life of Ramon,
still scribe of the Office.
Warm beds. Singing pies.
Maybe, one day, a girl
with blonde hair to sit by the fire
and sew.

Ahead, not a thing
but the sea.
Its face dark and blank.
It gives no sign to guide me.