MY 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.
5. THE STORY OF THE MARCH
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.