“God? Not Allah?”
Ahmed smiled, his eyes dancing. “God, Allah, they are but different parts of the same song. You happen to hear God more than Allah, so
I ask him to watch over you.”
Jorge kissed him. “Careful what you say, Ahmed. One can be
burned for such heresy.”
“Heresy is not the only thing we could be burned for, mi amor,”
he chuckled ironically. “I must be going. My stall will not open itself.
Lock the door when you leave.” They kissed once more, then Ahmed rose
and picked up his satchel from the corner and walked to the door. As
he closed it behind him, he smiled at Jorge, the corners of his dark eyes
crinkling.
Ahmed was a scribe, and had a stall at the edge of the market
square where he drew up bills of sale for merchants, and wrote letters for
people who were illiterate. Ahmed was fluent in Arabic and Spanish, and
was trying to learn Hebrew in order to serve an even broader pool of clients. Jorge loved how Spanish sounded flowing from Ahmed’s tongue. It
was delicate and rhythmical, perfectly enunciated, but with a thro