She looked at me as though greatly relieved simply to see me alive. “John, we were … we were waiting to tell you. Until you were a bit older.”
“Then I am Jewish?” I prayed there was still a more sensible explanation.
“It isn’t that simple. There are – how shall I put it? There are people, who are neither one thing nor another.”
“Neither Christian nor Jewish?”
“That’s right. Perhaps … perhaps I’d better start with some history. A long time ago, before you were born – ”
“Grandfather João came from Constantinople,” I interrupted. “His ancestors were Jewish. They fled the Inquisition. People were being burnt. I know all that.”
“Who told you?”
“Luna and Graça. I was with them when the necromancer came.”
“Yes, I know. They came to find me at the market.”
“If you knew what they said, why did you ask?”
“On the contrary, John, they only told me a little of what happened. They said that you had been very brave and that certain secrets had been revealed to you.”
“Did they take something from me?” I asked impetuously.
“Who?”
“The Jews?”
“Which Jews?”
I shrugged. “I’ve no idea. But you know what I’m trying to say.”
“I most certainly do not.”
I wished to broach, in the most delicate manner possible, the possibility of my penis having been disfigured. I said, “I don’t know what they took. A horn perhaps.”
“A horn?”
“From somewhere … from my head. They removed it.”
“Please, John, this is no time for one of Midnight’s stories. You are not a goat. Though there have certainly been times when you have smelled like one.” She smiled at her own joke, which irritated me enormously. “Forgive me, John,” she said. “I know I’m being silly, but I wanted to put you at ease.”
“Maybe they took something else?” I said.
“Such as?”
“Well, from my tip.” I squirmed in embarrassment.
“Ah, I see now where this conversation is heading. Yes, when you were eight days old, a surgeon came and took a small and unimportant piece of skin from your … your tip, as you so nicely put it.”
She said this as though it were a trifle, but I must have looked sick, since she added reassuringly, “A very small piece. Nothing essential, I assure you. You are perfectly intact in that area.”
“Why was a piece of skin taken?”
“It is our tradition. A surgeon comes and the baby sits on his grandfather’s lap while the surgeon cuts away a small piece of skin that serves to hide things. It’s called the prepúcio.”
“Does it hurt?”
She shrugged. “It must have. You cried. We put some brandy on your gums to soothe the pain.”
“Brandy in my mouth to slice off the tip of my penis?”
She slapped her hand in her lap. “It was just a very tiny and useless piece of skin.”
“Does Father still have it?”
“Yes.”
“But why didn’t he have it cut off?”
“John, your father is a separate subject. Perhaps we ought to discuss one thing at a time.”
“You said I could ask anything.”
She sighed. “John, listen, I’m afraid the truth is that your father is not Jewish.” She looked away, as though it saddened her to admit it.
Far from upsetting me, I felt relieved. “Then I must only be partially Jewish.”
“In a sense.”
“Half-Scottish and half-Jewish.”
“I think it would be more correct to say half-Scottish and half-Portuguese. As well as half-Christian and half-Jewish, of course.”
“Mama, I cannot be four halves. Then I would be two persons.”
“Indeed, John, I have often believed you to be several children, and each one more difficult than the one before. Honestly, it is like trying to converse with a bumblebee.” She shook her head. “Look, you are Portuguese and Jewish at the same time. Like me. Just as you are Christian and Scottish at the same time. Like your father.” She leaned toward me. “But here’s where things get tricky – the Jews are of the belief that religion is inherited through the mother. So, by our laws, you are completely Jewish, and the Christians agree. One drop of Hebrew blood makes you utterly Jewish, they say.”
“Hebrew?”
“That is what the Jews are called in the Bible.”
“So what things did I inherit?”
“Jewishness, you might say.”
Now I felt we were headed where I had been trying to go for some time. “But what is Jewishness?”
My mother sighed deeply. “My goodness, I wish my father were still with us. I am quite certain he could explain all this much better than I can. John, dear, the Jews believe certain things that Christians don’t. That’s what it means to be Jewish.”
“For instance?”
“For instance, that Jesus was not the Messiah. You know who the Messiah is?” I shook my head. “Well, he is a kind of savior. Now, the Christians believe he was Jesus. But we say that the Messiah has not yet come.”
“Papa does not believe that Jesus is the Messiah, yet you just said that he was a Christian.”
“He was born a Christian, but he is an atheist by conviction. Jews and atheists do not believe that Jesus was the Messiah.”
This last point seemed to improve my situation even further. “So people can change? I could decide I am not half-Jewish and become one-quarter Jewish … or … or even less?”
“I fear that is not the way it works. Father remains a Christian by tradition, if not by belief. Just as you will remain a Jew by tradition, but not by belief, if that’s what you decide.”
“What tradition?”
“Well, now, this is where things become difficult, John. I am ignorant of many things – too many. I only know what my father told me. You see, I was raised here in Portugal, where such things as Jewishness remain largely a secret. There is much I have not learned, but I shall tell you what I know….”
My mother then went on to discuss at great length such mysterious subjects as God, the soul, afterlife, possession, demonic spheres, angels, and hell. She used such complicated clauses and was forced into so many tangled rephrasings that after forty-five minutes of labor, when she finally gave herself a welcome rest and inquired “Do you understand now?”, it was my turn to confess to being totally lost.
As far as I could determine, the Jews believed that a single God would revive them in body and soul when the Messiah came and that they would rise up from the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem and live in paradise.
As to why my mother attended Mass nearly every Sunday and had had me baptized, she explained that these were formalities meant to still the viperous tongues of those who were spying on us. “In Portugal, my son, everyone is always watching with both eyes wide open. There are people to whom you have never spoken a word – such as that murderous preacher – who know when you were born and the names of your grandparents.” She paused, then said, “I think I ought to have Senhor Benjamin talk to you about all this.”
“Why him?”
“He understands our beliefs and knows our ceremonies. All I know is how to light the candles before supper on Friday evening.”
“So Senhor Benjamin is Jewish?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
My mother’s face grew solemn. “John, this is important.” She stood up and began to pace. “There are many people in Porto whose ancestors are Jewish. Most have forgotten everything but a few words of prayer, for we have not been permitted to practice our religion openly for many centuries. If I tell you the names of some people who share our faith, then you must never speak of them to anyone.” She fixed me with a dark look. “John, these people could be killed. You must swear to me that you will never reveal any of their names – not even should the Church
throw you in the darkest dungeon. Otherwise I cannot tell you.”
I was thrilled by the need to keep a dangerous secret. Perhaps being Jewish was not such a curse, after all. “I swear,” I said.
“Very well. It may even be a good thing that you know. In case … in case anything bad should happen to Papa or myself, these are the people to whom you must go for assistance. Never forget that.” Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she said, “I have already mentioned Senhor Benjamin. Then there is Senhora Beatriz. And …”
She proceeded to name a score of individuals that I knew either as family friends, neighbors, local artisans, or shopkeepers. It would be rash of me to name them even now, since Portugal is a land of shifting political fortunes. Indeed, I have taken the liberty of changing the names of Senhor Benjamin, Senhora Beatriz, and several others in my story, to protect them and their children.
As Mama entrusted me with this information, I recognized that I was being granted entry into a secret and ancient clan. What’s more, Daniel, too, had been a member, as Senhora Beatriz, his grandmother, had been named.
It was only later that I realized that the thrashing Senhora Beatriz suffered years earlier was inspired by the hateful preachings of Lourenço Reis.
Once Mama had finished her list, she said, “John, if you have more questions, ask Senhor Benjamin. You may visit him tonight with your father.”
After she hugged me again, I rushed to my room to consider my being half-Jewish. The more I reflected upon these halves and wholes, the less sense they made. Aside from a few rather confused religious beliefs expressed to me by Mother and a piece of skin evidently robbed from me at knifepoint when I was too young to defend myself, it was not at all clear wherein Jewishness resided or if even there was such a thing.
I decided to do my utmost to proceed through logic. I made a list of my mother’s traits that were wholly absent in neighbor women who had not been mentioned and who were therefore, most likely, fully Christian. These, I presumed, would be the core attributes of Jewishness.
Knowing so few women well, I could come up with only seven characteristics: an uncompromising abhorrence of dirt in our home and on her person; a delight in hearing books read aloud; musical interest and aptitude; contempt for all forms of hunting; marked tendency to agitation in the presence of her own mother; timidity in public; and an overwhelming fear of standing apart. I had a wholly laissez-faire attitude toward dirt, so I reasoned that this was probably due to my being only half-Jewish. The same explanation held true for my lack of interest in playing the pianoforte; my joy in watching Midnight hunt; my occasional bursts of mischievous boldness; and my general ease in her presence. Subtracting these from my original list of traits, I concluded that my Jewishness resided in my delight in reading and my nervous nature. I concluded that I might therefore make every effort to keep these characteristics out of general view.
I then analyzed my father’s Scottishness. Comparing him with Portuguese men, I decided it was centered in his outstanding height; his industriousness; his hotheaded sense of honor; his gallantry; his willingness to poke fun at himself; his dislike of the English; his partiality for whiskey and tea; his stories of elves, witches, and monsters of the lochs; and his odd Portuguese pronunciation.
Being only half-Scottish, I could not be expected to be tall, enjoy poking fun at myself, dislike the English, or appreciate whiskey, which I had sipped several times and already disliked. I was born in Porto, so it was wholly illogical to suppose that I might have a faulty pronunciation of my native tongue. I deduced that my Scottish half resided in my industriousness, my aggressive sense of honor, and my love of frightening stories.
This reasoning seemed sound to me. Yet I soon began to see that my conclusions were lopsided. For my father played the fiddle with great skill and had an even deeper love of poetry than my mother. And my mother was nothing if not industrious, utilizing all her free time to embroider towels, curtains, and sheets for any person who might pay her a fair wage.
And so my reflections reached a dead end, and I went bounding off to discuss my confusion with Midnight, who I found weeding in our garden and looking extremely troubled.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. He ignored me and continued digging with his trowel. “Will you not answer me?”
“John, I am not sure that you and I ought to be friends,” he replied.
My heart stopped. “What do you mean?”
“There is so much I do not understand. So much that I cannot help you with. I sometimes think I ought not to have come here.”
The thought of him leaving was unbearable to me. “You cannot go!”
He wiped the dirt from his hands on his breeches. “Then if you wish for me to stay you must help me. You must tell me the meaning of what took place today.”
I realized then that I had been neglectful of his concern for the safety of my family. That he had seen preachers like Lourenço Reis in his native country – inciting Europeans to murder his kin – had never occurred to me.
We sat together and I repeated what Mother had told me about being a Jew, adding that I’d love for him to come with us when Father and I sought more satisfactory answers from Senhor Benjamin.
He was greatly relieved by my invitation. I’d have liked to ask him where he thought Senhor Policarpo’s spirit of life now resided. And to show him my intimate parts and ask for an assessment of what had been clipped from them. Courage failed me each time I sought to broach either of these subjects, however.
XVII
Papa came home from work looking angry and haggard. He had already been informed of Senhor Policarpo’s murder, so he asked no questions of me or Mother. Instead, he lifted me up and embraced me, then went straight to Midnight and hugged him as well. Then he and Mama retreated to their bedroom.
When he returned downstairs, he asked us to sit with him. “Worry not, dear May,” he told Mama, kissing her cheek. “The world is steadily advancing toward a better age, and that hateful preacher will never succeed in tugging us back into the past.” Turning to me, he said, “If the truth be told, laddie, I should have liked to tell you about this Jewish heritage of yours when you were but a wee thing. And I say this to you with no hesitation whatsoever – I think you are all the more fortunate to be an alloy of different metals. Would that I had your inheritance, my son.”
This cheered me greatly, but I still wanted to ask a few questions of Senhor Benjamin. When I said so, Papa gulped down the rest of his wine and gestured toward the door. “Then let’s not dawdle, laddie. It is still St. John’s Eve and we’ve too much merriment planned to let conversations wait. I shall not let any preacher ruin our celebrations!”
Father led Midnight and myself down the street to the home of the apothecary, who ushered us inside with much formality. Papa was about to broach the subject at hand when Benjamin jumped up, exclaiming, “Where’s my manners?” and went off to fetch brandy for his guests. He seemed much more animated than usual, an indication of his different nature inside his home. Behind his closed door, he took off his mask.
I was offered a cup of wine as a special treat. It tasted sweet, and I was greatly flattered that Senhor Benjamin thought me man enough to appreciate it. To my great surprise, the three of them then toasted my health, which made me wonder if my mother had not already visited the apothecary to explain the reason for our visit.
“So, sir,” Benjamin began, addressing my father and placing his glass on the table, “it seems clear now that Reis has returned to Porto with more than just slander on his mind.”
“Aye,” my father replied. “Tell me, Benjamin, is now the time?”
“Indeed it is, James. His supporters have decided that their campaign must begin now in earnest.”
“What campaign?” I asked.
“To reestablish the Inquisition,” Papa replied.
“It was too soon when he first came, John,” the apothecary added. “Even the Church needs some time to gather its forces.” He stared at
me pointedly over his oval spectacles, then whisked them off. Dangling them before me, he jerked his hand as though to throw them at me. I started, but instead of heading for me, they vanished without a trace. “The Church made Lourenço Reis disappear for a time,” he continued. Benjamin stood up now and reached behind my head. The spectacles appeared in his hand, and he put them back on. “And just like that, the Church has summoned him back again.”
“How did you do that?” I asked.
“I had you look where the spectacles would not be. It’s easy to learn a few magic tricks, John. Anyone can do it. Even a man who likes nothing so much as to frighten young boys.”
“And who summoned the necromancer back?” I asked.
“The what?” asked Benjamin.
“That’s what John calls Lourenço Reis,” Papa replied.
Benjamin laughed. “It’s a good name for him. Though he has no special powers, I assure you. And you’ve asked a good question, dear boy. Alas, I cannot say for certain who is choreographing this spectacle.”
“Whoever it is, they surely wish to have their apparatus of terror in place before Napoleon decides to advance on Portugal,” Papa observed.
“Indeed so, James. I believe they will happily place the country in the Emperor’s hands if he will permit them their indulgences.” He turned to me again. “Now, I understand, young man, that you have been told that you are half-Jewish.”
His directness cowed me. Noticing my discomfort, he said, “Forgive me, dear boy. I tend to speak plainly in my own home.” Smiling, he leaned across and patted my shoulder, which only served to make my nerves plummet toward panic.
“We have much to talk about, John,” Benjamin said gently, “and I would like to be able to speak to you about these things at our leisure. What I propose is that you come to see me once a week for a time. Would that meet with your approval?” Glancing over at Midnight and smiling, he added, “You might join us, too, if you like, my friend.”
“I would like that very, very much,” he replied. “If John agrees, that is.”
Hunting Midnight Page 18
