Free The Moor's Account by Laila Lalami Page A

bright, clean pattern of white and black. The wind picked up now, rustling the branches of the trees around us and disturbing the shadows on the ground.
    Señor Dorantes stood up. I think what Castillo is trying to say is that, as we get farther away from the coast, it is just a good precaution to chart a way to the ships and back.
    And what if the Río Oscuro is not a tributary of the Río de las Palmas? the governor asked.
    At the very least, Señor Castillo said, the river will lead us to a harbor. We can leave a message on the shore to signal our location. Maybe tie it to a flagpole, so that any passing ship can see it. Just as a precaution.
    Fine. Take twenty-five men and go to the port. We will remain in this village for a few more days until I am finished with my investigation.
    The governor left, and Señor Dorantes returned to his game of chess. Pavo Real, he said between his teeth.
    Pavo Real was the nickname Señor Dorantes had given to Señor Narváez, because the governor took as careful care of his appearance as a peacock. But my master had no nickname for me. A nickname is something you use to tease someone, whether out of spite or out of affection, whereas all the things he called me were said without a hint of humor or irony: El Moro, El Negro, El Arabe. On most days, he did not even call me anything. He did not need to—I was always right behind him.

4.
T HE S TORY OF A ZEMMUR
    Listen, my mother said. Let me tell you a story.
    She was sitting on a stool, shelling beans into a bowl wedged between her knees. Beside her, on the brazier, the grease from a shoulder of lamb crackled in the cooking pot; from time to time, she prodded the meat with a long-handled spoon and turned it over. Her shadow danced on the kitchen wall, where jars of oil and barrels of wheat and barley were arranged in a neat row. In the space between us, my twin brothers were crawling on the floor, while my sister, Zainab, was kneading dough for the bread, her kerchief slipping halfway down her hair with the force of her movements. When the loaves were ready, I would have to take them to the neighborhood oven, but for now I could still sit by the fire.
    It was an afternoon in winter, and the light from the doorway was dim. I had come straight from my father’s bedroom, running in my slippers across the wet courtyard to the kitchen; I craved the warmth of the brazier as much as I needed my mother’s company. Once again, I had disappointed my father—I had deserted the msid for the souq, where our neighbor Moussa had seen me. With a promptness born of malice, he had reported my whereabouts to my beloved father, who duly questioned me about the day’s lessons and found that I had failed to learn them. He had given me a look full of displeasure, which was much worse than if he had punished me, the way he used to when I was a younger boy. Now that I was thirteen, nearly as tall as him, he had taken to quietly shaking his head at my stubborn folly.
    Mustafa, my mother said.
    I did not reply. I sat with my knees drawn into my chest and, after amoment, I lowered my forehead upon my knees. The scholar’s life, which my father worked so hard to provide for me, held neither the dangers nor the delights of the marketplace; I found no enjoyment in it. Worse: I felt guilty for not enjoying it. It seemed to me that I could never measure up to my father’s ambitions.
    Mustafa, my mother said again.
    I looked up. Her face had begun to show signs of middle age, but her eyes were still luminous and kind. My brother Yusuf, perhaps sensing my sadness, had crawled toward me and now he thrust up his stubby fingers in the air, begging to be picked up. I seated him on my knees. He was still teething, and I let him gnaw on one of my fingers.
    Listen, my mother said. Once there was and there was not, in olden times, a poor slipper-mender whose wife died in childbirth, leaving him with two boys and an infant girl. The boys he