The Day of Atonement

by David Liss

  Then they snapped open. I smelled a now-familiar perfume. Roberta Carver entered the room, closing the door behind her, leaving Enéas on the other side. Her hand trembled as it left the doorknob.

  “What do you do here?” I asked her. It was a genuine question. I could not fathom her purpose. She toyed with me, did she not? So why take this step? Did she believe I was not yet sufficiently ensnared?

  “You do not wish to see me?” Her voice was low and hoarse. Her blue eyes were rimmed with red, as if she had been crying. Her hair was disordered, with curls coming free. For all that, she was still striking beyond words.

  “You deliberately mistake my meaning. Why do you risk coming here, observed by all? People will talk.”

  She took a step close. “People already talk. What will they say—that you and I are behaving scandalously? They say that about me and every man with whom we do business. And although I do not like it, my husband encourages these rumors. He will not know the truth when he hears it.”

  She had taken the time to follow her actions through all possible outcomes. This, I realized, was what she did. She took not a step whose consequences she had not calculated.

  I took her hands. This woman was beautiful, yes, and her boldness was alluring. She was also a predator, one whose cunning and care made her especially dangerous. She was, I reminded myself, a woman who had chosen to wound Settwell, a guiltless man with a vulnerable child. I did not want to care for her or become closer to her than I already was. I did not wish to be the sort of man who saw goodness and worth where there was only beauty. And in truth I still mourned Gabriela.

  But then again Gabriela—who had been good, who had been worthy—was gone, and this woman stood before me. Perhaps it did not matter if she was cruel and greedy. She was beautiful and she wanted to be with me, and perhaps that ought to be enough.

  “Roberta,” I said, using her Christian name for the first time, “I cannot allow you to place yourself in danger.”

  “I was in danger today,” she said, “and you did not hesitate. I care for Rutherford. I truly do, but he is not like you. He does what I tell him. You are …” She swallowed hard. “You are unafraid.”

  I turned away from her, for this was, perhaps, the thing about myself I liked least. I wanted to be afraid, but she wanted me fearless. I knew it was true, and I knew that she had now moved beyond manipulating me. What I had done for her today had altered her sense of me, and I supposed it altered my sense of her as well. I did not want it to, but I could not deny it.

  She put a hand on my shoulder and turned me to face her. “How little you understand people,” she said. “You think I insult you?”

  “I know you do not,” I said.

  “Then what is wrong?”

  I drew her toward me. I believed, to the core of my being, that doing so was a mistake, but I did it all the same. A man could only fight his nature on so many fronts before something gave way. I kissed her and she returned the kiss, hot and hungry and greedy. Her breath was sweet, and her hands clutched me tightly. I could feel how much she wanted me, and if there was anything false in it, I could not detect it.

  Then I pushed her away—I realized suddenly and horribly that I had no choice. It was something that could never be. Not here. Not in Lisbon. Not while I pretended to be something I was not.

  I had undergone the ritual of circumcision after converting to Judaism, under the rites and regulations of Judaic law. This was perhaps a year after my arrival in London, and as this is an ordeal normally experienced by newborn infants, the less said of my recollections of this observance, the better. Setting aside the awkward and painful nature of the experience, it had left its unmistakable mark, and if Roberta were to see me unclothed or to touch me, she would know me for a Jew.

  My mind raced. Was there some lie I could tell? Some deception to explain everything away? Of course there wasn’t. Roberta, like me, was a schemer. She might pretend to be satisfied by some explanation of sickness that required surgery, but she would eventually see through the lies. A whisper to an Inquisitor would be enough to destroy me at any moment. I could not let that happen, for it was not only my life in the balance. I could not endanger myself if it meant imperiling Settwell’s cause.

  I cursed under my breath. “I will not commit adultery,” I said. I hated how weak it sounded. How foolish.

  Roberta grinned at me, and I believed it was because she already had an answer prepared for this objection. “You would not be committing adultery. That sin would be mine alone, and I think I can endure the guilt.” Her eyes were moist and her cheeks flushed.

  I almost forgot my resolve as I looked at her. But my desire for her was only a feeling, an urge, and I could tame it. “No, I won’t do this to you.”

  “It is for me to decide what I will do,” Roberta said, but I could see that already irritation and anger were replacing longing. She felt rejected, and that could be very dangerous.

  I was now upon the thinnest of ice. I could not let her believe I had sent her away or that she had embarrassed herself. I took her hands once more and kissed them. I dropped to my knees and looked up at her. “Were you unmarried, or even estranged from your husband, no power in the world could keep me from you.”

  “What do you care for my marriage?” she asked, yanking her hands free. “Forgive me for saying so, but I don’t think there is an Englishman in Lisbon who hasn’t attempted to bed me, yet you refuse when I offer myself.” Suddenly her eyes went wide. “There is someone else, isn’t there? No man of spirit refuses to cuckold a rival, and I have seen that you are no coward. Who is she? Who is the woman you love?”

  There was only one thing I could say. “You are the woman I love. I loved you from the moment I first saw you, from the moment we first met. I have not been able to stop thinking about you. I have lain awake nights in agony for the want of you. And today, when those Gypsies attacked us, I would have died gladly to save you. There is no danger I would not face for you, Roberta, but I will not share you with another man.”

  “That is foolish,” she said, but she sounded unsure of herself.

  “Do not tell me it is foolish to love you. If you leave your husband, I will be yours, but not before.”

  She was struck silent as she stared at me in disbelief. I had refused her and flattered her vanity all at once. I had to hope it would be enough.

  She took a step back. “I cannot leave Rutherford. There are matters of business …”

  “Business?” I demanded. “I talk to you of love, and you speak of business?”

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “My life back in England was … not easy. My father was cruel to me, and Rutherford took me away from that.”

  “All English fathers are cruel,” I said. I didn’t believe this, but I wanted her to tell me more about herself. I wanted to better know her—that I might more easily outwit her, I told myself, but even as I made these claims, I knew I was lying to myself.

  “Not like mine,” she told me. She met my eye. She would not look away as she spoke of this, and I knew it to be a matter of pride for her. “He was not merely cold or neglectful or stern, but he delighted in causing pain to others, and to me in particular. There were four of us, two boys and another girl, and I was singled out as the one on whom anger and frustration and the desire to hurt might be safely vented. My father not only tolerated this, he encouraged it.”

  “Your mother?” I asked.

  “My mother would have cut off her own arm to please my father. It was what he wished, and that was the end of the matter.”

  “Roberta, I’m sorry—”

  “I don’t want sorry,” she told me. “Sorry is nothing to me. I care nothing for words. Words are false, by their very nature. I care only for actions, and I know who you are, for I have seen your mettle when it most counted. I cannot believe you will turn me away now.”

  “But your husband—” I began feebly.

  “My husband is my concern,” she said, more so
ftly now. “I value him in ways you cannot imagine. He was kind to me when I needed someone to be kind.”

  “You need only have waited half an hour to find someone else who would be kind to one such as you,” I said.

  “But it was him!” she snapped. “You are a man. You can’t know what it is to have no power of your own. You might look at Rutherford and see someone weak and unimposing, but he was my rescuer.”

  That, it seemed, was what she valued most.

  “To leave him now would be to ruin him,” she said more quietly. “There are too many matters of business unresolved.”

  “And there always will be,” I said, sounding bitter. “There will always be a reason not to leave him. You may be grateful to him for rescuing you from an unkind parent, but you were a prize beyond anything he might have hoped for.”

  “I am a person, not a prize,” she said.

  “Can you not see that I am saying the same thing?” I said. “I want the person, not a fleeting association. Until I can be with you, we may be business associates and we may be friends, but I will not be your amusing little lover.”

  Roberta nodded stiffly, her manner supremely controlled. “I see.”

  “I hope you do,” I answered.

  She wiped a tear from her eye with her index finger, sniffed in a breath, and left the room.

  I was breathing hard. I walked over to my cup of wine, and when I picked it up I realized my hand was trembling. Had I salvaged things with Roberta? I could not be sure, but if she had left wishing to sever ties with me, so much of what I had done in Lisbon had been for nothing. I drank until the cup was empty and then poured myself another glass, and when it in turn was done, there would be more.

  Chapter 14

  I had hoped to be done with Lisbon before the end of summer, but August turned to September and though things progressed, there was no end in sight. I observed the festival of Rosh Hashanah, the new year, in isolation. I remained in my room and read from my prayer book and dedicated my thoughts to the holy day.

  As I considered my weeks here in Lisbon, I could not but take satisfaction in what I had accomplished, even if it were not yet enough. I engaged in small deals, made some profits. It was nothing remarkable, but it was credible, and I began to make a name for myself. I met with Rutherford and Roberta Carver with some regularity, planning out our business together. There was always a tension now with Roberta, and I could not tell if she looked at me with anger or with longing. I avoided being alone with her, or even sitting next to her. I hoped she believed in my anguish, and, much to my surprise, I found myself hoping she did not mock me behind my back.

  Inácio, Franklin, and Settwell had all given me the same advice, so I went to no Portuguese tabernas but the one Eusebio frequented. I established my base of operation, and I did not stray from it, for there was no advantage in spreading myself too thin. I became a familiar fixture there, the Englishman who hoped to cajole this New Christian or that into offering me credit.

  Every now and again, I recognized a man who walked into the tavern. I saw Senhor Meldola, who specialized in importing English and Dutch foodstuffs, and Senhor Cardozo, a dealer in whale oil and ambergris. My father had done business with them long ago. Each time I prepared myself for denials, even an altercation and flight. But who would recognize a grown Englishman of business as being the skinny thirteen-year-old son of a New Christian merchant last seen almost ten years earlier? All took me for what I appeared to be and sought nothing beneath the surface.

  Eusebio remained guardedly social with me, but his father gave every sign of enjoying my company. Eusebio would make polite conversation and ask after my health, but no more than that. I understood that when he was ready to do business, he would let me know. And so it went until that afternoon in September when everything changed, the day the Inquisitor walked into the taberna.

  There was no truce, and there was no understanding. Inquisitors did not make a point of avoiding New Christian tabernas, but there was simply no advantage in entering them. Inquisitors wanted that men should eat and drink and speak freely so their agents would overhear anything blasphemous or otherwise significant. Everyone knew that there would be Inquisition familiars in the tavern—in every tavern—but Inquisitors hoped that now and again someone with something interesting to say would drink too much and feel a little too safe.

  All of which explained the sudden silence when the Inquisitor entered the room. Someone was going to be arrested. Why else taint this tavern forever, make it the place where an Inquisitor might walk in at any moment? The newcomer, with his black robes and his gold cross, pulled back his hood to reveal the face of Pedro Azinheiro.

  Azinheiro smiled at the room as though he had not stunned them into silence. Every man present had lost a friend or a relative to this priest—I was sure of it. Azinheiro had been an Inquisitor for more than twenty years, longer than any other in Lisbon. It was hard to imagine anyone more reviled and feared by the city’s New Christians, and yet he did not look to be a Daniel in his den of lions. He gave every appearance of a man who had entered a pleasant-looking eatery, where he expected to make friends shortly.

  He walked to the barman with an easy saunter. There he cleared his throat and, in a cheerful voice, ordered a cup of wine. He watched while it was set before him, and as he picked it up, smiled to himself as if remembering a funny joke.

  No one spoke. No one dared. I knew it was not out of fear of the priest, but because the first man who reentered his conversation would be suspected of being too comfortable around the Inquisitor, and thus very possibly an agent of the Inquisition. And so we all sat in silence, none eating or drinking, while Azinheiro sipped his wine and continued to smile. Occasionally he hummed.

  At last he finished his wine. He wiped his mouth with his clerical sleeve and slapped the pewter cup down. Every man in the tavern held his breath. Maybe the Inquisitor would leave. Maybe his presence there did not mark the end of anyone in particular. Maybe he wanted to send a message that no one understood or could heed. They could worry about its meaning later, in the comfort of their own homes, away from Azinheiro. It would make sense then, surely. But now, it would be enough for him simply to depart.

  He did not. Instead, he leaned toward the barman as though readying himself to share a great confidence, and with all the good humor in the world, ordered another cup of wine.

  The barman hesitated a second, his long face twisted with confusion. Perhaps he toyed with the idea of asking the Inquisitor—as politely as he could, of course—if he would not mind considering taking his wine somewhere else. Perhaps he was merely too terrified to move. Then, like a man on a carriage startled out of an unexpected slumber, the barman roused himself, shook his head slightly, and poured the wine.

  That was when I rose to my feet.

  All eyes were upon me as I strolled over to the counter. Had anyone asked me, I could not have said what it was I was doing, what I intended. I had moved beyond thought. I saw only the counter and the back of the Inquisitor, with his head bent, and just enough of his grinning old mouth. I felt a relentless thrumming in my temple, a staccato drumbeat, neither urging me on nor dissuading me from my course.

  I leaned against the bar, my forearms flat, my fingers intertwined. “Another cup of wine,” I said to the barman. When it arrived, I drank it down, almost all at once. I then turned to the humming Inquisitor.

  I had expected that I would need to call upon all the skills I had learned from Mr. Weaver to contain my anger, but much to my surprise I found myself already quite in control. It was not that, seeing him again, away from the Palace of the Inquisition, I did not wish to kill Azinheiro. I did. I wished to remove my hidden dagger and slice Azinheiro’s throat and watch while he writhed upon the floor like a fresh-caught fish. I could see it clearly—the priest’s body below while I stood with blood splattered upon my hands, my clothes, my face. I could taste the coppery residue in my mouth. It could not happen now, but it was, I believed, inevitabl
e, and perhaps that was why I was so calm. I was where I should be, moving closer to my goal.

  “Good afternoon,” I said to the priest.

  The Inquisitor nodded at me. “And to you.”

  So, we did not know one another. That was how the priest wanted it. Then why had he come to the taberna? Did he want to remind me of his power and his presence, or had he something else in mind?

  “What do you here?” I asked. I kept my voice low, though the barman had stepped away, not wishing to hear anything. For all that, it was the sort of question I might have asked if I had not known the priest.

  “I drink wine,” said the Jesuit. “I am thirsty.”

  I tapped the side of my cup, and the barman refilled it. I took another long sip. “You’ve had your drink, and your thirst is quenched. Now you must consider that you are making these men uncomfortable.”

  The priest turned to me. This was evidently a man who believed deeply in his own cleverness. “Why should they be uncomfortable if they have nothing to hide?”

  “Do you jest?” I asked, meeting his eye.

  The Inquisitor picked up his cup and began to swirl the contents. He studied them like an augur for a minute. “You are very forward, sir.”

  “The English are a direct people,” I assured him. “Perhaps you know a thing or two about the English character.”

  The priest narrowed his eyes. “You are also bold.”

  “Simply observant.”

  “Then I shall return your English bluntness and tell you I expected you to be even bolder,” the priest said, barely above a whisper. “You falter, sir, and that makes you of no use. I am here to offer some support.”