The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  I have been dressed since the bells chimed Prime, spending the time in prayer and meditation, and waiting for the rest of the house to awake. I can hardly wait to tell Beatriz what has happened. Last night, just before bed and away from the servants, Mama did something she has not done since Eastertide. She offered me her hand to kiss, and after I did, she placed it, in the Jewish manner, upon my head and drew it down over my face in the form of a blessing.

  Now, the first sounds of life send me racing down the hall. Mama and Papa’s door is ajar, and through the opening I see Papa lay tefillin. I know I should not watch but I pause to observe his simple act of devotion. Carefully, he ties one of the small black leather boxes, filled with four paragraphs of Torah, to his forehead. The other box he binds to his hand in obedience to Deuteronomy’s command to place God’s word “as a sign upon your hand and as frontlets between your eyes.”

  Next he covers his eyes with his hands, then sways back and forth. In a sing-song voice he begins the Shema. As I watch, my heart fills with anger, and I tiptoe away. Why should someone who loves the Creator be forced to conceal his devotion and do all in secret? The injustice burns me to the marrow.

  I still feel its sting when I knock on my sister’s door, then enter without invitation. Beatriz is sitting on her bed in a new brown undergown reading from a small book of Psalms. At once, her presence calms me.

  She smiles, then closes her book. Like Papa, her hair is black as ink and hangs in thick shiny waves around her shoulders. On her face is the expression of an untroubled conscience.

  “You will be happy to hear my news,” I say, embracing her. And then, without giving Beatriz a chance to utter a word, I tell her about Mama’s blessing.

  “Oh, Isabel, I have been praying for this! My heart has been heavy of late with you and Mama at odds.” She kisses my cheek. “I knew the Holy One would repair the matter.”

  Then suddenly she jumps. “Oh, I must hurry and dress! Best not to keep Mama waiting after all my pleading to take us to the Fair.”

  Beatriz has been working on Mama for days. Mama believes, as do I, that this being the last week of the Fair there will be nothing left worth buying. Even so, I have kept silent not wishing to spoil Beatriz’s pleasure. But I find it strange that she is so anxious to go. Unlike I, who love the marketplace, shopping seldom excites her. She has refused to tell me the reason for her interest but I suspect it has something to do with Don Sebastian.

  I watch Beatriz slip a farthingale of willow twigs around her slender waist. Over that she pulls a gold and cream gown with a V-shaped waistline and lightly embroidered stomacher. When she is dressed, she skips across the room to where her hairnets and combs sit on a small table. “Such a happy beginning to the day. Surely the rest will prove to be as wonderful.”

  Her words make me uneasy, perhaps because I remember Aunt Leonora, may her memory be for blessing, telling us how we should never allow the Evil One to see our happiness, lest he spoil it. But looking at Beatriz now, at her bright shining eyes that dance like candle flames, at the bounce in her step, at her breathless anticipation of I know not what, it is difficult to imagine anything spoiling her happiness today, and I quickly send up a silent prayer to God, let it be so.

  Mama, Beatriz and I walk down Abbots Street with one eye on where we place our feet. The street is littered with discarded contents of chamber pots as well as rotten food thrown for the pigs to eat. We all wear shoes of slashed velvet and pantofles—wooden platforms lashed to our shoes by fabric straps. They keep the dark sludge that runs through the street from spoiling our shoes or the hems of our gowns. But they make walking difficult, and we move slowly. This suits me since I want to see everything and can do so leisurely without worrying that I hold up the others.

  The air crackles with excitement. Noisy crowds push and shove and elbow their way past us. And I love it. We saunter merrily down the street, smiling and pointing at whatever catches our eye. Our arms are locked.

  “I am so excited,” Beatriz whispers, leaning closer. But when I ask why, she only shakes her head.

  I am still thinking of ways to extract Beatriz’s secret when we find ourselves on Mateos Gago Street. Here the street is even more crowded, and we are pulled southward like small boats caught in a current. It is a direction I do not want to go, for southward lies the walls that enclose the forty-acres of buildings comprising the old Jewish Quarter. Once, its narrow streets bustled with activity; its courtyards bloomed with flowers and potted fruit trees; and the air was pungent with the smell of eggplant stew and Almazan sausage. Moors live there now, and some Old Christians, though hardly enough to call it a thriving community for there are many other vacant houses to choose from throughout the city. In addition to Jews leaving Seville during the Expulsion, four thousand converso families have fled their homes in fear of the Inquisition.

  Mama is sure to say something inappropriate when she sees the old Jewish walls, so I grab her hand and my sister’s, and forcibly head in the opposite direction. When Beatriz appears disappointed and begins to lag behind, I realize she was the one who drew us southward, and despite her pleading stare, I lead us away.

  “Why are we walking in circles?” Mama asks, a bit winded. “Please decide where you wish to go.”

  “To the Church of the Savior,” I quickly say.

  Mama nods. It is a reasonable answer for many small shops line its walls; shops where one can purchase anything from hawks and bells, to chestnuts, and herbs fried in batter.

  “But first we must visit the Plaza Mayor,” I add.

  Again Mama nods. Many of the booths belonging to merchants who have come to Seville for the Fair are set up in the Plaza Mayor— the city’s main plaza.

  I lace my arm through Beatriz’s, thinking how fortunate we are that every year the world drops the best of its treasures into the center of our lovely city: sable and ermine from Russia; Moorish rugs, saddle blankets, brass lanterns and screens; gems, cloves and cinnamon from the Orient; wool from England; and silks, satins and brocades from North Africa.

  With each step, my excitement grows. We walk past streets named after the trade practiced there: Boteros, makers of wineskins; Rosary Slope; Silk Street. Wherever we go there is noise and confusion. Minstrels thread the crowd, playing flutes and lyres, and pulling along a string of noisy merrymakers. Then comes a man on stilts. We watch until they all pass, fanning ourselves with limp handkerchiefs as the sun climbs higher. All around us, vendors shout their wares amid the rattle of donkey carts and pack-mules. Adding to the noise are heralds on horseback shouting out their own announcements and news.

  Mama bustles ahead to the arched opening in the church wall where the large cloth-hall sits in the Plaza Mayor. I purposely lag behind with Beatriz then pull her to a stop. “Just what are you up to?”

  Beatriz grins and pulls out a handful of gold florins. “I have been saving my wages.” She looks almost childlike, and as eager as a graylag.

  Instantly, I grab her hand and thrust it into her pocket, for every Fair brings out prostitutes and thieves and sundry unsavory characters who will pluck your treasures if given a chance.

  “A gift for Don Sebastian?” I say, guessing the obvious, for what else would cause her such excitement?

  She nods. “Sebastian has a new stallion and talks of getting a mare to breed with it. I want to buy him one at the Horse Fair.”

  “The Horse Fair! Are you mad? Mama will never let you go to that vulgar place.” When I see her downcast expression I quickly add, “Well . . . perhaps . . . if we ask, Mama may agree. Come.” I take Beatriz’s arm knowing we embark on folly. What do we know of buying horses? Papa keeps five at our house by the groves but aside from watering and feeding the beasts, we know nothing. We lack the discernment of a well-disguised blemish, or a partially healed injury, or even general infirmities . . . conditions that unscrupulous merchants often try to conceal. But the fact that Beatriz has not considered these things proves her simplicity, her trusting nature that
all will turn out well.

  We catch up to Mama who is already at the tent’s opening, and follow her inside where dozens of tables hold bolts of cloth from all over the world. The ecru bolts of cheaper cloth—those which are unbleached and undyed—are on tables off to one side. Mama heads in the opposite direction, to the most expensive cloth—the scarlets and reds of Florence.

  In my haste to follow, I bump into the Keeper of the Fair—a tall, burly man with enormous eyebrows, and dressed in a fine padded doublet of pale green silk and matching hose. He carries an iron ruler, the standard by which all material, cut and sold, is measured.

  I apologize, then head toward Mama, pulling Beatriz behind me, but not before I see the unpleasant glint in his eye. He has the eyes of a condor, and they follow Beatriz. Her eyes are on a shimmering bolt of green silk. While she and Mama examine it, I stand guard, trying to put myself between those eyes and her. But when the Keeper of the Fair turns his attention elsewhere, shouting and waving his ruler in the air, I giggle out of pure relief.

  It might seem foolish to be so protective of my sister. She is, after all, the eldest. But she is as innocent and guileless as the birds and flowers she paints. And though we both know the world is full of evil, for you cannot be a Jewess and be ignorant, Beatriz is still trusting. She sees no danger in pulling out a handful of coins in the middle of a Fair, nor would she see danger in the glint of a man’s eyes. And since her beauty and sweetness of character draw men, both good and bad, like the red crest of a widgeon draws its mate, it falls on me to be discerning for both of us.

  “What will you buy today?” Mama says to Beatriz over my shoulder, obviously referring to the bolts of cloth in front of them.

  There is a long pause. “A mare for Sebastian,” she finally answers.

  Mama laughs, for it is plain she thinks Beatriz is teasing.

  “No, Mama, truly. I have long desired to buy Sebastian a wedding gift.”

  And that right there is further proof of her naivety, because Beatriz actually expects Mama to see nothing wrong with her plan to purchase a horse.

  Mama’s face is one of bewilderment. “But why, daughter? You know Papa and I have already commissioned a gift for Sebastian, a special leather saddle from Cordova.”

  “Yes, and a perfect gift too. Sebastian will love it.” Beatriz hugs Mama’s thick waist. “But would it not be even more perfect on the back of a new mare?”

  And to my utter surprise—though I should not be surprised for it is impossible to deny Beatriz anything—Mama entwines Beatriz’s arm in hers and says, “Perhaps it would. And if we wish our business to be concluded before the bells chime Sext and it is time for our noon meal, we must be off.”

  So away we go to the Horse Fair.

  The crowd—mostly men, all shouting and waving and wet with sweat—is rougher here along the sprawling grounds of the Guadalquivir River bank. And everywhere mules and donkeys and horses are traded or sold, or shown off in hopes of being so. Everyone speaks at once, though how they can speak at all amid the odor of sweating bodies and dung rising like steam beneath the hot, baking sun is a mystery. I cover my nose with a handkerchief.

  Already I am sorry we came, and see, by Mama’s face, that only Beatriz is happy to be here. The Horse Fair is as old as Seville herself, for here Romans bought horses for their generals. Now Castilian nobles come to buy theirs.

  The Moors have the best ones, certainly the best Andalusians. Already Beatriz is gently pushing her way toward a merchant who holds one by the reins—a beautiful spotted gray.

  As soon as the merchant sees Beatriz’s interest, he hops upon the mare’s back as easily as if it were the back of a goat, and without benefit of a saddle, breaks into a trot. The merchant settles his hand high on the horse’s crest, tightens his legs slightly against its flank while easing the pressure on the bit. Then horse and rider become one. I remove the handkerchief from my face, no longer aware of the smell or dust or heat. I am thrilled beyond measure for here is a contradiction in a world where domination is all. Horse and rider move in perfect submission to one another, but in that submission I see freedom. At that moment I would have bought the horse myself, if it were not for Beatriz.

  When Beatriz claps her hands with pleasure, the rider pulls the horse to a stop and dismounts. A small crowd has gathered. It is plain to all that Beatriz is determined to have the mare. And just when Mama steps forward to haggle its price, for she well knows Beatriz will pay whatever is asked, a man steps forward too, and when he does, a hush falls over the crowd. Then one by one everyone steps aside, leaving the man and Beatriz quite alone in the circle.

  She has not noticed him at all. Rather she whispers to the horse and strokes its neck. It is a strange picture, this man—round and stern-looking in his spotless white cassock and lace trimmed surplice, and my sister—with her face nuzzling the Andalusian, and dust swirling around them both.

  And then he looks at her.

  The throng has pushed me back, and now people, three deep, stand between me and the circle. Even so, I see it, the glint in his eyes, though it scarcely resembles the Keeper of the Fair’s glint. These eyes are hungry and fierce, like the eyes of a lynx. Because all is still quiet, I am able to hear him say, “You wish to purchase this horse, my child?”

  For the first time Beatriz looks up, is startled, then shaken when she sees the friar. But to her credit she remains composed, and smiles and inclines her head in a gesture of respect, and finally answers, “Yes.”

  “Then I shall not contend for it,” Fray Alonso de Montemayor says.

  Two inquisitors oversee the Tribunal in the archbishopric of Seville, and Fray Alonso de Montemayor is the worst of them. It is he who has taken the old Andalusian proverb, “Every pig has its Saint Martin’s Day,” and applied it to the Tribunal. His meaning is clear since on Saint Martin’s Day Christians slaughter their pigs to make sausages, and conversos are often called marranos or swine.

  Mama grips my arm in terror while the sound of my own heart rages like the Guadalquivir River in my ears. But we fear two different things. She fears Fray Alonso, the Inquisitor, while I fear Fray Alonso, the man. I hear my sister say, “You are most kind, your Excellency, but I would not think of depriving you of your pleasure. The horse is yours.”

  He stares at her with dark smoldering eyes that raise the hairs on my arm. The ugliness of his stare is plain. If possible I would have flung my body into the air and landed as an impenetrable pillar between them. Instead, I try to force a path into the circle, but I am pressed on all sides. Even Mama has a firm grip on my arm. And just when I can bear it no longer and am about to shout my sister’s name, Fray Alonso abruptly turns and walks away, taking with him the dozen armed men who had been waiting patiently nearby.

  Beatriz seems to have forgotten her encounter with Fray Alonso, and talks only about her new mare, which she has named “Blessing”, and is now safely in our stables by the groves.

  But I have not forgotten.

  For days I have thought of little else. And though my mind cannot produce a single reason to worry, I am greatly shaken. I am still thinking about it when I hear voices coming from Papa’s study. Against my better judgment, I tiptoe closer.

  “I tell you it is true,” Don Sebastian’s voice sputters through the slight opening.

  “Surely, no. Not our Beatriz. There must be some mistake.”

  “My spy is loyal and . . . well paid. His information is never wrong. He says that Fray Alonso himself, and not the public prosecutor, drew up the arrest papers and gave it to the police.”

  “This must be the work of that vile Catalina! If revenge is her goal, then no revenge could be crueler.”

  “My spy does not know whose hand has brought this about, but I promise you this, if anyone comes for Beatriz they will taste the edge of my sword!”

  “Lower your voice! Do you want someone to hear? Such talk will only cause more trouble. We must keep our heads.”

  My moist, trembling fi
ngers tug along the heavy door’s edge, opening it enough to see Papa struggle to raise his portly frame from the worn desk chair, then head toward Sebastian. He pats Sebastian’s shoulder, then hands him a goblet of sherry—a manly diversion of nerves—and I feel guilty for observing it. But things are happening here, awful and dangerous things involving my sister. Like a stubborn fly, I remain glued to the door until someone tugs at my sleeve. My heart jumps when I see Beatriz.

  “Come away,” she whispers sweetly, but her eyes tell me how improper she thinks my behavior is, and her untroubled countenance tells me she has not overheard the conversation. For her sake alone I leave the door, but not before seeing her scan the opening for a glimpse of Sebastian.

  “He is so handsome.” Beatriz says in her soft, lilting voice, a voice that has, more than once, coaxed me back to sleep after a nightmare.

  Was this a nightmare? Or had my ears heard true? Was Beatriz in danger? And if so, why? Had Catalina really made accusations against Beatriz as Papa believes? It did not make sense. If Catalina sought revenge she would accuse Mama, the one who discharged her, not Beatriz.

  “Do you not think he is handsome?” Beatriz presses.

  “Yes,” I say, pulling her down the hall toward the wrought-iron grille that opens into the courtyard where there will be no danger of Beatriz overhearing Don Sebastian or Papa.

  We pass the large marble fountain and head to a bench beneath an orange tree where we sit. Around us are pots of lavender, and to one side, a well-tended herb garden. It is peaceful here, and because of our wealth and the way our house is situated, it is a courtyard not shared by other homes. Still, peace eludes me.

  “He is much admired.” Beatriz’s voice is glum. “Women look at him in ways that are shameful. And I confess, Isabel, more than once it has caused me to blush.” Her fingers entwine mine. “He could have his pick of any woman.”