“Did you get the remedy?”
I remembered the promise I had made to Martín: no one could know. I had to keep it. Despite my fullest trust in Anna, I had but one alternative.
“There is no such remedy. And now, Anna, you must leave. We cannot both risk our lives staying at Eulàlia’s side.”
“I will not leave her! She is a daughter to me!”
“Anna, there is no other way. You will do as I say, and you will do it now. Leave this house and go to Sant Gervasi. You can lodge in the house of Monsignor Enric Sabaté; tell him I sent you. Stay away as long as the plague endures, as we did eight years ago.”
“I do not want to leave the two of you!”
Leave the two of us: not only Eulàlia; she was including me as well. Never, in all these years, have I considered my relations with Anna growing beyond her being my daughter’s governess. It was true that, had I wished it, our situation could perhaps be different than it now is. But in the manner in which we lived from our arrival in Barcelona, everything was plain even to the neighbors, whose gossip ended before it began, cut off at the root by my explanations and my post in the construction of the cathedral, which lent credibility to anything I declared about this or any other matter. In any event, there has never been, in public or private, even the most minimal approach or the slightest insinuation. Untroubled by slanderous whisperings, our bond has strengthened. Now, for the first time, Anna had expressed, subtly yet clearly, her true sentiment.
“If you truly love us, you must leave this house at once,” I said severely. “And if that is not reason enough, do it for the love we feel for you. Heed my words, as there is a powerful reason to do it thusly.”
Anna held her tears and prepared a bundle of clothing. With a wave, she bade us farewell from the threshold and departed for Sant Gervasi. When she had left I ran to the kitchen. There I examined the flask. The colored powder had a characteristic vegetable odor, but unlike any I know. I prepared a proper dose and, next to my daughter’s bed, aroused her just enough so she could drink it.
Waiting. Waiting day after day, hour after hour, second after second, waiting for the smallest sign, a breath of life, a simple gesture, for her to open her eyes. Barely do I do anything other than give her the medicine and nourish her with a bit of soup. She has grown thin, and seems more consumed each day. I am overtaken by despair, and on occasion I find myself praying and am surprised by it. My decision to renounce my faith, once so firm, loses meaning as I lose my grip on the reality around me. I have been enclosed here for five days, and in this courtyard, it is now rare to hear the murmur of the city living, thriving, awaking in the morning and battening down at night. I imagine the plague has spread, causing everyone to flee, to hide.
And yet she lives! I have never known anyone to survive the Black Death so long. The buboes have grown smaller and are fewer in number since I stopped counting them. Her fever has abated. There is hope!
Eulàlia opened her eyes! Two more days and I have received the first sign of her improvement. It was in the afternoon when, as I drowsed at her side, seated in a chair, I noted her observing me. I opened my eyes and saw hers looking; languid, it is true, but open at last. She wanted to speak but could not. I held her and cried for a long time. When I released her, she was sleeping again, but peacefully, and without fever.
There can be no doubt. Eulàlia has been cured.
My daughter can sit up in bed and speak a few words. She has inquired about Anna; I told her that I sent her to Sant Gervasi. She misses her, of course, but is aware of my loving care over all these days. I myself have managed to sleep several hours at once for the first time in twelve days. The fatigue of my body slowly fades as my daughter’s strength grows, as if there were an invisible connection that joined us, each feeding the other. All is well, except that our provisions are exhausted. I must go into the city for wares.
I have just returned from my search for food. Barcelona is in silence; the only sound is of bells pealing the death knell. The streets are nearly empty. Here and there are fires burning the belongings of the dead. But at least this plague is not as bad as that of eight years ago, and of course it is much less severe than the previous one, which, though cruel, was lesser than that of 1348. In that day, the corpses were piled high in the streets and the batlle and veguer were powerless to check the reigning tumult and chaos. This time, there must be fewer deaths, as if the divine chastening of the plague, which as any monsignor would say, could be the fair chastisement for the sins of the Barcelonese, were lessening with the passage of years. Could we Barcelonese have sinned less as these decades have passed? I believe that perhaps those who survived the plagues have become more resistant, or perhaps the weakest have died. Who knows? What is true is that, owing to it, I have acquired without much difficulty vegetables and some meat, scarcely fresh, but better than nothing.
We ate hungrily. Eulàlia is stronger now, and she has risen to take a few steps around her chamber. She will live. Martín’s remedy has proven effective. But she has no recollection of her febrile days, and so the secret is safe. Only I know it.
All that remains is to wait.
Thirty days later, a peace has returned to Barcelona. Scarcely one thousand dead have been counted, and though a high number, the impulse to live is greater than that to die, and everything has returned to normal. Life hums around us again. I sent for Anna and she returned from Sant Gervasi. So content, so happy! Only a glow hidden behind her countenance appears to hint of a private reckoning she will never express in public.
The works on the cathedral have resumed. I am at my task again, like yesterday, like tomorrow. But, something is forever changed inside me. I no longer praise the Lord. Now I only construct a grand and complex edifice. My soul no longer dwells in those stones from Montjuïc quarry. And sadly, I know not to where it is destined.
Enrique left the translation on his night table and got up for a glass of water, still in awe of Casadevall’s account. At first he hadn’t understood the reasons that had driven him to the unusual decision of helping the Jews, but now everything was perfectly clear. More than the oath itself, the significant part was the existential crisis that made him doubt and opened the possibility to approach them. Enrique didn’t believe that Casadevall would have been bold enough to try it in other circumstances, with his daughter ill but without the doubts. But the punishment of so many deaths in his family was excessive. There had to be many who lost their entire families in those years, and certainly not all of them renounced Christianity. He nestled back under the sheets to continue with the next part of the translation.
Today, June 13, 1400, has been a day laden with joy. We celebrated the wedding of my daughter Eulàlia. Following a courtship of six months in keeping with proper custom, she contracted holy matrimony with Felip Bonastruc. He is the second son of Andreu Bonastruc, a merchant devoted to the trade in wool and linen fabrics. This man began as a simple artificer, but risked his savings on a voyage to Valencia, where he acquired a great amount of wool selling French fabrics, there difficult to attain. Owing to this, his family occupies a position of certain comfort, which is why I gave my consent to the wedding. Moreover, a refusal would have saddened my daughter immensely, as it is plain that there is much harmony between the two. The wedding was held, of course, in the cathedral itself, although Bonastruc would have preferred to have it in the seafront quarter, la Ribera, at Santa María del Mar. But although the works on our cathedral continue, and will continue for years yet, a greater social prestige is given by the bishop’s sealing the matrimony, as has been done. There followed a long afternoon of celebration and festivities—even dancing—from which I retired at a prudent hour, not without first bidding my little girl farewell … My little girl, who is hardly little any longer. She has grown and is lovely in her twentieth year. There is no blemish from the Black Death on her body, just faint traces on her skin where the boils were lanced. When the time comes, she will bear her children, and shall live a ful
l life. Looking at her, I regret nothing of what I have done or said. I can only express joy, and a grief I do not forget, that Anna, our faithful Anna, died some months ago. How we miss her! And how happy she would have been!
If I write this today, after the last entry into the ledger, it is because, on returning home, a visitor awaited me inside my house. I was not alarmed, as I soon reckoned who it was.
“Good evening, and congratulations, Pere Casadevall, on the day of your daughter’s wedding.”
“Welcome, Ángel Martín. Please feel at home in my house.”
“I thank you. Do you know why I am here?”
“I can imagine. But I was surprised that the day took so long to come.”
“Indeed, it has come too late, much more than you can imagine. But we needed to be alone, and after Anna’s death and your daughter’s wedding, the time has come. We never lost sight of you, watching Eulàlia grow up healthy and strong. The formula served its purpose.”
“Indeed. And I shall do my part, faithfully.”
“Of that I wish to speak to you. I will say it clearly, Casadevall: your daughter surviving was a providential sign from Adonai. We still have the document you wrote in the day. You do understand that, beyond your own safety, there is that of your daughter. And if that document saw light, your life would crumble completely.”
“You need not remind me. Even before the safety of my daughter is my own oath, to which I will hold.”
“Then you are a man of your word.”
“I consider myself one.”
“I must tell you that some of the things you are going to know will greatly affect you.”
“As long as my vows are kept unbroken, I will do as you say.”
“Then I will tell you this: over the next year, you will receive several discreet visits by night. I will accompany a man to your house, Pere Casadevall, and this man will instruct you in what you are to know. That man has no name. You shall call him S. There will pass intervals of time between the visits. We may come two days in a row, but weeks may pass between one and the next visit. Be patient and abide. Be patient and learn part of the science they are going to show you.”
“I will.”
“I can take my leave, then.”
I reflected on the conversation after Martín left. In truth, I had nearly forgotten our agreement, as the years pass and the dark memories fade, allowing us to continue with our lives. In fact, today was the first day in years I had remembered it, precisely during the wedding. And so it had to be. As for this mysterious S.: Who could it be? Martín, as I heard long ago, is a rabbi, a master among his people; the figure of highest importance in their community. But when he spoke of S., he did so with a tone of special admiration, even pride, though I thought I also detected a certain inferiority, as if that man were beyond his own social influence.
What must pass shall pass.
It has been one month since S. called for the first time. Martín accompanies him to the door, and then leaves. Other times I find them inside, awaiting me. But we are always left alone. And then, S. speaks. His voice is soft, almost feminine. He is neither old, nor young. He demands we remain in darkness, and I can scarcely make out his features. I know I have seen them before; not on the city streets, but I would swear I remember them from some other time. But once he exits, slipping out the door with short steps, those peculiar features disappear, and try as I may, they are erased from my memory. Only his eyes appear to shine in the darkness, especially when I comprehend an idea. Then they sparkle intensely, like jewels, and I feel as if they give an intense light that only I can see. There is something strange in him! But whatever it may be, it does not cause fear or repulsion, only a feeling of affinity, of closeness.
S. speaks and speaks, and I listen and listen. He tells countless stories, in no apparent order, without much logic. He speaks on occasion of the Old Testament, also a sacred book for the Jews. Other times he tells short tales with strange morals. And still other times he talks of things I do not understand, ideas that, once explained, vanish like his features, as if out of my reach, or spoken by him in a different language. Yet I know he speaks vulgar Catalan, and other times even expresses himself in Latin. So then, why do those stories disappear from my memory as soon as he leaves my residence? What peculiar magic is there in his voice or his person? I only know that, as the days pass, I am ever more desirous for S. to return, as he is a challenge that has come to me in the autumn of my life, when there is little that the few remaining years can offer us.
Who is S.? We see one another often, but I know not how many times he has visited. We speak of many things, but few are those I retain and can remember. He looks on me and enlightens me, but there is no light burning in the chamber. Anyone in my place would speak of witchcraft, of damnation, of Hell. And yet I only seem to find elevation, salvation, and glory. What dwells inside him? What wisdom does he hide? There is no trouble of mind, only serene calm. There is no ruin, only a path! But everything he offers me seems unreachable, ineffable, and completely out of my grasp. Things too great for words have become hard but fleeting realities that seem to play innocently with me. There is no derision in the feeling I get, only, only … a promise! I know not what it is.
It is December. S. has been visiting me for six months and I am learning to listen. I now understand many stories, and his eyes now shine brightly on many occasions with unusual intensity. Just as I thought, only I can see that shine. Once, a light surrounded me, and I looked around and everything was dark. But when my eyes returned to S., the light shone on me again. When on occasion he speaks the incomprehensible language that I should understand by now, he seems to smile indulgently, like a kind master who encourages a student who is distracted, or slow-witted, but for whom he has true affection. And those enigmatic stories are repeated: I do not understand them, but I grasp the euphonic sonority that musicians speak of and I know they are the same, that he repeats them time and again hoping they will pass through my hard skull.
I grasp only vague ideas, but not the story as such, as if what he told me were so far beyond my reality that there could be no possibility for me to know it, this being the true reason for my inability to understand. My desire to know is such that, in one of these situations I wept, as I sincerely desired that his efforts be good, and not just for the ultimate purpose that Martín has designed. I wept for him, for his fruitless labor. Then, for the first time, S. approached me, put his hand on my head as I bowed it over my knees, and spoke of infinite gratitude and thankfulness with his captivating voice. I felt wonderfully comforted. As if there were in his touch a healing, mystic quality. Since that time, all of my understanding has grown in manifold ways. So much has it grown, that for the first time, S. told me that he must show me a precious object; that it, and nothing else, was the primary purpose of our meetings. He told me that this must happen in the Call, as there was no other way to reach it.
We no longer meet in my home. Now, when night falls, and with no need for anyone to come for me, or any signal telling me that it is the right day, I leave my dwelling and go to the Call, to the house of Ángel Martín. I walk the streets in near darkness, but I err not on my path, nor does anyone disturb me. There are no guards making the nighttime rounds or drunkards seeking brothels in my way. There are no thieves hunting easy prey to rob. My path is ever open and clear. There, S. is always waiting for me, and the talks we once had on my terrain we now have on his. I understand everything, and only await the time when I will be able to finally contemplate the object. I feel impatient, and S. says that my impatience is not good and that it must be expurgated. He says that the object must be approached with reverence. He is familiar with its significance. He says that it is a treasure, but not one in the usual worldly sense, of material value; it is a thing of infinite spiritual value. Although the treasure cannot truly be possessed by men, who may only be its temporary depositaries, it could be that it ends up possessing its depositary, and not the other way around.
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We descended into the abyss through a basement door, whose opening mechanism I will not mention here. We went down worn and shapeless stairs, mere stumps of stone, witnesses to ancient times. We came to a circular chamber where seven corridors converged or were born. We took one of them. Now we began a true descent, always downward, an endless path on which we seemed to spend hours and of which I remembered very little once we returned to the light. When we were nearly at the place—as I have said, I do not remember how or when I arrived there—S. looked at me gravely.
“We must return. It cannot be today. You feel the desire. I was wrong, it is still too early.”
We returned in a dream state to the guest chamber of Martín’s house. I felt sad.
“We shall have to work more.” His soft voice was more harmonious than ever, touching every sensitive nerve in my being. “You have the power, it is a sign from Adonai that you have come to us. Do not weep, for you will achieve it. But you will be able to see it only when it cannot harm you.”
When he had said that, for the second and last time, his hand caressed my head.
I returned to my house, I know not how. I slept soundly, and the impression that nighttime adventure had made on me seemed to disappear with the arrival of day.
Another night. There has been no visit from S. But Martín has come.
The Antiquarian Page 29