Read The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon Online
Authors: Richard Zimler
Tags: #Romance, #Historical Fiction, #Religion, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Detective and Mystery Stories, #Talking Books, #Judaism, #Jews, #Jewish, #Jewish Fiction, #Lisbon (Portugal), #Jews - Portugal - Lisbon, #Cabala, #Kabbalah & Mysticism
The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon (14 page)
Desperately confused, I trudged back to Dr. Montesinhos’ body. The gold sovereign which had been placed in his mouth to pay for his heavenly ferry across the Jordan River was missing. With a jolt like that which comes after jumping from a high wall, I thought:
The
man
in
the
violet
cape
was
not
my
uncle,
had
reached
up
not
to
bless
the
body
but
to
steal
the
coin.
He
had
been
just
a
common
thief.
On walking back home, I was pervaded by the sensation that history had taken off on an errant path unforeseen by God Himself. All of us in Lisbon—Jew and Christian alike—were now dependent only on ourselves for survival. It was then that a chilling thought came to me which I never imagined would ever penetrate my mind:
There
never
was
any
God
watching
over
us!
Even
at
its
kabbalistic
core,
the
Tor
ah
is
sim
ply
fiction.
There
is
no
covenant.
I
have
dedicated
my
whole
life
to
a
lie.
On descending into the cellar, I sat again on the bottom step of the stairs and hid my head in my hands. Farid came to my side, rested his hand atop my head. “We’re all doubting God right now,” he signalled. “Do not think about the greater troubles which we all have. We have a murder before us. Let us return to that. Now, what special value might your uncle’s missing Haggadah have had to the killer?”
I reminded Farid that my master had always modeled the faces of his Biblical characters on famous Lisboners, neighbors and friends—including his beloved colleagues in the threshing group. Always, he attempted to match them to characters possessing their own
predilections
and interests, of course.
“Had any of the threshers just been illuminated as an evil man?” Farid gestured.
“No,” I signalled back. “I don’t think he suspected any of them. Or had only learned very recently of the treachery against him. Probably, he wouldn’t have gone back and re-illuminated their panels. It would have been simply too much labor for results…” I stopped in
mid-sentence
; everything was falling into place. Last Friday, just before our Passover seder, Uncle had told me that he’d found the face of Haman for his latest manuscript. In his voice, sadness and relief had woven together. Now, to Farid, I gestured that he must have discovered the perpetrators of some sort of plot against him that very day. I signalled, “And I think that he used the face of his principal enemy for the villain Haman…the face of the man who would kill him. It’s the only
possibility
. And that’s why his last Haggadah was stolen. The murderer knew of his characterization. Or suspected it. Or even accidentally came across it as he paged greedily through the manuscripts in the
genizah.
He
panicked
, took it with him. That’s why he didn’t leave blood stains on the bottom manuscripts or take our coins.”
Farid tugged on his ear lobe, looked down at me gravely over his broad nose. “We must consider each of the threshers in turn,” he signalled. “Father Carlos, what could have been his motivation? Could he have been Haman?”
“Uncle and he had argued about a
safira
of Solomon Ibn Gabirol’s which Carlos had refused to give up.”
“And Samson Tijolo? Had Uncle spoken of him lately?”
“Just before I went to his house to buy wine, Uncle told me that he wished to talk to him, gave me a note for him.”
“What was the subject he wanted to discuss?”
“Don’t know,” I gestured. “But there’s another thing. They only ever saw each other for threshing meetings. Was it simply the distance between our houses? I wondered about that sometimes.”
“A spark of dislike?”
“More like rivalry. Two intelligent, powerful kabbalists.
Competition
may exist even amongst the angels.”
“And then there’s Diego,” Farid gestured.
Diego had not yet completed his initiation into the threshing group. I replied, “I don’t know if he’d been informed yet of the secret
genizah
.”
“You could find that out from one of the other threshers.”
I took out the note fallen from Diego’s turban, showed it to Farid and explained how it had come into my possession. “What do you make of it?” I asked.
“
Madre
is mother, of course, particularly when used to discuss Our Lady. So I would say that it seems to be a half-Jewish, half-Christian talisman—a prayer to the Virgin for something good to happen to an Isaac on the twenty-ninth.” He handed it back. “Very strange things you Anusim are making of late. You’re like sphinxes with Jewish hearts and Christian heads.”
“There’s another thing, Farid. Diego was injured at the time. After being stoned and chased, could he have mustered the strength to slit two throats?”
“If he felt he’d had to; Diego is a survivor, fled Castile with the Inquisitors salivating over his imminent capture. His injury would be the best of excuses should anyone begin to suspect him.”
“But he lives blocks away. Would he have risked setting sail through a sea of Old Christians to reach us? Unlikely.”
“If, however, he had combined skills with Eurico Damas…”
“Or with Rabbi Losa,” I noted. “He always hated Uncle. And he deals in religious garments, undoubtedly rosaries as well.”
Farid breathed deeply. “And lastly there’s Dom Miguel Ribeiro,” he gestured.
“I think he’d gone to Dom Miguel for funds to purchase a very
valuable
manuscript. A book that may have provoked an argument in the threshing group. This time, Uncle’s need to save every last page of Hebrew from destruction may have gotten him killed.”
“The girls husband,” Farid signalled. “What about him?” He caught my hands to stifle my protest. “I realize that it’s almost impossible that she and Uncle had been lovers,” he gestured. “But not everyone is blessed with your faith. Perhaps her husband had been convinced she was giving him the sharp horns of a cuckold. She might have come to Uncle for help of some sort, to ask a religious question. The husband could have tracked her under the mistaken assumption that whomever she was meeting was a secret lover. After watching her disappear through the trap door, he burst in and leapt upon Uncle. He took his own wife’s clothing so she couldn’t be traced to him.”
“An obsessively jealous husband, mistrustful, faithless, prone to rage.”
“Lisbon is up to its towers in such vermin. How many men do we both know who do not understand the way of love?”
“But he would have had to realize that his wife’s very face would give him away. Taking the clothes would be an absurd gesture.”
“Unless they possessed a hidden value,” Farid signalled. “A jewel or a letter of credit. Beri, there’s one more possibility.” Farid licked his lips nervously.
“Who?”
“Like amateur beekeepers around an angry hive, we are avoiding the topic of Esther.” He waved away my protests. “No one we know is more prone to rage than her, right or wrong?” he demanded.
I nodded.
“Her silence is most strange. Perhaps upon discovering the girl with your uncle in the cellar…”
“It’s ludicrous!” I interrupted. “Do you think she could have
strangled
them in a jealous rage with some rosary she just happened to find lying about the courtyard?! Then slit their throats, stolen our lapis lazuli and gold and raced out of here so she could get raped on the street?
Farid, it’s a house of cards built on a slanted table! No, her silence is not strange. I understand it perfectly. It has been born of forever disbelief, not of guilt.”
“A house of cards on a slanted table
during
a
sandstorm
,” Farid replied with an apologetic grace to his hand movements. “But I had to let the thought into the air, so it could fly freely from us. Now tell me this, Beri… Why would a thresher collaborate with Eurico Damas or anyone else outside the group?”
Blackmail? The word swept into my mind so violently that I jumped to my feet.
“What is it?” Farid gestured. “What have you heard? Who’s
coming
?!”
“Its not what I’ve heard.” I signalled for him to wait a moment so I could think. Could Eurico Damas have blackmailed one of the
threshing
members to help him slay Uncle and rob our storage cabinet and
genizah
?
Perhaps he imagined that we kept barrels of gold, coffers filled with rubies. Could he have even brought the girl to the house, killed her there to make us think that she and Uncle had been lovers—to convince us that her husband had done the evil deed?
Another terrible thought occurred to me: perhaps the killer had spilled his own seed on Uncle! It was unspeakably dreadful. But even if we had been gifted with no other knowledge these past two days, we had learned that such evil was always only a single spark away from the present tense.
“Blackmail,” I told Farid. “During our accursed reign of masks, everyone has a secret or two for which he can be made to pay!”
He stood and took my shoulder. “But that, too, presents us with a quandary. For if all of us have secrets to hide, could not anyone have been coerced? How do we proceed if we see everyone wearing the veil of suspicion?”
It was then that the most unimaginable terror spilled into my gut. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I felt sick, moaned aloud. So disturbed I was that I spoke to Farid rather than use our signs. “Father Carlos was with Judah! Might not the boy have witnessed the murders? Carlos couldn’t bring himself to end his life. He took him away!”
Farid read my lips, closed his eyes as if to shut out the possibility. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he signalled weakly. His hands twirled together in a dance of prayer.
I took his shoulder, signalled, “Did you see if Carlos was covered with blood?!”
“They were far away. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”
A grave silence held its fingers to our lips. We were left with Eurico Damas, Rabbi Losa and Dom Miguel Ribeiro. One or more of them had joined forces with a threshing group member.
“We will need to speak to all of them,” Farid said.
As I nodded, my mind began to construct an explanation for the clues we’d found:
Uncle
had
been
in
the
house
all
alone,
was
visited
by
a
girl
whom
he
had
known
years
ago
‚
a
baker’s
assistant‚
the
daughter
of
an
old
friend
perhaps.
She
was
greatly
troubled.
Her
husband
had
beaten
her
recently.
What
should
she
do?
My
master
sat
her
at
the
kitchen
table
and
poured
her
a
cup
of
wine
moderated
with
water,
offered
her
a
matzah.
They
talked
of
her
desperation
until
shouts
from
the
street
drew
their
attention.
Understanding
immediately
what
was
happening‚
Uncle
told
her
to
remain
quiet‚
crept
cat-like
to
the
courtyard
and
then
the
store
to
look
for
our
family
members.
But
I
was
on
the
way
back
from
my
journey
to
buy
kosher
wine
and
Esther
was
at
the
market
in
front
of
St.
Steven’s.
Judah
was
with
Father
Carlos.
Mother
and
Cinfa
were
taking
siesta
with
a
neigh
bor
.
As
Old
Christians
battered
at
the
doors
to
the
store‚
he
took
the
girl
into
the
cellar‚
slipped
the
tattered
Persian
rug
in
place
over
the
trap
door
from
below.
Curtains
were
drawn
over
the
window
eye
lets
at
the
top
of
the
northern
wall
so
no
one
could
see
in.
The
tiny
shutters
were
locked.
Sometime
later‚
during
a
brief
quiet
spell
in
the
riot,
there
was
a
knock
on
the
cellar
door.
A
familiar
voice
calling
for
help.
Rushing
up
the
stairs‚
Uncle
opened
the
threshold
to
our
synagogue
to
a
brother
from
the
threshing
group.
This
man
had
argued
with
Uncle
about
a
valuable
manuscript‚
may
even
have
plotted
to
purchase
it
behind
my
master’s
back.
Whatever
the
particular
nature
of
his
sin‚
he
had
earned
the
face
of
Haman.
And
yet,
with
a
riot
raging
out
side
,
all
bitterness
would
have
been
forgotten
for
the
moment.
Eurico
Damas
suddenly
strode
in
behind
the
thresher.
He
lunged
without
warning,
pushed
Uncle
down
the
stairs.
Hence
the
deep
bruise
on
his
shoulder.
As
my
master
rose
to
one
knee,
he
was
grabbed
from
behind.
A
rosary
was
wrapped
around
his
neck.
“Give
up
easily,
and
I
swear
on
the
Torah
that
I’ll
spare
the
girl!”
Damas
shouted.
Uncle
acceded,
understanding
in
that
moment
the
nature
of
the
sacrifice
he
had
been
called
upon
to
make.
Life
was
squeezed
from
him.
The
thresher,
a
former
shohet,
took
my
master’s
body,
slit
his
throat
to
make
sure
he
would
not
revive.
He
was
laid
gently
to
the
ground.
Blood
sluiced
freely
across
the
prayer
mat.
A
black
thread
was
placed
around
his
thumbnail
to
implicate
Simon.
By
now,
the
girl
had
backed
to
the
eastern
wall
of
the
cellar,
was
crouching
in
fear,
begging
for
her
life.
Damas
broke
his
promise
to
Uncle,
grabbed
her,
but
as
he
was
strangling
her,
the
rosary
broke.
He
slit
her
throat,
then
threw
her
down.
Her
head
smashed
against
a
flower
pot.
Her
nose
broke,
was
twisted
grotesquely
out
of
shape.
Within
seconds,
she
had
bled
to
death.
The
rosary
beads
were
scattered
across
the
slate
floor
of
the
cel
lar
.
Damas
ordered
the
thresher
to
pick
them
up.
One
was
left
behind,
lost
under
our
desks.
The
thresher
then
took
the
key
to
the
genizah
from
our
eel
blad
der
,
opened
the
camouflaged
lid.
Uncle’s
last
Haggadah
was
discov
ered
on
top,
paged
through
greedily
until
the
killer
came
upon
his
own
face
as
Haman.
Terrified,
he
concealed
the
manuscript
beneath
his
cape,
informed
Damas
that
they
had
to
make
an
early
departure.
Damas
had
been
told
where
to
find
our
gold
leaf
and
lapis
lazuli,
had
just
lifted
them
from
their
blackwood
boxes.
Together,
they
stripped
the
bodies
so
it
would
look
as
if
Uncle
and
the
girl
had
been
making
love.
It
was
intended
to
be
a
last
cruel
joke
to
play
on
our
family.
And,
of
course,
to
point
blame
toward
the
girl’s
husband.
The
thresher
may
have
protested.
But
he
was
reminded
of
the
seemingly
terrible
secret
for
which
he
was
being
blackmailed.
All
this
killing
provoked
excitement
in
Damas,
for
there
are
men
in
whom
sex
is
intimately
woven
with
violence.
Or
perhaps
he
believed
the
scene
was
missing
one
last,
perversely
poetic
touch.
He
wished
to
defile
Uncle’s
body
even
more
foully.
He
unsheathed
his
sex,
spilled
his
own
seed
onto
Uncle.
As
for
the
girl,
she
was
also
known
vaguely
by
the
thresher.
Her
father
was
not
just
a
good
friend
of
Uncle’s,
but
one
of
his
as
well.
And
there
was
something
in
her
clothing
which
would
give
this
connection
away.
So
he
snatched
up
her
dress
and
blouse,
her
undergarments
even.
Had Judah
stood
at
the
top
of
the
stairs
witnessing
all
this?
Was
he
encircled
by
the
killer’s
arms
and
carried
away?
A
secret
name
of
God
was
then
drawn
by
the
thresher
on
his
own
forehead
and
that
of
Eurico
Damas.
On
Judah’s
as
well,
perhaps.
A
powerful
name
which
had
been
lifted
from
a
manual
of
practical
kabbalah
and
which
would
enable
them
to
pass
through
walls.
And
then
they
were
gone.
