The Moor's Account (10 page)

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.

T
HE 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 good 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.

M
Y 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.

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 around 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.