by Naomi Ragen
And then Diogo’s will was read.
He left a startling amount for charity, the income of which was to be distributed yearly in three equal parts to dower orphans, help prisoners, and clothe the naked. To Brianda, he left the return of her dowry and whatever allowance I thought best.
As for the rest, he left it all to me, in trust for his daughter, Little Gracia. Since half the company was already mine because of Francisco’s will, I was now solely in charge.
And thus, I became the administrator of the greatest fortune in Europe.
It was the exact opposite of all I wanted.
And yet, I could not but hear the voices of Francisco and Diogo urging me on, flinging over me the great mantle of their work to save our people through our wealth. I straightened my slim, womanly shoulders, and walked out of the great pink marble hall to my carriage. All the ride home, I clasped my hands and prayed, asking for the wisdom and guidance of my G-d and my ancestors.
Time heals no wounds. On the contrary, the longer the days stretch between the last living contact with one’s beloved, the more the longing to see him grows. And yet, I could not but feel that all that had happened, that great turning of the wheels of fate, had done all it could to prepare me for the greatest task any woman had ever been asked to undertake.
I knew I was ready.
31
Roth, Cecil, Doña Gracia of the House of Nasi, The Jewish Publication Society of America, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1948; 1977.
Fresh proceedings against Diogo for heresy had perhaps been in contemplation at the time of his death, being delayed only in order to collect overwhelming evidence. From the point of view of the imperial treasury, they would obviously have been lucrative, for a condemnation on this charge entailed automatically the confiscation of a man’s entire property….
It did not seem equitable that his death should involve the emperor in loss; and posthumous proceedings were therefore opened against him. Doña [Gracia] fought courageously against the danger, piling up evidence of his unimpeachable orthodoxy, bringing witnesses to prove his Christian zeal, placating the officials with gifts of money, using every possible expedient and sparing no reasonable expense; there was obviously no other course that could be taken, save to accept defeat and confiscation….
Manuscript pages, unbound, circa 1610-1620. Hidden in the binding of a book taken from Caceres to Venice.
What else could I do? I paid. One hundred thousand florins. A loan without interest to the Emperor, they called it.
All charges were dropped.
There was no question, of course, of my leaving Antwerp now, with so much to be arranged, so much to oversee. But G-d in his mercy prepares the cure before He creates the illness. Just when I began to truly despair, I looked across the dinner table to find the solution smiling at me. Joseph.
He had grown from a gangling, shy, sweet-tempered young boy to a tall, handsome man of acute intelligence and immeasurable charm. He had long been involved in helping Diogo administer the House of Mendes and was not only completely versed in our commercial dealings, but privy to the complex secret dealings upon which so many lives depended.
Realizing that our relations to the royal family must be sweetened, I sent him to live at Queen Mary’s court in Brussels. He soon became adept at jousting, hunting, swordsmanship, and courtly dancing. He and the Queen’s nephew, Maximilian, soon became boon companions. Having prepared the ground, I then joined him.
How can I make you envision my arrival in Brussels to the resplendence of the royal court? I was still young, still greatly admired for my enormous wealth and not unpleasing person. They paid me court, those endless stream of royal cousins, untitled and titled noblemen, men who saw in me a womanly body, larger houses, and lesser thrift. I accepted their gifts; the poorly worked jewels, the illuminated manuscript of the Book of Matthew; the awful poetry and the endless bunches of dying flora! I smiled. I served tea. I flattered them enough to have them leave in good spirits, yet not enough to encourage their imminent return. It was like a fencing match, I told Joseph. The object was to neither mortally wound, nor jump back in defense over the castle parapet.
And just as I began feeling the smugness of victory, I realized that the enemy had changed the rules of the battle and the object of victory. Before I realized what was happening, the light of avid interest began to shine on my daughter, my Reyna.
She was like some rare flower, her graceful head blooming on the gleaming white stem of her fresh, lovely body. People remarked that her blue eyes were like the sky over the deep blue Mediterranean. Others compared her golden-red hair to that of Isabella, little realizing my revulsion at the thought of any connection, however flimsy, between my child and the Catholic Queen who had caused our people so much grief.
Her charming smile, her little ivory hands, the smoothness of her alabaster brow…the praise was endless. I was confused at first, as perhaps a mother with a daughter so newly emerged from childhood can claim her right to be. I allowed myself to savor the praise as a sculptor savors gushings over the form released from stone by his skillful chisel. But soon I awoke, understanding how all this flattery once again placed us in mortal danger.
It was not unheard of for monarchs to simply take charge of the promising, wealthy offspring of members of court, bringing them up and disposing of their matrimonial futures as they would gifts at their disposal, to be conferred at will upon anyone who had gained their favor. Through my contacts and Joseph’s, we were able to convey in the strongest possible terms that any such attempt would be viewed with extreme disfavor, backed by the considerable resources of the House of Mendes.
Thus, tactics changed again. It was decided to allow the maiden to be wooed.
I see her now in my mind’s eye, seated demurely in our salon, her dainty hands twisting the folds of her blue gown as the men lean in toward her with cunning smiles. Her face, confused, already glowing with the reflected light of male approval. For I am sure among the dozens were several honestly smitten, who gave no thought to the rich wrappings that would accompany such a prize, even if their parents did.
It was, and is, my great fortune to have been blessed with a child of great good humor and calm nerves. She did not complain, taking it in with the wonder of Columbus gazing at the sudden appearance of a world he had hitherto not known existed.
Some were honest, handsome of face and form; kindly and possessing great wealth and position of their own. Still, as I explained to her, marriage to any Old Christian was out of the question. Reyna, having received at my hands the same education my mother had given me, did not have to be told why.
Gradually, the ranks thinned. Only one would not be put off. His name was Don Francisco d’Aragon, a bastard of the Aragonese royal house. He was in good favor with Queen Mary and the entire royal house, having distinguished himself in his zeal in investigating the crimes of New Christians. Indeed, years before (for he was a man of an age more fitting to be my father than my daughter’s husband) he had accompanied the Empress Isabella herself on some state journey.
You might imagine, my children, my joy in contemplating such a match for my only daughter! I nevertheless was forced to entertain him on a number of occasions, though I made sure Reyna, who found him odious in the extreme, was spared such ignominy. When his persistence forced me to stretch my ingenuity to the extreme, I decided to return to Antwerp in great haste, putting as much distance between us as possible.
When d’Aragon found himself unable to breach our gates at will, he went directly to Charles to press his suit. Through Joseph and his well-placed spies, I learned that he had proposed the following: 200,000 ducats to our impecunious Emperor from my daughter’s wealth if the marriage took place!
Charles wrote immediately to Queen Mary, insisting that she arrange it, promising her a quarter of the spoils for her own needs.
Then began a series of meetings I shall not forget. Queen Mary, Regent of the Netherlands, deputy to the Emperor, driving up t
o our home in Antwerp and seating herself in our salon.
“A little refreshment, Your Majesty?”
The golden plates, the rich cakes, the hot brew. Her smile, her words of praise for Reyna, her desire, as one who was as fond of her as her own mother, to see her settled well. The wonderful opportunity to marry with such royal favor a man of such impeccable renown.
“Sugar, Your Majesty?”
“What is your answer then, Doña Beatrice? Shall this wonderful match not be immediately taken advantage of?”
“My dearest Queen, may our close relationship allow me to speak with candor?”
A gracious incline of the royal head.
“Your Majesty, permit me to say that I would truly prefer to see my child dead and buried than married to an opportunistic, elderly vagabond who is old enough to be her grandfather!”
It was a shame, the next day, that urgent business called the Queen from our company and back to court.
The letters from Charles to the Queen Regent, and d’Aragon to Charles, continued, full of eager suggestions. The mother’s consent, d’Aragon advised, was of no importance whatsoever. Why not simply choose the day and time and send the Imperial Guard to accompany the bride there safely?
Do so and the merchant class of Antwerp, whose taxes fill your coffers, will rise and leave as one man, the Queen’s advisers pointed out to her, an impression that Joseph no doubt had some part in creating.
Perhaps then, a ball. Invite the Mendes women to court here in Brussels, where they shall be my honored guests until such time as I shall find it in their best interests to permit them to leave….
Unfortunately—as I explained to my Queen in letters written on parchment and sealed with wax—my health did not permit me to accept her gracious invitation. Indeed, as the invitations mounted, I realized my health would never permit a journey in that direction.
I held out as long as I could.
The next time the royal messengers arrived at our door in Antwerp, they found the house empty of its inhabitants.
I had begun my next journey, escaping with Reyna, Brianda, and Little Gracia to Venice.
32
“Good news?” Janice looked up from the brilliant pages of her glossy magazine into her mother’s distant smile.
“Wonderful!” Catherine said hoarsely. “Can you bring me a drink of water, please?”
Janice hurried to pour some into a tall glass, cradling her mother’s head as she drank in long, painful gulps. She finished less than half before impatiently waving Janice away.
“It seems that the suitcase which held the manuscript pages in Cáceres held some old books as well. One of them had a name and address: Elizabeta Bomberg, Venice.”
“What kind of book was it?”
“An old Christian theology text. Absolutely worthless, Marius says. But the priest has given it to Francesca and Marius as a kind of goodbye-and-good-riddance present.”
“So,” said Janice, “they’re off to Venice. Wonderful shopping there. Too bad they missed carnival,” she mused, turning the pages of her magazine.
“Janice. We must find Suzanne!”
“Really, mother,” Janice said calmly, examining a fashion layout from Armani, “when are you going to come to terms with Suzanne? She’ll appear when she’s run out of money, not before. It’s hopeless to try to track her down.”
Catherine sat bolt upright, resting her whole weight on one frail elbow. “Nothing is hopeless, isn’t that what you and my doctors keep telling me?”
Janice looked up, the magazine suspended in midair. “You’re upsetting yourself!”
“Promise me you’ll talk to Marius and get him to call this young man, this Gabriel! He’s a doctor, he must have an answering service that knows his whereabouts.”
“A Jewish doctor, isn’t that what you said, English or something? It sounds wonderful, Mother. Maybe we shouldn’t interfere. Let nature take its course.”
“I tell you, you must find her!”
“And let’s say we do, then what?”
“I want her to go to Venice. She must go to Venice!” Catherine slammed her fist down on the bed, rattling the plastic coils, the tubes, and metal hooks.
“Madre, please! I’m going to have to call the doctor if you don’t lie down!”
“Write it down!” Catherine demanded.
Janice took out a lapis blue fountain pen trimmed in eighteen-karat gold, but discovered she had nothing to write on, except her checkbook. She tore out one of the accounting pages and turned it over. “I’m writing, Madre.”
“Call Marius or Alex Serouya and tell them to contact Gabriel and find Suzanne. Get word to Suzanne that she must meet Francesca in Venice right away.”
Janice kept writing.
“Have you got all that?”
“Of course. Can I ask why?”
“You won’t understand, but I’ll tell you anyway. I had a visitor a while back. She told me that the girls mustn’t miss Venice. Both of them.”
“A visitor? Who?”
“A woman. She took me upstairs to see the babies, remember? That time I disappeared?”
“That deranged volunteer!”
“She wasn’t deranged and she wasn’t a volunteer. She was my memuneh.”
“Your what!?”
“My guardian angel, if you’d prefer.”
“Did this person ask you for money, by any chance?” Janice asked tensely, her eyes narrowing.
Catherine chuckled. “It isn’t a usable currency where she comes from. Besides, ghosts don’t really shop.”
“You frighten me when you talk this way! Do you want me to call the doctor and ask him about your medication?”
“Never mind my medication! I’m not hallucinating, I tell you! Look, Janice, even if you don’t care to believe a word I say, think about it: What possible harm could come from telling Suzanne to meet Francesca in Venice? Call it an old woman’s whim.”
“Why is it so important to you?”
“The woman said specifically that both of them shouldn’t miss Venice. Don’t you see? Venice wasn’t even on the itinerary for them, and now, suddenly Francesca is going there! I just know something is going to happen there to both of them that will change their lives for the better.”
“Be realistic! They’ve never gotten along! Can you really imagine anything lasting and positive coming out of forcing them to be together? Some people are better off apart,” Janice said tearfully.
The divorce papers had already been drawn up. The inelegant wrestling match over money had begun.
Catherine lay back, exhausted, turning her face to the window. “I’ve always loved summer. When I was a little girl, we had a house on the beach. I used to watch the sun make this shining pathway on the water, like some golden road to heaven. And there were always these quiet old men in soft cotton shirts listening to the waves, their eyes closed, content.”
She turned to look at Janice, her voice faint, but stirring with strange emotion. “Do you remember that summer you discovered you had a lovely voice and you sang all day? That was the summer I thought: This is going to be the most wonderful year, yes, the most beautiful year of my life.”
Janice stared at her, transfixed.
“You were a darling child. In my mother’s and grandmother’s day, you would have been considered the perfect daughter—pretty, docile, sweet-natured. But your father and I, we considered ourselves modern, progressive. We wanted you to succeed, to be accomplished, to contribute. That was it! To make some contribution to mankind.
“You weren’t a scholar, even though you did manage to pass all your courses. Nothing much interested you, though, but young men and real estate. Oh, that’s unkind! You wanted a husband and a home. You were all right. It was the world that changed.
“But that summer, listening to you singing all over the house, I felt such a breaking out of happiness. And then suddenly, I got depressed. I got strange aches and pains, sometimes sharp ones right over my heart.
I felt anxious. I couldn’t sleep. I overate. And then I felt sluggish and sleepy. All day, all I wanted to do was sleep.
“This went on until I finally understood what was wrong with me: Everything in my life was suddenly perfect. I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to hold on to it. So I made myself miserable. I couldn’t trust the future. I didn’t believe it would be kind, even though it had brought me that lovely summer, so unexpectedly. Do you understand what I’m saying, Janice?”
Catherine did not hear her answer, the sudden blackening into unconsciousness taking her unawares. She felt a sudden sliding beneath her, as noiseless as a swan, and smelled the weathered wood of the gondola. She lay back, the sunlight warm on her face as someone competently manned the oars, singing with great happiness as they drifted toward some pleasant, unknown goal. It would be so easy to get there, she thought, wondering why she had been resisting, why she had been so afraid. True, she had not planned it this way, but what did that matter? The important thing was…
And suddenly, she couldn’t remember. Nothing seemed important anymore, just peace, perfect peace. That was the goal in the end. Those old men, their eyes closed, had found it with less trouble than she.
Madre!
Unpleasantly louder, the voices, a shout, not a song. A scream of alarm, and the shaking boat dashed recklessly against the pier.
The harsh light. Janice’s tearful, frightened face. Concern, pain, noise, needles, flashing red lights.
Not yet, she thought, full of regret and a small hope. Not yet, but soon.
Janice closed the door and bought a cup of bad coffee from a hospital machine, more to hold than to drink. Her hands shook.
A fainting spell, not a heart attack, they said. She wiped her sweating brow, leaning back and trying to gain her composure.