Read Online The Apprentice's Masterpiece by Melanie Little - Free Book Online Page A

Hafiz to guess
they aren’t here to pray.
If they see me with Bea—
    But I can’t wait all day!
I stride right toward her.
Why should I fear those common thugs?
    She looks up at me like I’m a boil
filled with pus.
“Ramon’s very sorry,” I say.
“He had an engagement, and so
could not come.”
She stands there, confused.
You’d think I’d just said,
“Ramon’s grown three heads.”
    The men in the corner are quiet.
Eavesdropping, of course.
I must be polite.
    â€œSeñorita Alvarez,” I begin,
“I’ve been asked by Ramon
to give you a gift.”
    â€œOh, let’s get it over with,”
snorts our heroine: it’s hardly becoming.
And she thrusts something at me.
It’s either a token wrapped
in a white handkerchief
or else the hankie itself is the gift.
These chivalrous rites are ludicrous.
With this worthless square,
a woman pledges her heart!
    I am just reaching into my sack
to pull out her gift
when it happens.
For not the first time
the world as I know it
comes to an end.

Rain
    I brace for that shrill voice of Bea’s,
expect her to shout out
at least one help .
    What a fool.
    All I hear is the thuds of their kicks
and the hard metal rain
of their blows.

Still
    I’m as still as a corpse.
No good fighting back now.
    Are they gone? Better wait.
But how long can I lie here?
The day’s on the wane.
If I’m caught after curfew
by the wrong men,
no excuse in the world—even being
near death—will save me from jail.
    All is still. I must risk it. I open one eye.
    The toe of a boot hits
like cannon-shot.
    One of my attackers
has returned for more.
    He starts to come at me again.
What happens next I can barely remember.
Even harder is it to explain.
    With the one drop of strength
that remains in my arm,
I strain for my sack, lying by me on the ground.
I thrust my hand in and grab for the knife.
Pull it out. As it comes, its sheath falls,
like magic, to the ground.
I’ve no strength to fight, but perhaps I can keep
the knife fast in my grip.
    A loud yelp of pain, as if from a dog
that’s been caught by the wheels of a cart.
My attacker, in moving to grab me,
grazed his meaty paw
on the point of my knife.
    He looks at me, stunned—for a moment.
Sucks a bloodied knuckle and swears.
But he comes no closer.
His fun is done for the day.
    Yet, just as he turns to run off,
he sends me a message.
He looks in my eyes.
And he smiles.

Alarm
    I am fading.
My legs lack the strength
to hold me upright.
    But what can I do?
Raise the hue and cry?
When a citizen sounds the alarm,
all must drop what they’re doing and help.
    That awful smile stops me.
    It seemed to say,
Rat on me if you dare.
You are a Moor, and we
are at war with your kind.
Even if people believed
I attacked you,
would they really care?

Guardian
    Papa told me
of a wonderful book he’d once copied.
It had tales of the heavens
and maps of the sky.
    When he had finished
inking the names,
a gilder drew lines between stars
in pure gold.
    The book quoted something
a rabbi once said (“Though
it called him a monk!” Papa scoffed):
    Each blade of grass
has a guardian star
which strikes it and says to it,
Grow!
    My eyes scour the heavens.
Does one of those stars
look out for me now?

Tricks
    Night is turning to day when I wake.
I drag myself up,
though I’ve nowhere to go.
    No one I pass stops to offer
me help. They seem angry, in fact.
    They scowl at my wounds
and they show me their backs.
    Are this limp and this blood
only tricks I’ve invented?
    Props I’ve designed to rob peace
from their sleep?

Manumission
    I saved up my money.
Washed clothes to help them
put food on their table.
But then, without telling Mama or Papa,
I doubled my clients.
    There I was in the dark hours of morning,
scrubbing cloth in the Guadalquivir.
Ramon complains he can’t sleep
with me there, but the truth is,
he can, and he does—like a log.
Not once did