“More smoke than milk and honey of late.”
“That was just a small bonfire,” he notes. “Wait a few years and things will really light up. Then you’ll do what you’re told or…” He pulls open his cloak, unties his shirt. The line of scar on his chest reflects the glare of candlelight. “…Or you’ll pay with your flesh. I told you of the pictures they sear into your skin. My landscape had just begun. Can you see the horizon? If you come closer, you can make out the gates of Jerusalem.” He closes his shirt. “This mortal body we have is weak. You’ll find pain most disagreeable.”
“After your beard was shaved last week, Uncle recognized you as the informer he’d seen in Seville,” I say. “In the hospital, that discussion you had….my master’s whirling gestures… It’s why you were so desperate to have the beard kept, why you didn’t like us visiting you.”
“Another accident. Life is full of them. One gets used to it after a while. Though I expect that chance still bothers you. Your uncle didn’t understand it either. Many things were beyond him. He wasn’t a man of compassion. To have compassion, you must be like other men and he…”
“How dare you!” I shout.
“One who has lost his family can dare most anything!” he replies. ‘Why, look at you! Vengeance from a kabbalist? What would Uncle say?”
“He’d say that you lost your central core of soul long ago, that returning you to the Other Side was a mitzvah. Metatron will record your murder as a righteous deed.”
“A convenient self-deception,” he says.
“Deceptive conveniences are your specialty,” I note.
He holds up his knife and proffers a bow. “My specialty is meat and fowl.”
“You should have stuck to it.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” he sighs. “Life tugs you. Like a tide. You can fight the ocean only so long. But you’re too young to…”
“You discovered the girl, Teresa, in our cellar, when you went to see Uncle, didn’t you?”
“He’d already pulled her to safety. He’d been bathing. The secret door to the bathhouse was open a crack so he could listen for anyone else needing help. I’d been coming to see him when the riot reached the Alfama. I’d put on a big wooden cross to protect myself, even blessed a few murderers along the way. Amazing what people will bless one another to do.” He crosses himself and rolls his eyes. “As a pious Christian, I slipped inside your house.”
“And so you killed him.”
“Not so fast. You make everything sound easy. Life isn’t Torah. You can’t read the verses at top speed and reread them when you don’t quite grasp what they mean. He wasn’t reasonable. He said he’d have me judged by a Jewish council for informing on Simon all those years ago, that he’d find some way to see me punished. I knew your uncle well. He would have discovered some way to make my life hell. Even when I told him that I’d informed on Reza and her in-laws, that if he didn’t desist I would do it again, he refused to listen. I thought it would convince him. I was silly to think that your uncle would behave like a normal father. And if he had ever told Dona Meneses that I had been the one blackmailing her, that I knew that she was Jewish, my life wouldn’t have been worth the price of a turnip! Only his swearing on the Torah to keep our secret would have saved his life. And he refused.”
“So you were responsible for Reza’s imprisonment, as well.”
“Whatever the situation demands. One must be flexible…change one’s form according to circumstance. A beard and sumptuous clothes for Lisbon… In Constantinople, I may even become a Moslem. It’s the same God, after all. Right Farid?”
As Farid signals something obscene in Diego’s direction, I think: A courier who cannot recognize his own face. Uncle meant Diego, the Wandering Jew,a courier not of books or merchandise,but his own soul. I say, “And so what you wrote in Solomon’s fake confession was true…applied to my uncle.”
“Yes. The mohel’s suicide was convenient. When I heard, I went there, paid a little ragamuffin to buy some paper from a witch who shreds linen, then left the note for Solomon’s sister to find. Most people are so easily fooled.”
“You told Uncle you’d spare the girl if he gave up his life?”
“Yes. He spoke of sacrifice. It meant a lot to him. I think he expected to die. ‘For a greater good and higher purpose,’ he said. He had strange ways of reasoning, don’t you think? I told him, ‘I could kill you without batting an eyelash.’ And he answered, “And I could die without batting one either!’ Imagine that! And imagine, at this late date, wanting to assemble a Jewish council! He never realized that it’s the Christian year of fifteen and six, not the Hebrew year of fifty-two sixty-six. And dear Berekiah, it’s time to reset your own clock before it’s too late. Accept the Christian calendar before time runs out for you.”
“You didn’t go to see Uncle just to argue with him. You planted that silk thread of Simon’s. You must have known beforehand that you were going to kill him.”
“One must have a back-up plan. You can’t begrudge me prudence.”
“Prudence? You even wanted to kill me and Farid! That’s why you sent the note for me to meet you by the water mills.”
“Another good improvisation ruined by Dona Meneses and her henchmen.”
“And you stole Uncle’s Haggadah. Our lapis lazuli and gold leaf. Like a common thief!”
“Why not? Are you above such desires? I think not. And manuscripts. Yes, that was, after all, how this started. So it seemed…”
“But how did you find out about them? Simon and Carlos said you hadn’t yet learned of the genizah.”
“Even a kabbalist makes mistakes, dear boy. Our friends were simply wrong. Your uncle approached me in secret, explained all about his smuggling activities, told me that he would be getting some valuable manuscripts and would need my vigilance in making sure his smugglers did their work—in particular, he was having doubts about Dona Meneses. He felt that she was growing weary of the risks she was taking. Your uncle feared betrayal. I began tracking her, learning her methods. I found out about Zerubbabel, how he took the manuscripts across the border to Cadiz. Master Abraham didn’t want anyone to know that he’d told me about the genizah and his smuggling activities so that I would attract no special attention.”
“He trusted you,” I say.
“I’m afraid he did. A mistake. In our age, no one merits trust. Remember that if you remember nothing else.”
“He should have asked me. If only he’d…”
“You still don’t understand, do you?” Diego asks.
“Understand what, you bastard?”
“He couldn’t risk your life. You were to be his heir, carry forward his plans for healing the Upper and Lower Realms…the greatest kabbalist Lisbon had ever seen! You don’t risk such a man’s life by getting him involved with smugglers. As it stands now, you’ll probably be the last kabbalist of Lisbon.” Diego shrugs and offers me a weak smile, as if accepting an inevitable truth. “No books, no kabbalists, no Jews. A shame, but such is life.”
Amazing, I think, that this murderer could understand so clearly what was hidden from me. Was I afraid of the responsibility?Or of being the last of my kind?I ask Diego, “Why didn’t you take all the books from the genizah when you killed him?”
“I was looking at the manuscripts, evaluating them, taking my time. I wasn’t worried, knew that with the riot raging and my knowledge of the secret passageway to the bathhouse that I was safe. Then I came upon Master Abraham’s last Haggadah. Beautiful work. I leafed through it and found my image as Haman, tore it out, of course, put the whole book in my pouch for safekeeping. To see my face in his illuminations, it was a shock… I was suddenly panicked. Silly, I suppose. I was about to go through the secret door when you began calling for your family from above. I started to go through, but I’m afraid that with my girth I couldn’t make it. I turned back, entered the cellar again, closed the door after me. Just before…”
“Why didn’t you just hide behind
the secret door, in the passageway?”
“I’d never been through before. I worried that if I closed the door, some secret latch would fall and I’d be entombed there. Not a very nice fate that would be! So just before you came down, I managed to curl myself into the genizah and shut the lid. Thank goodness for all the banging you were making. By the time you came downstairs, I was safe in my nest. Though I was worried that you could hear my heartbeat, that I might have to kill you as well. But I was fairly confident that you’d be fooled at first, that you’d think Old Christians had done it. When you went upstairs, I emerged, locked the lid and put the key back in the eel bladder. I slipped out through your store to Temple Street. I didn’t think anyone had seen me. But that Gemila… It’s lucky for her she’s such a hysterical cow with her hallucinated demons or I’d have had to…”
“Senhora Belmira? Why her?”
“Miriam? She was in love with me. Don’t look surprised. I’m quite a nice man to those who… Remember the hours we spent sketching birds together? Anyway, it was safer that way. If she were caught, she’d have preferred death rather than give up my name. And she did. Women are stronger than men in that way. I learned that in the dungeons of Seville. They’ll see their feet melted and still won’t sell the Moses in their hearts to the Christians.”
“The boy who went to sell Uncle’s Haggadah to Senhora Tamara? Who was he?”
“I’m afraid that was my mistake. I got nervous. I have my frailties, as I’ve already admitted. As for the his identity, some things should remain a mystery, don’t you think? His name is Isaac. He’s a good, sweet child. It is all I’ll tell you.”
“The note that fell from your turban? Was it really about the Count of Almira or this Isaac?”
“Another mystery I will not solve for you. Sorry.”
“So, now that you’ve got your Plato…?”
“I’ll be leaving tonight as I said. By carriage to Faro. You can forget all about me.”
“I won’t let you leave,” I note.
“You have no choice.” Diego taps the edge of his knife against his slave’s shoulder. “My new bodyguard is skinny but desperate,” he says. “He wouldn’t want to return to his old master. Put a bit in his mouth. Beat and fucked him senseless. They say he even knows spells. A regular black kabbalist if you ask me. From one of our lost tribes perhaps. You’d better just back outside and let us go. Or you’ll end up with your soul separated from your body just like Master Abraham.”
“And a curtain of blood across my neck. I’ll never forget what you did to him!”
“Poetic words. Yours or Farid’s?”
Diego picks up two leather-bound volumes from the desk. He motions the slave before him. The African crouches, holds his knife and cane out in front of his chest, slides forward.
Farid signals against my back, “You take the slave and…”
“No.” I toss my knife to the floor, twist around, grip Farid’s upraised arm.
He tugs against me, signals, “What do you think you’re doing?!”
“Go now!” I shout to Diego. “I cannot hold him long!”
I wrap my arms around Farid, pin him back to a wall of books. Though he still grips his dagger, I know he’ll never use it against me. As he struggles to break free, I shout again, “Leave, demon, before I change my mind!”
I press against Farid with the terrible strength of my vengeance. The slave and Diego rush past. “You’ve chosen wisely,” the murderer hisses.
My eyes close tight as if to shut out sin as the bolt on the door clicks open. The night air, sharp and chill, blows against us. “Fly back to hell, Diego!” I whisper to myself.
“Berekiah!” Farid’s voice comes garbled, honked, but clear as prayer. At the same time, his fist catches my shoulder and opens its old ache. With a sweeping kick, I manage to take his feet from under him.
The door slams closed. We are alone. A warm and bitter pleasure rises into my chest.
Farid jumps up, glares at me. I open my hands in a gesture of peace, take his shoulders. “You spoke!” I signal with a smile; it seems a crowning miracle atop all this debased horror, a sign from the Lord, perhaps, that I have chosen Diego’s fate correctly.
With whirling gestures, Farid says, “Because you were letting him get away. It’s all for nothing now. Nothing. Unless we can…”
“Don’t worry,” I signal. “Diego was wrong. Some men can be trusted. You shall see.”
Outside, Senhora Tamara stands trembling in her bare feet and nightgown. As Farid wraps his arm around her, I spot Diego running down Goldsmith’s Street behind his slave toward the Rua Nova d’El Rei. The moon lights him as a stealthy animal, a night creature fleeing hunters. To myself, I whisper words from Jeremiah: “He shall dwell among the rocks in the scorched wilderness, in a salt land where no man can live.”
“But he’s getting away!” Senhora Tamara moans. She gives me an imploring stare.
Her words etch a line of burning doubt across my gut. I start walking, then sprint ahead as if in search of Uncle.
A dark shadow suddenly crosses from the right. It trails Diego for a few moments, shows a hatted profile, swings closer. A glint of metal. An arm raised. When it falls, Diego melts to the cobbles. A sound like the knocking of Simon’s gloved fist on our door is carried to me by the dry wind. It is unable to reach the gates of my compassion.
Farid, who has been running behind me, holds out a hand as I slow to a walk. He signals, “Who was…”
“One of Dona Meneses’ killers,” I answer. “He was waiting for Diego. He had orders not to strike until midnight just like we asked.” I take out a few of the sapphire and emerald beads left from Dona Meneses’ necklace. “But I changed the timing.”
“You paid for him to kill Diego?!”
“He would have anyway. But I couldn’t risk the wait. May God forgive me.”
I cup the noblewoman’s beads in my hand. “It only took one to convince him to kill Diego right away,” I say. “A Jew’s life, a man’s life, costs almost nothing.”
Approaching Diego on wary feet, we find him clutching his volumes of Plato. A line of blood runs from the corner of his mouth toward a speckled lizard asleep inside a crack in the cobbles. In his pouch is the vellum plate of Haman.
Inside a timeless silence, we watch the body as if we are facing an empty Torah ark that will never be filled. When I awake to myself, I step into the light of a candelabrum centering a nearby window and study Uncle’s drawing. Yes, Haman is Diego. There is no mistake.
A shiver snakes up my spine as I consider that Uncle’s last act of artistic creation was to illuminate the face of his own killer.
In the panel, Diego-Haman is a stooped and vulturine figure with an unmistakable line of scar across his chin. He is pictured whispering in King Ahasuerus’ ear of his desire to exterminate the Jews. In his left, claw-like hand, he clutches a shimmering portion of the ten thousand talents of silver which he has promised to give to the royal treasury in exchange for approval to carry out his monstrous plan. In his right hand, at the same moment, he is receiving the royal signet ring from the King, a sign of permission granted.
The deal has been made.
Queen Esther is not pictured in the panel. But her step-father, Mordecai, is there. He stands humbly in the corner, in the sackcloth of mourning with which he clothed himself upon hearing of the decree for his people’s destruction. His pose is one of pride, however, and his expression is wily, almost humorous. Undoubtedly because he holds in front of his chest the noose with which Haman will later be hanged. A spark of emerald passion in his eyes convinces me that Mordecai is modeled on Uncle himself.
Farid squeezes my arm, points to the drawing and signals, “It’s you.”
“What is?”
“The man in the corner. The one with the noose. Mordecai.”
The pounding of my heart comes wild and forlorn. Could Farid be right? It doesn’t seem possible that Uncle could illuminate me as the savior of the Jews.
And the Mordecai pictured is simply too old.
My hands clutch the vellum. Tears come to my eyes when I consider that he may have gifted me with the guise of a Jewish hero.
So many questions I should have asked him will never be answered.
My glance is drawn into the sky by a moonlit sea gull crossing the night. Mosquitoes buzz at my ears as if seeking entry to my thoughts. My Hebrew prayer for Diego’s peace, for the world’s peace, comes edged with the texture of Uncle’s hand squeezing hard at the back of my neck, then dropping away. His movement toward forever absence is so immediate that I gasp and turn around. My eyes survey the empty street until they reach the moist emerald light of two candles guarding over me from the highest window on the block.
BOOK THREE
Chapter XXI
In the vacant world beyond Diego’s death, I slept for days on end. Behind the locked doors and sealed windows of my bedroom, inside a stifling atmosphere scented with my own rot. I got up from my bed again only when a vision of Joanna, the Count’s daughter, descended like a silk veil across my face. Her eyes shimmered with the reflective grace of pearls, and she whispered to me in a language beyond understanding. Summoned into the night, my feet took me along the lumbering walls of Lisbon until a destination became obvious. I found myself howling up at what I hoped was her window at the Estaus Palace.
A dwarf with tufted hair opened his shutters. “I’ll have you castrated if you don’t stop your cock crows!” he cried.
“I’m searching for Dona Joanna, the Count of Almira’s daughter,” I explained.
“Not here!” he frowned. His shutters banged closed.
The putrid stench of dungheaps stalked me all the way home. Craving the void of Ein Sof, I sought refuge in my bed once again. Days of wavering edges followed, of mossy light and dark, until Joanna’s voice pierced through my walls as if atop a winged prayer. When she entered my room, she was dressed in black. I was lying under my blankets.
“I cannot stay long,” she said. Her eyes were glassy, as if tears might gush in them at any moment. “Have you been ill?” she asked in a hesitant voice.
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