The Moor's Account (17 page)

My group was led onto the platform and made to face the crowd. For a few moments, all of us, buyers and slaves, regarded one another appraisingly.
The buyers looked for the slaves that were most likely to fulfill their needs: a domestic, a farm worker, a porter, a concubine. They all wanted a good bargain—the strongest, healthiest, or prettiest for the least amount of money. The slaves, too, looked at the buyers, trying to guess who among them seemed the least demanding, the least avaricious, or the least cruel, even though their guesses were of no import to the outcome.

The auctioneer's voice was as loud and strong as that of the town crier in Azemmur. I remembered all the times I had seen slaves in the marketplace of my hometown. I had never thought about these men and women, had never wondered how they had ended up in chains, had never worried about who they had left at home and who would miss them and pray for their return. I had passed them and gone about my business, delivering wax to a merchant or buying flour for the evening meal, without dwelling on the sight. Later, out of sheer greed for more gold, I had sold slaves myself. But now it was I on the auction block, while, in the distance, people went about their business without giving me a second look.

The first man in our group, the man who had tripped on the stairs of the cathedral, sold for less than ten ducats. He was swiftly taken off the platform by a grimy farmer, and in my mind's eye I saw the backbreaking work that awaited him, the leftovers he would be fed, the barn where he would sleep. I tried to suppress my fear. Perhaps I would be luckier. Perhaps I would end up with a better master.

Swatting flies, the auctioneer looked displeased with the price he had received. He called out for the first of the four women in our group. Without warning, he lifted her dress up. He held her breast in his palm and said she was young and healthy and could bear many children. In her shame, she could only stare at the ground as the boys in the crowd jeered and the girls muffled their giggles. At that moment, I gave many thanks to God that I was not born a woman and did not have to suffer her humiliation.

Next was a little girl who, moments earlier, had been digging in the dirt with a stick. The auctioneer said she could make a fine domestic, that she was young enough to be trained, but old enough not to need much care. As if realizing that she, too, could take part in the performance on the raised platform, she twirled around on one toe and smiled at the crowd. The auctioneer chuckled and called out a price, but he had to lower it twice before the woman with the hatted boy raised her hand.

Suddenly I remembered what my employers in Azemmur sometimes
did when they received too large a shipment of cotton or glass. They quietly stored the goods in the warehouse to prevent prices from falling down in the face of so much supply. The less a customer paid for the goods he purchased, they said, the less he valued them. I am ashamed to say that, after watching the other slaves be taken away in such a manner, I stood tall and tried to look as healthy as I could.

It was my turn. The auctioneer's voice was getting hoarse from all the shouting. A fine specimen, he cried. The rope that tied my hands had cut through my skin, but I resisted the urge to chase flies away because I did not want to draw attention to them. Two buyers raised their forefingers. The auctioneer paced on the platform, pointing to my shoulders, my arms, my legs, and the price went up and up, and up again. The auction's winner, the man with whom I would spend the next four and a half years of my life, was a merchant by the name of Bernardo Rodriguez. When he took custody of me, Rodriguez asked the auctioneer to untie me. He might run away, the auctioneer warned.

This Moro? Look at him, Rodriguez said, he could not go far.

I
N THE EYES OF
his people, Bernardo Rodriguez was not an unkind man. He departed for work every day trailed by the perfumed blessings his wife, Dorotea, asked the good Lord to bestow upon him. When he was at the shop, he easily struck up a conversation with his customers, always remembering to ask after the health of an old aunt or the fortune of a traveling son. Sometimes, he played with his three children—Isabel, Sancho, and Martín—in the shaded patio of his house, and let them ride on his back as he went around the small fountain. At church, he sang with a clear voice and offered an unburdened Amen to the priest's prayer. Rodriguez had two unforgivable habits, however, and it was because of his unquenchable desire to satisfy both that he sold me. But I must not get ahead of myself.

Rodriguez was born and bred in Seville, and he knew many of its natives. For years, he had been a small merchant, eking a living out of a narrow shop much like those in the Qaisariya of Azemmur, with nothing but a few dozen rolls of poor-quality velvet to his name. But Rodriguez was also a dreamer. He liked to watch the arrival of ships from the Indies, a newly discovered land at the far reaches of the empire, and fantasize about the treasures in their holds. At the Torre del Oro, he had seen so
much gold, silver, and precious stones coming from México that it had once taken three days to unload just one caravel. There were other goods, too, goods that anyone with enough funds could freely purchase: bales of cotton, woven cloth, rich tapestries, small ornaments, exotic edibles.

It so happened that, one day, as he was wistfully strolling along the Arenal, Rodriguez came face-to-face with Cristóbal Díaz, a friend of his he had not seen in almost a decade, when they were both young lads looking for cheap wine and cheaper women. While Rodriguez had dutifully apprenticed to a merchant, Díaz continued to visit taverns until he turned into a lout and eventually disappeared from the neighborhood. Yet now he was dressed in a fine doublet and good boots and had the worldly look of a soldier about him. Where have you been all these years? Rodriguez asked him.

New Spain, Díaz said. He began to relate his travels to La Española and Cuba, where he had taken part in the campaign on Camagüey and the capture of a native chief, who went by the name of Hatuey. But the gruesome crimes Díaz had witnessed in the Indies had caused him to have a change of heart—in fact, he was preparing to enter into the Franciscan Order. To atone for his sins, he wanted to relieve himself of a load of cotton he had acquired, which was why he had come to the Arenal. Rodriguez bought the load for ten thousand maravedis and sold it for five times that amount to a merchant from Toledo, the profit allowing him to finally enter the trade of Indian goods. This was in the year 926 of the Hegira. And now, just three years later, Rodriguez's business was large enough that he found himself in the position of purchasing a slave.

That slave was me.

I followed Rodriguez to his home in Triana, where he called on his wife to come see his new acquisition. Dorotea Rodriguez appeared at the door of the dining room, dressed in a severe black dress with gray trim. For a moment, she stood there watching me, her blue eyes wide with surprise. A long string of prayer beads dangled from her right hand. Pursing her lips, she crossed the courtyard and came to stand before me. At once her hand flew to her nose, shielding her from the smell of my soiled clothes. Bernardo, she said to her husband. Bernardo, what have you done?

What does it look like?

Are you sure you can afford it?

I only paid twenty-five ducats.

Oh, Bernardo.

I cannot take him back, if that is what you mean.

But it is another mouth to feed.

Worry not about that.

Has he been baptized at least?

Of course. His name is Esteban.

And you intend to keep him here?

Yes, where else?

How can we keep him here, with the children around?

I will lock him up at night if it makes you feel better.

I had averted my eyes when the lady of the house approached, but now I looked up. She brought her hands to her heart and rested her chin upon them. While she watched me, Rodriguez brought an old blanket and pointed me to a closet behind the kitchen.

He looks shifty, she said to him.

He looks hungry, rather.

Do not complain to me if he ends up cheating you of your money.

Rodriguez heaved a sigh and led me to the closet—this would serve as my room. The conversation that I had just witnessed would repeat itself in a different form nearly every day. In figure and temperament alike, my master and his wife were the opposite of one another. He was stout and short; she was thin and tall. He loved to take risks and try new things; she was very cautious and set in her ways. He was ambitious; she was content with her station in life. In short, they made an unlikely pair, but they had turned their mismatch into a source of banter and a kind of bond, all the stronger for its peculiarity.

T
O GO FROM FREEDOM
to slavery was a fate worse than death; it was a rebirth into an alien world, with its strange customs and unbearable rules. I had to learn all the things I was not permitted to do: to speak my language; to assemble with other slaves in an inn; to run in the streets; to carry a weapon; to look at a Castilian lady; to sleep after sunrise; to ride in a coach; to refuse an order; to make a joke; to complain or disagree—and the list grew longer each day.

In the morning, I followed Bernardo Rodriguez to the Torre del Oro or the Casa de Contratación, waiting quietly as he met with vendors and made his purchases. The work was familiar enough, and my instincts and
training were useful: in my first week with him, I found a mistake in the ledger and caught two damaged crates before they were loaded onto the cart. Back at the store, he went over his inventory, decided on sale prices, and received buyers—merchants who came from as far north as Valencia. But I could not go home at an appointed hour, with the knowledge that my day's work was done and that my time was now mine, to use or waste as I wished. Like a horse or a mule, I had to keep working until I was pulled away from my task.

Time to stop, my master said one evening.

Sí, Señor, I replied. I began to sweep the floors.

Then a voice called out from the darkness of the wet street. Rodriguez.

Who is that? Step into the light so that I can see you.

A man of middle age, with thick blond hair and a large mole on his cheek, came inside the shop. A leather satchel was slung across his chest, just above his paunch. He smelled of horses. Herrera, my master said. How good it is to see you. When did you arrive?

Only this evening. We had many delays on the road because of the rain.

They inquired after each other and discussed their health and ailments for a while before Herrera asked what was new in the shop.

I have silk, linen, taffeta, Rodriguez said. Some serge of excellent quality. But I just bought this wonderful cotton from the Indies. See how soft it is?

How much do you want for it?

Twenty for each roll.

Outrageous.

You will sell it for twice that in Salamanca.

You have not been to Salamanca, have you? No one will pay that much.

Of course they will. This kind of cotton only comes from México. You will sell it all before Easter.

I doubt it, you crook. All the same, let me have a piece and I will call again tomorrow with my answer.

Esteban, what on earth are you doing cleaning up? Get Señor Herrera his sample.

Because Rodriguez had never owned a slave and I had never been one, our relationship was improvised. He decreed rules (Always check the purchase order), then changed them (Do not touch the purchase
order). Sometimes, he asked for my opinion on the wares he bought, but if I offered it unbidden he told me to be quiet. He could be pleasant and undemanding one day, then exigent and cruel the next. I discovered that I could never take a small detour from one of my errands for the sake of watching the sunset over the Guadalquivir—any moment of contemplation or idleness earned me questions and reprimands.

I tried to seek comfort in prayer and to speak to my Maker in the only way I knew. Once, I was prostrated behind the counter in the shop, facing east toward Mecca for the 'asr prayer, begging the Lord to save me. Help me find a way home, I whispered. Help me, O merciful God. The sudden weight of a Spanish boot upon my neck silenced my voice, and the next moment my face, scraping against the brick floor of the shop, was smashed against a pot from Malaga. Stand up, Moro, Rodriguez said, even as he continued to press his heel on my neck. Blood rushed to my scalp and streamed down my cheeks. Stand up, he said, but I could not move for the throbbing in my head. A kick in the side made me double over and now I found myself on my knees, being yanked up by the collar of my shirt. The beatings repeated themselves with such a wearying frequency that I desisted from praying and retreated instead into silent communions with my Lord.

At night, when I walked in with Rodriguez and saw his children running up to greet him, I thought of my mother, who would always be there as soon as I closed the blue door of our house behind me. She would have water warming on the brazier for my prayer ablutions. Slower, I would sometimes say as she poured it over my hands. Or, the water is too hot today, Mother. It stunned me now that I could ever have complained about something so trivial. When I entered the closet behind the kitchen, no one was there to greet me. No one stood up to say that a neighbor had come calling for me, or to ask me why I had come home later than usual, or to quarrel with me for having yet again forgotten to bring home the bread from the neighborhood oven. No one held me and I had no one to hold.

After a while, even the trade lost its attraction. The act of buying or selling, which I had viewed as my calling only a few years earlier, and for the sake of which I had disobeyed my father, lost its appeal for me. And because I lost interest, I did not care about the goods my master purchased, did not feel excitement when we received a novelty item, and did not notice if the delivery count did not match the purchase order. My
master took to calling me lazy, stupid, a disgraceful Moor with no sense of duty. He bought another slave, a man from Angola, and said he would put him up at the shop so he would not grow as soft and spoiled as I, who slept in the closet behind the kitchen.