There are times
when peace just becomes
a broken mouthful.
A word that no tongue in the world
can pronounce.
A.
Cover to Cover
I read Hafiz cover to cover.
I can decipher about every third word.
Most of it would be too deep for me,
anyway, even if it were in Spanish.
Including the poems at the back!
They must be Amir’s—at the foot
of each one is the simple brushstroke
of the Arabic A.
But one thing gets through
this thick skull.
A page is glued near the back
of the book.
Before I read even one word,
my heart flips in my chest
like it’s taken a kick.
The writing I’d know anywhere.
The words are in Spanish, and
then written again, more awkwardly,
in Arabic.
I, Isidore Benveniste, hereby manumit Amir,
son of Aman Ibn Nazir of Granada.
The page is dated 1486.
Just months before
I ordered my “slave” to meet Beatriz.
He was free. Why didn’t he tell me
to shove that damned knife
up my ignorant arse?
Sleepless Once More
His bright, burning cheekbone under my hand.
Over and over—the feel and the sound.
As if I am the one being hit.
The mark of the slave on his face.
Right under my blow.
The feel of his face and
the sound of my hand.
The look on his face.
The slammed, silent door
of his back. Straight, and proud,
and leaving
forever.
Cross
For four years I have tried
to banish that day
from my mind.
When Amir failed to come home,
I was fuming. My Toledo knife!
But I wasn’t surprised.
He’d always been proud.
And I’d struck him!
He’d run away.
Or so I thought.
I saw Bea in passing,
a couple days later.
She saw me too.
Crossed the street to avoid me.
That did it.
I guessed Amir had run off
without giving my present.
So she was angry.
I was shocked to discover
that I didn’t care.
I’d already started
my work at the Office.
My romance with Bea
seemed like something
from childhood, a
memory of too much rich candy
on a feast day.
Siesta
When I began my work
with the Office,
I continued to live
with Papa and Mama.
But I felt like an exile
in my own home.
Papa stayed in his room.
Did not talk to me.
I knew that they hated this job,
and blamed me, as well, for Amir’s
leaving us.
They didn’t know
I had struck him.
But I knew that they knew
it was some deed of mine
that made him go.
During siesta, I haunted the streets.
I was walking one day, in no hurry,
when Bea saw me.
This time she didn’t walk past.
In fact, she rushed up behind me.
I kept walking.
“Ramon, stay.
Don’t you know how sorry I am?”
She shocked me with what she said next.
There were some men, and when
she gave Amir—a Moor, after all—
her white handkerchief, they must have
assumed—
“Where is he?”
“You don’t know? But I thought—”
“He’s been gone since that night, Bea.
I can’t believe you’ve not told me—
he might have been killed!”
“Oh, no! It’s all right! I saw him get up, walk away.
“You saw him? You mean,
you stood there and watched?”
“Ramon, keep it down. People will hear you.
I was afraid. I hid. What are you getting
so angry about? I didn’t beat him! For heaven’s sake!
He’s only a Moor!”
I’d heard enough.
“He’s my friend, Bea, okay?
My friend.”
She looked confused.
“But I thought—”
“Never mind what you thought.
I wish you health.
Good-bye and good luck.”
I stormed off.
Well, sort of.
“Ramon!”
I was weak. I turned round.
“If he ever returns—”
“Yes?”
“Can I have back my tooth?”
Arrest
Her tooth?
I didn’t ask.
And that was the last time I saw her.
But I did see her father, months after that,
not long before leaving Cordoba.
That fine familiari
was being led into prison
by two guards with swords.
I got a glimpse
of the cell where they put him.
Later that day, I detoured
so I’d pass it.
Someone within—it could have been him—
was sobbing like a child.
Small Stories
Each day, I report to the Office.
twelve silver bracelets
a small rusted chain
one silver dagger
sixteen pewter spoons
One lady shivers through a flimsy cloak
that makes an old sack look like a fur coat.
Between her and me, a delicate brooch.
It looks like a beetle
crouched there on the desk.
The lady says,
Write it all down, please,
just as I tell you.
A brooch, yellow-gold backing, in the form of a tree,
comprising eleven small corals,
received from Señora Alvaro de Mansares, a Christian seamstress,
on the occasion of the owner’s—former owner’s—
wedding to Jusef de Ormada, a Jew, now in
exile in Portugal with their daughters, aged fourteen and twelve.
If only I had more paper, I could write down
these people’s whole lives.
(Though this lady’s entry comes close.)
Papa would like that, I think:
small stories instead of tall tales.
Hope
Before curfew, I’m down at the docks.
Finding Hafiz was a sign.
Amir must have been here.
I’ll find him too.
I’ve been asking questions.
Most of the Moors who lived or passed through here
were taken as slaves for the ships.
My heart says there is hope.
Hafiz, is there hope?
Let’s not let Reason deter us:
That judge has no jurisdiction here.
That strains my brain quite a bit.
But I think it means Yes, there is.
Sewing
I scare up a needle and thread—
two more weapons I’ve no clue how to use.
I’m determined to mend this Hafiz.
I’ve pictured the moment so many times.
Me finding Amir. And rescuing him.
And th
en, like the icing on top of a cake,
producing Hafiz! But the book
falling apart in my hands—or his—
is not part of the play.
Señora Brabiste, the lady I lodge with,
sees me fighting to shove the fine point of the needle
through the leather cover.
It suddenly seems as tough as a brick.
She takes pity.
“Here, let me,” she says gently.
Her fingers are nimble; she seems to grow younger
each moment she works.
But soon she is frowning.
“The pages are strong,” she says,
“but this cover has been through too much.
I’ll stitch it for now, but soon you will need
to replace it.”
Familiar
The ships’ captains begin
to know me by sight.
They scowl when I near them.
“Go away!” they admonish.
“How many times have I told you?
There’s no one here who fits that description.”
I have told them my name is Señor Ortiz,
that I search for a slave who is rightfully mine.
(I wear the Office’s cloak inside-out on these trips.)
He was stolen, I’ve said, by bandits.
And I need this particular one for my work.
Has anyone seen him? There’s an S on his cheek—
his left, I believe. And he speaks
both Spanish and Arabic.
I don’t go so far as to tell them he writes.
Best not to plump up his worth
in their greedy minds.
Trick of the Light
There is talk that the Office
is looking more closely at books.
Jewish content is no longer all
that marks them for the List.
There is Protestantism, Messianism, Occultism,
and altogether more isms that I ever thought
walked this whole world.
It’s clear time’s run out for Hafiz.
He’s Muslim, yes, but it’s more than that.
Some people think using a book
to divine the future—even just for a game—
is devil’s play.
An idea hovers in the back
of my mind.
Two nights ago,
I dreamt of that book of Papa’s:
the life of my ancestor.
Because of me, lost.
In the dream, though,
there Papa’s book was.
Floating between
the lines on the page
like a trick of the light
when I opened Hafiz.
Sewing (2)
Then, yesterday, I chanced
to look up from my writing.
The prisoner there was tucking some treasure
into the hem of his tunic.
He blanched when he saw
that I saw. Our eyes met.
I said nothing.
But it planted a seed
in my head.
Calm
I am looking for something to calm me,
I tell her.
Well, there are herbs—
No, I mean something to do with my hands,
in the evenings. Besides writing, I add.
She looks at my fingers,
all stained with ink, and she nods.
I go on.
Pardon me for my rudeness, but something struck me
that day, when you mended my book.
The peace on your face has stayed with me.
Señora, do you think
I could learn how to sew?
Space
Paper is scarce—that hasn’t changed.
The Office tracks each sheet
they give us.
But the poems of Hafiz
are quite short.
Each page of his book
holds more empty space
than inked words!
Like a doctor unstitching a wound,
I unsew him.
These spaces are what I will use
to record at least part
of my prisoners’ lives.
Small Stories (2)
I ask them to tell me the story
of one of the things that I’m taking away.
I hear stories of courage and stories of love,
tales of betrayal and greed, and of death.
Sometimes of people just getting along.
Stories of parents, who thought everything
would be different by now.
Of children, who they hope
can survive this somehow.
All to do with one simple thing
they once owned.
One woman was dragged from her bed
and baptized in the faded silk slippers
she’s just handed over.
All through these sessions,
the guard at the door merely snores.
I know that this man
has a fondness for ale.
Well, Papa, it turns out strong drink
is the friend of this scribe, after all!
I write in the tiniest hand I can manage.
I hope to cram dozens of these
onto one single page.
Every night, in my room, I tear off
the portion I filled in that day.
Then unstitch the hem
of my Unholy cloak.
Into its lining
their stories go.
Water Rat
Here he comes, they exclaim.
Señor Water Rat, at it again!
In these last few weeks
I’ve near given up hope.
And I must say—
the jeers of the crews
grate upon me.
But a new galley ship
has pulled into port.
Of course, I must check,
though my heart is not in it.
Hafiz, have you led me
so far astray?
Wolf
This captain strikes me as more
wolf than man.
When I give the description
for the hundredth time,
he eyes me with interest.
I can’t say I like it.
I’m not that surprised when he says,
“Follow me.”
It isn’t the first time I’ve been in a galley.
One or two captains before him—
much nicer men—have led me below
to search as I pleased.
But each time, it shocks me.
This ship is worse than the others.
The slaves, as is custom,
are shackled with chains to the benches
they sit on.
There aren’t seats for all.
Some of them stand in their irons.
They’re given no choice
but to sleep on their feet.
The stench is amazing.
Hundreds of men, crammed in this place
for months upon end.
No baths for them, you can bet.
But the very worst thing is the look in their eyes.
Or, should I say, the absence of a look.
Here are men who are worked
till they’re no longer men.
Or,
so I think.
One has just kicked me—very hard—
in the shin!
I look at their faces, expecting a glimmer
of something in one.
But they’re all back to blank, blank,
blank.
“You going to survive?” laughs the captain.
“Well, here he is.
This is your man, I expect.”
He points to a decrepit old twig
who looks to be two sleeps from death.
“Been roughed up a bit.
I’ll let you have him again f
or less than the price
of a horse.”
I’m walking away in a huff when it happens.
Have you ever played Egg?
I once did, with Bea.
One person—it always works better
if it is a girl—pretends that she’s cracking
an egg on your head. Then she shivers
her fingers all over your back.
You’d swear it was egg yolk trailing down your skin.
That’s exactly the feeling I get
in the moment before
I turn and lock eyes
with Amir.
No Sale
Of course I’ve no papers
to prove that he’s mine.
(Though I do have a paper
—I don’t say this—
to prove that he’s not.)
This wolf wants an arm and a leg for Amir.
I couldn’t meet it if I saved
all my pay for a year.
All through this horrible haggling
I feel Amir’s eyes on the back of my head.
I can just hear his thoughts:
Good old Ramon, now trading in slaves
instead of just trying to boss them around!
Desperate
I take Hafiz back to the stall
where I bought him.
When the bookseller sees
the pages I’ve torn
for my secret stories,
he laughs in my face.
“What have you used
this poor treasure for?
Archery practice?”
I offer to take
only half what I paid.
“I’m desperate,” I plead.
“Who isn’t these days? Look, my friend.
The truth is, as soon as you bought this,
I sold your fine horse.
And so made more money that day
than I did all year. Okay?
No one buys books anymore.
Least of all ones in the Arabic tongue.
Now—God and Allah be with you.
Please get lost.”
Ink
I don’t cease my work with the stories,
but I have to admit that my heart’s not quite in it.
The cramped little letters seem to crawl through
my fingers, then sink in sharp claws.
By the end of the day I can barely lift up the needle
to sew them away.
I ask Saint Katarina for help.
She’s the patron of scribes,
though I’ve always thought her a curious choice.
When the Byzantine Emperor cut off her head,
her blood gushed out white as cow’s milk.
I think if you cut off my head