“I sent for you, Master Zakuto,” he said, facing back to the room, “because I understand that you, like your kinsman, Master Abraham, are skilled in the science of the stars.”
He paused, as if for Abel to reply, but as Abel appeared to have no such intention, Manoel went on, while he rapidly fanned himself.
“You know, of course, that the people are beginning to doubt Senhor Gama’s return. It’s bad for the country, such a state of mind.”
This time his eyes openly sought a response, but still Abel continued impassive.
“The worst of it is,”– Manoel confidentially lowered his voice –“they’re openly mentioning in certain foreign countries our fears for Gama.”
“Aha!” thought Abel, recalling Ferdinand’s talk of the other day, “I wonder if that means Venice.”
“Now,” Manoel said, “if we could give out a statement that the stars are favourable to his return – as they were to his going. . . . You see why I sent for you, Master Zakuto!”
The stars indeed! Inwardly Abel chuckled, as a certain night in the workshop, with Nejmi surrounded by an awestruck group, flashed across his memory.
Aloud, he said, “My only business with the stars, Your Highness, is to learn from them a little navigation.”
There was an impatient gesture, and the handkerchief dropped to the King’s lap. “Surely you understand them as well as Master Abraham did?”
“Beyond a few matters of celestial degrees and computations, no.”
Manoel thoughtfully regarded Abel, then, once more, his eyes sought the open window, and Abel saw that same perplexed frown as when the good-looking young aide had whispered a message. The room was very still, but the jessamine vine at the casement swayed in the warm breeze. A restless hand clenched and unclenched.
“Master Zakuto, I spoke of the rumour, in certain quarters, that we’ve given up Senhor Gama.”
The King, Abel perceived, was choosing his words so as not to disclose too much.
“Unless we can give that rumour the lie, it may cause us trouble. In fact –” bringing a fist down on the chair arm –“it is causing us serious trouble. We must stop it. Suppose, Master Zakuto,” his tone almost entreated, “I should make it worth vour while to say Gama would return?”
Abel’s face flashed. “As you made it’ worth while’ for Abraham?” For a breathless instant he paused, almost expecting to be struck down for his temerity. But having gone this far, let him go all the way: “As you made it ‘worth while’ for the race who’ve built the prosperity of Portugal?”
Manoel’s eyes dropped. “That measure was – was most unfortunate – most regrettable,” he unexpectedly conceded, “but sometimes the State demands the sacrifice of the individual. If, for the good of the country, you could see your way clear . . .”
Abel studied, with a little less hostility, the tense figure opposite him. Did Manoel really feel sorrow at what he’d done, really “regret” it? Certainly his patience this morning had been past belief – no sovereign had ever borne as much from a belligerent subject! And after all, he was the sovereign. Ah, but the bleeding hearts and the broken lives that he had been willing to pay for his Spanish wife – and Abel hardened his heart.
“Why should ‘the good of the country’ concern me, now, Your Majesty?” he coldly asked. Dear Portugal, forgive him that!
The greenish eyes glinted unpleasantly. “If that’s your feeling, I’d best clear the country of all you Jews –” he snapped his fingers –“like that!”
Inwardly Abel smiled. He was doing well! But he must do better, prick deeper. He feigned indifference. “That’s within your power,” he quietly replied. “But, Your Majesty, you’ll find that Portugal will need her Jews more than they will ever need her!”
“By Saint Vincent!” Manoel choked out from deep down in his throat, and Abel could see that the fingers gripping the chair were twitching. Unconsciously he braced himself, for the fury in those green eyes brought to mind something that struck and clawed.
Suddenly, the fury faded, the fingers relaxed. Again Manoel lolled carelessly in his chair, and again began his lazy fanning.
“Then, perhaps, Master Zakuto,” he said, maliciously, “I’ll keep that valuable race of yours with me – forbid any of you to go!” He reached out and rapped on the door, and as the page outside opened it, “Show this person out,” he said, without again glancing toward Abel.
His mind considerably bewildered, Abel walked through one corridor, and into another. Uniformed figures hurried past, but he was too busy with his thoughts to notice them. Where was this thing that he had started going to end? And why had Manoel let him go free? It was the first time, Abel was willing to wager, that young man had listened to such plain talk, and on the whole he’d not done so badly with his insulted dignity. But if he could know that, for once, he’d danced the puppet while a hand other than his pulled the strings! Now, if only he would carry out his threat and tell his Jewish subjects not to do what they had the right to do! . . . But even as Abel exulted within himself, he groaned: what had he, Abel Zakuto, brought on his people?
Ahead of him he saw the exit, and a sudden hankering seized him for the streets beyond it, the narrow twisting streets, the clatter of donkey hoofs, the cries of the vendors, the smell of fruit and vegetables in the hot sun.
From a side-entrance, two young men cut across his path, and sauntered along in front of him. One of them Abel recognized as the chap who had brought the message that made Manoel frown and clench his fingers in that nervous gesture.
“We’ve never stayed in town so late as we have this season,” the other was complaining.
“Another day or so will see us in Cintra,” rejoined the one whom Abel had recognized, and he looked as if he knew. “It’s this Venetian business that’s kept us broiling down here.”
Could he mean the Venetian matter Ferdinand was telling of the other day? A murmur of voices followed, and scattered phrases floated unmeaningly back: “final audience this afternoon . . . their ambassador . . .”
He quickened his pace, intending to pass the two, when an impatient outburst from one of them made him draw back: “The insolence of those Venetians – wanting to know our terms in the Orient!”
Abel pricked up his ears. Still on the same subject? He took a stride nearer.
“I fancy Manoel will make short work, this afternoon, of telling them how he stands!” he heard the young aide exclaim.
The disjointed phrases that had drifted back to him now began to fit together: “final audience . . . their ambassador . .” So that was what Manoel had on his hands, this afternoon! No wonder he’d looked disturbed. And was that why – could it possibly be why – he had swallowed his pride, had endured such plain speech? Was that why he had hoped to get assurance of Gama’s return, so he could use it in his diplomatic game?
The other laughed, then quickly sobered. “The more credit to him. too, for down in his heart, like the rest of us, he’s given Gama up – though he still keeps a brave front!”
Still chatting, the two turned off toward the gardens, and Abel went on to the exit and through to the street, pondering what he had just heard. If only these doubters could once hear Nejmi say, “You’ll watch him sail up the river,” once see the shining faith in her eyes! But Venice! Incredible how Venice had changed her skeptical front while Gama was gone!
He stopped in the shadow of a doorway, and threw back his cloak to feel the breeze. Then, with a pang, he realized that across the street was his old place of business. His gaze lingered on the familiar walls. At that door he used to go in. Around on that side was his own private room. He smiled as he recollected how impatient he used to be to get home early to the workshop. His eyes wandered on. That next building was where the Abrabanels had carried on the largest export business in Lisbon. What wouldn’t they have done with the Oriental trade that Gama would surely start! Ah well, what Lisbon had lost in them, Antwerp had gained. And in that building yonder, his old frien
d, Samuel, had straightened out many a legal snarl. The best lawyer in town they had called him. Antwerp had got him, too. Down the street a way, was the old house of Abeldano and Gerondi, brokers and money lenders for generations. Now they were somewhere in the Levant, and doing well. On the other hand, the many and many who’d perished trying to find new homes, who’d died from poverty or persecution! Think of old Abraham, barely holding together soul and body till he should finish the chronicles of his people.
Abel drew his cloak around him and strolled on. He found himself noting familiar aspects with a sharpened vision, as if to record them for future ingatherings of memory. Would he remember this high glory of summer noon? Ah, dear sky of Lisbon, would any other be as blue?
A little building that was mostly a huge window set in a bright green casement, caught his eye. He hadn’t seen it for months, but he remembered it instantly: The Green Window, the little inn where Nicolo lodged. Perhaps Nicolo was there now. Abel halted in the shade of the doorway, and looked in.
By a fire that flared smokily into its great conical chimney, a little old man sat on a stool and stirred a steaming pot. Now and then he would look up and nod to a visitor leaning his elbows on a near-by table, and Abel could hear a desultory conversation. The old fellow he knew, from Ni-colo’s description, must be Pedro. All that he could see of the other was the back of a figure of more than usual height, in seaman’s breeches and short coat, and a sailor’s peaked cap snugly set on thick black hair. The man was speaking in tolerable Portuguese, but with a strong guttural accent. Nicolo, however, wasn’t here, so Abel concluded he might as well go on.
A little reluctantly, he was leaving the cool doorway, when he heard his own name. He looked back, thinking one of the men inside had spoken to him. No, neither had stirred nor seen him. But now! – That voice with the foreign accent:
“Zakuto’s the one who makes maps and such?”
How in the world did the fellow come to know about his doings with “maps and such”? Abel moved back into the shadow and saw Pedro nod assent.
“Would he be there now – at this Zakuto’s?” he heard the seaman inquire.
Pedro seemed to be uncertain, but, in a moment, he replied, “You’d more likely find him around the shipyards. He was going to look at some lumber this morning.”
Ah – Nicolo! That was whom they were talking about. Lumber, eh? Perhaps the lad was going to change his mind and build another ship – and Abel walked on, reminded by a whiff from Pedro’s pot that his own dinner would be ready for him. He remembered Ruth’s saying something about a bean potage. Those savoury beans cooked overnight in the big old wall oven, with Ruth’s inimitable flavouring of onions and thyme! Then, sometime when they could be alone, he and she, together. …
That time came only after Nejmi had gone to bed. On pretext of enjoying the full moon, Abel made Ruth sit with him in the court, and, presently, he spoke of his visit to the palace. She had heard Manoel’s order delivered by a court messenger, but Abel had purposely not told her where he was going when he started out that morning.
“Why, Abel,” she gasped, “was that where you were all that time? What happened?” she breathlessly demanded.
He laid his hand over hers before he answered her. “The King is going to forbid us – all of our people – to leave Lisbon. Forbid us, Ruth!”
He saw the startled look, heard her quick, indrawn breath. For a long time she was very still, not even responding to his caressing hand.
Suddenly he felt her tremble against him. “There’s – there’s plenty of work in the world for us, yet,” she whispered. “Whenever you say, Abel!”
This was her way of telling him she understood the hard thing he was trying to say to her! In a rush of tenderness he put his arms about her.
For a moment she gave up to her grief. “Oh, Abel, must our people always be wanderers?”
What could he say to comfort her? For a woman’s roots went deeper than a man’s into the things of every day – the keeping of a house, the tending of a garden, the hundred intimacies that made the dear stability of home.
“We can’t take any of our things, can we?” she asked him pitifully.
It was pouring salt into her wounds, but he must answer her. “Nothing but the clothes we wear, and what we might conceal in them, for after the King gives the order we must go secretly.”
Nejmi, they agreed, mustn’t know until the time came, and then, somehow, they would find a way to tell her.
“You see, Ruth,” Abel faltered, “at first it was for her sake we stayed, but now – now, we couldn’t stay, could we?”
“Oh, my dear, someone else is going to take care of Nejmi!” Ruth’s eyes were wet, but her lips smiled at him.
“Which one,” Abel whispered after a while, “do you think it will be? The way Ferdinand looks at her –”
“The way Nicolo doesn’t look at her!” Ruth softly laughed. “Why, Abel, if you could have seen how hard that poor boy tried to keep his eyes off her, the other afternoon, when she and Ferdinand were in the court!”
“I suppose,” Abel said, with the old, whimsical twinkle in his eyes, “that Nejmi herself may have a choice in the matter!”
“Something happened, that afternoon,” Ruth pursued with conviction. “Nejmi’s been different ever since. It seems as if she had shut herself away from everything – like one of those lilies, when its petals close. And if you’ve noticed, Abel, Nicolo hasn’t been here since!”
No, he hadn’t noticed, but Ruth’s mention of his name recalled the conversation in The Green Window, and made Abel wonder if that tall chap had finally found Nicolo.
CHAPTER 17
The Venetian Ambassador
NICOLO came in late to The Green Window and, without a glance at the occupants of the benches, or even his usual word with Pedro, he absently dropped into a vacant place. It had been a long day, rather longer than he had meant it to be, and he was too tired to take any notice of what was going on around him.
He had started out by inspecting a shipment of lumber from up-river that had been offered him cheap. The offer tempted him, because he figured that, though he couldn’t use it now, later he might sell it at a good profit. For, he argued, the time was coming – with Gama’s return – when everybody would go into Oriental trade. Then lumber for caravels and warehouses would be in demand. He got an option on the cargo, and afterward he had made a business of sounding his acquaintances on future prospects.
“Keep your money,” they all told him. “Better not count on too good times.”
As Nicolo well knew, times were dull, and growing duller, as Gama’s absence had stretched into a year, then two years.
“Of course, if one were sure,” his friends qualified, “of Gama’s coming back, or even of there being a sea passage to India…”
Well, he thought to himself, as he listened, they didn’t know what he knew about that! And the end of the day found him decided to close with the lumber dealer.
Still, as he sat staring past the faces at Pedro’s scrubbed tables, and unheeding of the talking and the drinking around him, he knew that the prevailing doubt about Gama had affected his spirits. Not that he had misgivings about the existence of the passage around the Devil’s Cave – how could he have? But so many accidents could happen at sea! So easily the great, grey ocean could swallow those fragile ships, and who would ever be the wiser? Then, too, hadn’t Gama repeatedly said that if he didn’t find the information for which he had gone, he should not return?
Nicolo was roused from his reverie by someone at his elbow, and discovered Pedro putting a steaming dish in front of him.
“A man was in, today, asking for you,” whispered the old inn-keeper. He disappeared, and in a moment returned with a mug of red wine. “Said he’d stop in again for you tomorrow,” he threw back, as he went off.
Nicolo nodded, and began to eat the hot food. He was hungrier than he’d thought. When he’d finished he began to sip his wine, meditating, as
he sipped, on the morning’s talk. Gradually, over the top of his mug, a face across the table disengaged itself from the others, and became focused into his absent gaze; heavy features, flushed with drinking, but, somehow, familiar.
Nicolo put his mug down, and carefully scrutinized the face. He saw the blood-shot eyes stare back at him with a sort of stupid recognition. Yes! Now he had it: that street row, two years ago, between the Venetian sailor and the Portuguese – and this was the Venetian.
“What have you been doing,” Nicolo bantered, “since I heard you cursing Gama?”
The fellow continued to stare, then he began to mutter, thickly: “Gama . . . Gama . . . I’ve seen him!”
Nicolo laughed and glanced around, to see if anyone else had heard the idiocy. No, everybody was busy laughing and talking and drinking.
“You’re a real wit!” he said, pleasantly. “Did the Senhor send us a message by you?”
“I’ve seen him since you have!” The thick voice rose in an angry oath. The bloodshot eyes narrowed, and for a moment the inert body half-reared itself in a threatening attitude. “But you’ll not see him again!”
There was a lull in the general talk, and two or three turned to look at the unsteady figure that was now slumping to the bench. Nicolo got up and went back to where Pedro was scouring ladles. The sailor was even more befuddled than he’d thought. He’d had enough of him.
“What did that man want who was inquiring for me?” he asked Pedro.
“Wanted to know where he could find you. I told him you were looking at lumber, somewhere down by the waterfront.” After a moment, Pedro added, “He seemed to know you often went to Abel Zakuto’s.”
Nicolo received this information with a yawn. He was tired; he’d go to bed. Half-way to his room he heard hurried steps, and turned to look. A tall man in a seaman’s jacket and peaked cap was standing in the entrance, and scowlingly scanning faces. Instantly Nicolo recalled him – the very man who’d helped handle this same sailor in the street row.
The next minute he saw the man swoop down on the half-conscious figure and savagely shake it; then, half-lifting, half-shoving it before him, he guided it to the door. As he passed Pedro, he paused and tossed him a coin.
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