Incantation (v5)

by Alice Hoffman

  When our grandmother is done with you, you’ll look fattened up, I teased.

  In Luis’s honor, my grandmother was making a special dinner: burkas, grape leaves filled with feta cheese, and kabobs flavored with cinnamon and garlic. My grandfather had put on his fancy black suit; at last, he looked happy. Luis was everything to him. My brother had been gone a year, and we all wished he had more than a few days to spend with us. His studies were important, and he wanted to get back and finish as quickly as possible. Luis was a dedicated student; he had a habit of closing his eyes when he said the rosary. He could read Greek, Latin, Spanish, Hebrew, Arabic. He could speak with my grandfather in a special language—called Ladino—a mix of two languages, Hebrew and Spanish.

  My mother put rouge on her cheeks and pulled her hair up with combs made of shells; she wore her finest dress and a silk shawl made in Istanbul. From the moment my brother arrived, Abra barely let him out of her sight. There was so little time for Luis to be with us that we all wanted his attention.

  The priest from our church, Friar deLeon, who had recommended Luis to the seminary, came to our house for dinner. On Sundays we always went to his church, even though it was on the other side of town, and Our Lady of Mercy was right down the street from our house. We preferred the Chapel of All Saints; most of our friends did, and my grandfather said it was best to worship with those you knew well. When Luis was finished with his studies, he would come back to our church. He would be one of the most important men in town, on every committee, even sitting on the mayor’s council.

  Friar deLeon watched as my grandmother lit the candles. It wasn’t yet completely dark, but it was our way to light the candles in our silver candlesticks before we began our Friday dinner.

  We give thanks to our Lord, Friar deLeon said.

  It was an honor to have the priest in our home. Everyone murmured, Amen. Members of our church crossed ourselves in a special way. Head, lips, shoulder, shoulder. I whispered to Luis that when I ate dinner at Catalina’s house, they crossed themselves in a different way.

  We do it this way so God knows what’s in our hearts, Luis explained to me when I asked about it now. He looked at me strangely, perhaps to see if I would say something back to him.

  Let’s go on with dinner, my grandfather said to Luis, and immediately Luis stopped explaining things to me. Luis served the adafina I had made, our Friday night chicken stew. I had added some of the basil I had grown in my brother’s honor. That herb brought good luck and long life, or so I’d heard. For the first time, everyone declared the dish delicious. Even my grandmother didn’t tell me what I’d done wrong.

  For me, that was lucky indeed.

  I MOVED OUT of my chamber, where Luis used to sleep, so he could reclaim the room. I went back to a mat on the floor beside my mother’s bed. I didn’t mind. Luis made you want to give things up for him, he was so generous and so good. He had brought gifts for everyone, even the little Arrias girls next door. In his bag there was lavender water, candied figs, a special book for my grandfather. For me, my brother had brought a tin of rouge made out of a flower from a faraway land that was the same color as the red lily that grew in the Muslim doctor’s wife’s garden.

  My brother was tired, and he slept during most of his time with us. At the seminary, Luis had to study all day and all night. He copied manuscripts for the Bishop, and his fingers were stained with ink. Here at home, he went to the Friar’s chapel in the afternoons, and studied, but in the evenings, after dinner, he let my mother use his strong arms so she could wind her yarn into even lengths around them. He laughed and told jokes, although when he slept he spoke Latin and Greek, as if he were still studying in his dreams.

  Catalina knocked on our door the day after my brother arrived home, but my grandmother shooed her back home; she told Catalina we were too busy to have any visitors. Luis needed peace and quiet; he needed his rest. Later, when Catalina came back, Luis was reading in the yard, and he didn’t even look up from his book. He thought a hired girl had come to work in the fields, and he’d told her to come back another time, when he wasn’t studying.

  Your brother thinks he’s so special and important, Catalina said later when we met at the well in the Plaza. I had gone back and forth to the well three times that day so my grandmother could wash all of my brother’s clothes. He doesn’t seem so special to me.

  My brother was too busy with his studies to notice things that were obvious to other people. He forgot the dinner hour. He forgot to wash his face. Even when he lived with us, he was more often at the church than he was home.

  Well, he is special, I said. He doesn’t have time for foolish things.

  Really? There was something in Catalina’s voice I hadn’t heard before. Are you saying I’m a fool?

  I felt my heart sink. She was angry. I hadn’t meant for that.

  I’m only saying that you and I don’t have to study like Luis. We’re lucky. We can do as we please.

  Your brother is just like everybody else, you know, Catalina said as we walked home. No better. And maybe worse. I hate people who think they’re better than everyone else.

  I thought of saying something, but I didn’t. All of our lives, I had told Catalina everything. Now I was afraid not just of what I might say, but of what she might hear. She didn’t seem like the Catalina I had always known.

  We walked along together, the water sloshing out of our buckets. Well water, cold water, water that was so heavy it was difficult to balance the buckets.

  Look, there’s a dove, I said, pointing to the fields beyond our houses.

  A dove in the garden was good luck, a sign of excellent crops to come.

  Don’t be silly. We had reached Catalina’s yard. It’s a hawk. She seemed pleased by my mistake.

  CATALINA SAID I should ask my mother if I could come to her house for dinner. Her mother was making sausage, the hot kind. Didn’t I just love those? I was surprised that Catalina didn’t remember I never ate sausage.

  I told Catalina I was having my stomach sickness. Another lie. I suppose in some way what I said was the truth. I wasn’t avoiding dinner at Catalina’s because of the sausage that I could push to the side of my plate, or because Luis had so few nights at home before he had to return to the seminary. It was Catalina. She was the reason my stomach hurt. I wasn’t quite as certain that I knew her down to her soul.

  When it came right down to it, I wasn’t so sure she knew me either.

  MY BROTHER WAS the sort of person who could tell how other people felt just by looking at them. He knew that I missed him. He made time for me alone. That evening instead of going to Catalina’s house, my brother and I went walking up into the hills to look for lavender to bring home to my mother, which was her cure for headaches and fevers.

  Luis let me take my little pig along; we fashioned a collar out of yarn and led Dini with a rope. We laughed when the pig found some mushrooms right away and when he wouldn’t move after we came upon a berry bush. We had to stand there each time and let Dini eat his fill; when he still wouldn’t budge, my brother picked up the pig and carried him. We laughed together till our sides hurt.

  Your baby is too fat, my brother teased me.

  I felt we had stepped back in time, before Luis had become so serious. Even now Luis seemed too young to be a priest. I wanted him to stay at home, to be my brother again and not someone who soon would be an important man. Some people like Catalina might resent his high position.

  Are you sure the seminary is what you want? I asked my brother.

  Luis was holding bunches of lavender. He was kind and thoughtful; some girl would have been so lucky to have him as her husband.

  I want to protect and serve our people, Luis said.

  We walked back in silence.

  My brother’s answer had not meant yes. It had meant our grandfather wanted this future for my brother, and as a loyal grandson, Luis’s life was in our grandfather’s hands. Like Friar deLeon, Luis would soon be privy to the town go
vernment’s decisions and the church’s edicts. A priest gained favors and gave them, and our family and friends would do well because of this. I wondered if Luis would always be leaving us, if even when he was walking beside me he would be somewhere else, divided between place and time, between the now and the soon to be. I wondered if I would always think about the life he might have had, with a family of his own, a future of his own choosing.

  ON THE DAY Luis left, I went out to the fields. I wanted to be alone. Now I saw that Catalina had indeed been right. It was a hawk that flew above the crops. The hawk had made a home in one of the olive trees, and the songbirds were too fearful to fly across the sky, except in the earliest morning hours, when the hawk was still out in the hills, hunting. I called to the hawk. I brought crusts of bread and orange slices, but it ignored me.

  The next day I climbed up into the olive tree and talked to the hawk. I stayed up in the branches for nearly an hour, but it did no good. I couldn’t make a pet out of such a creature. I couldn’t even get the hawk to listen to me.

  I saw Andres in the place where he’d been digging the irrigation trough for his uncle. He had been watching me while I perched in the tree. I sat there a while longer. If Andres came over to me, then it was meant to be, and if he didn’t, then it would be just like the hawk. There would be nothing I could do about it if he approached. I wouldn’t be to blame, even though he was promised to Catalina. You can’t tame something that doesn’t wish to be tamed, any more than you can make someone love you. All you can do is wait and see what will happen.

  Andres walked over when the clouds turned a deep blue, the color of lakes, a color that can chill you even on a hot summer day.

  You’re not meaning to fly away from me, are you? Andres said as he approached.

  I mistook a hawk for a dove, I said.

  Andres helped me down from the tree. I smelled like olives and tree bark; my hands were dirty, but I didn’t care, and neither, it seemed, did he.

  It’s a common mistake, Andres said.

  It wasn’t and I knew it, but I smiled at him anyway.

  The distance I felt from Catalina was like a rock inside of me. I thought I would feel lighter if I told someone the truth.

  I can’t tell Catalina about the way I feel about some things anymore, I told Andres.

  Neither can I, Andres said. We were both looking up at the sky. I suppose we were making too much noise for the hawk; it left its perch in the olive tree. The songbirds began calling to one another now. But I can talk to you, he told me.

  After that we just stood there silently, with nothing needing to be said. I did feel lighter; I was aware of the air all around me and of the heat of the day and of how close Andres was.

  Even though I was standing on the ground, I had to hold onto the olive tree for fear I might fall.

  THAT NIGHT in bed, I had the feeling that my world was moving too fast. Was this how the hawk saw our world from the reaches of the sky? Everything was a blur; the days we were living in were disappearing much too quickly.

  I had my own chamber again now that Luis was gone, but I didn’t want to be there. I went to my mother’s room and slept on a rug beside her bed. I looked out her window to watch the stars in the sky. Was I wrong to fall in love with Andres? Was it destiny or just a betrayal?

  My mother didn’t wake; she was dreaming, I was sure of it. I hoped she would dream something for me. A gate that led to a garden, a dove that came when I called to it, time enough to live out my life side by side with the one I loved.

  ANGELS

  Never Trust

  Stone

  The day when the arrests began reminded me of the day of the burning books, when the air was filled with sparks, when something bad crept out onto the Plaza from the deep, evil place, something that would become so strong no one could catch it or beat it down or lock it away.

  Now I understand those days were not really a beginning but a continuation. A monster is hard to see and even harder to kill. It takes time to grow so huge, time to crawl up into the open air. People will tell you it’s not there; you’re imagining things. But a book is a book. Pages are pages. Hawks are hawks. Doves are doves.

  Hatred is always hatred.

  THE ARRIAS FAMILY who lived in the house beside ours were all arrested early in the morning. The mother, Miriam, was screaming when they took her; the father, Juan, was beaten down by soldiers and dragged away. Soldiers also took the two children, Marianna and Antonia, little girls who couldn’t have hurt anyone.

  My grandmother told me not to leave the house. We watched from the window. It was horrible when Señora Arrias tried to get to her children, but as soon as I pushed against the door to go to help her, my grandmother grabbed me.

  Stay, she said to me.

  When I pulled away, my mother cried out, This time you’ll do what your grandmother tells you to do!

  The tone of my mother’s voice made me obey. I had never heard her sound this way.

  What did the Arriases do? I asked. They would never commit a crime.

  My grandmother laughed. It was a terrible sound. It sounded as though she might cry. Something my grandmother never did.

  They were Conversos, New Christians. Their families converted a hundred years ago when the Jews were being expelled from our country. Now they’ve been accused of practicing their religion, of being Marranos.

  I looked at my grandmother, confused. The Arriases were good friends of our family. The children were sweet girls who liked to play with our chickens and collect feathers to make necklaces for their mother. We could hear Marianna screaming for her mother now.

  A Marrano is a secret Jew, my grandmother told me.

  But they go to our church, I said.

  That’s right, my grandmother said. For all the good it did them.

  What will the soldiers do? I wanted to know.

  You know what Marrano means? My grandmother was really looking at me, really talking to me; I was even more afraid of her than usual. It means pig. What do you think they’ll do to people they consider to be pigs? They’ll cook them, God help us. They’ll burn them alive.

  Stop talking! My grandfather said in a terrifying voice. Now I knew why his students appeared so humble before him. He scared me so much I was shaking. Don’t tell this girl any more!

  THERE WAS BLOOD on the path between the Arriases’ house and ours; but when my grandmother wanted to wash it away, my grandfather stopped her.

  Let everyone see the blood, he said. Don’t clean it up. That’s the only way people remember.

  I went out to the garden and was sick to my stomach. I got some water from the rain barrel and washed away not only my sickness but also the blood on the path. I did what I could, but my grandfather had been right; it was useless. The blood had stained the bricks and wouldn’t wash away.

  I went back to our yard and sat on the steps. I didn’t care that the chickens were clucking and pecking at my shoes. My dear Dini came running to me. He made sad noises and lay down beside me. He was a comfort, even in this time. I would never let anyone cook him. It was such a horrible thought, I erased it from my mind.

  I walked over to the Arrias house and I saw that my mother had told me the truth; tears did have a color. Where Marianna and Antonia Arrias had stood crying for their mother, there was a blue stain on the stones. I picked up one of the stones, and it was cool in the palm of my hand. When I held it to my ear, I could hear the sound of the little girls. The stone was weeping.

  I threw it away, into the thornbushes, where the tall grass grew. I didn’t need to listen to a stone to hear what had happened. I didn’t need to see blood on the bricks. I could hear the crying inside my head; I could see the blood inside my head. It was with me forever, whether or not I wanted to forget.

  EVERYONE was talking about the Arriases’ trial. The rumors were terrible. There were whispers on the street and in the Plaza, slander spoken as though it were pure and true. Some said that Señora Arrias killed small ch
ildren, and that was the reason her sunflowers grew so well, because she sprinkled the children’s blood on the ground. Others swore the Señor practiced magic that ruined his neighbors’ crops. Together, they had taught their daughters the devil’s language. They had made the rainy season last so long that there were many bad olives on the trees.

  On one thing everyone seemed to agree: The Arriases were Jews who were only pretending to be Christian. Someone had turned them in, and although the witness was never named in court, his testimony was believed by the judge. Once a person was officially accused, there was no argument and no defense. The accusation itself sealed a person’s guilt.

  The judge had come from a hundred miles away; he was living in the old Duke’s palace. The armory behind the palace was also populated now; it had been turned into a prison. If anyone was arrested, they were sent to the armory; their children were given away to an old, respected Christian family who would raise them properly. As for the accused, a conviction of heresy meant one thing: death.

  Our family prayed for the Arriases; our whole congregation did. Friar deLeon said a special prayer for them, one I had never heard before, a plea to St. Esther, a saint he said was invoked only at the most terrible of times. She was a queen who had to pretend she was someone other than her truest self in order to save her people. She was so beautiful, my grandmother whispered as we sat in the cool, dark church, that the persecutors who wanted to hurt her people believed whatever she told them.

  Some lies were to hurt and some were to heal, my grandmother told me. I wasn’t so sure. I hadn’t wanted to hurt Catalina, so I didn’t tell her about the way I felt about Andres. But now there was a distance between us.

  Just because something is unspoken doesn’t mean that it disappears.

  That evening, before dinner, while I was still wearing my Sunday clothes and the strand of pearls my grandparents had bought for me on the day I was born, I saw something through the window. There was a shadow inside the Arriases’ house. I knew I shouldn’t go next door, but I did. Maybe it was a bad spirit or a curse brought to life. But it could be something else. Perhaps Marianna had run away from the new family she’d been given to and was hiding in her old house. Perhaps the arrest had been recognized as a terrible mistake and the officials had let the family go. Could it be that they were back living their lives in their own house, free from terror?