Author: Cambria Gordon
Category: Other
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“I imagine you have Don Sancho to do that now. Concern himself with you, I mean.”
Isabel’s eyebrows went up. “You know of Don Sancho?”
He nodded sheepishly. “Recently, I discovered his name linked to yours, yes.”
So he had been asking around about her. She waited for more explanation, but he was quiet.
“You still have not revealed the purpose of our meeting,” said Isabel.
Diego glanced around them. Everyone seemed to be indoors, waiting out the rain even though the usual hour for shopping was still at hand. Most people in Trujillo did not sit down for dinner until the tenth hour after high noon.
“Shall we walk a bit?” he said.
Maybe the answer to her question would be forthcoming. He seemed preoccupied, but there was a gentleness about him that she found charming. She nodded, walking alongside him.
The rain eased into a drizzle. No horse and wagons were yet about, so that a hush fell over the whole quarter. The only sound was the crunching of their feet over the flint chips strewn on top of the dirt. Isabel wished she had not worn chopines. The clogs kept the mud off the bottom of her dress, but they were noisy. As they walked, Diego began to tell her about his studies at the University of Coimbra in Portugal.
She did not want him to know she had been asking about him, too, so she feigned surprise at hearing of his education. “So that’s why I had not seen you in town before. You’ve been away at school.”
He seemed amused. “You were wondering about me, then?”
She flushed, realizing she had revealed her cards anyway. “No, I just mean, when I saw you on the calle—I mean, at the bindery—you did not look familiar.”
“I was born here in Trujillo, but I’ve been gone for quite a while. I’m in my second year.” He frowned. “I don’t know if I’ll be returning to school, however.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t want to bore you with my family obligations. I’d rather speak about the great artists of the world.”
“I don’t know much about art,” admitted Isabel. “Do you have a favorite painting?” she asked.
“All the best oil painters are coming out of Italy. Masaccio, Michelangelo. There is quite literally a rebirth occurring there. My favorite is Verrocchio’s Baptism of Christ, without question. Mainly because of his young apprentice, Leonardo da Vinci. Da Vinci painted one of the angels in the lower left corner and Verrocchio did the second one.” Diego moved his hands enthusiastically when he spoke. “Verrocchio’s angel looks like a typical boy you’d see on the street. The face isn’t unique, the body is flat and posed simply. But da Vinci’s angel has no earthly model at all. He gave her weight and dimension, turned her body in a complex way to give her a sense of movement, and made the light shine on each individual strand of hair. Because she is beautiful, the viewer knows she is divine. It is an ideal beauty. The angel is unified in both substance and soul.” He paused, infectious excitement in his eyes. “You must go to Florence and see it. It’s at the Church of San Salvi.”
Diego made her feel dizzy with possibility. He spoke about the future as if it were nothing. And everything.
“This massive rebirth in Italy is not just in the arts,” he continued. “It’s also about new ideas in sciences and astrology. There have been writings by Muslims, Jews, and even Catholic philosophers that are turning the world upside down.”
“Like the time of Al-Andalus.”
He stopped walking to regard her. “I’m impressed.”
She felt proud she could contribute something to the conversation. “And have you read all these written works?” she ventured.
“Hardly. I only know Castilian and Latin fluently. But they hired a Jew to teach Hebrew at my university. Of course, he is not allowed to hold a professorship title, but I managed to get a good start on it before I had to leave.”
“The language of the Jews?”
He nodded. “There is a movement called the School of Christian Hebraists.”
Incredible. Wouldn’t Abuela be surprised to know that Christians were studying Hebrew. “I’d like to learn Arabic,” said Isabel, thinking of her ancestor’s poem.
“I feel that one must be a philologist, a language scholar, to understand not just painting, but all forms of the arts and sciences. When translating ancient philosophy, one wrong word can change the entire meaning.”
“It’s the same with poems,” said Isabel. “Each word is placed in a verse for a reason.”
“You read poetry?” he asked.
She nodded. “And write. Or at least I try to.”
“I’d like to hear one of your poems.”
She flushed, remembering her attempt to write about the burning sinagoga when all she could think of were Diego’s green eyes. “Maybe later. Tell me,” she said, changing the topic. “What is the most scandalous philosophy being discussed at the moment?”
“Oh, there are many.” They walked for a few seconds while he thought. “Take the struggle between divine providence and human choice. If we believe that God is all-powerful and all-knowing, we must believe He has the ability to predict the future as well. If God knows all our actions before we make them, then everything is predetermined. He has His hand in all things.”
Isabel pondered this. “You mean all our actions would be decided before we make them?”
Diego nodded.
“What if a man kills another?” she said. “Can he simply blame it on God, claiming he had no choice in the matter?”
“I don’t accept that excuse. I believe the opposite theory. That God created man to have choice, to live by his own moral conduct. It’s up to each one of us to behave virtuously or become evil. We must balance this within ourselves.”
“So God does not punish?”
“No. Otherwise the vicious man would not be allowed to live a happy life. I’m sure you know plenty of cruel people who live a full life and die at peace, so this is not the case. By the same token, tragedy befalls the good, pious person who has never hurt anyone in their life.”
Like her brother, Ruy. It didn’t make sense that he died so young. Was that predetermined? If so, for what reason? He was the most innocent boy she had ever seen. Why was Torquemada’s body not lying in a grave instead of her brother’s? “Who can we blame, then, for tragedy if not God?”
“Laws of Nature,” he explained. “We do not know why a boulder falls on a good person and kills him instead of the evil person standing next to him. Nature is without morality. But God gave man the power to learn right from wrong. To learn from his mistakes.”
“Do you believe a vicious person can change?” she asked.
“I do. If he truly feels guilt and asks the person he wronged for forgiveness, that is the first step. So, if he is in the same situation again and doesn’t commit the same crime, then he has truly repented, and he can be forgiven.”
“But only Jesús has the power to forgive,” she said, recalling her years of church lessons. “You’re speaking heresy.” She did not hold back her surprise.
From Diego’s unruffled expression, it was obvious he had no fear of being accused of a crime such as this. His family was too powerful.
“I’m not saying God does not exist,” began Diego. “I’m saying that perhaps the natural next step in theological thinking is some sort of duality between God and man where man has the power to shape his own character and influence his own future.”
“He has free will, then.” Isabel had never been so grateful for a lesson from Abuela in her entire life.
Again, he turned to face her. “Where on earth did you come from, Isabel Perez?”
A small smile escaped her lips, but then she became self-conscious at his attention. She watched a tunic-clad gentleman crossing the street while she tried to sort out her emotions. Signs of life began to stir in the quiet neighborhood. A couple passed them but paid them no mind. Candles were lit in windows. Sounds of laughter came from a nearby taberna.
Despite how impressed he was with her, she needed to guard her tongue. She did not know this man at all. He could even be a spy. Though from the earnest way he looked at her, this seemed doubtful. He was smiling at her right now, in fact, a grin so dazzling that she struggled to keep the stroll businesslike. “But is free will an absolute?” she ventured. “Surely, there are circumstances beyond our control.” She was thinking of the four prisoners accused of Judaizing, but it was too dangerous to discuss that. She introduced a safer example instead. “Take the rule of curfew. On my walk over here, I saw two boys rushing to reach the judería before the ninth hour. If they had been late, they would have been locked out, stripped of their clothes, and given a fine. That does not sound like freedom to me.”
“Well, I was referring to free will of man versus God. But let’s expand on your idea, free will of man versus man. I would argue that one has free will when they are guided by reason. The logical Jew knows what time the gates close and chooses to return home safely, before the ninth hour. With this choice, he has achieved freedom from the tyranny of his impulse, the desire to stay out late.”
“And the ones whose job it is to lock the gate? Do they have free will not to lock it?”
“Absolutely. Though I doubt they would exercise that choice. They’d face certain termination from their job.”
Or death by beating from their superiors in the Holy Office, she thought. She wondered: Was Diego a person who was actually sympathetic to the Jews? Or was he merely a thinker who loved philosophy, with all its morasses, and could argue just as easily for the Inquisition as well?
“Tell me about the poetry you enjoy,” he suggested.
She described the readings she had attended and the battles, all in artistic fun, to finish someone else’s poem.
“Give me an example.”
She grinned. “Well, the first person might say, The wind has made a coat of mail, from the water. And the next person listens to that rhyme pattern and says, What a coat of armor—Suitable for battle only if it were frozen.” She paused. “Did you catch what they’re talking about?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“It’s a metaphor, for chain mail—only it’s river water!”
“Delightful. Did you write that?”
“Oh no. But a relative of mine—” She stopped herself. Best not to mention she was related to a Jewish poet.
They continued walking and talking. He accidentally brushed her forearm, then retrieved his hand quickly. Her skin tingled where his hand made contact.
Shouts came from another street to their left. Diego looked alarmed. “Wait here.”
Isabel was not about to stay put. She promptly ran after him.
Some young boys, no older than ten, had a small pyre kindling in the middle of the street. They were hooting and laughing as they threw sticks into the center of the logs.
“They’re just some harmless ruffians,” said Isabel when she caught up to Diego. The light drizzle would probably put out the fire soon anyway.
“Don’t speak so fast,” said Diego, his grim expression illuminated by the orange flames. “Look at what they’re burning.”
Isabel took a step closer. Those weren’t logs—they were books! “Are they mad? Destroying the written word like that?”
But Diego wasn’t listening. He rushed at the boys, yanking them by their arms, tossing them aside like sacks of sand. Next thing she knew, he had pulled off his cloak and, using the damp side of the wool, quenched the fire. Smoke escaped from the sides of his coat, but the fire was extinguished.
“Get out of here before I call the bailiff!” he shouted at the boys.
The boys dispersed, but not before throwing some stones at a shuttered Moorish stall. “Moriscos!” they shouted.
Isabel knelt down, taking Diego’s damaged cloak into her hands. Though it smelled like singed animal hair, there was something intimate in holding a garment that had just draped his body. She turned it around, checking inside the sleeves. “I’m afraid it’s beyond repair.”
“No matter,” he said, rummaging through the ashes. Bits of white parchment floated in the sky like moths. Isabel recognized foreign letters written on the paper, markings on wings. Arabic. Hebrew.
Diego picked up a square of leather wrapping, but it was charred beyond recognition. “This might even have been the Qur’an. I can’t be sure. It appears there were some Jewish texts in the fire as well.” He looked toward the direction the boys ran. “The little cagadas.”
Now it was Isabel’s turn to regard Diego. Cagada, or excrement, was not a nice word. He was as upset as she was. She could trust him.
“I would not have believed something like this could happen in Trujillo if I didn’t see it with my own eyes,” admitted Isabel, returning his cloak. “How can people destroy something so precious?”
Diego strode to a peasant begging nearby and threw the man his coat. The beggar bowed and muttered his thanks.
“There’s a bench over there,” said Diego, pointing to a tile artisan’s shop. As she followed, Isabel was aware that her heart was beating too fast. Being with him, she felt as if she were a bird in a cage, content to perch and be fed yet yearning to flap her wings and break free. She had no word, no previous experience, to describe it.
Diego swept the water off the tiled seat with his gloved hand so she could sit down without wetting her cape and dress. He remained standing, rearranging the dagger on his belt. “I owe you an explanation for why I asked you to meet me.”
He abruptly sat down beside her.
Was he going to grab her and kiss her? Would she enjoy it or scream for help?
“I sent you that note to warn you,” said Diego. “And now with this book burning, I’m afraid it’s confirmed. You’re in danger.”
“From whom?”
“From the Inquisition. From the civil authorities. From people like my father. And, perhaps most worrisome of all, your future husband.”
Bile rose within her. Who was he to lure her out of her house at night just to frighten her? “This is nothing new. We’ve heard whispers for years.” She pulled back her shoulders. “I’m Christian.”
“You’re New Christian, are you not?”
“Yes. There are many families like ours.”
“You are now the target, I’m afraid. More than the Jews. More than the Muslims. Conversos are the official enemy, according to the new papal bull. They say you are the ones who are scheming to destroy Christian Spain from the inside. My father was just in Toledo and heard it from the queen herself. There will be auto de fe tribunals. It’s hard to know how many people will be saved and merely reconciled to the Church, or how many will be—” He didn’t finish. His pained eyes shone in the moonlight.
“Burned? Here in Trujillo?”
Diego nodded. “You can’t afford to make a mistake. Especially in front of Don Sancho.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Diego paused. “Because I … I thought you should know.” His eyes turned away.
So he did fancy her! She was at once both thrilled and panicked. The information he relayed went beyond Papá’s hunches. They felt more real, more horrifying. She thought that if she could only bury herself in his chest as if he were her human armor, her own chain mail, everything would turn out all right. She clasped her hands in her lap to prevent herself from reaching out to him. “Thank you for your candor. I promise to be careful.”
The church bell chimed eleven times in the distance. Had they been talking for two whole hours? That was a long time, yet it did not seem nearly enough.
He sprang up from the bench. “I’ve kept you out too late. May I walk you home?”
“I would like that.” She would be able to have at least another quarter hour with him. If they walked slowly, even longer.
Tiptoeing, Isabel slipped into her bedroom. Her sister’s sleeping figure lay peacefully under the linen, her breath slow and even. Isabel quietly removed her cloak, still damp f
rom the rain, and hung it on a hook.
“Missing something?” trilled Beatriz’s voice behind her.
“Oh!” Isabel exclaimed in surprise. “You’re awake.”
Beatriz sat up on her pallet, holding a small torn piece of orange cloth. “Of course I’m awake. It’s almost midnight, the hour of matins.”
“You’ve been rising in the darkness to say prayers?”
Her sister nodded. “There’s something mystical about being the only one up in the house, don’t you think? Knowing that elsewhere in Spain the monks and the nuns are doing the same thing at the same time?” Beatriz spread the slip of orange fabric on her bed, smoothing out the wrinkles. She calmly lit a candle.
God’s earwax. Isabel’s dress had torn. Was Beatriz going to taunt her with the evidence of her escape all night?
“Psalm 118 said: media nocte surgebam ad confitendum tibi. In the middle of the night, I will rise to give thanks unto thee. What a simple and beautiful sentiment. I do believe my body has become used to the routine. Now I wake up just before the bells chime, all on my own.”
“How lucky for you,” said Isabel dully. Still her sister said nothing about the torn fabric. Isabel could not take the suspense and forced the subject. “Where did you find that?”
“On the iron grate of our window.”
Isabel thought fast. “I crawled out to get Señor Cohen’s fabric after all. I knew Papá wouldn’t approve. Please don’t tell.”
“Then where is our new dress material?” demanded Beatriz.
“Still at the studio, if you can believe it. Yuçe hadn’t had time to cut it. He was at sinagoga, actually. Both he and his father. I told Señora Cohen that Papá wouldn’t let us return to their house, so she said she’d ask Yuçe to deliver it this week. She feels simply awful about what happened the other night.”
Beatriz’s expression did not seem to care whether Hannah Cohen felt guilty or not. “And the color?”
“Perdón?”
“The dress fabric? Which color did you choose?”
“Oh. Periwinkle. The one you preferred the night of Sucot.”
“How did you get past the gates of the judería?”