by Naomi Ragen
Marius placed a calming hand over her arm.
“I really can’t say. That is, I don’t know, not for sure.”
“How long ago was this?” Marius asked.
“Last Thursday.”
“So, it might still be in Córdoba, if it was purchased. Or perhaps…”
“It could be anywhere by now,” Francesca groaned. She couldn’t believe it! They’d been so close.
Marius rose. “Señor de Almazan, thank you so much. Would you be kind enough to give me your colleague’s name and address in Córdoba?”
He wrote it down for them, and accompanied them to the door.
Francesca extended her hand politely. He took it warmly, pressing it to his lips. “What is the secret?” he whispered.
She lowered her eyes, ashamed.
23
Suzanne felt the sunlight on her back. She pulled the fragrant silk sheet around her shoulders, her arms warm and heavy with a kind of peace she had never known. She shifted slightly, resting her head on the clean skin of Gabriel’s broad chest, breathing him in. He had a unique scent, a combination of musk and rosemary. At first, she’d thought she’d imagined it. But it had turned out to be a special soap he used. An old family recipe.
My love, my love, my love, she thought, with unending wonder.
How was it possible, this connection, immediate and without any peer? I have been in love before, she insisted to herself. At least, I thought…
It was too painful, the comparison to Renaldo.
Nothing was the same.
Even the world was different, she thought, touching his sleeping forehead, her fingers smoothing his thick, bright hair, pale gold in the morning light. She felt like some worshiper at the shrine of a Greek deity, helplessly overwhelmed by the sheer depth of her devotion and vulnerability.
She thought of the moment when he must wake and lift his head, put his feet to the floor, and his arms to his sides. The moment when he would go to the bathroom and brush his teeth and take a shower; when he would dress and go outside, away from her.
It was almost unbearable.
I felt my heart ache with loneliness at the thought that my body should soon be separated from his.
The words, unbidden, echoed in her mind. She wrapped her arms around him, listening to his quiet breathing and the sudden tightening of his long, gentle fingers around her naked waist as he pulled her toward him.
“Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,” she thought, understanding for the first time the meaning of the story of creation. One creature, divided into two. Man and woman. And reunited, a perfect whole.
Perfect, she thought, taking in the silk-covered walls—color of the Mediterranean sky—the matching damask drapes, and the dustless antique furnishings. It made no difference to her, really. We could be out in the grass in a tent. On a mountainside in the Himalayas. In Brooklyn. Place had no meaning. Nor time. She wasn’t even sure what day it was anymore, or what week. Had it been only that, she thought, startled, just weeks since the chance meeting in the lobby of the Savoy? Such a long journey, in such a short time? How far she had come from her old life! So far that units of measure such as calendars and clocks seemed puny and hopelessly inadequate. She was traveling in light-years.
It cannot last. It never does. Not with me. Not with anyone, a small voice told her.
She felt frightened, but not panic-stricken. There was truth in it. Always other, competing passions had chipped away, demanding her devotion. Her work, her studies, her delicate sensibilities. Men never lived up to her expectations. Except…
She mouthed his name—Renaldo—then checked herself for damage. Nothing had happened, she realized, ashamed, exhilarated, and almost tearful with freedom. No wound had torn open. No blood gushed.
She thought of his big, dark, laughing face with a fondness that was almost nostalgic. With Renaldo there had been joy, and the endless stirring of frantic experience. There had been wonderful physical pleasure, and stimulating mental exercises.
But there had never been this; this peace, this overwhelming certainty.
Like hearing something you had always known was true, something that matched exactly all the information stored in your heart. There was no question of disagreeing, of finding reasons to resist.
It was Gran’s voice, she suddenly realized, disturbed by its emergence, unbidden, into a private conversation. It made her want to resist. Perhaps you feel this way now because Renaldo is gone, she thought, because you were so lonely, so empty. Perhaps if you saw him again…
She felt Gabriel’s hands move slowly down her back, a long stroke of love, almost fatherly in its infinite tenderness. She reached up, touching his ears, the warm place in the back of his neck, bringing his lips down to hers with a neediness she could not help. He accepted her passion with a startled smile of joy, as if she had offered him a great and undeserved gift, and his pure happiness dissolved any shame. There could be no shame in partaking of the great, blessed abundance now rightfully hers, she told herself. No shame in reaching across the fleshy abyss that separated their souls. The body, as Gabriel was fond of saying, was always servant to the spirit.
For an instant, she thought of all those loveless acts she had committed so half-heartedly in years past, because of physical temptation, or laziness, or just plain having had too much to drink. The faked intimacy of the good-bye kiss, the embarrassment of seeing each other dress in the light of morning, and wanting, really, for nothing more than to see them leave. Worst of all, the degradation of peering into the soul of a stranger and watching it blink back at you without recognition.
She did not believe in sin or punishment. But she understood all at once that such acts had been a crime, a deep violation, against the core of her being.
I will explain this to my daughter, she suddenly thought, then stopped as she felt her lover’s body move once more in perfect rhythm with her own.
Eventually, he did get up, and so did she. It seemed almost impossible that such things as flossing and pouring milk into coffee still existed in the strange, exotic world they now inhabited.
They sat across from each other at the small, charming table, waiting for the maid to leave the covered tray with their breakfast: warm croissants and fresh strawberries, marmalade, and scones. A vase of fresh daffodils and freesia perfumed the air.
They had arrived late the evening before. Gabriel had dumped the luggage on the carpet and carried her up the stairs into a lovely suite.
She poured his coffee, measuring the milk exactly to give it the toasty-brown color she’d learned he liked best. He picked through the strawberries, choosing the largest and sweetest ones for her, touching her face as he handed her the plate.
“Gabriel, my love, can this go on forever?”
“We would both hate that, wouldn’t we?” he replied.
“Well, okay, not forever. But a few years, or months?” She smiled a little anxiously.
That was their problem, the one they had been avoiding. How to plunge back into the real world they had rocketed out of with such startling and wonderful success.
“You know, my friend George is covering for me at the center until I get back….”
“Darling, saintly George.” She came around and sat on his lap, draping her arm around his neck and feeding him strawberries. She kissed the wet, sweet juice that ran down his chin.
“But there is my practice. My partner will take the emergencies, but I need to see my children soon.” He shrugged.
My children. She loved the way he’d said that, the way he referred to his patients. It almost brought tears to her eyes, she loved it so much.
“So, what next?”
“I want you to meet my family.”
She’d known that was coming. That it had to, eventually.
“And what if I said: No way. No families. That the family is the root of all trouble, all meddling and destructiveness. That family is what we leave behind when we bolt away with our lovers.”
He stroke
d her forehead. “You will come meet my family, though, won’t you, my love?”
“Are they like you?”
“Much nicer.”
She sighed, leaning against his chest like a sleepy, contented child. “You’re lying, of course.”
He laughed. “You know I never lie.”
“Everyone lies.”
“No, they don’t.”
She seemed honestly surprised to hear this. “Do you mean that?”
“I know people who don’t lie. You, for example.”
“I am the biggest liar of all.”
“No.” His lips touched her forehead. “You always tell the truth, no matter how unpleasant. It is part of your charm.”
“Gabriel, I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of hating your family. Of having them hate me. Of not being able to bear sharing you with them.”
“Suzanne, you will love my family. And they will love you as they love me. They’re very special people.”
“Yes, I suppose.” She resigned herself to the inevitable. “There is only one condition.”
“Yes?”
“That you don’t insist on meeting mine.”
“Are you ashamed of me?”
“Oh, no! The opposite.”
“Are they bank robbers? Child molesters?”
“Worse,” she groaned. “Social climbers who buy bad contemporary art. At least that describes my stepfather.”
“And your real father?”
“Real father,” she repeated. “An interesting term. I don’t have a real father,” she said curtly. “The man who was married to my mother and produced me left us for another woman; someone, I might add, just as silly as my mother.”
“You don’t see him at all?”
“I see him every time I can’t get out of it,” she said matter-of-factly. “He bores me. They all do. Their lives are one big void waiting to be filled with things that cost money. And it never will be. They will never be able to buy enough to fill that box. They will open it every morning of their lives, and it will always seem empty. They’ll always be hungry.”
She walked to the window and looked out at the lovely English countryside blooming with the rich fecundity of a cherished and cared for paradise. “It’s so beautiful here. I wish we didn’t have to leave.”
“We can always come back here. Whenever you like.”
“You swear?”
“I never swear. But I’ll make you a conditional promise.”
“What’s the condition?”
“That you come back here with me.”
She took his hand and kissed it, leaning her cheek against the knuckles that rubbed along her face.
“When do we leave?”
“An hour?”
“So soon?”
“It’s a very short flight, but we need to get to the airport.”
“Airport?”
“We’re going to Gibraltar. It’s a family celebration. Everyone will be there, and, of course, they’re expecting me. It’s a perfect opportunity for you to meet everyone.”
She held her hand out to him, and he took it, kissing the palm and each knuckle, then holding it against his cheek.
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.
The idea that he would want her to become part of his family, as close to him as his own blood, made her feel like weeping with gratitude.
“What kind of celebration is it?”
“A bar mitzvah.”
She stared at him. “Fonseca,” she said slowly. “What kind of name is Fonseca?”
“It was actually da Silva, until a maternal grandmother insisted her grandson use her maiden name. That was in 1750. Before that, the family lived in Spain for centuries, up until the Order of Expulsion. After that, they scattered. They wound up in Ferrara, because there was a duke there kindly disposed toward refugees. And in England, because so many were bankers. Others went to Amsterdam and Morocco, and from there several wound up in Gibraltar. It’s a tiny place, and oddly beautiful. And the people are extraordinary. You’ll see. A few months ago, my cousin married a boy from Rome who is a very serious student of Talmud. I think they plan to live in Jerusalem, at least for a while.” He looked at her stunned face, puzzled.
“Suzanne, is something wrong?”
Across the room, on the wall behind him, Suzanne stared at the shadow of an old woman. She was doubled over, her shoulders shaking with glee. It took Suzanne several minutes until she realized that it was simply the shadow of the daffodils swaying in the breeze.
24
TELEGRAM
DEAREST GRAN: WONDERFUL NEWS! MARIUS AND I HAVE FOUND SOME MORE PAGES HERE IN CORDOBA! WILL SEND A COPY ON TO YOU AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. URGENT WE CONTINUE ON AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE. WILL CONTACT YOU SOON AS TO WHEREABOUTS.
LOVE, LOVE, LOVE
FRANCESCA
Unbound manuscript pages. 23 × 33. India ink on parchment. Circa 1570? Alonzo dos Remedios, Rare Books, Córdoba. Sold to Serouya and Company, London. Provenance unknown.
Marriage, my father wrote to me the day before my wedding, is the most singular friendship in the world. So drawn are husband and wife to one another by love and choice and experience, that what one desires the other also chooses; and what one says the other upholds in silence, as if he had uttered it himself. In true love, two persons share a single soul. And out of that singleness, comes children.
He wrote further:
Do not view motherhood as the curse of Eve. It is woman’s privilege, and her burden.
Do not follow the fashion and abandon your tender babes to the nutrix and cunabularia, those ignorant peasants who wet-nurse for a gold coin, letting their own babes starve. For how often are highborn babes delivered to such women in swaddling of the finest linen, only to be returned in coarsely woven shrouds? Hold your child not only in your womb, but also, from its earliest infancy, in your arms. Hear its cry, and nurse it from the milk that is the product of your own blood.
Obey the laws of marriage scrupulously, with modesty and sanctity. Watch for the signs of your flow and separate from your husband. Be punctilious in going to the ritual baths. And be modest and decent in your relations.
Respect your husband and be invariably amiable.
And expect that he honor you more than himself, and treat you always with tender consideration.
Live in a community, not isolated from others.
And even if you must beg alms to provide it, see that your children have a teacher to instruct them, so that their souls and their characters may be amply nourished.
Marry off your children as soon as their age is ripe, to members of respectable families.
Don’t eat heavy meals.
Wear clean, nice clothes.
Keep your house tidy, for sickness and poverty are to be found in foul dwellings.
All this do, that G-d may love and honor you after the manner of your fathers.
These were my father’s words, written in his fine hand, because, I imagine, my mother was not there to do it for him. Also, I suspect he understood that from my aunt I should receive advice of quite a different sort. And so I did.
“Remember, if you step on his foot during the ceremony, you will rule over him. But if he steps on yours, you will be his slave,” she advised.
“I have no wish to rule or to be ruled!” I laughed scornfully, forgetting G-d’s wish that we honor our elders. My punishment was swift and cruel.
“Then be prepared to suffer!” she declared, pressing her lips together in that knowing smile of spiteful pleasure older people have when relating bad news to the young. “Every man is a wanton. Did not even our wisest of kings, Solomon, keep a thousand wives and concubines? Your husband, too, will have his mistresses, and his little bastards. For this is the way of all men, especially at Court. Look the other way and be grateful. You will be mistress of his household, owner of his property, mother of his heirs. And he will rob another of her rest!”
Her words f
illed me with bottomless horror. “Never!” I cried.
“Alcavo de un anyo el moso toma las manya de su ami,” she said hatefully. After a while, a servant grows used to his lord’s manners.
My head spun.
From then on, I found myself untouched by the frenzy of those laboring to dower me and prepare my wedding feast. Like some errant knight’s armor, a sadness encased me that nothing seemed to penetrate.
Could it be, my mind ceaselessly pondered, that Francisco, my Francisco, would ever long to touch another? The idea tortured me in a way I was helpless to counter.
My wedding ablutions I performed in the river, far from prying eyes. The bogo de baño and cafe de baño were picnics on the grass, rather than the elegant affairs of our ancestors. Still, we feasted on dulce de naranja and dulce de conja.
My wedding day dawned fair and mild. My maids bathed and dressed me in my velvet gown of richest scarlet with its jeweled girdle of tiny pearls, rubies, and emeralds. They brushed and coiled my hair, then covered it with a rete of silken gold entwined with tiny diamonds. And when they were finished, they took the diadem that was Francisco’s gift out of its golden box and placed it on my head.
I stared at it in the looking-glass: intertwining ovals of tiny diamonds and emeralds surrounded ten magnificent rubies the size of hens’ eggs, all set in gold. No queen’s crown anywhere in Europe could rival it, I warranted. I fingered it thoughtfully. Surely a man who would bestow such a gift upon a woman would have no desire to search for another?
But it was of no use. I could not convince myself. Gifts were not what I needed. The only thing I would ever desire from him was his heart. Unlike fine jewels, it could not be lent to another and returned to me without losing its incomparable lustre.