by Naomi Ragen
“When was the last time you spoke to Mom?”
“Well, actually, not since we left New York.”
“Mom would know. We should call her.” Francesca shook her head.
“Mom might know, but she won’t necessarily tell us. They might be in cahoots,” Suzanne pointed out.
This shocked Francesca. “But why? Why keep her illness a secret?”
“Because she doesn’t want us to abandon this quest and come running home to be with her.”
“But you’ve already abandoned the quest and run off!”
“I did exactly what Gran wanted me to do!”
Francesca stared. “What are you talking about?”
“Gabriel and me. Even my running off. It was all part of Gran’s plan, the real purpose of this trip.”
Francesca looked flabbergasted.
“She set us up, Fran. That is, she set me up. With Gabriel. She was hoping I’d run off. I’m not sure about you and Marius, though. But it wouldn’t surprise me. You see, it’s time we two were married to nice, Sephardic boys and got some leaves growing on the bare-branched bough.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“I’m telling you it was no accident that Marius and Gabriel were at the River Room the night we were. I know, because Gabriel told me all about it.”
They sat across from each other in silence.
“He told you himself that Gran arranged for the two of you to meet?”
Suzanne nodded.
“My G-d!” Francesca chewed her lip, remembering her grandmother’s odd behavior in the restaurant after Suzanne’s disappearance: her radiant face, her laughter. It all made perfect sense now. “Do you think…did she…Gran…make some arrangement? With Marius, I mean. Did she promise him…them…something like…like…” Her voice grew low and horrified. “Dowries?”
Suzanne, to whom such a thought had never occurred until now, turned ashen. She stretched out her legs and moved down low in her chair, staring at her spoon with stony-eyed malevolence. “Who knows?”
“I wish,” Francesca said in a low groan, “that I had never been born.”
Suzanne rubbed her forearm, feeling the goosebumps rise. “Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”
They walked slowly into the fading daylight and sat wharfside, looking down into the swirling, dark eddies of water. Now and again, the laughter of holidaymakers drifted back to them, sounding hollow and unreal. The wind blowing off the canal turned rude, whipping their clothes and disheveling their hair, destroying any attempts to pat things neatly back into place.
“Suzanne, did you find Renaldo?”
“Yes,” she answered softly. “I did.”
“So, what happened?”
“He was standing in a church. He looked happy. And there was a girl, a student, very young and pretty. She was smiling up at him and he was smiling back, giving her his special smile, my smile.” She swallowed. “But it was all right, you know? I realized, then, that it was never meant to be.”
They listened to the slap of the water against the wooden sides of the boats.
“And Gabriel?”
“I left him standing on the quay in Gibraltar. I feel like part of my body is missing,” she whispered. “I’ve never felt this kind of pain before.” Her chin quivered. “What are you going to do about Marius?”
Francesca hugged herself. “He…he made me believe that he cared. That it was me…” She choked, devastated. “The heiress. That’s what Peter used to call me, remember? I trusted Marius, Suzanne. And I haven’t done that with a man in a very, very long…” She suddenly sobbed.
“Don’t,” Suzanne said, holding her tight, ignoring the stares of the sympathetic and interested drama-seekers among the passersby.
36
“Come, Francesca.”
She looked up, bleary-eyed. It was almost dark. “Where?”
“I don’t know. Your hotel, I guess.”
A certain cool light came into Francesca’s eyes as she wiped them dry. “Yes. And I’ll tell you what else we’re going to do. First, we’re going to check you into the largest suite they’ve got, Suzanne. And then we’re going to have the most extravagant meal in the most expensive restaurant. And after we charge it all to Gran, we’re going to call her and…”
“Yes?”
“Make her tell us the truth!”
“Is there any hope she would?”
“She has to! You just can’t do these things to people, no matter how good your intentions are. You can’t manipulate lives like this! My life!”
“But we can’t even be mad at her, can we? Not now. Not with her condition.”
“All I know is if she promised Marius something, if this whole thing was some sort of scheme, I’ll never forgive her for as long as I live.”
“Yes.” Suzanne nodded. “Exactly.”
“Oh!”
“What?”
“I just remembered. I’ve got to go out this evening. I promised someone. That is, someone promised me. There’s a costume party, and she was going to give me a tour of Venice…all kinds of places tourists never get to see.”
“Who is this person?”
“It’s this woman I went to see this morning about the manuscript. I think her name is Elizabeta Bomberg. She never really said. I haven’t decided if she’s real or a ghost, a sorceress or a good fairy!” Francesca shook her head.
“I can’t believe my sensible sister is going to put herself in the hands of some weird stranger. Where’s your New York smarts?”
Francesca hesitated. “Do you remember those books by Carlos Castaneda?”
“The ones where this college student doing research finds this old Indian who becomes his spirit guide in Mexico and he has all these out-of-body experiences? Didn’t that all turn out to be a fake?”
“I can’t explain it, Suzanne. I know it doesn’t sound rational, but there really is something magical about this woman. She’s an aristocrat, but from another age. Someone who doesn’t seem to belong to this world anymore. And she has this grasp of things—history, human nature. A kind of wisdom, I guess you’d call it. The things she told me were awesome. You must meet her!”
Suzanne eyed her skeptically. “This doesn’t sound like you at all. What did she do, cast a spell over you? My friend from Haiti says that witch doctors can do that. How did you meet her, anyway?”
“Her name and address were in a book we found, together with the manuscript pages in Cáceres.”
“Does she know anything about the manuscript?”
“You wouldn’t believe what she told me! I’m still in shock! Come to my hotel room. We’ll order some drinks, and I’ll tell you everything.”
They sat on the bed in their slips, drinking expensive champagne brought in a silver ice bucket by room service. Between them, they finished the bottle.
“This is the story: David Montezinos was a famous book collector who lived in Amsterdam. He was a rabbi’s son, and a teacher at a famous Talmudic academy founded in 1616 called Etz Hayyim—which means ‘tree of life.’ Anyhow, there were more than twenty thousand books and manuscripts—mostly in Spanish and Portuguese, having to do with the Sephardic Jewish community—in his collection when he died in 1916. Including, most probably, the Gracia Mendes memoirs. He bequeathed the collection to the academy.
“When it began looking likely that the Nazis were going to take over Europe, the curators at Etz Hayyim were afraid the Nazis would either steal the collection or, worse, just burn down the whole building. Actually, the Nazis did steal another famous Jewish book collection in Amsterdam called the Biblioteca Rosenthaliana. They sent the whole thing back to Germany.”
“What does any of this have to do with—”
“I’m getting to it. Elizabeta Bomberg was a well-known book dealer in Venice. She offered to help hide the Montezinos collection until the war was over. Bit by bit, couriers took out some of the most valuable books and manuscripts and delivered them to her. But then it got very dange
rous. One of the couriers got caught and others panicked, just abandoning suitcases full of books and manuscripts wherever they happened to be. Under torture, one of them talked, and Elizabeta was arrested.”
“What happened to her?”
“The Nazis tortured her, but she wouldn’t tell them anything. She had powerful friends who got her released. But she suffered tremendously.”
“What happened to the collection?”
“Elizabeta returned it after the war. But she was heartbroken about the losses. She was especially upset about the Gracia Mendes memoirs. It seems she had a great interest in our ancestor and had done a great deal of research into her life and history. This woman I met said she wanted to share that with me.”
“Wait a minute—this woman, the one you met, the one who’s coming over tonight, is she or isn’t she this Elizabeta Bomberg?”
“I don’t really know!”
“That all happened half a century ago. If that’s who she is, then she must be ancient!”
“It’s so strange. When I first saw her, she seemed, I don’t know, youngish. But when I looked closer, I realized she was very old. She could hardly walk.”
“And she’s taking you on a guided tour of Venice?”
“You know what, I’m not sure of anything anymore,” Francesca answered, throwing back her head and draining the last drops from the glass. “But I have this feeling”—she pressed her fist into the center of her body—“that she knows something really important, and that she’ll tell me what it is tonight. I’ve simply got to go. Please, Suzanne, you’ve got to come with me!”
“You don’t think I’d let you wander off with this nut-case alone, do you?” Suzanne muttered.
Francesca ran her hand over her sister’s lovely hair. “Don’t call her that. We’ll need costumes.”
“What kind?”
“I think it’s a Renaissance festival, or something.”
Suzanne cocked her head. “What about this for a compromise? Let’s get the most expensive costumes there are and charge those to Gran!”
Francesca opened her door, answering Suzanne’s knock.
She sucked in her breath and whistled. The wig, the Lucrezia Borgia gown of beaded deep green velvet, the low, low neckline…. “Sumptuous, my dear. Simply sumptuous,” Francesca said.
“And you! Turn around.”
Francesca did a dutifully slow turn. She was dressed in a deep crimson gown with a high ruff collar and an elaborate headdress, loaded down with gold chains. Her pale skin and dark hair made her look almost otherworldly.
“Isabella herself!” Suzanne exclaimed.
“Don’t say that! Even in jest.”
“Why?”
“I went through Spain. I’ve learned a few things now. You have no idea how much suffering she caused.”
“It’s history!”
“It’s family.”
They stared at each other.
The phone rang. “Okay, we’ll be right down. Well, she’s here. Ready?”
Suzanne slipped her arm through Francesca’s and winked. “To take on the town.”
37
They saw her as soon as the elevator doors opened. She sat in the center of the lobby, wearing a magnificent paisley gown of russet, black, and cream brocade. A thick net of gold braid covered her shoulders on either side of her long white neck, and a matching gold hairnet restrained hair (a wig?) that was thick, curly reddish brown. She wore enormous drop-pearl earrings and two strands of the largest pearls either sister had ever seen. A beautiful painted mask hid her face.
“Elizabeta?” Francesca asked.
“Francesca!” she rose, holding out both arms, which shook a little (age? emotion?). “And this must be your sister, Suzanne.”
Francesca was dumbstruck. “How did you know?”
“You told me, didn’t you? How else?”
“I don’t remember.” Francesca squeezed Suzanne’s hand. It was ice-cold. “What?” She looked at her, surprised.
Suzanne stood transfixed, a look of wonder akin to horror passing over her features. “Who are you?” she asked with a tense calm that was almost belligerent.
“I’m dressed as Leonora of Toledo from the famous portrait by Bronzino.”
“I didn’t mean the costume! You were in my dream! I saw you!”
“Suzanne!” Francesca squeezed her elbow, mortified. “Please, forgive my sister. She’s had a long day.”
“In your dream, were we properly introduced?” the woman asked.
They stood motionless, facing each other, until finally the woman slipped one arm through Francesca’s and the other through Suzanne’s, leading them through the lobby with queenly grace. “Come, daughters. The gondolier is waiting! There is so much I want to show you and so little time!”
Her arm was almost weightless, but with a firm grip that guided them purposefully toward the bobbing boat. They climbed down shakily, one after the other, reaching up to help Elizabeta make her way down.
“I can still manage.” She smiled, ignoring their offered hands. With a light and youthful grace that made them both stare at her in wonder, she hopped down beside them.
They didn’t stare long, distracted by the bustle of activity all around them. They leaned forward to catch a better look. Boats, lined up as if at the beginning of a regatta, were charmingly decorated, their silken banners fluttering like glowing exclamation points over the dark water. Everyone seemed to be in costume.
“Isn’t Carnival in February?” Suzanne asked.
“Of course. This is a special day. An anniversary of sorts…” the woman began, but her voice was drowned in the sounds of singing that began to rise up from the gondolas and vaporetti like a burst of steam, filling the clear night air.
They floated, feeling the full enchantment of the glittering fairy-tale palaces which, in the magic of starlight, had shed their aging decrepitude, reverting to the glory of their youth.
“What a relief it was to finally arrive!” the woman suddenly said, breaking the dreamy silence. “The escape from Antwerp took months. And every step, one had to look over one’s shoulder, to listen for the hooves of the Emperor’s guards bearing down, racing to catch up…”
“Excuse me?” Francesca said politely, wondering if she was missing something.
“Ah. Gracia, Brianda, Reyna, and Little Gracia. They arrived in Venice on this day, four hundred and fifty-two years ago.”
“How do you know the exact day?” Francesca exclaimed.
The woman’s masked face turned to her inscrutably in the darkness. “Certain things one never forgets. It was vital not to raise suspicions until safe conduct could be guaranteed out of Charles’s clutches,” the woman continued, ignoring the interruption. “So there was this plan. First to cross over into France, as if to take the healing waters at Aix-la-Chapelle, and then, from there, to trek slowly across Italy. If you run, your enemies only chase after you. So it was important to walk with dignity. Besides, with all the servants, the household goods, everything that could be carried in coaches trailing behind, one couldn’t exactly gallop!”
“They took everything with them?” Suzanne interjected.
“But of course! To leave it behind in Antwerp was to make a gift of it to Church and Emperor. Neither deserved any gifts. Thieves never do.”
“You’ve done so much research! Please, go on.”
“Joseph came, too, but later. I can imagine he wasn’t happy about being left behind in Antwerp to settle affairs. He was in love, you see. Already, in Queen Mary’s court, he had started looking at his young cousin Reyna differently. Who could blame him? She was so beautiful, surrounded by admirers. He was mad with jealousy. But the mother saw nothing. Mothers never do.” She sighed.
“It’s genetic,” Suzanne murmured.
“She was too busy scouring the world for a son-in-law from a noble Spanish-Jewish lineage, someone faithful to his heritage, intelligent, handsome, wise. When all along…” The woman snorted with stra
nge laughter.
“What happened when they got to Venice?” Francesca pressed.
“I do not have to tell you. You can see!” She waved her arms expansively. “Venice was built on profit, not Divine Rights. The pallazi. The works of artists like Titian, Veronese, and Tintoretto. The rare woods of Africa, the spices of the East, the wares of Arabia, China, and the New World…everything was for sale to those whom the gods had favored with profits. They were welcomed like royalty.”
“But didn’t Gracia write about being thrown into a dungeon in Venice?” Suzanne said doubtfully.
“Yes! And almost losing her child,” Francesca added.
“As I said, Venice is a city that worships the Prince of Mammon. Ducats and crowns, gold, and precious stones—all those things that create masks and costumes. But underneath all the glitter, death was there, waiting patiently for the fools who believed in the show, who thought it was real.”
Her voice, sonorous and full of meaning, stirred them both with strange emotion.
It was the voice of the woman in El Transito, Francesca realized, stiffening with shock. It was the voice of the woman in my dream, Suzanne remembered, shaken. They felt the sudden cold chill of night run through their bodies as they stared at the masked figure who sat facing them in the darkness.
It was all like some dream, they thought, shaken from their solid sense of reality, made receptive to all that was to come, the way dreamers accept the visions and voices of the night.
The wet, gray stones glistened like liquid silver in the moonlight as the gondola slid up to the docking quay of the large palazzo. The gondolier’s swarthy, firm hand grasped theirs, helping them to shore. From above, the faint sound of a string quartet playing Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik drifted down to them. They turned their eyes in the direction of the music, fascinated by the glow of lights and the shadows of moving bodies behind the drawn drapes.
An endless stream of boats pulled up, revelers disembarking one by one, dressed in elaborate costumes of brocaded silks, satins, velvets, and silk damasks, with plunging necklines and hair piled high, or braided with pearls or feathers.
