After the forty days of mourning were over, Zainab returned home with her daughter. Zainab’s husband claimed he had divorced her because she did not bear him any sons, but my mother and I knew that he did it because he would not have to support her or her child any longer. My uncle Abdullah and my aunt Aisha went to live with their eldest daughter, the second wife of a wealthy customs official, leaving us alone to face our troubles. When my uncle Omar left town with one of his friends, our ruin was complete. Our family broke apart so swiftly after my father’s death that I often wondered if he had been the fragile thread that held us together for so long.
In our house, there now lived five hungry, miserable souls, all of them under my charge. I could no longer keep the truth from my mother. But when I went to make my confession, she was not surprised, for our neighbor Moussa had already brought her the news of my deceit, just as, years ago, he had brought her the news of my visits to the red house at the edge of town. The disappointment I saw in her eyes was a painful blow. I felt as if I were the embodiment of every evil against which my father and my mother had warned: a trader of flesh and a traitor to my faith.
To atone for my sins, I tried to provide, in the only way I knew. I sold the rugs and the chests I had bought with such pride only years earlier. I helped my mother sell her gold bracelets and my sister the hanbal it had taken her two years to weave. Each time, the money lasted a few days, sometimes weeks, and then we went back to scouring our house for something I could sell or trade. I was so preoccupied by my transactions that news of the earthquake in Fes did not reach me until refugees appeared on the other side of the Umm er-Rbi’ River, setting up their tents on the riverbank. They jostled for work, crowded our markets, and begged at our mosques.
I began to wander the alleys of the medina alone, as if the solution to my family’s plight lay hidden somewhere, waiting to be found. The city was quiet — dogs and cats had long ago been caught and shamelessly eaten. Even vermin was a rare sight inside the city walls. I was on the lookout for anything: food I could eat, goods I could trade, rich people I could beg for mercy. Yet all I saw were people like me, their faces haggard, their bodies so distorted by hunger and disease that they looked like jinns. So great was my despair that I would have readily gone to the gates of hell if I knew it could save my family from starvation.
I MADE MY WAY through the crowds gathered on the quay. The Umm er-Rbi’ was tranquil, the fading light of the day turning its water the color of shadows, and the sky was a mackerel gray. Soldiers watched from their posts as servants and slaves carried crates on or off the Portuguese ships. I held on to my twin brothers’ hands, in fear that I might lose them in the flowing multitude of people. I felt as if I had already lost myself. My poor mother had spoken to me that morning with words that still rang in my ears. Mustafa, she had said. No. Not this.
But it was my fate to discard her advice, just as I had discarded my father’s. Mother, I said, there is no other way.
There is a way, she said. There is always a way, if you will yourself to dream it.
May God forgive me, I thought she spoke soothing nonsense. My eyes must have betrayed my feelings, for she looked at me sadly and began to tell me the Story of My Birth. This time she told it to steel her own heart against the pain of losing me — it was easier to let go if she believed that my departure had been ordained. I listened patiently, the way I had always listened to her, but when she was finished I did not think about the story or its meaning. Instead, I thought about how I had broken my father’s heart and how my sacrifice might redeem me, even if he was no longer there to see it. When I finally got up to leave, my mother stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the courtyard. This is the image of her that I still carry with me, all these years later. She was still calling my name when I closed the blue door behind me.
On the dock, I saw a fidalgo I recognized — he had been a regular visitor to my uncles’ workshop, buying chests or chairs or corner tables for his household in Lisbon. Senhor, I called. Senhor Affonso. He was a short man, with a prominent nose and a tight mouth. He wore a red vest and dark hose tucked inside freshly shined boots, and his right hand rested on the pommel of his sword. I knew exactly the price I could have fetched for each of these items of clothing, had they been mine to sell. The vest and hose were made of cotton — they would only interest a clerk or a notary — but the sword would have been worth at least twenty reais. When I realized what I had been doing, I wanted to turn around, but Affonso had already seen me. A hint of surprise lit his eyes. His gaze traveled from me to my twin brothers, and then back to me. I think he understood, without my saying a word, what it was I wanted from him. He did not ask me if I knew what life would be like once the ship crossed the river, once it had left Azemmur and traveled along the coast to the Land of the Christians. Instead he asked: Are you sure this is what you want?
I looked at my twin brothers. Their hair had started to turn orange and their cheekbones protruded under their frightened eyes. They looked at me uncomprehendingly. Yes, I said. I am sure.
Then come with me, Affonso said. We followed him across the quay to one of the merchant stations. A bald man, his head as smooth as an egg, stood up. The two Portuguese men shook hands, but the merchant kept his head slightly inclined in a gesture of respect to the captain. They spoke in hushed tones for a few moments, then they both turned to look at us. This one speaks Portuguese, Affonso said, pointing to me.
Isso é verdade? the bald man asked me.
Sim, I said. Eu trabalhei com os comerciantes português.
The merchant nodded at Affonso, as if to confirm that the good captain had not lied. With a long stick, he prodded the property he was considering — it seemed the muscles were decent and the hands were strong. The eyes appeared healthy. There were no missing teeth. He offered a price: ten reais. The haggling took a while, because I wanted to make sure I would get the best possible price. I agreed to the sale only when it became clear to me that the merchant was on the verge of giving up and that fifteen reais was indeed the most he was willing to pay.
A flickering candle illuminated the narrow office of the clerk who recorded the sale. Our shadows danced across the wall behind him — mine, tall and worried, and my two brothers’, shorter and thinner than their twelve years of age warranted, entirely unaware of the proceedings taking place before them. The clerk asked me my name. His missing teeth gave his voice a perversely benevolent tone.
Mustafa ibn Muhammad ibn Abdussalam al-Zamori, I replied, naming myself, my father, my grandfather, and my native town.
With deliberately slow movements, the clerk opened his register and dipped his feather into black ink. Mustafa. Fifteen reais.
And thus it was done. Of all the contracts I had signed, this was perhaps the only one that my father could never have imagined me signing, for it traded what should never be traded. It delivered me into the unknown and erased my father’s name. I could not know that this was just the first of many erasures.
I gave the money to my brothers. Take it, I said.