A Ceiling Made of Eggshells

by Gail Carson Levine

  He was lighter than I expected. With one hand under an armpit and the other under an arm, I maneuvered him into his chair, where he fought to catch his breath.

  When he could speak, he said, “There. I have my dignity back. Tell me, Loma: How did I get a granddaughter like you and a grandson like Yuda?”

  I began to praise my sisters and Samuel, but he held up a hand to stop me. “They are as they should be, but you—”

  The door opened. Papá came in with Don Israel, the aljama physician and the papá of Yose Serrano.

  How soft Don Israel’s voice was, how gentle his hands—lowering the skin under Belo’s eyes and examining them, picking up his hand and taking his pulse. And how serene his face was as he ignored Belo’s protests that he was well, that the good doctor had come for nothing, and how obliged he’d be if Don Israel would bestow his ministrations on those who needed them.

  Don Israel’s son would have been perfect for me, if he was like his papá.

  The physician stood away from Belo. “I don’t see much wrong that rest won’t cure. A week in bed and a month of light activity. No travel. Then, Don Joseph, you can return to saving us Jews”—he bowed—“as we count on you to do.”

  Belo shook his head. “I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  Feeling like a traitor, I said, “You always get sick again.”

  Papá glanced sharply at me.

  Belo said, “This is the lying viper I’ve nurtured.”

  Don Israel and Papá stood Belo up and supported him to his bedroom. I trailed them, carrying Belo’s pen, ink, and folio, knowing he’d feel less helpless if he could write. That’s the sort of viper I am, I thought.

  That evening, I found Samuel sitting on a bench, studying on the courtyard balcony. I sat next to him, and he put his book aside. In a few sentences I told him what had gone before each of Belo’s spells—though I could hardly get the words out to describe my foolishness with Princess Isabella.

  Samuel laughed so hard tears ran down his cheeks. “I wish I could have been there,” he said when he could speak again. “Those grandees after their great victory, waging a new war over a single Jew. A child!”

  I couldn’t see the scene as funny, but I felt better about it.

  “Lions fighting for a speck of meat! Belo should have realized.”

  Don Solomon hadn’t realized, either.

  Samuel added, “We worry about you.”

  I stiffened. “Who?”

  “Your sisters and I.”

  “That I won’t get married and have children?”

  “No. Not everyone marries and has children.”

  He thought I wouldn’t!

  “The little ones belong to you as much as they do to their parents.” He smiled. “My children will, too. With you, it’s inevitable.”

  But they wouldn’t be mine.

  “Belo doesn’t understand how tender you are. You take everything in, and he doesn’t spare you.”

  “I don’t want to be spared.”

  “We know. That’s how good you are.”

  I didn’t see it that way.

  I could be tender and strong. If Belo needed me, I was happy to be there, until I had my own family.

  Belo was better the next day and even better the day after that. Papá prevailed upon him to stay at home, rather than go to the synagogue for the Sabbath service. That night, he sat up in bed with a board on his lap, writing in his folio. A six-candle candelabrum at his side provided light.

  I had a single candle next to my cushion, where I read—or pretended to read—one of Samuel’s books of biblical commentary. Actually, I was gathering my courage.

  Finally, I said, “Belo?”

  He put his pen down. “Come, sit by me.”

  I climbed on the bed and sat cross-legged by his knees.

  “What were you reading? Do you want to discuss it?”

  I shook my head. “I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking of Yuda.”

  Belo picked his pen up again. “The On-High was helping me not think of him. Read your book. Read it this time.”

  “Actually, I was thinking of the family more than of Yuda.”

  Belo answered me while writing. “We’re healthy; I still have the ear of the monarchs.” He looked up. “We can still aid the Jews; the Merciful One is still merciful. Your brother is unimportant by every measure.”

  Bracing myself for terrible discord, I said, “He’ll keep us from marrying.”

  Belo settled himself back on his pillows. “For a few years. People will have forgotten by the time the little ones are ready to marry.”

  A few years would make me too old. “Belo, would you speak to a family on my behalf?” This usually fell to the papá, but Belo would be better for me.

  He set his writing board entirely aside. “Loma, I’ve kept you near me for my comfort and my strength. You have more of your bela in you than any of my other children and grandchildren. They’re good children, most of them, but diluted.”

  A lump rose in my throat, a complicated lump. I’d sort it out later.

  “Jews in Spain have always needed men like me and Solomon. Too often the monarchs listen to our enemies. Haven’t you seen that?”

  My stomach felt tight, waiting to hear what this meant for me.

  “Suppose I live another twenty years. It could happen, God willing. Imagine I remain vigorous despite my spells, and we continue to travel together to aid the Jews.”

  In twenty years, I’d be almost thirty-four! No one would want to marry me.

  “If you’re with me, I’ll live the twenty years. You’re my talisman, my amulet, given to me by your bela. Your years with me will win you praise from the community.”

  Through a tight throat, I said, “Bela wanted me to marry. She told me.” And hadn’t he promised to bounce my babies on his knees?

  He touched my chin. “She would agree with me. I know as well as if she were”—he waved his arm—“sitting on the other corner of the bed.”

  “You said you’d dandle my babies on your knee!”

  “I thought I would dandle them. The prospect was more distant when I said it.” He shrugged. “I may die tomorrow, and then you must marry. I don’t believe Yuda will be an obstacle. What do you say, Loma?”

  I didn’t want him to die tomorrow, so I said that.

  He didn’t want for me what I wanted for myself. Was I wrong to want it?

  22

  That night in my room, I kicked the floor cushions, threw myself on my bed and pounded the mattress, pushed my face into my pillow, and muffled my wail. I pulled my hair, though, in truth, that was more to see how it felt. It hurt, so I pulled harder, liking the pain. My face was soaked.

  For an hour, I counted by elevens and used numbers to wall off sadness and fury.

  Then thoughts came.

  Belo believed what he was doing to my future was right. Was it right?

  Did he guess the pain I was in?

  Probably not.

  Was my pain wrong? Was I right or wrong to be angry? I sobbed.

  Did I have to do what he wanted?

  I wished I could talk to Bela. Should I speak to Papá—or to Samuel, the future rabbi?

  No. Neither of them would be able to persuade Belo, and I didn’t want to tear the family apart.

  I had a choice, even though he hadn’t offered me one. I could stop being the way he liked me to be. I could dig too hard when I massaged his feet. I could speak louder than he preferred. There were a dozen things. He’d be furious with me, which I didn’t know if I could bear, but finally, he’d decide he could do better without me. I could marry as soon as the shame of Yuda wore off.

  Belo might get ill again and stay ill.

  God had His plan. Wouldn’t Belo be more important in it than I was?

  I walked round and round on the rugs, passing the bed, the low copper table, the two embroidered floor cushions, the door, the chest that held my gowns and my shifts.

  Did the Jews really need me?
Though that seemed a prideful idea, I breathed deeper.

  Would Bela be proud of me?

  Might I gain something in place of the loss of my own children, be a bigger Paloma than I’d ever hoped to be?

  No, that was too grand.

  But I might do more than my sisters and even Samuel could as a rabbi.

  On the bed, exhausted, I lay back and was asleep.

  But after a few hours, I awoke. Suppose the mob came to our door again, after Belo had died, because I had deserted him. Papá might not be able to send them away. The chief constable of the hermandad might not help us.

  The friar and the mob would drag us to the cathedral to be baptized.

  Or they’d set fire to the house.

  Or take Jento and give him to Christians to raise as a Christian. If I had my own child by then, they’d take him or her, too.

  I sobbed.

  They’d continue to Ledicia’s house and commit terrible acts there, too, and throughout the judería.

  I couldn’t catch my breath. If the mob let me live, I would have lost my littles.

  Then I imagined mamás across Spain losing their children, too.

  I writhed on the bed.

  If I stopped traveling with Belo, I’d have no relief from fear that he’d die and I would be the cause and the cause of everything terrible that followed.

  The answer—the only answer—was clear. I would continue at his side.

  I slept again.

  In the morning, I didn’t return to my agony. The decision was made. I would treasure my nieces and nephews and Jento. For the sake of our family’s littles and all the Jewish littles of Spain, and because I loved him and was grateful to him, I’d be Belo’s amulet. And I would try to count myself lucky.

  Yuda and Dueyna were to be baptized on Easter Sunday and take the Christian names of Pero and Marina Díaz.

  Belo was still in his bed. While he wrote in his folio, I sat on a floor cushion.

  Had it happened yet?

  Was the baptismal water cold or warm or scalding?

  Did Pero feel God’s wrath? Or His Son’s love?

  Was Marina suffering, as I would be?

  The day passed.

  Belo began traveling with me again, busier than ever, as the monarchs demanded more and more money to finance their war against the kingdom of Granada, the last Muslim foothold in Spain.

  Papá traveled often, too, for the same purpose. He once said that his purse had a hole in it. Coins in, coins out, with the king’s and queen’s hands at the opening.

  When Belo and I met with his friends over meals, someone usually asked if I was betrothed, and then, when I might be. Belo always said I had plenty of time, and, for now, he needed me. The conversation would end with praise for my kindness in staying with an old man.

  Every time, Belo looked as if he’d swallowed vinegar.

  The praise sounded empty. I’d chosen my fate, or I was following the furrow God had plowed for me.

  Vellida got pregnant again, and so did Ledicia, after five years. I prepared. Every time babies were expected, my heart built new rooms.

  Late in May, Samuel and Josefina Bivach married. Everyone in the judería came, as well as Belo’s and Papá’s Christian business friends. Pero and Marina were there, too, because kind Samuel had invited them. I kept my distance.

  Before the wedding, while Josefina took her bath, I danced happily in the street with Beatriz, Jamila, and Clara. I clasped the children’s hands. The rhythm entered me, and I forgot myself in pleasure—

  —and didn’t expect my pain later during the wedding ceremony. Samuel and Josefina shared a tallit, a prayer shawl, and faced Belo, who recited the seven blessings. My brother looked purely happy: bright smile, wet eyes, a bloom in his tan cheeks.

  Belo intoned, “Blessed are You, Eternal One, Who makes the bridegroom rejoice with the bride.”

  Shouts erupted. People rushed to congratulate the couple. I swallowed tears.

  Nothing had changed, but I stood statue-still for several minutes before I could turn to the feast.

  At least a hundred revelers stood, talked with mouths full of food, gestured, laughed. There, at the long table, seeming as if a sun shaft lit only them, were Yose and Gracia Serrano. Playfully, Yose was snapping grapes off their stem and lifting them, one by one, to his wife’s smiling lips.

  I had never seen him do anything that wasn’t sweet. In a different world, I would have been his wife. The happiness they shared would have been mine.

  “You would have been bored, Lizard. You would have tired of a diet of grapes.”

  I mustered words with grape sweetness. “Welcome, Yuda—I mean Pero. I’m glad to see you.”

  He looked as ever, smooth and oily, in a tan silk robe and, around his neck, a thick gold chain from which hung a ring of pearls circling a ruby. I inhaled the lavender perfume he still slathered himself with—but not pork. Not a hint. “How fares Marina?”

  “Wishing for a child, but Christ hasn’t graced us.”

  “Where are you living?”

  “Near the market. It’s smaller, but big enough. You should visit.” He gave me directions.

  As if I would!

  “I’ve been looking for you. I have a message for Belo.” He began in his buttered voice, “If he doesn’t stop spoiling my business, I’ll ruin his life and Papá’s and yours.”

  I fought to stay calm. “What is Belo doing, and how will you ruin us?”

  “I could have sold this.” He touched his necklace. “A buyer was interested, until he wasn’t. Few come to my shop. I paid fifty reales to discover that Belo is telling his friends not to buy my jewelry.”

  “He hasn’t said anything to me. How will you ruin us?”

  “I’ll tell the inquisitors he leads his converso friends in prayer in Hebrew. I’ll say he reminds them how to be Jews.”

  I could barely breathe. All the good deeds Belo performed for the Jews of Spain would end.

  “I don’t want to do it.” He removed the necklace. “Give this to Belo. The workmanship is fine. Tell him to wear it and say who made it. Tell him to say he’s proud of me.”

  I nodded.

  But Belo listened to no one. The Inquisition would kill us.

  23

  In my bedroom after the wedding, I recited a prayer of forgiveness, acquitting anyone who’d sinned against me (Ugly Camel Head) and asking to be pardoned for my sins (my endless heart-hatred for him). Then I thanked God for the day—

  —and began laughing.

  Thank You, Eternal One, for sending my brother to frighten me out of my envy of the marriage of Yose and Gracia Serrano.

  I slept for an hour and woke, gagging on horror. If Belo died during torture, his trial would continue anyway. When he was declared guilty, his corpse would be burned. That was what the Inquisition caused to happen. The priests themselves didn’t burn anyone; they relaxed their victims into the custody of the constables, who carried out the murdering.

  Bela, what can I do?

  I buried my head under my pillow and heard her chuckle. “The pillow won’t save you. Rest, little fritter. You need your strength.”

  Clutching her pendant, which I never took off, I fell back to sleep.

  Birds woke me.

  When did Pero plan to inform on us? He had to wait a few days at least to give Belo a chance to visit people, but he’d be impatient.

  Belo wouldn’t agree instantly. I needed time—a month?—to persuade him. Not that I’d ever persuaded him of anything.

  Also, I wanted a month more of freedom, remembering to savor each moment. The Inquisition didn’t sentence people right away, but it did imprison them.

  My stomach was rumbling. Hunger was to be savored and so was eating. I said the morning prayer of thanksgiving, feeling it more than any time in the past.

  In the kitchen, Jento sat on a high stool at the worktable, being plied with barley cakes by Aljohar. “Look!” He smiled.

  He was missing a lower
front tooth. Savor. “I don’t see anything.”

  “My tooth fell out.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t believe you. You’re not old enough.”

  “Yes, I am! I’m a big boy.”

  “Open your mouth very wide.”

  He did, as wide as it could go.

  I moved in close and smelled his sweet barley breath. “Ah. I see it now.” I kissed his forehead.

  “Big boys share.” I picked up a barley cake from the platter and ate it in three bites.

  He stuck a crumby tongue out at me.

  In the dining room, I took a silver tray from one of the open cupboards. At the table, I placed four wedges of cheese and four slices of bread in a wide bowl.

  Belo lay on his side in his bed, facing the door. When I came in, he opened one eye and recited the prayer thanking God for giving his soul back after sleep. I said it in my mind along with him, adding a special thanks for letting me sleep at all, considering.

  I put the tray down next to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a pretty day. It should be celebrated.”

  He said the prayer thanking God for food from the earth and took a wedge of cheese.

  “Belo, did you see Pero at the wedding?”

  “My eyes had better people to fix on—Samuel and his beautiful bride.” He smiled. “Loma, not many men live to have great-grandchildren.” He sat up and stretched. “How old is Ledicia’s Beatriz?”

  “Nine,” I said absently.

  He got out of bed. His undershirt stopped just above his knobby knees. “I will not discuss your brother. His name has already marred the day.”

  “Belo . . .” I pulled Bela’s pendant out from under the neckline of my gown. “Maybe it keeps away the evil eye—I’m not sure I still believe it does—but don’t you want me to be a better talisman than a stone?”

  “On the subject of your brother, I want you to be a stone.”

  There was little satisfaction in it, but I huffed myself out of the bedroom without another word.

  I went to the courtyard, where I would no longer find Samuel studying. I counted the stone tiles, as I’d done many times before.

  No one could know, but I had to talk to Pero.