“No women allowed,” said the blond one, scowling at her.
The red-haired student grinned flirtatiously and stepped closer to her. “But we won’t tell.”
She took a step back and asked about Paolo. She realized she had no idea what his surname was. Just that he was a son of a duque. That seemed to be enough. They knew him all right. But they hadn’t seen him today. Had she tried his house off campus? The flirtatious one said he would walk her there. Then his friend reminded him that a professor wanted to meet with them. It would be impossible.
Isabel was in low spirits. She hadn’t told the page to wait for her. Now she’d have to walk down the hill to a main street and order another cart to take her to Paolo’s house. As she headed back toward the school entrance, the blond student came running back to her, his cap askew. He pointed in the direction of a large round building, next to the clock tower. “Before you leave, you might try the library. If Paolo is on campus, he can usually be found there.” Then he darted away.
Isabel entered the rotunda. A double stairway was before her, bordered on both sides by tiles of blue, yellow, and white flowers. Above her, a gold ceiling held paintings of cherubs, some shooting arrows and some flying through crystal-blue sky. Did Diego stare at this artist’s work and wish he had painted it? To her left was a rectangular room with desks and partitions. Many students were seated inside, bent over books. She wandered through the rows, trying to peer underneath the caps. No one looked up, their concentration admirable. She wanted to yell, “Paolo!” but knew from the absolute silence that this would not be appropriate.
At the end of one of the rows, she spotted a familiar neckline, long hair tied back in the style Diego wore. Paolo. She rushed over, tapping him on the shoulder.
He looked up, his cheeks pinkening at the sight of her. “Isabel,” he whisper-spoke. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she told him. “But I’m worried about Diego.”
Standing, he motioned for her to follow him.
Once outside, he took off his cap and fidgeted with the collar of his gown.
She waited for him to speak, becoming more and more impatient by the second.
He stared at the ground. “I’m sorry I haven’t come before now. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” she asked, her heart hammering.
“Diego was ambushed on the Puente de Juan de Carvajal.”
“Ambushed?”
“By smugglers.”
No! Dark images came to her. She wouldn’t think it.
“It seems he didn’t make it.”
“Wh … what do you mean? Where is he?”
“His horse came back to Trujillo, found its way to the alcazarejo somehow. But there was no rider.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Isabel. More than likely, Diego is dead.”
She fell to her knees. Paolo wasn’t quick enough to catch her. And she wouldn’t have let him anyway. She wanted to sink into the earth, through the grass and into the darkest soil. Let her body rot with the worms. Let her go back to the dust she was made of.
Diego reached the foot of the bridge and gazed up at the inky sky. The sun had long set. He should probably make camp here for the night, but once his father discovered him gone, the count would send out a search party. He needed to get as far away from Trujillo as possible. In fact, at some point, he should have tied up his horse and backtracked over his route, brushing over the hoof marks. Damn. He hadn’t thought of that.
He squirted some wine from his bota bag into his mouth. If he rode all night, he would be in his Isabel’s arms by tomorrow evening, or the morning after that at the latest.
Kicking the sides of his horse, Diego urged the animal over the bridge. He was traveling light. Just one change of clothes and the money from selling his parents’ things—all buried in a pack, tied behind the saddle.
He didn’t hear them approach.
The horse did, though, rearing up in fright, nearly knocking Diego off.
“Tranquilo,” said Diego, patting the horse on his neck.
Diego counted three men, about 150 meters away. Smugglers. In the dusky light, he could make out a hand-cannon in one of their arms. How did these pícaros get hold of artillery? His pulse quickened.
“Take my pack,” Diego called out to them. “There’s over seventy-five hundred maravedis inside.” Diego held up his hands. “I’m just going to reach behind me and untie it for you.” His sword lay strapped to his right hip. He would draw his weapon and charge at them on the horse.
“Párate!” said one of the men. “Stop!”
Maybe Diego didn’t stop his hand fast enough or he thought the verbal threat was simply that, just a warning. Or he thought he was invincible.
Did a shot ring out? Were the smugglers lucky with their iron ball catapulting from a gun at close range? Or did the hand-cannon backfire and the person igniting it get killed instead, allowing Diego time to escape?
Isabel awoke into silence. The room she shared with Beatriz at the inn was quiet. It was the unknowing that hit her so hard each morning, more acute than any torture she had endured at the hands of the Inquisitors. Was Diego alive or dead? Her life for the past month had not been a life at all. Abuela once mentioned a rabbi in the Talmud who created something called a golem. It was a creature with the semblance of a man but without a soul or the ability to speak. Isabel was like that golem. Her body was functioning, but her mind was inactive. She could not write a line of poetry, much less read a book or carry on a conversation. Mamá and Papá could not figure out what was ailing her.
She had to do something to shake herself out of her stupor. For existing in this in-between state was not acceptable. It was as if all that free will she had exercised in Trujillo—to meet Diego in secret, to study Talmud, to defy the Inquisitors—had disappeared. She forced herself to place one foot in front of the other, go through her morning hygiene routine, and get dressed.
The mikveh was three streets away, directly across from Aron’s sinagoga. She had not yet stepped inside nor, frankly, thought much about it since she had visited the judería and met those girls. It was time.
It was her first day out on the street in weeks. Through a haze, details slowly came into focus for her. The staircases and alleyways. Awnings protruding from shopwindows. Peasants, merchants, waifs, and maids weaving in and out of one another in a crowded dance.
Entering the mikveh, she saw the glazed black-and-white tiles laid in pinwheels on the floor. She smelled the humidity and heard the plink-plink of the moisture dripping from the ceiling. She tasted her own lips, dry from nerves.
“Your name?” asked a woman with round cheeks, her blue robe floating behind her.
Isabel stared at her, unblinking.
The woman waited patiently for Isabel’s answer. Suddenly, her vision blurred again, and the woman’s features rearranged themselves, shape-shifting into Abuela’s forehead, eyes, nose, and lips. Her grandmother was here.
“Your name, senhorita?” the woman repeated. “I’ll need it for the blessing.”
She would be cleansed. Like the floodwaters did to Noah’s land. Like Qasmūna and all the Jewish women in her family before they converted. She would be pure. She would no longer be tainted.
“Eva.”
She stepped down seven steps into a pool fed by an underground spring. Shivering from the tepid water, she slowly lowered her whole body in, up to her neck. She held her breath and let the water cover her chin, her eyes, the top of her head. As Eva, she could start anew. As Eva, she would wait for Diego. For as long as it took.
One Friday night, some months later, Aron ben Cardoza ran into the house in the Alfama. Eva was pulling oranges and herbs out of the hollow of a roasted chicken that Esther had prepared. Mamá and Beatriz were setting the table and Papá was reading a book by the window. The two families had become quite close and enjoyed Shabbat dinners together every week.
“Quick, get to the c
ellar,” shouted Aron, scooping up the baby from the floor. “Everyone!”
Esther stopped pouring wine from the decanter. “Has something happened?”
“In Rossio Square,” said Aron, his lips pressed tightly together.
“Not an auto de fe?” asked Papá, glancing at Mamá, no doubt remembering the day he ran into the house in Trujillo with the same fearful expression.
“Worse,” said Aron.
Beatriz took little Judah’s hand and they all descended the stairs into the cellar. The ben Cardozas’ lowest floor was tinier than the Perez’s former one. They were not wine producers. It was used to store grains and vegetables. The eight of them squeezed in, knees touching, as they sat cross-legged on the floor. Baby Ruth cried and Esther shushed her with her breast milk.
“I’ll light an oil lamp,” said Eva.
Esther nodded. “Thank you, Isabel.”
“You mean, Eva,” corrected Papá.
Esther smiled sheepishly. It was hard for everyone to get used to using the name Eva, even new friends who hadn’t called Isabel that her entire life. For some reason, Papá found it the easiest. It was as if his own mother, Abuela, was in his head all the time now.
“I know only what I heard relayed at the sinagoga,” replied Aron.
“When was this?” asked Beatriz.
“Shhh. Let him speak,” Mamá said.
“Yesterday. Holy Thursday.”
Eva recalled hearing the bells beckoning everyone to Mass. Beatriz had wanted to go, but instead decided to watch the children of an Old Christian family who wished to worship unencumbered.
“The whole town was in church,” Aron recounted. “The sunlight streamed in through the leaded glass windows and someone swore they could see the illuminated face of Jesus Cristo on the altar. The faithful were greatly moved by this vision on such an auspicious day. Jesus was there! He had risen!”
“That does sounds miraculous,” agreed Beatriz. Since her illness, she had softened her religious fervor. Her tenets had become just a set of beliefs, without judgment.
Aron frowned. “Until a New Christian in another pew chuckled and whispered to the person next to him that it was no miracle at all. Just a reflection of an altar candle on the crucifix.”
Mamá gasped.
“Others heard this blasphemy and dragged the New Christian, a man named João Silveira, outside, where he was beaten to death by the crowd. Then they burned his body in Rossio Square.”
The small room fell silent.
“I’m afraid that’s not the end of it.” Aron wiped his forehead with his shirt, not daring to dirty his prayer shawl. “Today, a Dominican friar preached absolution to the ones who killed the New Christian. With no fear of repercussions, foreign sailors from the docks are joining angry townspeople and grabbing convertos from their homes accusing them of deicide and heresy. They are running through the streets as I speak.”
Faint shouting could be heard coming from above, though it was likely streets away from theirs.
“Deicide?” asked Eva.
“The killing of a God,” answered Papá. “Or in this case, Jesus Cristo.”
“Where’s King Manuel?” asked Beatriz. “Surely he will protect his subjects.” Eva noted how her sister did not attempt to debate the veracity of the deicide accusation, but instead showed her concern for the Jews.
“He’s gone to his summer residence in Abrantes,” said Aron. “There is talk that he’s afraid of another plague in the city.”
“I believe it,” said Eva, remembering the conversation she overheard at the mercado.
Aron put his arm around Esther. “Everyone at the sinagoga is afraid. Today it’s the convertos caught up in the bloodbath. Tomorrow it will be us. The only thing to do is leave.”
Esther seemed bewildered. “Leave Lisbon?”
“On the first ship where we can book passage,” said Aron grimly. “It’s not safe here anymore. We’ll go to Venice, where my uncle lives.” He turned to Papá. “I know you’ll be welcome in his home as well.”
Papá sighed. “I am weary from running.”
Mamá turned to him. “Aron is right. Portugal will go the way of Spain.”
“No!” shouted Eva.
Frightened, the baby started crying again.
“We can’t leave here,” Eva blurted out. “Not yet.” If they left for Italy, Diego might never find her again.
All eyes were on her. They wanted an explanation. She hadn’t yet told her family about her relationship with Diego. Esther and Aron had kept her confidence until she was ready to share it. All her parents knew was that a benefactor helped pay their way out of Spain and into Portugal. They had never questioned it, most likely out of fear of the Holy Office. A gift was being given to them; theirs was not to ask why. Eva planned to tell them eventually. Here in Lisbon, the idea of marrying a grandee who was once a Jew seemed more plausible than in Spain, but with her broken shoulder and Mamá and Papá trying to save for a place of their own and Beatriz’s sickness and her own fugue-like state when Diego never came back, the time had not been right to reveal him to her family.
Eva felt frantic, desperate for a way out. “Why don’t you go ahead. Someone has to stay and close up the house.” She looked at Esther. “Safeguard your belongings for when you return? I will arrange everything.”
Aron’s and Esther’s eyes met briefly. Eva caught it. They were never coming back to Lisbon.
“And then you’ll travel to Venice after that?” asked Mamá, believing her scheme.
Eva hesitated.
Papá shook his head. “Out of the question. We are not separating.” He took Eva’s hand. “I won’t risk losing you again.”
“Papá’s right,” said Beatriz, agreeing with their father for the first time ever.
“I can’t guarantee your safety, Eva,” said Aron. “Nor would we sleep peacefully, knowing you were here all alone.”
Eva looked at each and every one of them. The family that raised her and the family that saved her. She owed them. What a selfish girl, thinking only of herself when the world was crumbling around them. Even Abuela would not have approved.
She turned her face into the cold stone wall so no one could see her tears.
So it was settled. Aron pooled all their money and bought passage for eight on the merchant vessel, São Michael, bound for Venice the following week. In between packing what precious items they could carry and selling the rest, the ben Cardozas mourned their community. When the week was through, over two thousand Portuguese converto Jews had been dragged from their homes and burned.
On their last day in Lisbon, Eva went to the University of Coimbra and handed Paolo a note, instructing him to give it to Diego when he came back.
Paolo’s eyes were full of pity. “Surely, you don’t believe—”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” interrupted Eva. She had no patience for him since he had not bothered to find her and tell her himself when Diego’s horse returned riderless. He was a coward, but he was all she had. “Guard it with your life.”
The note explained they were sailing for Venice and that she could be found at the house of Aron’s uncle, Daniel the loan-banker.
She did not bother to say goodbye.
Seven members of the Perez and ben Cardoza families carried one suitcase each, and Esther wore a sling for the baby. Even Judah gripped a travel bag in his small hand as they walked to the docks on the morning of April 15. It was still dark, the early hour chosen by Aron, since their neighbor had even accused an Old Christian of heresy two days prior. Everyone was turning on each other in an effort to deflect the attention away from themselves. No one was safe.
A man ran by Eva, his arms full of silver chalices and serving pieces. He accidentally bumped her bad shoulder and knocked her to the ground, shouting angrily in German as if it were her fault.
Papá helped her up.
Aron’s eyes darted up and down the street. “They are looting the empty homes of conver
tos. Don’t get between them and their plunder.” Thankfully, after that, there were no more incidents.
The sun was a sliver of light peeking above the horizon when they boarded the four-masted, square-sailed ship.
“Seems sturdy enough,” said Mamá, dropping her heavy suitcase on the wooden deck.
Aron explained to them it was a carrack or long-range cargo vessel, the only thing he could get at such short notice. Not that any of the Portuguese ships were built for passengers. There were only two types: naval and cargo.
“At least this one doesn’t contain any arms,” said Papá. “The voyage will be dangerous enough as it is.”
Eva didn’t care about rough seas or warfare. She kept looking toward the Alfama neighborhood, hoping to see Diego limping down the hill.
“Where do we sleep?” asked Beatriz.
A purser took them below deck to the mid-cabin, filled with sleeping berths three bodies high. The air was stuffy and smelled repulsive. Eva felt her stomach give way, acid coating her tongue. She swallowed it down, trying to make the best of the poor conditions.
“We’re bedding next to the sailors?!” exclaimed a shocked Beatriz.
A crewman nearby leered at her by way of an answer. She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest.
When eventually the São Michael was towed out of dock, Eva stayed on deck, watching the shore until it was a distant line, then a dot, and then, finally, the place of Diego’s university was no more.
Within two days, everyone in the Perez and ben Cardoza families became seasick. No one had been on a ship before. The sailors laughed at their weak stomachs and didn’t bother removing ropes from their pathway when they tried to stroll on the main deck. Eva survived the ordeal by sitting in a corner on the upper deck and penning poems. These weren’t love poems, though. They were filled with dark details from her past. Flickers of flames under stakes. Boatswains’ pipes. Skeletal cheekbones of Inquisitors. Wet cloths in throats. Cracked shoulders. Scorched Talmuds. Hebrew letters—mem, vav, chet—spelling out death. She was cleansing her mind, like the mikveh did to her body, leaving memories on the parchment. With each word written, she felt stronger. More hopeful. Diego wasn’t dead. She felt him whisper to her every night when she fell asleep, the ocean lapping against the hull beneath her.
The Poetry of Secrets Page 29