The Poetry of Secrets

by Cambria Gordon

  Isabel had had a dream earlier in the week in which something was burning—perhaps the Torah in Great-Grandpa Crescas’s sinagoga? It would make a powerful poem. But the young man’s face, the one from the bookbindery, kept appearing in her mind’s eye, so that when she dipped her quill in the ink, the words came out jumbled on the parchment.

  O breath of fire, consuming eyes of green.

  She hadn’t meant to say that at all. She meant to say:

  O breath of fire, consuming the word of God.

  Her bedroom door was ajar, and Isabel could hear Beatriz, who had just returned home, in the kitchen. “I left the coin as always and took the bundle of cookies from the niche.”

  “I wonder what they look like,” said Mamá.

  “We’ll never know. Tight wimples and eyes bright with the love of Santa Madre, I imagine,” described Beatriz, quite poetically, Isabel thought.

  Isabel put away her writing just as Beatriz entered their bedroom.

  “You’re wearing that to church?!” cried Beatriz.

  Isabel looked down at herself. She wore a long-sleeved beige cote-hardie-style gown. The collar was scoop-necked, and buttons extended down the center in a straight line. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “The color is drab. And the bodice is much too revealing. What if Don Sancho sees you? What will he think?”

  “I don’t give a raccoon’s tail what he thinks.” She fumed, remembering the way he had pushed her out of the plaza mayor the other day. As if she were a mule and he her owner.

  Beatriz wore a high-collared fuchsia silk dress with birds and trees stitched on it and a veil to match. She always dressed modestly, choosing to wear the more traditional face-covering veil, while Isabel preferred a snood on the back of her hair. The girls were forever arguing over which headpiece was the most appropriate.

  “How can you breathe under there?” said Isabel, lifting up her sister’s veil.

  “There are holes, you know. The air circulates just fine.”

  “Unfortunately, Beatriz, you’ll never be an upper-class girl, no matter how hard you wish it. With Papá’s small plot of land, we are firmly tethered to the middle.”

  Beatriz sniffed. “I’d rather look like an honorable Christian middle-class girl than a bar maiden.”

  Isabel laughed. “You’re just jealous of my décolletage. Be patient. Mine grew last year. Yours will, too.”

  “You need to take more care with your appearance on Sundays. It’s an insult to our Savior.”

  Isabel adjusted Beatriz’s peineta, tempted to move it to the spot where the scab was, though she did not. “Would you rather I wear sharp combs in my hair like you?”

  Beatriz flinched anyway. “Ouch!”

  “I hardly touched you.”

  Beatriz would not meet her eye.

  Isabel was suddenly filled with a mixture of love and great pity for her younger sister. “What are you doing to yourself?” she whispered.

  “Nothing.” Beatriz flushed, her cheeks as rosy as her dress.

  If only she would confide in her. Weren’t sisters supposed to share those kinds of details? They were practically twins; their mother had become pregnant again when Isabel was just five months old.

  “Next time you sneak out to one of those foolish poetry readings of yours, I’ll tell Papá,” Beatriz said instead, glowering. “Mark my words.”

  Foolish Isabel. Sisters didn’t share confidences. They lay in wait for you to make a mistake.

  The second time Isabel had slipped out to attend a reading, she felt like she was being followed and had turned to see her sister, half a block behind. She could not think of a reason to be out and had told Beatriz the truth.

  “Poetry? That sounds like an excuse for blaspheming,” Beatriz had remarked. “And many false prophets will arise and lead many astray. Matthew 24.”

  Rather than try to decode Beatriz’s cryptic quoting of scripture, Isabel pulled off the sapphire brooch that she always wore pinned to her left breast. “Keep it. But promise me you won’t tell Mamá and Papá where I’m going. They’ll just worry for no reason.”

  Beatriz had nodded, and thus far had not told. But she was acting so sanctimonious lately, Isabel couldn’t be sure of anything.

  Now, in their shared bedroom, Isabel made one last attempt to have a rapport with her sister. She looked deep into Beatriz’s eyes, trying to discern what on earth would make her feel guilty enough to poke herself in the scalp like that. There was nothing there but pools of darkness.

  Isabel did not change her dress.

  Though Trujillo was not a large enough city to warrant its own cathedral, it did have five churches, and Isabel had to admit that the one the Perez family attended, Iglesia de Santiago, was the most impressive. Ceilings towered above, high enough to fit twenty horses stacked. There was real gold trim on the main altar. In the center chapel, a scalloped shell decorated the vault, and Isabel sometimes traced circles in the air, mimicking the lines inside, imagining the seaside.

  The family grew solemn as they approached. Churchgoing was serious. Everyone watched everyone else, and each member of the Perez family had learned to master the scrutiny. Except Abuela. Betraying her innermost beliefs had begun to take a toll. She had become more brazen in her advancing years so that Isabel and Mamá had to keep an eye on her, lest she say something incriminating. Papá and Beatriz led the family into the nave. Mamá and Isabel flanked Abuela, each taking an arm.

  “I can’t imagine anything in this earthly world that compares to the beauty and splendor of our house of worship,” Beatriz said, turning her face to the ceiling.

  “Sinagogas don’t need to adorn themselves to be close to God,” said Abuela behind her.

  “Shhh, Abuela,” said Isabel gently, knowing the word sinagoga should not be uttered here.

  While Papá looked for an empty pew, Mamá took five vouchers from the cleric at the door. This proved that the Perezes attended church. People were stopped randomly on the street and asked to show their vouchers.

  “Look at Señor Osorto,” whispered a woman behind Isabel, clucking her tongue.

  “His limp is new,” said the woman next to her.

  “Spending a night in jail will destroy anyone’s hip,” said the first woman. “I don’t care how old he is. You can be sure he won’t forget his voucher again.”

  Mamá, Isabel, and Abuela waited patiently next to Papá and Beatriz for another family to make their way to the end of a half-empty pew.

  Beatriz took Papá’s hand. “I lied when I said there was nothing more beautiful than Iglesia Santiago. The cathedral in Burgos is supposed to be grandest of all—like a palace. You promised we could see it one day. How about before the winter season?”

  Papá frowned. “The journey takes three days in each direction. I can’t leave the grapevines for that long.”

  “And who would tend to Ruy’s grave?” added Mamá.

  “Such pathetic excuses,” said Beatriz, dropping her hand.

  The beige fabric on Isabel’s dress may not have been fancy, but it was heavy. And hot. She opened her fan to dry the perspiration on her face just as she heard a familiar voice.

  “Buenos días, Señora and Señor Perez,” said Don Sancho.

  Isabel turned to receive a bow and a hat tip from Don Sancho. “Señorita Isabel. May I say that you have brought the sunshine indoors with that dress?”

  Though Beatriz was completely veiled, Isabel could see the shock on her sister’s face. Isabel felt vindicated, although she knew Don Sancho’s taste in clothes was blinded by something else. Lust, no doubt. Perhaps it was cut too low. She crossed her arms over her bodice.

  “Gracias, Don Sancho,” replied Isabel politely.

  Mamá, Abuela, and Beatriz took their seats. Isabel moved to follow Beatriz into the pew, but Don Sancho seemed to want to speak to her. Papá lingered so Isabel would not be standing alone with the older gentleman, which would have been improper.

  Don Sancho leaned in close
, conspiratorially. “We did not get a chance to speak after the scuffle in the plaza. I trust your parents have relayed my offer?” His breath smelled of garlic and raw meat.

  “Not in great detail,” Isabel replied. “But they did mention it, yes.” Isabel wore just a sheer piece of silk pinned to the top of her head, so she could not hide behind a veil. But she kept her fan over her face, hoping he wouldn’t catch her disgusted expression.

  He clasped his sausage fingers together. “Splendid!”

  “You do know I’m only sixteen,” pressed Isabel. “I wouldn’t want to act too hastily. Eighteen is a perfect age for marriage, don’t you think?” At this, she dropped her fan and gave him a seductive smile. If she was going to wear a dress like this, she may as well act the part.

  His eyelid twitched. “I’m—I’m not sure …” He paused, clearing his throat. “I will speak to your father about it.”

  Papá and Isabel finally took their seats, and to Isabel’s dismay, Don Sancho went around the other side of the pew and squeezed in, to the right of Mamá. He acts as if he’s part of the family, thought Isabel. Though a group of Old Christian women nodded at them approvingly.

  A pair of stately nobles, a husband and wife, walked down the center aisle. Isabel recognized the silk fabric, an artichoke pattern in vermillion and gold. One of David Cohen’s. And behind them, that young man! The one from the bookbindery. The one who kept creeping into her poem.

  Who were they?

  She turned to the group of Old Christian ladies sitting behind them. “Perdón. That family who just passed us. I forgot the señora’s name. I delivered some vino to them and I just want to ask how she enjoyed it.” One could not expect to be a good member of Christian society and not know the names of every important family. It needed delicacy.

  “Count Alfonso and Countess Graciela Altamirano,” said one of the women. Her voice sounded weak and raspy beneath her veil.

  Altamirano. That was the name the Cohens had mentioned the other night. The ones who kept Señor Cohen busy with all those dresses. “Of course. Foolish me. And the young man behind them?” Isabel’s voice rose up at the end, as if it were an afterthought to inquire about him.

  “Their son, Diego. He’s just returned from University of Coimbra,” the raspy-voiced woman replied.

  This was the reason she had not seen him before in town. He had been away at school.

  “Normally they worship in their private chapel at home,” the woman continued. “But I guess they want to show him off today. Handsome, is he not?” she added, her smile sly beneath the lace.

  Nothing got past a group of gossipy old ladies. Isabel supposed they were all the same, no matter which religion they came from. Everyone wanted to play matchmaker. Anyway, Isabel knew it was impossible. She was a converso with tainted blood. And the Altamiranos were from the oldest, purest Christian lineage one could find in Spain.

  “He’s all they have,” added another woman, in a lavender veil. “Her other two babies died in childbirth.”

  Isabel watched as the count and countess, along with their son, took the entire front pew. She shifted closer to her sister to keep him in view. Isabel could see his brown hair was not tied in a cord as it had been the other day but hung just below his shoulders.

  “What are you staring at?” asked Beatriz.

  “The statue of the Lord Jesúcristo standing next to the burro. It looks more real today, don’t you think?”

  Beatriz’s eyes darted to the front. “Is Juan Carlos up there?”

  “I have no idea,” said Isabel.

  Beatriz touched her scalp, on the scab no doubt. “Then move down. It’s too hot in here for our arms to be touching.”

  Isabel took one last look at the back of Diego’s head. Diego! What a fine, strong name. She then slid to the right, where a tall man promptly blocked her view.

  Fray Francisco de San Martin approached the pulpit in his rich vestments: a long-sleeved white gown with a black velvet cape around the shoulders, cowled at the neck. His head was styled in a tonsure, shaved in a circle, leaving his hair in a ring from ear to ear and his pate bald. Four altar boys, in white gowns and red sashes, helped prepare the candles and the incense.

  “Before we begin,” said Fray Francisco, “I have an announcement. Next Sunday, a special guest will be delivering the sermon. Someone of high authority in the Church. I trust you to make every effort to arrive early. Carry your infirm neighbors if you have to. And those too old to come each week.” He paused, his eyes sweeping the entire room. “Do not miss this. Or you may live to regret it.”

  Murmurs went through the crowd.

  Isabel heard the name Torquemada spoken by the ladies in the pew behind. A shiver went through her. Would the private confessor to Queen Isabella truly visit their small village?

  “Buenas noticias!” said Beatriz.

  “On the contrary,” whispered Isabel. “That does not sound like good news.” If it were indeed to be Torquemada, that could only mean bad omens for conversos. The Dominican monk had been with the queen since she was a young princess and was rumored to be of converso origin himself. It was also common knowledge that he made no secret of his hatred for anyone, Jew or Moor, who did not accept the Lord Jesús as their savior.

  “Nonsense,” argued Beatriz. “We need inspiration from someone closer to el Dios. Scripture can be limited with these small-town friars.” She clasped her hands together in supplication.

  “There’s no need to pray for a new sermon. It’s going to happen.”

  “I’m just grateful that my wishes were heard.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “Don’t be so narrow-minded that you close yourself off to new ideas,” said Beatriz.

  Trying to reason with Beatriz was a losing proposition. Isabel directed her attention to the front. The service was beginning.

  After Mass, it was time to approach the altar to take the Host. Maybe she would have a chance to see Diego again. But it was not to be. Because of his advantageous position in the front pew, he was one of the first to receive communion. As he left through a front exit, she was able to catch only a quick glimpse of his shoulders before he disappeared.

  Since her family was seated so far back, it took nearly fifteen minutes before they reached the front. Isabel smelled the soapy scent of the friar’s hand, unsuccessfully masking the odor of onions. He inserted the wafer and she distractedly let it dissolve in her mouth. Her sister, however, looked positively beatific, tipping her head back in pleasure like a kitten being petted behind the ears.

  Since Diego was a boy, the primary meal of the day had consisted of no fewer than three kinds of animals. Today, they were dining on pork, goat, and peacock.

  “The sauce on this peacock is divine,” commented the countess. “Cook informed me it has bacon, onion, chicken broth, minced almonds, lemon juice, bitter oranges, honey, walnuts, and cloves.”

  Diego smiled indulgently at his mother. He had more pressing things on his mind than the ingredients of sauces. “Father, what is the name of the alguacil?”

  The count was working on a particularly gristly piece of pork in his cocido and didn’t answer immediately.

  The countess filled in her husband’s silences, as she usually did. “Why do you ask, m’hijo?”

  “I saw a brawl earlier this week in the plaza mayor.”

  “Nothing serious, I trust?” said the countess.

  “On the contrary, the alguacil had the situation under control in a matter of minutes.”

  While Diego waited for an answer from his father, he looked around for Martín, their kitchen servant, to light a fire at the hearth. The alcazarejo de los Altamiranos sat atop a high rocky slope, boasting a view of the Tagus River and surrounding townships rivaled only by the royal castle. Built in the thirteenth century out of granite, it was a defensive home given to some distant Altamirano relative who led military troops to victory in Castile. With its fortresslike exterior design, it could, if n
eed be, protect those inside from attack. But it was also constantly frigid.

  Unfortunately, Martín was nowhere to be found.

  The count swallowed dramatically, then dabbed a napkin at the corners of his mouth. “Don Sancho del Aguila. Came up through the army. Quite formidable.”

  Diego rested his fork, trying to remain unaffected, though jealousy spiked in his veins. “Is he married?”

  The count scoffed. “Why concern yourself with such things? Tell me how the tax collections are going. Have you calculated the numbers for this week?”

  “Perhaps the alguacil has a daughter of marrying age?” inquired the countess. She never liked to speak of business at the table.

  “He has no offspring,” said the count, always eager to correct anyone in the room. “I hear he’s planning a betrothal to a converso girl. Though how long that will last is anyone’s guess.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Diego. At the mention of the girl, his heart thumped beneath his doublet.

  “The situation with the New Christians is precarious at best.”

  “Is that your opinion or are you speaking from fact?”

  “Fact, without a doubt. I’ve just been made a Familiar.” He smiled proudly.

  So that was it. The reason his father wanted him to leave school in such a hurry. The Altamiranos were now even more beholden to the monarchy.

  The countess raised a wineglass to her husband. “A great honor.”

  “As a lay official, I’ll be reporting directly to the Inquisitors,” continued the count.

  You mean spying, thought Diego. A collaborator.

  “They are going to police Judaizers with a firm hand. By this time next year, we will have had so many autos de fe it will be a commonplace occurrence.”

  Acts of faith. Diego had heard about one in Seville earlier this year. A classmate of his at university had attended. It was a trial of sorts, but it sounded like a complete farce. After being put to the question, which was really an excuse to apply torture, the very public spectacle consisted of announcing the crime, followed by a dramatic processional to hear the sentencing. Six people were eventually burned alive at the stake, also publicly. His classmate had described the screams of the victims and the ghastly stench as nothing short of bestial.