The Unfortunate Son (11 page)

Like a pig
, Luc thought.
A pig to be slaughtered
.

He shuddered, and his hands were icy. Bes jerked the rope, and Luc fell to his knees. The old man had turned down an alley ahead. Bes grabbed a handful of Luc’s hair and yanked the boy to his feet. He hurried Luc along, catching up with the old man at a long whitewashed wall; swallows nested in every hole in the wall, and twigs and grasses jutted from every fissure. Bes dragged Luc to a carved doorway and swung open an iron-studded cedar door. The huge hammered hinges squealed. The old man entered, and Bes jerked Luc over the threshold into his new home.

THE STREET WAS dusty and hot, noisy and smelly, but when Luc stumbled across the threshold, he passed into a different world. Behind Luc was the closed door and the windowless, thick white wall that muffled the city outside. The old man and the little man slipped out of their shoes and left them by the entry. A scalloped archway opened to a spacious blue-and-green tiled courtyard, planted with tall leafy trees and edged with a rose garden. Cages of songbirds hung from tree branches, jasmine tumbled from blue urns, and in the center of the tiled yard, sparkling ribbons of water splashed from a white marble fountain into a green stone pool. Twisted, fluted columns ringed the courtyard, and a covered walkway with colorful mosaic bands led off into the rooms of the house.

“Scrub him well,” said the old man to Bes.

“Shall I shave his head?” chirped Bes, examining a lock of Luc’s hair. Luc cringed at the little man’s touch.

Luc had understood nothing of what was said, but the old man’s voice was as deep as he was tall, and when he spoke it rumbled from down within his chest, forceful but not loud. “You shall not cut his hair, though the color is unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” asked the little man.

“A red apple invites the thief. Be gentle, Bes. The boy has suffered.”

Bes smirked and pushed a bewildered Luc to the ground near the fountain. He blinked at the songbirds; he had never before seen a caged bird. Bes pinched his nose, made a face at Luc, and scampered away though a doorway on the far side of the courtyard. He returned wearing a copper bowl on his head and carrying a dish of black greasy soap, a bristle brush, and a yellow sponge. Behind the little man, a sleek white cat with yellow eyes, ginger ears, and a ginger-tipped tail padded on fat round paws.

Bes poured several bowls of water over Luc’s head. He slapped globs of soap on the boy and scrubbed Luc’s skin with the brush. The soap burned, and the brush scratched. Bes rubbed soap through Luc’s hair with his fingers. Now and then he pinched Luc or pulled his hair. Luc flinched, but he did not cry out. The runoff water changed gradually from gray to clear as each bowl rinsed away more filth. Bes dipped the sponge in olive oil and soothed the boy’s reddened skin.

The old man returned and dropped a short beige tunic over the damp boy’s head; he handed Luc a pair of wide trousers that tied at the waist. Luc pulled on the trousers. Then he smoothed his wet hair, straightened his shoulders, and stood tall, taller than the little man.

“Much better.” The old man nodded. “Feed him bread and dates. Give him milk. Goat’s milk. Almond milk. Whatever we have. Then bring him to my room. And keep Cat away from my songbirds. I don’t want to see that infernal creature, Bes. Ever.”

“Yes, master,” said Bes, who waited until the old man was gone before he kicked Luc once, grabbed him by the sleeve, and dragged him to the kitchen. It was a high square room, separated from the house by another courtyard, where there was a garden of vegetables and herbs and a large cistern to collect the rare rainwater. A wide hearth with a large chimney took up one corner of the kitchen. The deep shelves that lined the walls were crowded with baskets, bright copper pans, heavy earthen pots, and red and yellow glazed jars. Bes pushed Luc down on the stone floor near the hearth. He tore off a large hunk of bread and tossed it to the boy. He poured milk into a small bowl that he set down in front of the white-and-ginger cat. Then he poured Luc a cup of water and handed him three olives. The bread was fresh and smelled yeasty and clean, and the water was sweet. Luc gobbled and gulped. For the first time in weeks, he was washed and fed. He closed his eyes for a moment and savored his relief. Bes squatted
with his arms wrapped about his knees, and watched the boy. He threw Luc another big hunk of bread. Luc finished and waited for more, but Bes winked and gestured for him to follow. They passed through the central courtyard to a double-wide doorway.

Inside the large room, thick, colorful woven rugs covered the tile floor. The old man sat in a carved chair behind a long table strewn with jars and cloth packets tied in string, instruments and tools. On the floor behind his chair were high stacks of parchments and piles of leather-bound books. The old man beckoned Luc around the table; Bes shoved Luc from behind. The old man pursed his lips and shook his head at Bes.

“Leave us, Bes. Go find shoes for the boy. And a cap.”

“A cap?” asked the little man.

The old man nodded. “And halvah for yourself. Maybe that will sweeten you, for a moment.”

Bes bowed and smiled. “Am I not sweet enough for you, sir?”

“No, you are not, Bes.”

Bes backed out of the room, quickly turned and, with a skip, was gone.

The old man motioned to Luc to come closer. He examined the boy from head to toe. Gently he prodded Luc’s scalp where the ear should have been and checked the other ear. He examined the boy’s eyes and his teeth, and he felt his neck and checked his spine. The old man dabbed ointment
wherever Luc had welts and insect bites, and he bandaged the sores where the shackles had rubbed off his skin. Then the old man fastened thin steel bands around the boy’s ankles.

“These show you are mine. They will protect you.”

Luc blinked and stared at the man. He was confused by the gentleness and care. He looked down at the metal bands. Though he understood nothing of the man’s language, he understood that the rings showed he was a slave, that they demonstrated that, despite the kindness, Luc was now the property of this stranger. The boy felt dizzy and swayed.

The old man pointed to a cushion on the floor and motioned to Luc to sit. He began to speak. His words continued to be meaningless until, suddenly, Luc understood. For the first time in five weeks, he heard words that he knew, and he put his hand to his mouth.

“Ah!” said the old man. “You understand?”

Luc nodded. And then he wept.

The old man twirled his beard and waited, tapping his fingers on the table. Luc sucked in a few breaths of air, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and was quiet.

“This is the language I learned in the city of Marseille. I thought I would find your tongue. I have spent many years in different foreign lands.”

The old man pointed to the table and his chair.

“I have even learned to sit like a European, one of their few admirable habits. Now, I know you are not deaf, boy. You can speak. Yes?”

Luc nodded.

“You have survived the worst. Tell me one thing about yourself. Anything.”

“My name is Luc.”

“I am Salah. Now, Luc, tomorrow and for the nine days that follow,” said Salah, holding up ten fingers, “I will address you in your language. I will tell you the words in my language as well. After ten days”—the old man folded down his fingers one by one—“I will speak only the language of this city, Bizerte. You are on the Maghreb coast of Africa now, and you must learn Arabic. I hope you are quick and careful. And I hope you are kind. Bes is quick and careful, and he is trustworthy, but he is not always kind. I want more kindness in my household. I am an old man. Every sun has to set. You are my property, Luc, but if you are a good servant, I shall be fair and generous. If you are not a good servant, I will sell you. I have sold boys who were lazy or dishonest or useless. Prove yourself worthy. Do your best. I am a good master. You could do worse.”

Luc bent down and touched one of the bands on his ankle. He looked up at the old man.

With a voice that cracked, he asked, “Am I never to go home again?”

The old man paused.

“This is your home now, Luc. Do not speak again of the life you had. It is gone.”

SIX WEEKS HAD passed since Luc’s disappearance. Mattie and Pons had asked throughout the village. Whatever happened to those taken by the Saracens remained a mystery: no one had ever returned. One Sunday morning in early May, Pons tarried after church to speak with the owner of the saltworks, Oubert. Oubert was the richest man in the village, and traded with merchants from other towns and from faraway cities. Oubert was also a recent widower with grown children, and he had asked Pons for Beatrice’s hand in marriage. He told Pons that Beatrice was the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen. Oubert was an honest man, but he was merciless in his bargains, and Pons thought he was neither young enough nor generous enough
for Beatrice. But Pons had never given Oubert an answer and usually avoided the man.

“Do you know anything about these Saracens?” Pons asked him on this Sunday.

“Oh yes. These pirate raids are the fault of the Spanish king. He banished the Jews and the Muslim Moors from Spain. Now the sea is full of both. More than a few fishermen have disappeared. In Sardinia, a large island to the southwest, I heard that people were taken from their villages. Women and children, too. Stolen from their houses and fields in the middle of the day. The captives are sold into slavery and worked until death. Imagine the horror,” said Oubert, shaking his head.

Pons closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Where are they taken?”

“To Africa, the land on the opposite shore of our sea. Where there are man-eating beasts and man-eating heathens,” said Oubert, crossing himself.

Oubert tipped his hat to a passing villager as he and Pons walked from the gray stone Church of Saint Olive.

“How do you know this?” asked Pons, stopping to remove his shoe and shake out a pebble. He shook his head; he hated wearing shoes.

“I know men who trade in Africa: gutsy merchants from Genoa who live in Alexandria, Tripoli, Tunis, and Algiers—all infidel cities along the African coast. It’s very dangerous
but very profitable.” Oubert snorted and waited while Pons forced his foot back into the shoe.

“Is there any hope for the boy?” asked Pons.

Oubert pursed his thick lips. “Very little. But I’ll inquire; I expect a ship from Genoa by week’s end. I trade mainly in salt, but other goods as well.” Oubert pulled a heavy purse from his sleeve and poured a handful of silver coins into his palm; he cupped his hand and tipped the coins back into the purse. “How is Beatrice?”

“Well …well enough,” said Pons. “But she has sores on her feet that make walking difficult, and her soles itch something fierce. Mattie has been trying all sorts of salves, but the medicines smell terrible.”

The salt merchant frowned and wrinkled his nose. “Bad feet, eh?”

Pons nodded. The merchant dabbed his nose with a linen handkerchief.

“Unfortunate business, losing that boy,” said Oubert, and he blew his nose.

“Awful. I’d best get home. Nice to see you, Oubert. Mattie and I would be much obliged for whatever you learn. I’ll bring a nice string of fresh anchovies to you next Friday.”

Oubert nodded, and Pons headed home. Cadeau lay by the cottage door; his tail thumped once. Then he rested his head on his front paws, and watched the road.

“Good boy,” sighed Pons, bending to pat Cadeau’s head.
The dog waited for Luc every afternoon, but he had begun to follow Beatrice everywhere, and he slept at the foot of the ladder to her loft.

Beatrice had spit-roasted an old hen for their dinner, and Mattie boiled radishes and leeks from the garden. Pons’s catches had slipped since Luc was taken, but the spring, which began rainy, had turned warm and sunny, and the garden was fruitful. The three ate their Sunday meal in their fish-carved cottage.

“I’m not sorry that this hen gave up laying. This is a meal a rich man like Oubert would envy,” said Pons.

“What did you learn from him?” asked Beatrice.

“Oubert said others have been taken. From the shore, even. Just snatched by the Saracen boats.” He shook his head. “They came at us so quickly. I never saw a ship move so fast nor turn so sharply.”

Beatrice handed Pons a drumstick. He pulled the meat from the bone, chewed slowly, and wiped his fingers on a piece of bread before popping it into his mouth.

“Do the captives ever come back?” asked Beatrice, sitting down next to him.

He patted her hand gently before answering. “None that Oubert knew of. But maybe his foreign merchant friends will know something.” He put his arm around the girl and kissed her forehead. “Oubert asked about you, Beatrice.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. She slipped a scrap of chicken to Cadeau under the table.

“He
is
very rich,” said Mattie.

“He might as well be a poor man. He keeps his coins in his purse,” said Pons.

Mattie nodded. “I never liked that man.”

“I don’t think he’ll be bothering Beatrice for a while,” said Pons with a smirk.

“Why is that, Brother?” said Mattie, wiping her fingers on her lips.

“I might have lied to Oubert. Just a little,” said Pons, looking upward.

“Might you have?” said Mattie with a crooked smile, squinting at her brother with one eye closed.

“I told him Beatrice was suffering from sores on her feet. Nothing too terrible. Except—”

Beatrice was giggling, and Mattie, with a wider, dimpled smile, asked, “Except what, Brother dear?”

Pons scratched at his stubbled cheek and sniffed. He added softly, “I said you had mixed ointments for the sores, and then, maybe, I said the ointments smelled something terrible.”

“And I suppose you said the ointment made all her hair fall out? Not such a bad thing in the spring, what with all the lice she’s always picking and scratching at,” said Mattie.

“And you told him I snore like thunder, right?” asked Beatrice.