The Poetry of Secrets

by Cambria Gordon

  Diego felt ill. “Con permiso, Mother. If you’ll excuse me.” He turned to his father. “I’ll have those numbers to you later this evening.”

  He stumbled into his bedroom and promptly threw up the fancy peacock sauce into his chamber pot. He didn’t even know Isabel, and already he was sick with worry for her. Yes, he had hoped to court her himself, but that was out of the question now that he had learned she was a converso. His father would forbid it, as her bloodline was tainted. Perhaps he could simply warn her to be careful.

  After he cleaned himself up, he moved to his desk. He composed a letter, sealing it with burgundy wax and his personal stamp.

  He went searching for Martín, finally locating him in the cellar, salting bacalao. The fish fillets hung on hooks down below, drying out for weeks. In the winter months, when fish ran scarce, they would soak one in water to bring it back to its original form and eat it. Usually, Diego might view a scene such as this—dead fish hanging on hooks, with a single source of light coming in from the tiny window, reanimating them so they almost danced—as a subject for a still-life painting. Some painters were starting to move away from devotionals and depict secular moments of life. But now all he could see was Isabel tied to a post, the waves of her luxurious hair going up in flames.

  “Martín, please get this message to Isabel Perez. Isaac the bookbinder will have her address.”

  On Wednesday afternoon, Abuela rushed breathlessly into the kitchen, where Isabel was peeling off the outer layers of chickpeas. Next to her lay a bowl filled with tiny opaque skins, still holding their spherical shape.

  “He’s here,” announced Abuela. “The bookbinder. He translated the poem!”

  “Where is everyone else?” asked Isabel.

  “Your father took Beatriz out on a wine delivery. Your mother is airing out all of our dresses behind the house. The moths have begun to settle into them. We should hurry, nonetheless.”

  Isabel quickly removed her apron and went into the sala. “Señor Isaac, so nice to see you again.”

  He wore the same plain gown as David and Hannah Cohen, with the red badge indicating he was a Jew, and the funnel-shaped hat. Abuela served tea while they exchanged pleasantries. Finally, she could wait no longer. “Did you bring the poem?”

  Isaac emptied the contents of his pockets: two coins, a small looking glass, a pamphlet printed from a press, and a note, sealed with wax.

  Isabel frowned. “You lost it?”

  “Isabel!” admonished her grandmother. “You must exercise more patience.”

  “No matter,” laughed Isaac. “I know she is eager. It’s here somewhere,” he added, patting his gown.

  Abuela pointed to the pamphlet. “What is that? It doesn’t look handwritten.”

  “It’s from a printing press!” exclaimed Isaac. “My colleague, Sa’id, gave me a sample from his own machine while he translated the poem. I was very excited to see it. Now we can print so much more than just the Bible.” He took a sip of tea.

  “Qué maravilloso!” said Abuela, reading the pamphlet. “Wonderful.”

  Isabel did not need a lesson on the wonders of Gutenberg right now. She knew all about him. They used his version of the Bible in church. “Señor. The translation?”

  “Of course.” Finally, he found a small piece of parchment in a hidden place inside his tunic. “Ah. Here it is,” said Isaac. “I left your original at the shop, not wanting to risk losing it on the way.”

  “Wise choice,” said Isabel, snatching the handwritten paper from his hand, impatient as a small child in front of a plate of Christmas turrón.

  Isabel read aloud in Castilian.

  “O gazelle, you who graze constantly in the meadows,

  I resemble you in wildness and in blackness of the eye.

  Both of us are alone, without a friend, and we heap blame

  always on the decree of fate.”

  Isabel’s throat caught on the last word and she found herself unable to speak.

  “What does it mean, this word gazelle?” asked Abuela.

  “The translation is not exact. Zabyatan is the Arabic word for gazelle,” clarified Isaac. “But we don’t have those here in Spain. Perhaps the author means a roe deer?”

  Isabel remained quiet. Abuela looked at her, concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “Es que … it’s just that … the writer longs for companionship,” Isabel finally replied. “And her fate, even though she may be betrothed, leaves her still feeling alone.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “I didn’t hear it say anything about being betrothed,” said her grandmother.

  Isaac cleared his throat. “If I may. Do you know what the poet is referring to when she says the ‘blackness of the eye’?”

  Isabel used her lace handkerchief to dab her own eye. “The girl and the deer both have black eyes, I suppose,” said Isabel. “Kohl, perhaps, lining the girl’s rims.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Isaac. “The old Arab poets admired hawar and wrote of it often.”

  “Hawar?” asked Isabel.

  “The intense contrast between the black iris and the white cornea. Hawar is a feature of beauty. By mentioning the blackness of the eye, the poet thinks of herself as beautiful, but her destiny is sentencing her to a life of solitude. Where no one will appreciate that beauty.”

  Isabel broke out into full sobs.

  “I-I had no idea this poem would move you so,” stammered Isaac. “If you’d like, I can try and find out more about the poetess. Ibn Sa’id thinks he knows who her father is. It is rumored he was a well-known poet as well.”

  “Gracias, Isaac,” said Abuela, comforting Isabel, who was suddenly terribly afraid of a life of solitude, even with a husband by her side.

  Beatriz entered through the front door. Isabel feigned a smile, hoping Beatriz wouldn’t notice she’d been crying.

  “Is there a party occurring? Because I didn’t receive an invitation,” she said, lifting her veil and removing her gloves.

  Isaac stood abruptly, spilling his tea in the process.

  “Señor Isaac was putting in an order for wine,” said Abuela, dabbing the wet table with the bottom of her apron.

  Isabel covered the parchment with her kerchief. “Is Papá with you?” She was not necessarily trying to hide the poem from him, she just didn’t want to cause concern. Other than Papá’s book of daily Hebrew blessings he kept hidden in the deep recesses of the cellar, this was now a second form of contraband on their property. In addition, she and Abuela had confided in a stranger to consult on it. The more people who knew about it, the riskier it was. Papá would put a stop to it, saying it wasn’t safe. As far as Beatriz was concerned? She was an unknown. Isabel didn’t know whether she could be trusted or not.

  “He went straight to the vineyard,” answered Beatriz, staring at Señor Isaac. Isabel could sense her sister wanting more information.

  “We’re finished now,” said Abuela. She turned to the bookbinder. “We’ll get back to you about your order.”

  He looked confused. When no explanation was forthcoming, he shrugged and headed for the door. “I almost forgot,” he uttered, turning back. He handed Isabel the sealed note from the contents of his pockets. “This is for you. A messenger came by my shop asking for your address. I told him I was coming here and would deliver it personally.”

  Curious, Isabel took the note and slipped it into her own pocket.

  Beatriz eyed Isaac’s back as he left. When the door closed behind him, she said, “Isaac. Isn’t that a Jewish name?”

  “Your father does business with Jews all the time,” answered Abuela. “Come, Isabel. Let’s finish those chickpeas. Beatriz, we need your help in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, all right. Let me put my gloves away and hang up my veil first,” said Beatriz, heading toward their shared bedroom.

  Isabel wanted to read the note alone, without the presence of her nosy sister. “I’ll take your things.”

  Beatriz narrowed her eye
s at Isabel for this unexpected kindness but handed over her belongings.

  Isabel hung up the veil in the armario, next to all the other perfectly pressed ones her sister wore daily. Then she pulled out the note. The red wax seal lay fixed and unbroken. It held the initials DAM. Don Sancho’s surname was Aguila. Was there a third family name she didn’t know about, one that began with an M? What if Don Sancho refused to wait until she was eighteen? What if he was proposing marriage formally, through this very paper? But when she read the message, it was not at all what she expected.

  Meet me in front of the public baths in the Moorish quarter, at the ninth hour this evening.

  It was signed, The bookbinder’s apprentice.

  DAM. Diego Altamirano. Since spotting him in church, she had known he was no apprentice. But when she had met him at the bookbinder’s, her question seemed innocent enough. Now, seeing his handwriting on the paper, she felt ashamed at her ignorance, wishing she could take back what she said.

  Diego Altamirano was sending her a message? Why did he want to meet? Was he attempting to court her? Certainly, he would have heard about Don Sancho’s interest or her own converso lineage at the very least. It was hard to believe he lived in the alcazarejo—such an austere-looking place. He didn’t seem cold, though. The opposite. The note and the man were shrouded in mystery and she was determined to find out more.

  Abuela and Beatriz were in the kitchen. She would go and help them, act like nothing had changed, while she figured out yet another cover story so she could leave the house tonight. She knew she was playing with fire. One of these days, someone in her family was going to catch her.

  Abruptly, an original poetic verse popped into her head, though strangely, it was from Diego’s point of view.

  By God, I am suited to great things

  And I walk with haughty step

  But I dare you to look ’neath

  O poetess of Trujillo

  What would her ancestor, the Jewish poetess, think of that? Did the girl ever write as if she were a man?

  There was no time for such indulgences. She rushed back into the kitchen to help Abuela and Beatriz prepare the meal.

  “No primer plato?” remarked Beatriz as the family sat together at the small table in the sala later that evening. “I thought we were starting with the lentil soup, then following with the garbanzo beans and red pepper rice and veal cutlets.”

  “I was so hungry, I wanted to eat it all together,” said Isabel.

  Beatriz huffed. “And whatever Queen Isabel wants, she gets.”

  “Don’t use the queen’s name in vain,” said Papá sternly.

  “I think it’s a nice change to eat all the courses together,” said Abuela, giving Isabel a small smile, for her eyes only. How Isabel adored her grandmother—every crease in her face, the crisscross pattern on her right cheek and the smattering of thin lines near her eyes.

  “This plate is chipped in case you hadn’t noticed,” said Beatriz. “Most of them are.” She was certainly in a dark mood this evening.

  Mamá looked down, embarrassed. “We’re saving for Isabel’s dowry. Unfortunately, we can’t afford to replace our dishes right now. They’ll have to do.” She was getting older, Isabel noticed. The crown of her head was threaded with gray at the roots. It wasn’t so long ago that her mother played escondido with her and Beatriz, hiding under the table, giggling like a young girl. Even though the thought of her dowry, and possibly the grapevines, going to that wretched Don Sancho made her cringe, Isabel smiled warmly at her mother.

  “You’d better not complain, Beatriz,” said Papá. “Or there won’t be anything left for your dowry.”

  Beatriz moved the red peppers and rice around on her plate. “I don’t know if I want to get married.”

  “Don’t be silly, hija,” said Mamá.

  “I’m thinking about taking the veil and vows when I’m of age.”

  Abuela gasped and slipped a hand through the top of her dress. Isabel knew she was touching the hand-shaped charm she kept sewn on her undergarments to ward off the evil eye. “No dizirlo ankora,” she said in Judeo-Spanish. “Don’t say that again.”

  “Why not?” said Beatriz defiantly.

  “You are dishonoring the family, that’s why,” said Papá.

  “Dishonor, verdad? Really? Your hypocrisy is amusing.”

  Isabel braced herself for another dinner-table fight.

  “Your taking the veil is out of the question,” said Papá.

  “But you led me here.” Beatriz’s smile cloyed in its insincerity. “I owe it all to you.”

  She had a point. The Perezes were conversos because of a decision made by Papá’s and Mamá’s families. Maybe he shouldn’t complain that she had become too good at her job.

  “You want to be cloistered, never showing your face to the world?” asked Mamá.

  “Surely you realize there are other orders, Mamá. Nuns who grow vegetables and administer good deeds out in the community. I can tend to the poor or help take in children whose parents have been captured by the Inquisition.”

  “How charitable of you,” said Papá icily. “Those helpless Jewish and converso children would not be in a convent at all if there were no Inquisition to begin with.”

  “Constanza says there is a special place in Heaven carved out for charitable girls who do the Lord’s work,” said Beatriz.

  The silence at the table was thick like a slab of meat.

  Beatriz looked around and laughed. “Don’t have a billy goat, everyone. I merely said I was thinking about it.”

  Papá, Mamá, and Abuela remained scowling. Isabel took advantage of the enmity toward Beatriz to guide the conversation to her own agenda. Clearing her throat, she said, “There’s an added benefit of eating tonight’s meal all at once. We left in such haste from the Cohens’, we forgot to have Yuçe cut our cloth. I thought I might go over there tonight and pick it up.” She glanced at Papá, gauging his reaction. They had not spoken about Sucot since their abrupt departure. His face remained impassive.

  “It’s true,” agreed Beatriz. “We won’t have enough time to sew new dresses if we don’t get that material. The christening is in two weeks.”

  Isabel was grateful but confused. Beatriz helped Isabel’s cause by her desire for a new dress, but did her sister not just profess her desire to join a convent and eschew all worldly goods? The girl was more erratic than the acidity of grapes.

  Mamá looked alarmed. “You’ll never make it out of the judería before curfew, Isabel. The gates are locked by half past nine.”

  “Then I’ll bed with Rachel.”

  Papá threw down his napkin. “You will not go out this evening, Isabel. Nor will you go back to their house. Ever. That ingrate David Cohen is no better than the Inquisitors.”

  “Who will we buy fabric from, then?” complained Beatriz.

  Mamá glanced imploringly at Papá. “Manolo …” But she did not go further than saying his name. She would not contradict him in front of the family.

  “You heard my answer.”

  Isabel would have to think of another plan for a rendezvous with Diego.

  The only sound for the rest of dinner was their forks scraping the plates. As Mamá stood up to clear the dishes, Isabel dabbed her brow with her napkin. “I don’t feel so well. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Mamá, her lips white, did not question this. Clearly, she was still furious at both Beatriz and Papá. With Beatriz and Abuela helping to clean up, Isabel knew she only had a few moments to slip away. She would figure out something later to tell her sister when she returned to their shared bedroom.

  Isabel unlatched the iron grill that covered the small window opening in the bedroom. Though she’d jumped from the second floor many times before, it still hurt upon landing. Shame she wasn’t as agile as housebreakers, men who could climb ropes to upper floors with the ease of a monkey, stealing a family’s silver in no time, then drop down without injury. In her haste to escape, her dress caugh
t on the sharp point of one of the iron bars. She did not glance back. He would be there in less than fifteen minutes. There was not a moment to lose.

  Isabel made her way down the dirt road, damp from the current cloudburst. Rain occurred so rarely in the region of Extremadura that a part of her wanted to run along the riverbank with her mouth open, catching drops on her tongue. But her curiosity about Diego trumped everything else. She drew her cape over her head and quickened her step.

  She saw two Jewish boys, scurrying under an arch, their identifying badges flashing on their beige tunics, rushing to make it into the judería before the gates were shut. Isabel shuddered to think of innocent children locked out, sleeping in the excrement-filled streets, prey to prostitutes, pickpockets, or cardsharps. Mamá was always trying to frighten her and Beatriz with tales of pícaros, the ne’er-do-wells of Trujillo.

  The bricked dome of the mezquita rose above the sleepy buildings. She was nearly there. Isabel knew the Moorish quarter well, from her wanderings in its narrow warrens, searching for artisans’ shops that might sell books of poetry.

  The church bell rang nine times just as Isabel turned the corner. The Moorish baths were directly in front of her. And there he was, standing under an eave, lit by the moon. His eyes widened when he spotted her and she found herself smiling broadly as she approached him.

  But then his expression became serious. “Forgive me. You must think I’m mad sending you a note like that, asking to meet me here.”

  “I wouldn’t commit you to an asylum, but I am curious. I sneaked out of my home, in fact.”

  Up close, his jaw seemed unshaven, but it was too dark to tell for certain. His nearness warmed her, though she could not imagine why. There was at least an arm’s distance between them.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve made things difficult for you in regard to your parents,” he said.

  “I’ve done it before. Please don’t concern yourself.”