The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon

by Richard Zimler

  “Its important,” I add.

  “If you’ve nothing to order, then leave.”

  “She’s dead,” I say. “I’d like to tell her parents.”

  She turns, and mistrust gives her a squint. “She’s Senhora Monteiro’s girl. Why do…”

  “And Senhora Monteiro lives…?” I interrupt; I’ve no more patience for fear, even that which belongs to a Jew.

  “Down the street, on the right. A house with yellow trim. But it might be better…”

  “Tell me, does Senhora Monteiro have any relation to Meda Forjaj?”

  “Her sister-in-law,” she replies. “How did you…?”

  “Eyebrows like spreading butterfly wings. And the memory of an old Jew.”

  Down the street, a dwarfish, fish-eyed woman with a scaly, leathery face glares up at me from her door as if I’ve interrupted a card game. She wears a ragged wig made from waxed, black-linen thread.

  “Are you Senhora Monteiro?” I ask.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name would mean nothing to you.” I hand her my sketch. “Do you recognize this girl?”

  “It’s Teresa. What are you doing with this?”

  Her husband, a squat, rabbit-like man, appears at the back of the house. He is soiled with white powder, perhaps quicklime, and puffs rise from his bare fat feet as he strides toward us. Above his sleepy dark eyes sprout winged brows.

  The woman says, “This man’s got a drawing of Teresa. Look.”

  His jaw drops as if he’s never seen artwork—or as if he understands. When I force out clinging words about her death, fists raise to his cheeks. Tears gush in his eyes. When I reach for him, Senhora Monteiro intercepts my wrist. “What are you saying?!” she demands.

  “She was killed in the riot in Lisbon. On Sunday.”

  The Senhora’s hand muffles her gasp. Terrified eyes focus inside. Silence seals the three of us together till she screams, “I knew it would come to this! Killed with those Jews, wasn’t she?!”

  Her husband shoves her, runs back into the house before I can answer. She crashes up against the wall and crumples to the ground. “You bastard!” she shrieks. She cackles, spits after him.

  I help the Senhora to her feet, retrieve my drawing from the ground. She has no tears to give, so I say, “She was killed in the Judiaria Pequena. Do you know what she was doing there?”

  She snatches my drawing from me and surveys it as if forming a criticism. “That’s her all right. You make this?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “Artist, huh? Filthy goat should never have run off. But girls from mixed marriages…cause that’s what she was, you know…I’m not Jewish. Thank God.” She waves toward the back of the house as if shooing away a fly. “He’s a Jew…was, I mean. It’s the mixed blood. Makes girls want a man as soon as they start to bleed. The moon, it causes friction, they say, in the children of mixed marriages.” She rubs her filthy, callused hands together. “All that swirling of blood, the pure with the tainted.” She shakes her head. “You got talent, you know. You’re not Jewish, are you?”

  “I was. Now I’m just trying to survive. Like pretty much everyone else in this dungheap.”

  Her stare is fixed by inflamed contempt. I try to remember that she, too, is an emanation of God, a ripple from the sapphire of love he cast eons ago into our world. I see only the spittle on her lips and her raven-black wig. “Do you mind telling me what Teresa was doing in the Little Jewish Quarter?” I ask.

  “Aren’t you listening? She was getting it between her legs! Wanted a bird that was circumcised!” She sees her tone bothers me, laughs, makes her hand flap. “Liked the way it felt when a big fat Jew-quail hopped all the way up her and began spreading its…”

  “Who’s her husband?” I interrupt.

  “An importer with lots of brains, big balls, too, they say. Furry…like wool. Only tasting like Moroccan dates.” She licks her lips greedily. “But no money. You don’t all have a talent for making money. Hah! I found that out twice in my life! That husband of mine… And now Teresa’s.” She shakes her head and frowns. “Name’s Manuel Monchique. You’d think she could at least have found one who…”

  My heart seems to pound through my chest. Of course, I think, Uncle’s former student—Teresa was his Old Christian bride!

  We’d learned only a month before that Manuel had obtained a card of pure blood from the King, effectively erasing the “stain” of his Jewish past. Uncle had recently insulted him on Temple Street because of this seeming betrayal. Now, framed inside Senhora Monteiro’s revelation, this confrontation appears dyed with sinister colors.

  Cold fingertips brush against my arm. I focus again into the present tense, see that Senhora Monteiro is grinning up at me, has lifted up her skirt and is pounding her hand between her legs. I tug off her wig, toss it to the floor behind her. Underneath, sickly tufts of gray hair sprout from a louse-infested scalp.

  Her clucking laugh accompanies my escape. The streets of Belem, then outer Lisbon open to me, yet I seem to race only into the mystery of my master’s murder. Maybe Manuel had found Teresa with Uncle, taken his knife and…

  And yet, a high barrier blocks my way toward an answer; how would Manuel have learned of the location of our trap door and genizah?

  Blessed be He who opens the arms of grace; I discover the São Lourenço Gate to the north of the city guarded only by a lazy rabble. Marching through, I skirt the scruffy hillside that holds aloft the battlements of the Moorish Castle and descend quickly to the Alfama; I must check on Farid again before confronting Manuel Monchique. My mother meets me in the kitchen. Diego stands behind her. The gash across his chin is now obscured by several days’ growth of beard, the stitches barely visible. His saffron-colored turban crowns his head. He stares at me over his broad nose as if hoping to glean my thoughts, limps to me like a wounded dog. We hug. But the knowledge that he could have conspired against my master gives me the careful, self-conscious movements of a bad actor.

  “I’m so sorry about your uncle,” he says. “And to have been killed by the Christian rabble, it’s almost too much to believe possible.”

  Diego’s words are unable to penetrate the rigid gates I erect around myself; not only do I not trust him, but I now see that a stranger stands at the corner of the room by the hearth, and I cannot allow my ripped soul to be seen. A barrel-chested, stone-faced man in the coarse livery of a mercenary, he holds the handle of his sheathed sword with both hands and is fixed at attention. I nod questioningly in his direction.

  “My bodyguard,” Diego answers.

  “New Christian?”

  “Yes. With a card of pardon. I figured that was safer. And now that the mob has killed your uncle and so many others, I think…”

  “My master was murdered by a Jew!” I declare.

  “What?”

  “Uncle’s throat was slit as if by a shohet.”

  It is the first time my mother has heard my reasoning. She reaches out for the table as if the world is receding from her.

  Diego gasps for breath. He covers his mouth with his hands as if seeking to prevent the possibility of such treason from entering him.

  Does he manifest the shock of an innocent philosopher or the dramatic flare of a murderer?

  “But why would a Jew take your uncle’s life?!” he demands.

  “Maybe jealousy, maybe robbery,” I lie, wishing to test his reaction.

  My mother suddenly shouts, “What in God’s name are you talking about, Berekiah?! How could you believe that one of our own people would take my brother’s life?!” Her voice possesses that hysterical tone which indicates that she is but one step away from accusing me of being a bad Jew.

  I gulp water from a jug on the mantle, stare into her eyes and say, “A manuscript was stolen. No Old Christian even knew that we had any in the house.”

  My mother begins pulling at her hair.

  “Are you sure?” Diego asks.

  When I nod, he takes my arm.
“From where was the manuscript taken?”

  “From the cellar.”

  “He had books in the cellar! What are you…”

  “His last Haggadah,” I explain.

  “He was keeping Hebrew books?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had he lost his mind?!”

  Either Diego is skilled at feigning ignorance or he really hadn’t yet been fully initiated into the threshing group, hadn’t yet learned of the genizah. I will have to check with Father Carlos, if he is still alive. And yet, what if he lies in order to implicate his brother philosopher?

  “He was smuggling the books out of Portugal,” I tell Diego. “Saving them from flames.”

  “Dear God. With whom?!” he demands.

  “Don’t know. Listen, when did you last see Uncle?”

  “Last Friday. At the hospital. You were there. Why are you…”

  “And Sunday?” I ask. “Did you see him then?”

  “No. What are all these questions about?”

  “I’m trying to trace his movements,” I lie. “Where were you from Sunday until now?”

  “Hiding. With a friend.” Diego’s expression hardens into the look he gets before delivering a stern lecture. “Berekiah, I think you need to explain yourself. What makes you think that…”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to anyone!” I answer rudely. “Uncle’s death gives me new rights, and one of them is to be able to disregard that surly face you’re now hoping to subdue me with. Judge me if you want. Frown, pray, invoke Torah against me. I don’t care.”

  “You should care. What if…”

  “Be quiet, Diego! Just tell me if you know who the man is who has been making enquiries about you at your apartment?”

  “What man?! What are you talking…”

  “When I went to look for you this morning, your neighbor across the street, the cobbler, he told me that a man had been enquiring after you…blond, strong…a Northerner, perhaps.”

  Diego’s eyes betray terror.

  I ask, “Do you know why someone would be following you?”

  “No,” he whispers. He takes my shoulders, grips them hard. “Unless…unless the same man is after me who killed your uncle!”

  “Yes, I thought of that. But why would anyone want both of you dead?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Think!”

  “There’s nothing!” he moans. “What could we know that…”

  “Had Uncle mentioned any special book he’d discovered? Anything at all?”

  He shakes his head. I take out my drawing of the girl murdered with Uncle. “And her?” I ask, unscrolling the sketch for him. “Do you recognize her?”

  “Never. Who is she?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I put the drawing back in my pouch. “How about Dom Miguel Ribeiro? What do you know of him?”

  “He’s a nobleman, isn’t he? The son of old Rodrigo Ribeiro, if I recall correctly.”

  “Yes. Did Uncle mention him?” I ask.

  “Not to me. But Beri, you must have other clues to the killer’s identity. What did you find in the cellar? Anything that would indicate this Northerner who’s been looking for me? I must know. If he’s after me, then I will have to…”

  “Nothing,” I lie, unwilling to trust him just yet with the knowledge of what I’d discovered. I turn away from his skeptical eyes toward my mother. She stares into the fire dancing in the hearth. I pat her arm. “How’s Farid?” I ask gently.

  She turns to me with startled eyes and says, “Berekiah, I need to know more. Was the Haggadah the only book stolen?”

  “Yes, I think so. Now how’s Farid been doing?”

  “Don’t you think we should…”

  “Mother, just tell me how Farid…”

  She pulls in her chin and turns away in defiance.

  “You’re insane!” I shout. “All your ‘shoulds’ and proper ways of being. What good has it done you?!”

  Tears well in her eyes and she says with desperate force, “How could you treat me like this when Judah…?”

  “Go sing it to the goats!” I yell. I march away from her and Diego, realize with a mixture of aching regret and pleasure that it is I who have started this argument. Uncle’s death has released me from my past personality and my future, and it seems that rage and frustration are all that I have left of my inheritance.

  I peer in on Farid in my mother’s room. He sleeps, breathes in jerks and starts as if possessed by nightmare. I rub his neck and arms with a wet towel till his inner-struggle calms. Hollowed by fear for his safety, I march out of the house.

  “Where are you going?!” my mother calls after me.

  “Out!”

  Diego exhorts me to stop, limps to me by the courtyard gate, rubs the stubble on his cheeks thoughtfully. He says, “If you’re right about your uncle, then perhaps you’re in danger, too.”

  “It’s of no importance. No Old Christian will ever hurt me again.” Staring into his eyes, I add, “Or Jew, for that matter!”

  He reaches tenderly for my arm. “So innocent you are, my son. You don’t know what they can do. Berekiah, I think you and your family should just pack up and leave. That’s what I’m doing. I’m settling business matters, selling what I can and then getting away any way I can. The King won’t dare to stop us now that…”

  “Peace be with you,” I interrupt, then remember the note that belongs to him. I lift it from my pouch, press it into his hand. “This fell from your turban when you were lying on the cobbles. I’m afraid it got a little stained with blood from Senhora Rosamonte. I’m sorry.”

  Diego reads it, nods his understanding. “Yes, Isaac. An acquaintance from Andalusia. From Ronda. Reminding myself to meet him on that date. My memory is not what it once was. Your uncle knew him.”

  “And Madre?”

  “The Fountain of the Mother of God. It was to be our meeting place. We were…” His words trail off and he grabs my arm as if clenched by fear. “But now maybe I understand! Isaac talked about selling your uncle a book! I assumed it was in Castilian, but now that you say he was keeping Hebrew books…”

  “When?”

  “A few days before his…before Sunday. We met here. You were in the store, I guess. Isaac said he owned a copy of Judah Ha-Levi’s ‘Book of the Khazars’ and your uncle inhaled as if scenting myrtle.”

  “I’d very much like to meet him,” I say.

  “I’ll try to locate him and bring him by tonight after dinner.”

  When I thank him, Diego adds, “Maybe it doesn’t pay to go around Lisbon right now. You should…”

  I wave him away, exit through the courtyard gate and start down the Rua de São Pedro. When I take a last look back, I see Diego’s head bobbing above the courtyard wall as he limps back to the kitchen. What if the boys who’d stoned him had been in the pay of someone, another thresher perhaps?

  There are no accidents and no coincidences, I hear my uncle say. Everything possesses significance.

  A man in white hops out suddenly from a doorway and thrusts a leather book in front of my face. My knife is already at his throat as he begins to scream my name. “Beri! What are you doing?!”

  I lower my blade; it is only António Escaravelho and his worm-eaten New Testament. A former Jewish councilman and silversmith of astounding dexterity, he became a fervent Christian after the forced conversion and an even more fervent lunatic a short time later.

  António reeks like old garbage. His gray beard is crusted with dirt, and his tan, leathery skin is riddled with red blisters. His gospels exude the smell of cardamon and dung, an unsympathetic combination. I hold my nose.

  “God be with you,” he crows, as I put my dagger away. He winks his mad, darting eyes, presses his book up to my chin as if correcting my posture.

  “I wish you wouldn’t keep accosting me like this,” I answer. I push the gospels down to his side and sigh at the sight of lice eggs dotting his frayed ropes of hair. Hoping that he can point me further a
long the trail to my uncle’s murderer, I ask, “Were you in your usual spot near my house when the riot began?”

  He disregards my question, replies with a toothless grin, “I’ve petitioned again to go to Rome and see the Pope. It seems that this time I may get my exit card.”

  “You’re not still at it!” I shout, for he’d been asking to leave Portugal for years. The King’s decree of the twentieth of April, fourteen ninety-nine, had closed all borders to New Christians.

  “Indeed I am!” he exclaims as if hurt by my implication of hopelessness. “And you must join me, my boy. You and Master Abraham!”

  “No more journeys for my master,” I whisper to myself, unwilling to risk António’s reaction to his death. With a smile of wistful sadness, I remember that my uncle always used to tell him, “Why make such a long journey to a man so short on holiness?!” To my surprise, I repeat to the beggar another phrase of Uncle’s, “The very thought of seeing the Pope makes my scalp itch.”

  So will I now begin to imitate my master’s words? Is that how I will keep him with me?

  António observes, “I think you would find a trip to Pope Julius II most liberating. The Moslems throughout the Italian peninsula are friendly, they say.”

  Moslems in Italy? I figure the drought has parched his sense of geography. “Listen closely, my friend, were you here Sunday, the first day of the riot?” I question again.

  “Nearby…hidden,” he replies. He raises a finger to his lips. “With a four-legged friend.”

  “Could you see the gate to our courtyard?”

  “Yes,” he replies. “From the cobbles to the sky, it’s all part of the…”

  “And did you see anyone enter? Maybe with a knife…or a rosary. Manuel Monchique perhaps? You remember him, one of my uncle’s old students.”

  “There may have been a dragon-fly or two,” he says. “And some toads. It’s not always easy to spot them when they hop inside the…”

  “But a man?” When he shakes his head, I say, “You’re sure? How about Diego Gonçalves? You know him, he’s a printer…a friend of my uncle’s.”

  “No.”

  “What about Father Carlos? Or Rabbi Losa?”