The Poetry of Secrets

by Cambria Gordon

  But when she arrived, she tossed the idea out of her head. Everything was so beautiful it seemed impossible anything bad could happen here. Colored blankets were strewn across the benches, and lanterns flickered everywhere, making the atmosphere warm and inviting. Isabel found one of the last seats on a sandstone bench, one of many rows carved into the hill like an amphitheater. Next to each seat were goblets. A servant boy scurried in and out, pouring wine. Someone plucked strings on a lute. She couldn’t tell if the reading hadn’t yet begun, or if they were between sets, but at the moment, the large crowd buzzed with conversation. The men and women seemed to be from all classes of Muslim society. Some had bright turbans on their heads, and wore fancy, billowing pants, covered by tunics tied at the waist in different fabric. Others looked like they had rolled in from their sleeping corner on the street.

  The crowd hushed as a veiled girl began to recite in Spanish.

  “O young buck, adrift in the brush, take heed of the rustling sound

  It is not the hunter, but I, your doe, who will bring you to the Heavens.”

  Then a second person, a young man, stood up and improvised a concluding verse in the same rhyme and meter the girl had used.

  “O young doe, I see you there, drinking from the brook

  I don’t fear the hunter’s bow, for it is I, with sharp arrow to thrust.”

  The crowd cheered, approving of the wit and flirtation of both readers. It went on like this for a long time, with people randomly reciting and others taking the parlay. A girl sitting near Isabel, who looked to be about the same age as her, stood up. She had long black hair and eyes the color of clear blue sky. In accented Castilian, she began.

  “Her lover blows the flute,

  tempting snakes upward from his basket

  but though she wants to succumb to his charms, she cannot

  for under her veil flows royal blood

  Her father, the king, will smite him down, driving a sword through his chest, the blood blossoming on his working-class shirt

  So she remains watching, undulating inside his oasis.”

  No one stood up to add to her poem. It spoke for itself.

  Finally, the moderator, a deep-voiced Moor, asked if there were any more poets in the audience. They had time for one more. Isabel’s heart pounded against her ribs. Slowly, she lifted herself off the bench, but then a man in front stood and beat her to it. She sat back down, both relieved and angry, though which emotion was dominant she couldn’t say.

  Afterward, she approached the dark-haired poetess. “I enjoyed your poem.” Up close, Isabel could see that the girl fell more into the street urchin category of attendees, her face smudged with dirt.

  “Gracias.” The girl stuck out her hand, her blue eyes twinkling. “My name is Atika. I live over in the Gypsy camp.”

  So she was a Romani, thought Isabel, preferring the more proper description. Atika had used the common term, Isabel assumed for her benefit, but she knew it wasn’t really the correct term. Because of their dark skin, Spaniards wrongly assumed the Romani were from North Africa and started calling them Gypsies, from the word Egypt. Like the name Marrano, it didn’t feel right. “We live at the base of the vineyards on the edge of town. My father is a wine producer.”

  “Yet you’re lettered.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “Most people recite from memory,” said Atika. “You stood out tonight.”

  Isabel said nothing, aware of her higher status in both dress and leather notebook.

  “Are you Jewish?” asked Atika. “Everyone knows they are the bookish ones.”

  Isabel laughed. “They are, but not the women, unfortunately. Actually, I am New Christian.” She felt the need to categorize herself, even though Atika probably didn’t think twice about the distinctions between conversos and practicing Jews. In fact, Atika’s life was likely much more interesting than Isabel’s own provincial one. “Tell me about your family.”

  “My father, Vano, came from a long line of Italians who came to Spain over one hundred years ago,” explained Atika. “My mother was Muslim, originally from India, but was sold into slavery when she arrived in Gibraltar at the age of thirteen.”

  “Were you raised as the daughter of a slave?”

  “Not exactly. My father saw her, this beautiful woman in a head scarf, disembark from a ship. He stood at the slave market, watching as a rich man who owned a gambling den purchased her. For months, my father followed him in secret. Then, one day, when the rich man was at the marketplace, my father began to dance around him, shaking a tambourine. The distraction was enough to pick his pocket. Guess what was inside?”

  Isabel could not imagine.

  “The key to the man’s home! That night, my father entered with the stolen key, kidnapped the beautiful woman, and freed her. The rich gambler’s body washed up on the riverbank a few nights later.”

  “Did Vano kill him?”

  She shook her head. “It was never proven.” Atika’s eyes grew wet. “But he and my mother only had a short time of happiness together. She died giving birth to me.”

  Isabel was in awe. Here was a girl her age who had suffered so much already. Yet Atika wrote of snake charmers and oases, of sword-wielding heroes and veiled princesses—a magical world that belied the harsh reality from which she came.

  They talked long after the crowd had dispersed until finally Isabel pulled herself away. The dinner dishes awaited. Isabel and Atika made plans to see each other again. Isabel knew her parents would say she should choose more appropriate girls to spend time with. But her Old and New Christian acquaintances were dull, hiding behind their tapestried walls, only going out on Sundays. In Atika, Isabel suspected she had made a like-minded friend for life.

  Finished for the night, Diego found his horse where he’d left him tied earlier, by the fountain on Calle Pavo.

  The animal whinnied, pleased to see him after so many hours.

  Diego held out a carrot, which the horse promptly chomped entirely. “I’m sorry, old friend. Tax collecting took longer than I planned.” Somewhere to his left, deep in the Arab quarter, applause and laughter pierced the quiet night. Something was going on there tonight, and for a moment, Diego thought about venturing over. But his mother liked to eat late-night supper with him when the count was traveling, and Diego knew better than to keep the countess waiting.

  As he trotted home, he pictured dinner tables all over the Iberian Peninsula. And even farther away. South to the Kingdom of Fez, where the Mohammedans lived and dined on tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl. East to the Republic of Genoa, where his friend from school, Andrea Grimaldi, ate on long mahogany mesas with over twenty guests each night. And farther east to Constantinople, where Ottoman sultan Mehmed sat with his generals. Diego heard the Ottomans had built a mosque over the site of the Church of the Holy Apostles. Imagine that. Minarets and Iznik tiles replacing reliquaries containing bones of saints. The audaciousness! At each of those tables, he could almost hear their long-winded arguments, taste the flowing wine, and see the views from their windows. Views he wanted to paint.

  There was a world beyond Trujillo that he longed to see. This tiny village was not his destiny. He was sure of it.

  In the morning, the Perez family gathered in the kitchen as Mamá poured hot water into cups of fresh mint leaves. During Shabbat, she always kept a smaller container of water over the low fire, next to the bigger stew pot. Everyone stood holding their tea, except Abuela, who sat on a stool. Isabel tried not to yawn and give away the reason she hadn’t slept very much, though she was pleased at how clean the kitchen looked.

  “Five cases is a decent order,” said Papá, blowing on his warm drink. “Though I confess, I thought Don Sancho would order more.”

  “It must not be a very grand party,” said Beatriz. “Constanza’s family and friends drank one hundred bottles for her confirmación.”

  “The man seems lonely,” said Mamá. “He needs a wife.” She turned to Isabel
. “You don’t actually think he’s a toad, do you, cariña?”

  Isabel chewed the inside of her cheek and said nothing. Perhaps that description had been a bit too harsh.

  “I didn’t think so,” said Mamá, satisfied. “All he needs is a proper woman to take care of him.”

  Isabel scoffed. “Some poor, unlucky woman.”

  Mamá raised one eyebrow. “I’m talking about you.”

  Isabel took too big of a sip of tea, scalding her tongue. “What did you just say?”

  “I’m saying that it’s time to think of your future. You’re sixteen.”

  “But … but I’m not ready!” she sputtered.

  “In Abuela’s day, girls became betrothed at fourteen,” said Mamá.

  Isabel shot her grandmother a pleading look. Why wasn’t she protesting? Abuela clasped her fingers behind her back as if she was holding not only her own hands but her tongue as well.

  “No one I know is even betrothed yet,” said Isabel.

  Mamá sipped her tea. “You can postpone the actual marriage ceremony until you’re eighteen. But having a betrothal in hand brings peace of mind.”

  “In that case, let him wait three years until Beatriz will be eighteen,” offered Isabel.

  “Sadly, I’m not the firstborn,” said Beatriz with no trace of sadness at all.

  Isabel glared at her sister. “Yet yesterday you claimed to want him.”

  “You mistake admiration for desire, dear sister.”

  Papá cleared his throat. “Don Sancho asked for you specifically, Isabel.”

  Isabel was horrified. “Impossible!”

  “He said as much to me, privately, while you were retrieving the grapes last night,” added Papá.

  “Then I refuse to accept.”

  “You’re being ungrateful,” said Mamá, looking at Beatriz.

  Isabel’s hands tightened into fists.

  “Go fetch some water from the well,” Mamá said to Beatriz. “And let us speak with Isabel alone.”

  Beatriz crossed her arms. “Oh, but the conversation is just getting interesting.”

  “You’ll know all the details soon enough,” said Papá. “Go on.”

  When Beatriz stormed out of the kitchen, Isabel did not hold her tongue. “You can’t be serious!”

  “Shhh,” said Mamá. “We don’t want the neighbors to hear.”

  “What, that we fight?”

  “No. That you would refuse such a prestigious match as Don Sancho,” said Papá.

  “Forgive me. For a moment, I forgot the rules of society. Let me recite them again in case you need reminding, too. Spanish ladies of marrying age must acquiesce to the attentions of any interested male,” Isabel began, “the more prestigious, the better. We must act demure and bow down in their presence. Serve them wine and meat and … pistachios. We must dress modestly and speak only when we are spoken to. We dare not express ourselves. We dare not have hobbies of our own. And we certainly dare not show anyone we can read or write, for we ladies might take over the world one day. And where would the prestigious bachelors be then?”

  Where had all this venom inside her come from?

  “It’s unequal and immoral!” she yelled. “Why do the men get to decide all the rules?”

  Mamá moved to close the windows. “Quiet now.”

  Isabel glared at her parents. “Why must you always be so worried about what other people think?” Her life, her plans were being ruined and all they cared about was the neighbors.

  “As conversos, it goes with the territory,” admitted Mamá.

  “Well, I’m sick of the territory. Every step I take is a lie.” Isabel had no idea she felt this way until now.

  “I know our double life has been hard,” said Papá. “And you’ve been exemplary at keeping the secret. It’s not fair that we’re asking you for even more sacrifice.” He paused. “But truth be told, this isn’t about being fair. That sentiment buys us nothing. This is a matter of survival. And our currency happens to be you.”

  Isabel released a bitter chuckling sound. “If that was supposed to cheer me, you failed.”

  “The fact remains that Don Sancho is one of the most powerful municipal officers in Trujillo. He was appointed by the king himself. No one would dare accuse us of Judaizing when our eldest daughter holds the title of Doña del Aguila. Your marriage will guarantee our safety.”

  “So it’s up to me to save the entire family from persecution? I didn’t choose this religion. You did! I did your bidding for sixteen years. Now it’s my turn.”

  Mamá slapped Isabel’s cheek. She had never raised a hand to her before.

  Smarting, but not backing down, Isabel said coolly, “Well, that’s it, then. I hope your insistence on identifying with Judaism was worth it.”

  “It is worth—” Abuela started.

  “Not now, Abuela.” Papá turned to Isabel. With a firm voice, he said, “This discussion is over. Do not challenge my decisions again, do you understand?”

  Isabel wouldn’t nod.

  “You will obey me!” he yelled. “And you will become Doña del Aguila.”

  Isabel flinched. Papá rarely raised his voice. He let the girls whine, complain, rage at him, but he never yelled back.

  Doña del Aguila. The name was ugly, sharp with serrated edges. It cut into her resolve, slicing the fight right out of her. “Surely there have been other suitors who’ve inquired about me? Someone younger?” Her voice was quieter now, begging.

  Mamá shook her head. “None so far, I’m afraid. Obviously, your countenance pleases and your talents abound. But not everyone can abide the uncertainty of marrying a converso, someone with”—she frowned—“impure blood. Thankfully, Don Sancho doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “But what about love?” Isabel’s voice was practically a whisper.

  Mamá took Papá’s hand. “You will grow to love him.”

  Isabel’s eyes pricked. Her breath came in shallow bursts. She threw her teacup across the kitchen. Then she ran through the sala and out the door.

  Trembling, she leaned against the shed in the back of their house. The chickens nested quietly in their pen, under a cloudless sky. How could the morning be this tranquil when her heart was in shards like that teacup?

  A flicker of color bobbed in the foreground. A slow, shuffling sound. “Isabel?”

  It was Abuela, her red scarf wrapped around her ears.

  “Over here,” Isabel managed to exhale.

  When Abuela reached her, she took Isabel in her pudgy arms and said nothing. Just held her until the sobbing subsided.

  Eventually, Isabel pulled away, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes to stem the tears. “Are Mamá and Papá right behind you?”

  “No. They sent me out alone.”

  “To try and talk sense into me?”

  “They think I’m a better messenger.”

  Isabel gave a hollow laugh and the chickens began to cluck. “Better how? You approve of this match, too. I can’t understand. Don’t you want me to marry a Crypto-Jew? Or a converso at least?”

  “I wish that were possible, mi nieta. With all my heart. But these times require us to make sacrifices.”

  Her words brought Isabel no comfort.

  “It wasn’t always this way, you know,” said Abuela.

  “You mean girls were not required to wed gluttonous, yellow-teethed mobards back when you were young?”

  Abuela chuckled. “Long before that.” She untied her scarf and held it in her hands. “Centuries ago, in the land of Al-Andalus, when Spain was ruled by the Arabs, the Jewish people could practice their religion freely and marry whom they wanted within their own faith. Some even had more than one wife!”

  Isabel’s hand flew to her mouth in shock.

  “Polygamy was frowned upon, believe me. But the point is, not all marriages were arranged. It was a time of great communication outside of religious practices as well. Muslims, Jews, and Christians exchanged ideas about Greek philosophy, math
ematics, astronomy, medicine, botany,” continued Abuela. “Artists, scholars, and writers could gather together and argue or converse openly.”

  “Sounds like paradise,” said Isabel, softening. They both leaned against the shed. She rested her head on Abuela’s shoulder, feeling like she had as a child, when Abuela would stroke her forehead and lull her to sleep.

  “While we were never in the majority,” continued Abuela, “Jews did rise to positions of power. You could find us everywhere, from royal secretaries to administrators of buildings belonging to the Church. If a Jew felt they were being treated unjustly, they could register an official complaint to the king and queen and receive protection. But underneath all that intellectualism, the highest authorities of all three religions felt threatened. Rabbis, caliphs, priests. It frightened them when people said science was just as true as the word of God.”

  “And what’s wrong with science?”

  “It draws upon facts and reason. It doesn’t rely on faith. Science brings knowledge, and with that comes a sense of control in the universe. People began to think that God did not dictate everything, that they had free will to act.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Abuela seemed surprised at being asked. “Certainly not. I feel safer with God in charge of my life. But don’t look to me for answers. Look at Maimonides, one of the greatest Jewish thinkers in the world, from just nearby in Córdoba, believe it or not. Even he was influenced by science and philosophy. He said that both religion and rational thinking came from God. And that God decided humans should have free will.”

  What a radical way of thinking! Goose pimples appeared up and down Isabel’s arms, yet there was no breeze. “I can’t believe people dared to doubt the ways of the Church. It must have been a terrible controversy.”

  Abuela nodded, the bun she always wore pinned at her neck bobbing.