Beatriz looked rebukingly at Papá, as if to say, See what you’ve done to us? To me?
The sermon continued. “I have just come from Seville, where we have discovered a great many of these false Christians hiding among pious Old Christians. One foolish converso even took the oaths of the priesthood. And do you know what he did? Whenever he offered communion, he turned the Host upside down!”
The silver cross of the Inquisition pounded the floor.
The congregants were shocked at this outrage.
“These Marranos do not deserve the protection of the hand of God. They do not deserve our mercy.” Torquemada lifted his face, peering all the way to the nave, where the Perez family stood.
Isabel felt her sister come to attention beside her, standing on her toes. She wanted to be noticed by him! As if he were a handsome theatrical player, and they were all gathered around the stage for a show.
“If you would turn to the back of the room, we have a small surprise for the good Christians of Trujillo.”
Behind Isabel, the heavy wooden doors opened, creaking under the weight of their hinges. In walked three men and a woman, roped together at the ankles.
Mamá pointed to one of the men. “Is that … Señor Franco?”
He was a city governor. He held a long-time position of power. Isabel had seen him just two days earlier when she delivered four bottles of Papá’s best brandy to his chambers. Now he stood with the three others, heads uncovered, bent in shame, barefoot and carrying unlit candles.
“How can this be?” asked Isabel.
All four prisoners wore strange yellow tunics, different than the gowns Señor and Señora Cohen wore. On the front was painted a large bloodred X.
“They must have done something terrible,” said Beatriz.
“Behold the sanbenito,” called Torquemada, “the cloak of the Inquisition. Notice the symbol on the front, the cross of our beloved Saint Andrew, who showed enormous humility before death. He asked not to be crucified on the same-shaped cross as our Lord, because he was not worthy. So he was nailed to a saltire, shaped like an X.” The resonance of his voice, emblazoned with passion, echoed off the stone walls. “Let us pray that these penitents show even a modicum of that same humility.”
“Tell us their crimes!” shouted a congregant.
“The prisoners are accused of Judaizing,” said Torquemada. “Witnesses have come forward, anonymously of course, to denounce them, revealing how they tricked good Christians. Do not be fooled. These conversos were baptized, yet never gave up their Jewish faith. All four have done something different. One sat in a flimsy shelter of green branches in the back of a Jewish house and exchanged gifts of food with others.”
“He speaks of a suca!” whispered Isabel.
Beatriz poked her sister with her fan. “Now do you see what I’ve been talking about?”
“Another did not have smoke coming from his chimney on Saturday, refusing to cook food on his day of rest,” intoned Torquemada.
Isabel sweated through her dress. Here was a second transgression her family was guilty of.
“The third man asked a Jew to recite a passage for him in sinagoga, so that his son might recover from an illness. And lastly, the woman you see before you—” He paused, clearly distraught at this particular crime. “She … she washed the spot on her baby’s head that received the holy baptismal water.”
The crowd erupted in shouts of dismay. A woman genuflected in the pew in front of them. Isabel heard her whisper, “At least the baby is safe now with its Christian father.”
Isabel took Abuela’s hand, which was trembling. This was what it must have been like for Grandpa Crescas, hearing the preacher Martínez incite the crowd into a feverish mob.
Beatriz hissed into Isabel’s ear. “We can always say the Cohens forced us to eat outside on their patio. Or that our own hearth was damaged on Friday so it couldn’t be used on Saturday. If needed, I’ll take a war hammer to the chimney and break it myself.” She continued rattling off even more excuses before Isabel shushed her.
Slowly, the four prisoners made their way through the center aisle.
“Shame be upon you!” yelled a congregant.
Someone else cried, “Interlopers! You will take a job from a true Christian no longer!”
Another spat at the prisoners.
“What will happen to them, Fray Torquemada?” called out a male voice.
“We will turn them over to the civil authorities. The Church only captures. It does not punish. The alguacil and his bailiffs will interrogate these poor souls, encouraging them to speak the truth through whatever means necessary. A notary will keep records of the proceedings.”
“Did he just say the alguacil?” whispered Isabel.
“All the more reason for you to devote yourself to Don Sancho,” said Beatriz.
“Use the pié de amigo on the heretics!” yelled an angry parishioner.
“The toca!”
“The garrucha!”
Isabel suspected those were all devices of torture. What would she do if she were in their place, shut in a small cell and punished with bestial instruments? Would she succumb to the pain of what was being done to her body and name other Judaizers? Or would she be brave and die silent?
Torquemada raised his hand to calm the crowd. “I assure you, if the penitents don’t confess and name other Judaizers, they will be put to the question. That will be their last chance. If we are satisfied with their answer, then we will reconcile them to the Church. If not, then a worse fate awaits them.”
“Put them to the question right now!” a woman called out.
“In good time, friends,” replied Torquemada. “In good time.” He bowed his head. “Now let us pray.” He recited some words in Latin. “Sicut eciam faciendum est in republica que pro vnum malum hominem, huiusmodi corrumpitur, unde tales circumcidenti sunt per iusticiam et mortem.” Then in Castilian, he repeated, “The mere presence of these heretics will turn our kingdom to decay. We must circumcise them by justice or death.” Torquemada opened his arms, encompassing the entire church in his embrace. “Arise, O Lord, and judge thy cause! The fox endangers us!”
The amens reached a crescendo. Beatriz joined the crowd, calling out her amen with passion. Isabel was too stunned to open her mouth. Just as Diego had warned, she now understood she was the fox. They all were.
The week was passing slowly for Isabel. It was Thursday and still she had not had a decent night’s sleep. Whenever she lay down, Torquemada’s skeletal figure loomed behind her eyelids. What had he said Señor Franco was accused of? Sitting in a flimsy shelter of green branches in back of someone’s house?
Just days ago, they sat in the Cohens’ own suca. But where exactly, Isabel wondered, was the crime in that? Since when did eating honey cake under palm fronds become a transgression against God? Spain was finally united. Only Granada remained under Moorish control, but it would surely fall. With their marriage, Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand had turned Spain into an empire, rivaled only by the Ottomans. Everyone born here was a Spaniard. The Perezes were no less Spanish than their neighbors the Herreras or even the Altamiranos. Must all its citizens be united in faith as well? Did tolerating other religions in one’s country make a ruler weak?
Isabel paced the small area of her bedroom. Diego warned her about making mistakes in front of Don Sancho. What if Don Sancho went about opening drawers and cupboards in the cellar and found a silver Kiddush cup? Or the cinnamon-and-clove-filled spice box they passed gingerly from hand to hand on Saturday evenings to signal the end of the Sabbath. Once they were officially betrothed, he had every right to inspect her family’s possessions. And what about after they married? What if Isabel murmured a Hebrew prayer in her sleep, lying next to him? Innocent indiscretions could happen at any time.
All her mundane tasks felt frivolous. The vine grafting she was working on with Papá. Who cared about seedless grapes? Her sister’s preoccupation with a new dress for the Herrera grandda
ughter’s baptism. (Yuçe did end up delivering the fabric. Mamá and the girls agreed not to mention it to Papá. He probably wouldn’t notice their new dresses anyway.) Peeling carrots, de-feathering chicken, setting the table. It all felt pointless.
She recalled a conversation between her and Abuela earlier this week. They were preparing supper and were alone in the kitchen. Ever since her walk with Diego in the Moorish quarter, Isabel had been trying to understand the concept of free will as it applied to life during the Inquisition.
“Abuela, do we truly have free will if we can’t live freely?”
Her grandmother had been filling a pot with water for boiling and set down the heavy iron crock. “I think God gave us the ability to apply reason and understanding to the universe so we can make sense of why things happen, both good and bad. If we can become closer to God intellectually, then we can be less troubled by what evil befalls us. We can live freely in our own minds.”
At the time, Isabel had been comforted by her grandmother’s words. But now, with her thoughts spinning out of control again in the privacy of her bedroom, the momentary balm of Abuela’s wisdom had been replaced again with fear. She did not accept that any connection to God would protect her from the evils of Torquemada. Was living in a world such as this, filled with fear at every turn, truly living? Or merely surviving?
“Enough!” she said aloud. She would stop obsessing over the worst possible outcomes. She would go and do what made her happy. A visit with her new friend, Atika, to discuss poetry was just the salve she needed. Isabel tied her long hair in a knot at the back of her neck, securing it with a black cord. Then she dabbed a few drops of rose water and ambergris on her wrists and neck. Though Mamá always insisted the girls bathe in vinegar and water twice a week, they could not visit the mikveh, the Jewish ritual bath, the way observant Jewish women did. The perfume would suffice until she could wash in the wooden tub behind their house on Sunday. She thought of Beatriz demanding that she take more care with her appearance. Well, today she would actually listen to her sister.
She chose an indigo-colored linen gown. Designed in the bliaut style, it belted tight across the bodice and abdomen, with a skirt billowing around her. She felt like a floating cloud. She told herself it was all for Atika. Any handsome green-eyed man she bumped into along the way would simply be a happy accident. With a satisfied nod into the looking glass, Isabel left the room.
Mamá looked up from her needlework, smiling. “Where are you off to looking so pretty?” She and Beatriz were both sitting on floor cushions in the sala.
“For a walk. It’s a lovely afternoon,” replied Isabel.
“May I join her?” asked Beatriz, putting down her stitching. “Por favor, Mamá. Constanza and Juan Carlos might be out promenading.”
“No. You and I are not quite finished with this verdugado.” The hoop skirt was the latest fashion coming out of France and England. Stiff reeds were sown into the fabric, circling the wearer, to make the gown hold its shape and swish when walking. “I want you to be able to make farthingales for your own daughter one day.”
Beatriz’s eyes flashed daggers at Isabel. “If I have a daughter, or any child for that matter.”
Mamá continued stitching, ignoring the idle threat, which brought great relief to Isabel. Her sister would not be trailing behind her.
“Do you have a maravedi to rent an escort, Isabel?” asked Mamá.
Her mother always worried about Isabel strolling unaccompanied, yet Isabel had been walking alone for a year now. “I’ll be fine, Mamá. But I brought a coin just in case.”
Isabel left her clogs at home today, walking easily in leather slippers down the uneven dirt road. On the way to the Romani encampment, she would stop by the bookbindery. Perhaps Isaac had more information on the father of her poetess ancestor.
The air was mild for mid-October, kissing her face and neck as she headed into town. On the calle de los cerrajeros, the street of the locksmiths, the prickly smell of hot metal made her eyes water. She paused to look in the windows of the shops on the calle de los manteros, all containing stacks of colorfully striped and fringed blankets. When she crossed the plaza mayor, the smells changed to those of beer and tobacco. Old women sat in cafés, sipping chicory water. Beggars lay on the ground, their hands outstretched. Pages and squires lingered about, clutching pillows for ladies to kneel on and pray. Despite Torquemada’s visit, the inexorable rhythm of life continued. On Sunday, the fancy Christian ladies would emerge, like tortoises sticking their heads out of their shells. Once again, Isabel was grateful her mother didn’t impose restrictions on her like the Old Christian families did on their daughters.
At the other end of the plaza, Isabel saw a broad-shouldered man standing by a fountain. He wore a green doublet. Her breath caught and she drew closer. But when the man turned, he had a waxed mustache spread across his lip. She sighed. It wasn’t him.
“Señorita Perez,” said Isaac when she entered his shop. “I was just closing up. My wife is waiting with our midday meal.”
“Then it’s my lucky day that I caught you. I won’t keep you long. I wondered if you had any news from your colleague about the poetess’s father. Or perhaps even more information about the girl herself?”
His head bobbed up and down happily. “I do, actually. When Sa’id saw the filigree in the upper corner and examined the phrasing, he said it sounded like the work of Qasmūna, a young poetess born in the twelfth century.”
“Qasmūna.” The word sounded like a song. “What else do you know about her?”
“Her father was a well-known poet and taught her to finish his verses. This was not uncommon for educated Arab and Jewish women at that time.”
Again, Isabel wished she had been born in that century. A young woman, lettered and free to write beautiful poems. No Inquisition lurking around every corner, tearing families apart. Like that rebirth in Italy Diego had spoken about. Diego. Her heart gamboled at the thought of him.
“What was her father’s name?”
“Perhaps Ismā’il ibn Bagdālah.” He paused. “Or it could have been Shmuel ha-Nagid.”
“Your colleague doesn’t know for sure?”
“I’m afraid not. It depends on which scholar you ask.”
How frustrating. She’d have to ask Abuela if there were any stories of her family that went farther back than 1391. Or maybe there was something written on a gravestone somewhere?
One thing was certain. Abuela had the poem in her possession from her own grandmother. So that meant Isabel was related to a famous poet! All the Perezes were, in Abuela’s line. She couldn’t wait to tell Atika.
The Moorish quarter was full of activity today. Colorful scarves and block-printed fabric covered rickety stalls. Isabel passed barrels full of aromatic spices and nuts, handwoven baskets stacked precariously, birds perched in cages squawking in protest or in conversation with other birds. Meat sizzled on iron grills. A boy licked sticky pastry off his tiny fingers. She loved the smells inside the souk. Frankincense from the perfume makers; cassia, turmeric, and cardamom from the kitchens. Christian Spaniards never made their food picante, their palates preferring milder tastes. Even their own cooking at home was rendered bland. Mamá and Abuela were reluctant to use too many spices to flavor their dishes, lest a neighbor smell them coming out of their chimney on a Friday night and accuse them of using Jewish flavors.
Isabel stopped in front of the baker’s stall, the smell of dough and yeast making her stomach gurgle. She handed the maravedi her mother had given her to the proprietor, an old man covered in a silver beard. She’d much rather spend the coin on a crunchy loaf of bread than hand it to a page.
The Romani camp was located next to the Guadiana River, where it meandered just inside the city walls. As Isabel scanned the dirt courtyard, Atika dropped the multicolored skirt she was hanging out to dry and came running.
“For you,” said Isabel, handing her friend the warm loaf of bread.
Atika’s mouth
erupted in a smile. She bit off a chunk of bread and chewed it with satisfaction. As on the night of the poetry reading, they spoke rapidly in Castilian. Most Romanis didn’t learn the native tongue of this country, but Atika had picked it up. Her skill with language probably kept her and her father safe from the police. Those who refused to conform to the Spanish customs were lashed.
“I’m so happy you came,” remarked Atika.
“I have some news to share.” It dawned on Isabel that the bounce in her step might not be completely about Qasmūna, but rather a mix of thoughts including Diego. Well, if her happiness was due to anything, perhaps both were to blame. “There’s a famous poet in my family!”
“En serio?” replied Atika, setting down the last part of the bread and resuming the hanging of laundry.
“She’s a distant relative, I’m sure. But my abuela showed me a poem, inked beautifully in Arabic by the hand of a young girl. The parchment was old, maybe three hundred years. Her father was also a poet and they wrote together, finishing each other’s verses!”
“How did the poem go?”
Isabel recited the short verse from memory.
Atika stopped what she was doing, holding a wrinkled men’s shirt midair. “Was her father Ismā’il ibn Bagdālah?”
“Quite possibly! But how would you know that?” asked Isabel.
“I’ve heard his poems recited before. He often wrote with his daughter. What was her name?”
“Qasmūna.”
Atika faced Isabel, curtsying with a flourish, and spoke.
“I have a friend whose mistress has repaid good with evil. Considering lawful that which is forbidden to her.
Just like the sun, from which the moon derives its light always, yet afterward eclipses the sun’s body.”
“How ingenious,” said Isabel. “The sun generously gives its light to the moon, which cannot otherwise shine. The moon, however, doesn’t appreciate the help. It blocks the sun during an eclipse.”
“Exactly,” said Atika. “The mistress is ungrateful to her lover, receiving his benefits, then somehow doing him harm.”
The Poetry of Secrets Page 11