The Ghost of Hannah Mendes (26 page)

Dearest Grandmother,

By the time you receive this I will have already left. Please don’t be alarmed, or sad. I am not running away. Actually, it is a far, far better thing I do, etc.

Acting is just not my vocation, nor can I shut my mouth and swallow my opinions for any length of time. As last night proved, another few weeks of this kind of “togetherness” and we will probably never speak to one another again.

Most of all, I find that I can’t stand the idea of your being in pain, and my contributing to that in any way. I don’t know why I am such a compassionate listener to strangers who are in need and such a complete failure when it comes to those close to me. Perhaps because strangers will take whatever you give them and swallow it with thanks. Relatives and friends are a bit more choosy.

I hope you’ll forgive the abruptness of my departure. I did not plan to leave quite this soon. But something happened last night that changed all my plans and all my expectations. I know you’re going to be aching with curiosity, but it can’t be helped. I myself don’t know what’s going to happen next. Perhaps it will be the best thing that has ever happened to me in all my life. Or perhaps it will be a strange and temporary interlude of no significance whatsoever. Time will tell.

But in the meantime, I did want you to know that I read the manuscript. The coincidence of just this part of the story turning up at just this point in my life…Well…If I did believe in magic, that’s what I would call it. It’s gone beyond coincidence in a way that even I find mystical: I am actually beginning to feel a strange attachment to this long dead ancestral fossil of ours, and an embarrassing tenderness as well. I’m sure it will pass. But in the meantime, she is even invading my dreams.

Last night, I dreamed she came to my room. She was wearing a paisley dress of rich brocade and large pearls. There was a golden net holding back her thick red hair, and gold-embroidered slippers on her feet. She sat down on the corner of my bed and looked at me, shaking her head. She couldn’t approve of my behavior, she said, which was most inappropriate. Nevertheless, she wasn’t discouraged. In fact—and she was pretty definite about this—she assured me that it was all going to work out for the best. It didn’t really matter which route I followed, I’d wind up in the same place in the end.

She wouldn’t answer any questions, so I can’t elaborate.

Anyhow, when I woke up, I found a gold thread on the carpet. At least, that’s what I think it was. Or maybe it was just a blond hair. And there is a very reasonable explanation for having found one of those….

Nevertheless, I find this quite spooky, I am chagrined to admit.

I can’t tell you where I’m going, or what I’ll be doing. But I have this strange, inexplicable feeling that I am about to explore the things you really had in mind when you sent me on this journey.

You know what I mean, don’t you,
Abuela?

I will write you via your lawyers in New York, who I am sure will be able to track you, if not me, down.

Please,
Abuela
. GO HOME AND TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF!

As for Francesca, she can carry on with the official agenda alone or hook up with Marius. My advice: the latter. He seems to know a great deal more than he is letting on. Besides, wouldn’t they make a lovely couple? So what if they are total opposites: finally a Serouya would marry a Nasi.

I happen to know he is quite attracted to her.

Before I shove off, there is something else I want to share with you. Do you remember that summer Mom ran off with Kenny and dumped me and Francesca with you and Grandpa? It was a boring Sunday, and Francesca had a bad cold. Just on the spur of the moment, you decided to take me to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. I remember I ran off and picked a whole bunch of lilacs and brought them to you, hoping to get us both into serious trouble. Sure enough, the guard ran after me, yelling, and I pretended I had no idea what I’d done wrong. Instead of slapping me, you told the guard—in your most polite and aristocratic way—to get lost. Then you took me back to the lilacs. We watched them for a while. They were so fresh and gorgeous. You showed me the place in the ground where the roots were buried in the soil, and the veins in the plant that carried the food and water to feed the blossoms. You made me understand that it was a living thing
.

“Respect the separate life of things,” you told me. “Don’t insist on grabbing them for yourself. Don’t insist on owning.”

When I think about how I got interested in preserving all the beauty of the world, of protecting and helping women damaged by men grabbing at them, wanting to possess them, I think I can trace the beginnings back to you. I know you don’t consider me, my life, or my values much of an accomplishment, but I, of course, shall have to disagree. So when you say that you never accomplished anything in your life, according to my way of thinking, you lie.

You’ve made me what I am today.

Take very, very good care of yourself,
Abuela
.

And try to explain all this to Francesca so she won’t think any less of me than she already does (if such a thing is possible).

Your wayward granddaughter,
Suzanne

Suzanne sealed the envelope and addressed it. Then she picked up her bags and headed for the lobby.

She handed the envelope to the clerk at the reception desk, then looked outside. It was still dark and damp with drizzle. But out of the stillness, she heard the hum of the Alfa-Romeo.

She waited patiently for it to pull up to the curb.

She didn’t see him immediately because he’d put the top up. But then he opened the door and got out.

It was like the sun coming out, she thought.

He touched a wisp of her red-gold hair, curled from the dampness. “I’ve missed you.”

And though they’d only met ten hours before, and had been apart since then for only two, she had no reason to doubt him.

She threw her bag into the trunk, and got in beside him.

The car engine gave a burst of thrilling energy.

And then the journey began.

21

Francesca looked down at the Pyrenees, mountain passes steeped in snow, with tiny houses clustered together at dizzying altitudes. Informative, this G-d’s-eye view of the earth and mankind, she thought. Everything so small, reduced not only in size but in significance. Whole mountain ranges becoming backyards; whole cities, little piles of pebbles by some tiny stream. And people, nonexistent specks of dust. She pursed her lips, thinking of Suzanne.

Of all the low-down, self-centered, grubby, impulsive things to do! A “far, far better thing…Let Francesca carry on.” Leave it to Suzanne, she thought furiously, to make a virtue out of dumping the whole project to run off with some sexy stranger. And all that stuff about Marius being interested in her, the two of them making a perfect couple! The nerve! Was that any of her business? Besides, it wasn’t true. Marius hadn’t even called her to say good-bye….

Gran herself had taken the letter much more stoically. For a few days, they’d carried on as if nothing had happened, visiting libraries, auction houses, and booksellers. But no promising leads turned up, and Gran’s strength seemed to ebb moment by moment, like a tide moving inexorably out to sea.

And that morning, just hours before they were scheduled to leave for Spain together, Gran had announced she was going home. She’d looked drained, but not as defeated as Francesca would have expected. In fact, there’d been a strange sort of resignation, almost relief, in her manner.

“You can rest a few weeks, then join me later,” Francesca had urged her, without much hope.

“Thank you, child, but I think my traveling days are over,” she’d answered with a brave smile.

“Abuela!”

“Promise to write often, and to call.” Her eyes had been bright with tears.

“I promise.”

They’d embraced, Gran holding on to her with surprising strength as they’d kissed good-bye.

And then she was gone.

Francesca looked at her watch. She’d be over the Atlantic now, just approaching Halifax. Perhaps she’d be sitting next to someone pleasant, someone she could talk to.

She felt her eyes misting. So many times she’d been on the verge of confronting Gran about Suzanne’s story; of insisting on knowing the contents of the little green pills and the blue capsules; the reason behind the sudden trembling and the terrible pallor. And each time, she’d pulled back.

If it wasn’t true, then why rub Gran’s face in the natural ravages of age? And if it was…. She touched her suddenly dry lips. Who would it benefit to turn the harsh spotlight of truth on her grandmother’s delicate deception, mocking her brave performance?

It must be unbearable to be old and ill. And there was no way to ensure it wouldn’t happen to you. Everything human was so fragile and vulnerable and out of control.

She looked down at the beautiful puzzle in shades of brown and green that was Spain: clouds like mountain cliffs above fertile plains, plowed fields, barns, farmhouses. What magic power was down there? she wondered. What sorcery? How was it that five hundred years after the last Jew had been expelled from Spanish shores, their descendants still spoke its language, sang its songs, and decorated their homes in ways that did homage to its sense of beauty? How was it that she, Francesca Nasi da Costa Abraham, who had never set foot in Spain, called her British-born, Americanized grandmother
Abuela?

The seat belt sign flashed on, and her ears already felt the pressure of the descent. She took out her day planner, looking over her schedule: two days in Madrid at the library and a few rare-book dealers; then Seville and Barcelona. She checked off her list, highlighting the phone numbers and ordering the days ahead as efficiently as possible.

It was a smooth landing. Madrid. I’m in Madrid, she tried to impress upon herself. It didn’t work. Every place looked the same inside an airport terminal. And if you arrived alone with no one waiting to welcome you with flowers and open arms, it was always the loneliest place in the world, she thought, looking for someone who could help her with her lugguage. But everywhere she turned, she heard only Spanish. She felt too embarrassed to try to make herself understood.

With every ounce of strength, she hauled her suitcases off the carousel and dragged them to a luggage cart. Overloaded, the cart veered wildly down the corridor, dragging her behind it. Clammy beads of perspiration sprouted all over her body.

Get a car, a map, find a hotel…. I can do it, no problem, she encouraged herself, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Didn’t backpackers travel the globe solo with twenty dollars in their pockets and manage just fine?

Yes, she
could
do it. But she didn’t
like
doing it, she admitted, her straining arms beginning to ache. Being in a country where you didn’t know the language was like being two years old again: vulnerable and completely at the mercy of “adults” who could converse secretly behind your back.

As much as she hated to admit it, she missed Suzanne.

She parked the cart. There was one other person ahead of her at the Avis counter. Idly, she glanced over the rental agreement, translated into English, hanging on the counter: “There is a band of thieves operating in this area who puncture tires, then offer their assistance, meanwhile stealing your suitcases. If this should happen, or if your car should develop problems, DO NOT ROLL DOWN YOUR WINDOWS! Continue on until the nearest garage or police station….”