The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring

by Agustín Bernaldo Palatchi

  As soon as Mauricio arrived home, his wife greeted him looking extremely upset, her eyes welling with tears.

  “Something terrible has happened, Mauricio!” exclaimed Lorena, bursting into tears and mumbling unintelligibly about the children of God and Satan.

  “It was all my fault,” interrupted Cateruccia, looking contrite. “This morning when you and the mistress were out, a small group of children called at the door asking for gifts. As it is carnival time and Carlo had baked some almond and honey sweetmeats wrapped in a delicious flaky pastry, I wanted to give them a few. On opening the door, two Dominican priests suddenly appeared on either side of these children. The older one, an ancient albino looking like a corpse with a grim, pallid countenance, produced an anonymous letter accusing the members of this household of practicing Jewish rituals in secret. They threatened me and the rest of the servants with arrest as accomplices if we did not let them examine the mansion.”

  Mauricio had already noticed many stone collection boxes with copper-lined slits in them, euphemistically called “Holes of Truth,” scattered around the city enabling anyone who wished to slip in an anonymous accusation. The usual procedure was that after being checked, the ufficiali di notte, the night officials and custodians of morality, decided whether to reject the case or open an investigation. Apparently, the friars of San Marcos convent had ignored all the rules and had taken advantage of Cateruccia’s credulity.

  “It is quite obvious that they had been spying on us,” said Lorena, whose anger had dried her tears, “because they called at the door just after both of us had gone out. And one of the Savonarola militia was Giovanni, my sister’s eldest son! I’m sure it was him, instigated by his father, who made the accusation. All relations with my sister and her family are now broken forever. I do not want to have anything more to do with them.”

  Mauricio agreed with his wife. It was bound to be Luca who was behind this and he might have been the one who had circulated the rumors against him. Although Mauricio was Christian to the core, an absurd sensation had overcome him. Could the Dominicans have found something that might incriminate him? Perhaps he did have motives to worry. After all, Jaume, his uncle, and family had lodged in the palazzo for three weeks before leaving for Turkey. What if they had inadvertently left some object of worship particular to the Jews? He had the foreboding that in these dark times any passing cloud could unleash a storm. At least, he consoled himself, the ring was safe, as the chessboard-patterned floor in the entrance hall remained intact.

  “I was terrified and did not know what to do,” continued Cateruccia. “If I did not let them in, I feared they might arrest us and search the mansion anyway. Besides, I would have bet everything I possess, and more, against anyone who would accuse those who dwell in this household of practicing Jewish rites in secret. If after having looked after Lorena since she was born and being a housekeeper here for fifteen years something like that could have escaped my notice, I would deserve to have my head put on the block and chopped off. So I said to myself: if you cannot beat them, join them and I said to the clerics that I would show them around the house with great pleasure, accompanied by my Carlo, seeing as there was nothing to hide from their worships’ eyes. However, I did insist very firmly that the little ones go back to the street, seeing as I was not willing to consent to any kind of disturbance in the absence of my masters. The friars happily agreed and proceeded to examine the mansion. All of our eight eyes went looking together to make sure that nobody could find proof of objects that were not there to begin with, because as the master knows only too well, in these troubled times, not even those anointed by God can really be trusted.”

  “You acted in the very best possible way you could,” said Mauricio, calming her down and admiring the astute way she had handled the situation.

  “Thank you, sir. The Dominicans, men whose noses are as sharp as their eyes are keen, first wanted to inspect the kitchen. Well now, if what they hoped to find there was unleavened bread and strings of garlic and onion, they had to leave with their tails between their legs, because our pantry was generously provided with bacon, from which my good Carlo had melted some lard and prepared dough to make pastries that were so exquisite that even their worships praised them.”

  As he heard this, Mauricio instinctively relaxed. Through his friend Elias he knew very well that in Spain, one of the favorite ways of uncovering Jews posing as Christians was to scrutinize their eating habits. False converts fried their food in oil, never in lard, and only ate pork if their life was threatened by refusing to eat it in public. They also liked seasoning their dishes with garlic and onion and for that reason were accused of smelling like Jews. It was, in fact, the Dominican friars who created a celebrated method for smoking out Spanish marranos or false converts. Knowing their custom of not cooking on Saturday, they installed watchtowers and lookouts in high buildings from which they could pick out the houses that did not emit smoke on those days. If they found baptized converts living there, they had enough reason to convict them. Many Spanish marranos were discovered using that trick until it became known, and from then on, they always made sure to have smoking chimneys on the Sabbath. Fortunately, the kitchen of his house was the very best defense against the slanders of being a camouflaged Jew, thought Mauricio.

  “However,” continued Cateruccia, “the Dominicans were still not satisfied and insisted on continuing to sniff around. What did they think they would find? A menorah, with its seven candles? A shofar, the Jewish ram’s horn? Or maybe even a Torah or Talmud? Maybe precisely that, because after searching through the two first floors with a disappointed look on their faces, the older one of the two asked me slyly if I could show him the library.”

  The books, of course, Mauricio said to himself. Fortunately, he knew no Hebrew and had nothing in that language, but any work of literature that certain men of culture in Lorenzo’s lifetime might have admired would now be considered as a lure from Satan.

  “And so, what did they make of my modest literary collection?” asked Mauricio, hiding his fear.

  “Both friars started reading the titles on the spines with grim expressions, catching each other’s eyes disapprovingly every now and then. After finishing their examination, the younger one of the two took a couple of books by Boccaccio, the Decameron and the Elegy. The older monk then spat on them, proclaiming that such books were an affront to Christianity and would have the fate they deserved, which was to be thrown into the flames. He then took a work by Ovid, Metamorphoses if I remember correctly, and proceeded to lecture his companion on how philosophy could be as dangerous as eroticism. One cannot help asking oneself what kind of people they want to convert us into, these sanctimonious men who abhor both the mind and sex. Of course I did not let them be party to my thoughts, but on the contrary apologized, assuring them that these copies were kept in the library because they were a present from an old comrade who had died a long time ago. ‘Tell me who your friends are and I shall tell you who you are. In any case, we are going to do you the favor of clearing all this filth out of your library. You tell your masters that these books will be burned in the bonfire of vanities with which we shall be celebrating the beginning of Lent,’ said the albino friar.”

  Mauricio took a deep breath. Had they searched more thoroughly, they might have come across the book of Enoch, an apocryphal work whose discovery could have caused him into a lot of trouble. Luckily he had taken the precaution of hiding it behind books that would not arouse suspicion, such as the chivalrous Attila Flagellum Dei by Incola da Casola, The Sonnets by Gaspare Visconti, the sentimental poem Cirifo Calvaneo by Luca Pulci, and The Divine Comedy, masterpiece of Florentine literature.

  “But that is not all,” warned Lorena who was still very upset. “They took something I know will cause you great sadness.”

  “As they left the library,” explained Cateruccia, “the albino friar, who seemed to be calling the tune, insisted on examining the owner of the house’s study. When we s
howed it to him he reacted like a man possessed the moment he saw the sanguine drawing hanging upon one of the walls. He then said contemptuously, ‘We know this Leonardo da Vinci well. This sodomite rejects Christ and the church. Lucky for him, he lives in Milan, because if he were here there would be no escaping the punishment he so well deserves. We shall not accept under any circumstances that his nauseating creations be allowed to infect Florence. This drawing is living proof of his ungodliness and will be burned in the bonfire with the rest of the pagan pictures we find.’”

  “They took your friend Leonardo’s drawing,” said Lorena, evidently moved. “They came in here in broad daylight, and robbed it with impunity, hiding their true nature as robbers by dressing up in monks’ habits. Thank goodness our children were not here this morning to witness this new humiliation!”

  “I am deeply sorry,” Cateruccia apologized. “The conviction and ferocity they showed toward Leonardo was so great I would not have had the strength to oppose them, although they never took anything else from the house after that.”

  “Do not worry, Cateruccia” Mauricio tried to lift her spirits. “You acted with great prudence.”

  So in the end, they never did find any evidence with which they could accuse him. Mauricio sighed with relief. Yet he was deeply hurt that they had deprived him of the drawing Leonardo had given him as a present eleven years ago, celebrating his visit to Milan shortly after his friend had finally established himself in the city. That sanguine drawing was nothing less than a sketch in preparation for Leonardo’s first commission there. The brotherhood of the Immaculate Conception had commissioned him to paint an altar piece that was to depict the Virgin Mary, the infant Jesus, and two prophets surrounded by angels playing musical instruments amid ornate decorations covered in gold leaf. Leonardo, faithful only to his own genius, completely ignored the instructions, to such an extent that the Virgin of the Rocks, as it came to be known, bore very little resemblance to the brotherhood’s commission. The painting depicted two small children, Jesus and Saint John the Baptist, under the watchful eye of Mary and the angel Uriel, set in a dreamlike, rocky landscape. The drawing was a marvel of charm and delicacy. Now, was Leonardo truly abhorring Christ? Certainly not in public. Could the sketch contain some hidden, offensive message against the church, as the Dominican friars had claimed in front of Cateruccia? Mauricio believed it was not so, despite the peculiarities it might have contained, something he had always attributed to Leonardo’s extravagant personality. Yet he would not have challenged the opinion of the Dominicans, for Leonardo’s true beliefs were as evanescent as his paintings, always leaving more questions in the air than answers.

  102

  Luca was not surprised that the Dominicans had not found any conclusive proof in Mauricio’s mansion. Lorena’s crafty husband must have already eliminated any incriminating evidence. He would have realized he could be denounced not only for letting himself be seen entering a synagogue accompanied by his friend Elias, but also for having welcomed in his home relatives who were fleeing from Spain. Ah, Spain … there was a kingdom that knew how to preserve the Christian faith. Jews were expelled and false converts were burned at the stake. By contrast, lily-livered Florence settled for Jewish men displaying a yellow circle sewn on their clothes and for the women to wear a veil of the same color. True, laws were being planned for banishing the Jews from Florence, but meanwhile they continued contaminating the city with their presence. Deep inside, Luca was convinced that they had provoked the new outbreak of the plague. At the moment, the disease was restricted to the poorer areas, although if it did not abate, the sickness could spread throughout the city with the arrival of summer. Luca was an advocate of introducing a sanitary measure that was as practical as it was effective: the extermination of all Jews in Tuscany, or at the very least their immediate expulsion from Florence. However, although he had been re-elected again as member of the Signoria, he lacked the necessary support to get a law passed that would have solved the Jewish problem once and for all. Happily though, there were other matters in which his influence was decisive. Mauricio was to be arrested that very night. The eventual sentence and execution would come under his jurisdiction. Luca relaxed while playing with his favorite cat, who had just caught a mouse and was holding it in its claws with the same ease he would show hunting down his enemy. It was time, he gloated, for revenge.

  103

  The world in which he had been happy was being buried under the pitiless desert sands. Mauricio felt like a disoriented nomad whose only roadmap was to trust in his camel and hope it found water before it was too late.

  Water. In these times, water was the equivalent of florins because if in the next few months he was not capable of finding gold under the cobblestones, his family was destined to be ruined and he would be unable to avoid debtors’ prison. It was probably best to imagine that the camel he was riding would take him to a gushing spring. Otherwise, even if he were to sell his possessions, including the ring, he might be able to pay off his debts, but at the cost of ending up with neither credit nor property.

  The most terrible thing of all was that he was the person responsible for the well-being of his wife and children, and he was about to fail them completely. What was to become of a husband and a father when he was incapable of maintaining his family? How could one keep living without honor or dignity?

  His wife interrupted his grim thoughts. She had just been breastfeeding baby Roberto, and her cheeks were still flaming with the indignity she felt about the violation of her home at the hands of the Dominican monks of San Marcos.

  “That repressed priest,” said Lorena, referring to Savonarola, “might forbid us women from going out onto the streets dressed in clothes that outshine onion sacks with their elegance, might reduce to ashes all that offends his sight, might turn children and family members into informers of imaginary sins, and might even send his army of inquisitors to plunder our house, but what he will never be able to do is stop us from seeing God when we make love.”

  Mauricio was perplexed by this forceful statement. His whole concept regarding sex had certainly changed a lot since the first time he and Lorena had made love. On that occasion, he had felt like a sinner when he confessed. Even afterward, when they were united by the holy sacraments of marriage, the pleasures of the flesh were usually accompanied by a slight feeling of guilt. With the passing of time that bitter taste had been replaced by the satisfaction and deep peace he felt as they murmured tenderly in each other’s arms after making love. Even so, his wife’s statement did seem somewhat disconcerting.

  “What do you mean exactly, saying you see God when we make love?” asked Mauricio.

  “It is only a manner of speech. More than seeing him, one could say that it is a feeling. It rises up through my body, reaches my head, fills my whole being, and sometimes even expands throughout the whole room.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Mauricio, extremely puzzled.

  Lorena was thirty-three years old and he still saw her as an extremely desirable woman. He had never known another and so his entire experience was tied up with her in such a way that it was natural for him to associate sex with his wife. However, it was not a subject they ever discussed. They made love when they were driven by the flame of desire, but neither talked before or after about the emotions involved. Mauricio had never considered it to be necessary. Perhaps he might have been mistaken, because what his wife had experienced did not seem to coincide in the least with his own sensations.

  “Well,” continued Lorena with a certain amount of caution, “it is not something that always happens to me. It occurs more frequently when we caress each other and play awhile before we come together, in such a way that my skin becomes more sensitive and my whole body more aroused. And when at last we lie together, I have this burning fire inside, I relax, breathe deeply, and lose myself as the arrow of passion shoots up from my pelvis. That boundless intensity devours me as it invades my body, like a serpent slowly coilin
g up into my head. At that moment, when my whole being is on fire and my mind goes blank, a miracle occurs: it is as if my brain begins to tremble and it seems to me that I can see a yellow light that transmits the perfect tranquility I need to enjoy experiencing the storm. I melt and then God appears to me. This is why I told you it fills my entire being and even the whole room. It was simply a figure of speech, for in those moments my consciousness knows no limits. I am myself, I am you, and God is all around. I never told you all this because it is difficult to put into words and somehow I always thought that you must have felt the same.”

  Mauricio was deeply amazed. He had believed he knew his wife’s innermost thoughts down to the very last intimate detail …

  “Well, not exactly,” said Mauricio with a certain amount of shyness. “I also abandon myself and forget who I am, but I simply feel that sweet passion in my loins.”

  “In reality,” said Lorena, putting things into proportion, “my emotions are not that different from yours. What I described before only happens to me once in a while, but it is something so beautiful I wish I could share it with you. Why not try tonight? You will see, you only have to relax, take your time, and when you reach the peak of excitement, breathe and try to push that fire upwards, keep breathing, and we shall see what happens. This is what I do, although most of the time I simply let myself be carried away and consumed by the flames with enormous pleasure.”