The Ghost of Hannah Mendes

by Naomi Ragen

  Instinctively, she searched the shelves holding the glazed-ceramic animals from Mexico and Brazil that Suzanne had begun collecting under Renaldo’s influence. They, too, were gone, the shelves empty and dingily bare. Even the large, bright canvases depicting healthy, brown women in Aztec splendor—Renaldo’s specialty—were no longer visible.

  Except for the photographs on the piano, anyone could live here, any Bronx shopgirl, any Flatbush Avenue secretary, Catherine thought, feeling a little heartsick.

  “Here, Gran, sit down, you must be exhausted,” Suzanne said suddenly, pushing a few scattered clothes to one side of the threadbare couch to create a small island.

  Catherine nodded gratefully, looking for some sign of a thaw. But Suzanne’s face was tight and silent as she leaned back against the wall, her arms crossed defensively, one leg swinging with nervous abandon.

  She was queenly, Catherine thought with a touch of wonder, taking in her height and slimness. Those long, shapely legs flashing beneath the skimpy robe, those elegant cheekbones, that posture…. Nothing like me or Janice. The beneficiary of some long-lost DNA contributed hundreds of years before by some royal Gentile princess who had married into the Nasi clan at the height of its wealth and power.

  “Really, Grandmother, you could have called!” she said peevishly. “I would have been happy to save you all the steps up here. And”—she hesitated, taking a deep, defiant breath—“if it has anything to do with all those things Mom and Kenny have been badgering me about, I wish you’d save your strength. I’m not going to change my mind.”

  “Badgering? About what?”

  Her toes dug listlessly into the brown-and-red kilim rug beneath her. “The stuff about moving back home, socially correct parties, Junior League. The bribes: car, apartment, et cetera. I’m twenty-five years old. I’ve got a good job. I have my own home. I’m never going back to Scarsdale, so you can just…”

  “What happened to your prints from Paris and those beautiful ceramics and the antiques? And where are all Renaldo’s paintings?” Catherine interrupted her.

  Suzanne surveyed her grandmother coolly, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. Without asking permission, she lit one and took a deep drag. “I’m redecorating,” she said calmly, lips stretched tight over teeth.

  “The bed’s cooling off, Suzanne,” a deep male voice called.

  Catherine’s appalled eyes caught her granddaughter’s. She was surprised and grateful to see a blush creep up the young woman’s cheeks.

  Not completely lost. Not yet. “I’ve heard those temperature controls on waterbeds are so fragile. Is the repairman almost done?” Catherine asked innocently.

  Suzanne stared at her, and then both of them broke into a grin.

  “I’ll go see, Grandmother.”

  He left, disgruntled, and with a distinct lack of grace that banished any sense of regret Suzanne might have felt. Actually, she felt relieved.

  “Tea, Gran?”

  “Actually, I was hoping to treat you to an early lunch.”

  “Well, uh, that’s, that’s very…but you know, I’m a strict vegetarian these days, and no milk or cheese or eggs either,” she said coolly, waiting for a reaction. There wasn’t any, so she kept going: “Rainforests are being destroyed. Food supplies are being squandered. Animals are needlessly suffering all in the name of cattle production, even though we no longer need meat for survival. Besides, with all those hormones they inject into beef, it’s just poisoning us and the whole ecosystem,” she argued, beginning to feel a bit cheated and inexplicably flustered, somehow, at Catherine’s equanimity. “The only thing that’s preventing us from moving forward is this stupid connection to the past….”

  Catherine listened patiently, swallowing hard. “What about a seafood restaurant, then?”

  “Grandmother! Fish are living creatures, too! Besides, they boil lobsters live, and oysters are actually swallowed live! I mean, cannibalism!” She shook her head. “But there is this vegetarian Buddhist restaurant they just opened up a few blocks from here. The upstairs is actually a temple with these fruit offerings around an altar.”

  “Whatever makes you comfortable, Suzanne dearest,” Catherine said with determined cheer and a distinct sense that strangulation was slowly settling in over her vocal cords from inhaling all that cigarette smoke.

  “It’s not a question of comfort, Gran. It’s a question of the planet’s survival!” Suzanne exclaimed passionately.

  Catherine was about to bring up the issue of tar and nicotine pollution to the planet’s (and her own) survival, but thought better of it. The young were so full of love for their own ideas, so oblivious to contradiction. They were sure no idea they’d thought of could possibly have been tried or thought of before. “You know, the rabbi of our temple once remarked that before the Flood all people were vegetarians and no one was allowed to kill and eat animals.”

  “Really?” Suzanne said skeptically.

  “I remember it distinctly.”

  “But the Bible is so full of animal sacrifices, meat-eating…”

  “Well, I’m not the one to ask. I only remembered that little bit. Is it far, your Buddhist temple?”

  “No. Just around the corner. Wait here a minute and I’ll throw some clothes on.”

  Five minutes later she was back, looking—Catherine admitted, amazed—more beautiful than ever, despite the strange outfit. The skirt, a swirl of blue Indian cotton, touched her ankles, and the top clung to her breasts like a dancer’s leotard. And the silver jewelry! Where in heaven’s name was that from? Calcutta? Afghanistan? “Come, child, help me get up. I’m feeling a little weary.”

  She was light, almost weightless, Suzanne thought, comparing her grandmother’s white, clearly veined, and almost transparent skin to her own rosy, tanned arm. A tenderness and a strange feeling that was akin to grief welled up inside her as their hands touched.

  She fought it.

  5

  A wind, gentle and warm enough to make them forget to button their coats, flapped their clothes against them as they strolled down Mulberry Street, creating a soft murmur that took the place of conversation.

  Suzanne walked slowly, wondering at each step if she should turn back. But the thought of a carte blanche lunch was too tempting to pass up. She seldom ate out these days. Money was tight, now more than ever. Certain grants hadn’t come through, and she and all the other counselors at the rape-crisis center had agreed to take a 30 percent pay cut rather than close down or fire staff.

  Besides, there wasn’t a scrap of food in the house. And she was hungry.

  Still, the battle scars from the recent war with the family throbbed, threatening to rupture and bleed anew at the smallest jarring motion. If this was going to be yet another family onslaught—she brooded—another sea of whiny mea culpas and justified self-pity cushioned in vague threats, well, she just wouldn’t stand for it, free lunch or no free lunch. There was no way she was going to sit back and listen to that crap. No way.

  Did they even realize, she wondered, how thoroughly they’d destroyed her best (her only?) real chance for happiness? Or how deeply she sometimes despised them all? If it hadn’t been for that little private chat among her mother, Kenny, and Renaldo a few months back, Renaldo would be up in her apartment right now, laughing and singing Spanish love songs, his strong brown arms splashing color magically over blank white canvases, instead of…

  Her eyes misted.

  Renaldo.

  She glanced at her grandmother, her throat tightening, her eyes unfriendly. She had no proof, of course—Gran had been too savvy to broach the subject with her personally—but she didn’t doubt for a second that her grandmother had been at least as guilty as the others for what had happened. Direct confrontation was seldom her style. She was The Matriarch, puller of strings.

  It wasn’t too late to send her packing.

  She considered it, glancing at her malevolently.

  But somehow, her grandmother’s delicate, slightly bent f
rame with its silver crown did not play well as the proud, formidable opponent who had so infuriated her only a few months before. She felt her anger drain as she walked on, brooding.

  Catherine didn’t notice her silence, all her attention focused on hiding her own growing panic. Her brave and foolish foray into Central Park notwithstanding, her view of New York remained unchanged: It was a safari park, a place to be passed through in a closed, moving vehicle, windows tightly rolled up. It was seldom she found herself exposed to the city on any street below Madison and Forty-fourth. She looked around at the grungy streets and even grungier people, unnerved.

  “Perhaps we should hail a cab, dear,” she suggested, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “What for? It’s just another block or two. Isn’t this place great! All these little boutiques and outdoor cafes. And you have to see the Festival of San Gennaro.”

  Catherine glanced at her sharply. “You go to that, do you?”

  “Sure. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. All those holy statues and the flowers and music and great food. It’s so colorful and interesting. Sometimes I wish…”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s just that the Italians seem to have such a great time. The stuff we do is so sterile, so boring. Like Passover, all those long-winded recitations and that inedible food, and the little groans from the men and the kids fidgeting and all the women left behind in the kitchen.”

  “Italian Catholic children don’t fidget, and their fathers don’t groan on the hard benches in church, and all that great food, why, it gets magically cooked while the women dance in the streets, I suspect.”

  “Just forget it. It’s not possible to make you understand.”

  “Why do you say that? I understand exactly what you mean. I used to feel the same way.” She shook her head sadly.

  “You?” Suzanne looked at her, startled, waiting for some explanation.

  None followed. Catherine looked ahead, clearly finished with the topic. Or perhaps, Suzanne suddenly wondered, taking in the slight trembling motion of her head, she’d simply forgotten what she’d meant to say.

  The restaurant was an odd mixture of fake Chinese and genuine Delancey Street old-fashioned, its decor consisting of fringed red lanterns and a genuine pickle barrel.

  “This used to be a kosher deli,” Suzanne explained.

  “I thought you said this place was vegetarian.”

  “It is.”

  “What’s this, then?” she asked, pointing to the “sweet-and-sour pork” on the menu.

  “Oh, it’s not real pork, Granny! It’s made out of bean curd, and I assure you it’s just as delicious as I remember the real thing. Although, as a vegetarian, I haven’t tasted that in quite some time,” she pointed out with some righteousness.

  Catherine supposed that was true, but it didn’t please her. Eating vegetarian food on the ground floor of a Buddhist temple hardly qualified as a link with family tradition.

  They ordered many dishes, although Catherine took no more than a spoonful of each, leaving Suzanne free to devour the rest. She did so, with gusto, then eagerly ordered dessert. It came covered with ice cream and a good number of flaming sparklers, which sent floating ash everywhere.

  “Fried pineapple. My favorite,” she said between bites, thoroughly enjoying herself.

  “Are you all right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, do you have what you need, dear, to get by?”

  Suzanne put her fork down slowly, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Do you mean, do I have enough money for food?” she asked, suddenly amused. “Plenty. But when someone else pays, it does wonders for my appetite.” She grinned.

  “Well, at least you’re not getting insulted. Young people these days think they have to prove something all the time, and even if they can’t really manage alone, they foolishly refuse to ask their families for help out of some ridiculous pride.”

  Suzanne felt her jaw twitch. “Considering the recent past, I’d appreciate it, Grandmother, if you wouldn’t bring up family help, caring, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “Eleven months ago, when I wanted to marry Renaldo, Grandmother,” she said, lifting her eyes from the napkin she’d been rolling into tiny balls. “The point is, last year, where was my wonderful, caring family then?”

  “I don’t remember you ever discussing Renaldo with me,” she answered weakly.

  “Okay. But Mom and Kenny knew we were planning on getting married. They must have discussed it with you. And I’m sure you didn’t tell them to wish me mazel tov,” she accused, accurately.

  “I had no idea it had gotten that far,” she muttered, shocked, betraying herself. “What I meant to say was—”

  “Just stop! It’s done. Renaldo was an honorable man. Family was vital to him. He wasn’t about to get into a relationship where people treated him like the sleazy Puerto Rican boyfriend of the girl in the nail parlor. He couldn’t take it. But what’s the point? He’s gone.”

  The click of other people’s forks against their plates became suddenly almost deafening.

  “Suzanne, whatever else was involved, it was never personal. We never had anything against Renaldo personally.” She bit her lip, sorry to have said so much. “We were all devastated at how hard you took the breakup. Heartbroken, believe me. These things happen. Why do you insist on blaming your family, yourself…? We never wished either of you any harm.”

  She saw Suzanne’s bright face suddenly fade and darken, her lips twitching for control. She reached out impulsively across the table, taking her granddaughter’s hand in her own. “Child, he was a married man twice your age, from another culture!”

  “And another faith! Don’t forget that!” Suzanne wrenched her hand away.

  “Another faith,” Catherine admitted. “But also a man with two grown children and a wife!” she went on doggedly, ignoring the sharp turn onto thin ice that the conversation had suddenly taken. “You were so innocent, so inexperienced.”

  “He was a brilliant, talented artist! A man full of life, of joy! He’d been separated from his wife for almost five years. Catholics don’t believe in divorce.”

  “And we Jews,” Catherine said with a strange defiance, “don’t believe in intermarriage!”

  “Oh, really? Does Mom know?” Suzanne added nastily. Then, seeing her grandmother’s face blanch, she softened her tone. “Look, Gran, as far as I’m concerned, there is no we. What can you expect, after all those years of Hanukkah candles and Christmas trees, Passover seders and Easter candy? It’s all garbage, just artificial gimmicks that separate people. It just causes hatred and misunderstandings.” …‘Imagine no religion, nothing to kill or die for…,’” she sang.

  “And no Festival of San Gennaro.”

  Suzanne paused. “That’s different. That’s cultural,” she said slowly. “I mean, we should all respect different cultures, customs, art, music…”

  “Just not your own,” Catherine said, her voice rising unexpectedly. To her great shock, she found tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “Gran?”

  Catherine took out an immaculately clean, hand-embroidered and monogrammed handkerchief from her bag and dabbed her eyes. “I have something to tell you, Suzanne…” she began impulsively, then hesitated. The conversation had not gone at all the way she’d expected. She’d meant to lead up to this subject tactfully, making it sound like a beautiful new beginning, or at least a chance for a decent last chapter. Now, it would sound like so much blackmail.

  She saw the sand hemorrhaging inexorably through the aperture of an hourglass. There was no time for another such meeting, which might go more smoothly. It was either going to be now, or it was not going to be.

  “Suzanne, I’m dying.”

  She watched the slow, predictable look of wonder and horror pass over her granddaughter’s features, and then something less expected. A look of curiosity.

  “I’m se
venty-four years old, and my young doctor says that with the proper care I might reach seventy-five. Except that I don’t plan to have the proper care, not if it’s painful or ugly….” She held up a hand as if warding off a potential flood of objections.

  There were none.

  She looked at her granddaughter, surprised and grateful. “You know I’ve always been a spoiled, cowardly woman, and I see no reason to change now.”

  “Abuela.” It was Suzanne’s turn to reach out for her across the table littered with the cold remnants of the odd meal. She had not used that childish term of endearment for many years.

  “Don’t you dare cry, Suzanne! That’s why I’ve taken you to this public place. You know how I hate emotional scenes. I have something I need to ask of you. Yes, it’s blackmail, the worst sort of blackmail. A dying request. There is no way you can get out of it, so just set your mind on doing it.”

  Suzanne gulped down the last of her Chinese tea.

  “That’s right. Not a word. You’re trapped, so just listen. I want you to do a job for me. A little research. I have in my safe a few pages of memoirs written in Portuguese by one of our distant Spanish ancestors. I want you to help me track down the rest of it.”

  “How distant?”

  “It was written in the 1500s.”

  Suzanne looked at her speculatively.

  “I know a little bit about finding rare books and manuscripts. Your grandfather Carl was a great collector, you know.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Doña Gracia Mendes. She was a young widow with a small child when she inherited the greatest fortune and one of the most successful trading companies in Europe. She was an intimate of kings and queens. And then, for no apparent reason, she just fled, and began openly declaring herself a Jew.”

  “So, you already know what happened?”

  “Yes and no. I’ve read about her in some history books. I more or less know what she did. But none of the books explain why.” She peered into Suzanne’s face. It looked blank. “How can I can make you understand? It was like a rich German aristocrat in the middle of Berlin in 1936 calling Hitler and telling him that he’d decided to be a Jew! I mean, it was the height of the Inquisition. People were being burned for changing their linens on Fridays, or because no smoke came out of their chimneys on Saturdays, never mind praying in synagogues! And the Inquisition didn’t just burn you—they tortured you until you implicated every last member of your family. Then they confiscated every scrap of money or property you owned and turned it over to the Church and King; they took your children away and put them into monasteries or convents. She had so much to lose. In some ways, it was insane for her to behave as she did, yet, incredibly brave as well. I don’t know. I’ve never really understood. She had everything. Why did she risk so much? So will you do it for me?”