Author: Cambria Gordon
Category: Other
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“Who’s Soli?” said Señora Herrera.
The little boy pulled on his grandmother’s hand. “A turrón, you promised!”
He dragged Señora Herrera away, so Isabel did not have to answer. Hopefully, the woman would not remember the exchange.
Both New and Old Christians buried their dead in the churchyard next to the Iglesia de Vera Cruz. Unlike the Jewish cemetery with its tombstones in the dirt, listing left and right like crooked teeth, this was pristine. Isabel thought the fountains and statues, well-pruned trees and oleander bushes that were tended so well by the Dominican friars were more important to them than the people buried here. Flower-lined pathways traversed the interior, which was surrounded by the poorer section, simple white crosses atop raised coffins. Wealthy families rested in crypts and vaults, which stood apart even farther from the center, like casitas, or little houses.
When Ruy died, a few of Papá’s influential clients insisted on paying for a tomb in a wall. One of those clients was the duque of Alba. Mamá reacted with such enmity toward Papá that he nearly refused the nobles.
“I don’t want a tomb!” she had shouted.
“But we can’t afford our own family crypt,” said Papá gently. “The entombment wall is quite respectable.”
Mamá broke down in tears. “He needs to be belowground, in the Jewish cemetery!”
But practicalities prevailed and of course they adhered to the New Christian custom.
A stork flew over them as Isabel and Mamá reached Ruy’s niche in the brick wall. Mamá extended her fingers, touching the wall. “What does it say, Isabel? I’ve forgotten.”
Of course, Mamá did not read, but Isabel knew her mother could never forget the number above his spot, 117, or the words carved into the stone as well. Rodrigo Perez, con Jesús y los angeles. Se nació 1469, 8 febrero. Se murió 3 diciembre, 1474. Rodrigo Perez, with Jesús and the angels. Born February 8, 1469. Died December 3, 1474. As far as her eye could see, there were no niches with a body as young as Rodrigo’s inside.
“Where does it say his Hebrew name?” asked Mamá in a small voice.
“We weren’t allowed to carve that, Mamá, remember? We had to bury him here, among the Christians.”
“My poor Soli,” mumbled Mamá.
Isabel glanced around her. The churchyard was empty. The spy must be lingering somewhere at the entrance, chewing clay no doubt. There was no reason she should not bring her mother the small pleasure of addressing her dead son in his Hebrew name. Did the Jewish cemetery feel more sacred than this? she wondered. All those who were willing to die for their beliefs, lined up next to each other. She dared not ask her mother, for fear of upsetting her again. But Isabel wanted to walk through the aisles of the Jewish cemetery and experience it for herself.
Isabel used the side of her chopine to clean the ground in front of the wall. Mamá stood stiff as a tree trunk.
“Would you like to put your rock up there?” Isabel asked her. The tombs stretched out for three hundred meters or so, but the wall was only three niches tall, so a person could easily reach the top. The Inquisition most likely knew about the Jewish tradition. A stone at the Christian cemetery would not cause suspicion on the ground, but atop a niche it would. Isabel would discreetly put it back on the ground before they left.
Mamá opened her hand and the stone fell.
“No matter,” said Isabel, letting it lie there. “How did you choose the name Solomon?” Perhaps by talking about happier memories, Isabel could find a remnant of the woman her mother used to be.
“It means peace.”
“From shalom, is it not?” All the time spent reading the Talmud had given Isabel a better understanding of the roots of words. The Perezes always greeted each other with a “Shabbat shalom” on Friday nights. It could be used for hello, goodbye, or peace.
Mamá looked at Isabel, surprised. It was the first sign of life Isabel had seen in her mother’s dead eyes in weeks. “Yes. Solomon was the king of Israel. Your father and I simply liked the name. It sounded strong.”
“What was it like, carrying Soli in your belly?”
Mamá hugged herself, recalling. “He gave me a rough pregnancy. Kicked constantly, whereas you girls glided around in there. His head was larger, as well. I lost two babies before him. That’s why he was so much younger than Beatriz.”
“And when he came out? Did you scream to the heavens?” Isabel couldn’t recall where she was the day the midwife came.
Here Mamá actually smiled. “He slipped out after three pushes. And when the midwife smacked his bottom, he was the one who screamed.”
Together they laughed, the sounds echoing off the wall of drawers. It was a welcome moment, even though Isabel knew her mother would retreat back into her silence when they returned home.
“Do names have a deeper meaning than what’s on the surface?” asked Isabel.
She had been thinking about this the entire way home from the cemetery. She could hardly wait to discuss it with Abuela and was finally able to ask the question now that they were alone in the cellar.
Abuela adjusted her spectacles. “Names define us. They capture our essence. The sages believed that our names are the key to our souls.”
“But how do people know before a baby is born what their soul will be like?”
“An angel comes to parents and whispers the Jewish name that the new baby will embody.” She carefully turned the pages through the Talmud. “Ah, here it is. It says that parents receive one-sixtieth of prophecy when choosing a name.”
“How much is one-sixtieth? I thought I was good at numbers, adding up Papá’s ledgers all these years, but I don’t understand.”
“All you need to know is that it’s a tiny amount.”
“Can you see it?”
“It’s too small for the eye, but big enough to be felt. It is a gift. Divine wisdom comes to us when we struggle to find the perfect name for a child. The names of children are the result of a partnership between name-givers and God.”
The flame on the wick flickered in the darkness of the cellar.
“Did the angels whisper to Mamá and Papá, telling them to name me Eva?”
“Do you think they did?”
Isabel wasn’t sure. “What does my name mean?”
“Eva is the Spanish name for Eve, the first woman in the Bible. In Hebrew, it means life or living one. It can also mean mother of life.” She stroked Isabel’s hair. “And that is exactly who you are. Even though I am forever warning you about your impetuousness, that is the part of you that makes you alive.” She reached for Isabel’s quill and, with the little ink that was left on the feather, wrote out the name Eva. “The sages believed that each of the twenty-two letters in the aleph-bet possessed a particular life force and power. They assigned a numerical value to each letter. Aleph is one. Bet is two. Gimmel is three and so on. Take a look at your Hebrew name. It is spelled aleph, vav, vav, hay. Vav is equal to six. Hay is five. So in your name, you have the numbers one, six, six, five. What does that add up to?”
“One thousand six hundred and sixty-five.”
“No. I mean across. One plus six plus six plus five.”
“Oh.” Isabel calculated in her head. “Eighteen.”
“Eighteen is a very special number in Judaism. It is the numerical equivalent of the word chai, which means life. Chai is spelled with a chet and a yud. Eight and ten. Making eighteen the symbol for life.”
“Like my name!” Isabel touched the parchment. “Numbers. Abbreviations. Deeper meanings of a given name. With all these puzzles and riddles in the Talmud, it reminds me of the game escondido.”
“Very wise, mi nieta. You are seeking what’s hidden.”
“Without having to get dirty outside.”
They both giggled.
“Somewhere in this book is a midrash, a teaching about the importance of a given name. When the children of Israel were held captive as slaves in Egypt, God took note and rewarded them with their freedom
. He saw that even though the Jews had assimilated into Egyptian culture, they had not changed their names.”
“This pleased Him?”
Abuela nodded. “He knew their names could be a weapon in the battle to maintain their unique identity when they went out into the world. He felt it would help the Jewish people survive.”
“Our family has not done such a fine job of that, have we, here in Spain?” asked Isabel. “Taking Christian names at birth?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t know of a better solution.”
“We could worship out in the open like the Cohens.”
“Not after we’ve been baptized,” said Abuela. “You saw what happened at the auto de fe. It is too late, I’m afraid.”
“Hidden faith. Like hidden meanings in the Talmud.”
Abuela’s eyelids drooped. She was tired. “In the end, it is up to each one of us to be worthy of the name we have been given.”
As Isabel blew out the candle, she thought about her name. Mother of life. She would bear children. That must be what she was meant to do. With Don Sancho? The thought sickened her. She wanted to have Diego’s children, but that was impossible now, too. Though admittedly, she had allowed herself to dream about their lives together. Her favorite vision was one of her writing poetry and their children running through the house, making the parchment flutter in their wake, while he painted in his studio. Maybe he would even illuminate the poem she was working on. Her eyes pricked. Those children would never be. Oh, Diego! She could not imagine there was yet another man out in the world who would lie with her and father her babies.
Perhaps that meant her name signified something else entirely?
Misery. Hell and damnation. Fire and brimstone. Demonic beasts eating their prey. Diego shut the book. Though it was an illuminated manuscript, with exquisite details of the Apocalypse, the images landed too close to his heart. For this was how he felt without Isabel in his life. He must find other pictures to study.
She had not met him at any of the suggested rendezvous points he had requested in his letters. He had waited at the mezquita, at the river, at the well in the Moorish quarter, at a church on the opposite side of town. He had covered the entire village. Why would she not see him? She had not taken ill. He had inquired with the two barber surgeons in town and even the Jewish doctor. She had not been taken by the Inquisition. His father, with the privileges of a Familiar, knew who all the prisoners were. Her rejection was making him desperate. He thought about changing his clothing, posing as a peddler of some kind and knocking on her door brazenly. He imagined a life with her by his side, though he knew not where they could escape to. He would apprentice with someone worthy, not the accursed Berruguete. She would write poems and nurse their babes. He would help her get published. They would invite the greatest thinkers of their time to dine with them, talking deep into the night about the writings of Maimonides and ha-Levi. They would play music in their home, the percussive sounds of the dabdaba or the melodic bowed strings of the rabāb. If his father followed them, or worse, the Inquisition did, they would board a boat bound for the New World. He had heard stories of native peoples discovered in the Indies. Explorers were setting sail all the time from Lisbon. Why couldn’t he do the same with Isabel?
He tortured himself with these fantastical thoughts, which for their impossibility proved more searing than the beast’s tentacles in the book before him. And to add acid to the wound, he must be at Berruguete’s studio at half past the hour. Don Sancho del Aguila, the honorable alguacil, was sitting for his portrait today. A holy hell if ever there were one. Diego steeled himself for more conflagration and left the house.
Berruguete was cleaning brushes when he arrived. “Diego, mi buen hombre. Big day today. Big day.”
The painting of the auto de fe had been appropriated by the Holy Office. With the money earned, Berruguete had bought himself a golden chalice, a mere frivolity. Diego saw it on a table, half-full of wine from last night’s dinner, no doubt. Of course, Berruguete did not think to reward his apprentice with a ducat—not that Diego was in want of funds. But Diego would have appreciated a chance to paint something on his own. A cloud, a feather, even background in the corner of a canvas. Verrocchio had given da Vinci a chance. When would Diego have his?
“Our esteemed guest will be arriving shortly. Help me mix this pigment.”
Berruguete handed him a bowl of terre verde, or green earth, and some egg tempera.
“You are going to put paint on canvas today?” asked Diego, stirring a stick. “Might you begin with a sketch or do a few studies first?”
“There is no time to waste,” said Berruguete. “A man of his stature does not want to sit idle for more than an afternoon.”
“I hardly think being the subject of a portrait is sitting idle. Besides, grandees abhor work. I should know. My father does not begin his day until eleven in the morning. And then takes a siesta a few hours later.” Diego despised the nonworking nobility. “Now that I’m collecting his taxes, I declare, there’s nothing for him to do all day except worry about his position at court.”
“Well, Don Sancho is more than nobility. He is an appointed official who keeps our streets safe. And we are grateful for it.”
Diego turned so Berruguete would not catch his sneer. “I will be sure to thank him for his service.”
The iron knocker made the alguacil’s presence known.
“He’s here!” said Berruguete gleefully.
Don Sancho stepped over the threshold. Diego busied himself with mixing the colors, not able to bring himself to look at the man who would wed, and bed, the woman he loved.
“Señores,” he said, including Diego in his address.
It was a sign of respect for an apprentice. Diego must answer the greeting. He lifted his gaze. “Don Sancho.”
Diego did not think Don Sancho recognized him as the son of Count Altamirano, for he wore a cap on his head, paint-splattered pants, and a tunic, not the doublet and hose he usually donned. Berruguete had no reason to reveal the identity of his apprentice either. He had made it clear that he respected Diego for making his own way in the world.
The one time the count had made the acquaintance of Berruguete, his father behaved perfectly in character as the snob that he was. Diego and his parents had been promenading when they passed Berruguete in the street. His father did not hide his displeasure at the slovenly-dressed painter and, after exchanging a few words, spotted a colleague and made a hasty exit. The countess, on the other hand, was delighted, touching Berruguete on his arm and giggling like a maiden. The chapel in the alcazarejo needed an altarpiece. What better way to show status than a religious painting from a prestigious master hanging in your own home? She would be an unlikely ally for Diego should his father change his mind after the monthlong trial period.
“I have been awaiting this day for over a week,” said Don Sancho, removing his matchlock gun and resting it on the table.
Diego eyed it, tempted to brandish the weapon and smite his adversary down right here and now. But would this act have the opposite effect, with Isabel disapproving of a crime of passion? He did not know what she was thinking, and this frustrated him to no end.
“It seems I am to be called to the front,” announced Don Sancho.
“Granada?” asked Diego.
“By order of His Royal Highness himself.” Don Sancho’s chest was as inflated as a full bota bag.
Perhaps he would die in battle, thought Diego. But then poor Isabel would be forced into mourning for a year.
“Well then, we must work quickly,” said Berruguete. He directed him to a stool by the window. “Actually, why not wear your gun belt and your cloak? It is more regal that way.” Berruguete handed Don Sancho his belongings.
Don Sancho’s mouth erupted in a yellow-toothed smile. “You flatter me.”
While they waited for Don Sancho to adorn himself, Berruguete said, “How goes the Inquisition? I hope my painting is pleasing to the Holy Office.
”
“Oh yes. We are getting much delight out of it in our frigid meeting rooms. You captured the flames so well, I almost felt the heat emanating from the frame.”
Berruguete inclined his head. “Now you flatter me.”
“I only wish my face was more discernable in the crowd.”
Berruguete turned white. “I’m … I’m sorry—”
Don Sancho burst out in laughter. “That was humor, my good sir.”
Berruguete laughed in relief. “Of course.”
“You captured the most important part—the friars, the stakes—and rendered the scene swollen with onlookers. Why, we’ll show Madrid that Trujillo can turn out a bigger auto de fe crowd than they can!”
“Indeed,” agreed Berruguete. “Now, once you’ve taken position on the stool, my apprentice will arrange your legs so that one leg is propped up on the crosspiece of the stool and one is extended.”
Diego had no choice but to lay hands on Don Sancho’s person. How easy would it be to reach for his neck instead and squeeze the life out of him? Diego could take him in an instant. Could possibly even take Berruguete, who would surely come to the alguacil’s rescue. Or he could stab Don Sancho’s eye with the point on the globe. Then he could force lead-white pigment down his throat, where the poison would spread through his veins and kill him within seconds. Diego reached for the globe.
“Diego?” called Berruguete. “Adjust our esteemed guest, por favor.”
Diego hastened to the stool, his fingers barely brushing the globe.
“Now then,” said Berruguete. “Let us begin.”
That evening, Diego told his mother he would sup in his room. Martín delivered a tray of smoked carp, crusty bread, and some sugar-coated berries. When Diego finished eating, he removed a quill and paper once again.
My dearest Isabel. I am begging you. Please meet me
He began again.
My beloved. I was with your Don Sancho today and it made me realize
He crumpled that one as well. He wished he could write her a poem. She would respond to that. But he was not clever with words in that way and she might laugh at his attempt. No, he would send her something that only he could do.