The Poetry of Secrets

by Cambria Gordon

  Her lips parted in a satisfied half smile. “Don’t let it happen again.”

  The footman was the one assigned to walk with him. Later that day, the boy supported Diego’s elbow as they slowly made their way over the vast grounds of the alcazarejo. The tall winter-brown grasses undulated around them. Impatient, Diego tried to walk faster, but the pain in his side stopped him.

  “Why don’t we turn back, m’lord,” suggested the footman.

  Diego shook his head and exhaled through his nose, continuing on despite the burn. The stronger he seemed, the sooner his parents would let him out. “Luis, isn’t it?”

  The footman nodded.

  “You fixed me up nicely last night. I’m grateful.”

  “I was glad to help, m’lord.”

  “Where did you learn how to bind and dress a wound like that?”

  “My cousin, m’lord.”

  “He’s a doctor?”

  “He works at the Holy Office.”

  From a deep canyon in Diego’s mind, a bell rang. He’d heard this before. “He’s a guard, is he not?”

  “One of many. But he had the misfortune of being stabbed by a prisoner. With my cousin’s own knife, no less.”

  Brave prisoner, thought Diego. But he said instead, “That must have been painful.”

  “We didn’t think my cousin would make it. His parents are dead and I felt right sorry for him.”

  “And he’s still recuperating at home, your cousin?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  Diego watched an eagle swoop down and take a mouse in its talons. He and Isabel would be victims no longer. He prayed he wasn’t too late.

  “I need you to do something for me, Luis.”

  Diego explained his scheme. The footman would infiltrate the Holy Office wearing his cousin’s uniform and bring back the exact location of Isabel’s whereabouts. If he told anyone, Luis would be fired, and his family would be out on the street.

  To Diego’s surprise, it was fear, plain and simple, that made Luis say no.

  But the bagful of maravedis made him say yes. Plain and simple.

  Her right arm moved. Her hand felt a sharp protrusion sticking out beneath the skin of her left shoulder. She could not lift the left arm at all. The parts were all there, but they were damaged. If anyone looked at her, they would think they were viewing her in a broken looking glass. She was rearranged.

  “There is no God,” cried a hoarse male voice.

  Was she dead? Had she arrived in Heaven only to find God didn’t exist?

  Screaming sounds came from somewhere below her. Was that hell? No, she was above the room of relaxation. In one of those cells with the bars that covered the windows. For the time being, it seemed the Inquisitors were done with her.

  Where was everyone? The woman in the corner had disappeared. Mamá and Papá were far away. Beatriz had gone over to the other side. And Diego? Why hadn’t he come?

  May you be like Sarah, Rebecca, Leah, and Rachel, said Papá.

  Where are you off to, looking so pretty? said Mamá.

  Your soul can be saved, said Beatriz, through pain.

  She shifted on the floor and the burning radiating from her shoulder shocked her into an awakened state. Beatriz had wanted Isabel to suffer, but not like this. And yet. Beatriz watched Isabel spurn Don Sancho and give her heart to Diego while she had no future herself, save life in a convent, pining away with an unconsummated love for Juan Carlos, who may or may not ever see Beatriz’s “light.” That manufactured enough hatred for her to do the unspeakable.

  Isabel sucked in air and managed to push herself up using her good arm. But she was dizzy and the floor looked so comfortable. So she lay back down.

  It would be easy to just give up. And she supposed there was even a kind of victory in succumbing. For that would mean the Inquisitors would be left with merely a body stripped of its spirit, to transport and tie at the stake. No screaming whatsoever. And where was the fun in that?

  Something furry crawled over her foot. She lay there for some moments, letting it make its way up to her ankle. It was now on her calf.

  No!

  She jerked her leg to fling it off.

  She would not let creeping crawling things move freely over her, as if she were a corpse. She was not dead yet. And neither was Diego. She felt the truth of it in her broken bones.

  She stirred when the cell door opened. A guard Isabel had not seen before entered the small space. His uniform hung on his shoulders, as if it were two sizes too big. He was about her age and seemed even more frightened than she did. His arm reached out. She flinched. A piece of parchment fell from his hand. A message? He nodded ever so slightly. He was not here to hurt her. Wordlessly, he left.

  In the dark, she struggled to read it. The parchment was white, that much she could tell, but the words, if there were any, were impossible to see. Then the door opened again, just a crack. Enough for a hand to slip through. A hand holding a lit candle. He was helping her! Giving her light so she could read. But the note was blank. She flipped it over. Also nothing. Drawing the flame closer, Isabel thought she saw some lines forming. In another minute, the words appeared before her.

  Stay strong. I am coming to get you out.

  —The bookbinder’s apprentice

  Diego was alive! He remembered what she had told him, about the type of ink that you cannot see unless heated. Hope surged through her.

  She returned the candle into the outstretched hand. Gently, the door shut, and the lock slid into place, covering her in darkness again.

  She swallowed the tiny piece of paper. It was her first food in days.

  Later, a familiar voice called to her through the bars on her door. This time, Isabel knew how many hours had passed because she had watched the subtle shift of faint light through the slatted openings. Why hadn’t she noticed this before? Details like these kept her mind off the pain in her body.

  “Isabel,” he whispered. It was Renato. “Me voy,” he said. He was leaving.

  To the quemadero? she thought despairingly.

  “I am being reconciled to the church,” he explained.

  Gracias a Dios.

  “Is there someone to whom you want a message delivered? Hurry, before they come down the hall,” he urged.

  She thought quickly. Her parents’ house would be watched closely. The alcazarejo was impenetrable. But Atika. She could slip through the city unnoticed. And Renato, in his sanbenito, would be able to travel freely to the Romani encampment without arousing suspicion. Perhaps she could help Diego in some way.

  “There is …” She paused, struggling to make the proper sounds of elocution. She forced her lips to move inward. Her tongue touched the roof of her mouth. “A girl. Romani. Her name … is Atika.”

  The pain in her throat and shoulder was dissipating. Diego’s note, Renato’s release. It energized her. “She lives at the camp by the river.”

  “I will find her,” said Renato.

  “She is a poet,” said Isabel. “Recite her this: My lover cries alone in his castle, while I am imprisoned in my own cold, dark room. He needs succor. Only he holds the key to my heart.”

  A strange girl was following Diego. He was sure of it. Unlike when Isabel was near, he didn’t smell roses. It was frankincense. He paused at the plaza mayor and turned his neck slightly. A few meters back, she paused, too, and shook her tambourine, twirling for passersby. When he resumed his walking, the tinkling music stopped and the smell of her perfume grew strong again.

  He was on his way to Berruguete’s studio to pick up a painting, a new commission by the Holy Office. His plan was to hand-deliver it. Once inside the dungeon, he would rescue Isabel. Thanks to his footman, Diego knew Isabel was alive. He knew which cell she was in. He knew where the keys were kept: on a hook two hallways to the left of the relaxation room.

  Luis’s cousin had returned to work. So Diego would not be able to wear the uniform, as his footman did. Berruguete’s painting would provide c
over. Berruguete was only too happy to have Diego deliver it. The artist was trying to finish Don Sancho’s portrait before he left for the war front and, being in the studio day and night, had heard nothing of Isabel’s capture. Diego let him think the wedding was still on schedule.

  The entire plan was crazy, since Diego wasn’t sure how quickly they would both be able to escape, given his wound and Isabel’s presumably weakened body. But he must deliver the painting today. His father had brought gossip from a meeting with the Familiars and other members of court. The alguacil’s betrothed was being brought to the quemadero tomorrow.

  Diego could not walk very fast on the street, for with each step, the pain in his ribs stabbed him anew. Finally, the smell of frankincense grew tiresome. He turned around to confront the girl, his hand on the hilt of his knife. “Why are you following me?”

  She stepped closer. A multicolored scarf covered her head and face. Intelligent blue eyes peered through a narrow slit. “I am Isabel’s friend.”

  Diego’s stomach dipped. “You know me?”

  The girl nodded. “She sent me a message. A poem.”

  Diego smiled. That was his Isabel.

  “Do you need anything?” she asked him after she recited it. “Clothing to hide her in? A horse perhaps?”

  He eyed the musical instrument in her hand.

  “I have a better idea.”

  Isabel concentrated on the details. She counted the number of dark spots in the stones from floor to ceiling. She pulled lice from her hair and watched them flit about in the corner before she smashed them. She recited Qasmūna’s poetry to herself. She etched Hebrew letters with her right index finger on the dirt floor, then erased the evidence.

  Diego was coming for her.

  Voices floated from behind her cell door. Two men? Three? None sounded like Diego. Anyway, she was fairly certain he would not just walk right in and take her away. He would act with more stealth.

  The lock clanked and her door opened.

  Don Sancho towered above her.

  Was he her savior and not Diego after all? So be it. At least she would be let out. She slowly got to her knees and then to her feet. She felt faint and leaned against the wall for support.

  His eyes went large, surprised at her appearance.

  She made no effort to cover herself. Let him see her in her ugliness.

  He was quiet for some time, just observing her. “Such a beautiful girl. What a pity.”

  She stood defiantly.

  “And to think you could have had it all.”

  Was he merely toying with her? Would he not be releasing her?

  “I heard they relaxed you, but I needed to see for myself,” he said evenly.

  She wanted answers and was not about to keep quiet, despite the pain in her throat and her shoulder. “There was a spy. He blew something. And the men came running. How did they know who I was?”

  “Alvaro blew the pipe, good man. He was under strict instructions to watch your house and bring you to me if you strayed. All the town officers knew about it.”

  “Strayed?”

  His lower jaw flexed. “I know what I look like.” His eyes flicked away from her, landing at the corner of the small cell. “A fair young woman like you. What could you ever see in me?”

  So he was human after all.

  But when he turned back, he was steely-eyed, all trace of humanity gone. “After Alvaro found you running away with the Altamirano traitor, I needed nothing more to denounce you. But I am a man of honor. I needed evidence. You can understand … someone in my position. I mustn’t seem like I’m playing favorites.”

  Favorites? By punishing her without evidence?

  “Posterity will remember me kindly,” he added.

  Posterity. Isabel thought of the notary transcribing her every word. For whom? she had wondered. The king and queen? Which future leader would read the questions and answers of what went on down here? None of it presented a true picture, she was sure of that. Maybe no one would ever know the real truth.

  Don Sancho dropped the Talmud at her feet. It thudded, dirt puffing up in its wake. “In the end, it was the boy who gave me what I needed. Stupid Jew. Caved the moment his leg was crushed.”

  A punch to the gut. Her father. David Cohen. And now poor Yuçe. Too many broken bodies.

  “One of my bailiffs was watching the house of the Jews since your parents were discovered there,” said Don Sancho. “He told me how the boy carried the book home with him after leaving your place.”

  Then it wasn’t Beatriz who denounced her. She had kept Isabel’s confidence! They could stand beside each other and not be at war! Isabel thought of the lament she and Abuela had found in the Talmud. How did it go? If the cedars have caught fire, what hope is there for the moss on the wall? She finally understood. She and Beatriz were the moss on the wall. All the conversos were. They were the small players, yes, but they were stronger together. This gave them all the hope they needed. Perhaps it was not a sad, mournful poem after all. It didn’t matter what happened to the majestic cedar or the giant whale of the mighty river. Or, in the language of today, the majestic monarchy, the great church, the mighty Inquisition. In the end, the individuals would prevail.

  Don Sancho arranged his lips into a devilish curl. There would be no help coming from him. And she would not dignify him by begging. She turned away, no longer able to stand the sight of him.

  “Before I go, there is one last spectacle for your entertainment,” he said.

  She was forced to turn back around.

  He took a striker and quartz rock out from beneath his cape, then began to hit the rock against the fire steel. She backed away, watching the sparks fly off his hands. Nothing took.

  “It seems I’ll need a little help,” he said, chuckling. At this, he lifted off his plumed hat. Inside the head covering was a piece of char cloth. This time, a spark landed on the cloth and it ignited. Quickly, he dropped the material onto the Talmud.

  “No!” she screamed, leaping forward to save the book.

  He blocked her hard, his thick torso connecting with her dislocated shoulder. She flew back to the corner of the cell, screaming in agony.

  It was futile. The only thing she could do was watch the sacred text burn, alongside him, in some perverted ceremony of a doomed betrothal.

  Today was the day of her tribunal. Though Don Sancho had said nothing yesterday, Isabel had an uneasy feeling. All was quiet in the dungeon hallway.

  Diego had to come today. He must.

  And yet.

  If for some reason he didn’t make it in time …

  She forced herself to think the unthinkable. Did she have any regrets? She had loved. She had learned. Studying a Jewish text had given her a sense of belonging, of history. Of God. But she knew there would be others in her place, dying senselessly, before the Inquisition was over. She remembered Señora Maria de Chaues, the woman accused of washing the spot on her infant’s head where it had been baptized. Now, in her dank cell, Isabel gingerly made the shape of a cradle with her one good arm. She cooed to an imaginary baby, hers and Diego’s, one who would carry on the Jewish line.

  Bits and snatches of another poem came to her, from the first poetry reading she had gone to. A lady in a hooded robe had recited a personal piece. By the end, she was sobbing. Isabel had paid her no mind, thinking her a foolish woman revealing her emotions in public that way. Isabel didn’t respond to the writing, preferring the more sweeping romantic poems instead. How apt it was now. The poor lady had lost a child. Today, Isabel was losing a what-might-have-been child. For her future with Diego would never happen. Poetry was like that. You never understood it until you lived it.

  Yes, Time—

  ate up my heart, cleft

  it in two and cut it into bits,

  so that it aches with groaning, panic, plunder,

  confiscation, loss, captivity.

  Why do you crush a mother’s heart?

  Why do you aim your arrows at
my inmost parts?

  I cannot touch my food, for even honey stings,

  and sweets taste venomous to me.

  Miserably I nibble coal-burnt crusts,

  moistening with tears my dried-out bread.

  My only drink is water mixed with salt from my eyes;

  the blood of grapes does not come near my mouth.

  She wished she had remembered it when she and Mamá were at the cemetery. It would have given her mother comfort to know she was not alone. Now it eased Isabel. Though she would not be able to give life, as her name Eva promised, she could die having imagined it. That, at least, was something.

  Once again, the lock of her cellar door slid open. A bailiff threw her a sanbenito. She couldn’t raise her left arm to put it on and the guard had to do it for her. He was a brute. Tears came to her eyes when he forced it over her arm. As the rough fabric fell over her face, covering her own soiled gown, she smelled the fear of a thousand girls.

  Her wrists were tied with cord. As were her feet. Another cord went around her neck. All three of these were knotted together, then secured to yet another longer rope. Isabel was surprised to find other prisoners already tied to the long rope in the hallway. Six in all. Five men and an old woman. Was one of them the man with the hoarse voice who cried out, There is no God? She wanted to tell him she understood. If there were a good and compassionate God, then how could He allow a place like the Holy Office to exist? How could God create a world where the rulers had absolute power and twisted and perverted His teachings to fit their theology?

  She searched the faces of the men, landing on the one who met her own eyes with his. God isn’t to blame for this processional, she told him silently. God is not the punisher. He does not sit on high and decide who will live and who will die. Man does. Woman does. God made us in His image, but He gave us autonomy. Only we have the power to determine our fate. Only we have the power to harm our own soul.