Author: Cambria Gordon
Category: Other
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“I’ve heard. Some of the sisters encourage it. Though I don’t think Beatriz is the type of girl to attract a man that way. She’s too self-righteous. She would not approve.”
“Maybe.” Abuela sat up a bit straighter in bed and regarded Isabel. “You have a faraway look in your eye. What are you thinking about?”
“Abuela, do Jews believe that God created the world out of nothing?”
“Moses does, so therefore all Jews do.” She tilted her head. “Where is this coming from? First you ask me about free will, and now you talk about creation.”
“You sparked my curiosity when you told me about Al-Andalus.” She laughed. “I guess my mind has been wandering while my hands have been busy with grapes.” Isabel stood up from the pallet, preferring to pace. “But what if there were elements, I don’t know, some sort of matter present, before God created the world?”
“Well, there is something called the Laws of Nature.”
Diego had spoken of that, she remembered.
“Maimonides believed that changes concerning nature and the animal kingdom occurred spontaneously and randomly without direct interference from God. So I suppose these processes could have happened just as easily before God created the world.”
This answer frustrated Isabel. “No one knows for sure which came first, do they?”
“I’m afraid not. Our knowledge and understanding of creation is less than a drop in the ocean. We do not know the real truth. We may never know. Even the Talmudic sages differ greatly when discussing creation. For instance, the timing. Whether Heaven or Earth was created first or if they were made simultaneously. Whether light was manifested first or whether the entire world was.”
“Maybe the Talmud wants us to think for ourselves.”
“I would agree with that. The Torah, our Bible, is absolute. It is the word of God. The Talmud is ever changing. It is the word of man.”
The Talmud reminded Isabel of Diego’s philosophical arguments. One thought led to another, which in turn led to another, and so on. Had Diego actually studied it? No, he couldn’t have. He had only just discovered his background. But his ideas were so radical, he must have learned at least some Jewish teachings at university. Suddenly, Isabel could wait no longer. “Abuela, I have a surprise for you. Do you think you can walk downstairs with me?”
“I am getting too old for surprises.”
“It will be worth it, I promise. Then I’ll let you rest.”
Isabel held Abuela’s hand as they descended the stairs into the cellar. On the fourth step, the air abruptly changed, as it always did, to something cold and damp. Isabel lit extra oil lamps, hoping to warm up the space faster. “Have a seat, por favor.”
Moving aside a stack of empty grape baskets, Isabel removed two loose bricks in the wall.
“Are you getting your papá’s book of blessings?”
“Something better.” Isabel removed the Talmud and placed it on the table in front of her grandmother. The leather cover had one word embossed on it, which Isabel could not read.
Isabel heard Abuela’s intake of breath. “Is this … ? No! It cannot be.”
“It’s true, Abuela. It’s a Talmud.” She was swollen with pride now that she saw her grandmother’s face. It was truly a gift to be able to show it to her.
“Where did you get this?”
“I borrowed it from Yuçe.”
“That child knows not what he has done.” She quickly covered it up with the white cloth Yuçe had wrapped it in.
“Are you not pleased?”
“We mustn’t have this here.”
“But we have Papá’s book of prayers. No one has ever found that. The hiding place is secure.”
“The Talmud is different. More holy. Women aren’t supposed to read it. Something bad could happen.”
Her grandmother had always been a believer in superstitions. She put salt in the pocket of a new dress before she would wear it. She would not gaze in a looking glass. When Isabel was young and someone remarked on her beauty, Abuela would spit three times onto the ground so as not to arouse jealous spirits. “Abuela, I can always return the book to Yuçe, but it’s here now. You may as well examine it.”
Abuela shifted in her chair. Then she lifted up the cotton rag and peeked underneath. Immediately, she covered it again.
“You aren’t going to turn to dust, Abuela, I promise.”
Her grandmother hesitated, then retrieved her spectacles—wire-rimmed with cloudy glass inside—from the pocket of her gown. “Hashem yishmor.” May God protect. With reverence, she removed the cloth and opened the cover. “I cannot fathom it … after so many years of hearing my father talk about this … yet it’s as I imagined. So beautiful.” She continued to turn pages.
Isabel peered over her grandmother’s shoulder. “While I was at the Cohens’, Yuçe explained Rashi script. I know that printing presses can now make Talmuds available everywhere, but how do you think the first one arrived here in Trujillo?”
“Someone probably hand-carried this. Maybe they rode from Venice or Constantinople, even Levant, stopping at cities where there were Jewish communities. They would of course bring it directly to the sinagoga, after which a local scribe would copy it down. Then the courier would move on to another village.”
“Yuçe also said the laws were first passed from one person to another through stories. Then they were finally written down so more people could practice Judaism.”
“I guess my father was like our ancient ancestors, because he passed the stories down to me orally.”
Isabel pointed to the center of one of the pages, the Hebrew letters as mysterious to her as a man’s naked body. “What does this say?”
“Ketubot. It means marriage contract.” She leaned in closer. “It seems this section is all about guiding a bride in her new role. Though you won’t have such a document when you marry Don Sancho, I’m sure there is wisdom in here to help you.”
How Isabel wished she could have a marriage contract with Diego—a Jewish one! With disgust, she pictured the life of servitude that lay ahead of her as the wife of Don Sancho del Aguila. What in God’s tumors was she going to do? A radical notion popped into her mind. What if she did become Doña del Aguila, but kept Diego as a lover? This was done at court all the time. Grandees had mistresses and their wives looked the other way. Then the notion withered as quickly as it had blossomed. She was fooling no one. She would not be able to live within such an immoral framework. Committing adultery went against all her beliefs. She wanted Diego purely or not at all.
A shout from upstairs interrupted them before Abuela could give her an answer. “Isabel, Abuela, come quickly!” It was Beatriz’s voice, shrill and panicked.
Isabel took the stone stairs two at a time. When she opened the cellar door into the sala, she was met with a frightening sight. Papá lay on the settee, moaning. Dried blood cut red rivulets through his dusty face, from both ears down to his chin. His left arm was bent in an unnatural position. Mamá sat at the table, her face colorless. She wore no hat, though she had left the house with one. A white area of scalp, as big as a spoon, stood out from the thick black hair on the crown of her head. Had someone pulled out a chunk of her hair? Isabel did not know whom to attend first.
“See to your father,” whispered Mamá, giving Isabel her answer.
Abuela finally entered the room, her eyes full of apprehension.
“Something terrible has happened, Abuela.” Isabel’s voice broke.
Her grandmother went into the kitchen and brought out a damp cloth.
You cannot afford to fall apart, Isabel told herself, taking the rag from Abuela. “I’ll clean Papá. Can you go next door and ask Señora Herrera for some willow bark? It will help with the pain.”
“What shall I tell her?” asked Abuela. “She is a gossip, that woman.”
“That Papá hit his head on the wine press. And, Beatriz, you go fetch Doctor Cetia,” said Isabel. “If you hurry, you will return before nig
htfall.”
“But he’s a Jew,” said Beatriz weakly. She did not speak with her usual force when discussing non-Christians. In fact, her top lip was quivering. The situation frightened her.
“Are you actually putting your intolerant zealotry ahead of Papá’s well-being?” said Isabel, beginning to wipe her father’s ear.
“I just thought … well, couldn’t we ask Doctor Andreas?”
“Papá doesn’t need a barber surgeon. He needs his arm reset. And Doctor Cetia is the best in Trujillo.”
“I can go to the judería if she won’t,” offered Abuela.
Beatriz’s neck turned pink. “No, Abuela. I can walk much faster than you.”
Isabel nodded. At least her sister felt properly ashamed that her grandmother showed more love than she did. As Beatriz exited the door, Papá gave a forceful moan.
“I’m sorry, Papá. I’ll be gentler,” said Isabel.
“Wherrrrrrre isssshe …” His voice sounded like there were pebbles in his throat. The sounds he made were not distinguishable.
“What are you saying, Papá?”
Papá didn’t respond to Isabel, but looked to the door. He struggled to get out the words, as one slow of tongue might. “She … must … not.”
“She mustn’t what? You mean Beatriz?”
He ignored her and slapped his hand on the table. “Inqui. At gates. Judería.”
“The Inquisition is at the gates of the judería?” Isabel rushed to open the window and called down to Beatriz.
“There is no danger,” Mamá informed her, though her voice was strangely monotone. “The Inquisition is no longer at the gates. All the officers left with us.”
This was a relief. Despite her sister being a scholar of Christendom, able to talk her way out of any interrogation, Isabel had no idea what Beatriz might say when confronted by the Holy Office. She could denounce the whole family for all Isabel knew.
Isabel returned to her father’s side. “What did the Inquisitors do to you, Papá?”
He did not answer, but closed his eyes, his head lolling back on his neck.
“He can’t hear you,” said Mamá.
Isabel’s heart beat a warning. “What do you mean?”
“They separated us, but I heard him being hit,” continued Mamá, staring into the empty space in front of her. “One of the blows must have landed too close to his ear.”
“Oh, Mamá.” Isabel went to her mother and embraced her, never wanting to let go. She buried her face into Mamá’s frail shoulder. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. If I had not followed Rachel home …”
“It could have been worse. We weren’t put to the question.” Mamá’s voice was affectless, as if she were reciting a recipe for stew.
Isabel held Mamá at arm’s distance, wanting to shake her, to make her go back to the way she remembered her always. Her giggling, capable mother.
“We told them the truth, that we were visiting a sick friend,” intoned Mamá blankly. “But they wanted to see for themselves. They stormed into the house, and accused the Cohens of coercion.”
“What does that mean?” asked Isabel.
“Tempting conversos to observe Jewish rites. They tried to bring all four of us in, but Hannah was too sick to move. They beat David in front of the children and took your father and me to the Holy Office.”
Isabel turned to her father. “Papá, can you hear my words?”
No response.
She clapped in his face. He did not even startle.
“Let’s get you both out of these soiled clothes,” said Isabel, holding back tears. She put some water on the hearth to boil before leading Mamá and Papá outside to the bath. Mercifully, there were no sounds from their neighbors. No cries from Señora Herrera’s granddaughter. No chink-chink of Old Señor Tejada hammering an iron shoe for his horse. No gossip floating from the courtyard as the del Castillo sisters hung their laundry while their dog barked and ran in and out of the hanging sheets. Isabel would not have been able to tolerate the sounds of everyday life were this the case. For today was no ordinary day. What had started out as perfect joy would forever be etched in her mind as a tragedy.
Isabel began to fill the tub with well water. On her third trip from the well, Abuela returned, willow bark in hand.
“Did Señora Herrera seem suspicious?” Isabel asked her.
“I don’t think so.” She handed Papá a piece of the bark for him to chew on.
For a moment, Isabel and Abuela just stood still, listening to Papá’s teeth grind the bark. Then Isabel walked inside, fetched the boiling water, and carried the heavy pot back out. She poured the hot water into the bath, mixing it with the cold. The steam rose, obscuring her view of Mamá and Papá. Briefly, she allowed herself to imagine perhaps they weren’t there at all. That this nightmare had not truly happened. But then the steam dissolved and there were her broken parents. Abuela helped Mamá undress and began to wash her. Isabel looked at her father. With his head hung, he turned his back to her and slowly removed his clothes.
How could it be that in one afternoon, she had become the parent and they the children?
By the time Beatriz brought the doctor, Mamá and Papá were already resting. Doctor Cetia examined them as they lay on their pallet.
After some time, he lowered his tong-shaped specula and looked at Isabel grimly. “Your father’s right ear has suffered complete hearing loss. The nerves may have been severed.”
“And the other?” she asked.
“Hearing in the left ear may or may not return. We must wait and see. For now, I’m afraid he is deaf.” He removed more tools, some quite frightening. Razor-pointed cutters, a mallet. “Do you have a bottle of brandy?”
Beatriz brought one up from the cellar. Doctor Cetia made Papá drink nearly half the bottle. Then he put another, larger piece of willow bark in Papá’s mouth for him to bite down on. When he reset the arm, Papá wailed. Isabel screamed silently, along with her father.
Later, in her own bed, Isabel thought about her family’s future. She could take over the wine sales by writing notes for Papá while she verbally spoke the terms to his clients. Her mother’s hair would grow back. She supposed they were lucky. Next time they would not be.
While Beatriz slept soundly, Isabel turned over onto her stomach and buried her face in her arms, crying herself to sleep.
Four days after the discovery of his mother’s secret, Diego stepped up to number 4, Calle Sillerias, the site of Berruguete’s newly rented studio. This past week, he had begun to process all the changes that were happening in his life—his Jewishness, Isabel. His world had turned upside down. He did not have a precise plan for anything. The only thing he knew was that in the short term, he wanted to learn to paint from a master. In some ways, the apprenticeship was a welcome distraction. Diego could follow a prescription, the steps needed to impress Berruguete and secure a position. It was like putting one foot in front of the other. This was much easier than trying to imagine how to live in Spain as a Jew with the woman he loved.
A rusted forge lay in Berruguete’s grass, a remnant from the previous tenant, no doubt a smith. The artist and Diego were to have their first meeting today. Not to begin apprenticing, but to share ideas. Berruguete wanted to show Diego what he was working on, and the artist had asked to see samples of Diego’s work as well.
Although Diego knew he had drawing talent, he was still nervous. His heart was a cantering horse. On the walk over, he kept tapping his leather folio on the side of his leg in a one-two-one pattern. If he lost syncopation and the tapping became a two-two-one instead, he would start again. It was not just the act of showing his work that agitated him—it was the deeper knowledge of his Jewishness. Diego knew he had not changed a whit on the outside since they first met in the taberna. But inside he was a new man. He felt like he wore the truth on his sleeve and everyone who looked at him could see it.
Thankfully, his father had not noticed anything amiss with Diego at all. He returned
from Toledo preoccupied. Their Majesties had just formed the Council of Castile to be the central governing body of the kingdoms of Aragon and Castile. It seemed those of lesser birth who proved their loyalty to the Crown were to be given power in the council. It was rumored that a small cadre of noblemen would be allowed to attend meetings but could not vote. The count was determined not to be pushed out. He needed to show the monarchy his worth.
Given his father’s concern for his position at court, Diego did not broach the subject of the apprenticeship at that time. But he knew this meeting with Berruguete was fast approaching. He did not want to go behind his father’s back and have him find out through idle gossip. So the entire next day, Diego devised possible scenarios for asking permission. He thought about setting up an easel on the camino, the path where his father took his morning walk, so that it would look as if the count happened upon his son accidentally. Diego planned to place a canvas there and begin to paint the environs, perhaps the castle and river behind it, to use as a conversation starter. Alternatively, Diego considered retiring to the parlor after dinner and replacing the large map his father kept on the wooden stand with a beautifully illuminated manuscript such as The Miracles of the Blessed Virgin Mary. He would then lead the count to the map and remark, “How surprising! One of the maids must have dusted it and replaced it with this.” What followed would be an organic segue into illuminations, and Diego’s scholarly knowledge of the trade would leave his father in awe.
In the end, Diego opted to ask him in their private chapel at home. Diego reasoned that appealing to his father’s religious passion was the key to receiving his blessing to pursue a life of art. The idea of sitting and actually praying the Catechism proved more difficult than Diego could have imagined. But after a few minutes, habit kicked in. By the time Mass was over, he had figured out how to live with the hypocrisy. Acting one way on the outside, going through the motions, was only that. Faking Christianity meant nothing. His truth was on the inside. He supposed he had been preparing for this all along, with his growing indeterminacy at school. He always had a vague confusion and could not define who he was. Now he knew—he was a Jew.