She wore what she had when I’d first met her: an exquisitely tailored black mourning gown and no jewelry save a small gold crucifix. Her behavior—although more assertive than the nuns’—was solemn and prim.
The Mother Superior of the local Dominican convent sat to her immediate left, Torquemada to her immediate right; beside him sat Fray Morillo, head of the Dominican Order and Antonio’s immediate superior.
This time, we musicians weren’t announced or applauded; it was our job to play and sing softly enough not to impede conversation among the diners. Because they kept their voices low and we were obligated to play at some distance from the table, I couldn’t make out what they were saying. But the somber expressions on the faces of the three having the most intense conversation—Isabel, Torquemada, and Morillo—betrayed the subject matter.
Hojeda had been invited as well—this looked to be a gathering of all the upper-level Dominicans in Seville, and as head of San Pablo, he could not be ignored—but he had been placed at the very end of the right side of the table, separated from the queen by several male diners so that he couldn’t hear the conversation or catch the queen’s attention, much less be heard himself. The look of frustration on his round, owlish face was comical.
After we musicians began our musical foray with a stirring—if more sedate than the previous night—tribute to the city of Seville, we launched into a psalm:
Whither shall I go from thy Spirit?
Or whither shall I flee from thy presence
If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there;
If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.
The mandolin player and I launched into a sweet, high harmony.
I prayed with my entire being, with an intensity that made me ache, until I knew I had reached something, something I caught and held fast, not even certain whose God I was praying to:
Please let Queen Isabel free my father. Please soften her heart. I can’t lose him too, O Lord.… Please, I’ll do whatever You ask of me for the rest of my life. Only grant me this.…
Through each song I prayed with all my strength, all my will. And at one point doña Berta finally appeared and genuflected apologetically to the queen for interrupting her supper. She leaned over and whispered at length into Isabel’s ear. Both the queen and Berta looked hesitantly out at me.
And then Isabel drew a weary breath, shook her head, and dismissed Berta with a flick of the royal fingers.
I was devastated but kept singing. I could not, would not, let my father’s life be dismissed so easily.
When the meal was at last over, Her Majesty took her leave, accompanied by Torquemada and a single bodyguard; the rest of the guards remained with the Dominicans, who shuffled out of the room slowly. Meanwhile, Berta approached me, her plump, jowly face glum, her eyes faintly guarded.
“I am so sorry,” she began, but I held up my hand.
“Please, doña,” I said raggedly. “It’s bad enough news. I don’t need to hear the actual words.”
“Poor girl,” she clucked. “It’s not that bad. Her Majesty is engaged today and cannot speak to you. Perhaps tomorrow. So go to the kitchen with the other musicians and get your fair share of something to eat.”
As if I could think of food under such circumstances. Berta made a poor liar; not only did her expression reveal it, but Queen Isabel’s utterly dismissive gesture had indicated no possibility of a second chance. But I nodded sadly and followed Antonio and the others at a far distance. Once out of the dining hall and into the narrow corridor, I waited until they and Berta were out of sight … and then intentionally followed what I suspected had been the queen’s footsteps.
God would either help me now or I would be thrown into jail for daring to trespass in the Royal Palace.
I took off my slippers and hurried as fast and as quietly as I could down the tiled corridors, cold against my bare feet; there were few rectangular doors, only graceful archways opening onto other archways into seeming infinity. Soon I could just see the backs of the guards and the slowest-moving Dominicans; I thanked God silently that all but one of the guards had chosen to accompany the guests. I followed quietly, ducking behind corners when they presented themselves, until the guards herded their charges around a corner to the left—the way that led out to the open square in front of King Pedro’s Palace.
Once they were out of sight, I quickened my pace until I just caught sight of Torquemada and Queen Isabel, rounding another brightly tiled and gilded corner, with the solitary guard following at a discreet distance so as not to intrude on their conversation. I waited for the guard to disappear, then ran to the corner and carefully peered beyond it.
The queen and Torquemada stood in front of a pair of heavy dark brown-black doors; I realized at once that they led to the Gothic chapel and that I’d just trodden the way that doña Berta had led me the night I first performed for Her Majesty.
As Torquemada swung open one of the great tall doors, Isabel turned to the guard and uttered something softly. The guard bowed and began to return back down the corridor, the way he’d come—the way that he would surely see me.
I checked my first impulse. If I ran, I would be immediately presumed to be up to something nefarious, and, besides, the slap of my bare feet against the tile would alert him. I knew I couldn’t run fast enough to hide behind yet another corner.
On instinct, I pressed myself against the wall and tried desperately to think of an excuse, one that might win me an audience with Her Majesty.
I tensed, inhaling sharply and not breathing as the guard approached the corner …
… and to my intense relief, he didn’t turn but continued straight ahead, his attention on something other than the small young woman flattened against the perpendicular wall.
I exhaled deeply once he’d passed and peeked around the corner again to catch a glimpse of Torquemada closing the door behind Isabel.
If I threw myself and my father on the queen’s mercy while Torquemada was there, there was little chance of convincing her to take pity on my father. But there was no way to predict how long their conversation might last; in the meantime, I was too exposed standing in the hallway—and that’s when I remembered the choir stall overlooking the chapel.
Quickly, silently, I found the stairs leading up to the stall and ascended them. I crouched low, trying to still my breathing; fortunately, Torquemada and the queen were too engrossed in conversation to notice me. They stood in front of the great altar, where a painted, gilded Virgin held her man-infant as angels set a crown upon her head. This was recessed into a panel of dark, ornately carved wood—the same dark wood of the choir stalls and pews. Happily the altar was placed acoustically so that I could hear their every word.
Isabel stood beneath the huge flickering chandeliers; her tone was venomous, her words echoing off the high domed ceiling: “… lied to me! I don’t know why I should be so surprised when dealing with their kind. Had the gall to put me off to my face. A week! A kingdom can be won or lost in a week. Doesn’t he realize what it takes to sustain a war? How could I ever win Granada if I can’t even secure my western kingdom?…” She trailed off, then grew freshly agitated as another thought occurred to her. “Yes, it’s the largest amount I’ve ever asked for, but he surely has it! How dare he make excuses to me?”
“Your Majesty,” Torquemada said emotionlessly, “he is indeed lying to you; his kind simply can’t speak the truth. I swear to you upon my soul that Sánchez is planning to smuggle at least as much as you asked for, if not more, as soon as he can. He stalls you so that you will never receive a single coin. Rumor says he has already smuggled at least that much to his family in Portugal.”
I expected Isabel to burst into a fresh tirade, but instead she grew quiet and paused a long moment before asking solemnly, “Are you certain of this, Fray Tomás? Don Francisco has long been a friend to us and supplied us with funds.”
“You’ll see all of those funds,” Torquemada countered, “and al
l of his vast properties if you are patient another day or two. Trust me, Your Majesty, and trust God. The young girl, the singer who asked for an audience with you today—her father has been denounced and arrested. Don Francisco has befriended her—unfortunately for him. She will crumble soon and give us evidence. And if she will not, Antonio Vargas will.”
“Who?”
“Vargas, Your Majesty. The redheaded lad who serves as secretary to Fray Morillo. He is a Sevillian, and he and his parents were long friends with don Francisco and the rest of the Sánchez family. I shall give him an opportunity to prove whether his true loyalties lie with us or them.”
Isabel snorted. “Let us hope he chooses wisely, then.” And she switched the topic to battles she was still fighting against the traditionalists who couldn’t bear the thought of a woman on Spain’s throne.
It didn’t matter; I’d heard enough. No matter how prettily I made my case, Isabel would never free my father. Antonio had been right: She was far more interested in the profit she could make off his estate. And how could I be sure don Francisco wasn’t manipulating me as a pawn, too?
I stole down the choir stall and fled down the hallways until I found my way out of the palace to an aggravated doña Berta and the waiting coach. She believed my story that I’d briefly taken ill and had gotten lost trying to find the water closet—or at least, like everyone else, she pretended to.
By the time I made it home in the carriage, I was overcome by rage—against the queen, against Torquemada, and most especially against God, who had resoundingly ignored my heartfelt prayer and had instead shown me how hopeless my father’s situation was.
When I arrived back at Gabriel’s house well after sunset, he and Fray Hojeda were waiting in the dining hall to interrogate me: Did I put in a good word for Hojeda and Gabriel with the queen? Yes, yes, I answered, irritable and impatient; that night I didn’t care what either man did to me if they learned I wasn’t telling the truth.
Gabriel asked, “Did you do as I asked with Antonio?”
“Yes,” I lied nastily. “Yes, I kissed him and he kissed me back. And we enjoyed it. So are you happy, pious man, to have your wife play the harlot?”
With that, I turned my back to both men without permission—catching a glimpse of jealousy on Gabriel’s hawkish face and suspicion on Fray Hojeda’s—and stomped off across the courtyard to my apartment.
Máriam was in the bedroom praying in front of my mother’s ugly ceramic Madonna. She was kneeling on the floor, her dark hands held at a distance, covering her eyes; as I entered, she looked up slowly, her expression inquisitive.
“Stop praying and get up!” I snapped, not caring who overheard. “God doesn’t listen. He doesn’t care.”
Máriam finished her praying and rose gracefully, calmly.
“They will kill my father,” I half shouted, “and probably me too. It’s all for money, do you understand? All for money!”
In my rage, I stood on my tiptoes, grabbed the ugly Madonna from her shelf, and dashed her to the floor. Máriam moved to catch it, but in a heartbeat, it lay broken between us: The Madonna’s face had cracked in two diagonally, from the top of her head to her blue-veiled shoulder. The Christ child in her arms was intact, but a second shard had come loose on her face, leaving a gap where her crossed blue eyes had been.
In that gap lay wool wadding, wrapped tightly around something at the statue’s core. My anger transformed into curiosity; I had never seen a ceramic figure stuffed in this way. Everything my mother and I ever painted had been hollow.
Máriam stood perfectly still, her gaze riveted on me as I knelt down to examine the broken statue. I pulled gently at the wadding, only to realize that other items were wrapped inside. But the broken gap in the Madonna’s face was too narrow to pull all the wool through; I struck it against the floor until her entire head split off at the shoulders.
Only then was I able to pull out all the wadding and see what was inside: a rolled-up letter, yellow with age, and a slender object, no taller than my hand from wrist to fingertip. It was carved from olive wood, with an image near the top that resembled three lit candles joined by a thick line at the base. Most of the wood had been badly scorched, except for the letter; the lower edges had been completely charred.
Oddly, Máriam showed no interest in it but sat down in a corner while I examined the treasures. I couldn’t fathom what the olive-wood object was for, so I set it aside in order to carefully unroll the old letter. It read:
My dearest Raquelita, for that is your true name,
It is I, your uncle, don Francisco. Do not think that because we have not been in contact with you that we have rejected you. Far from it; you remain in my prayers and those of my beloved family every morning and night. But given the insanity that overtook Seville in the days and weeks after your parents’ deaths, we decided that it was far safer for you to be taken in by an orphanage, and renamed, lest those who took your loved ones go searching for you.
Herein is hidden a treasure, one salvaged from the rubble by your mother’s good and true friend, who is now yours. It is the mezuzah that graced the front door of your father’s—my brother’s—home in the Jewish Quarter. I pray you will keep it near you always, as it will bring you blessings and strength.
For out of great darkness, an even greater light always arises. I believe that light dwells strongly in you and your daughter.
You should know, if you were too young to remember your mother’s stories, that you are a daughter of the renowned Abravanel clan, and niece to my brother, the famous don Isaac Abravanel, known for his wealth and philanthropy. Rather than change his religion or his name to Sánchez as I did, he fled Seville for Portugal, where he practices his faith openly and serves as benefactor to all Jews in Spain, regardless of whether they were forced to be public Christians and Jews in secret. My calling is a different one: to stay in Spain and help rescue our people and our sacred objects of faith. I send them to my brother in Lisbon, who sees to it that their every need is fulfilled.
The day will come soon, I suspect, that you and my family will be forced to join him in Portugal. I do not weep for any properties lost; I will be glad to freely rejoice in our faith as my heart bids me, without fear. And I will rejoice in the arms of family and friends who have escaped before us.
Until then, I have a great favor to ask of you: I have seen your incredible talent for painting religious figurines. When we lost your father—may his soul slumber peacefully—we also lost many priceless artifacts of gold and silver, precious to us not only because of their cost, but their religious significance.
To prevent this from happening again, we have decided to hide the remaining religious items inside Christian statuary in order to smuggle them to safety. But as you can see from our little Madonna, we do not know anyone of your talent who can easily produce and sell many such items without arousing suspicion.
Will you help us, dear niece? If your answer is no, say nothing. But if you wish to help, merely say the word yes—nothing more—to your neighbor don Pedro Vargas, and he will give you the name of a potter in Triana who will send you glazed items with hollow bottoms, ready for painting. Return them to him, and we will deal with the rest.
In the meantime, know that I and my family love you and your family dearly and pray for you daily, as we do our own. But in public, let us remain strangers; it is the safest way.
Only know, each time you gaze on the Madonna, that you have never been separated from the Lord’s love or from your family’s.
Until I can greet you properly in the flesh, may the Lord bless and keep you. May He make His face to shine upon you, and grant you peace. Amen.
Your loving uncle,
Francisco
P.S. It is imperative, for your safety and ours, that you burn this letter at once.
Seventeen
I knelt on the floor, cradling the letter and the mezuzah in my lap, all my anger evaporated. In its place was a very deep love and sorrow that caus
ed me to lower my face into my hands.
In my mind’s eye, I saw Luz—don Francisco’s beautiful and pregnant granddaughter—saying of my mother: She is a hero.
I understood now. My mother had chosen to die rather than risk exposing don Francisco’s family and its operation to the Inquisitors. I could only pray that she had kept it secret from my father as well as she’d hidden it from me.
I remembered too the very day the Madonna had come into our house a decade earlier—the day the aged Jew had delivered the bundle, only to suffer a beating from Gabriel. Antonio alone had fought to rescue him. I remembered the sting when old don Jerónimo had called me marrana, that ugly word for converso that meant “swine,” and how the pain intensified when the other children in the street took up the cruel singsong: Marrana! Marrana!
It was the same day I had rejected my own mother—and my own heritage—for being the same. Because I was a coward.
Honor your mother by finishing her work, my great-uncle had said. I was needed to finish the Santiago statue. But I knew that if I did so, I was exposing my father and myself to even greater danger.
Herein is hidden a treasure, one salvaged from the rubble by your mother’s good and true friend, who is now yours.
I looked up at Máriam. “My mother’s good and true friend,” I whispered, “who is now mine.”
At that, Máriam went to her knees, sat beside me, and wrapped her lean, strong arms around me.
“Always,” she said.
“You saved the mezuzah and gave it to don Francisco.”
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