The repetitious sound of metal against stone is almost hypnotic, and builds steadily as Mama’s hand moves faster and faster. How does she keep the pace? The quick jerking of her wrist, the way one shoulder twists and untwists, the way her head tilts forward then back all remind me of the movements of the madman I have seen tied to the rood screen at the Cathedral.
Then she stops, and the handkerchief once again appears in her hand. An unexpected breeze floats through the small windows and I smell lavender, the scent Mama uses to perfume her clothes.
“I know this is difficult for you, Mama. But the rabbis have been arguing this matter for years. They understand how our people have been forced to bow to the Roman Church and convert in order to survive. How many Responsas have we read together? Each contradicting the other; some saying conversion, if not sincere, means nothing and does not separate the converso from Judaism, while others say the opposite, and still others claim the truth is somewhere in the middle. Can you follow a law if you do not even know what it is?”
“Now you speak ill of our rabbis?”
“I am only saying you have done nothing to disqualify yourself as a true daughter of Israel.”
The handkerchief is stuffed back into its pouch, then Mama opens the sack of freshly ground flour and begins preparing the collar of dough she will use to seal the juices in the pot. I suspect that in addition to giving her something to do, she is more comfortable with her back to me.
“If I live as long as Abraham, I will never understand why you have done this terrible thing, Isabel. I repent of ever educating you.” Mama drops her rolling pin and turns to me. “But how could I not? All the women of my family have been educated in the languages, in Torah and Tenakh and Jewish law. But the Responsas . . . perhaps those I should have left out.”
I walk over and take her hand—which is pudgy and soft and well-tended—and hold it like a precious gem. I am grateful for Mama’s tutoring. Unlike Ashkenazi Jews who leave education to the fathers or rabbis, and whose girls are rarely educated, Sephardic Jews leave education largely to the mothers who generously teach their daughters.
“Education is a gift I wanted to give you and your sister,” Mama says, squeezing my hand before drawing away. “It was so you would be jewels on the crowns of your husbands. You are the child of my body. You are my heart. All I ever wanted for you was good. But I no longer know who you are.”
Absently, I finger my crucifix, and seeing Mama’s displeasure, quickly tuck it beneath my bodice. Can I blame her for saying she does not know me when I hardly know myself ? I have become like shapeless water lapping the shores of an unknown land. Before my first conversion, the one forced on me years ago, my name was Deborah, after the prophetess and judge of Israel, the valiant Jewess who accompanied the army of Barak to battle. That first conversion brought me the name, Isabel, after our queen, a name I did not want. And now my second conversion, this conversion of free will and devout yearning, has yet again brought me a name I do not want—Idolater.
My first conversion caused me to be despised by both Jews and Christians, “People of the Book” who should not despise at all. And now my second conversion has caused me to become a stench in my own family’s nostrils. I know the Holy One can do all things, that He can bring me through. But I am weak of character, and all I can think of is: How am I to survive this?
How wondrous is the sound of laughter! Truly, “a merry heart doeth good like a medicine.” Already my heart is hopeful as laughter rises, like musical notes, from the throats of our guests, and fills our house. To me, Beatriz’s laughter is the most beautiful, being the perfect blend of lute and lark, and is the chief reason my heart soars. That, and her calming presence. She sits beside me, holding my hand, but it is Don Sebastian who holds her attention. And, not surprisingly, she holds his.
Our merry party has already gathered around the table, having washed hands in large basins with scented olive oil soap from Florence. We have said the blessing, and the linen wick of the seven-strand Sabbath candle still burns in the clay pot, although hidden from view.
The trestles and boards are covered with Mama’s prized table linen of Aylsham, a fact that is sure to impress since everyone knows the best tablecloths come from England. Our cloth is still as white as bolted flour, and benefits from passage of a slick stone. A napkin of lesser quality—of Avignon—is provided for everyone because Mama hopes to keep the guests from wiping their soiled fingers on her precious Aylsham cloth. To the side of each napkin is one of Mama’s prized silver knives. No one has to share a knife or bring his own at Mama’s table; another fact of which she is supremely proud. And next to each knife are a lead-glazed wine goblet and one or more trenchers—those stale pieces of bread we use as plates—with the pile of trenchers highest in front of Don Sebastian’s father, Señor Villarreal, thus according him the respect his exalted rank deserves.
Also sitting in front of Señor Villarreal is Papa’s prized saltcellar, shaped like a whelk shell and made of gold. It is filled with salt from the Bay of Bourgneuf which, according to Papa, is the best salt money can buy. The saltcellar usually stands near the master’s place but Papa has relinquished that honor to his guest. I think to better show it off.
My stomach growls, and I am pleased to see the servants bustle in and place small bowls of warm Sabbath stew between the guests; one bowl for every two people. Happily, I share a bowl with Beatriz, for she never dips her sop twice and always leaves the best pieces of meat for me. She is generous to a fault. Not like me. Far too often I accept the meat without protest.
Beatriz wears a dress of green velvet and brocade, with a pearl encrusted neckline. Her voluminous black hair is pulled tightly back and held by a gold pearl-studded hairnet, revealing the delicate lines of her face. She has never looked more beautiful.
Papa complimented me today on my appearance, calling me radiant in my new golden velvet dress with lace-sleeves. He said I reminded him of a glorious moon. But if I am the moon, Beatriz is the sun. And when the sun shines, who ever sees the moon?
“How nice to have our city back. Or nearly. Too long our streets have been clogged with visitors.” Don Sebastian’s voice is merry. “Seville has proven she cannot endure the excitement of both a Fair and Christopher Columbus.”
We all nod. People came from miles around to see the great Admiral, and when he left, many remained to attend our yearly Fair.
“Three weeks! That is how long it took the silk merchant to deliver my order,” Don Sebastian continues. “Such tardiness would be inexcusable during lesser times.” He addresses us all, but his eyes are focused on Beatriz. “Now we have only the Fair to contend with. And not for much longer.”
The sound of Sebastian’s voice has caused a deep flush to creep over Beatriz’s face, a flush which only enhances her loveliness. Her altered countenance causes me to smile, for she is normally poised and self-controlled, unlike me who could easily show this sort of emotion if I had a husband who visited me daily. If I had a husband I dearly loved.
“Admiral Columbus marched all the way from Seville to Barcelona with his entourage of Indians and parrots and leashed dogs and chests of treasure.” Señor Villarreal plucks a piece of bread from one of the many breadbaskets then uses it to remove a large chunk of lamb from his bowl. “The popinjay!”
“He has garnered a great victory in both sailing the uncharted waters of the Ocean Sea and discovering a new route to the Indies,” Papa responds, taking salt from the saltcellar with the point of his knife, and placing it on one of the trenchers in front of him. “And as any man with ego enough to embark on such an adventure, he requires the appropriate admiration.”
Señor Villarreal nods. “Crowds swarm him wherever he goes. And outside the great Cathedral in Barcelona they packed the plaza where the King and Queen awaited him under a gold canopy. They say the king was in good spirits even though he was still weak from his injuries received at the hand of that assassin.” You could always count on Señor Villarrea
l to be full of court gossip. “The Queen even had a chair placed next to her throne, and invited Columbus to sit beside young Prince Juan while her choir sang ‘Te Deum Laudamus.’”
“An appropriate honor.” Papa was ever kind.
“And I suppose that ridiculous rumor of Queen Isabel selling her jewels to finance the Admiral’s voyage still circulates?” Mama’s face betrays her contempt. Talk of Christopher Columbus always provoked her wrath because the day before the Admiral set sail on his Ocean Sea voyage all the remaining Jews of Spain, those who refused to convert, were expelled, and somehow she has come to connect the two events in her mind. “I suppose the Crown fears it will become known that Jews gave the Queen the money for the adventure.”
It was true. Gabriel Rodriguez Sanchez, a courtier, and Luis de Santangel, the Queen’s financial advisor, both Jews, supplied most of the money. The rest was secured privately by Abraham Senior, a Jew, and Admiral Columbus himself.
“And I suppose the Queen does not want it known that the Admiral is also a Jew. A converso.”
This was less certain. Though Admiral Columbus has been accused of being a crypto Jew—one who still secretly followed Judaism even after becoming a coverso—it has not been proven.
“Such hypocrisy! Everyone knows King Fernando’s own great grandmother was a Henriquez Jew.” Mama wipes the perspiration off her forehead with her napkin.
And I pull a white handkerchief from my bodice and dab my perspiration as well. It is not the heat that makes me perspire— though it makes us all look like wilted lettuce—but this unfortunate conversation. The servants, who bustle back and forth, are surely listening. Though our servants are all conversos—with the exception of Gonzalo Vivar, an Old Christian and our master gardener at the groves—it is not safe to speak in front of them. Even conversos have been known to report inappropriate conversations to the Holy Office.
I dip my bread, though my appetite is lost, and desperately hope the conversation will change as more servants bustle in and pile a salad of lavender, rue, and parsnips on the trenchers before us.
“Yes, they try to deceive us.” Mama is like Don Sebastian’s new wild Andalusian stallion, in great need of a bit. “But what can you expect from people who believe Jews caused the Black Death, torture children, and poison wells?”
“It is rumored that Admiral Columbus already plans a second voyage.” I rest my sop on my trencher. If Mama is not stopped, she will spoil more than my appetite. “I cannot imagine planning a second voyage so near the heels of the first.”
“The Sovereigns have already granted him a new patent for the voyage,” Señor Villarreal says.
“And right here in Seville, Bishop Juan de Fonseca is already organizing an army, and equipping seventeen vessels for the expedition,” Papa adds.
“Oh, how I would love to be in that company!” Don Sebastian blurts. “What sights! What adventures to be had! How I envy the lucky lot.”
Beatriz drops my hand. There is a stricken look on her face, and on Don Sebastian’s, too, when he realizes what he has said.
“Of course . . . I would never leave Seville.” He focuses only on Beatriz. “I talk as a fool. Had I wanted to leave I would have taken my place at court long ago.” His eyes plead forgiveness, and when my sister smiles—that smile of sweetness and malleability which seems so pleasing to men—he brightens.
“And speaking of court, how is your son, Antonio?” Papa asks Señor Villarreal.
“He has recently returned from Queen Isabel’s castle in Segovia. You recall I mentioned that her gracious majesty sent him there for a rest, for she feared he was greatly overworked at court.”
We all nod.
“His last letter was full of court news. Oh, the intrigues! Such intrigues. You would think it could keep a young man entertained. But, no, Antonio longs for Seville, though it is hard to imagine why. I am only grateful he knows his duty. Not like Sebastian here. I fear Sebastian only follows his own inclination for pleasure.” The look on Señor Villarreal’s face is stern, but his voice is laced with indulgence, and even pride, over his son’s willfulness. “Our family has served our rulers since Sancho the Great. As long as there is a Castile, we will serve her at court. So Antonio will remain for he surely knows his duty.”
Mama’s eyes sweep over me as though accusing me of not knowing mine.
“But in these troubled times, even powerful converso families like ours must take every precaution,” Señor Villarreal says, lowering his voice. “I am comforted that Antonio’s position is secured by his marriage to Doña Maria de Murcia. It pays to be connected to a venerated family of Old Christians. That alliance has silenced many of Antonio’s enemies, to be sure.”
“We hear Doña Maria will be presenting Antonio with an heir before year’s end,” Papa says.
When I see Mama lean over the table and open her mouth, I quickly add, “Will you attend the happy event, Señor?” for I fear she will once again speak foolishly. In the background I hear Don Sebastian ask a servant to remove his salad of lavender and rue, and bring him lettuce instead. Lately, the only salads he eats are those of lettuce. I pretend not to hear. Everyone knows that lettuce subdues feelings of lust. I am sympathetic. Surely my own nature would be as carnal if ever I loved someone as much as he loved Beatriz. “Will you visit them?” I repeat.
Señor Villarreal sprinkles a generous amount of salt over his stew. “I fear my health will not permit such an arduous journey. My gout is relentless and shows no signs of improving.”
“It is rumored Tomas de Torquemade also suffers from gout. May it be so!” Mama has once again injected herself into the conversation. And nothing good can come of it, for Tomas de Torquemade is Grand Inquisitor and head of the Suprema which governs all twenty-three Inquisitional Tribunals scattered across Castile and Aragon. My stomach has soured completely.
“Perhaps it will be the gout that kills him and not an assassin, as he fears.”
Now even Papa looks disturbed. “And his fear is great, for why else would he have his food tasted for poison? Or have fifty men on horseback accompany him wherever he goes, and another two hundred on foot? Should a man so close to the Almighty, as he claims to be, have such a fear of death?”
“This will interest you, Isabel,” Señor Villarreal says, clearing his throat. It is clear that Papa and I are not the only ones disturbed by Mama’s conversation. “Since you love books and learning, this will surely interest you. Our Queen employs a woman Latin teacher for her children. And since she has made known her great desire for Castilian women to participate in all the new studies coming out of Italy, women even lecture at our Universities.”
“There is such a thing as too much education.” Mama again. “I believe our Isabel is proof of that.”
I pick up my sop, which now looks soggy and unappetizing, and take a bite. Though the stew is delicious, my appetite does not revive. “I do not believe one can have too much education.” My voice is calm but my stomach lurches when I see the disapproval on Papa’s face.
Papa loves me, of that I have no doubt. And he thinks me as beautiful as Beatriz, for he has often told me so. He has also said beauty can be marred by a contrary nature. And since he has said this many times in my presence, I have come to understand that he refers to my nature. And to further prove him right and that my character is blemished, I repeat, “Truly, it is impossible to be too educated.”
“Everyone knows that women who study excessively get wandering wombs.” Mama is persistent.
“The Holy One has given Isabel a fine mind.” Beatriz speaks for the first time. “And it must please Him when such a mind is trained.”
Now it is I who take her hand under the table and squeeze it in gratitude. In only a few words, Beatriz has settled the matter, and amidst the bustle of servants pouring wine and refilling stew bowls, the conversation drifts to the unseasonably hot weather.
And once again I see the power of an unblemished character.
The swelteri
ng weather has driven us downstairs a full two months early. I prefer my upstairs bedroom where I spend the cooler seasons. It is larger and has a marvelous window that catches the sweet east winds coming from the Sierra Morena. Downstairs, my bedroom faces west. An unfortunate position, for when conditions are right, the west wind carries a foul odor from the Guadalquivir River banks where tanners clean their hides, then stretch them over large open wood-frames to dry.
My inward grumbling spoils the triumph of generosity I experienced when I traded rooms with Beatriz years ago. Both of Beatriz’s rooms face east and are larger than mine. And her upstairs has a balcony which means it also has a large double door that admits rivers of light, and overlooks our tranquil courtyard.
The size and brightness make Beatriz’s rooms ideal for studios where she paints tiles for the Carthusian Convent. The Abbess claims no one’s tiles are more prized than my sister’s. It is no exaggeration to say Beatriz’s birds and flowers are exquisite, and her geometric shapes, flawless. There is no end to the work she can have if she wants it, though to her it is not work at all but a labor of love.
Papa says it is fortunate the Abbess is so fastidious with payment, for Beatriz never keeps records nor does she ask for her wages. And Papa claims it is a great comfort to him to know Beatriz has a husband wealthy enough to hire any number of servants to care for her needs as well as run their household when they unite, for we all understand that Beatriz is incapable of caring for herself.
Though it is a failing, we hardly notice, so enamored are we of her other attributes. My sister excels in four things: in her beauty, in painting, in playing the lute—which is so masterful I have seen grown men cry—and in her excellent character.
So it is understandable why I am not sorry I relinquished my rooms. I am only sorry that my own character is so flawed that sometimes I feel the need to complain inwardly over the small inconveniences it has produced.
The Salt Covenants Page 2