The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  I make my way down Abbots Street as fast as one can who wears pantofles, and worry I will be late for Mass. Mama and Papa disapprove of my going to daily service, a habit cultivated since returning from the groves and discovering I am still without allies. Though Mama missed me, and despite her warm greeting at the door, she has kept me at a distance. And attending daily Mass has only made matters worse.

  She was especially unhappy this morning, giving me unpleasant looks as I readied myself, but it would take more than unpleasant looks to stop me today. It is the feast of Saint Elmo—the patron saint of sailors—who died a martyr when his intestines were pulled from his body by a windlass. Perhaps God will be especially kind and hear my prayers today, for ever since Beatriz’s arrest, I too feel as though I have been disemboweled.

  I rush along, not mindful of where I step. The Cathedral will be crowded. Many livelihoods are tied to Seville’s inland port, to its ships and commerce. People will be anxious to light candles.

  A beggar up ahead, threadbare and teetering on dirty crutches, catches my eye. My fingers fumble for the few blancas lodged deep within my pocket. The blancas clink when I drop them into his hand making his eyes shimmer with gratitude. Such a small gift can only satisfy when one has nothing. I use the illustration to raise my spirits. After all, Papa has abundant resources that can be used on Beatriz’s behalf. Surely, surely, it will buy us justice in the end.

  But it has been so long—over a month now since Beatriz was arrested. And though Don Sebastian’s spies most certainly have gathered some scraps of information, the news cannot be good, otherwise Mama, or at least Papa, would have told me.

  I quicken my pace. Ahead looms the Giralda Tower. Once the minaret of a Moorish mosque, the Tower has been refitted by Christians and is part of the Great Cathedral. Christians are still refitting it. Already, masons gather for the day’s work and the master mason, with gloves and walking stick, is issuing orders.

  The Plaza in front of the Giralda swarms with people. As I wait to file through the massive wooden doors, the masons and stone dressers lay out their tools. I love watching them. Their work is tangible and ongoing. Once scaffolding of lashed-together poles covered all the walls of the great church. Now only one wall is covered. It appears it is easier to refit a temple of stone than a human temple, as, according to the priest, we are. I have changed little despite all the cutting and honing that has been going on in my life. And this saddens me as I enter and take my place in back.

  We are packed like reeds. From my position I see little, but content myself with the thought that though I cannot see, I am seen by God. Within minutes the bell—which signals the beginning of service—rings out over the vaulted ceiling, a ceiling that soars, like the sky itself, over my head.

  Benches are clustered along the side and front, but none throughout the main area where I stand. Many have brought cushions or small stools for sitting, a common practice since the church no longer provides straw for the floor. A melodious Gregorian chant fills the air, and the procession of priest, choir and clerks begins. Everyone who is not already standing, rises. An organ plays. More chanting follows. Finally, the priest mounts his pulpit, makes the sign of the cross and begins his thema, a short Gospel text in Latin which he will later translate.

  I am distracted by the woman next to me. Her bodily humors are clearly unbalanced. As I listen to her wheeze, my mind wanders. I am thinking of the Feast of Corpus Christi which is barely two weeks away. It is the feast honoring the Eucharist. It was just a year ago—while six altar boys, all grandly dressed in red jackets and plumed hats, were dancing Los seises with their castanets—t that I first began to ponder the sacrifice of the Nazarene. While the boys danced and their voices soared in sweet song past the unfinished choir loft and then to the top of the vaulted ceiling, I suddenly felt a deep longing to know more of the one who stretched out his arms and bled for me . . . me, Isabel of bad temper and contrary nature. And even afterward, when monks and priests and Castilian nobles on horseback all escorted the gold jewel-encrusted chest containing the Host throughout the streets of Seville, I pondered it.

  Now, I think only of Beatriz. Will she be home to see the dance of Los seises this year?

  Something the priest says draws me back. His thema over, he is deep into his sermon. The unpleasant quality of his voice makes me strain to hear.

  “. . . and the mere presence of Jewish blood suggests a proclivity in that person to undermine Holy Mother Church and its dogma. Thus, it is our duty to carefully scrutinize all New Christians, for every converso is a potential Judaizer.”

  My insides tremble as I squeeze past the dozens of people who surround me. Through a partial opening I see the madman who is tied every day to the ornate rood screen that separates the choir from the nave. He is tied there in hopes he will benefit from attending Mass. The figure of a cross has been shaved into his hair. Spittle trickles from the corners of his mouth as he thrashes back and forth. I watch for a moment, then quietly slip out the door.

  It is the month of Av, and customary for Jews to read the Book of Deuteronomy. The Feast of Corpus Christi has come and gone, along with the pomp and ceremony of Los seises and the street procession that followed, neither of which I attended. In fact, I have not attended Mass since the Feast of Saint Elmo.

  Shavuot, the day of first fruits, has also come and gone without Mama or Papa staying up all night to study Torah. Nor did they read the Book of Ruth in the morning.

  The day of Beatriz’s wedding has come and gone, with everyone pretending they did not know what day it was, though Mama spent much time smoothing out Beatriz’s wedding dress as if expecting her to come through the door at the last minute and put it on.

  And now it is the eve of Tisha B’Av. Tomorrow we commemorate the destruction of the two Jewish Temples, but tonight Papa and Mama fail to eat bread dipped in ashes as is the custom. I am stunned they have not observed Shavuot, and now Tisha B’Av eve. Has Mama finally understood the danger of doing such things? I do not ask, but perhaps like me, she and Papa are too busy waiting.

  Waiting for Beatriz to come home.

  One noteworthy thing did happen late Tisha B’Av eve. It was the arrival of the writ of divorce from my husband. Mama said she had been expecting it. I did not ask how she knew. Let her keep her secrets. The truth is, I care not that at sixteen I am already a divorced woman.

  I only care about Beatriz.

  It is pouring. I have been listening to rain hit the tiles of our roof, and watching it from my bed as the water cascades past my window. The customary fresh smell that accompanies rain fills my room, and the oppressive heat which we have endured for so long has finally lifted, at least for a time.

  It is a soothing activity, this listening and watching. I have not felt so calm in weeks. Mama and Papa, though glad for the rain, said it is appropriate that it rains today, on Tisha B’Av; for it shows that all of heaven weeps. It is a day of great mourning for Jews, and they are called to fast and pray.

  But Mama and Papa do not fast. Rather, they ate a large breakfast of eggs and meat this morning, and more than one plateful, too. And they made no effort to honor the day in other ways, though to be fair, Papa did read the Book of Job as is the custom.

  Even so, I am scandalized. I know I have cautioned Mama time and again to be mindful of what she does around the servants, but this flagrant disregard for our traditions is shocking. It is foolish to feel this way, considering Beatriz is imprisoned in the Holy House, but I do. To add to my foolishness, I have decided to fast and pray, and abstain from bathing or washing and wearing shoes, as is the custom. In order to do this, I have feigned illness, and taken to my bed where I have lain all morning. Mama thinks I am downcast about the divorce. She has told Papa so. But nothing could be further from the truth.

  Now, after so many hours in bed, restlessness makes me rise and walk barefoot into the hall. And that is when I hear it, a small noise at the front door, like that of a kitten scratching to be let
in. Who could be out in this downpour? Surely not the baker peddling stale bread for trenchers?

  I unpin the keys from my bodice. Since Beatriz’s imprisonment we have been locking the door, day as well as night. I pause to listen. The noise has stopped. Out of the corner of my eye I see Mama speaking to one of the servants. Papa, visible through the partially opened door of his study, is bent over a ledger. No one has noticed the sound, and just as I decide it was my imagination and turn to go, I hear it again. This time I race to the door, unlock it, then fling it open. And there, standing in the pouring rain with her hair loose and wet and clinging to her face, and her soggy clothes hugging her body so tightly it reveals how thin she has become, is Beatriz! I let out a cry that sends shoes slapping the tiles of the hall, and then I throw my arms around my sister and lift her into the house.

  We are all a tangle . . . Beatriz, Mama, Papa and I . . . as we hug and kiss and cry. The front door is still open, and against the splatter of rain and tears my heart beats out a steady rhythm: Beatriz is home, Beatriz is home, Beatriz is home.

  The morning bells chime Tierce as I finish plaiting Beatriz’s hair. Fourteen braids in all, woven together at the back of her head, mimic the style of multiple plaiting that is all the rage in Florence. Her reflection in the mirror tells me she looks beautiful. Mine is drab, for I wear a plain brown linen skirt with a lighter brown bodice that is frayed around the neck. Also, my straight auburn hair lacks adornment and is pulled back and held by simple brown netting. My attire is deliberate, the better to make Beatriz shine.

  One by one, I slip pearl-studded hair pins among Beatriz’s braids. It is an excessive decoration on a day we neither plan to go out nor entertain. I do it in hopes of lifting my sister’s spirits. Her brow sags across a pale forehead. Her lips are pinched. Since her return, I have not been able to get two words out of her, though I have employed all my skill. My impatience bubbles like a vat of Mama’s stew. Only love restrains me. It is obvious that Beatriz has been deeply wounded, a wound requiring time to heal and much patience on my part. But it is oh, so difficult. I want her to tell me everything because maybe the telling of the thing will bring her back from that dark place wherein she now resides.

  Maybe it will help her be Beatriz again.

  “There!” I slip in the last pearl. “Now you must come out of your room so Mama and Papa can see how beautiful you look.”

  Beatriz shakes her head. She has been in her room for three days, refusing to join us in the great room, or even sharing her meals. Mama has indulged her, making the servants bring food to her, but the piled trenchers they carry back after each meal reveal how little she eats. Nor has Beatriz employed herself in any industry, for her tiles remain just as she left them. And this troubles me, because too much solitary brooding is sure to produce more ill-health.

  I bend and kiss Beatriz’s cheek while glancing at her reflection. Staring back are those eyes that have haunted me, even in my dreams, ever since her return, for they are not Beatriz’s eyes.

  “This will not do,” I say, trying to sound jovial. “We have been far too lenient. Spoiling and coddling you, and allowing you to languish all alone, when what you need is your family to talk to, and kiss you, and love you back to health. I am determined to see you leave your room today!”

  “Oh, Isabel, I cannot. I have no strength.”

  “You must muster it, for we will not be able to keep Don Sebastian from storming your room much longer.” I say this in jest, and am astonished when Beatriz pales, and seizes my hand.

  “No . . . I cannot see him!” Her nails dig into my flesh. “Please, Isabel. Do not let him come.”

  I grab Beatriz’s thin shoulders and pull her off the stool, then drag her stumbling to the bed, where I make her sit down. Then I sit beside her.

  “He will come, Beatriz, and why should he not? He wants to speak with you and Papa about the new wedding plans. If there is some reason to prevent his coming, you must tell me now. You cannot keep silent. Help me understand.”

  We sit so close our shoulders touch. Then I feel her body slump. “I am with child.” Her voice is calm, but she trembles against me like a wounded sparrow. And when I look into her eyes, so shadowed and troubled, I see the awful truth, and know what has been happening at the Holy House all these months.

  “There were never any charges, Isabel. I was never suspected of any crime. Fray Alonso released me when he learned of my condition, no doubt in hopes of expunging himself from any wrongdoing. It will be easier for him to claim I am with child by another if I am released before I show.”

  “Then . . . Fray Alonso is the . . . father?”

  Beatriz rests her head against my shoulder, I think because she cannot bear to see the look on my face, and whispers, “Yes.”

  My arms pull her close. It is horrible to hear, and yet it is what I feared. The clergy have long been noted for their immorality. Many priests keep mistresses who bear them illegitimate children. And even priests who refrain from flaunting their mistresses often have housekeepers who share their beds. And now, Rodrigo de Borgia—the new Pope of Rome who has taken the name, Alexander VI—insults Christendom further by openly flaunting his own Roman mistress and numerous children. And who is there to stop it? Even important men, like Cardinal Cisneros who is much favored by the Queen, have been unable to bring reform.

  I am shaken to the marrow, and cling desperately to my sister. And for the rest of the morning we sit and cry, and hold each other tightly while Beatriz tells me all that was done to her in the name of Christ.

  The house is in an uproar. I have, with Beatriz’s permission, told Mama and Papa all that has happened, leaving nothing out. Oh how difficult! After uttering the cruel truth, I had to endure watching Mama and Papa weep with grief.

  Doctor Hernando Diaz has been called, and while we await him, I try to coax Beatriz to eat. She is as thin as an oleander leaf, and I tell her she must now eat for two—a grave mistake, for afterward she curled up on her bed and refused everything. She has not spoken a word since telling me all. Not even to Mama. Instead, she keeps to her bed, and stares at the wall with a dreadful blank look.

  I have been silently praying that the Holy One sends us a remedy for our troubles. What is to become of Beatriz? What kind of future can she possibly have now? Surely Papa will propose a divorce. Can there be any other solution for Beatriz and Sebastian? I push these thoughts from my mind. The only thing that matters now is Beatriz and the baby. Hopefully, Dr. Diaz will provide the proper medicines; though I wish the midwife was coming instead. But as we wait, Beatriz seems to slip further and further away.

  And I am greatly afraid.

  Doctor Hernando Diaz sniffs the urine in the clay bowl, examines it for sediment, then takes a sip, tasting for sugar. He places the bowl on the floor, and glances at where Mama and I watch from the foot of the bed. His look tells us that all is well. I hear Papa pacing outside, and long to relieve him of his worry, but fear of missing anything keeps me in place.

  “It seems all the humors—the bile, black bile, blood and phlegm—are in balance.” Doctor Diaz picks up the small sandglass he used when taking Beatriz’s pulse and slips it into his costly Cordovan-leather bag. He has already inquired about Beatriz’s stool and diet, and I know what he will say next.

  “But I recommend bleeding her as a precaution.”

  “If we had wanted to bleed her we would have called the barber!” I blurt, still disappointed it was not the midwife who was here to examine Beatriz’s injury to her secret parts, parts which a doctor, out of propriety, does not examine. But Mama and Papa felt it best that a general inspection by Doctor Diaz be done first.

  Mama is obviously displeased by my outburst, but the thought of someone cutting my sister when she has already endured so much in body, and is so fragile in mind, makes me bold, or perhaps contrary, I know not which. “There is no need to bleed her.” My voice is laced with an authority I do not feel.

  Doctor Diaz looks from me to Mama
, and when Mama does not contradict me, and when the bells chime Vespers, he shrugs. “Ah, well, perhaps a sleeping dram, then?” Mama nods, and he quickly pulls a small pouch from his bag, measures out a spoonful of white powder, and empties it into the goblet that stands on the table where Beatriz keeps her combs and hairnets.

  Mama summons one of the servants and asks her to bring water. And when she returns, Papa creeps in and hovers nearby. Water and powder are mixed and given to Beatriz, then Doctor Diaz closes his bag. “The hour is late. If you need me, I can return tomorrow.”

  Mama thanks him, then from her pocket pulls several coins which she deposits into his hand.

  “Perhaps you can give her milk of pulverized almonds, or a bit of barley water laced with licorice and figs.” His fingers close around the coins. “She does look rather fatigued and thin.”

  Despite my efforts to be generous in thought, I am convinced this last morsel of advice is the result of a bad conscience for having given us so little for our money. Though I should not be angry, I am. Doctor Diaz always charges two reales for purges and unguents that the corner apothecary sells for one, and in that respect exemplifies our Castilian proverb regarding physicians, “Take while the patient is in pain.”

  But when I look at Beatriz lying so quiet and still on the bed, and turned from us to face the wall, I realize it is not the money that angers me. Everyone, including Doctor Diaz, knew Beatriz had been imprisoned in the Holy House. Because Doctor Diaz is an Old Christian, and because it would be folly to accuse Fray Alonso of any wrongdoing in his presence, we did not tell him of Beatriz’s true condition. But oh, how certain we were that once he examined her, he would discover the truth for himself. But if he did, he has not said.