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

he hear me
creep out.
    Papa was shocked
when I showed him my handful of coins.
Then he retrieved a piece of parchment.
It seemed to shine brighter
than a whole chest of maravedis:
it lit up his face.
    â€œI’d already prepared this, Amir.
I hope the Arabic is halfway correct.”
    I, Isidore Benveniste, hereby manumit Amir,
son of Aman Ibn Nazir of Granada.
    Manumit . Every slave knows that word.
The thought of its sound often sings us to sleep.
    There were more fancy lines in his beautiful script.
    I was free! “I won’t take your money, Amir.
In fact, had I some of my own, it is I who’d pay you.
You have taught me so much.”
    Mama came in.
“Amir,” she said kindly,
“will you stay on as what you’ve become?
As our son?”

The Muslim Quarter
    I’m ashamed to admit it,
but apart from my Friday
prayers at the mosque,
I’ve steered clear of this place.
    It reminds me too much of all I have lost.
My birthplace. My home.
(And now I’ve lost two.)
    I go deeper in than I’ve ventured before.
The mosque sits on the fringe of the quarter,
where the Christians can keep it under
their eye.
    In the few streets behind, though, Mudejares
live by the handfuls of hundreds.
    Will anyone notice one more?

Call to Prayer
    No muezzin calls
from a tall minaret.
    No matter.
All the men know it.
It is time for prayer.
    They stream from all over.
Carpenters, masons,
even men without work.
They make for the mosque
with sure, silent steps.
    Many come from outside the quarter.
It is like watching birds
converge for a flight.
    I don’t join them yet. Instead,
I crouch in an alley
between two slender homes.
    I don’t want to be seen.
I’m afraid of more blows or, worse, jail.
I fear kindness too.
    I must be alone. I must think.
But it gives me a glimmer of comfort
to witness these men and their small,
frequent journey to talk
to our God.

Stir
    Black night.
Nothing stirs here.
Wait—that was something.
    Was it? Was that deepened shadow,
so fleeting, a person?
Does someone look down
from that window up there?
    If I’m seen, I must go.
That Christian—the villain who beat me,
and grinned—will say I menaced him.
With a weapon, no less.
I know how it goes.
That is more than enough
to earn death, for a Moor.
    No, there is no one.
It was only a bird.

Bird
    The bird
is an angel.
    When I wake, I am under
a soft woolen blanket.
A bowl of clear water
is here by my head.
My brow is still damp
from the kiss of a cloth.
    There is also a loaf of warm bread
and—praise Allah—a single boiled egg.
    I look at the window.
I notice, in this light, that it’s covered up
by a cunning black screen.
The person inside can see out—
but no one outside can see in.
    Such screens are used
by young girls in books—
girls too pretty to be gazed upon.
Well, this is no time
for romantic tales.
I’m no ass like Ramon!
    I must bathe my wounds
and move on.

Sanctuary
    If ever I’ve needed to pray,
it is now.
    I want to be pure for my God,
but the ablution baths
are up three large steps.
I’m too weak to climb.
Allah, I decide, will understand.
That bowl of clear water
I bathed my wounds with
will serve Him this time.
    I pray, then I lie in a dark, quiet spot.
No one looks twice.
This mosque is our place, as Muslims,
to meet, and to pray, and to act
like the free men the Crown
says we are.
    But it’s locked at night.
There have been problems.
I’ve heard this before.
    Some Christians can’t manage
to hold their strong wine.
    They come here to take out their anger
on what we hold dear.
Last year, a part of the mihrab —the holiest
spot in the mosque, facing Mecca—
was smashed into bits.
    So at night I return
to the alley.
    I know I am seen.
But I’m weak.
    Each morning,
the loaf, and the egg,
and the cool, refilled bowl.
    Each midday, I say
to myself: Move on.
    But each evening,
I answer:
Just one night more.

Christians and Moors
    This