The Bookseller's Sonnets

by Andi Rosenthal

  “Excellent,” Michael said, as I opened the door and lugged the heavy steel case in from the hallway. “I’ll inform the authorities that you’ve located Jimmy Hoffa.”

  “Shut up and give me a hand,” I said breathlessly. “I had to carry this all the way from the subway.”

  “And then you had to schlep it up four flights of stairs,” Michael added. “Here, let me help you.” He took it from me as I shut the door. “Jill, this is really heavy. You should have called me from the station. I would have come down and given you a hand.”

  “It’s not so bad. Just bulky,” I said, and gave him a kiss.

  “So what’s inside?”

  “The mystery artifact,” I said. “And a load of packing material.”

  “You actually brought it home? That’s great,” Michael’s eyes were warm with excitement. “Can we take it out now?”

  “Not a chance,” I told him breezily. “First, we have dinner. Then we clean off the table, and then we clean off the cleaner that we used to clean the table, and then we make sure that there are absolutely no beverages, no liquid substances, no dust, and no dirt of any kind in the room. Then we lower the heat and get the room down to a reasonable temperature. And then,” I said, taking the roll out of my bag with a flourish, “we cover the table with this paper.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “And then?”

  “Then, and only then, do I risk my job and my professional reputation by taking the manuscript out of its case.” I brushed my hair out of my eyes. “I hate bringing artifacts home, as you know, but I’m even more paranoid than usual about this one.”

  “So that means if I spill coffee on it, I have to represent you in the lawsuit.”

  “No, that means if you spill coffee on it, I will find a way to have you disbarred and possibly killed. Because then, and only then, will we be even.”

  “Well, all righty then,” he grinned. “Let’s have dinner. I can’t wait to take a look.”

  After going through all of the preparations, Michael and I finally opened the case and laid the manuscript out on the table. “It definitely looks old,” he said, as I set the book squarely in the middle of the paper.

  “It does. But as Larry pointed out today, the difference between an object that looks four or five hundred years old and one which is actually only one hundred years old – but looks older - is negotiable. We just don’t know what we’re dealing with yet. Still, he said he would make some calls – discreet calls – to people in the field who might be able to help us date it.”

  I handed Michael a spare set of gloves and watched as he put them on. “Good idea,” he said, “bringing these home.”

  I was glad I had remembered the second pair. The last thing I wanted, I thought, was for Michael to feel excluded from any other part of my life.

  I carefully opened the book, and together we peered at the pages. Michael squinted at the elaborate writing, and I watched his face as he read the poem on the first page.

  He read in silence, and then he looked at me. “It’s a sonnet,” he said.

  I looked at the poem, and then at him. “You’re right. I was so focused on the story that the form of the poems hadn’t even occurred to me.”

  “This has all the elements,” he said. “Check it out. Fourteen lines, the right amount of syllables, and it’s written in iambic pentameter, which, if I remember correctly, is ten beats per line.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And it follows the right format in terms of stresses on the particular syllables.”

  “And the rhyme scheme is Petrarchan,” he pointed to the last few lines of the text.

  “You’re right,” I said, smiling. “How cool is it to find out that I’m not the only person in this relationship who studied poetry?”

  He grinned. “Pre-law, art history, English literature. It’s all humanities.”

  “God bless the liberal arts degree,” I said wryly. “And here we thought it was all useless knowledge.”

  We smiled at one another. Finally, Michael spoke. “Let’s keep reading.”

  I sat at the table and watched him as he read the manuscript, carefully turning the pages. He seemed to be concentrating deeply on the words before him. Only once did he look up, after he saw the Spanish notation.

  “This is what you were talking about, right?” he asked.

  I nodded as he looked at it. “Did you find out what it says?” he asked me.

  “I asked someone at work to translate it. It’s from an ancient Jewish text, which is, so far, the only Jewish thing about this book. It’s a kind of proverb, which tells the reader to set time aside for studying Torah, to say little and do much, and to greet others with a cheerful smile. But I think,” I hesitated for a moment, “that it might have something to do with what’s going on in the author’s story. You know, how she first meets this person Daniel? He certainly didn’t greet her with a cheerful smile.”

  “Well, she interrupted him,” Michael said. “He was busy. He said he was studying.”

  “The way she describes it, his manner is just so odd,” I said. “There’s something more going on here.”

  “Well, do you think she interrupted the time he set aside for studying Torah?” Michael asked. “With this notation in the text, there might be something Jewish taking place here.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. “I don’t know how likely that is,” I said to Michael. “There were supposedly no Jews in England at that time. Following the Spanish Inquisition, most of the nations of Europe denied citizenship to Jews. In fact, most countries followed the example of Spain and persecuted any Jews who remained among them. So the study of Torah probably would have been an offense punishable by death.”

  “What about the Jews who left Spain after the Inquisition? Would any of them have fled to England?”

  “If they did,” I said, “they’d be conversos –Jews who lived as Christians, and practiced Judaism in secret. That’s the direction that we started talking about in our meeting today, when we tried to figure out what the Spanish notation might indicate.”

  “Maybe that’s who this Daniel is,” Michael said. “A converso.”

  “Could be,” I said. “Let’s keep reading.”

  As he turned the next couple of pages, I stood from my chair and went around to his side of the table. “This is where I left off,” I said, as we turned the page together.

  My heart is pierced by one who does forsake

  The mind my father loved. This evil one

  Who preens himself as More my father’s son

  Than his own child. This garden snake

  Supplanted my own Eden, and did wake

  The clouds of doubt. But it is done.

  This prideful husband, silenced wife, and none

  Is wiser. Father, how I long to shake

  The blinders from your eyes. Excellent man!

  Do not believe the son you love is true

  To your sweet word. He binds me in this cage

  Of dire philosophy, that woman’s plan

  Is but to serve, and not to think. And you -

  And you, who taught me all, taught me not rage.

  There was no peace upon the House of More after the storm of my unwanted and unwilling betrothal broke over us all.

  In private, in what should have been the most tender time between a man and woman promised to one another in marriage, William, like some vengeful and angry God, poured out his wrath at what he deemed to be my faithless and willful heart. But in the depths of his empty soul, I knew the pleasure he took in seeing me bend to his will and my father’s. I, who had been brought up to increase and apply the knowledge of my own mind, was suddenly forced to surrender to the impending dread of my bridal day, when my wisdom and learning would be relegated to a dark place where it would wither and die.

  My dearest sister Cecily was inconsolable. No word would she hear from me in my own defense; even as I humbly bowed my head in the presence of her heartbreak, and as my own soul s
hattered to know that her sweetness towards me would be no more, and that her dear innocent heart would be forever bruised and broken. She would not look at me; it was as if she had no elder sister. No name would she call me; no plea from my father softened her heart; and when we sat in the same space together I remained unacknowledged and unseen by her dear familiar eyes.

  And when I watched her eyes, so frequently veiled with tears, I saw them filled with love and affection for William; though he betrayed her by falsely delighting in me while in her presence – as if to pronounce his own cruel sentence upon us both. My father, believing William’s feigned affection for me, was reassured that my future would be sealed in joy; he did not see Cecily’s despondence, or if he did, he did not take her pain upon his conscience the way I did. Because I had been the cause of her suffering, I did not want to shield my father from it; but as I prepared for my bridal day, my father made no time for us to be alone, and because William was always at my side, the justice I wished to pursue in Cecily’s name remained trapped, blind and silenced, in my heart.

  I was determined, before I wed, to tell Cecily of my pain at having destroyed her hope of a life and love with William, and that had there been any choice given me, I would have gladly stepped aside and spared her this heartbreak.

  I thought to write these words in a letter to my dear sister, since she wouldst not look upon me, nor listen to me if I tried speaking with her. And thus, in search of the parchment and quills that my husband-to-be now forbid me, I returned to the bookseller Daniel in whose shop I had retreated from the grim London rain.

  In the middle of the afternoon I stole from the house, whilst William and my father attended to matters of law, and as the sun journeyed through a sky the colour of bluebells at daybreak, I made my way back into the city. This time, I had dressed carefully, plainly gowned in dark grey with my face was shrouded in a thick veil, so that I would pass, mostly unnoticed, along the city streets.

  Indeed, without my father’s care and Cecily’s affection, I felt the abandonment of a widowed heart, and as I covered my face before setting out on my journey, I wished that I could someday be freed from my terrible future with William by a widow’s veil, instead of donning the bride’s veil that would bind me to him until death.

  Upon my entering the shop I heard the silver bell over my head, and waited for him to appear. He looked less fearful than he had the first time.

  -Mistress More, he said, with a slight bow and less condescension than I expected in his dark eyes. Thou art returnèd.

  -I have, I said, also bowing slightly to match his gesture. I am in need of paper and quills.

  -I have both, he said, and also some words for thee.

  -What words are these, I asked.

  -Words of penitence, he said, and there was warmth in his eyes as he spoke. I am afraid that my manner upon our first meeting was most inappropriate. Thou hast been right; courtesy is not merely required of courtiers.

  -Thou art forgiven, I said quickly. And yet, there was doubt in my soul, for perhaps he believed I would make a better purchase, if indeed he was kind to me as he had not been before.

  -I thank thee, he said simply. And then, he seemed to examine me closely. Why dost thou clothe yourself in the garments of mourning? he asked me. Has there been illness or death among those dwelling in thy house?

  There was genuine concern and civility in his tone. –I thank thee, I said. But in truth, neither has come to us. In fact, I am to be wed.

  He gazed upon me with eyes that seemed to see the truth. –So I have heard. And yet, he said quietly, there seems to be no joy within thee.

  I did not know what to say to him. I watched his eyes upon me, and knew that I would fain keep silent than to insult him with a lie.

  -Thou has spoken in truth, I said, for my betrothal brings not joy. It has brought only sadness and despair to my house, and troubles my heart with fear.

  -All women fear marriage, he said. But – he checked himself – from what is said of thee and thy wit, thy learning and thy grasp of ideas, thou art not like other women. Yet with thy great learning, what is it that thou dost fear? Daniel asked of me.

  I wondered how Daniel had come by his knowledge of my learning, and then I thought of William, and his determination to divide me from it, and from all that I held dear, my books and my papers, my knowledge and my sacred study. – I know not, I said to Daniel. –Perhaps it is only the loss of my own courage. For I have never known such fear.

  My words seemed to trouble him. The darkness of his eyes and the uprightness of his posture seemed suddenly weighted by sadness.

  -Have I spoken out of turn? I asked hastily, for a sadness has settled upon thee.

  He looked at me for a long moment, as if he could know my very soul, before he spoke, and his quietness of his voice filled the silence like a soft melody.

  - I know fear, he said to me. It is my dearest friend and companion for these many years.

  “Look at this,” Michael said.

  On the bottom of the page, at the edge of the paper, next to these lines, there was another notation, this time in Hebrew.

  “Another note,” Michael said. “Is it the same handwriting?”

  “It looks that way,” I said. “But thankfully, it’s not in Spanish. After all of these years at the museum, Hebrew I can manage.”

  I looked at the letters. “This says Ish harbo el-y’recho, mipchad balaila. I know this text. It means, ‘Every man has his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night.’ Well, that makes sense. He’s talking about being afraid of something.”

  “If Daniel was a converso,” Michael added, “he had a lot to be afraid of.”

  I looked at Michael. “Actually, this SS348 is a citation I recognize – it’s verse three, line forty-eight, from the Song of Songs, which is one of the most beautiful love poems ever written.”

  Michael looked impressed. “How did you know that?”

  “From studying poetry, of course,” I joked. And then I blushed. “And also, because when I met you,” I said softly, “I re-read it.”

  We smiled at one another, and then he reached out and caressed my face with a gloved fingertip. We looked at one another for a long moment without saying anything more. Then we continued reading.

  I turned the page. Another verse of poetry unfolded before our eyes. “Is this from the Song of Songs, too?” Michael asked me.

  “No, it’s another sonnet,” I said. “And it’s in Margaret’s handwriting.”

  13

  Upon my lips shall fate’s kiss place her seal.

  My maidenhood coerced, by birthright sold

  And still, a mystery doth yet unfold

  As letters on the sacred page reveal.

  Two souls entwined by separate ordeal —

  Upon my troth another’s plight is told

  Of Summer’s journey fair to distant cold

  And how Spring’s veil of rain thy faith conceal.

  Though tossed by tempest cruel of fear and loss

  Haply the sun of thy sweet eyes hath gazed

  Upon my loveless countenance in Hell.

  This new redeemer bears not wounds nor cross,

  Tho’ with the light of truth, thine eyes have blazed

  With fire in which my soul desires to dwell.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t notice these were sonnets,” I said to Michael.

  “This one is certainly different,” he remarked. “The others are so angry. Or they’re about scholarship. This one seems to be a love poem.”

  “Which was the original purpose of the form,” I concluded. “Almost every sonnet I’ve ever read was a love poem.”

  “I think there’s more evidence here that he’s Jewish, if in fact she is talking about Daniel,” Michael said. ‘This new redeemer bears not wounds nor cross. That’s powerful imagery. And in the last line, there’s the image of her soul desiring to dwell in fire. There’s already a direct reference to Hell a couple of lines before that; d
o you think she meant that she was attracted to him enough to turn her back on her own faith?”

  “It could be,” I said. I didn’t really want to go down the road of this conversation, so I pointed to the lines above the end. “This certainly points to a converso’s journey from Spain to England – ‘summer’s journey fair to distant cold, and how spring’s veil of rain thy faith conceal.’”

  Michael nodded. I noticed that he turned the page as carefully as I would have.

  As I have stated: I did not know what it was I feared, for I did not know my fate; but it was a bright summer’s day that my fear was realized. On that bright morning, the Holy God turned his face from me, and imprisoned my soul in a holy bond with the apprentice William.

  Some weeks before the marriage I was forced to the Church to plight our troth, to head the banns read aloud. My dearest Cecily was there, her hands bearing blossoms even as her fair countenance bore sadness and despair; my sisters and brother attended me as well; seeming pleased with my fate so firmly and inextricably sealed for all time. And of course, my foolish father, that trusting soul, alight with God’s grace as he heard the sacred decree that would seal my soul in despair forever.

  I had taken my leave of Daniel the day before, with quills and scrolls of paper newly purchased, with which I hoped I could write not only to my fairest sister, but also to my father. I wished to tell him of William’s incivility, of his desire to defraud and defame my father of his years of noble service, and to take all that my father had earned for his own. And of course, I wished to confess most humbly to Cecily – to beg pardon for the unintentional sin of her distress that had led to the strife that now severed the bonds of our family like an unholy blade.

  I had continued my conversation with the bookseller Daniel most civilly, for after I inquired of the source of his fear he made no answer, only with brusque cheer did he then direct my attention to the items I had come to purchase from him. And yet, an uncertainty in his eyes belied the careful dignity in his manner.

  As I took my leave of him, he gazed upon me most kindly, and said – Fear not, daughter of justice, for in thy marriage I shall pray that no harm comes to thee. And should you ever be afraid, know that thou hast true friends among those who seek wisdom.