The Apprentice's Masterpiece Read Online Free

while I did notice something
dropping to the ground.
    We were far back in that crowd.
By decree, the whole of Cordoba was there
to witness the spectacle.
    In the dreams, though, the eyeball returns in
horrid detail.
    It’s as close as a pea might be,
on my plate.

Little Lies
    When I wake from these dreams
I am sweating and shouting.
Mama hears and comes in.
    She is angry, I know.
Not with me. At the fact
we’re all made to watch
these foul shows.
    Yet she consoles me.
We even try
to make it a joke.
“Did you see the eyeball?” she’ll ask me.
“Was it red and bloodshot from his drinking
too much for his last hurrah?”
    Once or twice I have woken in tears, like a child.
Mama tells me, those times, that I’m safe.
We’re all safe.
Everything will be fine.
    She knows I don’t really believe it.
Neither does she.
    But there’s something amazing
about those bland words.
Those little lies that claim
our lives are normal.
    To say them, to hear them,
feels gutsy. It’s as close
to rebellion, maybe,
we will ever come.

Parchment
    Now Yuce Tinto is gone!
No one has seen him
for one month at least.
Not even in church.
    He is the man
who sells us our parchment.
He has a kind heart.
His prices are always
too cheap by half.
    Papa sends me. Yuce
has no wife. Maybe he’s ill,
helpless in his bed.
    No one’s there.
His home’s been ransacked.
Shreds of parchment and paper
lie strewn like plucked feathers
all over the floor.
    Everything points to the Inquisition.
Yuce, too, is a converso.
And I once heard him say
that Jews and Muslims can
go to heaven, if they are good people.
    Who knows to whom else
he’s said such rash things?
Poor Yuce.
He had a big mouth—
and many friends.
Both spell danger.
But together…
    Mama cries when she hears it.
“What will become of that poor,
gentle man?”
    I’m selfish. Our one source for parchment
has just disappeared.
Without it, we can’t do our work.
So it’s like we’ve no food.
    What will become, my poor, gentle Mama,
of us?

Collecting
    First, it was dead butterflies.
For a while, Roman coins
I’d find in the earth.
But this type of collection?
It doesn’t suit me.
    At long last, I can roam
through these streets. Yet I’d rather
be home in my room.
    No one likes to pay debts.
Not even clients who once mussed my hair
and brought me sweet treats.
    They make promises.
(Those come cheap.)
One gives me a barren old hen
in exchange for a prayer book
that took eight days to copy.
    I pass by the mansion
of Don Barico.
He owes nothing.
In fact, he always pays in advance.
Often he’ll even add wonderful gifts.
Plump partridge pies.
Candied almonds. Soft leather covers
for books.
    I sigh. The word candied haunts me
all the way to our door.

Gift
    I’m scarcely inside
when I hear a knock.
There stands Don Barico himself,
as if he’s been conjured
by my wishful thoughts.
    But what twisted magic is this?
    There’s no partridge pie in his arms.
Instead, at his side, stands a boy.
Well, I think he’s a boy.
There’s a thin line of hair
just above his top lip.
(There’s more above mine.)
    But the rest of him—lost
in a mountain of cloth.
His robes touch the ground,
hiding even his shoes.
His hair in his turban could be
long or short or painted magenta,
for all I can see it.
    There are two things, though,
you can’t miss.
    On his robe, just below his right shoulder,
the red patch of the Moors.
    Above it, on his cheek, a black S .
Inked or burned, I can’t tell,
right into his nut-colored skin.
    Don Barico hasn’t brought us a present.
He’s brought us a slave.

Monkeys
    I love Mama’s laugh.
And God knows, it’s a rare enough creature
these days.
    But this time, it’s wrong.
    â€œLook at them stare at each other,” she says.
“Like two nervous monkeys
peering over their barrels!”
    No, I was just looking, not staring.
He ’s the one who