Papá turned to Belo. “It’s time.”
He rose smoothly. “We’re needed, Loma.”
In the street, my niece, Beatriz, ran to me. “Where were you?”
The dancing and singing were over. It was time for the ceremony.
“With your bisabuelo.” Your great-grandfather. “Let’s watch together.” I took her hand, and we went to where our family stood, in the middle of the cobblestones. Yuda had positioned himself on the edge of the group of us. Next to him was the new servant, Hamdun, who held an embroidered pillow. Atop the pillow were gifts for Dueyna: four gold rings and a silver pendant set with pale blue stones on a pearl necklace.
If they had been dressed alike, I would have guessed wrong about which man was servant and which bridegroom. Yuda stared off above the head of his wife-to-be and looked bored. Hamdun, by contrast, smiled a smile that almost embraced her, a few yards away, sitting on a bench beside her parents, with her five brothers standing behind her.
Belo took the space between the families and recited the poem he’d read to me. Dueyna’s smile became fixed. At least she didn’t giggle. The guests applauded.
Then the hazan took Belo’s place. (The hazan sang for synagogue services and proclaimed at weddings and engagements.) Our hazan was a barrel of a man with a booming voice. “On this day, Guedaliah has engaged his daughter Dueyna to marry apprentice goldsmith Yuda.” Guedaliah was Dueyna’s papá. “They will appear for the wedding as arranged. If one or the other does not appear, their oaths to each other will not bind them; gifts will be returned; and a fine of one thousand maravedis will be paid to the aljama. They are now engaged.”
I was disappointed. Nothing had been said about their lives together or their children.
Yuda took the pillow from Hamdun and brought it to Dueyna. He smiled down at her, and she smiled up at him, her eyes glassy with tears. The hazan began to sing, “‘Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe . . .’”
Beatriz and I swayed with the lilting tune.
“‘. . . Who hath created joy and gladness, bridegroom and bride, mirth and exultation . . .’”
When he finished, Beatriz and I and everyone else went to the tables and began to eat. I wished again that Belo hadn’t made me miss the dancing.
8
The year changed to Christian year 1484. Everyone was healthy, which didn’t stop me from worrying about a return of the plague.
In February, Vellida turned twelve and became a woman according to our law. Papá began negotiating for a husband for her, and she started to fluff out her pretty hair—at five-minute intervals. Alas, her hair was her only beauty. Ugly Camel Head’s name for her was Nut-Cheeked Squirrel.
But her puffy cheeks and small eyes didn’t stop Papá from finding an excellent match: Jacob, son of the lawyer Don Brahem, who argued in the courts for Jews, Christians, and Muslims. They were to be married the following April, more than a year away. However, the engagement party was to be in two weeks. I looked forward to it even more than I had to Yuda’s, since Vellida was my beloved sister, as Ledicia was, too. I wanted to watch the face of her husband-to-be, to satisfy myself that he wasn’t bored at the prospect of marrying her.
And this time, Beatriz and I would dance.
She danced, but I didn’t. Belo delayed joining the party again and instead began to teach me how to play backgammon. I had longed to learn, and he had promised to teach me. Though he meant to please me, he had chosen the wrong moment. I forgave him. I loved him. By then, I loved him more than anyone else in the family, but he wasn’t like Bela. He didn’t understand children.
On a Tuesday morning in March, Belo’s dear friend Solomon Bohor visited us. Don Solomon, like Belo, was a financier and courtier and another great protector of the Jews. Samuel, Vellida, and I met him at dinner.
Don Solomon could have been Belo’s papá, he was that old, a slight man with a skinny beard and a round belly. His face was bright with good humor.
Actually, most of him was bright. His silk robe, which came down only to his mid calves, glowed yellow green, embroidered with gold thread in circles and squiggles. Below the robe, his red hose was embroidered with silver thread. Looking at him caused discord in my eyes. Belo and Papá dressed in fine fabrics, too, but their hues were more sober.
Samuel and I sat on either side of Señor Osua, Samuel’s teacher. Vellida sat directly across from us. Belo gave Don Solomon his own armchair at the head of the table and asked him to say the prayers, which he did in a surprisingly deep voice for such a small, old man.
After prayers, Belo introduced us, starting with Vellida and mentioning her betrothal.
She blushed.
Belo went on. “This is Samuel. Señor Osua, he does well, doesn’t he?”
Señor Osua nodded. “He finds the heart in the words.”
“A future rabbi,” Papá said.
I felt Samuel’s pleasure.
Mamá passed the tureen to Don Solomon. “Lamb and fennel. We’re good cooks in this family.”
I wondered if Don Solomon heard the challenge in her voice. No one had better disagree.
Don Solomon ladled a generous serving into the bowl he was sharing with Belo. His eyes on me, he said, “Did you help your sister?”
I nodded. I had shelled the chickpeas.
Belo said, “Loma is my favorite grandchild.”
Papá coughed. Mamá’s eyes flicked to me and away. I sat frozen. Would Samuel and Vellida hate me? I was lucky Yuda was with his master goldsmith.
“She’s quick. If she were a boy, she could do anything. She’s the comfort of my old age.”
This was like the engagement parties—good and bad at the same time. I didn’t dare look at my brother or sister.
Don Solomon just said, “From my many years, your age isn’t old.” He smiled around the table. “Joseph, Asher has been granted an audience with the monarchs when they’re in Tarazona.”
Asher was Papá. Belo had already had audiences with the king and queen, but Papá never had.
Papá put down his spoon. “I had barely dared to hope. Thank you!”
“Tarazona?” Mamá cried. “So far? With brigands behind every tree?” She was at her worst when Papá traveled.
“The guards will protect us, Violanta.” Papá laughed. “If I don’t come back, you can marry someone who never travels.”
Mamá’s face reddened, but she didn’t speak.
Journeys were dangerous. Before Papá left home, he always gave Mamá a just-in-case writ of divorce, a legal document, called a conditional get. Belo used to give Bela a conditional get, too, when he traveled. They weren’t divorced unless he didn’t come back—that was the conditional part. But if he didn’t, Mamá could marry someone else. Another worry.
Belo and Papá hired Jewish guards to protect them, and they were friends with the nobles whose land they traveled through. Neither of them had ever been attacked.
Belo said, “Asher, we’ll take Loma with us.”
I stopped eating with my spoon in the air. Traveling with Papá and Belo, the two I loved most; being away from Mamá and Yuda; seeing the world beyond the judería—could I go?
“If she dies,” Mamá said, “remember I said she shouldn’t go.”
But she hadn’t said I couldn’t, just shouldn’t. Could I?
Was that what my chart meant, that I’d die before I had children?
Papá pulled his beard. “She should be home, learning to cook and sew.”
My face heated up. I was the cause of discord.
“The queen will meet her,” Belo said.
Really? And the king?
He went on. “Queen Isabella will see a girl where girls usually are not. She may remember herself when she was a princess. Loma will raise us in her regard.” He put his right hand on the table, palm up. “Loma will be good for the Jews.” His voice dropped. “And she’s a comfort to me. Son”—he turned to Papá—“you know how much I miss Esther.”
T
hat settled it, as Belo must have known it would. I was going!
Don Solomon smiled at all of us. “What a wonderful family you are, benignly ruled by Don Joseph.” He turned to me. “Loma, your belo and I are respected because our friendships with Christians protect the Jews, but he’s honored for being a thinker and philosopher, a writer of books.”
I’d never seen Belo blush before.
That night, I forced myself to stay awake until Vellida came in, and then I asked her if she was angry at me.
When her gown dropped to the floor, she said, “Before, I would have wanted to be the one to go with Papá and Belo, but now I’m getting married.” She blew out our candle and slipped into bed.
“I didn’t mean to be Belo’s favorite.”
In the dark, I could hear the smile in her voice. “That’s an honor I never would have wanted.”
“Why not?”
She rolled onto her side. “Belo giveth; Belo taketh away. It isn’t bad to lose what you never had.” In a minute or two, her breath became regular.
I lay awake. Vellida was right. Now that I knew I was his favorite, I would be miserable if Belo chose someone else. If I had to miss every engagement party in the judería to keep my place, it would be worth it.
The next evening, when we were studying together, Samuel said he wasn’t angry at me, either. He blushed. “I think I’m the rabbi’s favorite, outside of his children.” He added, “When Yuda figures it out, he’ll be angry, or he’ll find a way to use your specialness to help him. Be careful.”
As if he needed to tell me.
Don Solomon stayed with us for three days. At Belo’s prompting, he told us stories at dinner about the monarchs.
From one I learned that King Ferdinand’s great-grandmother was Jewish—and that she and I shared the same name! Hers—Palomba—wasn’t spelled exactly like mine, but still!
The Jews were happy he was on the throne and not any of Queen Isabella’s other suitors.
Don Solomon said he’d had a hand in the royal marriage, which made his presence in our dining room seem miraculous. “Before they were married, King Ferdinand was poor, even though he was the prince of Aragon. I gave him trinkets and money so he wouldn’t go to her empty-handed.” He told Mamá, “He was handsome, and the princess was comely.”
Mamá didn’t smile.
Undeterred, Don Solomon added, “Love is rare between a king and a queen.”
I relished the romance. They first met in the middle of the night, when he came to her boldly and she received him—boldly, too, because King Enrique, her brother, who had died when I was a baby, hadn’t approved the match. They married without his permission, which hardly seemed possible.
They were exotic creatures. If Don Solomon had said they had peacock feathers growing out of their ears, I would have believed him.
Papá’s audience with the monarchs was to take place a week after Don Solomon left us. The night after he left, Belo gave me back Bela’s amulet, which both pleased and frightened me. Did we need its protection on the trip?
Our family—including Ledicia, her husband, Beatriz, Todros, Yuda, and Dueyna—saw us off the next morning, standing in a knot outside our door, where six guards, mounted on mules, waited. Beatriz wailed and hugged my waist. She and Todros were my only regrets about leaving.
I stroked her hair and felt like I was playacting Bela. “When I come back, I’ll tell you stories.”
A yard away, Todros bounced on the balls of his feet. I crouched and hugged him.
“Tía Loma will return soon.” Ledicia backed her children away from me.
Papá and Belo mounted their horses, Belo as nimbly as his son.
Hamdun helped me up in front of Papá. “Comfortable?”
I nodded, and he smiled as if I’d given him a gift. Then he climbed on a mule and took the ropes to lead the two donkeys, which carried supplies for the journey. They’d be happy, because animals loved Hamdun.
Along with a crowd on their way to the market, we passed through the judería gate. I touched Bela’s pendant and hoped it would keep Señor Mateo and Señora María indoors or at least away from us.
The narrow street opened onto a plaza. We clattered past the church, where I might have been baptized. A white stork flew overhead. Bela would have called it an omen, but of what?
9
We left the city, clip-clopping on a road paved with broad, flat stones. As the luckiest girl in all the aljamas, I swore to remember everything.
The road was bordered by pastures, where the green seemed improbably bright. Absently, I started counting the grazing sheep and goats. The morning was pleasant, sunny, cool, with a light breeze.
Entwined with my joy were strings of worry. Would brigands attack? Would the monarchs be angry when I appeared before their persons?
Belo kept the horses to a walk. Papá prayed softly or sang softly, just as he did at home. I felt as if I were nothing but my eyes, my ears, and the part of me that always counted things. Three, seven, eleven riders pounded by, galloping toward our city. A single beggar stood in front of the horse Papá shared with me, forcing him to rein it in. The man, in a threadbare linen cloak, held out a dirty hand for alms. Papá opened his purse and gave him a reale.
The beggar stepped aside, and we set off again.
“Papá,” I said, “I didn’t see him until he was right there!”
“People often don’t see the poor.”
Maybe because no one was afraid of them.
Two oxen drawing a cart clattered toward us. The sky seemed bigger here. Our guards talked among themselves. The road followed our Henares river, which chattered to itself in a language of gurgles and whooshes. The paving stones ended, and the roadway became dusty dirt. No brigands.
As the sun was setting, we arrived in Medinaceli, where we spent the night in the house of the rabbi, and our guards stayed in other Jewish homes. I slept in a bed with the rabbi’s two daughters. In the dark, I pretended they were Vellida and Rica and that Bela had just kissed me and left.
After prayers the next morning, we set out again, in a rainstorm. We put the hoods up on our cloaks, and I was grateful for the warmth of Papá behind me.
Beyond the town, Belo said, “Loma, you’ll meet the Duke of Medinaceli in Tarazona.”
A king, a queen, and now a duke. “Will they mind that I’m with you?”
“His Grace has children and grandchildren of his own,” Papá said. “He is a friend to the Jews.”
Belo added, “He likes people who make money for him.”
Feeling bold, I said, “Belo, would you please snap your fingers?”
Papa said, “Why do you want him to?”
I swallowed, nervous now. “Er . . . Because Mamá says Belo makes golden ducats that way, and he makes them for the duke.” I wanted to see him do it.
Belo and Papá laughed. I felt foolish. Mamá had set this trap for me to fall into.
Papá said, “Loma, we do what the Christians let us do—lend money, collect taxes, run enterprises, like their silver mines, for them.”
“Better than they do, and everyone gets rich,” Belo said. “The Christians can be corrupt, but everybody watches the Jews. We have to be honest.”
How kind Belo and Papá were, to explain everything to me. I felt lucky twice over.
The rain lightened to a drizzle.
“We’d be honest anyway.” Papá kissed the back of my head. “Jews used to be allowed to do more than they can today. We have the best physicians, but they’re kept from treating Christians. The doctors make less, and Christians die. The Almighty shakes His head.”
“In some towns”—Belo pushed back his hood—“Jews can sell hardly anything to Christians. The Jews there are so poor that kind Christians give them charity.”
Papá said, “Some Jews become Christian just so they can earn a living.”
We stopped for the night in the village of Gómara and stayed in the house of one of the five Jewish families, where pallets
were set out for us in the living room. After the family retired to bed, Belo pulled his foot salve out of his saddlebag and asked me to rub it in. He took off his shoes and hose.
Papá said, “Loma is tired.”
“She’ll be rested in the morning and my feet will still hurt. She doesn’t mind, do you, Loma?”
I shook my head, though I didn’t want to do it. I knelt as Fatima did. The salve smelled of peppermint, and Belo’s feet smelled of feet.
They were cold!
“Rub harder. Dig between the bones.”
I tried. The tips of my fingers whitened. “Did Bela do this?”
“She refused.”
Could I refuse? No.
“Thank you for coming,” Papá said, “or I’d be kneeling where you are.”
A wave of homesickness engulfed me. What were the littles doing? Did they miss me? I wished I could hug them and breathe them in rather than feet!
Later, on my pallet, my first worry was that plague had entered Ledicia’s house.
The next day dawned warm and sunny. No bandits accosted us. Time passed peacefully. At dusk, we reached Tarazona and went straight to the house of the rabbi and his wife, where I shared a bed with their five-year-old daughter.
Worries marched into my mind like soldiers. Would the king and queen be angry that I was there? What if they disliked children? Would I disgrace Belo and Papá? Would priests come and baptize us?
My imaginings grew wilder. Did the monarchs look like ordinary people, or were they bigger? Did they speak or just roar?
The rabbi’s daughter rolled over and pressed against my side with her nose pushed under my shoulder. Comforted, I finally slept.
My worries woke up with me.
Belo and Papá left me in the morning, first to pray at the synagogue and then to spend time with the rabbi. I helped the rabbi’s wife prepare dinner and made a game with her daughter of mashing garlic and spices together.
But when Belo and Papá returned with the rabbi, they said that we had been invited to take our dinner with the Duke of Medinaceli.
With a Christian? I wondered what we’d be able to eat.
We followed narrow, winding streets out of the judería into other narrow, winding streets. Some of the streets were stone stairs going upward. Once, we had to flatten ourselves against a shoemaker’s shop to make room for a rider on horseback.
A Ceiling Made of Eggshells Page 5
