Papá swirled the wine in his glass, checking for sediment. “We must all be vigilant. A knock on the door at night might not mean a friendly visitor.”
“Who, then?” Isabel asked.
“A story was told today of someone’s cousin in Seville denounced for heresy.”
“Heretics are the devil,” said Beatriz.
Papá shook his head at her. “Heretics are anyone who does not believe what the majority believes.” He then looked at the rest of them. “They took this cousin away in the black of night. He was asked to name other heretics. He thought quickly and named a dead aunt. The inquisitors dug up the aunt’s bones and burned them.”
“Manolo, por favor,” said Mamá. “Not at the table.”
Isabel’s hands grew cold and she tucked them under her thighs. “That could never happen here in quiet Trujillo.”
“Let us hope not,” said Papá.
Beatriz set down her glass too hard and some water spilled out onto Isabel’s well-ironed cover. “If you were clear in your own mind, Papá, these little trips to the taberna wouldn’t be a problem for you.”
“What are you referring to?”
“Are you Christian or Jewish?” demanded Beatriz.
“I am in between,” answered Papá.
Was this why Isabel didn’t feel connected to the religious fervor around her and worshipped Rumi, Ibn Arabi, and the other Muslim poets of Spain instead? Because she lived in the “in between”?
“The Cohens are Jewish. Señora Herrera is Old Christian. Even Zahra knew who she was,” said Beatriz, her voice escalating. “They are black and white, and we live in the gray.”
“I hope you weren’t discussing religion with our servant,” admonished Mamá, who had relieved Zahra, a Muslim, from her duties last month. It was becoming too great a risk to employ a worker who might gossip in town about their weekly rituals.
“Look around you, Papá,” said Beatriz, ignoring Mamá. “This whole country is Christian! When are you going to accept it?”
“When they accept us,” he growled.
Did he mean as Jews or conversos? Isabel wondered. She thought about Don Abraham Senior, the trusted tax-farmer-in-chief to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. He kept his Jewish religion and did not convert, yet he had achieved great power and access to the crown. But she remained quiet. She did not want to defy her father.
“Plenty of New Christians hold high positions,” continued Beatriz. “Constanza’s father sits in the government council.”
“I’m speaking about anti-Jewish laws spanning hundreds of years, frenzied mobs attacking innocents,” said Papá, his voice strident. “The Jews have been forced to leave every country we have ever lived in. We are blamed for plagues, floods, economic hardship. Old Christians would say it’s our fault their hair turned gray if they could.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” argued Beatriz. “Old Christians simply want to live among others who are like them.”
Abuela cleared her throat. With a trembling finger, she pointed at Beatriz. “And God said, you shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him. For you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” She lowered her hand. “Now eat some bread.”
Beatriz pulled off a chunk of the braided loaf and slid down in her chair. Silent, for the moment. But Isabel knew it would only be a matter of time until she started up again.
Where Papá held on to his Jewish history for politically defiant reasons, Mamá for nostalgia and comfort with what was familiar, Abuela was a true believer. Isabel felt guilty that she did not believe in Abuela’s God with the same passion, for Isabel loved her grandmother the deepest. The one gift she was able to give Abuela, however, was that unlike most privileged young Spanish women, Isabel was lettered. Abuela had taught Isabel to read and write years ago, down in this very cellar. Abuela’s own father had taught his daughter to read in the same way, by candlelight in their room belowground.
“Let’s not argue on the Sabbath anymore,” said Mamá, ladling out portions of adefina, a stew of lamb, aubergine, and bulgur wheat flavored with garlic and pepper. It was the same each Friday. The hot dish would lie covered over a low fire all night so Mamá would not have to cook on the Jewish day of rest. It would still be warm for lunch tomorrow.
The conversation turned to lighter matters. Specifically, new dress fabric the girls would need for the christening of Señora Herrera’s granddaughter.
Beatriz turned to Mamá eagerly. “Can we pay a visit to Señor Cohen’s studio tomorrow?”
Yuçe and Rachel’s father sold the most beautiful cloth in all of Trujillo. Isabel and her sister had a closetful of dresses sewn from his fabrics. Taffetas for Christmas and Easter, threaded with reds and yellows and golds; velvet and woolens in violet and emerald for when they went calling. Yuçe, now just eleven years old, would take over the business one day.
“Tomorrow is the Sabbath,” said Mamá. “David doesn’t work on Saturday, you know that. But it also happens to be the Feast of the Booths, Sucot. After sundown, we will go to the Cohens’ for dinner.”
“We shouldn’t be celebrating Jewish holidays out in the open,” said Beatriz.
“It’s hardly out in the open. It’s in the judería,” said Mamá, referring to the neighborhood where all the Jews had been forced to move last spring. It was a chaotic time, Isabel remembered. The Cohens had to sell their lovely home and work studio to a Christian family and purchase a smaller house in the Jewish quarter. Mamá had told her they lost maravedis on the sale.
Beatriz scowled. “As long as I can buy some new fabric.”
“We won’t be able to exchange money,” clarified Papá. “But you can shop and choose fabric to be picked up later.”
Isabel was looking forward to the evening. It felt like ages since she had seen the twins.
Papá turned to Isabel. “In the meantime, tomorrow after sunup will be ledger day.”
“Tomorrow?” she groaned.
Papá’s lips folded inward. “I’m behind as it is.”
Isabel was devoted to her father and knew the freedom he granted her was conditional on her fulfilling certain family duties. She was the eldest child and would one day inherit the vineyards (only to have to relinquish them to some blaffard husband as part of a dowry), but that also meant that more was required of her. Papá’s accounts of bottles sold and money owed would take hours to transcribe, hours she preferred to fill composing poems. With the extra work, there were advantages, though. Namely, that her parents viewed her differently from other girls her age and gave her more leeway. They used to make Zahra travel everywhere with her as a duenna or companion. But since the servant girl was no longer in the Perez employ, and Abuela could not keep up with Isabel’s pace, they allowed Isabel to walk through town unaccompanied. Like today, when she briefly followed that young man. “Of course, I’ll find the time.”
The clock tower on the Iglesia de Santiago chimed ten. The poetry reading would be starting at half past the hour. Isabel had an idea. “I think I’ll start on those ledgers tonight,” she announced, rising to clear the dishes. If they thought she had stayed down here in the cellar working, they would not look for her. And her nosy sister wouldn’t wonder why she was not abed in their shared room.
A rumbling noise came from upstairs. Isabel nearly dropped the stack of plates in her hand. Someone was banging on the door, insistent as a barking dog.
“I have nothing to hide,” said Beatriz, sliding her chair back calmly. “I’ll get the door.”
Isabel’s heart was thrumming too fast to think of a clever comeback to her sister’s superiority. The rest of the family followed Beatriz upstairs, but not before Mamá had blown out the Shabbat candles, and Abuela shut the cellar door behind them.
“Everyone, take your place in the sala,” whispered Papá.
Isabel took up her sewing kit and tried not to stare at the cellar door. If the wrong person went down there before the dishes were cleared, they would be doomed. Abuela found the silver p
olish and began working on a chalice. Papá busied himself stuffing his pipe.
When Beatriz swept open the front door, there stood the alguacil, the town constable. Don Sancho del Aguila was at least twenty-five years older than Isabel, maybe even older than Papá. In his black cape lined with fox fur and his plumed hat, he would have looked distinguished if not for the yellowing teeth and webs of red veins on both his cheeks.
“Don Sancho,” said Papá. “Please come in.”
What could his presence mean? Could this be the roundup Papá had heard so much talk about? Yet the alguacil was alone. Perhaps that was a good sign? How many people did it take to drag away a heretic?
Beatriz moved to open the shutters on their balcony window, on the street side. Madre mía! The wooden cross hanging on the opposite wall was crooked. It could be viewed as a sign of disrespect toward the Holy One, causing suspicion. Isabel tried to signal to her, but her sister wasn’t looking. There was no time to straighten it. If it came to that, Isabel would say they had only just used it to pray with.
“I’ve come to order some vino tinto,” Don Sancho said.
“Wonderful news!” said Papá, smiling. “I mean,” he continued more soberly, “I’d be happy to oblige you.”
Mamá audibly let out her breath. “Please, let me take your cloak and hat. Make yourself comfortable.” Then she fluttered about as a bird, bringing Don Sancho brandy, olives, and nuts.
“It’s my Patron Saint’s Day next week,” said Don Sancho, lowering himself onto a divan. “Sanctius. The brave soul was impaled by the Moors in Córdoba.”
Between his yellowing teeth and the vision of impalement, Isabel felt like she might vomit up her stew.
“And you plan to have a feast with wine to go with it,” guessed Papá.
Don Sancho regarded Isabel, who remained on the settee. “My mother”—he made the sign of the cross in her memory—“used to prepare the traditional saint’s feast every year. I need a wife to do it for me now.” He licked his lips, as if he were considering Isabel for a meal.
Papá and Mamá exchanged a glance. They seemed to be on her side, offended at the way he looked at Isabel, too. Papá leaned forward. “The Tempranillo grapes are tasting especially rich. The farm in Plasencia from which I import them had a good crop this season.”
“And from all appearances,” said Don Sancho, cracking open a pistachio nut, “you’ve had a successful selling season, too. This home has, what, five rooms?”
“Does it?” said Papá, obviously uncomfortable with this talk of status. Old Christians of such impeccable lineage as Don Sancho did not appreciate seeing New Christians doing as well financially as the Perezes. Isabel learned long ago not to arouse the envy of the other girls by wearing too fancy a dress. Beatriz was the opposite. The more ornate the better.
“Perhaps you’d like to do a wine tasting, to choose something appropriate for your party?” continued Papá. “I have some opened bottles in the kitchen. Or better yet, I can bring you a sampling of the different grapes. Tempranillo, Garnacha Tintorera, Merlot …”
“What I’d prefer to see is your wine press,” said Don Sancho, standing up. “I’ve heard rumors that the iron screw and capstan were soldered back when the Reconquista began.”
Isabel leapt from her settee. “Forgive us, Don Sancho. But it’s a mess down in the wine cellar. Baskets of grapes everywhere. You can’t even open the door more than a sliver. Another time?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll just slip downstairs and bring you some grapes to sample.”
Don Sancho looked pleased to be attended by Isabel. He nodded and sat back down, his thumbs in his armpits. “Very well.”
When she returned, the men were discussing the latest criminal activity in the community. Beatriz had seated herself on a floor cushion and taken up Isabel’s sewing. Mamá held a handful of empty pistachio shells, still as a statue. It seemed to Isabel that her mother might never leave her spot lest Don Sancho crack open another nut. Isabel gave Don Sancho the grapes and his hand touched hers briefly. Clammy. It was all she could do not to recoil.
“Nine hundred head of sheep stolen, coin clipping, and a wealthy Jewish widow had adulterous relations with a married Christian man. And that was just this week,” Don Sancho said.
“Did they recover the sheep?” asked Papá.
“Not yet. But how far can nine hundred sheep roam?” Don Sancho’s belly rose up and down as he chuckled.
Papá twiddled his thumbs. “And the widow. What sort of fine will she receive?” Papá’s tone seemed cavalier, as if he didn’t really care what the answer to his question was, but Isabel knew there was more to it. He always circled his thumbs when he was nervous.
Don Sancho huffed. “Six thousand maravedis. But that won’t be sufficient. She will ride through town on a donkey so everyone will know her crimes. Then the Christian, poor soul, must be questioned to see if he came under the influence of any evil thoughts from the Jewess.” As warden for Trujillo, it was Don Sancho’s job to keep the peace, and mete out proper punishment. Even if what he considered appropriate might seem too harsh to Isabel’s ears. Owing more money than Papá made in a year, plus public shaming, simply for loving the wrong person? Honestly.
Don Sancho tasted the grapes and smacked his lips loudly. “Juicy,” he said, looking directly at Isabel. “I’ll take five cases of the Tempranillo.” He stood up.
Beatriz retrieved his cape and hat and curtsied to him before she handed them over. Isabel wanted to yank the coat from her hands and thrust it at Don Sancho. Why was everyone in the family being so deferential?
“We must enjoy these frivolities while we can,” said Don Sancho at the door. “The war in Granada is coming. Soon all extra funds will be needed for the effort.”
“Indeed,” said Papá.
Don Sancho raised his plumed hat. “May this be the final battle in the long Reconquista! A una España unida!” To a united Spain.
Isabel saw her grandmother shift uncomfortably. Isabel knew what Abuela was thinking. As a Jew deep in her heart, Abuela would never salute, To the Reconquista! Because a united Spain meant one united in Church and Crown. One religion for all. Which left no room for people like the Cohens and all practicing Jews on God’s green earth. Isabel put her finger to her lips for Abuela to keep quiet.
Papá hesitated for a moment, then lifted his pipe. “To the Reconquista.”
Everyone was in a state of agitation once Don Sancho left. Or so Isabel thought.
“What a serendipitous visit that turned out to be,” said Mamá happily as she and the girls went down to clear the table in the cellar. The oil lamps burning in the sala and kitchen cast a beacon of light into the darkness below.
“He couldn’t leave quickly enough, as far as I’m concerned,” said Isabel.
“I thought he was impressive,” said Beatriz, “with that sparkly ring and his fine clothes.”
“Appearances aren’t everything,” Isabel retorted.
“I expected someone in his position to be greedy with power, but he was quite friendly,” said Beatriz.
Isabel curled her upper lip in scorn.
“You wore that same sour expression his entire visit,” said Beatriz. “Maybe if you’d wiped it off your face, your eyes would have seen who he truly is.”
“The true Don Sancho is a salivating hunchbacked toad,” declared Isabel.
Beatriz piled glasses on a tray. “How nice it must be to go through life so blithely that you can just discount a person because of the way they look.”
“It wasn’t the way he looked,” corrected Isabel. “It was the way he looked at me.”
Beatriz colored. “Again, how nice for you.”
“Enough of this age-old argument,” piped in Mamá. “You both have your gifts.”
Beatriz stopped in the middle of the cellar steps. “Don’t patronize me, Mother. You may live to regret it.”
Mamá waved her hand at Beatriz. “Take those glasses upstairs before you drop t
hem.”
The bells of the church tower rang out faintly, though Isabel could still hear them from her spot belowground. She counted the tolls. God’s boils! It was half past the hour, the time of the poetry reading. If she didn’t leave now, she’d miss it entirely. “Mamá, why don’t you and Beatriz go to bed,” suggested Isabel. “Let me finish clearing the table. I want to get a head start on those ledgers this evening anyway.”
Mamá looked surprised, but acquiesced. And Beatriz was more than happy to get out of cleaning up.
With everyone retired to their rooms, Isabel donned her cloak, took her leather satchel, and quietly left the house. She’d have a load of cleaning up to do later, but she didn’t care.
The first time she’d stumbled into a reading, she had been wandering through the Moorish quarter looking for a poetry book by Rumi, when a notice tacked to a stone wall caught her eye. In the top corner was a charming drawing of a hummingbird drinking nectar from a flower. It was written in Arabic, but she asked a turbaned man nearby to translate it for her. The gentleman used the Castilian words recital de poesía, recitation of poetry. It was to take place that very night, in the upper plaza on the hill. She paid a page one coin to get a message to Mamá that she would be home late, and went. As the sky shifted from purple to slate, and the sweet scent of jasmine filled the air, the event began. Isabel assumed someone would read aloud from a well-known book of poems. But that was not what happened. They were original works! A few poets held parchment paper, while others performed from memory. It had been the most thrilling evening she had ever experienced.
As she hurried along the quiet streets tonight, it dawned on Isabel that the threat Papá spoke about, being carted off in the middle of the night by the Inquisition, applied to Moriscos, too. Many Muslim converts to Christianity secretly practiced their former religion, like the Perezes did, and they largely made up the audience at these readings. They were also the enemy of the Crown, as the Moors still held Granada, the last Muslim stronghold that prevented a united Christian Spain. Not all of the poems at these readings were about love. Some were about the Jewish God or Allah, which might offend an Old Christian within earshot. The innocent poetry readings could now be fraught with unintended blasphemy. What if Don Sancho and his foot soldiers raided tonight?
The Poetry of Secrets Page 2