The Apprentice's Masterpiece by Melanie Little Read Free Book Online Page A

mistaking
whose house you’re in.
    Our home is tasteful and, thanks
to Mama, always clean.
    But what do we own
that says who we are?

Poem
    Amir seems to think I’m out of my mind.
    â€œWhere have you been? Do your eyes see nothing?
This is no time for roses and moons!”
    Is he jealous? Bea’s pretty. Has he kissed any girl?
    I can’t tell you why, but I want him to like her.
His scorn is a fly in my cup full of wine.
“Come on”—this will get him—
“Help me write her a poem.”
    He narrows his eyes. “As you will,” he says, soft.
“Bring me your slate.”
    Here’s what he writes.
    Your lips are as red
as the blood on the hands
of your father.
    â€œThat will fire up her passion,
Ramon, don’t you think?”

Edict of Grace
    Over the course of one month,
explains Father Perez,
we are invited to tell on ourselves.
For these thirty days, punishments
will be several shades lighter.
Now is the time
to come clean to the Office.
    The queue the next morning
at the alcazar
winds through three streets.
    Papa tells us of the last
such Edict of Grace.
People owned up to things
they’d not dreamed of till then,
let alone done.
    What’s the catch?
Well, for one thing,
although they don’t burn you right then,
they do record all that you say
in their file. It will be there
if—or, when—you err again.
Repeat offenders
don’t fare so well.
    For another, they fine you.
The Church coffers bulge
from the fantastic tales
people spin for the Grace
just to keep themselves safe
—so they think—
in the future.
    One more thing: they won’t let you go
till you rat on others.
“Surely,” they’ll say, “you
did not act alone in these things
that you did? Don’t hold your tongue.
We know that you live in the world,
and have eyes.
What more can you tell us before you go home?”

Ink
    Back from Friday prayers
with Amir. We dawdled.
Papa will scold us,
I’m sure.
    I’m wrong.
His mind is elsewhere.
    â€œPapa,” I ask,
“are you unwell?”
    He says not to worry—
he was just resting. Sleep, he says,
still clasps him by one hand.
    His nice turn of phrase
draws my glance there.
    We’ve finished the last
of the work that we have.
    And yet Papa’s fingers
are stained with fresh ink.

Garrucha
    Manuel and Lope know all the tortures.
    Prisoners, if released,
must swear solemn oaths
not to say what they’ve seen.
    But Lope’s uncle is involved
with the Office. He loves
to scare ladies at dinner
with gory details.
    Lope favors one called the garrucha.
The accused hangs
by the wrists from a pulley.
Heavy weights are attached
to his feet.
    They raise him up slowly.
Then let him fall
with a jerk.
His arms pull out
of their sockets.
And sometimes
his legs.
Lope assures us
it really hurts.
    He adores nothing more
than acting this out.
He dangles from trees,
piercing the air with fake screams.
Lope’s a strange boy.
He and his uncle
must surely be cut
from the same bolt of cloth.

Sure
    It must be a book
inside Papa’s wall.
    One that leaves tired hands
spotted with ink.
    Is he writing something, then,
after all?
Does it contain things
he could burn for?
    Why don’t I sneak in
and see for myself
rather than twisting my brain
into knots?
    Because. What if I knew,
and then was arrested?
    I am weak.
How would I withstand
the garrucha ?
    To condemn my papa
with my cowardice—
I couldn’t take that.
    So my arms and kneecaps
go dead with terror
each time I creep near his door.
    Papa, your secret is safe—
if only from me.
I can’t go in.

Condition
    I’d wondered, of late,
why the footstomps above
had shushed to a halt.
    We’d known Señor Ortiz
was still in the house.
His fine horse is there
when I pass by the stables
in Trinidad Street.
His servant still shuffles about
in señor’s bedroom.
I know, for it’s right above mine.
    But lately the house has