A Place in the World

by Amy Maroney

  “I am not a tourist. I am a researcher,” she explained, bristling. “That place, Erkodun, was my family’s land.”

  “You are not the first American tourist to come in here looking for ancestors, and I won’t have you wandering into trouble in the hills by yourself. That kind of thing is bad for tourism.”

  “What kind of thing?” she asked, exasperated.

  “Death.” His expression tightened. “People slip on the rocks, they get lost, they do stupid things.”

  “I told you, I am not a tourist. I walked over the Pyrenees from France to Spain on the Camino de Santiago,” she retorted. “I don’t do stupid things.”

  He looked skeptical. “That may be. Still, don’t go alone.”

  An elderly man shambled through the door dressed in a dark-blue winter coat, a floppy matching beret on his head. The server waved at him. Zari pulled some Euros from her pocket and paid for her lunch.

  “Thank you,” she said, scraping back her chair and slipping on her jacket.

  The server was already walking toward the old man. “Goodbye,” he tossed back over his shoulder, stuffing the money in his change pouch. “And good luck to you.”

  The whole walk back to San Sebastìan, Zari relished the roar of breaking waves rolling in from the open sea, her skin tingling from the cold gusts of wind that sailed up over the cliffs. She imagined the delight of exploring Erkodun and the homestead once occupied by her ancestors. As the afternoon wore on and her energy dwindled, though, a cascade of worries preoccupied her mind.

  The month of December would pass in a blur of museum visits and viewings of private collections in France, Luxembourg, and Germany. Wil had arranged to join her in a few weeks in the French town of Colmar, where a lavish Christmas market dominated the city every year. And she would return to Amsterdam for Christmas and the Bandstra family wedding. She smiled, recalling her first visit to Wil’s family home two years ago, where she had felt like a bumbling extra in a film starring pedigreed European families and their Christmas traditions.

  She thought of Gus, his admonition to her about committing to a life with Wil. Tonight, after a hot shower, she would write her letter of application for a research job in Amsterdam she’d been contemplating.

  There was so little time to focus on anything but her work for Darius. She crammed research on Mira into odd hours, and now here she was tracking down her own history in a precious chunk of time snatched from all the other responsibilities that loomed. The thought of mapping out her future, carving out a plan for career and domestic arrangements, made her brain go into lockdown. But she had to focus. She had to commit.

  Trudging wearily through the streets of San Sebastián to her rented studio apartment, she took shelter under the gray awning of a jewelry shop to type out a quick text to Laurence.

  I’m applying to the Northern European Fine Arts Institute in Amsterdam for a grant to continue my Mira research. Will you be a reference?

  Before she had a chance to slip her mobile back into her pocket, the answer appeared.

  It will be my pleasure.

  Zari smiled. Then she composed another text containing the same request to Vanessa Conlon, the professor at Fontbroke College in Oxford who had been her ally and mentor throughout this journey. Vanessa, a longtime nemesis of Dotie Butterfield-Swinton, made her understand last year why he was so intent on proving that Mira’s works were actually created by Bermejo.

  It all boiled down to ambition. Dotie was angling for the position of dean at Fontbroke College. But he had not published much of note in recent years, and there were other, stronger candidates for the job. ‘Discovering’ a new trove of Bermejo portraits would catapult him to the front of the job queue, Vanessa explained.

  Vanessa’s revelation still made Zari fume. But anger would get her nowhere. Proving those portraits were Mira’s work, not Bermejo’s, was the only way forward.

  Pushing away thoughts of Dotie and Bermejo, she pressed ‘send’ on the text to Vanessa and walked the last few blocks to her apartment. It was time to shower, to fall into bed, to gather her strength for the bus ride to Biarritz and the flight back to Paris tomorrow.

  Erkodun and the mystery of her Basque roots would have to wait.

  33

  Winter, 1506

  Bayonne, Gascony

  Mira

  Mira stepped outside, the canvas-wrapped portrait in her arms. She tilted her head back to examine the sky. The cobblestones were slick from an early morning rain shower, but to her relief only a few wispy clouds remained. She could safely move through the streets without fear of a deluge ruining her work.

  Two housewives stood at the fountain in the center of the square, filling buckets with water. A wood seller led a donkey past the fountain, the baskets on its flanks full of freshly split kindling. Mira listened to the clop of the donkey’s hooves, to the high-pitched chatter of the women. She hesitated a moment, steeling herself. Then she walked purposefully toward the merchants’ quarter.

  Bayonne was a city built upon the fortunes of shipmasters and seamen, so most of its wealthiest citizens were engaged in some way with maritime ventures. Mira learned from Nekane’s husband Abarran that there were even some foreign merchants here whose homes were furnished with fine wares from Florence, Constantinople, and Venice. These were the men and women most likely to care about portraits painted in the Flemish style, she reasoned. A flutter of nerves seized her belly as she ventured into a neighborhood boasting the most opulent residences in the city.

  As usual, her mind drifted back to the baby. He was fine, she reassured herself. Safe in the arms of Nekane, warm and clean and fed. She took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh, trying to banish the thought of him.

  Mira turned down a lane whose walls were festooned with whale-oil lanterns made of thick Venetian glass, rather than the simple torches that illuminated most streets at night. The doorways were carved with ornamental stone and the doors themselves were layered with decorative ironwork. Groups of liveried servants passed, eyeing her curiously. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

  Looking up and down the lane, she picked a door that seemed more elaborate than the rest, lifted the knocker, and let it fall.

  Mira fetched the baby from Nekane that afternoon in a daze, her legs aching from the tedious hours of wandering the streets. Then she unwrapped the self-portrait and propped it up on her easel. The sun’s last rays streamed in through the window, pooling on the worn floorboards. She sat in a chair facing the portrait, watching dust motes dance in the golden light.

  Soon dusk arrived, bringing shadows with it.

  “What now, Mira?” she asked, regarding the portrait dejectedly. Her image stared back with imploring eyes.

  Do not fail me.

  The voice came from somewhere behind the portrait, small but clear.

  She scrambled to her feet. Were those her own words? Had she spoken aloud? Had she fallen asleep, perhaps, and dreamed them? She examined the space behind the easel. All she saw was a pile of oak panels and a box of pigments.

  Shaking her head to clear it of silly thoughts, Mira busied herself by tending the fire and lighting several candles.

  A short while later Arnaud let himself in the door. Mira put a finger to her lips, pointing to the sleeping baby. He nodded, removing his boots and untying his cloak. After rinsing his face and hands in the washbasin, he dried off with a linen towel.

  “How did it go?” he asked, sinking into a chair next to the hearth.

  “If I could just get a merchant to look at my work, I might have a chance.” She came to stand next to him, laid a hand on his shoulder. “But none of their servants will let me past the doorway. They care not for portraits, they understand nothing of patrons. Their masters tell them to let no strangers in the door, and for that I do not fault them.”

  Arnaud looked at her with worried eyes. “I d
on’t like the idea of you walking abroad, knocking on the doors of strangers. We don’t know this city. We—you especially—must be cautious.”

  “Why me especially?”

  “Because you’re a woman, and because our baby needs you.” There was a trace of reproof in his voice. “Surely that’s as clear to you as it is to me?”

  She clasped her hands together, squeezed them tight. “I carry my dagger with me. And I wield it with skill. Do you not recall the times my blade was wet with the blood of men? Nothing will happen to me. I vow it. And once I have secured the first patron, the rest will come easily.”

  “Let me take the portrait to show the guild master,” he suggested. “He knows many of the merchants in Bayonne. He might be able to make an introduction.”

  Mira considered his words. A personal reference would be best, just as Arnaud was recommended by Carlo Sacazar for the cabinetmakers’ guild. If only she had a letter of recommendation, too. She silently ticked off the list of all her previous patrons. Carlo was dead. As was her mother. She had painted a portrait of Amadina Sacazar, but communicating with that woman was out of the question now. She had violated her contract with the noblewoman she worked for in Perpignan. Soon after that, Lord and Lady de Berral had banished Mira from their home when Rose died there.

  The only patrons left to consider were Lord and Lady de Vernier of Toulouse. Lady de Vernier had a good heart. She liked Mira. Perhaps she would write a letter on her behalf. But Lord de Vernier? After Mira and Arnaud’s disgraceful exit from the city, and the violence that precipitated it? Their association with Deedit—with Cagots in general—had tainted them in his eyes for good. Mira shook her head, dismissing the idea. It was better not to inform that family of her whereabouts.

  “Nekane’s husband works for a wealthy merchant,” she mused aloud.

  “Yes.” Arnaud shifted in his chair. “Two merchants, actually. They made their fortune in Toulouse, thanks to the woad industry. Now they’re bent on turning whale oil into gold.”

  “If I can get an introduction from Nekane’s husband, perhaps they would commission a portrait or two,” Mira said. “And your idea is sound. Take the portrait to the guild master and see what he has to say.”

  The next day, Arnaud carried the portrait to the meeting house of the cabinetmakers’ guild. But the guild master was mired in a drama involving a journeyman carpenter caught working for a merchant on the sly. He had no time to talk. Arnaud returned the portrait to Mira, promising to try again. When he did, the timing was equally bad—the guild master had just lost a lucrative contract and was in a foul mood. He told Arnaud the guild was no place to curry favors for his wife. That was the end of Arnaud’s efforts on Mira’s behalf.

  As for Nekane’s husband, Abarran, he told Mira she might accompany him to work one day when the merchants were on hand—though he was skeptical about the entire endeavor, pointing out that Bayonne was in decline. Toulouse, with its abundance of woad merchants, may have been a lucrative environment for an artist, he told her. But Bayonne was dealt a grievous blow some years ago when storms and floods forced the mouth of the River Adour far north of the city and made it a less desirable port than it once was. A slow drip of merchants had made an exodus from Bayonne ever since.

  Mira ruminated over his words for days. Perhaps Abarran was right. Perhaps Bayonne was not the place for an unknown artist to make her fortune after all.

  34

  Winter, 1506

  Bayonne, Gascony

  Mira

  One morning Mira realized no icicles hung from the eves of Bayonne’s narrow half-timbered buildings. The air held not the brittle cold of winter that burrowed into her bones, but a salt-tinged dampness that softened her skin and make her hair lank. Spring was creeping into the city on a mantle of ocean fog.

  Looking outside at the drizzle, Arnaud said, “It’s time for me to leave.”

  Mira glanced up from her task of darning a pair of his wool socks. Nekane had taught her how to reinforce worn areas in any garment with yarn and coarse flax thread. She was a master of extending the lives of things, of creating abundance from seemingly nothing. The more time Mira spent with her, the more she appreciated the older woman’s wisdom and cleverness about all things domestic.

  “But winter is not yet over.” Mira put aside the socks and stood up. “You said yourself there is no point leaving until the snows clear in the mountains.”

  “There’s no point crossing the mountains until the pass is clear, yes. But it’ll take me a while to get back to Pau, and I’ve got to meet with the bargemaster there before I head to Ronzal. I’ll be gone for two seasons, maybe more.” His gaze settled on the baby, who lay on the bed, mouthing a polished ring of oak that Arnaud had whittled over the course of several frigid evenings in mid-winter. “I hate the idea of leaving you both, but a promise is a promise. My family—the whole village—is relying on me.”

  Mira slipped her arms around his waist. “I know. Tristan and I will be fine.” She forced herself to sound cheerful.

  He rested his chin on her head. “I’ve been talking to Abarran. He’ll be gone for the summer as well, across the sea on that whale hunt. What if you and Nekane lodge together while Abarran’s gone? It would help you to have her around all the time, and we would all save money.”

  Mira frowned, leaning into his chest. As much as she liked Nekane, the woman had a big personality. The thought of living with her was unsettling.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “How will I work?”

  Arnaud tightened his arms around her. “One day you’ll work again, my love, but you’ve tried your best and haven’t found a patron. We’ve no need of an extra room for you to work in, not yet.”

  Though his tone was gentle, his words stung. He was right, of course. The patrons she had envisioned clamoring for her portraits were still just a figment of her imagination.

  She sighed. “I cannot argue with that, as much as I wish to.”

  “You will work again, Mira.” He smiled, put a hand to her cheek. “Once you get that first commission, more will follow, like the spring rains that flood the stream in Ronzal after the thaw. Slowly at first, then boiling and thundering along.”

  “I envy you returning to Ronzal,” she said wistfully. “I wish we could all go. I wish your parents could meet their grandson.”

  “They will, one day. But I can travel much quicker on my own,” he reasoned, “and I’ll make haste to return to you both.”

  “Will you miss the summer meeting of the mountain folk, then?” she teased. “The most festive night of the year?”

  “I’ll likely arrive close to the time of the meeting, so attending it won’t delay my return,” he said a bit defensively.

  Mira smiled. “I would not miss it, were I in your place. Perhaps Elena will be there.”

  Her voice caught in her throat at the idea. Where was Elena now? Was she safe? Was she with her Basque shepherd in their winter valley?

  Arnaud touched his forehead to hers. He knew exactly what her thoughts were, as usual.

  “I do have one condition,” she added, blinking back tears.

  “What is that?”

  She looked into his eyes, memorizing the tenderness she saw there, breathing in the scents of woodsmoke and wood shavings that always clung to his clothes.

  “Stay alive.”

  Without warning she began to weep, startling Tristan awake. He let out a plaintive wail. Mira rushed to his side and took him in her arms, then sank down on the edge of the bed.

  “Here.” Arnaud plunged a hand in his vest pocket and retrieved a letter on linen paper. “This came for me at the guild. I was waiting to give it to you on the day I left, but I think today’s a better day. It will boost your spirits.” He took Tristan from her arms.

  Mira carefully broke the letter’s seal and began reading. “It is from Sebastian de Sco
lna!” she exclaimed. “He says he will journey to Bayonne. He has a gift for me.” She looked up at Arnaud, eyes shining.

  “That’s something to look forward to,” he said. “How did Sebastian find me at the guild?”

  She scanned the words again. “Carlo Sacazar wrote him last summer about recommending you to the guild master.”

  They exchanged a sober glance.

  “I wonder if Sebastian knows Carlo is dead?” Her eyes clouded with sadness again. “I doubt he does.”

  “You can tell him when you see him. It’s always better to share such news face to face.”

  “Yes.” She refolded the letter. “Perhaps you will be back by the time of his visit.”

  He shook his head. “It won’t be until autumn, my love. Late autumn. I’ve got too much ground to cover, and who knows how many delays I’ll encounter. The mountains are wild, the roads are—”

  “—crawling with bandits,” she finished, sighing. “You will be taking your bow and quiver, as well as your dagger?”

  “Of course,” Arnaud replied.

  “Take my dagger, too,” she begged. “You may have need of it.”

  “I won’t. I couldn’t leave you if I knew you were unarmed. Keep your dagger. And wear it each time you leave these rooms. Promise me this, Mira.”

  The pleading look on his face made her heart twist.

  “As you wish,” Mira relented. “I shall wear it every day.”

  35

  Spring, 1506

  Bayonne, Gascony

  Mira

  Abarran stalked through the streets. Mira was breathless, trying to keep up. She shifted the painting in her arms, fighting to keep her balance on cobblestones slick with mist. It was well after dawn but the sky was a smoldering pewter-gray. A few torches in the alleyways still burned.