The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack

by Emily Cheney Neville

  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 friend, 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 Nicolo’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.

  “Has he—has he been talking?” Nicolo heard him inquire, as he jerked his head toward the sailor. “Sure he didn’t say—anything?” he uneasily insisted, although Pedro, pausing in his work, told him he was too busy to listen to his customers’ chatter.

  Nicolo wandered to the door and watched them go down the narrow alley and turn a corner. Yes, he remembered the tall chap perfectly, bushy black hair, guttural accent, and all. He was having all he could do now to handle his charge! Almost identical with the scene of two years ago. Odd that an able fellow would keep an ill-natured sot that long. Nicolo wondered, idly, why he had been so particular to know if the other had talked. As if anyone listened to drunken ravings! That gibber, for instance, about Gama!

  But the tall one—trader he’d called himself—there was something uncomfortable connected with him. Nicolo recalled those eager inquiries about the Expedition, and his own feeling that he’d been too free with his answers. No, that wasn’t it. It was Ferdinand’s afterward telling him that the street quarrel had been reported at the palace, and that the Venetian ambassador had seemed to know all about him. Then there had been his own suspicion that the foreign-looking trader had posted the ambassador. There was something else, too. Hadn’t the fellow spoken as if he knew of the Jewish reprieve before its public announcement? That had been extraordinary; it was what had made him suspect that the man had some direct communication with the palace.

  The Jewish reprieve! Every moment of that day was graven on his memory: Abel in the workshop… Ruth making preserves for Gama… Nejmi and he alone, together, when they had come into a new intimacy. But now that was over. That scene in the court between her and Ferdinand, and then what she had said about her “debt”…

  He stepped outside and began to walk to try to dull the ache at his heart. If only he could forget her last words—he could have borne anything but that. “I’m going to pay back my debt.… You want me to pay you!” How could she have dealt him that blow, she, who must know how he felt about her?

  Well, he was not going to see her till he had himself in hand. As for Ferdinand, if she wanted him, and he, her… He meant to avoid Ferdinand for a while. That wouldn’t be difficult, for the King’s household was going up in a day or so to the summer palace.

  There was a moon, and Nicolo continued to walk. His weariness seemed to have vanished. Pedro’s hot supper was having its effect. Deliberately he put Nejmi out of his mind. He’d pin himself down to business.

  That lumber, now! If only Rodriguez were here to consult, instead of at sea, somewhere between the Madeiras and Cape Verde! On impulse he decided to have another look at the lumber. It wasn’t late, and the moon was bright. He ran back and called to Pedro that presently he’d return—not to lock him out.

  The streets were deserted, but through tavern doors drifted talking and laughter. Down by the docks, he passed a knot of sailors. Once he heard a gang-plank dropped. He went on to the end of a dock where the lumber was piled. Beyond, there was a strip of sandy beach on which tiny waves lapped softly.

  He walked slowly around the lumber, inspected it from end to end. Excellent stuff, sound as a nut. And its pungent odour was like a tonic. Standing there in the shadow, his ear caught the dip of oars, and he made out a row-boat coming in. As it neared, he saw two figures in it, one at the oars, the other in the stern, and both wore wide-brimmed hats. He watched idly as the keel grated on the sand. The figure in the stern jumped out, a man in a long cloak, whose face was hidden by his hat. The other remained in his seat, his face, too, in shadow.

  The one who had landed stood, for a moment, with his hand on the bow. “Good-bye and good luck,” he said, in a low tone.

  Nicolo started. The man was speaking Italian.

  “You’ll be off, I suppose,” he added, “as soon as you’ve got those—those things, so I shan’t see you again.”

  He bent forward and gave the boat a shove. It glided off, and he turned and walked along the beach and toward the quay. In the shadow of the lumber and hardly a half dozen paces away from Nicolo, he halted, pulled up the collar of his cloak around his face, and then strode briskly on.

  Nicolo stared after him. What on earth did this mean? For the face, a moment ago so close to him, was that of the Venetian ambassador! He watched the retreating figure disappear in the shadows, and then, recollecting the other cloaked figure, he turned around to see what had become of the row-boat. But it had blended into the harbour shipping.

  In a whirl of puzzled thoughts Nicolo left the lumber pile and walked slowly back to The Green Window. He lay awake trying to account for the ambassador’s strange excursion: an ambassador at the water-front at mi
dnight, without a single attendant—and so evidently guarding against recognition!

  Very early in the morning he was waked by a knocking on his door, and before he could swing his legs out of bed, he was surprised to see Ferdinand enter. With the memory of that scene with Nejmi still rankling, Nicolo’s greeting was a little forced, especially as Ferdinand himself seemed conscious and ill at ease.

  “I had to see you before we went up to Cintra,” he burst out, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “and we’re leaving today or, at latest, tomorrow.”

  Unconsciously Nicolo braced himself. The boy was going to speak of Nejmi!

  “Nicolo”—Ferdinand leaned closer, and lowered his tone—” something’s going on at the palace. I had to tell you!” He eyed Nicolo anxiously. “Probably you’ll think it’s my imagination, but I’m sure something’s going on,” he repeated.

  “I’ll get my things on,” Nicolo told him as he began to dress, “while you talk.” In his surprise at this unexpected turn he forgot his constraint.

  “Well, here it is. Yesterday, toward evening, the Venetian ambassador—”

  Nicolo almost dropped the long hose he was buttoning, but instantly smothered his exclamation in a pretence of coughing. Better keep last night’s incident to himself.

  “The Venetian ambassador,” Ferdinand was saying, “came up to me and was very pleasant. He’d never noticed me before, but we talked for some time, and, after a while, he asked if I didn’t go to an Abel Zakuto’s, kinsman of the astrologer, Abraham, whom he used to see around the palace.

  “He told me he’d heard Master Abraham say his cousin specialized in collecting maps of the Orient. Then I said he made them, too; that he had first-hand information about the Orient—meaning, you know, Scander. At that he burst out quick—‘Could you manage to have a friend of mine see Zakuto’s maps?’ The next minute he’d calmed down and sort of apologized for getting excited. His friend, it seemed, was collecting maps, and if I’d take him to Master Abel’s… I told him of course I would, only I was going away for the summer, and then, without thinking, I said I knew someone who would.” He looked quizzically at Nicolo, and they both laughed.