The Moor's Account by Laila Lalami Page A

did my master not pay him any notice? Señor Dorantes looked much older than Diego, so perhaps they had not grown up together, but that alone could not have accounted for the strange distance between them. Oh, what I would not have given to be with my own brothers. They were seventeen years old now, young men already, though in my memory they remained the same little boys who used to run across the courtyard to greet me as soon as I stepped inside our home. Over the years, I had convinced myself that my sacrifice had been enough to spare them the life that was now mine, and sometimes I even dared to imagine that good fortune smiled on them. Had they made their way to the college of the Qarawiyin and fulfilled my father’s dream? Or had they, instead, given up on the scholar’s life and apprenticed with one of my uncles’ friends? I could not know. But it was my desire to know and my yearning for them that dictated everything I did in those days, everything I saw, but chose not to notice or reflect upon.
    Where is Diego now? Señor Dorantes asked me.
    With the friar Anselmo.
    Again?
    They went to the river.
    Did he at least save some of this meat for Castillo?
    No, Señor. He said the meat should be distributed to all those present.
    Tell him to check the traps again tomorrow.
    Since our departure from Seville, I had seen Señor Dorantes treat Señor Castillo with brotherly care, which I rarely saw him display toward Diego, though Diego was his own flesh and blood. Once, when Señor Castillo had complained that his right glove had a hole in it, Señor Dorantes had reached into his saddlebag for his spare gloves, even as his brother watched, his bare hands resting on the pommel of his saddle.
    I waited for Señor Dorantes to eat so that I could do the same. I had saved some scraps, enough to taste the native bird, but not so much that my master would ask me why I was helping myself to some of the meat. In the square, one of the soldiers was trying on a feather headdress from the temple and asking a friend to help him secure it around his head. Then, like an actor in a play, he walked down an imaginary road, his arms on his hips in an effeminate pose, while his comrades laughed and jeered. Across the way, a group of settlers were playing a game of baraja, excitedly calling out the points they scored. Patience, I thought, patience. Soon, wewill leave this village for Apalache, where we will find the gold and where I can remind my master of my role in his good fortune.
    S EÑOR C ASTILLO AND HIS MEN finally emerged from the wilderness a few days later. How pitiful they looked! Their faces were gaunt, a result of the meager rations the governor had allowed for their mission, and their muddy clothes stuck to their bodies. In the hands of a young soldier, the flagpole leaned sideways, as if he no longer had the strength to hold it upright. Slowly, in small clusters, they made their way into the village square. Everyone came to watch them dismount. Did you find the port? the men asked. Did you come across signs of a city? Where is the hatchet you borrowed?
    Señor Castillo raised his hand to quiet the hubbub. From the glum look on his face, it was clear he did not bring the good tidings for which he had hoped. Addressing himself only to his fellow captains, he said: We followed the Río Oscuro all the way to the ocean, but we found only a wide and shallow bay. The water never rose higher than our waists.
    This news was greeted with silence. Then Señor Castillo took off his helmet and ran his hand through his hair.
    What does this mean? Diego asked him finally.
    It means we have no idea where the port is, Señor Castillo replied. It means we are lost.
    Come now, Diego said. You are letting your emotions govern you.
    It is true.
    No, it is not, a voice said.
    The crowd parted to let Señor Narváez through, and he came to stand in the clearing, in his blue doublet and impeccably clean breeches.