The Inquisitor's Wife

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  The chambermaid Rosalina, herself a conversa, told me that denunciations had already begun, that neighbor was spying upon neighbor and reporting any suspiciously Jewish behavior to the Inquisitors. Priests were compelled to report any questionable information obtained in the confessional, and arrests would come with the new year.

  I knew that my father and mother were good Christians, and Rosalina confirmed that we were like all other Catholic families, save for my mother’s obvious ancestors. And so I decided that we had nothing to fear, even though there were rumors that the new Spanish Inquisition might be as bloody as the one that had terrorized the south of France a century earlier.

  That autumn was tense, and although the street violence against conversos and the few remaining Jews in town had lessened, my father hired more men-at-arms to watch the house and accompany him to and from his work downtown; instead of walking, he took to riding a horse. And he announced to me that he had begun to consider suitors looking for my hand—Old Christians only, the better to protect me.

  Meanwhile, my mother stopped going to church altogether, making her prayers to the Madonna on the east wall of her bedchamber—the same painted ceramic Madonna that had been the contents of the mysterious bundle she’d been struggling to open on the day that Gabriel had beaten Antonio and the Jew. She was especially fond of the statue, which mystified me because it had been painted by someone much less talented: This Virgin Mary’s lips were a gaudy, sloppily applied cherry, her blue eyes unfocused, the black pupils slightly crossed as she gazed down at the chubby white infant in her arms. Her head was crowned by an Andalusian halo—a huge, gilded, many-rayed sunburst. My mother had a wooden shelf built for the statue and began to spend more time praying to it and less time speaking to my father. More and more often, I would go to her room only to find the door bolted shut and her and Máriam whispering inside.

  Yet when my mother did admit me to her chamber, I saw the change in her. She’d always been sweetly obedient to my father’s every wish, but independence stirred in her and grew stronger as October and November passed and December came. She began to avoid us and began to take her meals upstairs or in her studio as she painted; I realize now she shunned us because it was easier to hide her pain.

  On a cold, dry evening in mid-December, my mother unexpectedly came downstairs to dine with my father and me for the first time in months. Per our custom, I’d waited in the entrance hall to greet him on his arrival home and walk with him to the dining chamber. He had been spending longer hours at work, leaving earlier and coming home a bit later; he’d also lost weight, leaving his cheeks a bit sunken.

  When my father stepped inside the foyer that night, I kissed his cheeks; his tanned skin was cold, but his embrace was warm and unexpectedly emotional. As he held me and returned the kisses, his lips cool, he stilled suddenly and inclined his face upward.

  I turned to follow his gaze. It rested on my mother, who was coming down the stairs toward us. Magdalena wore a dark blue-green velvet gown with the verdugado—what the English called a farthingale—a series of casings that ringed the skirt. These were filled with reeds to make hoops that held the skirt out stiffly from the body. Since the verdugado was uncomfortable and made sitting difficult, my mother avoided wearing it except on special occasions. Her bodice was trimmed with indigo lace, and her sleeves were of long, fashionably flaring gossamer silk, resembling butterflies’ wings. Her hair was not in its usual braid, but put up with pearl-edged combs and covered with a sheer dark blue veil. Most striking was not her appearance, but something far less tangible—the cant of her head and shoulders, perhaps, or the determination in her eyes.

  “Don Diego,” she said, pausing halfway down the stairs. “May I join you for supper?”

  Even her voice had changed. It was no longer soft and whispery, but confident and unapologetic. I remember thinking that this gorgeous creature was not the mother I had known, but someone younger, stronger and far less sad.

  Entranced, my father parted his lips and stared at her and slowly nodded. “It would be my pleasure, doña Magdalena.”

  When she reached the bottom of the steps, my father took her hand and kissed it passionately; they shared a look that held adoration and torment. I followed as they walked to the dining chamber, still gripping each other’s hand.

  My father sat at the head of the table, with my mother on his left and me on his right, facing her; the serving girl was obliged to run to the kitchen to fetch an extra place setting for my mother. When all was settled and the first course—spinach sautéed with chickpeas—was brought, my father dismissed the servants as usual. The room grew very silent. Normally, my father would direct the conversation at this point, but that night, he seemed at a loss for words.

  My mother was first to speak. “Marisol,” she said, with poorly feigned casualness as she moved her spoon through the chickpeas, “has don Diego told you that I am under investigation by the Inquisition?”

  Dropping my own spoon, I gasped aloud and looked to my father for verification.

  My father too let go a gasp. He stared at my mother with blazing indignation, as if she had just slapped him.

  “Lena!” he hissed. “What are you thinking, speaking of such things in front of—”

  My mother’s sudden rage outmatched his; her eyes held a storm of unspeakable emotion.

  “Marisol is a woman, not a child!” she interrupted him, and abruptly lowered her voice, realizing the servants might overhear. “I won’t let you keep secrets from her anymore.”

  My father stood. “You aren’t yourself, Lena. I won’t let you speak so to me.”

  Magdalena ignored him and turned to me. “We must leave Seville. It’s not safe for us anymore.”

  “Papá,” I asked, “is she telling the truth?” The thought of abruptly leaving Seville, the only place we had ever known, seemed insane.

  Diego’s lips trembled with suppressed fury; he stared down at my mother as if she had utterly betrayed him. “Her imagination is running wild, Marisol, nothing more. Nothing will happen to us, and your mother will be questioned, not arrested. The mayor is a converso, most of my fellow councillors are conversos, half the lawyers and priests and even the archbishop are conversos! And if they attack us, the queen has sworn to protect us. More than half of her courtiers are conversos, and the Duke of Medina will protect us, too.…”

  “The Duke of Medina will do whatever Isabel tells him,” my mother countered forcefully. “And Isabel wants an Inquisition.”

  “Only to get rid of Judaizers—which we are not!” My father stamped his foot. “How dare you frighten Marisol like this?!”

  My mother jumped to her feet. “Her innocence won’t protect her! I’m proof of that, Diego!” She looked to me. “It’s only a matter of time now, my daughter.”

  I raised my voice to drown out hers. “Papá,” I demanded, “what will happen to us?”

  “Nothing,” he answered hoarsely. “Magdalena, hold your tongue! Enough of this madness!”

  “They’ll take me away to prison,” my mother said sorrowfully. “They’ll interrogate me, torture me. And then they’ll come for your father … and you.”

  “Lena!” Diego hissed her name as if it were a curse. “You’ll stop speaking of this now! We’ve done nothing wrong! We have nothing to fear.”

  My mother’s lovely features twisted into a grimace. “None of us did anything wrong! None of us … And yet that wasn’t enough!” She looked to me. “Marisol, just because you’ve never seen such horrible things, you believe it can’t happen to us. But you must know: The most unthinkable things in the world can and do happen, to innocent, well-meaning people. In an instant, no matter how good you are, or kind, no matter how much you pray to God to protect you and your loved ones…”

  She choked and began to sob into her hands.

  My father rose and caught my mother’s wrists. “Lena,” he pleaded, “please be quiet.”

  He looked up at me and gestured sharply with his
chin for me to leave the room. I rose and headed for the door, but as I passed my parents, my mother pulled away from Diego’s grip and reached for me.

  “No child of mine will endure what I have! Marisol, hear the truth!” she cried.

  My father struck her with the back of his hand. The force sent her staggering backward against the side of her chair, which toppled, causing her to lose her balance and fall.

  I moved to my mother, too late to catch her. When I helped her back to her feet, she was wide-eyed, stunned into silence, and pressed a palm to her cheekbone and jaw. Her lower lip was split, and a ribbon of blood trickled down her chin.

  In that instant, I hated my father.

  Shaking with agitation, Diego stared down at us; a sheen of tears filmed his eyes. As I looked vengefully back at him, the first drop trickled down the side of his face.

  “Go to your chambers and stay there until I tell you, doña Magdalena,” he said, in a low, ragged voice. “Go and think on what you have almost done. I forbid you to speak of this again; I can’t let your fear destroy us.”

  Five

  My mother lifted her skirts in fury and ran from the room; my father impatiently brushed his tears away and turned his back to her as he returned to his seat and the now-cold chickpeas awaiting him. I still stood in the open doorway, watching as my mother disappeared up the stairs.

  “Marisol,” my father said sternly.

  I glanced back to see him sitting at the table, staring disconsolately down at his bowl.

  “How dare you hit her!” I was seething but kept my voice low, ever mindful of the servants in the kitchen.

  My father continued staring down at the chickpeas, his pained expression slowly fading, his face gradually becoming as unreadable as stone. “It’s my right as a husband,” he said coldly. “I forbid you too to ever speak of this again. Come sit in your chair. I won’t tolerate any more disobedience.”

  I resentfully returned to my place at the table and sat, but my tongue couldn’t rest. Somehow, I stilled my anger and managed to speak softly.

  “You wouldn’t be this upset, Papá, if Mamá’s fears were all imaginary.”

  He ran his hands through his thick hair, a sun-bleached brown that was only beginning to show glints of silver, then pressed his hands together to keep from fidgeting. Even then, he wouldn’t look at me. “Your mother’s nerves have bested her: She heard a foolish rumor and believes it to be true. Now she’s frightened herself so badly that I can’t reason with her.”

  “What ‘truth’ is so horrible that I can’t hear it?” I pressed.

  He shook his head. “Don’t go to her tonight. She’s not rational and will only upset you unnecessarily. I’ll try to talk some sense into her when she’s not so aggravated.”

  “I’m an adult now, Papá,” I reminded him. “I don’t frighten easily.”

  “Your mother was frightened terribly as a child,” he said, sighing again and staring slightly above my head at the past. “So terribly that now she always expects the worst thing possible to happen. I forbid you to see her until I give you permission; it’s bad enough that she’s upset. I don’t want two hysterical women in my house.”

  I said nothing more but was obliged to sit and finish supper, both of us silent and keeping our gazes locked on our respective plates. When we had finally suffered through the full-course meal, don Diego gave me permission to leave the table.

  I hurried at once to my mother’s chambers, to find the door closed but not bolted; this time, not even Máriam would answer my frantic knocking. I drew a breath, and for the first time, entered my mother’s room without permission.

  I held my breath, not wanting to see what I already knew, as I peered around the corner of the antechamber. There stood my mother, her head covered by the fringed white shawl I hadn’t seen in a decade, one she’d promised she’d never wear again. On the little mantel where the crudely painted Madonna stood, two golden candlesticks—ones I believed until that moment she’d given away—sported two burning tapers.

  She stood glazed in their light, her profile to me; her lips were moving in the prayer I still remembered: Baruch atah Eloheinu …

  I stepped from the antechamber, one, two, my boot heels audible against the wood. My mother cast the briefest glance over her shoulder at me, then returned to her praying as if I’d been nothing more than a fly. Máriam too must have heard, but she ignored me altogether as she sat, legs tucked beneath her, on a green prayer rug of Moorish design. She held her dark hands up, slightly cupped, in front of her face and whispered the few words in Arabic I knew, as they had been inscribed everywhere on buildings and artwork in the city: Bismillah ar-rahman ar-rahim … In the name of God, the Compassionate and Merciful …

  For a long moment, I stood gaping as the women prayed. I told myself I had seen defiance in my mother’s gaze—and I knew without doubt that she had lied to me all these many years in order to keep me silent. That Máriam was a liar, too.

  Now that the Inquisition had come, she was silent no more.

  As I stared, I was torn between affection and rage: How dare these two lie to me for so long? Worse, how dare they expose me to their secret, forcing me to choose between my immortal soul (or worse, my dream of being accepted by the Old Christian world) and my love for them? Did they not realize how they were endangering my father?

  In the end, of course, there was really no choice. I’d known from the instant I’d looked on them what I had to do.

  * * *

  Confused, anxious, and angry, I retired early that night to my bedchamber. My mind was too agitated for sleep, so I sat at the little writing desk, lit the lamp, and tried to reread my father’s priceless copy of The Song of the Cid, skipping the battle scenes and focusing on the love of Rodrigo for his beautiful doña Jimena. The subject evoked a different sort of pain; I glanced up from my reading to stare at the winter shutters covering the window. Behind them, not far away, stood the tall stone wall that Antonio had dug through so that we could be together as children.

  I didn’t read long. A quarter hour later, the first drenching storm of winter arrived with a roar. The rain crashed down so hard that, curious, I opened the shutters and stared out at the sheets of water dropping from the sky. They swallowed the sight of the Vargases’ house, including the wall; I could see nothing but windswept, watery darkness, and pulled the shutters closed. The wind caused my reading lamp to sputter, and the growing chill near the window finally prompted me to abandon reading for bed. Even then, I couldn’t sleep, but lay thinking of Antonio, who should have returned this past June to ask for my hand. I’d waited so long for Antonio, despite his lack of letters, that at seventeen I was almost too old for a bride.

  I huddled beneath the covers and listened for an hour to the storm. When it let up quite abruptly, leaving in its wake a profound quiet, I was suddenly able to hear the soft knock at my chamber door. My mother stood on the threshold, still dressed in the blue-green velvet gown with its stiff verdugado; her fringed white shawl was gone, and her expression was calm, her tone reasonable.

  “Marisol,” she said, “there’s something I must ask you, but you must swear to me that you’ll never tell your father.”

  “Mamá,” I countered evenly, “you know that I can’t agree to that.”

  “I’m not asking you to keep secret what you saw tonight,” she said.

  I let her in and silently closed the door. She looked up in frustration at a portrait above my mantel—one of me when I was only seven, an unsmiling, dark-haired, dainty child with too-large eyes, wearing a high collar and a long strand of pearls, like an infanta. “God has cursed me,” she said, only half teasing, “with a daughter as stubborn as her mother.”

  I didn’t smile.

  “It’s true that I’ve drawn the Inquisition’s attention,” Magdalena said, “because of my appearance, if nothing else. I look like a Jewess. And I fear that you take more after me than your father. I can’t stay and bring harm to Diego—and I can�
�t leave you. You’re not safe in Seville anymore. You have to come with me.”

  I recoiled. “Where?”

  “I can’t tell you just yet,” she answered, “but they’ll take good care of us there. We’d be with family. We wouldn’t be alone to fend for ourselves.”

  Before she could finish, I began to shake my head. “Mamá, this is crazy! Are you saying that you and I should just leave Papá and go to a strange country?”

  “Yes,” she said emphatically. Her eyes held a desperation that unnerved me. “Your Old Christian father is too trusting of his peers. Do you know what would happen to him if we stayed in the city? Because of me, the Inquisition would take his property and burn him. I can’t allow it to happen by staying with him, do you understand? Only don’t make me leave you, my daughter. I can bear anything else.”

  I stood up, completely undone by the fact that she could even speak of such a heinous end for my father. “I can’t leave Papá!” I caught my rising tone and forced myself to speak more gently, aware that Máriam was in the next room. “You’re just still upset because he hit you.”

  My mother caught my shoulders. “It has nothing to do with that—I’m trying to save your life, do you understand? You’re the daughter of a conversa, Marisol, and the Inquisition has come here to destroy me and you and your father.”

  I took my mother’s wrists. “Not Papá and me. Only Judaizers.” My tone was snide, but she was too distraught to register it.

  “That’s what they say now,” she hissed. “But it will happen as it did before. First, they’ll want to punish those in the highest positions of power, and then those with wealth, and then they’ll come for everyone. They won’t stop until there isn’t a single converso left in Seville. They want your father because his influence is great. He’s always been at odds with the Hojedas.”