THE GRAY-AND-RED parrot sat on Luc’s shoulder, where it had perched ever since it had been given to Salah by Tariq five weeks earlier. Luc had constructed a hanging roost in a corner of Salah’s room and another in the kitchen, high enough to be safe from Cat. But usually, the bird sat on the boy’s shoulder.
Luc had begun teaching the bird greetings and small talk in French.
Salah sighed. “I should punish you, Luc, for teaching the bird anything but Arabic.”
Luc tipped his head. “But then the bird could talk to Bes.”
Salah frowned. “Ah, Luc. He who seeks a flawless friend remains friendless.”
“Master, you have said that the rain wets the leopard’s skin, but it will not wash out the spots.”
“I also said, if there were no fault, there would be no pardon. Bes has tried to be civil with you for months, but you remain unfriendly.”
“But—”
“No, Luc. I know Bes was cruel to you.”
“Very.”
Luc was dusting the books on Salah’s desk. He turned his face to the bird on his shoulder, and the parrot nuzzled the boy.
Salah steepled his hands. “Bes felt threatened.”
“By me? A powerless slave?”
Salah put up a hand. “Your relentless self-pity blinds you.”
“Blinds me to what?”
“To what you have. I no longer blame Bes. It is you who are wrong.”
“He still has my ear.”
“Your ear?” Salah pushed himself back from the desk, and the chair legs squealed on the tile floor.
“My wooden ear,” said Luc.
“Have you asked for it back?”
“No.”
“Because you rarely speak to him?”
“He knows I want it back. It’s mine.”
Salah shook his head. “He waits for you to ask, and you wait for him to give? Allah has no mercy for those who have no mercy for their fellow man.”
Luc frowned and brought the bird to the perch, where it sat whistling and singing. Salah was rubbing his hands together, blowing into them.
“Shall I light a fire, master?” asked Luc.
Although it was a mild day in April, and the room was comfortable, Salah nodded. As Luc knelt to light the charcoal in the iron brazier, Salah handed the boy a brown nugget.
“Drop this into the fire, Luc.”
“What is it, master?” asked Luc, examining the opaque lump in his hand.
“Myrrh. The tears of a thorn tree.”
“Tears?”
“It is the sap of an Arabian tree. The myrrh soothes, and the charcoal warms. I am very cold today.”
Bes entered the room, and the parrot began to squawk. The little man stood on his toes and spoke gently to the bird, but when he extended his finger, the parrot chomped down and drew blood. Bes yelped, and put his bleeding finger into his mouth.
Luc said nothing.
“Damn both you and that infernal creature,” the little man snarled at Luc. Before he could say any more, there was a crash, and Salah slumped to the floor.
Luc and Bes rushed to help the old man, who had struck his head on a corner of his table; blood pulsed from a gash on his forehead. Luc pressed a cloth against the cut to stanch the flow. Bes positioned a pillow under Salah’s head and tried to make him comfortable on the floor.
“Press this against his wound,” ordered Luc, handing the cloth to Bes. Luc tucked a blanket around the old man and rushed to fill the silver pitcher. He washed Salah’s bloody face. Salah’s eyes fluttered, and he looked at the boy fearfully for a moment. Then he closed his eyes again. Luc checked the wound. Bes watched.
Luc said, “It’s not a deep cut.”
“But there was so much blood,” said Bes, wrinkling his nose.
“The bleeding has already stopped. I’ll clean the cut and wrap his head. The wound doesn’t need to be stitched.”
“The master has never been the same since that day you treated Ibi’s cheek,” said Bes softly.
Salah opened his eyes and blinked a few times. Luc bent close.
“Can you speak, master?” asked Luc.
Salah tried, but he only uttered garbled sounds.
“Raise your right hand,” said Luc.
The old man closed his eyes, and lifted his right hand just barely above his lap.
“The left hand?” asked Luc gently.
The old man closed his eyes again, and nothing happened.
Luc took Salah’s left hand in his own.
“Can you squeeze my finger?” he asked.
Nothing happened. Salah closed his eyes.
Bes whispered in Luc’s ear. “It’s much worse this time, right?”
Luc chewed his lip. “I don’t know.”
Bes began to sob. “Salah is my life. What am I to do?”
The old man stirred and looked at Bes. He tried to talk, but still nothing came out as a word.
“Hush,” said Luc to both Bes and Salah. “You need to rest, Salah. We’ll stay right here with you.”
“Good night,” piped the bird in a baby voice from his perch. “Pretty bird.”
Bes shook his head. “Damn bird.”
Luc half smiled at the little man. “At least he hasn’t broken into song.”
Bes took a deep breath and smiled back. The old man was watching Bes and Luc, and he smiled crookedly—only the right side of his mouth turned up.
Luc squinted at Salah, and Salah closed his eyes.
“He might sleep now,” said Luc. “Stay with him, Bes. Call me if he stirs. I’ll brew him some willow-bark tea. Then I can take over the watch.” Luc offered the bird his finger, and the creature hopped on and toddled up his arm to his shoulder.
“I’ll be back soon,” Luc told Bes.
So they took turns sitting with the old man as he slept fitfully through the morning. At the call for the midday prayer, Salah awoke and sipped the tea that Luc held to his lips. He was bewildered; he raised his right hand to his head and touched the bandage. His left arm dangled, and the left side of his face drooped. Luc reached for Salah’s right hand, and the old man’s fingers tightened over the boy’s hand.
“Are you feeling any better, master?”
The old man locked eyes with Luc. “Worse thith time,” he whispered.
Luc nodded. “Yes.”
Salah let go of Luc’s hand and tapped his bandage.
Luc said, “You hit your head. The cut is clean and shallow. It should heal quickly.”
The old man whispered, “Promith.”
“Promise what?” asked Luc.
The old man blinked. “Stay till I die.”
“I am your slave,” said Luc. “You don’t need my promise.”
“No. Promith.”
“I promise, Salah. For the rest of your life, I shall be right here. Even if I could, I would not leave you,” said Luc, and he covered his heart with his right hand.
Salah nodded. “When I die, you’ll be free.”
The old man closed his eyes. Luc said nothing, but he felt the rush of heat to his cheeks and the quickened beat of his heart. He took a deep breath and looked at Salah, but the old man was already asleep.