The Moor's Account by Laila Lalami Read Free Book Online Page A

It was true that he had a lazy eye, but that alone, they said, could not account for his reluctance. Later they clucked and argued with each other about whose turn it was to wash his clothes, mend his jellabas, or serve his meals. And later yet they felt only relief, because his bachelorhood meant fewer mouths to feed.
    After my father lost his left arm, he became known around town as Muhammad the Lame. You might think this was an impediment to his business, but the opposite was true: his nickname made it easier for him to stand out among all the other notaries and to be remembered whenever his services were needed. Do you need to record a deed? people said. Just go to Muhammad the Lame, he will take care of it. Or: If you wish to divorce that wife of yours, at least go to Muhammad the Lame, he will be discreet. Or: Talk to that shifty judge if you must, but make sure Muhammad the Lame is there to record what he said.
    Over the years, my father gained a reputation as a reliable and faithful notary, whose demeanor mirrored the feelings most appropriate for the occasion—joy at a wedding, disappointment in a divorce, delight at a new sales contract, or sadness at the severing of a partnership. In this way, he came to know nearly everyone on our side of the medina, speaking with them on the most significant days of their lives and witnessing their most private emotions.
    Sometimes, my father hired out his donkey to farmers or merchants in the area, either to supplement his earnings or to help out a friend. Other times, my mother found work as a bridal attendant at lavish weddings, but my father rarely let her because he disapproved of such ostentatious displays of joy. My parents were further blessed with the birth of three other healthy children—my sister, Zainab, and my twin brothers,Yahya and Yusuf. My uncle Abdullah, who had four daughters of his own, treated my brothers and me as the sons he never had. We were not rich but, as I said, we were happy.
    When I turned seven, my father bought me a jellaba made from the finest wool in Azemmur, and took me to meet the fqih of our mosque. My father wanted me to learn how to read, memorize the Holy Qur’an, and later attend the Qarawiyin, in the hope that I might take up the same profession as him. Azemmur was a growing town, my beloved father reasoned, and a growing town required deeds and contracts, which he could easily and frequently imagine me drafting by the light of a candle. This image of me as a dutiful recorder of events in other people’s lives did not particularly inspire me. At the msid, I listened to the day’s lessons, but all too often I wondered why I was not allowed to go play on the street, like all the other children in the neighborhood.
    My sense of this injustice was especially strong on Tuesday, which was market day, because the other boys were able to run around, exploring stalls, eating sweetmeats, watching a dancer or a snake charmer, or otherwise getting into mischief, while I had to sit in a dark, musty classroom with my fqih. Before long, I began to skip school in order to indulge in my favorite pastime—visiting the souq. There, I watched fortune-tellers, faith healers, herbalists, apothecaries, and beggars. They promised a healthy child, a painless life, a pliant husband, a dutiful wife, or a path to heaven, perhaps different versions of the same things, but the stories they told or foretold comforted people, inspired them, allowed them to imagine a future they had denied themselves.
    One Tuesday, I noticed a new tent at the market. It was made of a ghostly black fabric and, unlike the other tents in its row, it was closed. Eager to satisfy my curiosity, I lifted a side flap and slipped inside without being seen. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and the suppressed heat. The rank odor of men’s sweat mixed with the smell of steaming tripe that drifted from the stall across the way. But, after a moment, I