A Ceiling Made of Eggshells

by Gail Carson Levine

  I complained, but Belo said I’d better wear it. “The infanta will feel more at ease if you look like the people around her.”

  When the hour came, I followed the secretary up the mountain to the exalted tents of the monarchs and their coterie, close on the walls of a fortification, the Gibralfaro. As we climbed, the sounds of the camp diminished, and the air freshened.

  This appointment began as a repeat of Tarazona, with waiting, this time in a tent that seemed to be the cooling-the-heels place for courtiers.

  As I was about to enter, Belo’s friend the Duke of Medinaceli came out. He recognized me and took my hands in his. “Paloma! I’m pleased to see you. Your advice was excellent the day we met! Now you’re here to advise the monarchs, too?”

  I knew he was joking. “Belo may be.”

  “You’ll think of something to add to his wisdom.” He bowed and strode away.

  A dozen men sat on cushions, which lined the tent sides. I lowered myself onto a cushion as far from the men as possible. I was the only child, and, I was sure, the only Jew. A table held platters of fruit, flatbread, and dried sardines. The men ate and talked among themselves. I could always eat, so I did, and counted each time I chewed.

  After two hours or more, a secretary came for me.

  Princess Isabella’s tent was a few yards uphill. The tent flaps had been pulled back to make a wide entrance. Inside, a bouquet of three young women smiled from a single large cushion. When I curtsied, they flowed to me and engulfed me, cooing.

  “How sweet she is.”

  “What pretty hair.” Someone touched my waves around my hood.

  Their perfume dizzied me. Which was the princess?

  Someone stroked my cheek. “Smooth as a grape. I could pet her all day.”

  Fortunately, they didn’t. Two of the women left, looking over their shoulders at me and still smiling.

  Princess Isabella took my hands in hers. Our rings clinked. “Thank you for visiting me, Paloma.”

  As if I could have said no.

  “I’m lost in happiness to make your acquaintance.”

  My own sisters had never been lost in happiness to see me. I murmured that I was happy, too.

  The infanta gestured, and a woman came in with a tray loaded with plums and placed it on a table at the back of the tent.

  Princess Isabella resembled her mother: tall with auburn hair. She was even paler, so fair that a ribbon of blue vein, highlighted by dark powder, stood out on her forehead.

  At last, she let my hands go. “We must see you often. You are too sweet not to be close by. I think you’d like the court. My friends would pamper you. Mother would mother you.”

  This was familiar. The princess was talking about me converting. Her friends’ embraces had been about conversion, too.

  She went on. “My parents love your grandfather. They love him.”

  I called up an adult response. “He’s honored to have their affection.” There.

  She echoed my syllables and inflection without the words. “Blah blah blah . . . You answer like an ambassador and not a darling girl.”

  Was this a terrible blunder? I apologized. “Belo is always glad when the king and queen want to see him, so he can see them.”

  “Come!” She led me to the big cushion and waited for me to sit. Then she filled a bowl with fruit for both of us and shared the cushion with me. I wished she weren’t so close.

  “Dear, if you recognize Christ, I’ll see to it that Mamá gives you a few of the Málaga Moors.”

  For a moment, I didn’t understand. Then it broke on me: Ai! The skinny Muslim captives were going to be slaves.

  The infanta waited for me to say something.

  I wished people would stop cajoling or arguing or trying to force me to be baptized. I took a baby’s way out. “Belo won’t let me convert.” Meaning: Persuade him, not me. Don’t make me decide.

  Princess Isabella beamed at me. “Blessed child! This is marvelous! A miracle. Your words will make Mamá very happy.” She clapped her hands, and the secretary who had brought me appeared.

  He gestured for me to follow him. The audience was over.

  I was puzzled. What had I said to please her so much?

  We’d gone only a few steps before I realized. I whirled. “That’s not what I meant! Your Majesty!” I didn’t mean I wanted to convert and Belo was stopping me. He’d be furious with me for suggesting that.

  But her tent was empty.

  18

  Belo would find out what I said during our audience with the monarchs in the afternoon. I had to tell him first, but when I got back to our tent, Hamdun said he was with Don Solomon. I ate a few almonds, which dropped like stones in my stomach, and read from a book of poems. These lines seemed to grow on the page:

  Silence, fool! Take care not to anger a sage

  who will shake you like a puppy, whose name

  is Wisdom, whose thought encompasses the sky.

  To dolts and silly women, his scorn is a knife!

  Maybe I shouldn’t tell Belo and hope the queen would understand what I’d really meant. I counted the roses in the carpet. Belo and my family aside, might I convert? If I converted, God’s plan would include my baptism, since nothing happened without His arranging.

  When Belo came in, he took his mirror and scissors out of one of the saddlebags. “I must be just so for the monarchs. Will you trim my beard, Loma?”

  Fatima did this at home, and when we traveled, he trimmed it himself. If he wanted it to be perfect, why choose me, who’d never trimmed anyone’s beard before?

  “Your bela was an artist of the beard. She kept me from resembling a billy goat.”

  I did my best. This would have been the time to tell him what I’d said, but I couldn’t find the courage.

  When I finished, he said I had the makings of an artist, too. He patted my cheek. “Don’t claim to the monarchs that you’re virtuous because you cut my beard.”

  I smiled weakly.

  The sun was low in the sky when Don Solomon, Belo, and I followed a secretary into the cooling-the-heels tent, which was deserted this time.

  My hands were cold; my face was hot. I remembered what Vellida had said: Belo giveth; Belo taketh away. If Queen Isabella revealed my foolish words, would I no longer be his favorite? Would he hate me?

  We waited long enough for me to hope that the audience had been canceled, but finally the secretary returned and led us to an enormous tent. The monarchs had brought their thrones with them or ones just like them. The infanta sat on a cushion at her mother’s feet. Both she and the queen smiled warmly at me.

  The king’s expression was merely cordial. After Don Solomon and Belo bowed, and I curtsied, King Ferdinand said, “Dear friends, I’m sure you’ve guessed why we called you to Málaga.”

  Don Solomon protested that he and Belo had no idea.

  Belo said how happy he always was in their presence.

  I wished I could be anywhere else.

  “We won’t sell the Málaga Jews into slavery.” Queen Isabella reached down to smooth her daughter’s hair.

  They could sell Jews? Certainly. They could do anything.

  Belo’s inhale was so loud, I heard it. “Yesterday, Paloma and I met one of the captives, who asked me to thank you for your generosity with bread. He said to tell you they’ll be loyal subjects.” He paused. “As your Jews have always been.”

  King Ferdinand said, “Food and drink for so many are no small matter.”

  Don Solomon put a hand on my shoulder and pressed down. “Majesty, you honored me by calling me an old friend. I’m also just purely old.”

  He’d seemed spry enough when we walked here.

  Queen Isabella clapped her hands, and slaves brought cushions for each of us. When we were seated, it seemed that something had changed. The king and queen sat less stiffly. Princess Isabella stretched her legs in front of her. We had become guests rather than people keeping an appointment. That was why clever Don Solomon had
mentioned his age!

  “They’ll pay taxes as soon as they’re settled,” Don Solomon said. “May they return to their homes?”

  King Ferdinand’s voice hardened from velvet to steel. “Our soldiers died for their homes!”

  “The Jews weren’t fighters.” Belo put his hands on his knees, palms up. “In my great-grandfather’s time, we were wanted in Spain for what we’re still eager to do—create wealth for the kingdom. Spanish royalty is a flower—our bluebell, which grows nowhere else.”

  Queen Isabella nodded. Her husband’s mouth relaxed. They exchanged glances.

  Belo leaned toward them. “The beautiful bluebell assures us all is well and eases our heart. But the flower needs good soil. Your Jews are the good soil.”

  I felt proud of Belo for speaking so well.

  Don Solomon broke in. “I’m not the orator my friend is, who speaks in poetry, but may I remind Your Majesties that Jews, unlike Christians, are able to travel everywhere, even to places ruled by the Muslims. So long as there is another Jew, we have a bed, and, no matter the local language, we can speak Hebrew to do royal business: arrange trade, propose treaties, whatever you wish.”

  Belo took over. “If we were coins, we would be in your purse, only in your purse. We are your golden ducats.”

  Don Solomon’s turn again. I wondered if they had planned this out. “Your other subjects belong first to a noble or a town. Jews are entirely yours—”

  “—and we bestow everything upon you,” Belo said, finishing.

  Princess Isabella clapped her hands. “That was poetry!” She smiled brilliantly at me. “Paloma, your abuelo’s poetry is one reason we want your family to be entirely with us.”

  I could barely breathe.

  The queen took over, as if they, too, had collaborated in advance. “And your family, too, Don Solomon, for practical wisdom if not poetry.”

  “Many from your great-grandfather’s time,” King Ferdinand said, “are Christians now.”

  “The Jewish captives will be taken to Carmona,” the queen said. “They’ll work, but their upkeep will have to be paid for. So many Jews are a burden on our purse.”

  Four hundred and fifty, Belo had told me.

  Both Don Solomon and Belo said that they would pay for the captives’ food and care until they could raise funds from the aljamas.

  “I will, too,” I said. Belo had told me money had been put aside for all his grandchildren. I hoped this would show the queen I wanted to stay a Jew.

  Belo put his hand on my head. “She’s an example to us.”

  Don Solomon said, “Where will they live?”

  “In the castle in Carmona,” Queen Isabella said, “until the ransom is raised.”

  Carmona was in Andalusia and had no Jews.

  A ransom. Not sold into slavery, but sold to us, their fellow Jews.

  Selling them at all was cruel and evil. Buying them was good and kind. My heart decided: God, You may favor the Christians, but I won’t become one if I can help it.

  I heard Belo swallow. “How much ransom?”

  Sums flew back and forth. The monarchs demanded. Belo and Don Solomon said that this amount and even that lower amount were too much. I realized that the four of them were enjoying themselves. Princess Isabella winked at me. I smiled back.

  Finally, they arrived at the ransom: twenty thousand ducats. I divided: 44.44 ducats for each Jew.

  Belo asked that several captives be freed to travel across Spain, to appeal to the aljamas for the ransom money. Permission was granted.

  Don Solomon and Belo stood. I jumped up, too, praying to God to let me escape without a reckoning.

  He didn’t let me.

  Queen Isabella held up a hand. “Don Joseph, your granddaughter wants to ask your permission for something.”

  Words didn’t come. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I should have told Belo, so he could get me out of this. I should have prepared him.

  The infanta rustled to me, put her arm around my shoulder, and hugged me. “Brave girl, God will reward you.”

  Queen Isabella said, “Christians have courage, child. Jews are cowardly.”

  No words.

  “I’ll speak for you, dearest.” Princess Isabella squeezed my shoulder even tighter. “Paloma told me this afternoon that she would like to convert if she had your permission.”

  That wasn’t what I’d said.

  But it was close.

  She added, “Christ did good work with this one.”

  Belo stumbled back a step. “She’ll never have my permission.” He huffed as if he could hardly get air. “Thank you for your interest in her.”

  The infanta gave my shoulder a final squeeze and whispered, “We won’t abandon you.”

  Queen Isabella said, “My friend, your granddaughter is wiser than you are. Come into the fold with your whole family. Don Solomon, Christ welcomes you and your family, too.”

  Don Solomon thanked her. King Ferdinand reminded us that the sooner the ransom was paid, the sooner the Málaga Jews would be free.

  The interview was over. Now, I had to face Belo.

  He was silent on the way back to our tents.

  Don Solomon said, “Children have a knack for surprising us.”

  “She isn’t a child!”

  “I see,” Don Solomon said.

  I didn’t. I wouldn’t be a woman until I turned twelve.

  We left Don Solomon outside our tent. Inside, Belo sat heavily on the cushion next to the low table that bore his writing. “Loma, Lo—”

  “I just meant—”

  He held up a hand. “It doesn’t matter what you meant. You gave the Christians a weapon against me. Bela would be disappointed in you.” He took off his shoes and hose and extended his feet. “At least you’re good at this.”

  I cried while I rubbed the balm into his feet. He wrote in his folio and ignored me.

  19

  The next afternoon, Belo would have fallen off his horse if a guard hadn’t been riding near him, where I’d have been if he hadn’t waved me away.

  Another spasm.

  We stopped. I thought of brigands. Our guards wouldn’t be enough against a large band. How to get him to safety? None of the villages on our way had Jews.

  Belo sagged against the guard. His face drooped, but not as badly as the last time. And now the left side rather than the right looked slack.

  Should we put him on the ground? Would he feel better if he could lie flat? Would food help?

  He said, speaking clearly, “It’s nothing, though the horse has two heads.” He looked at me. “I see two granddaughters, both traitors. We should go.” He tried to kick his horse, but managed only with his right foot. The beast shied sideways, and Belo almost toppled.

  Hamdun lifted a protesting Belo gently off his horse and onto the sparse grass on the side of the road.

  I dismounted and pulled my flask of watery wine out of the pouch tied to my saddle. Maybe a drink would make him feel better.

  Or it might be the worst thing for him.

  Belo wouldn’t let me near him, but he rolled on his side and drank when Hamdun gave him the flask. “I’m much better now.” He tried to stand, teetered, and collapsed back. “Give me a minute.”

  We had to give him half an hour while I wondered: if we should pitch our tents, where to pitch them, whether anywhere was safe. Then the spell seemed to pass, and he managed to mount his horse without help.

  As we set out again, he said, “You did this to me, Loma.”

  I wondered if the guards and Hamdun pitied me or thought me a terrible girl. I considered galloping back to Málaga and telling the queen I was ready to convert. Then Belo would be sorry. Then he’d understand how much he’d hurt me, who had only made a mistake.

  But the idea of being a Christian had become loathsome, even if Belo never thought well of me again.

  In the tent that night, after we’d each bedded down a yard apart on the rug, he said, “I miss my Loma. Your bela has be
en angry at me all day. She tells me you are a child, and I should remember that. Come.”

  I snuggled under his arm, where he’d made a place for me. “I don’t want to be a Christian, Belo. The princess didn’t understand me.”

  “Ah. She heard what she wanted to hear.”

  Exactly.

  As I drifted off to sleep, he added, “The Almighty thinks I can do more for the Jews, but I don’t know what. When He punishes me by making me sick, I can’t do anything.”

  At the judería in Guadalupe on our way home, Belo told the rabbi about the ransom and was greeted with dismay. The rabbi agreed the sum would have to be raised, but the aljama was poor. They wouldn’t be able to give much.

  Belo shook his head. I feared he’d get sick again, but he stayed healthy. At home, I told no one about his latest spasm.

  With my twelfth birthday approaching, I treasured my rare opportunities to observe the aljama’s older boys and the young men who hadn’t yet been betrothed. My chances came on holidays when women and girls went to the synagogue with their families, and during celebrations, like engagement parties and weddings.

  After services, for example, the congregation would linger in the street outside the synagogue. Grown-ups would chat. Small children would dash about, and boys and young men would play together. Girls had to stay with their parents, but no one could keep us from watching.

  The comeliest boy was Benahe, whose entire face seemed to glow whenever he smiled. My eyes always looked for him first, and my breath always tightened when they found him. If a game of tag broke out, he was as graceful as a gazelle in the Bible.

  Eventually, I’d drag my eyes to the others. Toui, who laughed often, seemed happiest. Saul, usually leaning toward the others, was the most intent. Esdras, the hazan’s son, constantly tripped, as if his feet belonged to someone else. Papá would love to have a hazan for a son-in-law, and Belo might be pleased, too.

  I wanted Belo to be pleased!

  How could I tell which of them was clever, kind, generous, gentle?

  And what about Don Solomon’s great-grandson?

  On one of these occasions, Yuda oozed next to me. “A sorry crop of swains, Lizard. I see you watching Benahe. Have you caught him at his hobby, picking his pretty nose?”