by Mary Morris
“Hand me the wrench,” his father’s disembodied voice says. Miguel looks at the tools spread out on the ground like on a tray at the dentist’s office. He picks up what he assumes is the wrench his father wants and places it in the hand that reaches for it from under the car. It’s weird, seeing his father like this. That hand like the ghost story about the monkey’s paw that terrified him as a child. “I’m going to have to replace this. You don’t want a rusted-out exhaust pipe.” His voice comes from a distant place.
At last Roberto slides out. “Well, it’ll take me a couple of days to do this. When do you need it?”
Miguel stares into his father’s eyes. They are familiar. They are mirrors. He knows that at least this is one place where he belongs. “When do I need it?” Miguel laughs. “Like yesterday. You know I’ve got that job.” Now, Miguel thinks, he can bring it up. He can ask his father, man to man, if it’s normal to be thinking all the time about a woman old enough to be his mother.
Roberto ruffles his son’s hair. “Right, you’re babysitting.” His father laughs, and Miguel knows that this isn’t the time to bring up his love life. He fears he’ll be made fun of. “I’ll work on it tonight. It’ll at least be safe to drive tomorrow.”
Roberto smiles, then stares back in that blank way he sometimes has, as if he has no idea who Miguel is. And at other times he looks at Miguel with his lips pursed in a way that makes Miguel feel as if his father has something he wants to tell him but he never does. A big question looms between them like a wall. It is as if they are double agents, unsure of whom they can trust.
“And I’m going to start getting that truck in shape for you.” His father points to the old El Camino that sits in the dirt. Miguel looks at the pickup that’s been rusting in his father’s yard for more than a year now. He looks back at his father.
“Well, I was going to get it done for your birthday, but I guess it’ll be your early Christmas present instead.”
Miguel chuckles. “Sure, Dad. That’d be great.” He’s fairly certain he won’t be driving that truck anytime soon.
“Get in the car before your mother starts to worry about you. I’ll drop you off, then bring it back in the morning.” Miguel jumps into the driver’s side of his father’s truck.
“You know, I got a postcard from Aunt Elena,” Miguel says as they drive.
Roberto nods, looking straight ahead. “Oh yeah? How’s she doing?”
Miguel shrugs. “I don’t know. She never says.”
“Where was she this time?”
“Morocco.”
Roberto nods again, not looking at his son. “Where the hell is Morocco?”
“It’s in North Africa,” Miguel answers. “I looked it up.”
Roberto shrugs. “That’s a long way from here.” They drive the rest of the way in silence.
When they pull into the driveway, Miguel gets out. “You wanna come inside?”
But his father shakes his head. “Better if I don’t.” And he drives off into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BEATRICE DE LUNA—1535
Throughout her son’s childhood, Inez Cordero told him a story that he thought was a fairy tale. Benjamin loved this story so much that he made her repeat it night after night. She told him that once she’d found a naked boy at a river’s edge, feeding himself on raw fish and ripened fruit that had fallen from trees. She’d cradled him on a long voyage and he became her own. With each telling the story grew. The boy was a feral child, raised by whatever beasts roamed the island. A tortoise taught him how to fish. He rode on the backs of dolphins. Mermaids suckled him at their breasts.
But it wasn’t until her death, when he was almost a man, that Benjamin Cordero understood this wasn’t a story at all; it was his life. He held Inez’s hands and wept as she told him from her deathbed that most of the fairy tale—minus mythological creatures and friendly animals—was true. She told him that she believed he was the child of the interpreter who sailed with Columbus. A man who may have gone to Cuba and become rich or who may have been killed. No one knew much about him or his fate, except that he was a Jew. Benjamin had only to go piss against a tree to see that this was true. And then she left him alone in this world.
For weeks he rumbled around his house alone. His grandmother was long dead and Amelia, their servant, let go. In the night he sat in the courtyard, staring at the sky. How many days had he played alone within these walls? Benjamin lost himself in the darkness. He ate sporadically and even then it was only random things he found in the cupboards: an egg, a chunk of moldy cheese, the remnants of a chocolate bar. He had managed to survive before and so he would survive now. He just was not sure how. He wallowed in his loneliness. After all, he was accustomed to it. He had grown up with barely anyone around him, but now his mother’s absence left a gaping wound in his heart. He was stunned at the depth of his grief and by the many questions that plagued him.
When she died, her secrets died with her. He had planned to ask her why she had sailed on that ship. What had brought her to him? And why did her own mother despise her? His mother would never talk of such things. She would only say, “Because that is how it was.” He thought he’d have more time. There were mysteries hidden within his bones and now he would have no way to solve them. He had to accept amid the solitude of these walls that there were some things he would never know.
It was at the moment of his deepest despair that Francisco Mendes knocked on his door. Benjamin was surprised to find a short, stocky man standing there in his brown leggings and cape. “May I come in?” Francisco Mendes asked. He was one of the brothers of the great House of Mendes—conversos from Spain who, when the Jews were expelled, had brought their expertise with them to Portugal. Francisco ran the daily workings of the Mendes spice-trading business from Lisbon, while his older brother, Diogo, who lived in Amsterdam, imported pepper and other spices to northern Europe—spices that had made them wealthy men.
“Of course,” Benjamin replied. He was stunned out of his misery. Around him he saw the filth and squalor he’d been living in, but Francisco didn’t bat an eye as they walked into Benjamin’s living quarters. “I have nothing to offer you,” Benjamin said.
“Oh,” Francisco replied, “I believe you do.” He settled himself on the corner of an unmade bed. “I understand your circumstances. I will only bother you for a moment.” Francisco had heard of Inez’s death, and he knew that she had schooled Benjamin in the art of chocolate. In recent years Francisco had observed Benjamin on the docks, waiting for the ships to come in, haggling with the merchants, and buying what was required to make chocolate. Francisco was also aware that just across the border in France, converso Jews were teaching the French how to make chocolate bars, pan au chocolat and chocolate truffles, stuffed with cherries and rum. “You have a nose for this business,” Francisco said and he offered Benjamin a position as expediter when his ships came in.
This was nearly twenty years ago, and Benjamin has worked as an expediter for the House of Mendes ever since. Now he is one of Francisco’s most trusted workers. It is Benjamin who convinced Francisco to rent the large warehouse on Rua de Lava Cabecas. For almost two decades Benjamin Cordero has stood at the docks. Only Benjamin was trusted to put his fists into the sacks of pepper and clove and sniff the spices to determine if they are fit to be sold by the House of Mendes. Only Benjamin signs the papers that send the ships on to Antwerp and beyond.
Now Benjamin is making his way to Francisco Mendes’s town house on the Rua Nova dos Mercadores. Francisco’s wife, Beatrice de Luna, summoned Benjamin from the docks just as a ship filled with curry leaves came in, and Benjamin understood that there was only one reason why Beatrice would call him at this time. Francisco is about to die. Benjamin sends word to his young wife, Leonora, that he will not be home for lunch. Then he moves quickly past the silk workshops, the bookstalls and shoemakers, the tailors and haberdasheries and apothecaries—almost all of which are owned and run by conversos. People w
ho for the past four years—since the Inquisition became official in Portugal—have feared once again for their lives.
As Benjamin wends his way, he wonders what Beatrice will ask of him. He knows that Francisco cannot have much time. And he also knows that soon Beatrice will be widowed and alone.
* * *
Beatrice de Luna sits in a silk armchair beside their bed, watching her husband die. He has been ill for months with a pain that began in his stomach and soon took over his entire body. All the elixirs that the doctors provided could not quell it. His skin is yellow and painful to the touch. The tinctures of milk thistle have done nothing to quell the vomit of green bile and blood. Death would be a blessing.
Soon she will have to call the priest to administer the last rites, but she is waiting for Benjamin to arrive. He will help her do what needs to be done now. He will help her husband die as a Jew. At the moment Beatrice is numb and afraid. It seems as if she has only just come to love Francisco and now she is about to lose him. And she relies on him for a million things. But her future is mapped out for her and she doubts that she’ll be able to overcome its darkness. Were it not for her little daughter, Ana, who clings to her skirts, Beatrice would be in utter despair.
Beatrice was only eighteen when her father agreed to allow her to marry her mother’s brother. Beatrice begged her father not to force her to do this—not only because Francisco was her uncle (many daughters married their blood relatives in order to keep the family estates intact) but also because he was more than twice her age. Indeed to her he was an old man, but the House of Mendes was too rich and powerful for her father to decline.
At first Beatrice shuddered at her husband’s touch. On their wedding night she felt ill when he raised the skirt of her nightgown. She could not bear his caresses. His kiss revolted her. After all he was her uncle, and she had grown up playing at his feet. And he was not what she’d imagined for herself. He was large, almost portly, with a head of thinning gray hair. And she wondered why he had not married until now, though it was clear that he’d had women before her. He knew where to touch her and how. He knew that his tongue would bring her pleasure. But she resisted him.
Night after night she stayed in her room with her door bolted. During the first weeks of their marriage he didn’t bother asking if he might visit her again. It was clear that he wasn’t welcome. But he was a patient man. He waited for her in the mornings before he ate his bread and cheese, before he sipped his hot chocolate. He was never in a hurry when it came to her, even listening to her chatter. He never forced himself on her and with time she grew accustomed to his caresses. The way he brushed his hand over her hair, the way he touched the small of her back when leading her into the dining room. Eventually she opened her door. And with time she came to want him. The way his lips found her nipples, the way his finger moved between her legs. He awakened in her something she’d never known existed, and for this alone she was grateful. Even on the rare nights when he did not visit, she could pleasure herself. She had found comfort in his arms. She never slept better than she did with her head on Francisco’s chest. He held her in the most gentle of ways, as if she were a gift, wrapped for the giving. She had grown used to him in her bed, and now they shared this child, their Ana. The proof that she had come to love him in her own way.
They settled into married life. Though he was one of the richest and most powerful men in all of Europe, he was kind. He treated their servants and workers well. He never raised his voice to her. He bought her this beautiful home on the Rua Nova dos Mercadores and set up his offices on the ground floor. They’d had every meal together since they’d married eight years ago.
She had come to love him. She was surprised when she began to anticipate their nights together. Once she unlocked her door, she rarely bolted it again. Even when she bled and in the early stages of her pregnancy, she allowed him into her chamber. And when she grew larger with the child, he came at night to hold her. She had been stunned by the comfort that a man’s arms could bring. And now she was preparing to say goodbye.
She sits in her armchair, the red velvet curtains of her room drawn. She will not allow the sun to shine today. She will not allow time to move on. In the courtyard she hears the house bell ring. Benjamin has received her summons. Beatrice knows that Benjamin will do anything for her. Though she wonders if he will do what she is about to ask.
* * *
As Benjamin enters the room, he is stunned by the putrid smell of death and by Francisco, so diminished, so pale and thin—this once enormous and powerful man. Yet even from his deathbed he has managed to revamp his will. He has had half of his estate transferred to his brother in Antwerp. Of the remaining half he has allotted a third to his wife, a third to his daughter, and a third to cover the costs of his funeral because Francisco has at last made peace with his death and with the fact that in public he must die a Catholic, but in his heart he will die a Jew.
He has left careful instructions for his funeral procession. Exactly how many carriages and horses will be required. How many men in uniform to accompany his coffin. The money that must be paid to the priests and to the great cathedral, not to mention the contributions to the papacy and various charities in order to maintain the semblance of a good Christian life. And finally he had secured the secret funds for which his wife will continue their work of enabling conversos to leave Portugal and establish lives for themselves elsewhere in the world.
As the stench of death almost overwhelms him, Benjamin takes in the room. Beatrice, her head bowed, sits holding her husband’s hand, his nurses and doctor at his side. His banker is waiting with more papers to sign. Beatrice signals for them all to leave. Now Benjamin approaches and kneels before her in respect, kissing her hand. “I came as quickly as I could.”
Beatrice motions for him to stand. “Yes, I knew you would. I need you to do something, Benjamin. I need you to do one last thing for him and it would mean the world to me.”
“You know I will do anything for you and your family.”
“Yes, that is why I sent for you. In a little while I must call the priest to come and administer last rites.”
As Benjamin listens, he gazes at her trembling white hands, her soft round face. But it is those dark, demanding eyes that he can’t turn away from. Eyes that compel him to do whatever she desires, as he has done since she was a girl when he first came to work for the House of Mendes. “What is it that you wish?”
“Francisco cannot be alive when the priest arrives. He must die now as a Jew.”
He wishes he could wrap his arms around her and hold her. He thinks of the comfort he could bring her. And bring himself. He is wondering if this is the moment when he betrays his wife and declares his love for Beatrice. He has loved her for years. But he does not think he is capable of doing what she is asking. He stands before her shaking his head. “I cannot.”
Beatrice de Luna grips his arm. “If you do, I will get you and your family safely out of Portugal. I will protect you, and I will make certain that you never want for anything. You may go anywhere you wish. I can make this happen.”
Benjamin nods. He knows that this is not idle talk. She can do what she says. For years now Beatrice and Francisco have watched over a vast escape network for conversos throughout Spain and Portugal. When the Inquisition came to Portugal, the first thing the king did was prevent the Jews from leaving. In this way they could not take their great wealth and commerce with them.
But the House of Mendes had thus far been spared. Just days before the papal bull that authorized the Inquisition in Portugal, Francisco Mendes and his family were granted a personal exemption by the pope himself. But who knows once Francisco is gone how long this exemption will remain? Benjamin thinks of his own wife and small son, Balthazar, and another child on the way. He has long lived in fear of being betrayed. For his wife, Leonora, is also a converso, and in the secrecy of their home they light candles and whisper their Hebrew prayers.
Benjamin understan
ds what she is asking. It is a known practice among the secret Jews to kill the dying just before the priest arrives and to turn the body to the wall to ensure that they will depart this world as Jews.
She clasps his hands between her own. “Please.”
At last Benjamin nods. “I will do this for you.”
Beatrice gasps. “Thank you.” She turns to her husband whose rasping breath has become a rattle. She stoops down and kisses him on his forehead, whispering into his ear. Benjamin knows what she is saying. She is assuring him that she is carrying out his final instructions and wishing him a safe journey. She slips a coin between her husband’s lips to pay the way for his soul to travel into the next world. “I will send for the priest,” she says, lowering her voice. Then she leaves the room.
When she is gone, Benjamin sits beside his patron. He too has loved Francisco. Francisco gave him work and has been like a father to him. Benjamin reaches for the pillow and raises it. A strange flutter passes through his mind like a memory that he is not even sure he remembers. And just as suddenly the memory is gone. With all the strength and tenderness he can muster he presses the pillow to Francisco’s face. Francisco grabs Benjamin by the arms, but Benjamin holds firm. Still Francisco fights but soon he weakens. Within moments his benefactor is gone. Then he turns Francisco Mendes’s body to the wall and silently recites the prayer for the dead.
That night Benjamin stays awake beside his wife. Her breathing is heavy as she lies on her back. This pregnancy seems more difficult than the first. Leonora has been ill and the baby is pinching her spine. They have not been married that long and though he admires her, he cannot say he loves her. He has loved another woman for too long. One he now knows he will never have. Once he had believed that Beatrice felt something for him as well. The way her dark eyes seemed to pierce him. She seemed to know him in ways that he did not even know himself. He had watched her emerge from a child into a young woman. She had become not a beauty but a woman with a powerful will. But today he realized that what he had hoped for would never come to be. She was now a wealthy widow, perhaps one of the wealthiest women in the world. Why would she want to give that up for a man, even a lover, who might lay claim to her freedom and fortune?