Richard Zimler - The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon

“The Count of Almira,” I interrupt.

“Yes. He came…”

“And Isaac of Ronda,” I add.

She purses her lips and gives me an astonished look. “So you figured that out, too.”

“Farid did,” I reply.

“How?”

Farid points to his eyes and nose.

She bows towards him. “My compliments. So I devised that the Count would come to Lisbon in order to offer books for sale in one guise, buy them in another. We hoped to flush out this blackmailer one way or another. To be neat and clean about it. I know that he, this blackmailer, tried to sell your uncle’s Haggadah to Senhora Tamara. A mistake on his part. He must have panicked right after the riot. Unfortunately, the Senhora scared his messenger away without making him talk. It was then that the blackmailer realized his error and became more cautious. In any event, I know that he has to be someone who was in—or had been in—Master Abraham’s threshing group. Only they were entrusted with the secret of his smuggling books. He told me so when we made our agreement. I began having them all watched. The Count himself was following one of them, that old misfit Diego, when he was attacked by Old Christian boys that Friday before everything in Lisbon began unraveling. One of the Count’s drivers saved him. And then came Sunday…the pyres. After that, with everyone calling for Jewish blood, I couldn’t afford to wait any longer. My instincts told me it was Simon Eanes, the fabric importer. So I had him…‘relaxed.’”

She speaks as if the order to kill came naturally to her, uses the accursed terminology of the Inquisition; since no ecclesiastic person is supposed to shed blood directly, those condemned by the Church in Spain are handed over or “relaxed” to civil authorities for burning. “I had hoped that my troubles were over, but I got another blackmail note,” she continues. She takes another step toward me, implores me to suspend judgment with a fragile look in her eyes. “I was to hand over more books by the Madre de Deus Fountain just yesterday. But I didn’t.”

“So then you tried for Diego,” I say.

“Yes, God forgive me, I did!” Her hands have formed fists. “What would you do?!”

“Me, I wouldn’t kill anyone because I haven’t the courage to admit who I am!”

“Very honorable. When the Inquisition swoops down upon Portugal and you feel its talons around your neck, we shall see if you still feel that way.”

“Will you try for Diego again?”

“Yes. And Father Carlos, as well. I cannot risk… They will be located soon. And my men have their orders. I can wait no longer. I have no choice.”

Farid points at her choker and signals with angry, chopping gestures, “Too many emeralds at stake, no doubt!”

When I translate his condemnation of her, she shouts, “You’re heartless!” She curls her fingers around her necklace and tears at it. Beads scatter on the floor. “Take it!” she says, offering what’s left of the string of jewels to me, then Farid. “It’s not about money. It’s my life! It’s all our lives!” A grimace of anguish crosses her face. The slap I feel is her necklace thrown against my cheek.

The three of us stand silently in the room like prisoners who dare not escape into language out of guilt and shame. I close my eyes and follow my breathing. Farid takes my hand and names a suspect with the shape of his fingers. “Yes,” I signal back. “It could still be him.” As I turn, however, a magic moment occurs; the marble-white ring of skin that was always hidden below Dona Meneses’ necklace confirms another stunning possibility.

“There are only two people left who could have murdered my uncle,” I say. “Give me until morning before you have anyone else killed.”

“Too long!”

“Until midnight then. You are killing innocent men!”

Dona Meneses nods her agreement, glares over her nose at Farid and me like a defiant princess scanning men who have violated her. She lifts the train of her dress and sweeps it behind, turns and marches out the door.

Farmlands give way to the wooden shacks and dungheaps of the city’s outer districts as Farid and I race back to Lisbon.

At the Senhor Duarte’s Inn of the Sacred Body, we approach the manager. A tiny man with wisps of hair combed forward into bangs, he sits ladling soup into a toothless mouth. His cheeks open and compress like a stretched bellows.

We stand over him. “When did Dom Afonso Verdinho arrive?” I demand.

He squints up at me and sticks a chunk of soggy millet bread into his mouth. “Who’s asking?”

“Pedro Zarco. Dom Afonso is with my aunt. When did he come?”

Each chomp squashes his face and closes his eyes. “I’ll have to check my books,” he says. His cracked lips drip soup. “And as you gentlemen can see, I’m eating.”

I reach into my pouch for Senhora Rosamonte’s ring, then remember with a curse that I’d given it to Diego. Farid catches my desperate look with a smile. He takes out one of Dona Meneses’ emeralds and hands it to the man, then furtively slips several more gemstones into my pouch.

Shaping the words, “Bless you,” against Farid’s arm, I say to the innkeeper, “The gem is yours if you tell me when Dom Afonso Verdinho arrived.”

His tongue slips snake-like between his lips. With a ribald nod up toward me, he scrapes the bead against his ceramic bowl. A curl of glaze lifts away from a dot-sized impurity jutting from the emerald. His eyes shine. “She’s a beauty,” he observes with a greedy smile.

“I ask you now, when did he come?!”

“Wednesday.” He holds the stone up to the light of his candle.

“This past Wednesday, after the riot, or the one before?”

“This past one.”

“You’re absolutely positive?!” I demand.

He tucks the bead into the inner curl of his lower lip as if it’s a cardamon seed. “See those men over there?” he questions, pointing to some merchants eating at a dining table.

“Yes.”

Between slurps of soup, he says, “The one with a beard deals in sugar but stinks like rotten cabbage. Arrived yesterday sweatin’ like a priest in heat. He likes big-busted women without teeth. The clean-shaven one is from Evora, is here to buy copperware. Arrived today. He likes carne preta , black meat, if you know what I mean.” He squints at me. “Nothin’ goes on here I don’t know about. Your man arrived Wednesday, lookin’ and smellin’ worse than his horse.”

“What room is he in?”

“Upstairs.” He points to an open door at the back of the dining room. “To the left. Last door on the right.”

Aunt Esther answers my knock with a gasp. “Berekiah! Is everything all…”

I push past her. Afonso sits on an unmade bed in his long underwear. His feet are shriveled and coarse, like unearthed mandrake roots. “Ever hear of Simon the fabric importer?” I ask him.

“A friend of your uncle’s. Esther wrote to me about…”

“So she wrote to you.” I bow toward her. “You’ve been using your gifts well, dearest aunt.”

Her face becomes hard and cold. “Your judgment is noted,” she says. “Now get out!”

“Did you ever meet him?” I ask Afonso.

“What’s this about?” he questions, his face all shock and puzzlement.

“Just answer my question!”

Esther pushes against me as Afonso answers, “I honestly don’t remember. I may have.”

Without warning, my aunt slaps my face. As I grab her wrist, Afonso jumps up. “Leave her alone!” he shouts.

Farid steps between Esther and me, removes my hand. He glares at me, signals, “Don’t you dare touch her again,” then leads her to the bed.

She sits and rubs at her wrist. Her eyes are glassy, and her back is bent forward as if she’s weighed down by a locket bearing her grief. Such is my rage, however, that her figure cannot elicit from me even the ash of the burning solidarity I once felt for her. To Afonso, I say, “So you wouldn’t know if he has any disabilities? That he has crutches, wears black silk gloves to…”