The Unfortunate Son (24 page)

“Hassan. He was kinder than the captain.”

“Everyone is kinder than the captain.”

“Everyone but you,” said Luc.

“Ha! I like that,” said Bes, rubbing his hands together. “I have always wanted to be known for something other than my height. Stay with the old man. I will see what I can learn.” He handed Luc a dish of honey in a pool of olive oil and a fist-sized round of warm, salted bread for Salah.

As soon as Luc heard the captain leave, he returned to
Salah’s room, where he found the old man sleeping. Luc sat by the window, with the bird on his shoulder, and thought about home. He watched the old man’s fitful breathing. Looking about the room, he saw the beautiful mosaic tiles he had scrubbed, the intricate woolen rugs he had cleaned and beaten. He saw the high table where he had lanced abscesses and splinted legs, where he had stitched Ibi’s cheek. He looked at Salah’s piles of books, many of which he could now read. He saw the globe that he and Salah had created. Luc considered his months in this house. He was now in his second year of bondage. Except it wasn’t really bondage. As Salah had promised, Luc had been given a gift. He had known nothing of the world—nothing of geography or science or math or medicine. He hadn’t been able to read, and he had never heard a poem. He hadn’t even known that he wanted to know things. In his old life he had mastered olives, pigs, and fish; he had always been keen to do tasks well. Now he realized that he wanted more than skills: he wanted understanding. He wanted knowledge. That was the old man’s gift to him.

When Luc heard Bes return, he rushed to the kitchen, where he found the little man sweeping the ashes from the fireplace.

“What did you learn?”

Bes hesitated.

“You learned something; I can see it in your face,” said Luc, snatching the broom.

“What do you see, stupid Christian? Do you think you can read my Egyptian face?” asked Bes, turning his back to Luc.

“You found out something that you don’t want to tell me.”

Bes wrinkled his nose, and turned to face Luc. “I am not sure that I learned anything.”

“Tell me, so I can judge.”

“You?”

“Please, Bes?” asked Luc, laying the broom against the wall.

“Give me the bird,” said Bes, pointing to the parrot on Luc’s shoulder.

“The bird belongs to Salah.”

Bes held out his finger and was bitten again.

“Ouch! Feathered fiend!”

Then Bes leaned close the parrot; he opened his mouth wide and snapped his jaws in the air. “One bite and your head will roll. Then I’ll feed what’s left of you to Cat.”

“Horrid dwarf,” said Luc, pulling the parrot close to his chest.

“Damn you, Luc. Why should I tell you anything?”

“Because you said you would.”

Bes shook his head. “I learned nothing of use. I planted many questions.”

“Bes, have you any kindness?

“Kindness? What’s that? Nothing I have experienced from you.”

Bes took up the broom again and began to sweep. Sooty dust swirled, and he coughed as he whisked the ashes into a pan. When he finished, he wiped his smudged face on a cloth and turned to Luc.

“Let us see what sprouts from my questions. Trust me.”

“I trust Salah,” said Luc.

“That is enough,” said Bes.

“Salah would say trust in Allah,” said Luc.

“Yes, he would. He would say trust in Allah, but tie your camel. But then, you are an infidel.”

“So are you, Bes.”

“What would you do if you were free, Luc?”

“I would go home.”

“You would leave the old man?”

“I am not free. What does it matter?”

SALAH WAS DYING. He slept fitfully; he was awake in snatches. When he spoke, he whispered. Luc and Bes dribbled sugared water into his mouth and cooled the old man with a palm fan that had been rubbed with jasmine oil. On the last afternoon in July, Tariq, the rich merchant, came to call.

“Salah is asleep,
sayyid
. He cannot be disturbed,” said Bes.

“I am here to see the boy,” said Tariq.

“What boy?” asked Bes.

“The blond slave.”

Bes shrugged.

“Luc,” said Tariq. “Fetch him.”

“He is no longer here,” said Bes.

“Is that so?” Tariq bellowed, “If you see him, tell Luc that I have news of his family.”

Luc appeared in the doorway, and Tariq dismissed Bes.

“I knew you were lying,” said the wealthy merchant.

The little man narrowed his eyes, and clenched his fists.

Luc bowed to Tariq.

“Leave us, little man,” said the merchant. “I need to talk to Luc of private matters.”

“You and the slave? I must consult the master,” said Bes, shaking his head.

Luc put a hand up to stop Bes. “Tariq and I will go to the courtyard. I will hear his news.”

“Be off, little man, before I take a whip to you,” snarled Tariq.

Bes glared at Tariq, but he hurried to the kitchen.

Luc led his visitor to an alcove, where the fat merchant eased himself onto a cushion and signaled to the boy to sit across from him.

“How is Salah?” asked Tariq.

“He is gravely ill.”

“He has been, for the most part, a good master?”

“In all parts. He has been more than a master.”

“I have never known Salah to be dishonest.”

“Nor have I.”

“Until now,” said Tariq, pulling a perfumed kerchief from his sleeve and mopping his glistening face.

Luc spread his hands in front of him. “I do not understand.”

“Two months ago, maybe three, inquiries began in Tunis and then in this small city of Bizerte.”

“Inquiries?”

Tariq nodded. “A Genoan was looking for a boy who had been taken from a fishing boat.”

Luc nodded. “Many boys have been stolen.”

“He was looking for a particular boy.”

“Yes?”

“A boy with one ear.”

Luc squeezed his eyes shut.

“Yes, there is only one,” said Tariq softly. “Salah is a venerated wise man, a powerful man. He knows all there is to know, and that frightens many. Even for money, no one would approach you without his permission.”

Only the splashing water of the fountain sounded cool; the air was so hot and still that the songbirds were silent; the shade of the alcove where Luc and Tariq sat offered little comfort. The fat man was breathing heavily. He pulled a rolled woven disk from his belt, unfurled it, and fanned himself.

“What would anyone want with me?” asked Luc.

“A handsome reward has been offered for your return.”

“A reward?”

“Yes. And your passage back home.”

“But who offered the reward?” asked the boy.

“Your family, I should think,” answered Tariq, with a shrug.

“My family has no wealth, and my father would never—”

Luc stopped because he remembered the doubts that the heavy soldier, Alain, had planted. Who was his father?

Tariq mopped his face. “I do not know who offered the reward, but that is of little concern. It is a substantial sum.”

“How much?” asked Luc, very puzzled.

“It doesn’t matter. Salah has never cared about money. Besides, he is a very wealthy man.”

“I don’t understand. Did Salah know this?” asked Luc.

“Oh, yes. A few weeks ago, the slaver tried to buy you back.”

“He wanted to buy me back for what?”

“To collect the reward. But the old man refused, and he made the slaver vow not to tell you. I heard that Salah paid the slaver for his silence.”

“How do you know this?”

“I trade with Genoan merchants. Your story is well known; the agents were told you were dead.”

“Dead?” Luc rose and looked away. Then he turned and sat down. Tariq watched the boy and fanned himself.

“But who is looking for me?” asked Luc.

Tariq said, “Someone rich enough to offer a princely reward. Money for a boy of great wealth. Not a fisherman.”

“And Salah kept this from me? He told them I was dead?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you bring me this news? You are Salah’s friend. And the reward would mean nothing to you.”

Tariq nodded. “I respect your master. But I am an honest man. The Genoans trust me. I have long traded with them, and I value my name and my virtue. I could not lie when they asked me if you were truly dead.”

“So now they know I’m alive?”

“Yes. They will come here soon.”

Luc frowned. “Salah is mortally ill. I will not leave him. I gave my word.”

“Your master did not tell you of the search. He tried to scuttle the search.”

“I promised him.”

“His betrayal would cancel your obligation.”

“He is very near death, and he needs me. I will stay with him until the end.”

“You are a credit to your people.”

“My people? I wonder who they are.”

Tariq answered, “Important people, I would think. The reward is substantial.”

“That is a mystery. I am from a simple peasant family. Perhaps it is a mistake.”

“You think there is another boy with one ear?”

“No.”

“As I said, you are a credit to your people.”

“If I am a credit to anyone, it is to Salah.”

“Stay in this land, Luc. I like you. I have made inquiries
about you. You are skilled in surgery, knowledgeable about geography. You know the astrolabe. You speak Arabic like an Arab. Salah has told me that you are very, very smart. And now I know you are loyal. After he is gone, and you are free, I will find you an excellent position in my business or with the Christian traders. You will be a wealthy man in no time.”

“Thank you. After Salah dies, I will go home. But I may return to accept your offer.”

“If you accept the true faith, I will give you one of my daughters in marriage. I have six daughters, all beautiful.”

“I am humbled by your confidence in me.”

“And if you remain a Christian, well, there is still a place for you in my business. But no daughter,” laughed Tariq.

Tariq lumbered to a stand, tucked the fan into his belt, and mopped his face with the soggy kerchief. He placed his right hand over his heart, then touched his fingers to his forehead and nodded to Luc. “Go in peace, my boy. I look forward to our next meeting.”

“Thank you.”

Bes appeared all too quickly and led the merchant out. Luc shook his head.

“How long have you known?” asked Luc when Bes returned.

“Not long,” answered Bes, sitting down in the alcove across from Luc. Cat appeared and sat beside the little man.

“How long?” repeated Luc.

“Only since the visit of the slaver. Hassan told me.”

“You said you learned nothing.”

“I promised not to tell.”

Bes waved his own fan as he settled back into the cushions and crossed his legs. Now and then he fanned Cat, who preened and leaned into the little breeze that Bes created.

“You should have told me,” said Luc, folding up his sleeves.

“I promised Salah I would not tell you.”

“I promised Salah I would stay.”

“Salah did not tell you, either.”

“I know. He thought I would leave. But I won’t.”

“Not even now, when you know he deceived you and the Genoans?” Bes raised his chin and fanned his neck.

“Salah is the kindest, wisest person I have ever known. I will stay. He is dying. If he failed me once, I forgive him,” said Luc, standing up.

Bes stood. As Luc began to walk away, he tugged on the boy’s shirt. “Will you forgive me, Luc?”

Luc turned. “Forgive you?”

“Yes.”

“Why should I forgive
you
?” asked Luc, with a half smile.

“You don’t know who I am. Do you, Luc?”

The little man did a jig.

“You are Bes,” said Luc, sticking out his tongue and doing a poor imitation of Bes’s little dance.

“Do you know who Bes is?”

“He’s a dwarf who tortures me.”

“Bes is an Egyptian god,” said the little man, taking a deep bow.

“Is he, now? Well, I’ll try to remember that. But I’m a Christian, so I won’t be praying to you. Tell me something, Bes.”

“I will tell you anything. No more secrets.”

“Good.” Luc pointed at Cat. “Tell me why there are only cats in Arab houses, never dogs.”

“Arabs have dogs.”

“But never in the house.”

Bes frowned. “Because a dog will chase away any angels.”

Luc laughed, “In my country, dogs chase away strangers.”

“A stranger might be an angel in disguise,” said Bes.

“Or just a stranger,” said Luc.

THROUGHOUT THE EARLY summer, Louis appeared often at Bertrand’s manor. Sometimes he and Bertrand rode or hunted together. Sometimes he stayed for dinner. Again and again, he invited Bertrand and Beatrice to join him for a meal or to visit his home. Bertrand always accepted; Beatrice always refused. Louis sent gifts to the household: peaches from his orchard, cheese from his sheep, and lavender-scented cakes of soap. When he sent a bolt of deep-blue silk, Beatrice suggested that Bertrand return it.

“I will not,” said Bertrand. “I’ll use some for a tunic for myself. But there is enough for a new dress for you, too.”

“I don’t want his gifts. I want him to believe me. To believe Luc is his brother.” Bertrand glanced at his niece. He
said nothing for a moment. They were strolling in a new garden that had been Beatrice’s idea. Pons and Bertrand’s gardener were dividing bulbs. Bertrand stopped and turned toward her.

“No one could fault you for your loyalty and persistence, but the boy has been missing for what? Two years?”

“Not that long,” said Beatrice, patting Cadeau, who followed her everywhere.

“Long enough. Louis has continued the search because he knows you want to find the boy. But you’re not fair to Louis.”

“If he believed me, he would be searching for Luc for
himself
, not for me.”

“Louis is my best friend. Everything I have I owe to him. Everything you have, too.”

“I lost everything because of his father.”

“His father was evil. But Louis is a good man. A very good man. When Étienne was declared a criminal, you and I both suffered. But we were innocent.”