The Apprentice's Masterpiece Read Online Free Page A

won’t quit.
Like I’m the strange one.
The stranger.

We Are Four
    Never mind what we’ll do with a fourth mouth to feed
when there’s barely enough for ourselves.
    What will we do with two more working hands?
    No commissions, no parchment,
not even much ink.
    Plus, he’s another
person to fear.
    I’ve heard of some slaves, malcontents,
behaving like spies.
    One insult from their masters:
they run to the Office.
They tell the first tale, no matter how false,
to enter their minds.
    Papa, it’s true, is a master scribe.
As am I, for that matter.
    Most masters have servants.
    Who cares?
    We’ve always done fine
on our own, thank you kindly.
    Papa’s no fool. It won’t be a day
before he sends this Moor back.

Arabic
    â€œAmir is still learning
his Spanish, Ramon. You
must help him.”
    â€œYes, Papa.”
    Ha.
    My friends and I talk
about him
even though
he’s right here.
Like speaking aloud
with a donkey around.
    He looks at us, straight.
Sometimes he blinks
like a fly’s flown too close.
But even could he decode
what we say, well,
aren’t his ears
tucked too tight
in that turban of his?

Shoo
    Mama and Amir
now rule the kitchen.
    I brood by the hearth—
it’s just me sitting here, so it hasn’t
been lit—and try not to listen.
    Even with Mama,
he doesn’t say much.
But she doesn’t give up.
She babbles on, drowning
his silence with streams
of her talk.
    When Papa or I try to help
with the meals, she just shoos us.
We are clueless and clumsy.
But Amir can do things.
    Well, wait till I tell
the boys in the quarter
he can cook like a girl!

Strut
    Amir drops
the docility act
when we’re out of doors.
    Everyone knows he’s our slave:
I’ve told them.
But he struts like an equal.
He holds his head high.
    They all can see it.
This kid, Paco, said,
“He makes like he
is the master of you! ”

Companion
    One thing I’ll say:
with Amir here, Mama and Papa
don’t nag me as much about going out.
    I know why. They think I can’t
get into trouble
with him as their spy.
    What do they fear? That I’ll scale
the high wall of a convent
if I’m left alone?
    We’re sent to the market;
I choose a route so roundabout
I feel dizzy. (If I’m stuck
with this guy, I vow to have fun.)
Amir narrows his eyes
but says nothing.
What can he say?
    The streets wind like serpents.
For some reason I think of
a story I know, of Hercules.
As an infant, he cast
a swarm of snakes from his cradle.
    He must have owned slaves.
Did he permit them to walk
by his side, as I do?

Retort
    We turn from some alley
(I admit it: we’re lost)
right into their midst.
A long line of men in fine robes.
    On their shoulders, a dais.
There, clad in silk, sits a tall Virgin Mary
just as if she were real, and a queen.
    The men seem to glow in their pride.
Women stand alongside,
throwing petals of roses at the men’s feet.
From a high window nearby
someone wails, “ Nuestra Señora!”
Our beloved lady!
The voice is so full
of both sorrow and joy
it prickles my neck.
    Then, out the side of one eye,
I see a swoop of cloth.
It’s Amir, down on his belly,
lips to the ground.
    This has been law since the Christians
won Cordoba back from the Moors.
All Muslims must prostrate themselves
when an image of Mary or Christ
proceeds past.
    Amir stands.
He catches me staring.
“You kneel in your church,
do you not?” he asks.
His Spanish—I gawk—
is smooth as glass.

Questions
    So it seems that Amir’s understood
every word that I’ve said.
    He tries not to smile
as I come to grips with his trick.
But there’s the smallest of smirks,
like the spout of his mouth
has a minuscule crack.
    Now, at the market,
he speaks to the merchants,
asking for this many olives (only a few)
or that much salt. (I can’t say
I mind this: I hate to shop.)
    But on the walk home
we say not a peep.
    Of what could we speak?
What I most want