The Secret Diaries of Juan Luis Vives

by Tim Darcy Ellis

  20 March 1523

  It wasn’t quite dark as we made our way to the home of the Valldauras on Friday evening. There was a heavy shower of cold angled rain in a day that had otherwise been one of intense sunlight. Álvaro used the squall as an excuse to pull me into the tavern; he had to, after all, give the Flemish girl a special message. He came down ten minutes later, ruffled and sweaty and laughing, I could not see the funny side of this. Later, we entered the tall house on the Verversdijk.

  Senor Valldaura greeted Álvaro like a friend. I imagined the purse strings of the trap were finally drawing in, that my years of secrets and lies were over. The dining room smelt of fish and saffron and freshly baked bread. Those lovely girls had their hair down around their shoulders. Marguerite averted her eyes as I looked at her. Had she given her father the note? Did Bernardo know him? Had he been paid enough money to sacrifice me?

  I was rigid as we sat at the long table. Bernardo had placed himself between his two daughters. The three of them sat there and muttered something unintelligible, then Marguerite left for the kitchen. Clara, Señora Valldaura, sat opposite me with a face ashen grey. I became transfixed by the purple and blue patterns of circles and spirals in her dress that gave the hint of an autumn bramble. Álvaro just sat there with half a smile.

  Inge, who had long been the maid of the house, stoked and filled the fire with logs one last time. She then gave us all half a lemon, producing them from a silver salver as if it was something that had once belonged to God. Before she bid good night, she placed a double-handled silver washbowl and linen cloth on the table. With rounded cheeks, kind eyes, and auburn hair, she seemed impossibly pretty, but as she left us in silence, she turned to give Señor a nod that said, “I know you.” This sudden and complete lack of faith overwhelmed me and became only more paralysing as the doors were barred. Who was upstairs? Were we about to hear marching boots, the clinking of chains? Startled, I prayed to God, albeit quite a hollow prayer. Praised be the Lord, sovereign of the Universe, who keeps our secrets safe. Only then did I become aware of green-eyed Nicolas dressed smartly in black velvet breeches and a white shirt with a cravat.

  “Señor Vives,” he said, “I want you to quiz you on Rabbi Moses ben Maimon.”

  I wished to talk about anything but the Rabbi-philosopher known as Maimonides. Inside, my gut was twisted, and yet there was something in me that loved this; there was something strangely comforting about being in the abyss. Álvaro watched my every move, his eyes like shiny pieces of black marble.

  “Rabbi Maimon,” I said, “talked about the oneness of God, what is called in Hebrew the echad.”

  He replied with an angelic smile as if to ask, “What more?”

  I stepped into the abyss. “That the true messiah, or at least messianic times, will one day come.”

  The very breath seemed to go out of the room: we were timeless, frozen in the moment. Clara Valldaura smiled. “Go on, boy.”

  “And you, Señor Vives, do you believe the messiah will come?” Nicolas, with his unblemished skin, asked.

  The weak sun must have finally descended at that moment and another level of darkness arrived. We had gone into the Sabbath with no candles lit to welcome it. Although I was certain that I was now walking into the arms of the Inquisition, I couldn’t stop.”

  “Messianic times will come.”

  Bernardo Valldaura stood, staring at me with his bulging eyes. “Let the axe fall. Do it quickly.”

  Marguerite re-entered from the kitchen full of smiles, a bowl of hraime—spicy fish that only a Spaniard could make.

  My heart was pounding. Could they hear it? Could they feel it? Was Álvaro mentally sealing the deposition? Had Inge or the one from the tavern called the guards of de Praet? When would the rap on the door come? Out of nowhere, tiny Clara Valldaura brought out two candles as if she had manifested them from the ether. With a voice like a sparrow, she broke the silence with the Hebrew blessing: “Baruch atah Adonai eloheinu melech ha olam, asher kidshanu be mitzvotav vetzivanu le hadlik ner shal Shabbat.”

  “Blessed are you, our lord, sovereign of the Universe, who has blessed us with your mitzvot and commanded us to light the candles of Shabbat.”

  Two challah warm loaves, plaited to signify the binding of all our peoples, were then brought out. Bernardo threw salt on them, explaining that it was to preserve our relationship with God. There was a collective exhalation as we touched the loaves while the blessing was recited. I looked up, my face shedding every crease of fear, for I was at home. Then he leant towards me, kissed me on both cheeks, and called me “brother.” Tears rolled down my cheeks.

  Instead of pain and isolation, here was unity and strength, the absolute safety of family. Laughter erupted; shoulders fell back, and old songs were sung. If this life was soon to all be over, then at least I had this moment. After talk of our homeland, the warm nights and sweet-scented days of the Sepharad, I was myself again. “How did this happen?”

  Álvaro looked at me like the secret rabbi of my childhood used to and, forgetting platitudes, launched into an attack. “Do you think you’re the only one clever enough to live a secret life or that I’m not working for the same aim as you?”

  I looked down, shame-faced.

  “Is it you alone who is able to save our people?”

  I began to think the unthinkable, that, together, we could achieve what I could not achieve alone. Álvaro studied the room, the sticky buds on the cherry branches in the vase, the silver candlesticks with crowns embossed on them. He seemed to grow in stature as he stood up.

  “We must work patiently and stealthily,” he said. “All can be gained now, but all can be lost. We need unity and faith.”

  We talked late of fast days and feast days, of establishing a secret synagogue that, they say, exists in Antwerp. Álvaro told his painful story of being a prized altar boy by day and of studying the Aramaic Talmud and Zohar by night. He spoke of an ancient rabbi who lived as a beggar, or at least pretended to, one who taught him secrets of Kabbalah even though he was far too young. But what he learnt he wouldn’t reveal. There was the horrible abuse by a cardinal, Álvaro poked and prodded from behind with a rag in the mouth. He went jigging up and down while the cardinal sweated and snorted until Álvaro thought his sides would split. All the while, he recited the sh’ma, and from this suffering and that sh’ma came his chance.

  “How so, Señor?” Nicolas asked, wide-eyed, and Álvaro didn’t spare the details. To get away from there, the young de Castro, whose true name was Jacob ben Manasseh, bargained with the cardinal—with his own smooth body—for a commendation from England’s Queen Catherine. The queen, virtually penniless now, took pity on him and sent him to Sir Thomas. Working for Sir Thomas, de Castro slowly won enough trust to vet me to be absolutely sure of my Christian credentials and that there were no vestiges of the faith of my forefathers. If I was to be tutor to the Princess, as Sir Thomas had already decided, there could be no shred of doubt.

  “Juanito, will you go back for them, soon, for your family?” Clara asked me as she offered me the bread that smelt of home.

  “Of course I will, when the time is right.”

  She covered her ears with her hands, and all at the table, with wax now dripping over the cloth and crumbs strewn here and there, looked at me as if a coward.

  “When I get to England,” I said, “I will provide them, and you too, with a new home in a safe place. I promise.”

  “Might be too late, boy,” Bernardo said with a tired voice.

  I knew this like I knew the veins of my own hand. I couldn’t have it posed to me again. I stood up, throwing my arms around like a banshee. “Don’t worry me with this. I have plans.”

  They looked, one to the other, Clara to Bernardo, Nicolas to Marguerite, and Maria to Álvaro. In that terrible moment, I felt a greater judgement than if the officers of Louis de Praet had handed me over t
o the Inquisition. I held my head in my hands and there was a painful silence in an otherwise beautiful place and time.

  Álvaro came towards me then, put his strong hands on my shoulders, and whispered to me like the father I no longer had in my life.

  “Enough. Just focus on your breath, which is the soul trying to speak.” In that moment, I felt comfort and solace despite the terrible decisions I had made. Within the very essence of the souls, here together, was the sacred unity of oneness. I became aware that the thing I craved most was neither the breasts nor the tassels of this beautiful woman before me, but the freedom to share my soul with other loving souls, to regain for a short time that lost sense of family.

  It was late and time to depart, but we would rather have stayed as the fire slowly died, for when again would we feel this? To delay our departure, I spoke a little more of the great plan to create a new world. Señor Valldaura whispered, “Are we are a hermandad? A brotherhood, a fellowship?”

  How could we be anything but? Tonight, I had experienced true brotherhood.

  As we left in black cloaks by the back door, I turned to him and, like a fool, said, “Señor, now that she is of age, may I court your daughter?”

  With a backhand, he cuffed the top of my head so that my cap flew off.

  “No, not my girl!” he cried. “Get, go on, blackguard. Valenciano, get out of here!”

  Álvaro laughed at the spectacle and put his arm around my shoulder. He walked me home through the poorly lit streets. “Oh, Juanito, you’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “Not me, Álvaro. I’m not like that, but I should be with her. I—”

  “Settle down, brother. What do we say every day, twice a day, as we pray?”

  I looked glum, scanning the cobbles of the dark pavement. I felt like a scolded child.

  “We say, “B’yi-to, in its proper time.”

  * * *

  Here I sit by the light of this candle and wait, as I always wait, for the proper time. But I relive every second and commit it to memory. Whatever happens now, this magic evening will be mine. And, diary, if those filigree spirals are neither eyes nor ears, then I need to tell you that Álvaro is sitting there, as if in meditation in my own private room. For the first time, we have a witness. Shall we watch him, his eyes closed, chest slowly rising and falling, his face a harmony of something we do not understand? Shall I copy? This is like falling down a well blindfolded!

  “Everything will change now,” he whispers, face lit golden by a single candle flame. “I have seen it.”

  27 March 1523

  Álvaro de Castro was not wrong, because everything changed. A few days later, when I arrived from vespers, there was a note on coarse parchment stuffed under my door. Was it from my love? It had a waxy, familiar diamond seal. Who could it be from but Louis de Praet? With sweaty, fumbling fingers, I pried it apart to find a lyrical poem in perfect Spanish.

  ‘Malditos rumores, Senor Vives, existen rumores…

  Murmullos, que se practican las maneras de Judios!

  Con Corazon pesado, asin mi saludo a los desafortunados…

  Que Los Judios, Los Judios, no son bienvenidos!

  Fue pajaro de mal abuelo que un ojo me robo,

  Con el otro, veo todo claramente, Si Senor.

  Como agente de La Sagrada Inquisicion, se lo digo yo…

  Sin ninguna duda, unica y pura, asin mi religion!

  Se olle del platero golpeado, descuartizado, del Judio descubrido!

  Y que de aquellos que volaron de sus nidos?... ninguna pluma se les dejo!

  Suerte a los escapados? Pues no! Para nunca retornar!

  Si, Judios nunca mas! Pajaros de mal abuelo a derrotar!

  Que no haiga ninguna duda! Asin me despido…

  Judios, Judios, No Son Bienvenidos!’

  Damned rumours, Senor Vives, rumours exist.

  Murmurs that the ways of the Jews are in our midst.

  To those unfortunate beings, so my greetings must be…

  To those Jews, those Jews, never amongst us to live!

  A cursed owl, one of my eyes, indeed, he did claw.

  But be warned, with the other, clearly, I see all, yes, sir.

  I tell you as agent of the sacred Inquisition…

  Without any doubt, supreme and pure, so must be my religion!

  I hear of the bashed silversmith, body carved up… a Jew was exposed!

  And of those who flew their nests… we left them without a feather!

  Lucky, they escaped!… But they are never to return!

  Yes, Jews never again, cursed owls forever forlorn!

  I tell you, let there be no doubt… and so I leave you…

  Jews, Jews, Never Again to Live!

  Were the walls moving in, as if peering to read it, too? It all makes perfect sense: Hildegard checking all around my desk as she polished it with beeswax until the very grain almost came out of it. Young Van der Poel was impossibly quiet when not long ago he swathed around these rooms with an invisible scimitar. And Inge, who seems to know Bernardo Valldaura so very well. We must move fast. We can’t wait for Sir Thomas’s call, and Bernardo said that he’d come with us across the stormy ocean if he could get Spanish looms.

  What to do? There was no comfort in my plans for my hospitals or in obsessing about Plato or even the Torah. I was all thoughts of escape, of taking her, at least, if no one else would come even if it meant absconding in the dead of night on a horse to Calais. I went out into the streets where I knew that, today of all days, I’d find her.

  It was the festival of Purim, you see, and I knew it wouldn’t pass without mishloach manot, a delivery of food to the poor. Dressed in my monk’s cassock, I waited for them, pretending to swap clipped coins for beets and turnips, as if I should know what to do with them! They finally appeared with their wicker baskets, hair tied back and faces whitened with nightshade, and I made the men in the market laugh as I, the worshipful monk, had my eyes on the two girls in front.

  “At least it’s girls, not boys, that this priest is looking at,” one said.

  In an instant, they turned away and disappeared around a corner.

  “Don’t go, my love,” I called in Spanish, drawing attention from the garlic seller.

  I did my best to run, sliding on the wet mud, cursing a couple of drunks who got in my way. Running faster around the next corner, I caught them again. At a distance, she was stepping deftly over sacks of grain. I was closer now and so stopped dead because I couldn’t let them see me. Men looked at them with eager eyes, and I wanted to smite them all with a scythe.

  Everything became quiet as I saw that she was giving from her basket to the children and the beggar woman. I hid behind a moss-covered pillar that supported the market arcade, lost in the wonder of her, for where does she truly go as she gives freely from the basket of stored apples? Does she think of herself forever as a grape forming upon the vine, with all of life ahead and with no knowledge of the autumn? In my mind, the sunbathes her eternally in light, and she will never turn russet.

  People must have thought it odd—the motionless monk with a tear in his eye, staring at a girl. But lost I was. What is it that you really feel? When the candle is out and your sister is asleep, do you hold the pillow close and imagine that it is El Toro Bravo? Do you place the fingers of your left hand between your legs and enter? Do you imagine that it is me inside you? Do you think that one day we may be allowed back home, that by a miracle of God we will be raising children beside that pool in my father’s courtyard?

  Someone slapped me on the back. “Wake up, Father!”

  There I was, like a sleeping horse standing in the field, hidden deep within my cassock hood, and I became suddenly aware of a strange and distant murmur, like a hum. Something was happening in the distance, and the hum grew louder. It then became clear that here was a gang of
five men joined by chains around the necks, moving forwards with heavy, wounded limbs. A cry of “Groote Pere won’t save you now” rang out from a gaggle of town boys. These were peasant rebels fighting the Spanish oppression in their own right. I went to chastise those boys for taking the peasant hero’s name, Great Peter, in vain. But I saw one of the boy’s red hands, swollen from dragging vats of cold water from a deep well across the cobbles to wash carrots and beets, so I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. The groaning of the men in chains was closer now, and I saw two girls on the other side of the street.

  I ran up to the soldiers as the townspeople made a parting for them like Moses at the Red Sea. I stood there, holding up the crucifix around my neck, and shouted, “Stop in the name of Jesus!”

  They did, and the church bells rang out across the wintry marketplace. One of the captives, with a bloodied head and dirty face, uttered, “Bless us, Father.”

  The soldier pulled his right hand across his sullied breeches, grabbed for the sword in its sheath, and yelled at me: “Ha! A Spanish priest tries to save these bastard souls. Out of the way, ingrate. It’s for your king that we do this.”

  I knelt in front of him with my arms crossed over my chest and prayed out loud. “Dominus, dominus…”

  I looked up, and the soldier’s eyes now seemed crazed, but I could see that my words had hit him like a cross-current from a rocky point. I continued. “Lord, have mercy on their souls.”

  The second man in chains, the tiny one, cried salty tears, shoulders convulsing. “Father, help my wife, Claudia. Help my baby boy. They’re in the village of Eelko, by the church. I beg of you.”

  The tall soldier put his sword back in the scabbard. He grunted deeply, spat in my face, and lifted his boot to my shoulder.

  “You meddlesome priest, get back to your own land. I am losing patience.”

  He pushed his sodden toecap underneath my clavicle, and it went snap! I groaned but didn’t yet feel the pain. He kicked me aside, and I was sprawled across the dirty street, not knowing whether to look up. I heard the marching continue away from me, and in the pain of knowing that this was to be these men’s last few minutes on Earth, I heard a soft voice, like that of an angel.