The Poetry of Secrets

by Cambria Gordon

  “Perhaps,” said Don Sancho. “But that could be months from now. Or never. I have scheduled Fray Francisco to perform the ceremony at Iglesia Santiago in eight days’ time.” He paused to let this sink in. Then he stood. “I should think you might show me more gratitude. Your father’s condition could have been much worse. I’m the one who got them released.”

  At this, Mamá rose from her cushion and threw herself at Don Sancho’s feet. She lay prostrate, murmuring Christian incantations. “Our Father, who art in Heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done. Gracias, Don Sancho. Gracias a Dios for saving us.”

  Isabel knew one thing for certain.

  There was no way out for her now.

  Isabel had to get a message to Diego. It was only right. He had been writing her for weeks and deserved to know the truth. Had she been too rash in refusing to see him? At least they would have been able to spend this precious time together. If only Mamá and Papá hadn’t been questioned by the Inquisition, if only she hadn’t been so fearful. If only they lived in a different time and place.

  So the day after Don Sancho’s visit, she sat down at her writing desk with a quill and parchment. She would make a stop at the mercado in case the spy followed her, then secretly slip a page a coin to deliver her letter to the alcazarejo.

  Outside her window, a bird sang its song to a fellow comrade. The del Castillo sisters gossiped in the courtyard. Isabel heard it all so clearly but could not think with any clarity how to tell the man she loved that the future they hoped for, the Jewish life they longed to share, was over before it began. A poem would express her feelings.

  No, a lament.

  Love-sick, she weeps bitterly, tears running down her cheeks.

  She laughs before the company to make them merry, while fire—the flames of marriage to the wrong man—eats away at her flesh.

  In seven days’ time, it will be done.

  But O, do not despair.

  She will love only one man, the right one, until the day wanes and the sun coats its silver with gold and all night long, until the moon disappears from the

  Beatriz threw open the door of their bedroom.

  Isabel scribed the final word, sky.

  “I left my jeweled fan in here,” said her sister.

  Isabel finally looked up from her desk. “You mean my fan.”

  “Whichever,” Beatriz said impatiently. “Now where did I place it?” She proceeded to open and shut drawers loudly. “I would think you’d be more interested in having your wedding dress sewn than writing silly poems. Papá has rented a carriage to ride Mamá and me to a fitting in Caceres. That was the closest studio we could find with a costumer as adept as David Cohen.”

  Obviously, they could not go to the Cohens’ for dresses. Hannah Cohen’s burial was today, in the Jewish tradition of waiting no more than twenty-four hours after death. Isabel wished she could be there to pay her respects, but it was impossible. New Christians could not mourn publicly with their Jewish friends. And Yuçe would not welcome her anyway.

  “I have plenty of decent dresses to choose from,” said Isabel, answering Beatriz’s question. “Any of them are suitable for my wedding.”

  “But none are white,” said Beatriz.

  “Then I will wear my nightdress.”

  “An outrage!”

  Isabel laughed, the first time in two days. Though her situation was dire, it felt good to smile.

  Beatriz brought the parchment up to her face. Isabel was not concerned. It was gibberish to someone who couldn’t read. “Is it a masterpiece, then?”

  “This poem? Hardly. It’s a requiem.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Something one reads at a funeral.”

  Her sister put it down, regarding her. “You’re truly sad, aren’t you?”

  Isabel felt her eyes prick.

  “I know you don’t love him, but hardly anyone does when they get married. You know that.”

  Isabel reached for Diego’s kerchief in her sleeve and breathed in his scent. “You have no idea what true love is.”

  Beatriz huffed. “I do too.”

  “The way you pine for Juan Carlos? By harming yourself each time you utter his name? That’s not love. That’s guilt and sin and some twisted belief in good versus evil.” She knew she was hurting Beatriz, but she didn’t care. It made her own heart bleed just a little less.

  Her sister’s neck reddened. “I don’t harm myself.”

  “I live with you each day. I see your red scalp.”

  Beatriz turned her face away.

  Isabel felt so very lonely. She was getting married in just a few days. She would never share a bedroom with her sister again. How she longed for a friend. Atika was at the other end of town, which required running the gauntlet of Inquisition spies to reach her. Those lively Jewish girls at the mikveh had each other. And here was her sister, her own flesh and blood. So close, but unreachable.

  “I’m sorry,” said Isabel softly. “That was cruel of me.”

  Beatriz took out her own kerchief and dabbed at her nose.

  “I am not myself,” Isabel began. “It’s just—”

  “Just what?” asked Beatriz, still not able to make eye contact.

  “I do love another.”

  At this confession, Beatriz turned to face Isabel. “I knew it! Those times you walked into the house, pink and trembling. Who is it?”

  Isabel decided to tell her sister everything. “Diego Altamirano.”

  “I’ve heard of that family,” said Beatriz. She did not add her judgment, though. She did not accuse Isabel of recklessness, of dishonor, or the many sins she could have enumerated, considering Isabel’s illicit behavior these past weeks. For that, Isabel was grateful.

  “You’ll have to forget him, you know,” advised Beatriz.

  “Never. Love is the only thing that matters.”

  “Even if you can’t be with him?”

  Isabel nodded morosely.

  “Ah, here it is,” Beatriz proclaimed, holding up the fan. “It was under my pallet.”

  She turned to go, but paused, her hand on the wooden doorknob. “You were wrong before, Sister. I do love Juan Carlos. But I don’t pine for him. I am waiting patiently for him to see the glory of my light.”

  During the days leading up to the wedding, Isabel went through the motions of daily life without joy. She was right back to where she started before she and Abuela began learning the Talmud. In the absence of happiness, pain took up residence. She had never understood what a devilish opportunist that emotion was until now. Pain gained potency only when there was something joyful one had to give up. In other words, the marriage to Don Sancho would have been bearable had she not met Diego. But now that a future with him had been ripped away from her, a vile emptiness had entered her heart, more powerful than Torquemada’s preaching. She truly had become like her mother after their capture, nearly catatonic. Mamá, on the other hand, came out of her shell, succumbing to the excitement of her daughter’s upcoming nuptials. She busied herself fitting verdugados into her own and Beatriz’s wedding dresses (Isabel refused to wear a hoop skirt, insisting on a straight white bliaut gown) and keeping the house spotless, lest one of Don Sancho’s relatives from the north came calling.

  Abuela noticed Isabel’s melancholia. She tried to help by asking about Qasmūna and her father. Perhaps Isaac had received further information about them? And what about other poets she favored? But Isabel offered nothing and her mood would not lift. One morning, they were working together, using a stone smoother to press a tablecloth for Isabel to use in her new life as Doña del Aguila, when Abuela said, “Have you ever read your father’s siddur?” His prayer book.

  Isabel shook her head.

  “It’s quite interesting. It tells us which prayers to say in the morning, and which ones to recite when we go to sleep.”

  “That routine is for Beatriz, not me. And besides, what’s the use of learning the words to a praye
r to God? He does not exist.”

  “Don’t say such things, mi nieta!”

  It was true that if anyone heard her, she would be accused of heresy. But that was not Abuela’s concern. Isabel knew how much it pained her grandmother that Isabel had lost her faith.

  “You must find your way back to God. This will give meaning to your marriage,” advised Abuela. “Though you and Don Sancho won’t have a ketubah, you will both make your vows before the Lord. And that is sacred. Just whisper Elohim, one of the Hebrew words for God, to yourself during the ceremony.”

  The only contract she would make with anyone would be a silent one, hidden away in her heart, between her and Diego. At least Diego had not answered her poem with another note. He seemed to understand the gravity of the situation and had stayed away. But even the promises they made to each other would eventually fade. For in time, he would marry another. The thought of him loving anyone else made her chest explode with jealousy.

  Papá entered the sala, where Abuela and Isabel were leaning over the table working. He watched them press for some time. Eventually, he tapped Isabel on the arm and motioned for her to come with him downstairs. She rested the heavy smoother on its side, wiped her brow with the back of her hand, and followed him into the cellar.

  Two glasses and an uncorked bottle rested on the table. Next to the wine were two quills, a pot of ink, and a stack of parchment.

  “What’s this, a party?” she said, forgetting he could not hear her. She turned to him and smiled, shrugging her shoulders questioningly.

  “CAN’T A FATHER SPEND SOME ALONE TIME WITH HIS ELDEST DAUGHTER WITHOUT RAISING O-PECHA?” He smiled broadly.

  Isabel smiled in return, knowing exactly what he was trying to say, even though the correct pronunciation was sospecha, suspicion. She took a seat.

  He poured them both a splash of wine and held up his glass. She held up hers and they clinked them together. “L’CHAIM,” he said loudly.

  “Mmm,” said Isabel. This bottle tasted perfect, as dry and fruity as the famous Perez vino tinto had always been. She picked up a quill and wrote: No vinegar taste at all.

  He wrote underneath: We should invite Duque de Alba over.

  She nodded and laughed, forcing the pain away briefly. He laughed, too. He didn’t need to hear to feel merriment.

  They sat in silence for a while, sipping the wine. Then he took up the quill again. I am going to miss you.

  She wrote: Don’t make me cry, Papá. I will still see you, just under different circumstances.

  You are a grown woman now, but to me, you will always be my girl. Then he laid his hands upon her head. And in his overly loud voice, he blessed her, asking God to make her more like Sarah, Rebecca, Leah, and Rachel. To guard her and show favor to her. To show her kindness and grant her peace. She did not tell him it was only Wednesday and not yet Shabbat. She did not try to quiet him. She allowed the pressure of his palms to spread warmth all over her.

  On Friday afternoon, Mamá asked Isabel to help her set the table in the cellar. Isabel found herself unable to lay down even one fork. This would be the last Shabbat dinner of her life, probably their last as a family. She could not imagine Beatriz allowing this tradition to continue once Isabel had moved to Don Sancho’s estate. Two days from now, on Sunday after Mass, at the third hour past noon, she would become Doña Sancho del Aguila.

  Isabel watched Mamá briskly fold napkins: left, right, making a triangle. She memorized her mother’s hands the way they looked today, the raised blue veins, the brown spot near the left big knuckle, her cracked nail on the ring finger. Abruptly, she went around to Mamá’s side of the table and took her hand. The skin was as soft as when Isabel was small and she would grip her mamá’s fingers tight as they walked across the plaza. Mamá looked up, catching Isabel’s eyes. Isabel grabbed her mother fiercely, embracing her as if this was the last time. She knew this was not the case. The other day in this very cellar she had assured Papá they would dine together as one big family. But now Isabel felt such a desperate yearning that her throat hitched. She smelled her mother’s lemon oil fragrance. She never wanted to let go.

  On Saturday afternoon, Isabel was folding her gowns into a trunk to take to Don Sancho’s house when the del Castillo sisters’ dog was at it again. His bark was incessant. Someone needed to calm that animal. She walked downstairs and entered the center courtyard.

  The del Castillo pet had shiny golden hair that one of the sisters brushed daily. It bounded up to Isabel, its nose wet against her hand. “Shhh. That’s a good boy.” Finally, his barking stopped. “Now, must I stand in this courtyard all afternoon just to keep you quiet?”

  The animal looked at her, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. A date palm rippled above them. Isabel looked up and something white caught her eye. What was that, stuck in a pointy frond?

  “Stay,” she told the dog. Then she stood on her toes to retrieve it. It was perched too high and she could not reach. She shook the branch and it eventually dislodged. A rolled-up parchment fell to the ground. Isabel recognized the red wax seal holding it closed. DAM. Her heart leapt. How long had this note been stuck there? Was he here, in her courtyard? Was Diego the cause of the ruckus the night that Beatriz was kept awake? Isabel almost asked the dog but tore open the sealed parchment instead.

  She stopped breathing. It was the loveliest drawing she had ever seen. The tears she couldn’t shed while writing her lament flowed like a river. A drop of salt water landed on a beautifully rendered eye of a peacock feather, making the color bleed. Quickly, she rolled it up before it became water damaged. She would save this forever.

  The note had said to meet him at the Spanish oak in Plaza Santa Ana when the church bell tolled five. But who knew how many days ago that was? And now she had gone and sent him that sorrowful poem without so much as an acknowledgment of his art. God’s leeches! She had to see him one last time. With her marriage ceremony scheduled for tomorrow, there wasn’t a moment to lose.

  Where would Diego be on a Saturday afternoon? Likely not collecting taxes, as many of his tenants were Jewish and were celebrating the Sabbath. A taberna? If so, then she was out of luck. He could be anywhere, even far outside the city. It was like finding a lost button in a field of grapevines. What did nobles do on a Saturday afternoon? They gathered for their midday meal as a family. This was her only hope. But how to gain entrance to the alcazarejo? She’d figure that out when she got there. First, she had to sneak past that odious spy.

  She looked at Señora Herrera’s front door. The woman had been sympathetic to her parents being beaten. Perhaps she would be again.

  A few minutes later, Isabel exited the front gate, shuffling slowly, bent over Señora Herrera’s cane, her face completely obscured by an opaque veil. The spy even called her by name. “Buenas, Doña Herrera,” he said respectfully.

  Grinning wildly as she turned the corner, Isabel removed the veil, stuck the cane under her arm, and hastened toward the alcazarejo. She had never walked the road leading up to it before, but because the house was visible from every spot in town, it was easy to find.

  Standing from this angle, looking up at the fortresslike structure, she realized what an expansive property it was. In front there was a moat, empty of water, and a bridge. On either side of the house and behind it, bushes, trees, and trails seemed to stretch for kilometers. A crackling of twigs made Isabel jump. She stopped, her eyes scanning across the property. Could her spy have followed her anyway? When a squirrel tore off behind her, she sighed with relief.

  Now, how to get inside? Or better yet, how to get a message to him? A carriage house stood apart from the main house, about fifty meters from the bridge. Maybe there was a footman inside who could help.

  “Hola!” she called as she approached the square stone structure. “Anyone here?” But there was no one inside. Just an empty carriage. She was walking away when a maid with stocky legs approached the carriage house, carrying two buckets of water, for the horses, presumably.
Seeing Isabel, the woman dropped the buckets, spilling all the water onto the dirt.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” began Isabel. “My donkey and cart are down the road. One of the wheels broke on my way to deliver wine for the Altamiranos.”

  “I’ll go get help at once,” said the maid.

  “I just need the son, Lord Diego. My father deals with him, usually. If you can tell him that Señorita Perez is here, I’d be much obliged.”

  The woman gave a bow and turned to go.

  “But make sure he’s alone!” warned Isabel.

  The maid seemed confused.

  “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience the count and countess with such a stupid mistake on my part.” She looked sheepish. “They may not want to order from us anymore.”

  In a few minutes, Diego came running toward her. She moved to meet him halfway when he shook his head. “Not here. Follow me.”

  She followed him about a three-minute walk up a trail into a grove of Spanish oaks.

  They fell into each other’s arms. He found her lips, her eyelids, the tender part behind her ears. He moaned into the collar of her dress. “Isabel, you can’t imagine how I’ve missed you.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t meet you before,” she breathed out.

  “You are here now.”

  She pulled back slightly to look at his handsome face. “I have been trying not to think of you, which is like trying not to breathe.” She gave him a small smile. “But that illuminated note was exquisite. And the dog must have tried to bite your leg. And that dreadful poem I sent you, I can’t—”

  He put his finger over her lips. “Shhh.” He tilted her head back and kissed her again, harder. She felt his urgency and something vibrated deep in her belly. He reached behind her, finding the laces on her dress.

  “Let’s go back to the house,” he said. “I can sneak you inside like Noeima and her lover in that legend.”