Hunting Midnight (19 page)

As to why my mother attended Mass nearly every Sunday and had had me baptized, she explained that these were formalities meant to still the viperous tongues of those who were spying on us. “In Portugal, my son, everyone is always watching with both eyes wide open. There are people to whom you have never spoken a word – such as that murderous preacher – who know when you were born and the names of your grandparents.” She paused, then said, “I think I ought to have Senhor Benjamin talk to you about all this.”

“Why him?”

“He understands our beliefs and knows our ceremonies. All I know is how to light the candles before supper on Friday evening.”

“So Senhor Benjamin is Jewish?”

“Yes.”

“Who else?”

My mother’s face grew solemn. “John, this is important.” She stood up and began to pace. “There are many people in Porto whose ancestors are Jewish. Most have forgotten everything but a few words of prayer, for we have not been permitted to practice our religion openly for many centuries. If I tell you the names of some people who share our faith, then you must never speak of them to anyone.” She fixed me with a dark look. “John, these people could be killed. You must swear to me that you will never reveal any of their names – not even should the Church throw you in the darkest dungeon. Otherwise I cannot tell you.”

I was thrilled by the need to keep a dangerous secret. Perhaps being Jewish was not such a curse, after all. “I swear,” I said.

“Very well. It may even be a good thing that you know. In case … in case anything bad should happen to Papa or myself, these are the people to whom you must go for assistance. Never forget that.” Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she said, “I
have already mentioned Senhor Benjamin. Then there is
Senhora
Beatriz. And …”

She proceeded to name a score of individuals that I knew either as family friends, neighbors, local artisans, or shopkeepers. It would be rash of me to name them even now, since Portugal is a land of shifting political fortunes. Indeed, I have taken the liberty of changing the names of Senhor Benjamin, Senhora Beatriz, and several others in my story, to protect them and their children.

As Mama entrusted me with this information, I recognized that I was being granted entry into a secret and ancient clan. What’s more, Daniel, too, had been a member, as Senhora Beatriz, his grandmother, had been named.

It was only later that I realized that the thrashing Senhora Beatriz suffered years earlier was inspired by the hateful
preachings
of Lourenço Reis.

Once Mama had finished her list, she said, “John, if you have more questions, ask Senhor Benjamin. You may visit him tonight with your father.”

After she hugged me again, I rushed to my room to consider my being half-Jewish. The more I reflected upon these halves and wholes, the less sense they made. Aside from a few rather confused religious beliefs expressed to me by Mother and a piece of skin evidently robbed from me at knifepoint when I was too young to defend myself, it was not at all clear wherein Jewishness resided or if even there was such a thing.

I decided to do my utmost to proceed through logic. I made a list of my mother’s traits that were wholly absent in neighbor women who had not been mentioned and who were therefore, most likely, fully Christian. These, I presumed, would be the core attributes of Jewishness.

Knowing so few women well, I could come up with only seven characteristics: an uncompromising abhorrence of dirt in our home and on her person; a delight in hearing books read aloud; musical interest and aptitude; contempt for all forms of hunting; marked tendency to agitation in the presence of her own mother; timidity in public; and an overwhelming fear of standing apart. I had a wholly laissez-faire attitude toward dirt, so I reasoned that
this was probably due to my being only half-Jewish. The same explanation held true for my lack of interest in playing the pianoforte; my joy in watching Midnight hunt; my occasional bursts of mischievous boldness; and my general ease in her presence. Subtracting these from my original list of traits, I concluded that my Jewishness resided in my delight in reading and my nervous nature. I concluded that I might therefore make every effort to keep these characteristics out of general view.

I then analyzed my father’s Scottishness. Comparing him with Portuguese men, I decided it was centered in his outstanding height; his industriousness; his hotheaded sense of honor; his gallantry; his willingness to poke fun at himself; his dislike of the English; his partiality for whiskey and tea; his stories of elves, witches, and monsters of the lochs; and his odd Portuguese pronunciation.

Being only half-Scottish, I could not be expected to be tall, enjoy poking fun at myself, dislike the English, or appreciate whiskey, which I had sipped several times and already disliked. I was born in Porto, so it was wholly illogical to suppose that I might have a faulty pronunciation of my native tongue. I deduced that my Scottish half resided in my industriousness, my aggressive sense of honor, and my love of frightening stories.

This reasoning seemed sound to me. Yet I soon began to see that my conclusions were lopsided. For my father played the fiddle with great skill and had an even deeper love of poetry than my mother. And my mother was nothing if not industrious, utilizing all her free time to embroider towels, curtains, and sheets for any person who might pay her a fair wage.

And so my reflections reached a dead end, and I went bounding off to discuss my confusion with Midnight, who I found weeding in our garden and looking extremely troubled.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. He ignored me and continued digging with his trowel. “Will you not answer me?”

“John, I am not sure that you and I ought to be friends,” he replied.

My heart stopped. “What do you mean?”

“There is so much I do not understand. So much that I cannot help you with. I sometimes think I ought not to have come here.”

The thought of him leaving was unbearable to me. “You cannot go!”

He wiped the dirt from his hands on his breeches. “Then if you wish for me to stay you must help me. You must tell me the meaning of what took place today.”

I realized then that I had been neglectful of his concern for the safety of my family. That he had seen preachers like Lourenço Reis in his native country – inciting Europeans to murder
his
kin – had never occurred to me.

We sat together and I repeated what Mother had told me about being a Jew, adding that I’d love for him to come with us when Father and I sought more satisfactory answers from Senhor Benjamin.

He was greatly relieved by my invitation. I’d have liked to ask him where he thought Senhor Policarpo’s
spirit
of
life
now resided. And to show him my intimate parts and ask for an assessment of what had been clipped from them. Courage failed me each time I sought to broach either of these subjects, however.

XVII

P
apa came home from work looking angry and haggard. He had already been informed of Senhor Policarpo’s murder, so he asked no questions of me or Mother. Instead, he lifted me up and embraced me, then went straight to Midnight and hugged him as well. Then he and Mama retreated to their bedroom.

When he returned downstairs, he asked us to sit with him. “Worry not, dear May,” he told Mama, kissing her cheek. “The world is steadily advancing toward a better age, and that hateful preacher will never succeed in tugging us back into the past.” Turning to me, he said, “If the truth be told, laddie, I should have liked to tell you about this Jewish heritage of yours when you were but a wee thing. And I say this to you with no hesitation whatsoever – I think you are all the more fortunate to be an alloy of different metals. Would that I had your inheritance, my son.”

This cheered me greatly, but I still wanted to ask a few questions of Senhor Benjamin. When I said so, Papa gulped down the rest of his wine and gestured toward the door. “Then let’s not dawdle, laddie. It is still St. John’s Eve and we’ve too much merriment planned to let conversations wait. I shall not let any preacher ruin our celebrations!”

Father led Midnight and myself down the street to the home of the apothecary, who ushered us inside with much formality. Papa was about to broach the subject at hand when Benjamin jumped up, exclaiming, “Where’s my manners?” and went off to fetch brandy for his guests. He seemed much more animated than usual, an indication of his different nature inside his home. Behind his closed door, he took off his mask.

I was offered a cup of wine as a special treat. It tasted sweet,
and I was greatly flattered that Senhor Benjamin thought me man enough to appreciate it. To my great surprise, the three of them then toasted my health, which made me wonder if my mother had not already visited the apothecary to explain the reason for our visit.

“So, sir,” Benjamin began, addressing my father and placing his glass on the table, “it seems clear now that Reis has returned to Porto with more than just slander on his mind.”

“Aye,” my father replied. “Tell me, Benjamin, is now the time?”

“Indeed it is, James. His supporters have decided that their campaign must begin now in earnest.”

“What campaign?” I asked.

“To reestablish the Inquisition,” Papa replied.

“It was too soon when he first came, John,” the apothecary added. “Even the Church needs some time to gather its forces.” He stared at me pointedly over his oval spectacles, then whisked them off. Dangling them before me, he jerked his hand as though to throw them at me. I started, but instead of heading for me, they vanished without a trace. “The Church made Lourenço Reis disappear for a time,” he continued. Benjamin stood up now and reached behind my head. The spectacles appeared in his hand, and he put them back on. “And just like that, the Church has summoned him back again.”

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“I had you look where the spectacles would not be. It’s easy to learn a few magic tricks, John. Anyone can do it. Even a man who likes nothing so much as to frighten young boys.”

“And who summoned the necromancer back?” I asked.

“The what?” asked Benjamin.

“That’s what John calls Lourenço Reis,” Papa replied.

Benjamin laughed. “It’s a good name for him. Though he has no special powers, I assure you. And you’ve asked a good question, dear boy. Alas, I cannot say for certain who is
choreographing
this spectacle.”

“Whoever it is, they surely wish to have their apparatus of terror in place before Napoleon decides to advance on Portugal,” Papa observed.

“Indeed so, James. I believe they will happily place the country in the Emperor’s hands if he will permit them their indulgences.” He turned to me again. “Now, I understand, young man, that you have been told that you are half-Jewish.”

His directness cowed me. Noticing my discomfort, he said, “Forgive me, dear boy. I tend to speak plainly in my own home.” Smiling, he leaned across and patted my shoulder, which only served to make my nerves plummet toward panic.

“We have much to talk about, John,” Benjamin said gently, “and I would like to be able to speak to you about these things at our leisure. What I propose is that you come to see me once a week for a time. Would that meet with your approval?” Glancing over at Midnight and smiling, he added, “You might join us, too, if you like, my friend.”

“I would like that very, very much,” he replied. “If John agrees, that is.”

“Yes, that would be perfect,” I said.

“I assure you, John, that I mean no harm and that I am a true friend. Now, I have been given to believe that there may be some things you want to ask me.”

I felt so shy that – to my shame – I began to hiccup.

“This happens,” my father apologized.

While I held my breath to make the hiccups go away,
Midnight
said, “I may be wrong, for my Portuguese is very, very poor, but I believe the Oliveira Sisters mentioned a difference in the lad’s intimate parts?”

At hearing this, my scalp began crawling as though riddled with a thousand lice. I was furious with him.

“Yes, I see,” Benjamin said, and he emptied his glass. “It is rather simple.” And here, this gentleman of unimpeachable respectability stood up and began to unbutton his breeches. “If you don’t mind, James, I think that showing him will make things plain.”

Papa simply downed his brandy and said, “If you really think that it will do the trick, Benjamin.”

Midnight’s eyes shone with amusement.

The apothecary held his manhood in his hand and gave me a brief anatomy lesson, but even his meticulous explanation and
my previous familiarity with my father’s nakedness were
insufficient
to answer my most embarrassing question. So Papa then stood up and showed us all the precise form of the hood that had been excised from me and Benjamin. I should have liked to have kept it, but he assured me it was mostly a nuisance and decidedly offensive to the nose when unwashed.

Papa took advantage of his now-inebriated state to explain to me the ABCs of procreation. It all seemed to make good sense except for the part about the process being enjoyable, since his description was very complex. Indeed, I imagined it more like an intricate operation in which the patient – the woman – might very well come to pay with her life, since, as he was careful to note, death was always a possibility in the event of pregnancy.

Once my tongue was loosened by my wine and by our conviviality, I decided to make further inquiries of Senhor Benjamin. “Will my father and Midnight be allowed to live with my mother and me in … in heaven, or will they be banished? And Senhor Policarpo, is he there now?”

“We are all made in God’s image, and, among other things, John, that means that your parents and Midnight will indeed be with you on the Mount of Olives. As for Policarpo, he is safe now. He has rejoined the Lord. And” – he smiled – “if I have not ruined my own chances with all my meddling here in the Lower Realms, then I may very well be permitted to join him and the rest of you when my time comes.”

“Have I a soul?” I asked him.

“We all do, dear boy.” When I asked what it looked like, he replied, “I couldn’t possibly say. I’ve never seen one.”

“Then how do you know we all have one?”

“How do you know there is a China? And an Italy?”

“Because other people have been to those places. And they have written about their travels. I’ve read a bit of Marco Polo.”

“Precisely.”

Our host left us then and returned momentarily, clutching a thick, leather-bound book. Handing it to me, he said, “A man who saw God wrote this book. With your father’s permission, I recommend you read it. We can talk about it together.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“The Torah,” he said. “That’s the Jewish name of the Old Testament. A sage once said that there are two places where we may always find the truth – in the Torah and in our heart.” Smiling mischievously at Papa, Benjamin added, “If you should like to join us in reading it, James, I would be most pleased.”

“I am afraid I should make as bad a Jew as I do a Christian. All of religion I need know is that I shall be with my wife, my son, you, and Midnight on the Mount of Olives.”

Mama’s supper was glorious that evening, but I picked over my potatoes and sardines because I couldn’t stop picturing Senhor Policarpo’s bloodied face. While she was serving stewed prunes, the Olive Tree Sisters brought over the two sheets that Graça had been sewing together that afternoon. She had cut – per my specific instructions – a hole one foot in diameter at the center of the seam. I had completely forgotten about this costume, which I was planning to wear on our St. John’s Eve promenade. I took it from them with eager thanks.

“I sincerely hope,” Mama said, “that you are not planning on walking around the city with those tattered old sheets draped over you. Honestly, John, the things you make the Olive Tree Sisters do for you. It’s criminal!”

“Mama, please wait until you’ve had a chance to see us.”

“Us? Which us? I shall not wear that foul sheet for all the – ”

“May, dearest,” Papa interrupted, “I’m fairly certain that John means Midnight.”

I told him that he was indeed correct, whereupon he let the two of us leave the table.

One of the tricks I had taught Fanny was to brace her hind paws on my shoulders and forepaws on my head, so that her head rose far above my own. In this way, she resembled a goddess on the prow of a sailing ship, except for her wagging tail thumping on my back. She could stand this way for five minutes or more without the least discomfort.

I had also discovered Midnight was strong enough to walk with me on his shoulders.

In our garden, combining these two tricks produced a most
spectacular effect; by covering ourselves in the sheets, we
appeared
to be a sphinx more than seven feet in height, with the feet of a man and the head of a Border collie. I had practiced with Fanny so that if we ever lost our balance she would be able to spring to her side and land safely.

We called the others out to see us. Mama gaped from the doorway while Papa shook his head and laughed.

“You are insane, John Zarco Stewart!” Mama declared. “You are going to fall. And you will break your neck!”

“Let them have their merriment,” said Papa, drawing her close. “He will be young only once. And we must not let today’s misery ruin our evening.”

“This is madness,” she moaned. “Utter madness, I tell you.”

“Indeed it is,” Papa agreed, but his eyes were radiant with glee.

Midnight and I could see only directly ahead through our eyeholes, so Papa steered us around the stray filth on the street. Praise shouted by neighbors lifted our spirits, and children ran after us screeching with glee. After a hundred or so paces, Midnight grew tired and let me down. Senhora Beatriz kissed me and whispered that Daniel would have been overjoyed to see such a clever performance. Unfallen tears turned her hazel eyes to liquid, and I saw in her unsteady movements how she had weakened over the last year, shrinking under the weight of her grief. Likely we were both thinking how much better my trick would have been with Daniel walking on his hands down the street to herald our arrival.

Mama insisted on holding my hand now so that I would create no more “wayward miracles,” as she referred to my mischief. And so, as a family, we headed toward the Rua de Cedofeita, where the street musicians had assembled for the festivities. We soon discovered that Lourenço Reis was standing there on a wooden platform, preaching to a crowd.

“There he is,” Papa said to Benjamin.

Mama gripped my hand tighter. “Come, let us keep going.”

“Why hasn’t he been arrested?” I asked.

“We shall do better than that,” Papa told me. “Just give us a few days, son.”

We hurried away. But before we had gone another fifty paces, he appeared before us. Blocking our path just a few feet ahead of Benjamin, he declared, “‘I come not to send peace, but a sword!’”

Benjamin, God bless him, replied, “You, sir, are no Jesus of Nazareth, and you may sheath your sword up your arse, where it belongs.”

“Devilish
Marrano
!”
he spat in fury.

Papa grabbed Benjamin’s arm and glared at Reis. “Sir, I know who you are and what you have done this day, and I tell you now to let us continue on our way with no further trouble or you shall forever regret it.”

“We shall chase you foreigners from Portugal!” the hateful preacher bellowed. “You shall not have this city – not while I draw breath.”

Given Mama’s anxious nature, I’d not have expected her to speak, but in her tense, quavering voice, she said, “You may scream all you want, sir, but we are longtime residents of this city, all of us. And you shall not win this battle. Not while
I
draw breath.”

Reis pointed his staff at her. “Sinful Jewess. Your very
presence
is offensive. You must die so that Christ may live!”

She gasped at his effrontery. Father steadied her and shouted, “You cowardly bastard! I have half a mind to strike you here and now.”