Richard Zimler - The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon

“You went clean-shaven in those days,” I observe.

“Yes. You figured that out too, did you? The beard was for Lisbon. A mask for every city is essential these days, don’t you think?”

“Then you’re not even a Levite?”

“No, I am. The lie does not have that many layers. But you were right. We don’t all have beards. Even in orthodox Andalusia. No, I know you’ve never been. And now, if you’re not careful, you’ll never get a chance to go. And there’s so much to see. The Alhambra, the great mosque of Cordoba. There are jewels in the walls there that…”

Farid brushes his hand along my spine. “You take the slave and I will take Diego. It will be a pleasure to end his life.”

“Wait,” I gesture back. To Diego, I ask, “Why did you inform on Simon and the others to the Inquisition?”

“So naïve you are.” He grits his teeth and closes his fist. “When the Church surrounds you, squeezes you, you do what you are told. Anything you’re told!” He smiles. His hand unfurls. “You Portuguese Jews have had a life of milk and honey—you wouldn’t know.”

“More smoke than milk and honey of late.”

“That was just a small bonfire,” he notes. “Wait a few years and things will really light up. Then you’ll do what you’re told or…” He pulls open his cloak, unties his shirt. The line of scar on his chest reflects the glare of candlelight. “…Or you’ll pay with your flesh. I told you of the pictures they sear into your skin. My landscape had just begun. Can you see the horizon? If you come closer, you can make out the gates of Jerusalem.” He closes his shirt. “This mortal body we have is weak. You’ll find pain most disagreeable.”

“After your beard was shaved last week, Uncle recognized you as the informer he’d seen in Seville,” I say. “In the hospital, that discussion you had….my master’s whirling gestures… It’s why you were so desperate to have the beard kept, why you didn’t like us visiting you.”

“Another accident. Life is full of them. One gets used to it after a while. Though I expect that chance still bothers you. Your uncle didn’t understand it either. Many things were beyond him. He wasn’t a man of compassion. To have compassion, you must be like other men and he…”

“How dare you!” I shout.

“One who has lost his family can dare most anything!” he replies. ‘Why, look at you! Vengeance from a kabbalist? What would Uncle say?”

“He’d say that you lost your central core of soul long ago, that returning you to the Other Side was a mitzvah . Metatron will record your murder as a righteous deed.”

“A convenient self-deception,” he says.

“Deceptive conveniences are your specialty,” I note.

He holds up his knife and proffers a bow. “My specialty is meat and fowl.”

“You should have stuck to it.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he sighs. “Life tugs you. Like a tide. You can fight the ocean only so long. But you’re too young to…”

“You discovered the girl, Teresa, in our cellar, when you went to see Uncle, didn’t you?”

“He’d already pulled her to safety. He’d been bathing. The secret door to the bathhouse was open a crack so he could listen for anyone else needing help. I’d been coming to see him when the riot reached the Alfama. I’d put on a big wooden cross to protect myself, even blessed a few murderers along the way. Amazing what people will bless one another to do.” He crosses himself and rolls his eyes. “As a pious Christian, I slipped inside your house.”

“And so you killed him.”

“Not so fast. You make everything sound easy. Life isn’t Torah. You can’t read the verses at top speed and reread them when you don’t quite grasp what they mean. He wasn’t reasonable. He said he’d have me judged by a Jewish council for informing on Simon all those years ago, that he’d find some way to see me punished. I knew your uncle well. He would have discovered some way to make my life hell. Even when I told him that I’d informed on Reza and her in-laws, that if he didn’t desist I would do it again, he refused to listen. I thought it would convince him. I was silly to think that your uncle would behave like a normal father. And if he had ever told Dona Meneses that I had been the one blackmailing her, that I knew that she was Jewish, my life wouldn’t have been worth the price of a turnip! Only his swearing on the Torah to keep our secret would have saved his life. And he refused.”

“So you were responsible for Reza’s imprisonment, as well.”

“Whatever the situation demands. One must be flexible…change one’s form according to circumstance. A beard and sumptuous clothes for Lisbon… In Constantinople, I may even become a Moslem. It’s the same God, after all. Right Farid?”

As Farid signals something obscene in Diego’s direction, I think: A courier who cannot recognize his own face. Uncle meant Diego , the Wandering Jew , a courier not of books or merchandise , but his own soul. I say, “And so what you wrote in Solomon’s fake confession was true…applied to my uncle.”

“Yes. The mohel’s suicide was convenient. When I heard, I went there, paid a little ragamuffin to buy some paper from a witch who shreds linen, then left the note for Solomon’s sister to find. Most people are so easily fooled.”

“You told Uncle you’d spare the girl if he gave up his life?”

“Yes. He spoke of sacrifice. It meant a lot to him. I think he expected to die. ‘For a greater good and higher purpose,’ he said. He had strange ways of reasoning, don’t you think? I told him, ‘I could kill you without batting an eyelash.’ And he answered, “And I could die without batting one either!’ Imagine that! And imagine, at this late date, wanting to assemble a Jewish council! He never realized that it’s the Christian year of fifteen and six, not the Hebrew year of fifty-two sixty-six. And dear Berekiah, it’s time to reset your own clock before it’s too late. Accept the Christian calendar before time runs out for you.”

“You didn’t go to see Uncle just to argue with him. You planted that silk thread of Simon’s. You must have known beforehand that you were going to kill him.”

“One must have a back-up plan. You can’t begrudge me prudence.”

“Prudence? You even wanted to kill me and Farid! That’s why you sent the note for me to meet you by the water mills.”

“Another good improvisation ruined by Dona Meneses and her henchmen.”

“And you stole Uncle’s Haggadah. Our lapis lazuli and gold leaf. Like a common thief!”

“Why not? Are you above such desires? I think not. And manuscripts. Yes, that was, after all, how this started. So it seemed…”

“But how did you find out about them? Simon and Carlos said you hadn’t yet learned of the genizah .”

“Even a kabbalist makes mistakes, dear boy. Our friends were simply wrong. Your uncle approached me in secret, explained all about his smuggling activities, told me that he would be getting some valuable manuscripts and would need my vigilance in making sure his smugglers did their work—in particular, he was having doubts about Dona Meneses. He felt that she was growing weary of the risks she was taking. Your uncle feared betrayal. I began tracking her, learning her methods. I found out about Zerubbabel, how he took the manuscripts across the border to Cadiz. Master Abraham didn’t want anyone to know that he’d told me about the genizah and his smuggling activities so that I would attract no special attention.”

“He trusted you,” I say.

“I’m afraid he did. A mistake. In our age, no one merits trust. Remember that if you remember nothing else.”