The Mapmaker's Daughter Read Free Page A

Mojonico sing! The fat rats clap their hands.” The song creeps as slowly as a burglar at the start, and we act like statues coming to life. Each verse speeds up, until Luisa and I are waving our arms and leaping in wild circles. At the end of the last verse, we dive into pillows on the floor, holding our bellies and squealing with laughter.
    Even Grandmother is persuaded to dance. Though she complains that her joints are stiff and she is too old for such things, I watch her feet flutter like birds taking off from their nests. Finally, Grandfather puts down his guitar. “Praise to the One who has such things in his world as music,” he says, signaling our afternoon rest. Bernardo and Marisela leave for home, and Luisa flops on the pillow, her hair plastered brown at her temples with sweat.
    Mama and Susana go with Grandmother to lie on the bed while Grandfather settles into his favorite chair. I’m tired, but I don’t want to sleep. “Will you show me the atlas?” I ask, widening my eyes in hope Grandfather will find me irresistible. He musses my hair. “All right, but just for a minute. An old man needs his Sabbath nap.”
    The book is so big it knocks against my ankles as I carry it to him. He sets it alongside his chair and waits for me to hop in his lap. “Tell me the whole story again,” I say.
    “You’ve already heard it a hundred times.”
    I twist my head around to look at him. “But not for a while. I think I might have forgotten something.”
    He laughs. “You, my little radish, never forget a thing!”
    “Tell me anyway,” I say, wiggling my legs down between his thighs as he stretches his arms around me and rests the open atlas on his knees.
    The six vellum panels in the atlas are almost as long as my grandfather’s arms, and as I sit on his lap, the top of the world looms over my head. “Our king, Pedro, knew that the king of France wanted a map of the world. Catalan atlas makers were the best, and my father was best of all. I was a cartographer too, so we made this atlas for Pedro to give to his friend.”
    “Your father was Abraham Cresques,” I interrupt. Now that I’ve gotten him to show me the map, I want him to know how much, not how little, I remember. “That means Cresques should be my name too.”
    “Except that in 1391, mobs started killing Jews all over Spain, and I was baptized against my will. They forced us to take Christian names, and I became Jaume Riba. But Jehuda Cresques is my real name, just like yours is Leah even though everyone calls you Amalia.”
    “Ama- lia ,” I correct him with a smile.
    “Ama- lia ,” he repeats. “And when I am gone, I hope you will remember me as Jehuda Cresques, even if that won’t be on my tombstone.”
    “I will, Grandfather.”
    He doesn’t seem to hear my promise. “It was too terrible a thought never to see our work again—may the Evil Eye not punish me for such pride—so we secretly made this copy, which we’ve kept all these years.”
    Grandfather thinks for a moment. “We imagine we are on top of the ball of the world but they feel the same in China or Africa.” He kisses the top of my head. “Never forget that making a round world that no one falls off is easy for the Holy One. So next time you look around and say, ‘this world doesn’t make any sense,’ just remember that it does to him and be grateful that no one else is really in charge, even those who wear crowns.”
    “Yes, Grandfather.”
    The large page scratches my belly as he turns it to reveal the next panel. I know what I’m going to see, but it takes my breath away nonetheless. Navigational lines radiate outward in an ocean of lapis lazuli, like frost on a window against a brilliant blue sky. On the right is Spain. “Sevilla,” I say, “Toledo, Salamanca, Valencia.” I point to each city in turn, as Grandfather nods with pride. “If I ever need to make another map,” he says, “I know who to ask for help.”
    Mama comes from the bedroom. “Have