by Naomi Ragen
I still remember how my maid bathed me in water filled with rose petals. How she washed my hair and rinsed it with henna and lavender water, then brushed and dressed it in thick coils around my head, covering it with my rete of pearls. I remember the dress I wore: shot silk and brocaded velvet of heavenly blue with simple gold embroidery and heavy, gold chains.
When I was dressed, Aunt Malca suddenly appeared. She examined me with intense interest. I was pale, she said, offering to rub my cheeks and lips with the dye of pomegranates.
I remember well not lodging any of my usual protests, and being curiously willing to submit to her ministrations, so shocked was I by her inexplicable interest and kindness. After she’d slipped satin slippers upon my feet and led me down to join the others, she squeezed my fingers and looked searchingly into my face. “Smile, child,” she urged me.
And I, not knowing why, did.
When I entered the dining room, a tall stranger was standing between my father and Miguel.
My heart fainted within me.
My heart rose up and danced in my chest.
Was this some terrible test, I wondered, stricken, looking at my father’s tense and weary face.
It could mean only one thing, I thought. That the King himself had requested this hospitality from my father.
A warm rush of deepest elation washed over me. Was it possible, then, that Francisco should have thought of me, demanded something in connection to me, from the King himself? The idea filled me with such intense happiness I could hardly breathe. Ah, how all my sensible decisions flew up the chimney like smoke from the hearth fire. Oh, the stupid, unreasonable happiness I felt at that idea, the idea that he and I would be together somehow; that he had the power to smite the monstrous Goliath that stood in our path, letting us walk over the dead giant and into each other’s arms.
Yet, at the same moment, the icy fingers of a most horrid fear laid hold of me, squeezing me almost senseless. For, if that was the case, what else had this dear stranger the power to demand and accomplish?
What wretchedness filled me as I considered never again being part of those joyful rituals, those bejeweled hidden moments in which my family and I had always lived our truest lives. Never again allowed to find my way to those secret chambers deep within my own heart.
It seemed so wrong that this unknown man, this sudden passion, should succeed in wrenching me free of my blessed moorings, where all the brute force, the wiles and rewards of King and Church, had failed.
I was angry then, at him, at myself, my head bent silently over my plate, my bosom heaving in its tight lacings. I saw how all my mooning and nighttime fevers had led down this Stygian path toward a future of a single, false life lived openly yet in endless shame.
“Will you have some fish, or beef, or perhaps some fowl?” my father inquired of him. “I regret we can offer you no pork, as my constitution is poorly equipped to digest it.”
“I confess, my own stomach prevents me, too, of enjoying that delicacy,” Francisco Mendes murmured. “It is a weakness inherited from my father, and his father before him.”
My father and Miguel exchanged odd glances.
“Will you be settling down in Lisbon in the near future?” Miguel inquired.
“This is a question to which I do not yet have the answer, although I find the city and its inhabitants exceedingly fine,” he replied, glancing boldly in my direction.
A thrill flashed through me.
“Right now I am equipping my ships for their next voyage east. But I do not expect to leave before the twenty-fourth of April.”
Again, I saw Miguel and Father study each other in amazement.
“And why is that?” my brother inquired.
“I have been invited to a special dinner at my aunt’s home. It is a family obligation, and one I fulfill every year.”
“The victuals must be of a unique savoriness and the meat of wondrous tenderness if on their account you delay a venture worth thousands of cruzados’ profit.” Father smiled, his eyes searching.
“Nay. The opposite, Don Luna. My aunt is a terrible cook. The bread is stale and hard, the meat roasted burned, the herbs bitter, and the condiments as salty as tears.”
A startling change came over my father’s face. “That will be all!” He clapped his hands, curtly dismissing the servants. “Sister Malca, would you take Brianda upstairs to her bedchamber, as I believe she is looking poorly again,” he commanded my aunt, giving her a look she dared not defy.
Only when the servants had closed the doors behind them, leaving the four of us alone, did my father turn once again to Francisco Mendes.
“Gente da nação?” my father whispered. I could see the fear in his face as he waited for Francisco’s reply.
“Gente da nação!” Francisco nodded with pride.
How strange it was! That phrase, uttered with the utmost contempt by the Portuguese to indicate Judaizing conversos like ourselves, had been adopted by us to convey the utmost honor and distinction. One could tell another brother simply by how he pronounced it.
“Your true name, my son?”
“Semach Benveniste,” Francisco answered.
Three hundred years before, Isaac Benveniste had been body physician to the kings of Aragon. His descendants included the most pious and distinguished members of the Jewish community of Spain. Abraham Benveniste, who had died in 1452, had been the Crown Rabbi of Aragon.
There was a stunned silence. “And which of your two names do you prefer?” my father inquired.
“I am the grandson of Abraham Benveniste.” Francisco lifted his head with dignity. “In all that I do, I never forget that.”
“And why, then, have you prevailed upon the King to press your suit of marriage to Gracia? Why did you not simply go to the converso matchmakers? Or even your aunt, whom I am sure is well known in our community. It could have been done without any of this,” my father protested in vehement whispers.
Francisco turned to me. The passion in his eyes would have been frightening was it not so fully reciprocated. I raised my eyes to his and drank him in, all the long, princely length of him, the fullness of his physical beauty, the unexpressed strength latent in those well-formed bones, wanting to have him…to swallow him whole.
His answer stunned us all.
“My seeing Gracia at mass was no accident, Don Luna. For many years I have searched for a wife worthy of my family’s name and lineage. When I came across her in that happy accident years ago and was invited into your sukah, my heart had already made its decision. But I did not want to marry a child; someone who would quake in her slippers at my command and bow her head like a trained pet. I sought a woman fully grown, learned, intelligent, and pious.
“All these years, my aunt has kept close watch over Gracia, informing me of the progress of her education, as well as the efforts to find her a suitable marriage partner. Had one been selected, I should have come forward immediately. But as she remained unwed, and I myself was obliged to be absent from home so many months, I felt it would be better for her to benefit from the companionship of her family and continue her tutoring.”
“Why have you come forward now?” my father asked, perplexed.
“Unfortunately, I was not the only one of the King’s acquaintances to have noticed Gracia in church.”
I looked up, shocked, blushing to the tips of my toes.
“My spies at court informed me that Rodrigo Olivi requested that the Queen act as intermediary to arrange a match between himself and Gracia.”
“Olivi!? The former ambassador to the Holy See? The man who begged the Pope to bring the Inquisition to Portugal?!” my father exclaimed, disgusted.
“The gray-haired old devil!” Miguel spat out with contempt. “He’s almost sixty!”
I imagined the old man’s eyes upon me, his vile thoughts and malevolent power trained in my direction.
I felt near to swooning.
“Olivi is very powerful,” Francisco continued. �
��It would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible, for you to have refused the Queen, Don Luna, without bringing great injury down upon your family. And so, begging your pardon, I had to think quickly. I thought the best way to stop Olivi would be for me to go directly to the King—who is now somewhat in my debt—and to ask him to intervene on my behalf.”
My father came around the table. With one arm, he gripped Francisco’s hand, and with the other, his shoulder, saluting him on both cheeks with brotherly warmth. “I am in your debt!” my father said, trembling with deepest emotion.
“I did not act, Don Luna, out of any motive more elevated than pure self-interest. I ask you now to forgive the shocking impropriety of my proposal and beg you to consider the extraordinary circumstances that brought it about.”
“Yes, of course. And with the greatest gratitude,” my father told him. “But now, Don Francisco, let us rejoice in each other’s company, and continue our meal.”
Continue our meal! I thought, outraged, wondering if at any moment I might, like hot milk, boil over. Was this, then, the end of it? A brotherly act of kindness acknowledged on all sides? And just as I thought I should surely burst, Francisco stood up and turned to my father.
“I cannot wait a moment longer, Don Luna, until the matter that has brought me here is put to rest either way. I beg you to consider, despite all my obvious flaws, allowing your daughter Gracia to marry me, according to the laws of Moses and the G-d of Israel, may His name be blessed.”
My father turned to me. “And what is it you answer, my daughter?”
“Father, I will do as it pleases you,” I murmured piously, knowing it was mummery, and that inside I was howling as wantonly and desperately as any woman who ever stood in shameless need outside a tavern door.
“It pleases me to ask you again, my daughter, and to receive an answer, as our holy Torah does not allow a father to betroth a daughter over the age of twelve without her full consent. Will you have this man for your betrothed?”
I looked again at Francisco Mendes, amazed that such joy could exist and could be mine for the taking.
“Yes, Father. With all my heart.”
My father kissed my forehead and took my hands, lifting me out of my seat. “Go now, child. We have many things to discuss that do not concern you.”
I knew the final test was coming now. The last obstacle. I had lulled myself into the indulgent dream that my father might somehow overlook it just this once.
I should have known better.
This was the final hurdle put before all my prospective bridegrooms: He would now test Francisco’s knowledge of the sacred texts. If Francisco showed ignorance, there would be no wedding after all, as it is written: “He who marries his daughter to an ignoramus is as one that binds her and throws her to a lion!”
With a frightened and heavy heart, I dutifully turned and left the room. How many times I walked to and fro in the garden, my heart diving and swooping up like some hungry bird, I do not know. It seemed like eternity. But when, finally, I saw my father walking down the path toward me, he was smiling. Behind him was Francisco.
My father put his hands upon our heads and blessed us both.
Francisco looked at me and I at him. He made no attempt to take my hand. He smiled and bowed and bid us both good-bye until the morrow.
I watched his back as he left, realizing with a shiver I would be connected to him, body and soul, until the day G-d saw fit to cleave us.
We had not exchanged a single word.
20
Dearest Grandmother,
By the time you receive this I will have already left. Please don’t be alarmed, or sad. I am not running away. Actually, it is a far, far better thing I do, etc.
Acting is just not my vocation, nor can I shut my mouth and swallow my opinions for any length of time. As last night proved, another few weeks of this kind of “togetherness” and we will probably never speak to one another again.
Most of all, I find that I can’t stand the idea of your being in pain, and my contributing to that in any way. I don’t know why I am such a compassionate listener to strangers who are in need and such a complete failure when it comes to those close to me. Perhaps because strangers will take whatever you give them and swallow it with thanks. Relatives and friends are a bit more choosy.
I hope you’ll forgive the abruptness of my departure. I did not plan to leave quite this soon. But something happened last night that changed all my plans and all my expectations. I know you’re going to be aching with curiosity, but it can’t be helped. I myself don’t know what’s going to happen next. Perhaps it will be the best thing that has ever happened to me in all my life. Or perhaps it will be a strange and temporary interlude of no significance whatsoever. Time will tell.
But in the meantime, I did want you to know that I read the manuscript. The coincidence of just this part of the story turning up at just this point in my life…Well…If I did believe in magic, that’s what I would call it. It’s gone beyond coincidence in a way that even I find mystical: I am actually beginning to feel a strange attachment to this long dead ancestral fossil of ours, and an embarrassing tenderness as well. I’m sure it will pass. But in the meantime, she is even invading my dreams.
Last night, I dreamed she came to my room. She was wearing a paisley dress of rich brocade and large pearls. There was a golden net holding back her thick red hair, and gold-embroidered slippers on her feet. She sat down on the corner of my bed and looked at me, shaking her head. She couldn’t approve of my behavior, she said, which was most inappropriate. Nevertheless, she wasn’t discouraged. In fact—and she was pretty definite about this—she assured me that it was all going to work out for the best. It didn’t really matter which route I followed, I’d wind up in the same place in the end.
She wouldn’t answer any questions, so I can’t elaborate.
Anyhow, when I woke up, I found a gold thread on the carpet. At least, that’s what I think it was. Or maybe it was just a blond hair. And there is a very reasonable explanation for having found one of those….
Nevertheless, I find this quite spooky, I am chagrined to admit.
I can’t tell you where I’m going, or what I’ll be doing. But I have this strange, inexplicable feeling that I am about to explore the things you really had in mind when you sent me on this journey.
You know what I mean, don’t you, Abuela?
I will write you via your lawyers in New York, who I am sure will be able to track you, if not me, down.
Please, Abuela. GO HOME AND TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF!
As for Francesca, she can carry on with the official agenda alone or hook up with Marius. My advice: the latter. He seems to know a great deal more than he is letting on. Besides, wouldn’t they make a lovely couple? So what if they are total opposites: finally a Serouya would marry a Nasi.
I happen to know he is quite attracted to her.
Before I shove off, there is something else I want to share with you. Do you remember that summer Mom ran off with Kenny and dumped me and Francesca with you and Grandpa? It was a boring Sunday, and Francesca had a bad cold. Just on the spur of the moment, you decided to take me to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. I remember I ran off and picked a whole bunch of lilacs and brought them to you, hoping to get us both into serious trouble. Sure enough, the guard ran after me, yelling, and I pretended I had no idea what I’d done wrong. Instead of slapping me, you told the guard—in your most polite and aristocratic way—to get lost. Then you took me back to the lilacs. We watched them for a while. They were so fresh and gorgeous. You showed me the place in the ground where the roots were buried in the soil, and the veins in the plant that carried the food and water to feed the blossoms. You made me understand that it was a living thing.
“Respect the separate life of things,” you told me. “Don’t insist on grabbing them for yourself. Don’t insist on owning.”
When I think about how I got interested in preserving all the beauty of the
world, of protecting and helping women damaged by men grabbing at them, wanting to possess them, I think I can trace the beginnings back to you. I know you don’t consider me, my life, or my values much of an accomplishment, but I, of course, shall have to disagree. So when you say that you never accomplished anything in your life, according to my way of thinking, you lie.
You’ve made me what I am today.
Take very, very good care of yourself, Abuela.
And try to explain all this to Francesca so she won’t think any less of me than she already does (if such a thing is possible).
Your wayward granddaughter,
Suzanne
Suzanne sealed the envelope and addressed it. Then she picked up her bags and headed for the lobby.
She handed the envelope to the clerk at the reception desk, then looked outside. It was still dark and damp with drizzle. But out of the stillness, she heard the hum of the Alfa-Romeo.
She waited patiently for it to pull up to the curb.
She didn’t see him immediately because he’d put the top up. But then he opened the door and got out.
It was like the sun coming out, she thought.
He touched a wisp of her red-gold hair, curled from the dampness. “I’ve missed you.”