The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon (36 page)

“No, not now,” I answer aloud. Opening my eyes, I think:
I
must
check
Solomon’s
apartment
,
talk
to
his
sister.
Then
go
back
to
the
Estaus
Palace.
I
must
try
to
speak
to
Joanna
,
the
Count’s
daughter.

“As defiant as ever,” Uncle replies. I close my eyes to see his smile. “You must give way to dream,” he continues. “The desert of Lisbon has passed beneath your feet. You are indeed close. Rest your head upon my lap. Use your dreams to ask a question.”

“Is that not a sin?” I ask. “One must not question the dead, the prophets say.”

“One may always speak with God. It is within his ocean that this single drop now resides. Simply take the ribbon with both our names scripted in gold from your wrist and place it over your eyes. Then sleep.”

I obey my master. And a dream does indeed descend.

I am enfolded by a warmth akin to homecoming. My master is standing above me, framed by the tiles of the cellar wall, his prayer shawl draped over his head and shoulders.

“I do not believe that Dom Miguel Ribeiro or any Northern
henchman
in the pay of your secret smugglers would have planted a silk thread on your thumbnail or killed like a
shohet
,”
I say. “So who else is involved? Who did Queen Esther send to murder you?”

“You already know who separated my body from my soul,” he replies with a cagey smile. “The question is ‘where’ and ‘when’ you shall realize it.”

“As usual, Uncle, you want to make me work for an answer. Very well. Where and when shall I learn his name?”

As the white wing of his robe unfurls, a breeze scented with myrtle blows over us. The ceiling thins and fades. Walls drop away. The sky opens, is washed pink and violet at the western horizon. We sit together below the tower of the Almond Farm.

“Why here?” I ask. “Why at sundown?”

Uncle shows me his piercing look meant to indicate that I must
listen
closely. He raises his hand of blessing over me and says, “The map of a town is in a blind beggars feet.”

Golden light shines through the eyelets of windows at the northern rim of the cellar ceiling. It is Saturday morning. The eighth and last day of Passover. I sit up and gaze back at my dream as if upon a departing guest. Opening the
genizah
,
I search in vain for handwriting that matches that of Solomon’s bogus note. Then, just to be sure of my
reasoning
, I page through Uncle’s personal Haggadah. Solomon the
mohel
was not given a Biblical cognate. In all likelihood, he could not have been involved in smuggling books with Zerubbabel and Queen Esther.

Upstairs, Reza is building a fire in the hearth, Aviboa in her arms, balanced on her hip. A plump orange marigold is pinned in the girl’s hair. Diego and Carlos sit across from each other at the kitchen table sipping steaming barley water from ceramic cups.

Reza is the first to turn to me. Her eyes betray the grudge she carries for my not leading Sabbath services the night before.

“You’ve slept,” Carlos says. “That is good.”

We exchange blessings. “Where’s Farid?” I ask.

“At home, saying prayers,” Diego replies.

I make for the door to the courtyard.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Father Carlos demands.

“Out,” I reply.

“You’re going to Solomon the
mohel’s
apartment, aren’t you?” Reza asks bitterly. Before I can tell her my true destination, she says, “Can’t you just let it be? He’s dead. We have our vengeance. So now we must find a way to move on, to care for the family we still have. That’s what your master would want. And believe me, Berekiah Zarco, there’s a
boatload
of chores for you to do should you ever want to rejoin the living!”

Reza stares at me as if I’d better give her the response she wants.

“My path is not yours,” I tell her. “If I don’t proceed on my own now, I’ll never be able to rejoin you later.” The destination she has chosen for me serves as a convenient lie, however, so I add, “Besides, I’m only going there to pay my respects. Even a murderer deserves our prayers.”

Diego stands and says, “I’ll be leaving this evening for Faro and the boat to Constantinople. Perhaps we should say our goodbyes.”

“I’ll be back soon. No time for farewells just yet.”

Farid is praying in his front room when I enter his house. When he spots me, he lifts straight up as if reeled in by the hands of Allah.

Chapter XIX

As Farid and I spire up the hillside of mottled scrub toward the towers of the Graça Convent and morning sun of Lisbon, the dwarf nun with the single saber-tooth who guards the sanctuary’s limestone cross swivels around to glare at us.

Dona Meneses’ mansion is perched on the dirt road which rims the northern slope of the hill. A stone fortress adapted from an abandoned Romanesque battlement, its only modern exuberance is a marble
balcony
supported by four flying buttresses braced into the exposed
limestone
of the hillside below. I have come here twice before, both times to deliver silk dresses my mother had been commissioned to sew. As we walk to the gated entrance to the side of the house, a garden of
towering
Moroccan cedars offers us shade. From here, we can see the edge of the balcony at the back. A gaunt man in a plumed blue beret stands at the far end. He holds a red glass goblet, is conversing leisurely with someone I can’t see from this angle. As he turns to his left to note
something
in the distance, I recognize him: the Count of Almira.

Zerubbabel and Queen Esther have come together.

At the gate, a blond guard in the characteristic amethyst hat of Dona Meneses’ henchmen takes my message inside the house. As we slip away, Farid signals, “Maybe she gets a discount for ordering those northern monsters in bulk.”

I would like to laugh, if only to confirm that I am still the young man I was, but I no longer seem to possess the ability. As we pass the
saturnine
nun still standing guard at the convent, my heart seems to leap from my chest. I think:
If
my
life
were
to
end
here
,
what
would
it
have
meant
?

There is no time to consider a reply. We run-slide-run down the hill. Lisbon’s insanely tangled streets welcome us with anonymity.

Back at home, I take from the
genizah
two priceless philosophic treatises by Abraham Abulafia, “The Life of the Future World” and “The Treasury of the Hidden Eden.” Both are gifted with margin notes in the master’s own hand.

“What are you doing?” Diego asks from the stairs. He and Father Carlos stand on the steps giving me motherly looks of worry.

“I understand now what Uncle wants me to do. If Dona Meneses is seeking to purchase Hebrew manuscripts through the Count of Almira, she will have them. But for a very high price. I want my master’s last Haggadah. It’s the proof I need.”

The priest says, “But you told us that you believed Solomon was responsible for…”

“Who cares what I said!” I interrupt. “Do you believe everything you hear?!”

He frowns as if he’s smelled something rotten.

Diego asks, “An exchange? Master Abraham’s books for the Haggadah?”

“Exactly.”

“You’ve got your uncle’s guile,” Father Carlos tells me, his tone wary. “Can’t argue with that. But maybe you’re a bit
too
clever.”

“You’re tempting the Devil, you know,” Diego counsels.

“You two are beginning to sound alike,” I observe. “I think fear makes all Jews say the same things. And it’s getting tiresome. Anyway, I’m not tempting any devil. Dona Meneses is just a frightened Jew like the rest of us.”

“A Jew?!” Diego exclaims. “She’s no Jew!”

“She portrays Queen Esther in Uncle’s personal Haggadah…is depicted bringing the Torah to Mordecai.”

“That’s no proof!” he scoffs.

“It is for me!”

With the voice of a learned elder, Diego says, “Even if you’re right, she’s no Jew. She’s a New Christian. The gap grows wider between the two each day.” When I roll my eyes, he adds, “In any event, a knife knows no religion. And her bodyguards have very sharp ones in their possession. We have all found that out from close range of late.”

“So what do you want me to say? I know all that.”

The priest steps to the bottom of the stairs and approaches me. With supplicating eyes, he says, “Berekiah, now that you have neither your father nor your uncle…”

“Save it, Carlos! I don’t want your protection.”

He gives me the burdened sigh I’ve heard all my life meaning that I’m too obstinate for my own good. I slip the manuscripts into the leather day pack Uncle used to take on his spiritual outings to Sintra Mountain.

Diego comes to me. “So where will you confront her?” he questions.

“At the Almond Farm,” I reply.

“Why there?”

“It’s where my uncle said to go.”

Father Carlos gasps. As I pass him, he grabs my arm. “Master Abraham appeared to you?” When I nod, he asks in a hushed voice, “And you spoke with him?”

“I asked God a dream question and Uncle appeared to me.”

“What…what did he say?”

“That the last gate would be crossed at the tower on the Almond Farm.”

Diego says, “Berekiah, if you’re right, then Dona Meneses and the Count of Almira had Master Abraham and Simon killed. You shouldn’t go. I’ll get your mother. I can see you won’t listen to us.”

“Stop! Don’t bring her here! Simon wasn’t prepared. And neither, apparently, was my uncle. They didn’t know how dangerous she really was. I do.”

He continues to protest in a voice ascending toward hysteria. I raise my hand to call for silence. “If you tell my mother, she’ll just start sewing some more of her hideous talismans. Leave her in the store. We should say goodbye now. You may be gone by the time I return.”

Diego and I hug, but it is impossible for my emotions to reach toward his tears; there is a callous deadness in me linked to revenge. “May you find those pearls of rain you want from the skies over Constantinople,” I say. I smile as best I can. “And don’t forget those treatises you wanted from Senhora Tamara. You won’t be able to get them just anywhere. If you need some money…” I reach into my pouch and hand him Senhora Rosamonte’s aquamarine ring.

He takes it from me. “Berekiah, I don’t know what…”

“Say nothing. All will be well for you in Turkey.”

“I will miss the wonders of Portugal. And the good Jews of Lisbon most of all.” He blesses his hand over me. “May you and your family find the peace you so long have deserved.”

As Farid and I walk to the Almond Farm, the amber grasses and blossoming trees of Portugal seem to connote separation. We Jews are scattering again, and these mulberry and lavender bushes, poppies and magpies will not hear their Hebrew names for centuries to come, perhaps never again. Maybe it is even a good thing for them.

The scores of graves on the farm remain free of weeds because of the drought. Wooden markers scribbled in Portuguese sprout like hands reaching toward life. We enter the tower and ascend the spiral staircase. Round and round we climb, into the belfry, empty now except for a patchwork of bird droppings. We gaze out at the carpets of golden barley and plowed earth separated by rims of cork trees, their twisted, noble trunks stripped to a vulnerable red.

And we wait.

The sunset which marks the end of Passover rises with reflections of the great topaz-colored palm leaves which canopy Eden.

A few minutes later, just as I requested in my note, Dona Meneses’ coach approaches, stops at the property line of the farm. Alone, she strolls toward us through the old grove of almond trees, a scarlet
parasol
over her head. Yet she holds no manuscript in her hand. Farid
signals
, “The time has come.” He places his dagger in the waistband of his pants. Trying to remain calm, I lift up my pack weighted with Abulafia’s manuscripts. We descend from the belfry, Uncle’s hand guiding me at a leisurely pace wholly out of step with my nervous breathing.

On the ground floor, Farid and I stand amidst the stone rubble and await the noblewoman.

Dona Meneses does not disappoint. She steps confidently across the threshold of the tower and acknowledges me with a stiff nod, the kind of regal gesture she shows her drivers to ready them for departure. Her face, though not unpleasant to look at, seems too round and small, perhaps because her brown tresses have been drawn tightly back and wrapped inside a tall black cone tasseled with yellow ribbon. Her
flowing
silken jupe bears vertical stripes of royal blue and brilliant green, is puffed fashionably at her belly to give the impression of pregnancy.
Staring at her as I never have before, I have the impression that she is terrified of aging; her flaring eyebrows and long lashes are thickly
penciled
, black as midnight, and an unsightly pinkish powder pales her olive complexion. Her lips are pursed to indicate impatience, are the red of rubies. She closes her parasol suddenly, fingers her choker of emerald and sapphire beads with exquisite reserve. She targets her gaze at Farid. Turning back to me, she assumes a kind of false and urgent sympathy. “I came as you asked,” she says. “So would you be kind enough to please tell me what it is…”

“Why haven’t you brought my uncle’s Haggadah?” I demand.

“Rude, you are,” she says, as if that’s a proper answer to my question.

“Where is it?” I repeat.

“I don’t know.” She raises her eyebrows as if puzzled by my concern. “But you can rest assured that I haven’t got it.”

“That’s impossible,” I say.

“But it’s true,” she replies. “Tell me, have you told anyone about me, about…”

“Don’t worry, we will trail no spies to your door. As far as the world outside knows, you are as Old Christian as the Castilian Inquisition itself.”

“Would you tell me how you found out?” she asks. “Your mother, perhaps?”

“Does she know?!”

“Ah, so dear Mira kept her word and didn’t tell you.” She caresses her fingers down from her chin across her neck with noticeable relief.

“No, she said nothing.” As I speak, insight comes with a jolt. “The basket of fruit with which you always left our house,” I say. “The books were always hidden below. She knew.”

“Once, Attar’s ‘Conference of the Birds’ got stained by grapes. Your uncle was furious.” Dona Meneses shows me a false, practiced smile. Seeing I won’t reciprocate, she asks in an arrogant voice, “So how
did
you find out about me?”

“You’re illuminated in my uncle’s personal Haggadah as Queen Esther. There could be no doubt of your religious origins. And in his depiction, you are shown not merely bringing a Torah to Mordecai, but also concealing a copy of the Bahir below your arm.”

She fingers her necklace and proffers a deferential bow. “Clever.
My compliments. But I must say that your uncle took far too many chances in his work.”

“Is that why you killed him?” I ask.

She starts. “Killed him? Me?!”

“Your surprise is as false as those crystals around your neck.”

“These
gemstones
happen to be worth more than both your lives,” she points out.

“These days, that means they are worth almost nothing, dear lady.”

“I can see you are much like your uncle.”

“But not as naive,” I reply. “I know who you are and what you’ve done.”

“Do you?” She tilts her head and grins, as if amazed by the tricks of a dog. “Tell me what you
think
you know!”

“I’ll tell you nothing.” I take out the manuscripts from my pack. “I’ve come to offer you these for my uncle’s last illuminated Haggadah. I know you have it. And these are worth far more. Both have
annotations
in the hand of Master Abraham Abulafia himself, blessed be his name.”

“If you’re sure I’ve killed your uncle then why haven’t you already tried to take my life?”

“Your death would not bring him back,” I say.

“Logic matters not to revenge. Your hesitation must mean that you’re not absolutely sure about my guilt.” She nods up at me as if to receive my assent.

“I want his Haggadah!” I shout. “And you won’t leave here unless I get it!”

Disregarding my threat, she asks in a calm voice, “Why here? Why the Almond Farm?”

“It was also illuminated by Uncle, in the same panel with Zerubbabel. When I dreamt of it, he told me that I would cross the last gate of this mystery here. Now where’s…”

“
He
told you that? Master Abraham?” She traces her fingers along the taut tendons of her neck. She is as nervous as I am.

“Yes, I spoke with my uncle,” I reply.

“When?” she asks urgently.

“That’s of no concern to you. You are simply here to…”

“Did you know that it was here that we sealed our fate together?” she interrupts in a voice which seems to come from her gut, from fear.
“Four winters ago, on the thirteenth of Adar, the day before Purim. We were to symbolically re-enact the ancient victory of the Hebrew people over the Syrian army which took place on that day” She stares inside herself at memory. “Your uncle insisted that I meet him here at the Almond Farm to set up our smuggling network.”

“Why here?” I demand.

“You know the story of Aaron Poejo and his…”

“Yes,” I interrupt.

“And his vision…?” she asks.

“The blond savages with iron masks over their mouths who would come to sack Lisbon.”

“Iron masks to prevent communication,” she says, as if offering a citation of wisdom. “Blonds because they are Christians. You should understand. You were Master Abraham’s chosen one. Imagine it as scripture.”