The Unfortunate Son (15 page)

Beatrice shook her head. “What about the new count? Luc is his brother. What if he knew?”

“Do you think anyone will believe Blanche’s story?”

“
I
believe her story, and it might save Luc.”

“Your belief isn’t enough, Beatrice. Now sit still so I can finish.”

“There must be a way to prove who Luc really is,” said Beatrice, flinching as Mattie caught a knot in her comb.

“Ouch!”

“Your hair is all tangled, Beatrice.”

“You’re not very gentle today, Mattie.”

“You aren’t very reasonable. The story of Luc’s birth died with the old count and Sir Guy. You heard Blanche. She doesn’t want to bring up the past. Can you blame her? She and her husband could lose everything. Remember, they paid a terrible price.”

“But what about Luc?” asked Beatrice.

“Blanche is right. We don’t even know that he’s alive.”

“But—”

“The count made sure no one would ever speak about this. Certainly not Blanche and Pascal. No one in the castle
is going to listen to an old fisherman and his sister.”

“Or the daughter of a disgraced knight,” added Beatrice bitterly.

“If Luc is alive, all we can do is pray that he has figured out a way to survive. Maybe even thrive.”

“If anyone might, it’s that boy,” added Pons, who had returned from fishing in time to hear the end of their conversation.

He carried a basket of late raspberries and a string of gray-feathered thrushes, which he handed to Mattie.

Mattie examined the string of little birds and said to her brother, “Odd fish, here.”

“Cost me two fish,” said Pons. “No problem making a trade today. The fair is already bigger than last year. Everyone’s asking when you’re coming with your shoes.”

“What about the old priest?” asked Beatrice.

“You just won’t let it be?” said Mattie. “The old priest had to be Father Thierry.”

“Father Thierry?” said Beatrice. “I remember when he told me that I would have to leave home and go with you.”

“Yes, Father Thierry was a good man but very old. I doubt he’s still alive.”

“Can we find out?” asked Beatrice.

“What good would it do? When the count killed Blanche’s son, don’t you think
her
child was buried as
his
son? Everyone who knows this history is dead or bought off.” Mattie rose, handed Beatrice the comb, and took the string of
birds and the berries. Beatrice stood up with a sigh.

“Poor Luc,” said Mattie, walking with Pons and Beatrice into the cottage. “Pons always thought the boy was lucky. I guess he was wrong.”

“Lucky? What does luck have to do with anything?” asked Beatrice, opening the wooden shutters to bring light into the room.

“Luck is often everything,” said Mattie.

LUC COULDN’T READ. Salah railed, not at the boy, but at his ignorance. It was a clear October morning, and they sat on cushions in the courtyard. Branches drooped under fat red pomegranates, and golden dates cascaded in strings beneath palm fronds. The old man made Luc try to read the same words again and again.

“Pay attention, Luc. You cannot remain illiterate.”

“No one in my family can read.”

“The ignorance of your race is breathtaking. We are supposed to be the three people of the book: Muslim, Jew, and Christian. My people read. The Jewish people as well.” Salah shrugged. “Not the Christians. But where should I begin?”

“Teach me only what I need to know,” said Luc. “Just the words I need to help you as a physician.”

The old man shook his head and muttered. “Not to know is bad. Not to wish to know is worse. I have no time for you.”

Salah snapped the book shut and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Can Bes read?” asked Luc softly.

“Bes worships his Egyptian gods. Or none at all. He has no use and no desire for reading. I had higher hopes for you.”

Luc was frustrated. The surgery lessons had begun almost four weeks ago. Now, as he looked about the lush, flower-filled courtyard, heard the gurgling fountain and the songbirds, smelled the jasmine-scented air, and touched the smooth silken cushion where he sat, every sense told him that this beautiful place was his present and his future. The Arabic language was pushing into his thoughts and dreams. But as he sat struggling to read with this wise and generous man, Luc rubbed his thumb around one of his metal ankle bands. The cool steel proclaimed a larger truth: he was still a slave. Then he remembered something Salah had said: freedom could be taken away, but not knowledge. Luc looked at the old man, who sat with his fingers drumming on the closed book.

Bloom where you are planted
, Luc thought.

“Teach me,” he said. “I want to know.”

Months passed, and Luc studied and learned. He was more than diligent. The old man drew pictures. The boy
copied each drawing over and over until his were as good as his master’s. Salah demonstrated the workings of the human body. During surgery on a chest wound, Salah captivated Luc by showing him a beating heart. Luc memorized the names of the organs and their functions. At first, the boy’s medical tasks were simple. Luc handed surgical tools as the old man requested. Later Luc anticipated the need and handed Salah the appropriate instrument unasked.

“Listen to each patient. Ask questions. Examine carefully. The best way to treat the illness is to look for the cause.”

Luc assisted in bandaging wounds. By the end of November, Salah did not need to tell Luc whether to put vinegar or honey on a wound. The boy learned to make poultices with herbs from the garden and spices from the souk; he bargained for stitching sinew from the butchers in the market. Wherever he went, Luc wore his gray cap or a turban pulled down low, so that he was simply known as a boy with sea-colored eyes, not the boy with one ear.

Luc began to do more. He removed splinters. He splinted broken bones. As predicted, Salah found his student was gifted, but the boy’s love of the work and the science surprised both the teacher and the student. The teacher found his student soaked up education the way the dry Tunisian earth soaked up rain.

Usually Luc stood behind Salah to observe as the old man examined and treated his patients on a high wooden table in a corner of his room. One afternoon in early
December, Salah handed Luc a scalpel and instructed him to lance a swollen boil on a patient’s back. The patient, a prosperous carpenter with a large shop in Bizerte and many apprentices, protested when the boy took the instrument, but Salah put his hand on the man’s well-muscled shoulder and spoke.

“The boy has sure hands. Mine are old.”

Luc was afraid, but Salah waited until Luc pressed the silver point in, popping the angry flesh as he had seen Salah do.

Salah leaned over the boy. “Good, good. Just right,” he said.

Luc looked up from the patient. For a moment he felt powerful. And proud. He remembered rowing Pons’s boat: as he got stronger, he had felt a surge of pride as the little boat rose in the water and rushed forward with each of his strokes. Mastery. Except now it was less about physical competence. Luc could feel the gain in his intellect. He knew his questions were sharper, and his understanding was deeper. Salah recognized this change too. More and more, the old man looked forward to the lessons. So Salah began to teach the boy more than medicine; he introduced him to mathematics, geography, and history. Luc was quick, hardworking, and curious. And he was talented.

As the fall gave way to winter, Salah was increasingly impressed with all that the boy could do. Only Luc’s reading lagged; Luc was easily exasperated with the written word and often lost his temper. The old man had no patience for impatience, and he would scold the boy.

“The key to all things is determination,” said Salah one overcast December morning when Luc stumbled repeatedly over the same word.

“I am not good at this,” fumed Luc.

“Only with patience do mulberry leaves become silk,” said Salah.

“I will never get this,” said Luc, pushing the papers away.

“Then leave. My head hurts today, and I’ve had enough of your mewling. Go to Bes.”

Luc rose, bowed to the old man, and went to the kitchen.

Bes looked up when Luc appeared.

“What have you learned today?”

Luc said nothing.

Bes shook his head and continued, “It is no different from training a dog. You’ve learned some tricks. But you are still a dog.”

Luc did not reply.

Bes pulled a sack of dried lentils from a shelf and dumped them on the floor, startling Cat, who squalled and fled to the garden.

“Look what you’ve done. Lentils are dear this season; waste none, slave,” he said, tossing the boy the empty bag.

Luc was not surprised. Ever since he had begun studying with Salah, Bes often had punished him in a similar way. The little man would spill olive oil on a floor that Luc had just washed, or he would knock over a potted plant in the courtyard. Luc knew this was the price he had to pay for Bes’s
jealousy. He was down on his knees, muttering and scooping lentils from the floor as Bes watched, when they heard loud knocking at the front door.

Bes hurried to the door. Hearing voices and moans, Luc rushed to Salah’s office. He found the old man asleep, with his head on his desk. Gently, Luc nudged him.

“Salah, wake up. Someone is here. An emergency.”

The old man stirred, but he was confused; he did not seem to recognize Luc. He rubbed his eyes. Luc took a basin and ran for water. He washed the old man’s face, and slowly Salah wakened, but his hands trembled, and he did not rise to meet his visitors.

Bes led four dusty men into the study; two of the men carried an injured man, who held a bloody cloth to his face. The fourth man followed, wailing and shaking his head. Luc rushed forward and helped lay the patient on the high table. Salah remained at his desk. He said nothing and made no attempt to stand.

Luc peeled the injured man’s hand away from the cloth and looked underneath. Meanwhile, Bes tugged and pushed Salah and tried to get him to stand. The old man shook his head. He clutched the edge of the desk and closed his eyes. Luc looked at Salah before he turned to the visitors. From their sooty long robes, the dirt-covered feet, and the elaborate, long head wraps, Luc guessed that the men were camel drivers.

“What happened?” he asked.

The man who had been wailing spoke. “I’ve never had trouble with my camel. Not like this. Ibi was standing next to him, and the camel lunged. Ibi screamed.”

“The animal had Ibi’s cheek in its teeth,” said one of the other men. “But Ibi’s cry was so loud, the startled beast opened its mouth. And Ibi fell to the ground.”

Luc examined the wound. Just below his eye, Ibi had two ragged gashes in his cheek. A triangular flap of his face hung open, exposing the cheek muscle. Luc took a deep breath and looked again to Salah for guidance. The old man was motionless. He was slumped over his desk with his chin resting in his palm, but he was watching Luc.

“Bes, get clean water, vinegar.”

Bes scowled at Luc. The boy had never before spoken to him; now he was issuing orders.

“Hurry, Bes, please!” said Luc. “Bring me Salah’s tools. Bandages. The silver needles and the gut thread. First clean water. Fill the silver pitcher. Make sure you use that pitcher.”

Bes looked at Salah and back to the wounded man, and he said, “Ibi is my friend.”

Luc looked at Bes. “I can do this,” he said, pressing a cloth against the wound.

Bes frowned at the boy, but he fetched all that Luc requested, while the other men spoke among themselves.

“We don’t want the boy,” said the owner of the offending camel. “We need a doctor, not some infidel slave.”

Bes shrugged. “My master is the best doctor in Bizerte,
perhaps the best doctor in Africa, but he is unwell today. He has trained the boy. Can one of
you
fix Ibi’s wound?”

The visitors shook their heads.

“No? Nor can I. I have not been trained by Salah. But this boy works with Salah every day. The boy is all Ibi has.”

Salah remained hunched at the desk with his head resting in his hands. He barely moved. Luc put a basin under the patient’s head and flushed the wound with water from the silver pitcher. At first Ibi screamed, and two of his friends held him still. Luc placed a wad of cloth in his mouth.

“Bite down on this when it hurts. I apologize for the pain,” said Luc, touching the patient on his shoulder.

Then the boy took an obsidian scalpel and gently trimmed the rough edges of the wound. Ibi trembled and squeezed his eyes shut. His friends looked away. Bes squatted near the door, rocking on his heels, watching. Luc worked quickly. He flushed the wound again, but this time, he added vinegar to the water. Ibi winced, but he did not cry out.

“Your wound is deep, but your eye is unhurt, and the cheek muscle was not torn. That is good,” said Luc.

Luc pulled a silver needle in and out, pricking the flesh of Ibi’s cheek, drawing the flaps of skin together, and closing the wound. His stitches were small and even, and he sewed carefully and quickly. As Luc finished, Bes rose and examined the work. He nodded and patted Ibi’s hand. Luc wrapped Ibi’s face and head in a clean cloth, tying the ends.

“Keep this bandage dry. Come back tomorrow. Perhaps
my master will be feeling better. Stay quiet. You will look like a warrior after this heals. You are a brave man, Ibi,” said Luc.

“Should we pay the boy?” asked one of the men.

Bes frowned and asked, “Has Ibi’s wound been attended to?”

But Luc shook his head. “No. Not this time.” He looked over at Salah, who was watching. Bes led the men out.

Luc went to Salah. The old man was shaking his head.

“I couldn’t move. My head felt as though it would burst,” Salah whispered, and rubbed his face. “It’s a struggle to pull the past hour into words.”

“Are you feeling better?” asked Luc.

“A little.”

“Can I help you to your bed?”

“Yes,” said the old man. “I’ve never been more weary.”

“Are you hungry or thirsty? Shall I bring you something?”