The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  “But he is married to you.” I try to keep my face from showing any fear for I am still thinking about Papa’s and Sebastian’s words.

  “We have been married so long, and yet not married, not truly. Perhaps someone else has caught his eye, and he wishes to be free. It has happened. It could happen. My heart would surely break. For me there is no other man.”

  “And for him there is no other woman.” I kiss her fingertips. I believe what I say, though I worry over other matters concerning Sebastian’s character—rumors of his many tavern fights, his gambling debts, his propensity to seek out worthless companions. But these I keep to myself. “It is not uncommon to be nervous before one’s wedding. Do not distress yourself. Before long, you and Sebastian will be together, and no two people will ever be happier.”

  The wrought-iron gate creaks, and suddenly Sebastian stands before us, harried and breathless, and appearing greatly distressed. “I have come to take my leave.” He looks past me to Beatriz. “Your father . . . wishes to resume working on his ledgers. But he has said I may come tomorrow. Perhaps then you will allow me to escort you to . . . to . . . wherever you like.”

  Beatriz is delighted, and rewards him with a smile.

  “Tomorrow, then.” And as quickly as he appeared, Don Sebastian is gone.

  The next day Beatriz is unable to go with her husband when he arrives, for that morning, before the bells chimed Prime, a police officer appeared at the door with a writ of arrest and took her to the Holy House.

  For three days we have huddled like rabbits in a hole, not leaving our house or receiving visitors except for Don Sebastian and his father, Señor Villarreal. The Villarreals have hired an army of spies, may the Holy One heap blessings on their heads. But as yet, these spies have gleaned nothing of value.

  We are still greatly stunned by what has happened, and confused. The police have not impounded Beatriz’s goods, the normal procedure when one is imprisoned by order of the Inquisition. We tell ourselves it is a good sign; that things are not as bad as originally feared.

  For my part, I just want everything to be as it was. And this yearning has made my mind a grinding wheel that turns over and over the same two thoughts: surely, this is a mistake; surely, Beatriz will be home soon. And early on, when I told Papa this, he gently reminded me that only three outcomes are possible, and a mistake is not one of them. Either Beatriz will be found not guilty of charges yet to be stated, and a charter issued, then read in all the churches proclaiming her innocence. Or Beatriz will be found guilty and reconciled back to the Church, and ordered to do penance ranging from attending daily Mass to imprisonment. Or finally, she will be found guilty, relaxed to the secular arm, and burned at the stake.

  Even after Papa’s patient instruction, my mind continues to grind out the same two things: surely, this is a mistake; surely, Beatriz will be home soon. I suppose it is a way of keeping my sanity.

  How does Papa keep his? I look at him now. Dark, plum-like pouches cup his eyes, proof he has slept little; or eaten, for that matter, though I had the cook make Papa’s favorite chicken soup with rose water. These days, his broth is anxiety, of which he has drunk deeply and which has aged him years. But he insists that all will end well, and tries to appear confident.

  Mama, on the other hand, hides in her room and cries. We have all done our share of crying. But for Papa’s sake, I try to be strong. It would not do to have both Mama and me weeping in our rooms.

  “What more can be done?” Don Sebastian is like a wild stallion, clomping back and forth in front of Papa’s desk. Any minute I expect him to rear up and lay waste the furniture.

  Papa frowns and pinches his thumb between his fingers. “All has been done that can be.”

  But Papa’s words seem to have no effect, for Don Sebastian continues to seethe like a vat of mutton soap. Nothing seems to comfort him. Yesterday, Papa confided in me, I suppose because Mama was not around, that he fears Don Sebastian will do something rash, though Papa failed to explain why he thought so. My mind sees Don Sebastian on his new Andalusian, charging up to the Holy House and freeing Beatriz with his sword, killing dozens and dozens in the process.

  And to my shame, the thought delights me.

  “There must be something we can do.” Sebastian voice is as thin as air. “Surely, some action is required?”

  His need for action mimics mine, for doing something, anything, is preferable to this endless waiting. But Papa has already done all he can. He has sent Beatriz two beds and a small table, along with two chairs. Also with these came food, a brazier and cooking utensils, plus clothes and the numerous personal items I bundled. And since he fears, as do I, that Beatriz will fair poorly in captivity—neither cooking nor caring for herself properly—Papa has hired the scrawny young daughter of our cook to attend her. This was no small task since any servant who accompanies one accused must stay imprisoned during the entire inquisitional procedure. Considering that some accused Judaizers have been jailed for years, only a loyal servant or one well paid would consent to such a thing.

  And Papa has paid well.

  “Why have no charges been made?” Don Sebastian stops in the middle of the room, searching our faces. It is a proper question. Before the setting up of any inquisitional court, two books are compiled: The Book of Testimonies and the Book of Confessions. The first book, containing the statements of all accusers, is assessed by a theological consultant. Only if two or more accusers are believed credible does the prosecutor formulate his charges, have the defendant arrested, his goods sequestered, and an inventory made of all property. None of which has been done in Beatriz’s case.

  “If there are no charges and Fray Alonso only suspects Beatriz of Judaizing, why has he arrested her instead of ordering her to report daily to the court for questioning?” Don Sebastian presses.

  Eyes reveal too much. I lower mine to keep him from seeing my fear; a fear which I have, since Beatriz’s arrest, been pushing into a small deep place within me. I glance at Papa to gage his feelings but his face is as blank as vellum, though surely he must have this same fear. We have all heard stories of beautiful young women summoned to the Holy House on charges concocted in order to satisfy the wanton desires of a prosecutor or a nuncio and sometimes even an inquisitor.

  “We must write tachas for Beatriz,” Sebastian blurts, looking like a madman, and like a madman, has jumped from thought to thought. In one leap he has landed on the idea of preparing a defense for which there are no charges. Even under the best circumstances, preparing a defense is difficult since the identities of the accusers are kept secret, and even their accusations.

  But writing tachas is one of only two recourses available to the accused, and consists of compiling a list of those who might have reason to submit a false testimony. If the names on the tachas match the names in the Book of Testimonies, and if the reason for their ill-will can be proven by two witnesses, the prosecutor must discount the testimony.

  The second recourse is to prove the defendant was a devout Christian.

  “Come. Let us all write tachas,” Sebastian repeats. And in two strides he is beside Papa’s desk, frantically scanning the tabletop for paper and quill.

  But Papa is already holding several sheets of rag-paper and quickly dispenses them. Then he hands us each a quill.

  I am seated in a small cushioned chair near the table, and bend at once to my task by penning the name: CATALINA. But aside from this I cannot think of another word to write. Perhaps I am too distracted. The room is hot and stale. There are no windows, and the door is closed against prying servants. When I breathe I feel as though I am dragging air through gauze.

  Don Sebastian, on the other hand, is in his chair, writing furiously. But writing what? Perspiration runs along his cheeks, his breathing is labored, but he is so absorbed by his task he appears to notice neither, and I feel pity.

  What far reaching consequences this has for him.

  If Beatriz is reconciled and released, their children
will forever be prohibited from certain benefits and honors and even offices. They will be restricted in their clothing, not allowed to wear camlet, silk or gold, or the color red. Nor can they ride a horse, bear arms or become a surgeon, landlord or apothecary. Their names will forever be linked with scandal and shame. And if the worst happens, if Beatriz is burned at the stake, she will take both her and Sebastian’s hopes with her.

  And what of Beatriz? Even if she is exonerated and issued a charter, will there not be changes etched into her character? Qualities removed or damaged? Qualities such as trust and love? How can she possibly be the same Beatriz?

  And what of Papa and Mama? They are old, and age makes hardship more difficult to bear.

  And me? If something happens to Beatriz, if she is altered in any way, can I still align myself with those who destroy my own people in the name of the Savior I love?

  I ponder these things, and for the first time understand that nothing will ever be the same.

  Your sin has brought this on our house.

  Mama’s words burn deep. I have carried them around, like swallowed coals, for days. I know she is remorseful. She has told me so every day for the past five days. But words said cannot be unsaid. And that delicate fabric of renewed fellowship we have so carefully reconstructed has come undone. For though I have forgiven her, I know Mama still believes her words are true.

  What makes it bearable is that I know they are not. I have not abandoned the Law of Moses as Mama charges. It still fills my heart, as does the Savior. Neither am I responsible for Beatriz being in the Holy House, though I sometimes worry Papa and Don Sebastian will take Mama’s words to heart.

  Mama is finally out of her room, and she and Papa and Don Sebastian whisper for hours on end in Papa’s study, but stop when I enter as though I am a spy for Fray Alonso himself. Even so, I have overheard Mama say that once an inquisitor questions one family member, he is not content until he has questioned them all. I have also heard her tell Papa that in order to protect their own families, our husbands will surely divorce Beatriz and me.

  All this secrecy has made me feel excluded. Am I being childish? Beatriz is, after all, my sister. Have Mama and Papa forgotten that? I worry greatly over what is happening in that strange, frightening place. I have written tachas until my fingers hurt, naming every person who has ever said a cross word to Beatriz. And though that number is few, I have inflated the list by adding every person I even suspect of jealousy or ill-well, and embellished their every look and word and gesture to prove my point. But now, even those names have run out and I can write no more, and must turn to that which is left me.

  And so I pray.

  “But I do not wish to go!” My voice sounds childish even to my ears, and petulant, too.

  Mama dismisses me with a click of her tongue, just like she used to when I was small. “It is Papa’s wish that you go to the groves. This is no place for you now, Isabel.”

  “How can I leave? I must be here when Beatriz comes home.” My voice wails, for by the firm set of Mama’s chin and by the fact that this is Papa’s idea, I already know I have lost.

  “There is no telling when Beatriz will return. When she does, we will send for you.”

  And as quickly as Mama can pluck a chicken, I find myself packed up, trunks and all, and sent off to our estate by the groves, banished from my parents, and left alone to imagine all manner of horrors occurring at home.

  And I wonder why.

  From the window in my room I see the stables and one of the gray Andalusians Papa keeps for herding our cattle. The horse has gotten into one of the stone chests containing grain and whose top has been left open. I watch to make certain that the servant who has come to retrieve the animal does not mistreat it. When I see that the servant plans no violence, and that he gently leads the horse away, I lose interest and turn my attention elsewhere.

  Off to the side are the orange groves. Our bitter oranges are prized throughout Castile for the tang they give to foods. So too the blossoms, for their oils make orange blossom water used to perfume our stews.

  Papa says the money made from our groves alone is able to sustain the entire estate. In turn, our estate provides meat and vegetables for us, our servants, and many local peasants, for we stock a variety of animals as well as cultivate several large vegetable gardens. Since the distance from the groves to our house in the city can be covered twice before the bells chime from Prime to Tierce, it is convenient for Mama to send our servants here every Sabbath eve.

  Our house is large and beautiful, and the groves and vast tracks of land go far beyond what my eyes can see. My family has owned this estate since the time of the Moors. After the reconquest of Spain and Portugal, many Jews lost their lands to Castilian nobles seeking to enlarge their own holdings. But not our family because, as Papa says, “they wisely befriended the nobility.”

  Not far from the stables is our vineyard, where a band of peasants now work the vines, pulling leaves off old branches to increase the plant’s vigor. We do not sell our wine. It is only for our use. And since our vineyard produces more grapes than we need, Papa has made an agreement with the local peasants. They work the vines and share the bounty. Sometimes the peasants take more than they should, but Papa never complains. The vineyards are hard work. Not like the orange groves.

  As I watch them labor, I think about my friend, Blanca Nuñez. Mama has asked me to invite her to the groves while I am here. I do not believe it is out of concern for any loneliness I might feel, but because Blanca’s father, Señor Alberto Nuñez, is Papa’s new partner. Though Papa is a successful spice merchant, he is always looking for new investments and has recently purchased a herd of black-faced merino sheep from North Africa. The merino produce high quality wool which Señor Nuñez, a wool merchant, will market.

  Perhaps I am unkind to accuse Mama of selfish motives but what else am I to think when she has acted so cruelly; keeping secrets and sending me away?

  Out of spite, I have not extended the invitation. Instead, I have spent the last two days in solitude, praying and meditating on the Psalms. And now shame fills me. What a child I am! Pouting and exhibiting such a deficiency of grace. My flawed character continues to be exposed like a tapestry on a wall.

  My penitent mood drives me to the trunk for paper and pen, and I begin composing an invitation to Blanca. Only three words are written before I crumple the page, for I suddenly realize I have no desire to see her. And it has nothing to do with spite. It is for reasons of my own, and they are these: Blanca and her family are conversos, and like many conversos, they have come to believe in neither the Law of Moses nor the Nazarene. I know this from being at Blanca’s house on the Sabbath. Neither she nor her family observes the Sabbath by cleaning their house or lighting candles or wearing fresh clothes. In addition, she speaks ill of the Mass and the Pope, and even the Savior.

  I do not judge Blanca. But being with her now would be difficult. She would find it hard to understand my current troubles. And while I am worrying about Beatriz, she will want to sit outside for hours bleaching her hair in the sun and sharing servants’ gossip. And what if Beatriz comes home and I, because of duty to my guest, am unable to attend her immediately?

  And so, I resign myself to being alone.

  It is a glorious morning, and I have decided to spend it out in the groves with Gonzolo Vivar, our master gardener. I have dressed in light homespun for the occasion, and covered my braided hair with a coarse veil.

  Gonzolo is already working the groves when I find him. I smile and wave and rush to where he and his two sons hoe weeds from around the trunks of several orange trees. I am pleased when I notice his eldest son, Enrique, is nowhere to be seen.

  I pick up a hoe, which must belong to the missing Enrique, and join the group. “I wish to help,” I say, feeling more excitement than I have felt in days over the prospect of hard work; over the prospect of subjugating my mind to my body, and of ceasing my endless brooding.

  Gonzolo app
ears embarrassed, and wipes his sweaty brow with the back of one hand. “Your parents . . . would disapprove, Doña Isabel.”

  “Then let it be our secret,” I say, hacking at a clump of weeds. His two sons smile, but Gonzolo appears deeply disturbed.

  “You know what little care the orange trees require. A little weeding, a little pruning, a little mulching . . . do not trouble yourself.”

  I am about to answer when a large hand pulls the hoe from mine. It is Enrique, tall and broad, his crop of wild black hair swirling in the wind. It has been years since he left the groves, and though this is the first time I have seen him since his departure, I still recognize him by his eyes; those hard, angry eyes.

  “I heard you were back.” I force a smile.

  “This is no work for you, Doña Isabel.” His voice is polite, but holds menacing undertones. And seeing there is nothing left for me to do but leave the grove, I walk away.

  For seven days those eyes watch me, follow my every move, and make me remember that even as a child Enrique behaved in this manner, and that his behavior always frightened me. It frightens me now. And puzzles me, too, for surely his many travels should have produced greater interests than observing one simple Jewess.

  Since I have had my fill of him and his eyes, I have decided to go home. I am using it as a subterfuge, an excuse to return to the city and be closer to Beatriz. Even now, Gonzalo is preparing a mule for me. Later, he will send my trunks on a donkey cart.

  My only worry is that Mama will send me back.

  I stand knocking at the door, feeling like a stranger in front of my own house. “Please let Papa answer,” I whisper under my breath even though I know Mama carries the keys. The door opens slowly, and there is Mama, sunlight streaming across her face, revealing web-like lines around her eyes and forehead, and exposing the tired sag of her cheeks. I feel pity, and ask the Holy One to forgive the unkind thoughts I have had of her. And when Mama sees me her face is not angry . . . no . . . there are tears in her eyes, and she enfolds me in pudgy arms then kisses my head and whispers in my ear, “Oh, Isabel, how I missed you!”