by David Liss
“I know the place,” Enéas volunteered before I could answer. He drew me further into the winding streets full of craftsmen plying their trades; fish-sellers walking about barefoot, massive baskets on their heads; and cartmen pushing their wares through the narrow alleys. Vendors cried out to me in broken English or, more optimistically, in Portuguese. Enéas made it his mission to shoo them all away.
Everything smelled rank, from the filth that ran openly to the unwashed bodies to the odors of food from the homes of Africans and Brazilians and Saracens. People spoke in a half dozen languages. The wild dogs never ceased their barking. And the singing—everywhere they sang their dark and gloomy songs in a hodgepodge of languages, bemoaning their fate, their fado.
At last we came to another set of unmarked doors. These Enéas pushed open without knocking. Inside was the sort of public house common to the poor of the city. The floor was dirt, the tables and chairs fashioned out of old crates and discarded barrels from the dock. Wine was tapped from casks and poured into cups and glasses and bowls, no one like another.
I glanced about the room, and it took but a moment for me to recognize my old friend. He had changed, of course, but the hooked blade of his nose was unmistakable. He wore his head shaved now, and the skin of his cheeks was rugged and raw with the marks of smallpox as well as a single scar that ran on his left side from his cheek to his jaw. His long and elaborate mustaches made no effort to hide the damage, and I sensed he wore his wounds as a badge of honor. Like me, he had grown taller over the years, and more thickly muscled, and he held himself with a tense and dangerous energy I recognized too well. I had fought enough men like the one my old friend had become, and while none of those men had killed me, a few had come closer than I preferred.
Inácio, who had been in conversation with another rough-looking man, stopped talking and turned his head with deliberate malice toward me. Everyone in the taberna stared. They would be unused to seeing English gentlemen in this place, and however Inácio wished to respond, it would almost certainly prove interesting.
Inácio rose and strode toward me with the easy, menacing gait I well remembered. He stood only a few inches away, close enough that his mere presence became a threat, and he looked me over with a practiced air of contempt. He folded his arms and flexed them. Veins bulged to the surface of his forearms like rivers on a map. “Stranger, you are lost,” he said in English.
“No, I am precisely where I wish to be,” I told him.
“I see this before,” Inácio said, grinning without any pleasure. “Englishmen come to see how poor men live. Maybe buy something cheap. Hire poor mens to do work. What do you think you will find here? Maybe a dressmaker?”
The men in the room who spoke English laughed at this, more loudly than the joke deserved. Then the others who did not speak English joined in.
So, that was how it was with him. Even as boys there had been a darkness to Inácio. It was always wiser to be his friend than his enemy.
I bowed to him in an exaggerated gesture. “I had hoped,” I said in Portuguese, “you might measure me yourself. You are the seamstress, yes? But be gentle as you measure between my thighs, for I am very tender there.”
Inácio did not react other than to set his jaw. All trace of the humorless smile was gone. “You play a dangerous game,” he said, continuing to speak in English. “Maybe I make a dress out of your skin.”
“If you like,” I said. “I suggest you use this.” I drew from a sheath upon my belt a dagger, the one I had brought from England—silver-handled, laced with gold, encrusted with rubies.
The crowd let out a collective gasp as the blade emerged. Inácio’s eyes went hard, and his muscles twitched as he prepared to grab my wrist. Then he stopped himself. He took a step back and studied my face, moving his head from side to side, trying to take some kind of impossible measure. “No,” he whispered. “It cannot be.”
“It has been a long time, my old friend.”
Inácio paused for a moment and then his face split into a massive grin, this one far less menacing. He opened his arms and took me into a great hug.
Enéas sat in a far corner with other boys his own age, playing at cards, while Inácio and I sat ourselves at a table, both of us with large goblets of wine, both of us drinking only sparingly. I slid the dagger across the table to my old friend.
“You admired it long ago. Now I present it to you.” In truth, this was not the dagger Inácio had admired, but a clever imitation I’d brought with me from England. I did wish to gift him the real dagger, but on the other hand I was not so eager to let go of one of the few mementos I had of my father. Perhaps this was a bit dishonest, but no one suffered and all gained. When the misdeeds of my life are inscribed in the Book of Life, I’m not certain there will be ink enough for mention of the false dagger.
“I cannot accept it.” Inácio’s eyes went wide, but then he shook his head. “It was your father’s.”
“My father is gone. That life is gone, and you would insult me if you refused a gift.”
“A fair point.” He pulled the dagger over to his side of the table. “You took quite a risk drawing it before I knew you. You were always eager to take risks, but I think you are more prepared to take care of yourself than you were in the old days. Do you know what else I think? I think you are the mad Englishman whom the Gypsy Dordia e Zilhão claims came upon him like the devils of hell.”
“Word of that has traveled quickly.”
Inácio shrugged. “Nothing is secret in the Alfama. Nothing is secret in Lisbon. And when Dordia e Zilhão staggers through the street with a smashed nose, people take note. You were not gentle with him.”
I frowned. “He irritated me.”
“He irritates many people. When we were boys, you could fight well enough, but you liked to solve your problems with words.”
“We are boys no longer,” I said.
“That is most certainly true,” Inácio said, slapping his hand down on the table. “You were so skinny then, and look at you now. You have turned into a bear of a man.”
“You are no slight thing either,” I said, feeling my way into the rhythm of the conversation. He was taking my measure, which was all well. I was doing the same.
Inácio laughed. “But I was a bear of a boy,” he said, raising his wineglass. He sipped only a small amount. “To old friends, Sebastião.”
“I call myself Sebastian now.”
Inácio leaned back and appeared to consider this fact. He picked up the dagger and passed it from one hand to the other. “So, you are an Englishman in truth?”
“I have lived in England ten years, almost as long as I lived in Lisbon. But more importantly, I can reveal my origins to only a few people I trust. If the Inquisition were to learn who I am, well, I hardly need tell you what they would think of me.”
“Sebastian it is, then.” He raised his glass again, but still did not drink much. “England has been kind to you, by all appearances.”
“Appearances should never be trusted, but I have done well there, yes.”
Inácio shook his head. “I still cannot quite believe it. Sebastião Raposa here at my table.” He held up his hand. “Yes, I know, Sebastian. But you must forgive me. The memories come flooding back.”
“That they do,” I said. “We had some fine times.”
“We did,” Inácio agreed. “But they could not last. And now, here you are, an English dandy. Fine clothes, silver in your purse, I suppose. This dagger, once a prize possession, hardly worth keeping.”
I did not much care for his tone, but I bit back my anger. Inácio was always impulsive, and he would vent his emotions, even if they were fleeting. A volatile man was perhaps not the most reliable, but that did not mean he was not loyal. Inácio was always poor at keeping his intentions hidden from the world, and that was a form of surety in itself.
“And what have you become?” I asked. “I’ve heard some stories, my friend.”
Inácio snorted. “
That I squeeze a few coins out of thieves and whores and gamblers? I own it. And why should I not? This city has taken all it can from me and my family. I would be foolish not to try to do the same. It happens that I do it better than most. God has made me strong and bold, and I must use the gifts given to me. And yet what is good enough for God is not good enough for you, Sebastian. I see how you pass judgment on me.”
“I do not judge,” I assured him.
He leaned forward, scrutinizing me. “Tell me, why have you returned to this place? You were well rid of it.”
“I shall tell you everything,” I said. “You are one of the few whom I can trust. But first you must tell me if you have any knowledge of what became of Gabriela.” I spoke the words calmly, as if they were of no importance. From what Enéas had said, Inácio knew much of what went on in Lisbon, and though his station would be far removed from hers, he might well have kept track of her actions. If he knew nothing, I would not stop my search for her here, but I dared to hope it could be this easy. He would point me in the right direction, and there she would be.
“Gabriela?” Inácio barked. “All these years later, and you still cannot forget that beauty, eh? You were but children then.”
Inácio had been a good friend and as loyal as a hound, but his testing the waters of my feelings had, from time to time, angered me. This was such a time. I controlled my breathing. I cleared my mind. This was not a fight I wished to have, nor was this a man with whom to have it. It was Inácio. I had come looking for him, and I had no one to blame but myself if I did not like what I found.
“I am determined to seek out all the old friends if I can,” I answered, struggling to sound neutral.
“Hmm,” Inácio said. “I hardly think a New Christian lady will be of much use to you.”
“I know much may have changed. She might be married, a mother. Regardless, I should like to know.”
This time Inácio did drink deeply. He sighed and put down the cup. “I fear I have some sad news for you. After you left—after your father was taken—things became bad for many people. The Inquisition arrested her father as well. And mine. Did you know that?”
I shook my head. “I knew it was possible, but I did not know for certain,” I said. “I had no way of learning the details.”
“Because you fled.”
I did not answer. I had gone and, as far as he could tell, lived a life of ease while he had remained behind to fend for himself. If he felt some resentment, I would not deny him the right.
Inácio shook his head. “So many people were taken after your father. Some said he gave the Inquisitors many names.”
I stiffened. “All men tell the Inquisition what they wish to know.”
“There’s no need for protest. I understand. Men resist, but eventually, once the torture begins …” Inácio held out his hands in a gesture of futility.
“Your father was a good friend to mine,” I said, trying to return him to the topic. “I am sorry he was caught up in our troubles.”
Inácio growled. “But you did not ask about my father. You asked about the girl. She was alone, and she was frightened, and she wed herself to a New Christian merchant—I cannot even recall his name now—only a few months after her father’s arrest. She became pregnant very soon after their marriage, but there were difficulties. Perhaps three months before the baby was to be born, she began to bleed and did not stop. That is what I heard. She died less than a year after you left.”
I said nothing. I allowed the words to wash over me. All these years I had held on to the hope that I might find Gabriela again someday. All these years she had remained for me the one thing I could reach for to keep me from becoming something entirely hateful to myself. If I were to learn she was married and fat, a contented mother and wife, I could live with the knowledge that she was lost to me. I had become something unworthy of Gabriela, and she deserved a good life and a kind husband. That she was dead, however, that she had been dead nearly the entire time I lived in England, was the cruelest sort of joke. I had passed endless days and months and years yearning for her, made bargains with myself that led me back to her, imagined us married and together—and all the while, she had been cold and rotting.
There was nothing of my old life to salvage. What I had come here to do, I needed to do all the more urgently. I would find the Jesuit and kill him. I would find out who had betrayed my father, and I would make that man pay. I would burn off this part of myself I hated in the fires of vengeance, and then I would see what was left.
“I am sorry,” Inácio said. “I see by your expression that you did still care for her. I wish I could tell you otherwise.”
“It is better to know,” I said, angry with myself for revealing anything. I wanted to reach into my pocket, to take out the scarf and run it through my hands, to smell its false perfume, but it was the last remnant of a foolish dream, and I could not indulge myself. The childish hope that I could have Gabriela back now made me feel weak and simple.
I was determined to show no more vulnerability before my old friend. “This only makes things clearer. All of this destruction was caused by my father’s arrest. I have come back to Lisbon to find the man who destroyed my family and destroy him in return.”
“Revenge? Against an Inquisitor? That is madness.”
“Maybe so, but it is my madness. You would not judge me for wanting this, I hope.”
“I understand your desire to set things right, but you must see it is impossible. Were an ordinary man to have hurt you, then you should stop at nothing to punish him. I believe that to my soul. The Inquisition is another matter. It is like taking revenge against the ocean to avenge a drowning.”
“I know I cannot destroy all of the Inquisition, but one man is within my powers. That I can do.”
“You will end up dead, if you are lucky. In the Palace prisons more likely. All those who know you will suffer.”
“I have no intention of dying or allowing them to take me or anyone else. I came here to settle old debts, but I’ll admit that may now be a more difficult proposition. I have learned that my father was betrayed by someone for his money. He was robbed. I intend not only to take revenge on the Inquisitor who killed my family, but on whoever arranged for his destruction. I did not come here to gain wealth, but it was my father’s money, and if it is in the hands of someone who betrayed him for it—well, I think you understand that I cannot allow this.”
Inácio grinned. “You did not come to gain wealth, but you will take it all the same.”
“The money means nothing to me,” I said. “I only want that it does not enrich my family’s enemies. If you aid me in this, much of it can be yours, but I need to learn everything I can about the Jesuit Pedro Azinheiro—where he lives, where he eats, whom he cares for. You cannot order your affairs without knowing much of what goes on in this city. Do you think you can help me with this?”
Inácio was about to speak, but then he paused, noticing the door. A short man with rough clothes and wild black hair entered and eyed the room cautiously. He spotted Inácio and looked to be deciding if he should proceed further or flee. Inácio locked eyes with the man, and he appeared to have his decision made for him.
“Forgive me,” Inácio said. He stood and walked over to the man. The man took a step back, and Inácio closed the gap again.
Inácio and the newcomer spoke very quietly, Inácio more so than the stranger. I heard a few of the stranger’s words—very sorry, money, soon. The man’s face twisted with worry, but Inácio said little and showed no expression. Then, without warning, he struck the man in the stomach. It was a hard blow. The man staggered back one step and then fell to his knees. Inácio raised his leg and pushed the man with the flat of his foot facedown into the dirt. The man did not resist. He suffered his humiliation without complaint. Inácio bent down and whispered something in the man’s ear. He nodded, and Inácio prodded him with his foot once more—not hard, and it seemed all the crueler for his gentleness.
Inácio returned to the table, his expression neutral, as though he had only gone to relieve himself. “Pardon the interruption. Sometimes business cannot wait.”
Inácio was clearly inclined to play games. “That was for my benefit. You wanted me to know you are not a man to be toyed with.”
“Perhaps.” Inácio smiled. “But the man owes me money, and I have my interests to protect.”
“The fishing boats your father left you do not provide you with enough income?”
“My father left me nothing,” Inácio said, his voice becoming low and rough. “The Inquisition seized it all, and the loss of it killed him. He sat in those dungeons for over a year, and when they let him out, he was a pauper. He died of shame before another year had passed. The boats I have now, like everything else I have, I earned by my labor.”
“Then you have just as much reason to hate the Inquisition as I do.”
“Without a doubt,” Inácio agreed, “but I also have a great deal to lose. Look at you, Englishman. You will either die attempting to have your revenge, or you will live and return to England—and with money which you do not care for. All I am and have is right here. I cannot afford to make war on the Inquisition. I wish you well, and I hope you succeed in all you attempt, but I cannot spy on an Inquisitor. I would be discovered—make no mistake about that—and I will not land in the Palace dungeon for as same as my father did for your father.”
“I understand,” I said, and I did. My position here, my disguise within a disguise, protected me. Inácio was right. I did not plan to die, but I did plan to leave. I risked no more than I put upon the table, but a man who remained in Lisbon would risk everything he had. I did not much care for Inácio’s resentment, but I comprehended it well enough.
“Perhaps I can help you indirectly. I will not be your partner, for I dare not be, but I am your friend. If you think there is something I can do for you without inviting danger, you must let me know. If I can, I shall.”
