The Poetry of Secrets

by Cambria Gordon

  Beatriz’s face grew hard again. “You mean the rebelliousness you’d like to live by, don’t you? Because that’s what freedom is to you, permission to rebel against convention. Against the Holy Father. Believe me, Sister. Without the hand of God guiding you, you would be a reckless soul, lost to the devil.” Their momentary understanding disappeared as fast as it had come. “You never could see the truth.” She turned back to walk to the house, then paused mid-stride. “Allow me to enlighten you now. You’ve chosen the wrong side.”

  “Why must there be a right and wrong side?” called Isabel. But her words fell on deaf ears.

  With the Talmud safely hidden in a niche in the cellar, Isabel worried over something else. Should she tell her family about Hannah Cohen and the dropsy or not? Mamá would want to know, but Papá would be furious when he learned Isabel defied him and went to visit. Then again, what if something terrible happened to Hannah Cohen? Isabel would never forgive herself. So in the morning, as the Perez family was gathered in the kitchen for their tea and biscuits, Isabel decided to inform everyone. “I have some news.”

  “Mine first,” said Papá, spreading mermelada on a roll. “Don Sancho and I have finally had a chance to speak.”

  Oh, the ugliness of his name. For a few pleasant hours, she had not thought of him.

  “I have given him my acceptance of your hand, Isabel. You two are now officially betrothed.”

  At least let it be postponed, Isabel prayed.

  “To be wed next April,” continued Papá.

  “But that’s so soon!”

  “Soon would be next week,” said Mamá. “This gives us plenty of time to prepare your wedding chest.”

  Even though it was still six months away, Isabel felt a dread as heavy as a basket of grapes on her back.

  Mamá refilled Papá’s cup. “And what was your news, Isabel?”

  Her head was foggy. She nearly forgot what she had planned to tell them. “Oh, right. It’s … it’s Señora Cohen. She’s very ill with dropsy.”

  “Poor Rachel and Yuçe,” said Abuela. “If the worst happens, what will become of them?”

  Papá said nothing. Just sipped his tea. Beatriz dipped her biscuit in honey.

  “We should pay our respects with a visit,” said Mamá. “It’s the least we can do.”

  “I made a vow,” her father thundered. “We will never step foot in that man’s house again!”

  “Señor Cohen passed along his apologies,” said Isabel. “He’s not proud of what he said.”

  “I don’t accept his empty words!” said Papá. “And later, we will deal with your punishment for going against my will.”

  Mamá looked at him, her arms out in supplication. “Can’t you forgive this one transgression, Manolo? I’m talking about both Isabel and David. Hannah is my oldest friend. She didn’t say those ugly things. He did.”

  Papá stormed out of the kitchen, biscuit in hand. He yelled back to them from the sala, “And don’t even think of going there alone. You are my wife.”

  Beatriz flashed her eyes at Isabel. “Why must you upset Papá so?”

  “You’re one to talk. I’m not the daughter who argues with him at every meal,” said Isabel.

  Mamá touched Abuela on the arm. “Go talk to your son. I beg of you.”

  “I can try. But you know how willful he is,” said Abuela.

  As Abuela stood up from her stool, a clarion blared from the street below, steady and insistent. “Oye! Oye!” It was the town crier, with the official trumpeters in tow, making a public announcement. Usually, it was to inform the town of a new rule of law or a birth or death.

  The family followed Papá into the sala to get a better view outside.

  “What is it, Papá?” asked Beatriz. “What’s the messenger saying?”

  Papá leaned out the window. “Something about a gathering. I can’t hear the details from this distance.”

  Mamá frowned. “You’d better go find out.”

  Papá left the house and returned ten minutes later, breathing heavily.

  “Sit down,” said Mamá. “You look like you’ve seen a spirit.”

  Papá sat and began to twiddle his thumbs. “There’s an auto de fe tribunal happening today.” His normally booming voice was weak.

  “But it’s Shabbat,” said Mamá. “We have too much to prepare.”

  “I’m afraid this was the sole purpose. To make all the conversos attend.”

  “Is it the prisoners from church?” asked Beatriz.

  Papá nodded. “They’ve already been condemned. They’re marching from the prison right now. The penalties will be announced in the plaza mayor.”

  “Will … will there be burnings?” asked Isabel, thinking of Diego’s warning.

  He nodded gravely. “The crier told me the quemadero has been prepared with stakes and firewood.” Papá stood up. “We’d better get dressed.”

  “I refuse to go,” said Isabel.

  “I want to see it!” said Beatriz.

  “How you can express excitement for something so dreadful is beyond my ken, sister.”

  Beatriz appeared nonplussed at Isabel’s surprise. “I heard there were autos de fe in Seville and Madrid. Constanza spoke about them. I’m simply looking forward to seeing what everyone has been talking about, that is all.”

  “This is not a traveling band of performers, entertaining us with their juggling,” continued Isabel, irate. “There will be no jester from the Spanish court twirling for our merriment.”

  “I never described it as such,” shot back Beatriz.

  Abuela turned to Isabel. “Your absence will be noticeable, I’m afraid. Don Sancho might look for you.”

  Mamá started to cry, her shoulders shaking in small up and down motions. “First Hannah, and now this.” She genuflected, then began to sway back and forth, murmuring words in Judeo-Spanish.

  Beatriz genuflected, too, though Isabel knew when Mamá made the sign of the cross, she was just going through the motion out of habit. Chanting in Hebrew was what brought her comfort.

  Papá wrapped his arms around Mamá. “Shhh, Benita.”

  Isabel watched her parents, and tears welled up in her own eyes. Theirs was an arranged marriage when they were young, but their partnership had grown into something genuine. They could argue as they did about Señora Cohen and return to a place of caring and affection. She would never love Don Sancho with even a morsel of what they had.

  “Gather your veils, everyone,” directed Papá, his voice muffled in Mamá’s hair. “We must hurry.”

  By the time the Perezes arrived, hundreds of villagers had surrounded the plaza mayor, creating a hum of spectators. Every horse and private carriage in the region was there as well. Having ferried their owners, the animals and carts stood waiting on the outer streets. The sun was high, beating down on Isabel’s back, and she began perspiring immediately.

  A steady drum announced the arrival of the processional. Isabel strained to see where the music came from. Over the tops of heads, she saw two somber drummers sitting on lower scaffolding, banging instruments that rested between their knees. Above them were tiers of seating. The last time she’d seen seats arranged publicly like this was at her first poetry reading. How the world had changed in so short a time. She feared there was no place for poetic words any longer.

  The heat was oppressive. She lifted her veil away from her face and thirstily gulped air.

  A few city officials were already seated in the tiers. Even from a distance, it was easy to spot Don Sancho. He wore his signature black plumed hat. He was talking animatedly to the man next to him, as if he were attending a social gathering. What was his role here today? She was grateful for the cover of the crowd, for the anonymity it provided. If it were two years from now and she was accompanying him as Doña del Aguila, she would not be able to hide.

  She looked back in the direction of where they’d come to watch the processional approach. Leading the pack were the bearers of the green cross of
the Inquisition. Behind them came the mounted notaries and Familiars, dressed in black with the white cross of Saint Dominic on their cloaks. Isabel saw Diego’s father, Count Altamirano, among them. He managed to look both regal and smug at the same time. Diego was not on a horse, nor walking beside him. Could he be elsewhere? Isabel scanned the crowd, looking for his brown hair and broad shoulders. It was simply too thick with people to see. Perhaps he’d stayed home, like she had wanted to herself.

  A priest followed next. Not Friar Francisco, but someone Isabel had never seen before. From the capital, perhaps? He sat triumphantly in a chair under a canopy of scarlet and gold. The whole apparatus was carried by four men. The priest held a gold monstrance in his hand, which looked like a miniature sun with rays. From attending church weekly, Isabel knew all about that vessel and the holiness of its contents, the consecrated Host. When the priest’s chair passed by, everyone in the crowd knelt. The Perez family did the same.

  Tiny rocks dug into Isabel’s knees. She could withstand the discomfort, but poor Abuela winced. She wished she had a pillow for her. It took Abuela half a minute to stand up, even with the help of Isabel and Mamá, which only made Isabel angrier. By kneeling, they were all, in effect, celebrating a man who was ceremoniously leading four people to their likely deaths.

  Finally, Isabel saw the prisoners. Except there were only three. Where was the woman? This time, the rope was tied around their necks and trailed down their backs to their wrists. The only thing they could move was their feet as they shuffled along the street. Each prisoner was flanked by a Dominican on either side. The priests were whispering in their ears. What could they possibly be saying to them at this late moment? Giving them their last rites?

  Señor Franco had worsened since Isabel saw him being paraded in church. Bruises the color of eggplants blazed on his face, mostly around his mouth. He was a tall man, but now he was hunched over and limping. He seemed ancient. He and a second man still wore the same yellow sanbenito they had worn in church last week, except the yellow had turned brown with dirt and the gown was now spotted with bloodstains. The third man was wearing a black sanbenito, the front painted with the face of a grotesque devil encircled by flames. He also wore a tall, thin, conical hat.

  “Are you sure there are no jesters present?” asked Beatriz snidely.

  Papá looked grim. “That’s a coroza.”

  “You mean a corona?” asked Beatriz. A crown.

  “No, a coroza. They call it that as a joke because it sounds like the same word. I assure you, it’s anything but an honor.”

  After the prisoners came Torquemada and the other Inquisitors, whose servants carried banners of red silk adorned with the papal arms, the seal of the Catholic monarchs, and the escudo of the Inquisition. Torquemada’s expression was triumphant, nodding to the spectators on either side of the street.

  More villagers brought up the rear of the procession. Like Torquemada, they looked almost gleeful, as if a parade had come to town and they were joining it. To them this was a celebration. Isabel’s worst fears were being realized.

  The prisoners were led to a lower tier, decorated with black crepe. The friars sat down in between them, continuing the barrage of whispers into their ears.

  Isabel smelled incense, and soon a haze covered the participants. When it dissipated, she spotted a triangular shape on the ground level near the platform. Could that be an easel behind the drummers? Indeed, it was. A painter sat on a stool in front of a canvas, a brush in his right hand. Was he actually going to capture these proceedings for posterity? Isabel felt disgusted.

  The Inquisitors and their servants sat on a platform that contained an altar with lighted candles and carpet beneath their feet. Next to them stood a servant holding the green cross. The priest, the one from the canopy, began to conduct Mass. Isabel had never seen a Mass held outside the church. It felt unprotected, as if she and the other villagers were suddenly naked. His sermon dealt with the same theme that Torquemada had spoken about. Limpieza de sangre, the cleansing of impure blood. It was a long talk, and Isabel’s feet ached from standing in one position.

  Beatriz pointed to an empty row of scaffolded seats surrounding the plaza. “Can we take those benches? Please, I am weary of standing.”

  “I will not dignify these proceedings by taking a seat,” glowered Isabel.

  “I agree,” said Papá. “That shows our intent to stay and listen.”

  “But we are staying and listening,” protested Beatriz with a frown.

  Then Torquemada rose and recited the oath of allegiance to the Inquisition. Once again, the Perez family fell to their knees and repeated after him. “We swear to defend to the death the Holy Office, against all adversity.”

  As Isabel straightened her legs, she felt a thump against her.

  “Abuela!”

  Her grandmother lay on the ground, unconscious. No one around them noticed, too enthralled with the tribunal. In fact, people were stepping forward into the newly created space to get a closer look at the altar. She would be trampled.

  “Clear the way!” shouted Papá, waving his arms to push people back.

  Isabel knelt down again, putting her ear to Abuela’s nose. “She’s breathing.”

  “That’s good news. She only fainted,” said Papá.

  “I’ll fetch water,” said Mamá.

  Isabel shaded her eyes, squinting up at her sister. Beatriz’s face was darting every which way. She did not know where to rest her eyes, on Abuela or the altar.

  “Your priority is with your family,” Isabel barked at her sister.

  Beatriz finally knelt. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Oh. I don’t know. The heat, the incense, the worry, the fear. Pick one.”

  Isabel gently slapped her grandmother’s cheek. “Abuela, can you hear me?”

  Abuela’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Gracias a Dios,” muttered Papá. “Let’s get her to one of those seats.”

  Beatriz looked pleased now that they would be sitting.

  “Remove your smile, sister,” said Isabel.

  Isabel and Beatriz took Abuela’s feet; Papá gripped her strongly under the arms. Elbowing their way through the throngs of people, they carried her to a bench on the opposite side of the main platform. Once they got her seated, she was alert enough to sit up on her own. When Mamá found them with a tin cup of water, Abuela drank it greedily. Reluctantly, Isabel sat.

  Meanwhile, the auto de fe continued. Now a different Inquisitor was standing, reading from a scroll while Don Sancho smirked behind him. “Gonzalo Franco. A converso accused of sitting in a suca. In his defense, he claimed he was collecting the alcabala tax from the Jew, Meir Barchillón, and it was the only way to go into the home since their suca was at the entrance. We found him guilty of Judaizing since he could have collected the tax on a different day.

  “Manuel Garcia. Two witnesses saw no smoke escaping from this converso’s chimney on Saturday, the third of September in the year of our Lord Jesús Cristo. In his defense, he claimed he was out of Trujillo on that day. But our records show his horse was in the stall, cleaned by Juan de Torres. The Holy Office has found this converso guilty of Judaizing by refusing to cook food on his day of rest.

  “Fernando Lopez, a converso. He stands accused of paying the beadle of the sinagoga to buy oil to light a candle for the health of his sick child. He then asked the beadle to say a prayer for the child. By donating maravedis, it is an act of charity and honor toward those who remain devout Jews. He is found guilty of Judaizing.

  “And lastly, we have Maria de Chaues, in absentia. She washed the spot on her baby’s head that received the holy baptismal water. Six different citizens bravely came forward to say they witnessed this act in the public baths. She was unable to provide any defense and did not confess when put to the question. Thus, she is found guilty of sins and transgressions against Christianity.”

  “In absentia?” asked Isabel.

  “They are sentencing h
er, even though she’s not here,” explained Papá.

  “Where is she?” Isabel’s voice trembled and she realized she already knew the answer.

  “Under this cloth lies her carcass,” announced the Inquisitor. “She expired while in prison.”

  Tortured to death, no doubt. Isabel’s eyes blurred. She recalled Señora de Chaues as she walked into church last week, scared beyond words. Only to die alone. Isabel hoped the woman expired while picturing her infant, held safely in her arms. Isabel closed her eyes and imagined the señora kissing the air where the baby’s forehead would have been.

  Torquemada took over. “We now abandon these condemned souls to justice. Friars, please stand.”

  The six whispering religious men stood up.

  “Were you able to convince these prisoners to confess their sins?”

  “We were not,” they intoned in unison.

  The crowd erupted in shock and then approval. Beatriz was transfixed.

  “Then I invite one last speaker to the altar,” said Torquemada. “My colleague and fellow Inquisitor Padre Morillo.”

  He was a red-cheeked man with a ring of hair circling his shaved upper head, in the same tonsure style as the other friars. “I ask that the secular arm of the law show mercy to the guilty.” His voice was soft, almost sympathetic. Could he have any influence at all? Would someone listen to him? Isabel held Abuela’s hand on her left and Mamá’s on her right, praying his words would have some positive effect.

  After a few seconds, Don Sancho stood. Isabel’s entire body recoiled. So he was participating in this horror after all.

  “Look how important he is,” said Beatriz.

  Isabel wanted to kick her sister.

  “Will the prisoners Gonzalo Franco and Manuel Garcia please stand?” said Don Sancho.