The Weight of Ink

by Rachel Kadish

  The smile on his lips was no smile. “Such a melancholy Jewess.”

  He lowered himself onto the cushion beside her. The frame of the divan creaked as it took his weight. She could smell his wet hair, feel the heat off him, see the pores of his skin.

  She weighed the bound pages in her hands as though they were naught to her. “Yours?” she said.

  He glanced, and she saw the surprise register. “The proceeds of the Royal Society?” He gave a short laugh. “Thomas’s.”

  The possibility that Thomas might read such material hadn’t occurred to her. Had she been a fool to sign her letters to his name, certain he’d be unknown to the thinkers she addressed?

  But Bescós continued. “Thomas would as soon adorn the privy with those pages as read them. Yet his father, as much a fool in his own way, sends such publications with the fervent hope some further education will persuade Thomas to leave the theater and revive the family name. I’ve little doubt Thomas carried it here in order to hand it over to me and be rid of it.” A faint amusement crossed his face; then vanished, replaced by impatience.

  There was something about Bescós today. He was distracted, as though waiting for the pans of a set of scales to stop moving so he could read the outcome.

  Abruptly, then, distaste weighted the corners of his broad mouth. “A man tires of such silence as yours. Have you no polite chatter to offer a guest? Is there no lady of the court or stage you wish to insult while claiming to praise her? No tale of culinary adventure with which you wish to regale me?”

  She kept her voice level. “I speak but poorly the looping language of coquettes, if that’s your meaning.”

  “Yet you fancy you speak this language?” he gestured, mockingly, at the volume on the cushion beside her. “Why,” he said, “does a woman read what she cannot comprehend?”

  Outside, two flickers in quick succession. She braced herself for the sound.

  “I know a maiden of fine quality,” he said. “She understands her place in this world, and she’d sooner clothe a monkey in lace than trouble herself with such a tome.”

  Some dissatisfaction was working on Bescós, though it seemed to Ester that the source of his discontent was not the maiden herself. Was it better to ignore his dangerous mood or attempt to disarm it?

  She said to him, “Does her father permit the marriage?”

  Too late she saw that she should have kept silent—that in presuming to understand him she’d crossed some forbidden divide. She felt the sudden weight of his attention, trained on her now as it had not been before.

  “Her father,” Bescós said flatly, “wishes her to reach an age of greater maturity. While she possesses more maturity in a strand of her hair than he in his whole head. But I see you think yourself entitled to inquire into the affairs of your betters.” With a swift motion, he took the volume from Ester’s lap, his great hand pushing hers roughly aside. He flipped the pages. “I have easily found the principle,” he read aloud, “and ’tis this, that this Comet moves about the Great Dog, in so great a circle, that that portion, which is described, is exceeding small in respect of the whole circumference thereof, and hardly distinguishable by us from a straight line.”

  He turned to her. “You fancy yourself able to understand such words?”

  She feared to answer.

  “You do,” he said. “I see it. They say the Jews steal ideas as well as silver and blood, and now you show me it’s the truth. Yet do you believe this notion printed here? That your eyes might deceive you, and the straight line they show you might in truth be part of a circle beyond your comprehension?”

  She said nothing, unsure whether further answer might provoke him.

  “I believe in my eyes,” he said, watching her. “And all the senses God gave me, each one of which proves His word.”

  She saw that he spoke of God not with passion, but ownership. God, for now, would be the servant of Bescós’s restlessness.

  “I like not these men of science,” he said. “They deny God by worshiping the mind in his stead.”

  She knew she oughtn’t. “Yet,” she said, “is man not endowed with a mind so that he might better understand God’s work, and even help prevent unnecessary suffering among God’s creatures?”

  “Ho!” He clapped his hands together twice, loudly. She cringed at the sound. “When I was a boy,” he said, “my father sent me to the priests to learn. Do you know what they taught?”

  Her gaze found refuge in the rain, still beating against the window.

  “They taught that there is no such thing as unnecessary suffering. God’s punishments are medicinal.” He leaned closer, as though inviting her confidence. “The priests schooled us too about Jews. They said you think suffering unnecessary because you don’t believe it purges the soul, and you believe in no afterlife.”

  She spoke softly. “I don’t know the theology you speak of.”

  He brushed away her denial with a lazy wave. “No matter,” he said. “The priests will argue it most persuasively with you in their time.”

  She saw he picked up and set down a threat like a plaything. Was he dangerous, or simply a man who wished to appear so? “There’s no Inquisition in this country,” she said sharply.

  His smile completed her sentence: for now. “Your friend John,” Bescós said, “is of a sudden strangely fond of the Jews. But then, he’s fond of all hunted things, and is fond most of all of scolding the hunters for their cruelty. Yet I’ll tell you what I tell him: the king of England is a Protestant as a butterfly is a caterpillar—that is, only for a time.”

  She rose, her face hot, and stepped away from Bescós. “You should leave this house.”

  “I think I won’t,” he said. “I find I enjoy your manner of conversation after all.”

  A knock at the door, and Hannah hurried to answer, passing Ester and Bescós with a wary glance as though they were yet another scandalous pair in need of supervision.

  John entered. “Ester,” he called, even as he handed his wet things to the servant. His voice was light, his happiness at seeing her evident. Yet she was too discomposed to answer, or to do more than glance at his confused face. And before he could inquire about her mood, a flurry of laughter approached from the back of the house, and on its tide Mary and Thomas—Thomas with a bottle in one fist and the other about Mary’s waist. Greeting his companions as though it were his own home he welcomed them to, Thomas gestured all to sit. “What’s news?” he called.

  “John’s only now arrived,” said Bescós, “so he’s been deprived of a most learned conversation. Mary’s companion and I have been discussing the recent comet. And the gentle correction of the Jews’ errors at the hands of the Inquisition.”

  Bottle aloft, one hand still on the fabric of Mary’s dress, Thomas paused. Then he lifted the bottle to his lips—first cautiously, then draining it. He settled onto the couch. “The comet. Let’s hear of that, shall we?”

  Something fluttered on Mary’s face. She blinked at Thomas. Then she sat.

  “Provide for your friends, will you, Thomas?” Bescós said.

  Thomas held the bottle upside down, letting a few red drops darken the velvet of Mary’s father’s couch. Immediately, Mary called Hannah for another bottle; while they waited for it, Ester saw Mary rub her fingertips over the stain with an expression both triumphant and bitter.

  John was frowning.

  “To learn of the comet, my dear Thomas,” said Bescós, “you ought read these publications your noble father wastes on you.” He lifted the Proceedings and smacked Thomas with it. Thomas grabbed at the volume with a rueful cry, but Bescós tossed it to the floor, both men laughing.

  John picked it up. After studying it a moment, he turned to Ester and spoke in an undertone. “You’ve been reading this?”

  “Yes,” Ester said.

  “I’d like to know your thoughts,” he said. “My teachers speak most highly of the Royal Society.”

  “You’re a student?”

&
nbsp; John flushed as though the question were both compliment and accusation. “I was. Or am.” He shook his head. “That is, I will be again, if I’m to have my say in the matter.”

  The new bottle was brought, this time a pale canary wine. Thomas held it to the light and scrutinized it, running his fingers along the elegant raised pattern stamped in wax at its base—the coat of arms of the da Costa Mendes house—as though sizing it up for purchase in the marketplace. He drank, and passed the bottle to Bescós and John. When it reached Mary she took a deep drink herself.

  “Come, give it here,” said Thomas, gesturing for the bottle again. “Medicine against the plague.”

  “It’s the cats that spread that,” said Mary. She took the wine from Thomas and drank again, cringing as she swallowed as though forcing herself. Ester saw that she avoided Bescós’s gaze, conducting herself as though he weren’t in the room.

  “The dogs,” said Thomas.

  “Cats and dogs,” Mary agreed. “And the miasma. Still”—she wiped her mouth daintily with the lace of her sleeve—“my father says we’ll see the sickness die out before it strengthens.” She flushed, as though she hadn’t planned to mention her father. “The astrologers say so as well.”

  Mary passed the canary. Ester raised it, set her lips on the cool green glass, and drank. The wine was sweet in her mouth and warmed her immediately.

  She saw the surprise on John’s face: the ladies of his acquaintance, perhaps, did not drink from a bottle. Deliberately, under his gaze, she took a second drink, though it made her cough.

  “How goes your wooing, my friend?” Thomas said as the bottle went round.

  Bescós let out a warning laugh.

  But Thomas persisted. “Have you softened your ways, so as to persuade her father?”

  “You, my friend, wouldn’t understand such things,” said Bescós quietly, and Ester saw that while Bescós might prick Thomas freely in play, the same would not be tolerated in reverse.

  “Ach man, give us a morsel,” cried Thomas. “How far does this holy she permit your advances?”

  “Thomas!” John warned. “Show respect.”

  With a sharp creak of his chair, Bescós sat forward. “What do you know of a natural love?”

  Thomas’s laughter quieted.

  “Had I your family coat of arms, Thomas,” said Bescós, “had I your splendid education, I’d be wed already. Yet see what use you make of them.” Bescós’s gesture encompassed Thomas, head to foot.

  From his seat, Thomas replied with a mocking half-bow.

  But Bescós widened his gesture to include Ester, and Mary. “What is it in this household, I wonder,” he said, “that so captivates you, and John as well? Each of you entranced by your Jewess.”

  Ester’s eyes fled to Mary, who appeared uncertain whether this was a jest.

  “Let me instruct you,” said Bescós, still addressing only the men, “in the manner of natural love. It’s as follows: like must couple with like. All else is repellent.”

  Ester could not help but turn to John. He was watching Thomas and Bescós warily and now, blushing, cut in. “You speak as though the company of Jewesses were lesser.”

  At John’s words, Bescós’s eyes lit. “Yet how do you fail, John, to call the Jew unnatural? Do you know, man, about the Jews of York?”

  None answered.

  “It’s a fascinating example of obstinacy,” Bescós continued, his voice turning light as though he were about to recount an amusement. “They slaughtered themselves. Right here in our own dear England, they fled into a castle in fear for their lives, and locked the doors against the mob, and then when the mob made plain it would not leave without Jewish blood, the Jews killed themselves in honor of their own beliefs.” He looked at Ester now, a curious smile on his lips. “Imagine that. They saved the Christians the knifework.”

  The rain drummed distantly on the roof.

  “Truly,” Bescós continued, “the choices of the Jews have always seemed unnatural to me. If I may say it, they seem born martyrs, preparing their whole lives for the moment when they’ll be hunted, while conducting themselves so as to provoke the hunters.” He turned to Mary. “Tell me, would you do as they did? Or would you rather someone else set the knife to your throat? Or perhaps you’d plead and renounce your faith.”

  John half stood, his hands gripping the wooden rests of his chair. “You insult this company and threaten the ladies.”

  “Ah yes,” laughed Bescós. “The ladies. But tell it true, John. Aren’t the ways of the Jews commonly considered fodder for curiosity? Haven’t you heard your own father muse thus about Jews?”

  John’s cheeks flushed. He gave a brief, reluctant nod. “Yet you take matters too far, Bescós.”

  Bescós, sitting back now in his chair, waved a hand. “Well, John. I retract and repeal any words of mine that might have offended.”

  John’s gaze turned to Ester. She met it plainly, and her trust seemed to firm his resolve. There was in him, she saw, something that hungered to be tested.

  But Bescós had done with testing. He smiled faintly. “This business of the Jews is no real concern to me. I’ve other matters of my own to attend to. Let’s drink, and then we’ll haul Thomas to the theater, won’t we, and propel him onto the stage still full of wine.”

  “See?” Thomas cried. “All ends well.”

  Slowly John leaned back in his chair, but Ester could see he was not at peace with Bescós, or with himself.

  Mary’s nostrils were wide. Her eyes traveled from Bescós to Thomas. But Thomas was occupied with the sweetmeats Hannah had brought—these displayed with obvious carelessness on a silver salver, as though to make plain the servants’ opinion of the quality of the persons Mary had brought to her father’s residence.

  Thomas selected a large candied nut. “Excuse Bescós for behaving badly,” he said. Then, hesitating before placing the sweetmeat on his tongue, he added, “Or, don’t excuse him.” His eyes were bright as though something at last had pricked him. Seeming not to note Mary at his side, he chewed, then picked up another nut and, waving it widely as he spoke, addressed Bescós. “You jest about my study at Oxford, my friend. But what I learned from Harvey is no jest, though perhaps it wasn’t the lesson Harvey aimed to teach. My head was never fit, true, for his teachings about the humors or the circulation of the blood. But my head is good enough to remember this: I held the man in respect, and I saw the world abuse him.” He gestured with the sweetmeat. “Harvey was correct, all now say, about the workings of the body. And yet what of it? His life was misery. He was called crack-brained, his papers were looted in war. Forty years of work lost. It wrecked his faith in man. So”—Thomas waved the sweetmeat once more—then abruptly dropped it back onto the tray, and showed Bescós his empty palms. “This is the lesson I choose, of all Harvey’s teachings: if the world cannot respect such a man, then the effort to be respectable is worthless.” Locating the bottle of canary at his knee, Thomas reached for it and began to raise it to his lips, then paused midway. “It’s not only sloth that makes me as I am, Bescós, though you know well my love of sloth. Look closer and you’ll see I am as principled as any Jesuit—I simply obey a different religion.” For an instant he met Bescós’s eyes. Then, with a snort, he squeezed Mary’s knee and, as she shrieked, lifted the bottle to his mouth.

  “Go,” Mary said airily to Bescós. “Go now.”

  Bescós stood. Amusement flickered on his face as he addressed Mary. “You’re rid of me. But tell me—next time Thomas visits, shall your father also be present? For surely it’s mere happenstance that Thomas hasn’t yet been granted the honor of a meeting—and nothing to do with the fact that his beautifully rich Jewess is deceiving her father?”

  “Leave her be,” Ester said.

  Bescós turned to her. “Ah. More speech from the princess of womanly decorum.”

  “If I was ever schooled in it,” Ester said, “it did not adhere to my spirit.”

  “Perhaps,” he said wi
th a cool stare, “you have a spirit like a hot coal, so all it touches shrivels from it.”

  Mary let out a muffled sound.

  Thomas stood. This time he had a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “Come, Bescós, what harm are we to you?”

  Ester saw Mary’s face alter. Out of all the rest, the word “we” seemed to have entered her spirit.

  “You’re merely out of temper, my friend,” Thomas said. And he gave a loud laugh to show they were all in fellowship and no insult would be taken. “And you’ll come to see this is natural love.” He squeezed Mary to his side, but without looking at her. “But when you return to your merrier temper you must bring your bride here to drink with us.”

  At the mention of his beloved, Bescós slowed. “She’s too good for you,” he said. But then, a gentler humor returning to his face for the first time, he added, “I’ll bring her to you, Thomas. So she can see the poor company I was forced to keep before discovering hers.” He turned to the others. With an inscrutable look he said, bowing, “My apologies.”

  “Now here’s my friend, returned to himself,” laughed Thomas. “Come aloft, then.” And together the two men walked toward the door—Thomas with an expression of relief that made Ester stiffen.

  There were men who possessed a force of vitality and certainty that emboldened all who kept company with them, whether for good or for ill. Her brother had once been such, and Manuel HaLevy. Bescós was another.

  For all that he might deny it, Ester saw that Thomas had chosen Bescós as his planet to follow. And what might appear to the eye to be moving in a straight line and of its own accord was, in fact, traveling a long orbit around a more powerful body, at every moment gauging its distance to the object of its admiration.

  Mary would not be able to see this. She would believe only the most direct evidence of her senses: Thomas kissed her. Thomas groped about the tabs of her bodice, relentless until he gained entry. Therefore he loved her above all others and would do all in his power to protect her.

  John was studying Mary. Concern like Ester’s own lit his face, as though he too could see what wasn’t visible to the naked eye.