Free The Moor's Account by Laila Lalami Page B

took with him to his workshop, but the girl he placed with her aunt, who was an embroiderer. The aunt taught the girl everything she knew: how to choose fabric, how to select threads, how to marry colors, how to disguise an imperfect stitch behind a looped one. Best of all, she taught the girl all the embroidery patterns that had been passed down from generation to generation, patterns that could not be trusted to paper, but had to be committed to memory. By the time she was fourteen, the apprentice surpassed the mistress. She even began to invent new patterns. Her fame spread throughout our fortunate kingdom until, one day, a company of women musicians from the sultan’s court came to commission caftans from her.
    The girl set to work immediately. She chose a dark blue silk, upon which she embroidered eight-pointed stars in silver thread, giving the fabric the appearance of a starry night sky. The caftans, she hoped, would look beautiful on the musicians. But the more she thought about the court, the more curious she became. What did the sultan’s palace look like? Was it true, as the musicians had said, that the marble in his courtyard was so clear that you would mistake it for a mirror? Had it really taken ninety-two artisans a year to decorate the ceilings of his reception rooms? Were there truly grapevines hanging over the walls of his courtyard, so that passing guests could eat from them?
    To a girl who had spent her entire life bent over her embroidery scrolls, the musicians’ stories seemed too good to be true. But Satan, may he be cursed, continued to tempt her. She was so tormented by her curiositythat, surreptitiously, she made one additional caftan—this one for herself—and when the musicians came to pick up their garments, the girl donned the precious caftan and followed them into the palace.
    How right the musicians had been! The palace was dazzling. Mouth agape, the girl stared at everything around her. The arched ceilings and colorful rugs were unlike anything she had ever seen in the city. Dozens of guests sat on the divans, attended to by servants who brought in platter after silver platter of succulent dishes. But, while the girl was still entranced by the riches around her, the sultan came in. With his dark turban and his long, green cloak, he was as imposing as a monarch could be. He sat down on the throne and, with a snap of the fingers, asked for wine and entertainment.
    The musicians came forward. A hush fell on the assembly at the sight of the magnificent caftans, though the sultan barely took any notice. Then each of the ladies picked up her instrument—the flute, the guenbri, the kamanja. Hoping to keep up her deceit, the girl took up the lute. She knew nothing about music and could not have guessed that she had chosen the most difficult of all instruments. As soon as the company started performing, the sultan frowned. Who dared to play such discordant notes in his presence? The musicians themselves stopped and looked. And the girl, who had foolishly continued to pluck at her strings, was unmasked.
    The sultan’s mekhazniya fell upon her and, beating her this way and that, threw her out of the palace. Caftan in tatters, feet bare, hands broken, the girl returned home, where her aunt tried to nurse her back to health. But the fractures did not heal properly and the girl’s precious fingers became deformed. She could no longer make the delicate patterns that had made her so famous.
    My mother had come to the end of her story. Only then did I notice that she had finished shelling the beans and tossed them into the cooking pot. The smell of the meat stew now filled the kitchen. My brother had fallen asleep on my lap, his legs dangling on either side of my knees, his little hand still gripping my finger; now it was covered with baby spittle.
    My mother had accustomed me to fairy tales in which it was easy for me to imagine myself, so I remained quiet as I thought about the