Richard Zimler - Hunting Midnight

My agitation banished all possibility of tact. “Are we Jews, Mama?”

“Goodness! Where did that little cannonball come from?”

“Something happened today.”

“What? Tell me, John.”

“There was a man preaching in New Square. He came to talk to Daniel and me. And he said that … that we were Jews.”

“You and Daniel? He said you and Daniel were Jews? How odd!”

“No, you, Papa, and I. Mama, he knew our names.”

She gasped. “Who was he? Did you find out his name?”

“Lourenço. He did not tell me his family name. I saw him once before. Then he had long oily hair and wore a horrid cape. But this time he was changed. He wore expensive clothes. And his hair was brushed. I think he’s a magician. Or a necromancer. He did tricks.”

“John, he didn’t hurt you or Daniel, did he?” she asked anxiously.

“No, but he said you ought to take me away from here — to Scotland.”

“How perfectly odd. And what did you say?”

“I said I was Portuguese — and that I was born here.”

“Good for you. And then?”

I sat up. “And then Daniel told him to leave, but he wouldn’t go. He said we would be burnt. He even held out a lighted candle to us.”

She sprang up and clasped her cheeks, closing her eyes. “Goodness, oh, my goodness …”

“And, Mama, he put a tiny finch in his mouth. He was going to bite its head off.”

Taking out her silk scarf, she reached out to the wall, then dabbed at her forehead. I rushed to her and led her back to my bed. After a time, she regained her composure and caressed my hair.

“Mama, we’re not going to be burnt, are we?”

“No, of course not.” She frowned and shook her head. “He was a silly man. He was trying to frighten you. Some men like scaring children. They are wobbly in the head.” She took my hand. “So what’s this about a bird in his mouth?”

“He must have bought it at the market. And he put it in his mouth when we weren’t looking. He was going to bite its head off, but then he let it fly away.”

“Yes, well, it just proves that such men will do anything to frighten a child. Please, John, think no more of this. Let me do the worrying for us both. And if you see him again, you must run directly home, just as your father has told you. Do not dawdle or linger — not for anything. Now come, get back under the covers.”

“Are we Jewish?” I asked again.

She was fluffing my pillow. “I have answered that question already, John.”

Her abrupt tone made me pout. Placing a kiss on my brow, she apologized.

“John, if you were Jewish, don’t you think you’d know? Would it not be obvious that you were different from other people?”

“I looked all over myself, and Daniel did too, but we could not find any scars or anything.”

“Scars? What manner of scars?”

“For my horns. And my tail.”

She smacked the mattress. “Oh, please. Let’s not be silly now. You cannot truly have thought …”

“But you know people think I’m strange — even Daniel thinks so.”

“John, you are not in the least strange. You are the same as everyone else. Just as I am the same and your father too. Now, cease with such foolish talk.” She kissed my palm, then made it into a fist. “Keep that with you always.” She smiled gently. “You are the love of my life, John. You know that?”

After I nodded, she said, “Yes, it’s true, you’re not like every other child. But you do not have horns, and there will never come a day when I shall care a whit what anyone else thinks of you. Never!” She kissed my lips. “Now go to sleep. When your father returns from upriver, he will handle this Lourenço with the oily hair and canaries in his mouth.”

These were the words I’d been waiting for; as I have said previously, I was of the firm opinion that my papa could resolve all problems.

Later, nearly asleep, I plainly heard Grandmother Rosa shout, “He said what to the child?!” I crept to the door to listen more closely, opening it a crack. “It’s Napoleon,” she continued in an enraged voice. “His victories are causing madness all over Europe. The Church isn’t sure how to slither its way into his plans.”

After that, I could hear only frantic whispering. Then Grandmother Rosa shrieked, “Jewish, Jewish, Jewish!”

At the time, I believed it the end to a long condemnation she must have made against this odd race.

The next afternoon, on my mother’s invitation, Daniel came to our home for the first time. He met me down the street, carrying a ragged flour sack with something rattling inside. When I asked him what it was, he gave me his wily smile and reached in, lifting out a likeness of the woodpecker that had died the day before. It was crudely carved and sanded only roughly, to be sure, and if asked I could have scripted a long list of its imperfections: wings too stubby, a beak too blunt … There was also a gouge on its tail that was clearly a slip, yet I thought it a wondrous thing.

Mother served Daniel and me tea and a custard sponge cake on her blue and white windmill-pattern porcelain from Porto’s Massarelos Factory. Daniel had never drunk tea before, nor ever used a cup, by the looks of it. He gripped his in such a firm hand that I feared being hit by shrapnel. He bobbed his mouth into the steaming liquid only to wet his lips.

Mother lifted her cup with her little finger at an aristocratic angle. I was trying to spot in her eyes whether she had yet heard any rumors of kinship between Daniel and Senhora Beatriz, but she was giving nothing away. “I’m so glad you could join us today,” Mama began. “John tells me you live in the Miragaia neighborhood — is that so?”

“Yes.” Daniel snuck a look at me. He sensed subterfuge and looked eager to flee.

“Your father, I believe, is a fisherman.”

“Yes.”

“And your mother a seamstress, am I right?”

The lad nodded, then answered her subsequent queries in an equally voluble manner. Mama remained unperturbed. She enjoyed drinking tea with me on any occasion, so this was a treat for her, no matter how thin the conversation.

Every time she looked down or away, Daniel pulled his lips apart so that the tendons on his neck stood out. It made him look like a turtle.

As Mama handed me my cake, I decided to add some substance to our conversation. “Daniel has the best aim of anyone, Mama. You ought to have seen the villain after he got hit with his stone. The blood was running all the way down — ”

Her hand went up. “Feel free to omit further details, John.” She turned to Daniel. “I should like to tell you that what you did was very brave. I shall not forget it. And I want you to know this: If you are my son’s true and loyal friend, you will always be welcome in this house. That I swear to you.”

Mama’s voice quavered. She took a long sip of tea to compose herself. “I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you,” she said sweetly. “Let us eat our cake. I hope you both like it.”

The lad held his fork in his fist while he sawed with his knife, concentrating fiercely. Mama gave a quick head shake when I looked at her, a signal for me to remain quiet about his difficulties. “And your grandparents, Daniel, are they living in Porto?” she asked.

The lad looked up and asked, “My grandparents?”

“Yes, do you see them often?”

“No, not often.”

“Do they live near you?”

“No.”

She let him return to his sawing. Her furtive glances at me indicated that she knew the truth. She’d either been told by Senhora Beatriz herself or had stitched rumors together into a recognizable pattern. I’d have wagered she was wondering if I knew.