The Poetry of Secrets

by Cambria Gordon

  He withdrew his old colored powders from his desk. He moistened a brush with water from his washbasin and painted her a message. For a border rimming the parchment, he took some vermillion and drew ornamental eyes, like those found on peacock feathers; golden suns with rays curling around lapis figs; elegant winged birds of gold drinking nectar from violet flowers; a genet leaping one way (in direct reference to their afternoon in Monfragüe) and a rabbit bounding in the other direction. He drew stars inside whimsical shapes. Then, using a brush of cat hair, he wrote these tiny words in the center:

  The Spanish oak in Plaza Santa Ana. When the church bell tolls five.

  When Martín retrieved his food tray, Diego asked him to tell the porter to prepare the carriage.

  He had a letter to deliver. He would not hide it in the iron grates of her window this time. He would somehow gain entrance to her interior courtyard and throw a pebble through the slats so she would awaken. He wanted to hand-deliver his masterpiece.

  If this did not convince her to meet with him, he was out of ideas.

  “Whatever are you doing?” asked Beatriz. “You never stitch anything.”

  Isabel looked up from the floor cushion where she was sitting. She quickly covered her needlework with a quilt Mamá kept on the sofa. “I thought you were praying in church, celebrating one of your seven sacred times of day.”

  “I was. But I’ve returned.” Beatriz fingered her scalp. “Constanza and Juan Carlos weren’t there as I had hoped.”

  “Was our friend the spy out front as usual?” asked Isabel.

  “I’m afraid so. He followed me to church and back.”

  “Surely he must be bored of us by now.”

  “He seems harmless,” said Beatriz. “I may even stop to speak with him next time.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” hissed Isabel.

  Beatriz eyed Isabel’s lap. “You never answered my question about your stitching.”

  “It’s nothing special. Just linen for my trousseau. When Don Sancho and I are married, I should like our bedsheets to have our initials embroidered on the corners.”

  Beatriz had nothing spiteful to say about this wifely duty. She yawned and stretched her arms upward. “I’m sleepy this morning. That ruckus outside last night kept me awake between matins and lauds.”

  “What ruckus?”

  “I was just finishing my prayers when I heard what sounded like hail hitting our grating.”

  “Hail? But it’s not yet winter.”

  “Clearly, it was not hail. The del Castillo sisters’ dog began barking in fits of hysteria. By the time I was able to open the grating, the pinging sound had stopped. The dog was running in circles in the courtyard. And you slept through the entire commotion.”

  “I was up until the wee hours of night doing Papá’s ledgers.” Obviously, she did not mention studying with Abuela. “When I fell on my pallet, I slept the slumber of the dead.”

  Beatriz looked around the room. “Where’s Mamá?”

  “Outside, plucking a chicken for our armico this evening.”

  “Abuela?”

  “Taking a siesta.”

  “Papá?”

  “In the cellar.” Isabel stood, sweeping up her stitching materials in the quilt. “I should go to him, lest he injure himself with that press. It’s been acting devilish lately, and he can’t hear a warning squeal when the screw needs oiling. Not to mention he only has one good arm at the moment.”

  “I suppose I should help Mamá with the chicken. Santa Madre, I miss Zahra.”

  Isabel smiled. Her sister sounded almost human.

  But when Beatriz went out back, Isabel did not go down to the cellar. Still holding the quilt with the contents wrapped inside, she went into the center courtyard and knocked on Señora Herrera’s door.

  “Buenas, Señora Herrera,” said Isabel. “One of our feed buckets fell over on your side of the yard. Can I slip through your back door to retrieve it?”

  The mole on Señora Herrera’s cheek quivered. Her eyes scanned the street. “I suppose so.”

  The arrangement of rooms was the same as the Perez home, so Isabel easily found her way through the sala into the kitchen. The only difference was that the Herrera house had many more crosses on their walls. A miniature nativity scene with tres reyes—the three kings—a manger, sheep, and baby Jesús was displayed on a windowsill. Another grandchild, whom Isabel had never seen before, was playing with it, rearranging the figurines. Isabel heard Señor Herrera cough in another room.

  “No need to let me back in. I’ll just let myself out of the gate and go around the front,” Isabel told her.

  There was no feed bucket, of course. Isabel needed to gain access to the back and avoid the spy. There was vertical wood fencing dividing all the houses in the back, so Beatriz and Mamá would not see her, either, if she were in the Herreras’ yard.

  When Isabel turned the knob on the Herreras’ back door, she felt a touch on her shoulder. “Before you go,” said the señora.

  Isabel’s stomach fluttered. “Yes?”

  “How is your papá feeling?”

  Relieved, Isabel thought quickly. “Better.” She shrugged. “I suppose no matter how long you’ve been working a wine press, it can still get the best of you.”

  “I understand. I’m glad I could offer you the willow bark. I’m so sorry this happened to him.” She paused. “To them,” she added, emphasizing the word. Then she nodded and patted Isabel on the hand.

  Isabel stared at the older woman. Señora Herrera knew about her parents being held by the Inquisition. It was obvious. How wrong Isabel had been about their neighbor. She was not suspicious at all. She was as afraid as they were.

  Isabel kissed her on both cheeks. “I am touched by your kindness.”

  Out on the calle, Isabel scurried over the packed dirt. When she reached the paved road, she ducked under an archway and knelt close to the ground, opening the quilt. She tucked the loose needles and thread into a pocket of her dress and held up a beige sackcloth gown with a red circle on the left breast. This was the actual garment she had been sewing. A required uniform for a Jew. The circular symbol was not a perfect replica, but hopefully, no one would notice.

  She pulled the sackcloth over her head and let it fall so that it covered her rose-colored dress underneath completely. Por Dios, it was heavy on her shoulders wearing so many layers. Thankfully, the November air had become crisp and she did not perspire. Her hair was pinned at the neck so that when she wrapped a muslin scarf over her hair and forehead, any recognizable facial feature was almost completely hidden. Two servants carrying baskets of fruit and vegetables passed her under the archway. An emaciated dog followed them, hoping for some scraps. She nodded at the maids, stashed the quilt behind a low wall, and headed to her destination.

  The judería.

  She knew it was risky, evading the Inquisition spy in the front of her house and entering the Jewish quarter disguised as someone who lived there. She could get discovered on both ends. But she had two strong reasons for taking this daring trip. First, she wanted to see how the Cohens were faring. There had been no news of Hannah Cohen’s health or how severe a beating David had sustained. Her own guilt had become too much to bear. Perhaps she could even jar some fruit or cure a bit of meat to help them through the winter. Anything to help the twins. The second reason for this trip was of a more religious nature. Now that she had been studying the Talmud, she wanted to experience everyday life—the cemetery, the butcher, the families walking on the street—through the eyes of a Jew. On her first visit, she had felt removed and preoccupied with dress fabric. Then the fathers had gotten into the fight. Her second visit consisted of sitting at Señora Cohen’s bedside. This time would be entirely new.

  It was challenging, navigating the tiny alleys of the quarter without knowing where she was going and trying to seem like she had lived here for months. Isabel saw a dirty-faced woman selling geraniums and remembered her from their visit on Sucot. The Cohen
s’ house was close by. But on which street? Everything was windier and narrower than even the Moorish quarter.

  She couldn’t very well ask someone where the Cohens lived. That would give her away immediately as a stranger. She saw a group of children running with a wooden hoop and a stick. Maybe they were playmates of Yuçe and Rachel’s. Though they were young, she would have to tread lightly. Before he lost his hearing, Papá mentioned a little boy who denounced his own parents to the Inquisition.

  The children shouted and laughed as she approached. “Hola, chicos. Have Rachel or Yuçe Cohen run down this way?”

  The youths exchanged glances. Isabel thought of a cover story. “I’m their cousin and their mother sent me to fetch them.”

  A boy with crooked teeth and bright brown eyes answered for the group. “They were here earlier. They went home, though.”

  “Gracias,” said Isabel, crossing the street.

  “Where are you going?” shouted the boy. “It’s that way!” He pointed to a narrow, winding street.

  She hit her forehead. “Silly me. I got all turned around.”

  Once Isabel was on the correct street, she recognized it from before. She easily found the Cohens’ house, remembering the way it tilted to the left. But as she approached it, a man stood outside, unmistakable in his blue uniform. His matchlock gun hung on a leather diagonal across his torso. He was from the local police. They reported directly to the alguacil. So the Cohens were being watched, too. What if Don Sancho was behind it all, both this officer and their very own clay-chewing spy? She shuddered at the thought. If her betrothed was spying on her and everyone she knew, what kind of freedom could she ever expect to have once they were married?

  She backed up and went another direction. She would go to the butcher and listen for local gossip. She might be able to find out something there about Señor and Señora Cohen and the twins. For everyone knew that no matter in which quarter of Trujillo one found oneself, the butcher shop was a gathering place for busybodies.

  Isabel was concentrating so deeply on finding her way that she nearly bumped into two giggling Jewish girls, their hair uncovered and dripping wet.

  “Perdóname,” muttered Isabel.

  “No, it’s our fault,” said one of the girls, about her age, with a friendly smile and rosy cheeks. “We were hurrying and didn’t see you. Jemila forgot her cloak and since the weather turned, it’s cold walking with wet hair.”

  “Were you in the river?” asked Isabel.

  The second girl, Jemila, laughed. Her pointed chin made small up and down movements with her merriment. “Surely you jest? We were at the mikveh.”

  “Of course, how could I be so daft.” Isabel wanted to smash her own toes for forgetting about the ritual bath in which Jewish women immersed themselves.

  Jemila regarded her curiously. “Did you just move into the judería? I’ve not seen you before.”

  “I’m a cousin of the Cohens. We’re visiting them from Valladolid,” she said quickly, adding to the story she told the children.

  The first girl reached out her hand. “I’m Ezter.”

  “Isa—” She stopped. “Eva.” They shook hands.

  “Yuçe and Rachel have a cousin in Valladolid?” asked Jemila. “I didn’t realize.”

  Isabel nodded. “We are distant. Cousins, I mean. And we live a distance away, too,” she added with a forced laugh. “I’d best be on my way. If I don’t get to the butcher, my aunt Hannah will be cross.”

  Jemila raised her eyebrows. “That means she’s feeling better, then? Her appetite has returned? Last time my mother and I called on her, she couldn’t eat a morsel and was as big as the pallet she lay on.”

  Oh dear. Everyone really did know each other in here. This judería trip was proving to be an unwise plan. “When was that?”

  “Four days ago, I believe.”

  “Well, she’s turned a corner, as we say,” replied Isabel brightly. “Encantada, lovely to make your acquaintance.”

  Walking away from them, Isabel berated herself for her stupidity. She could only hope that Jemila would not mention to Yuçe that she had met his cousin Eva. He would know immediately that it was Isabel, for he once asked her about her Hebrew name. He would wonder why she was in the quarter at all, after causing the beating of his father, and most likely being the reason an armed policeman was stationed in front of their house. No doubt he hated her. This would just add fuel to the fire. He did not deserve that.

  At least she learned a little bit about what was going on in the Cohen house. Señora Cohen’s health was not improving. Perhaps she would find out more at the butcher.

  As she walked, she imagined herself having a parallel path in life, one where she was not a converso but an openly Jewish young woman. If Abuela’s own grandfather had not taken his life and his wife had not converted, Isabel could very well have been returning from the mikveh today. She and Jemila and Ezter would have been companions. She did not have any close friends from her own social class. None who understood her. Her own sister could have filled that role—she did at one point, when they were small. But that door had slammed shut. And Atika lived an entirely different life. As much as she hated to think about it, the whole Romani encampment could fold up at any moment and move to another city.

  What was the mikveh like inside? Was the water cold or warm? Did they say a prayer before they submerged, like Mamá did when she blessed the Shabbat candles? What stories did the girls share? Did they shed tears together? Isabel’s own tears stung her eyes. God’s parasites! How could two wet-haired complete strangers make her feel such gloom?

  When she finally found the butcher shop, there was a line out the door. Peering through the entrance, Isabel could see large slabs of meat, whole chickens, and ducks hanging on hooks, as well as smaller portions on the front table: patties and mounds of ground beef. Flies buzzed around the store, happy to be near such appetizing landing spots. Most customers were dressed in beige sackcloth with red badges, but a few wore simple, yet colorful, street clothes. Perhaps those people were not leaving the judería today. Bits of Spanish conversation drifted around her, but she couldn’t hear much. Everyone in line was female, except for one man with a long beard and tufted eyebrows. With his skull-capped head and face full of hair, he looked like someone who should be bent over a prayer book in sinagoga. She had once seen men like him lined up like ivory and black piano keys, swaying in solemnity, when she and her parents walked by a sinagoga years ago. He probably knew Señor Cohen well.

  When the woman in front of him stepped out of line to speak to a friend, Isabel slipped into her place.

  Isabel smiled at the man. “Long line, do you not agree?”

  He grunted.

  “I thought I’d prepare cordero al horno this evening. It’s my husband’s favorite.”

  He ignored her.

  “What is your wife planning to make for supper?” asked Isabel.

  No response.

  The man reached into a leather pouch and removed a quire, a small collection of papers stitched together, and proceeded to read them, turning away from her.

  She could not see the writing on the page and had no idea what type of text that was. It could have been Aljamiado, Castilian, Arabic, Hebrew, anything. She forgot all about Señor Cohen. “Something interesting there?”

  For some reason the man looked at her. His eyes were not unkind and his mouth was not frowning beneath the beard. “If I tell you, will you stop asking me questions?”

  “Sí.”

  They moved up a few steps in line. “They are poems by Moses ibn Ezra.”

  “A Jewish poet?”

  He raised a finger. “You said you would stop.”

  “You are correct.” A few seconds passed. “But I am a poet, too. Or at least I try to be. And I was not aware of his work.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. He did not appear angry, but slightly amused. “Moses ibn Ezra is one of the greats. You should read him.” Isabel appreciated t
hat unlike other adults, he was not surprised at the fact that she could read.

  “Which works do you recommend?” she asked.

  “Start with Tarshish. It will take you a while. It has one thousand two hundred ten verses.”

  “Tarshish?”

  “Named because the letters in the word tarshish have the numerical equivalent of one thousand two hundred ten.”

  “Numerology! Like in the Talmud!”

  The man’s eyes widened in fright and he backed away from her as if she were a witch. “How could you possibly know that? The Talmud is for men only!”

  She should not have mentioned anything. She had been warned often enough that her impetuousness would be the death of her. “Of course. I merely meant that—”

  The patron behind him, a stout woman in a scarf, poked her nose into their conversation. “Jacov, did you ever locate that missing Talmud? Samuel tells me it’s been weeks.”

  The man shook his head. “It’s a mystery. I just hope it hasn’t fallen into enemy hands.”

  Isabel felt the color drain from her face. Could they be speaking of the Talmud she borrowed from Yuçe?

  “The last one who had it was David Cohen,” said the man. “But no one wants to bother him about it. He’s in terrible shape, poor soul.”

  The woman clucked her tongue. “I heard his son is barely managing the studio.”

  Madre mía, it was her missing Talmud. And the situation with the Cohens was worse than she’d thought.

  The butcher, a rotund man in a bloodstained apron, yelled, “Pronto. What will it be, señorita?”

  She used every maravedi she had to buy some dried beef.

  “Where’s your cookery?” asked the butcher.

  With embarrassment, Isabel looked around her and noticed that all the women carried their own ceramic ware with which to transport meat. She was empty-handed. The butcher rolled his eyes, then wrapped the cured beef in a cloth and handed it to her brusquely. She muttered a thank-you to the butcher, then darted out of the shop before the Jewish man could accuse her of sorcery.