The Moor's Account by Laila Lalami

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.
T HE S TORY OF THE M ARCH
    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.
    Where did you get this meat? Señor Dorantes asked when I served him one of the birds’ roasted legs for lunch. He sat on a stool outside his hut and took the bowl from me, his long fingers wrapping greedily around it.
    From your brother, Señor.
    El Tigre killed this bird?
    He took it from an Indian trap in the woods.
    Ah, he said with a chuckle. Diego is not much of a hunter.
    Poor Diego, I thought. Always trying, but somehow failing, to get hisbrother’s approval. Why