The Poetry of Secrets

by Cambria Gordon

  The woman lowered the child on her hip, who promptly crawled away on the dusty floor. “I’m Esther,” she said, smiling. “This is Judah. And the baby is Ruth.”

  Judah grabbed Isabel’s hand immediately. The one in the sling. She winced, but took a deep breath and forced a smile, not wanting to hurt the boy’s feelings. This was not lost on Esther. She gently pulled her son away from Isabel. “Leave her be, Judah. It’s been a long journey.” She turned to Isabel. “I’ll get a doctor to look at that shoulder, all right?”

  Paolo took his leave, promising to come visit when he received word from Diego. Then Esther showed her the room she and Judah would share. There was a pallet and a small cot, a dresser and a washbasin. Other than some carved wooden animals and a wooden boat in the corner, it was spotless.

  Isabel pointed to the toys. “Is that Noah’s ark?”

  Esther nodded. “I’ll get Judah to take them out so you’ll have more space.”

  “No, please. I like looking at them.” They reminded her of Abuela. Not the toys, exactly, but the biblical story. Abuela said the forty-day flood was a cleansing process for the earth. That the rainwater was like the mikveh bath, washing away all negativity for whomever it touched.

  The doctor came, a hunchbacked man who wore a blue skullcap. He gave her something bitter to drink. It made her very sleepy. When he set her arm back in its socket, she only screamed once, the sound blending in with the baby’s crying.

  Aron ben Cardoza was short and thin and looked more like a bird than a person. He was a man of few words, preferring to read rather than talk. When he discovered Isabel knew the aleph-bet, he showered her with books. Esther doted on her like an older sister, giving her some of her own dresses and rubbing lanolin into her shoulder. Isabel passed the first few days happily, her arm in a more proper sling. And on Friday night, she was overjoyed to have her first Shabbat meal in a sala with moonlight coming in through the window.

  On Sunday, she asked Esther for a quill and parchment to pen a letter to Atika. Hopefully, someone in the encampment would read it to her. Though she couldn’t write Diego, nor the Cohens, whom she thought about often, at least she could pour out her heart to her dear friend and thank her for her bravery. Isabel had no idea how long it would take to be delivered. Esther told her one needed to find a messenger on horseback, at the dock, most likely. And that there was a cost involved.

  “I’m afraid I have nothing to pay him with,” said Isabel, embarrassed.

  Esther patted her on her good hand. “Never you mind. I’ll take care of it.”

  On the following Thursday, the clip-clop of horses near Isabel’s window woke her up. Judah had been long awake and out of the room. Within minutes, someone was knocking on the front door. She waited, but the knocking persisted. It seemed no one from the family was home. Isabel opened the main entrance wearing Esther’s nightdress.

  There stood her parents and Beatriz, all looking bedraggled, but alive, before her.

  They embraced and shed an ocean of tears. Mamá seemed less affectless, perhaps a result of having to be vigilant on their journey over. It must have been so much harder for her parents than for her, leaving the home they knew and coming to a strange land. Mamá kept touching Isabel’s face, reassuring herself that her daughter was real.

  Isabel looked beyond them to the street. “Where’s Abuela?”

  Mamá, Papá, and Beatriz fell silent.

  “She stayed in Trujillo, preferring to tend to Soli’s grave than ride a horse over the mountains, didn’t she?” Isabel said.

  Mamá shook her head. “Your grandmother is dead.”

  Isabel stopped breathing. “When?”

  “She passed away the morning after you were captured,” said Beatriz with more compassion than Isabel thought her capable of.

  So Abuela knew about the Holy Office. Isabel had caused her grandmother’s death after all. She hated herself. And at the same time, she longed to hear Abuela’s voice one last time. Tears fell down Isabel’s cheeks.

  “It’s not your fault,” said Mamá. “She was called to God. It was simply her time.”

  But this gave Isabel no comfort. Nobody would ever know her the way Abuela did. She stared at her family through wet eyes. They shared the same blood, but at this moment, Isabel felt she had little else in common with them.

  Beatriz yawned, surveying the interior of the town house. “I need a bath,” she declared, punctuating Isabel’s very thought.

  Despite the ben Cardozas insisting the Perezes all stay in their small flat, Isabel did not want to put them out more than she already had. Ruth had been sleeping with Esther and Aron, and Isabel knew the baby was keeping Esther up at night. So Mamá sold the sapphire ring from Don Sancho to pay an innkeeper one month’s rent. How smart Mamá was to bring it with her! And good riddance to that hideous reminder of her past.

  The Perez family gradually adjusted to life in Lisbon. Papá’s hearing returned in one ear and, with it, his diction. He was able to find work with a local winemaker. Mamá helped a laundress who owned a shop below the inn. Beatriz collected food for the poor with the nuns of the Carmo Convent.

  But the best part about Lisbon was that the long arm of Torquemada had not reached the city. There was a community of Portuguese Jews, of which the ben Cardozas were a part. But more Jews were coming in each week, fleeing the Inquisition. The Portuguese king required each Jew to pay a tax of eight real brancos for the right to enter Portugal. Though the Perezes had come illegally, by horseback, Papá did not want to take advantage of their welcome and insisted on paying the tax. This meant they could not move out of the inn into their own home for another few months, but it made Papá feel proud.

  Seeing the ben Cardozas light candles on Friday evenings gave Mamá and Papá the courage to stop being New Christians. Everyone except Beatriz joined Esther and Aron in attending sinagoga to celebrate Tu BiShvat, the feast of fruits. This holiday marked one of four cycles in the new year, when the sap ran and the trees awakened from their slumber. Sitting in the women’s section, Isabel and Mamá recited Kaddish, the mourner’s prayer, for Abuela. They held hands as tears streamed down their faces. It was an awakening not just for the trees.

  One Shabbat evening, after more than two months in Lisbon, Isabel asked Esther about Paolo. She was trying not to worry, but she had heard nothing. “Has he been by the house? Perhaps he doesn’t know where to find me at the inn.”

  Esther placed a spinach frittata on the table. Even with Isabel’s shoulder as good as new, she wouldn’t let her lift a finger. Only Mamá and Beatriz were allowed to help in the kitchen, though Beatriz mostly scowled in the corner. “You know I would tell him where to find you. But he hasn’t come.”

  “But maybe he stopped by when you were out with the children, and left a note?”

  Esther shook her head.

  Isabel was despondent. She could not sleep another night without word of Diego. If Paolo would not come to her, then she would go to him.

  “Where are my vestments?” roared Count Altamirano. He stomped through the corridors of the family’s private chambers upstairs, sending Concha scurrying like a mouse.

  Diego was in his own bedroom, washing his hands in preparation for supper. He had been thinking of Berruguete and the look on the flatterer’s face when Diego announced he was leaving. Diego would find a Portuguese artist to work with, one who didn’t pander to the Inquisition.

  His father stormed into his room. “Did you borrow my armor?”

  “Why would I take something that does not even fit me?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Perhaps your famous Berruguete wanted to paint someone in formal battle attire? Blasted things. How can three large pieces of decorated metal go missing?”

  The truth was, Diego had sold them to a grandee passing through town from Saragossa. He was slowly selling off obscure pieces from the house, amassing enough money to start a life for himself and Isabel in Lisbon. He had found buyers for a tea set his mother never us
ed, a ruby necklace (she had three just like it), some swords without the Altamirano crest, and a crucifix carved out of quartz. Now, it seemed, he had gone too far in selling his father’s breastplate.

  “Did you check the place of arms?” asked Diego, trying to appear helpful.

  “Whom do you take me for? A dunce? That was the first place I checked. The various Altamirano Knights’ shields are all there, but my gilded breastplate and sleeves are not.”

  Diego needed to divert his father’s attention from the missing uniform. “How goes the work of the Familiars, Father?”

  But his father would not be deterred, even with Inquisition talk. “The archbishop of Toledo is coming to the alcazarejo and I must receive him in formal wear. As long as I can show the representative of our beloved queen and king that the Order of Calatrava is alive and well, they will cease this senseless stripping of our power. My fellow nobles are counting on me.”

  Diego cared not one coin for the religious military order his father belonged to. It was a group in name only, and it did nothing to help Spain’s cause. He could not stomach this life much longer. He was nearly ready to leave for Portugal. He just needed to sell one more object of art and he would be on his way.

  “Torquemada will also be accompanying the archbishop,” his father informed him. “You’ll need to be here, too, tomorrow evening. I should have ordered something custom-forged for you. But alas, I did not. So be it. Your fanciest doublet and ruff will have to suffice.”

  “Torquemada will be in this house?”

  His father straightened up even taller. “It is a great honor, indeed. We will have a grand feast.”

  Diego exhaled through his nose. “I cannot abide this, Father. I’m sorry.”

  The count blinked, the gray in his mustache glinting in the lamplight. “What are you blathering about?”

  “I will not stand next to you if that bastard comes to our home.” It was too much, the idea of looking into his eyes, imagining the friars who followed him blindly like sheep and what they did to his Isabel.

  His father slapped him across the face. “How dare you insult the Grand Inquisitor. You’re lucky no servants heard your insult. Insensitive and dangerous, that’s what you are. You will stand next to me, Diego, or I’ll …”

  “You’ll what? Turn me in to the Holy Office?”

  The count stepped close to Diego, so that their faces nearly touched. “Your mother told me everything. About your little conversation in the chapel and your ensuing scuffle on the street. Do you think she keeps secrets from me? I am the one in charge here! All it takes is one official letter with my seal, and I can turn you from the son of a count right back into a dirty Jew.”

  “Then what would that make you, Father?”

  The count squeezed Diego’s upper arm, holding him in place. “Don’t tempt me enough to find out.”

  Spittle flew into Diego’s eye. He wriggled out of his father’s grasp, shaken.

  As the count slammed the heavy wooden door behind him, Diego knew he could not stay one more night in this house. He did not trust his father. The count could very well destroy his mother, too, claiming the Jewish seductress put a spell on him or some such nonsense, and Diego did not want her to suffer.

  He would take what money he had and leave for Portugal by nightfall.

  Beatriz fell ill with the sweating sickness and Isabel could not go to the University of Coimbra to look for Paolo. She and Mamá took turns nursing Beatriz. The illness came on violently with cold shivers, headache, and severe pains in her neck. After two days of this, Beatriz became listless and fell into a dreamless sleep, barely waking to sip water. Isabel knew that if the situation were reversed and she took ill, Beatriz would claim it was divine punishment for her going to sinagoga or some such thing. But unlike her sister, Isabel took no pleasure in seeing anyone suffer.

  A week into Beatriz’s illness, Isabel went to the village market to buy cork bark for her father. She overheard a troubling conversation between two women, Old Christians most likely, from the sound of it.

  “My servant has the sweating sickness,” said the shorter one. “I sent her away to her mother’s house.”

  Isabel almost interrupted them, wondering if there was something more she could do to help Beatriz.

  The second woman covered her nose with a piece of linen cloth, and stepped back from her friend, not wanting to be close in case the servant had exposed her. “It’s the Jews, I tell you. They brought it here.”

  The short woman nodded, making the sign of the cross. “I still remember the plague from fifty years ago. They can’t be trusted. It’s their fault we are in a drought, too.”

  Isabel shook her head. Portugal was no different than Spain.

  Perhaps Beatriz dwelt closer to the Lord after all, because she did not die. Isabel had been sitting with her, giving Mamá a needed break, when her sister opened her eyes and asked for some soup. Isabel was so overcome with relief, she kissed her on the cheek.

  “How many days have I been sick?” asked Beatriz.

  “Thirteen,” replied Isabel.

  Her sister gazed at her in surprise, her long nose crinkling. “And you stayed with me the entire time?”

  “Me and Mamá, yes.”

  Beatriz reached for Isabel and hugged her. They stayed like that, Isabel’s stronger arms encompassing the thinness of her sister’s shoulders. It felt strange, this sisterly reconciliation. But she welcomed it.

  Beatriz laid her head back down, exhausted from the mere effort of waking up. “I don’t think anyone will ever care for me the way you both have.”

  “Nonsense,” said Isabel. “One day, your husband will sit by your side like we—” She stopped. This was not her sister’s future. Beatriz wanted to serve her Lord and Savior, not a spouse.

  Beatriz closed her eyes. “It’s all right, Sister. No need to hold your tongue.”

  It was just that with Diego in her life now, it made Isabel wish Beatriz could find the same earthly love as she had. “Do you ever think about Juan Carlos?”

  Beatriz turned on her side, away from the conversation.

  Isabel stood, remorse flooding her for bringing up the subject. “Forgive me. I’ll go get you that soup.”

  When Isabel came back to the room, she held the spoon out to Beatriz. Her sister’s eyes were still shut. She didn’t seem to want the soup anymore.

  “Juan Carlos did not choose me.”

  Isabel startled at the unexpected statement.

  “He wanted someone else. Someone fairer of face. With thicker hair and a nose that won’t poke him in the eye. He found that in Señorita Magdalena de Espina.”

  “Oh, Beatriz. I’m so sorry.”

  Beatriz lifted a weak hand and touched her scalp.

  Only then did Isabel finally figure it out. Beatriz drew blood from her own skin not because of the zealotry of doing penance for her sins, but because of something much simpler than that. Love. Which, unrequited, turned to hate. Hatred of herself. Poor Beatriz. It felt better to hurt on the outside than on the inside. What was it that Don Sancho had said when he came into Isabel’s prison cell to taunt her? I know what I look like. What could you ever see in me?

  “I knew a man once,” began Isabel, “who thought his countenance would never please a woman. He was right. But not because of his looks. It was because of his spirit. He was evil down deep. You are the opposite, Beatriz. Your soul is good. And therefore, you are beautiful to me.”

  Beatriz rolled onto her back and took Isabel’s hand. “I saw death, Sister, and I am no longer afraid of the truth. I am what I am. But I’ve made a decision. I don’t want to join the Carma Order after all. There are those who need me more than God does. Since I won’t be having children of my own, I’m going to devote myself to your children.”

  “I would be honored,” Isabel murmured. They were more alike than she thought, her sister and she. They both wanted to choose their own destiny, to act with free will. Isabel, to marry a man she lo
ved, and Beatriz, to live a life of service outside the Church. They were each rebelling against tradition in their own way.

  It was a crisp winter morning when Isabel finally slipped away to search for Paolo. She paid a runny-nosed page a half dinheiro to cart her to the university.

  “But that’s in Coimbra,” he insisted, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “A day’s journey from here.”

  One whole day? Diego had said his school was in Lisbon. She was sure of it. “Can you ask someone else? Maybe you’re mistaken.”

  He laughed at her. “I was born in this city.” Nevertheless, he obliged her and walked down the block to a well-dressed squire standing in front of a gilded carriage.

  When the page returned, he was sheepish. “You’re in luck. There are two locations for the school. One here, the other in Coimbra. I never would have guessed it.” She prayed luck was indeed with her and that Paolo would be at this campus.

  The school was situated in the Alfama neighborhood, just up the hill from the ben Cardoza house. When the page dropped her off, she was enchanted, imagining Diego walking among the thick stone columns or under the scalloped archways. Other than their church in Trujillo, she had never seen buildings this grandiose before. In the center of the red roofs and almost blinding white buildings lay an expanse of grass with a tree planted in the middle. It had the thickest trunk Isabel had ever seen. Its leaves fluttered in the sea breeze, revealing silver on the underside and bright green on top. How lucky Diego was to be able to walk these grounds and receive an education at the same time!

  All the students looked alike, in black robes that reached their knees and black square caps upon their heads. She had to start somewhere, so she stopped a pair of young men passing through the archway near her.