The Antiquarian

by Julián Sánchez

  “What does this have to do with Eulàlia’s sickness?”

  “Be patient and listen. After the Great Plague of ’65 there was a second one, though not as bad, eight years ago.”

  “I remember it well. Once it was declared, we left the city for three months. We did not want to expose ourselves to contagion.”

  “Yes. I had returned from Paris by that time. I was no longer that young boy fighting the pestilence and its consequences. As an adult, I could see that the rumors about the Jews’ supposed immunity, while not completely true, were not completely false, either. Jews did die, as they always had, but they died in numbers lower than could be expected.”

  “I do not understand. What do you mean?”

  “We know that in 1348 more than fifteen thousand people died. In 1365, it was seven thousand. And in 1385, the number was barely three thousand. I do not know how many Jews died in the first or the second plague, but I do know that eight years ago, thirty-five thousand people were living in Barcelona, and of them, more than four thousand were Jews. This means that, for every nine Christians, one Jew should have died, if the laws of logic are true, and my studies tell me they are. But it was not so. There was scarcely one Jewish death for every eighteen Christian deaths! The census ordered by the batlle after the plague so confirmed it.”

  “Do you mean that they may have had a remedy against the Black Death?”

  “Indeed. I firmly believe it. Perhaps a lesser number of them could have died—coincidences are possible, but never in such disproportion. It was not by chance. I believe that the Jewish physicians possess a secret that helped them mitigate the epidemic.”

  “But, then, we must go at once the Call and try to find the remedy!” I said, rising, and ready to turn words to action.

  “No! You cannot do that!” Aimeric restrained me hard by the arm. “If you rush into the Call with such a demand, openly, you will put the small Jewish community still dwelling there in danger of a new massacre, as much as they now enjoy King Joan’s protection, and have become conversos.”

  “But my daughter’s life is at stake!”

  “And could you live in peace knowing it cost three hundred deaths to save? I know you, Pere Casadevall, and you are an honorable man. I know you would regret it once it happened.”

  I wrung my hands feverishly, wracked by doubt. What could I do? Aimeric was right. Entering the Call through either of its two gates was forbidden for old Christians, even in times of royal protection. But doing so in search of an unknown medicine that could cure the plague would stir up a mob thirsty for mass murder, especially as the number of Black Death cases rose in Barcelona. Moreover, I knew several conversos, there were several among the glass workers who prepared the panes of the cathedral, and I had known others in Narbonne and other places. No, I could not sacrifice those people for the sake of a vague hope. But how to reach them? And if I did encounter the right person, one of their physicians, how could I convince him to share his secret with me? Would he not, in revealing the cure to an old Christian, expose himself and hand me the key to his future? Were I a converso keeping such a secret, I would never dare share it with one of those who, just two years ago, entered the Call through Portal de Sanahuja to kill me and my people.

  “What can I do, Aimeric? What can I do?”

  Aimeric had no answer, either. But, if neither he nor I had one, a voice sounding from the darkness offered a possibility. Anna came into the light from the pantry, from whence she had overheard our conversation. I felt as if a ray of hope were illuminating her lovely face when she spoke to offer us the solution.

  “Mr. Aimeric, my lord Casadevall, I am but a governess, but you know well of the affection I have for Eulàlia in my heart, and I do not wish to let her die.”

  “But what can you do?” Aimeric asked.

  “Women may reach places men cannot. I know several women who are now Christians but were once Jews. We draw water from the same well, in Plaça Nova. After so many years it is normal for us to talk, for us to know things about each other. I could speak with them and tell them of the problem.”

  “Could you enter the Call without drawing attention to yourself?”

  “Who would look twice at a governess wrapped in her shawl carrying a jug of water?”

  “If you do it, I could wait to report to the batlle, perhaps until late afternoon.”

  “I will have spoken to the right people by then. After that, all that is left is to hope. And as for the quarantine, I will be the one to stay with Eulàlia.”

  “No!” I immediately responded. “I will not remain away from her.”

  “Anna is right. If you both stay in the house, who will contact the conversos? For now, it is necessary for you to be outside, not locked in here.”

  They were right. Anna could provide the contact, but it was my responsibility to see that it bore fruit. Locked inside my house, I could do very little. With great pain in my heart, I let Aimeric and Anna leave. Seated next to Eulàlia’s bed, I awaited their return with my daughter’s tiny hands clasped in mine.

  Six hours have passed. Honorata stays true to her vocation, and her peals are strong and clear throughout the city. All of the goldsmiths and craftsmen who work in the streets, who once used the sun to determine when to open or close their shops, now do so guided by her sound. As I write, it is seven in the evening, and the sky begins to darken. The city’s narrow streets, now teeming with activity, will soon empty. The craftsmen will furl the canopies hung to protect their goods, and bring them inside their storehouses. The coopers and carpenters will leave a clear path to the well in Pla de l’Estany once they abandon the square. Along the shoreline, landlocked sailors waiting for hire on a ship will spend their last coins on wine and women, and will be lucky to eat a plate of malcuinat, that crude but cheap, giblet stew. The city will be reborn at night, the night most do not know or pretend not to know—that night that lives behind our backs, and now hovers over ignorant Barcelona. The seny del lladre curfew bells have rung: the city gates will close until tomorrow. Thus we believe ourselves safe, as if all evil came from the outside, when in fact, the evil and horror are so close that we bear them inside ourselves; we, the poor living dead, ignorant of this cruel truth. What will happen when the plague sweeps the city? What will become of the joy, the games, the festive mood? What good will supplications and devotions do? How many of us will die? How many of us will live? And Anna has not yet arrived.

  Eulàlia has improved somewhat. I fed her fish broth; she took a few spoonfuls. I was at this task when Anna returned. I left the girl covered up and ran to meet her.

  “What news? Have you met your friends?”

  “Yes. In the home of Ángel Martín, a converso who was formerly called Mossed Cayim. She was once called Miriam, but now her name is Marta. She is the niece of Martín, married to one of his nephews. I spoke with her. And though it was hard for me to overcome her first reluctance, for which I do not blame her, as they have little reason to trust us, she promised to speak with a person able to study our petition. She left me abiding in her house three hours while she went to report the situation.”

  “But time is passing, and the sickness worsening! Many have died in less time than Eulàlia has been ill! They must not tarry or her body will not resist!”

  “That is not in our hands. In this I did not force her at all, as she must be aware that the mere knowledge of a possible cure could be used as blackmail against her. She must also know the consequences that information could bring, as we well imagine.”

  “So then?”

  “We will have news from them tomorrow. They will come for you at the Blat Inn early in the morning. And now, go. Go before the soldiers of the veguer come to seal this house! We need you to be outside, to buy food and attend the conversos.”

  I nodded, and left, first kissing my daughter on her forehead. A whim of the malady: her face is yet untouched by boils, and is still beautiful. My kiss was given in a moment of peace, and if one d
id not know the reality hidden by the sheets, they would never dispute that Eulàlia still had many years to live. I have one more night to abide. This time, I will not even be with her.

  Day of our Lord December 8, 1393

  Night has fallen. Everything that has happened to me has been so strange and peculiar that I cannot resist the temptation of writing it in this makeshift diary. Though it will be a long explanation, it can be concluded thusly: there is still hope! But I must order my ideas, and to do so, it is best to start from the beginning.

  After another sleepless night, the day dawned with rain. I could hardly restrain my desire to go home and verify Eulàlia’s state, but, truly, I could not without the risk of my awaited visitor arriving at Blat Inn and not finding me there. And thus I remained until nine, when—at last!—into the hall of the inn walked a tall elder, of some sixty years, dressed in common craftsman’s garb. And yet, he was unmistakably a Jew; he had the aquiline nose and undulating hair characteristic of his people. At that hour, the inn was empty, and so he walked toward me, greeting me with a nod of his head. As I was waiting for him seated at a table away from the others, there was nothing to disturb us.

  “My name is Ángel Martín, and you must be Pere Casadevall.”

  “That is right.”

  “I must be certain. Who has sent for me?”

  “Anna. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “The day we conversos have nothing to fear from old Christians will be the day of our downfall, which is not far off, I venture. But I digress. What do you want from me?”

  “Master Martín, you well know my situation. Anna told you what was happening in my house, which I will not repeat here. I need help that only you and yours can provide.”

  “And do you truly believe that that ‘help,’ as you call it, exists?”

  “How else to explain the scarce deaths among your people years ago, when the pestilence scourged Barcelona?”

  “Let us imagine, for a moment, that such a thing existed. Are you aware of what such knowledge would mean for my people?”

  “If my aim had been to harm you, I could have done so already. It would not be necessary for there to be cure for the malady. I would need only to go out on the Pla d’en Llalla or Plaça del Borne and speak of it there. No, I wish no harm to the conversos, nor to the Jews. I only wish to see my daughter better. I only want my daughter to live!”

  “I know you speak sincerely. Anyone can see the heaviness of your heart. I know you do not lie; since Anna spoke to my niece yesterday we have learned a great deal about you, Master Casadevall.”

  “Will you help me then?”

  “Keep your voice low. We would be wise not to speak here. I trust you, but not this place. Accompany me to a safer one.”

  I paid the innkeeper fifteen shillings for a miserable dinner I did not even taste, and the room where I spent the night. We walked toward the Call. Despite the destruction suffered, it still maintains part of its closed structure, though there are plans to demolish the tower of the Call gate and prepare some streets for Christian settlement. Moreover, several converso families had moved outside the walls, settling along Tres Llits Street, near the Trinitarian convent, perhaps seeking the protection of nearby ecclesiastics in their condition as new Christians. We crossed Sanahuja Gate; where once stood the synagogue known as the Escuela Mayor, the synagogue of men, a small chapel in the honor of San Cristófol has been erected. Martín entered the chapel, crossing himself, and I followed his example. We walked toward a bench to one side of the small altar, from which we could view the entire chapel.

  “No one comes to this church, except the priest to offer mass, and that is only at twelve noon and again at five. The old Christians still remember that, despite its destruction, a synagogue stood here not long ago. Here we can speak alone, and no one will overhear us.”

  “Let us speak clearly, then. As I said, I mean no harm to the conversos. I only desire medicine to save my daughter!”

  “Were I to admit such medicine existed, I would be putting the lives of many into the hands of others, and my responsibility for doing so would be great. What security would I have that the knowledge will remain between us? Would you, in my place, be capable of doing the same? Do you understand the weight of responsibility upon my shoulders?”

  I thought carefully before I answered. Martín was right. What security could I offer him? How to secure his essential trust? Suddenly, an intuition: his very presence there, speaking with me, allowed me to think that Martín, too, had an unspoken motive. I could have reported him and caused another massacre, or blackmailed him to my own benefit. In either case, it would not be necessary for Martín to speak long with me. Only in the event that he wanted something more would it make sense to prolong our meeting.

  “I am willing to do whatever you wish to prove my trustworthiness.”

  “You are in a chapel, before an altar. Would you swear before your Lord to keep the secret?”

  I had to offer him my deepest trust. I have bared my soul before him.

  “Had you asked for this very oath eight days ago, I would have taken it without hesitation, even risking my soul. But today, with Eulàlia ill and my wife and two other children having died years ago from the same plague, I have nothing but doubts and uncertainties with respect to my faith. If I swore before that altar, my soul would not be in the oath. Though I regret it, as I would wish to believe as I once did, today I feel no affinity toward Him to whom I have so pleaded and who has so chastised me, and so taken little heed of my plight.”

  Martín remained silent, thinking over my words. If they surprised him, he did not show it. He remained deep in thought before answering.

  “Those are grave words. If the inquisitors knew them, and of your contact with us, your fate would be sealed. Your station as master builder of the cathedral would serve you little. You would be stripped of your property and tortured, perhaps even until death.”

  “I know.”

  “Could you put your discontent into writing? Would you write a document incriminating yourself so?”

  “Give me quill and paper and you shall have your security in writing.”

  Martín clapped twice, loudly. From the door entered two men I had not seen before. One of them approached Martín and, bowing his head, murmured one word: “Rabbi.”

  Martín whispered in his ear and the two left the church. Minutes later they returned with a writing tablet, an inkhorn, and the necessary scribe’s paper. Martín handed it to me without a word. I added nothing, but merely wrote what I had said before. Then I gave it to Martín.

  “You know what this document means.”

  “It means trust.”

  “Life or death could depend on it.”

  “Indeed, but not only mine, that of my daughter as well.”

  “This is security. Henceforth, we may begin to speak.”

  “Is there such medicine, then?”

  “There is a drug, a formula that, in many cases, is successful and prevents the patient’s death. But it only does so half of the time. Its components are rare, very rare. They come from the Far East, and even beyond, and we have but little stock of them. If the plague spreads throughout the city, we will need that drug. Still, we could give you enough for Eulàlia. But not for you.”

  “Bring the drug as soon as you can! My daughter has been ill for a week. She needs the medicine immediately.”

  “Not yet. The document is security, but it alone is not enough.”

  “What else can I do?”

  “You will help us, but one time. And before that time, we will have to speak on other occasions, because to help us you must understand things now beyond your reach, and which are essential to be able to do so.”

  “I want my daughter to live, and I am willing to accept that condition. But for the same reason you gave before, I could not stand others suffering for Eulàlia to live.”

  “No one will have to suffer or die, nor will you have to betray the Cr
own of Aragon. It is something simpler, and yet, more complex, than that. If you swear to do it, we will give you the medicine.”

  “You know I cannot swear for my religion.”

  “Then swear for whom you know.”

  Before speaking, I stood, looking earnestly on Martín.

  “I swear on the life of my daughter, Eulàlia, that if she recovers from her disease, I will provide whatever help is asked of me, as long as it harms no one else, nor causes me to betray my own.”

  “It is all said, then. Here.” He took from within his tunic a bottle full of reddish powder. “This is the formula. You need only dissolve it in a small amount of water and have her drink it three times a day for a week. And above all, do not lance her boils any longer. For this causes new ones to form, and speeds the development of the disease. It can only be fought from inside the body. And remember this, Pere Casadevall, we cannot assure you it will work. Many of our own took it, and it did not save them from the grave. Do not blame us if it does not succeed.”

  “I will not. At least you have given me hope, and that is enough.”

  “Take leave, then. We will not see each other until the occasion arises, should it arrive because Adonai wills it. If all goes well, be discreet and quietly abide. And remember that no one, absolutely no one, must know the existence of the formula. Our lives, and those of our loved ones, hang in the balance.”

  “Then I will say, ‘until we meet again’ instead of ‘farewell,’ as my heart tells me that it will be so.”

  I left San Cristófol Chapel holding the bottle in my hand, inside my doublet. At first I walked slowly, but the possibility of holding my daughter’s salvation in my hand caused me to quicken my steps as I left the Call behind. Soon I found myself running, hurling in a precipitate, chaotic dash to my own abode. I collided with the stall of a basket-weaver, and amid his and a customer’s protests, I regained my wits as I mumbled an embarrassed apology. The bottle had to reach its destination intact, as there would be no more formula for us. I found no guards stationed outside my home. They must have detected other cases of plague, or perhaps old Aimeric had not reported our case. Whatever the reason, the path to our house was clear. I crossed the inner courtyard, strangely empty at those hours. Anna came to meet me with haste.