The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon

black eyes and ask no questions.

Reza insists on helping. “Beri, I need to do something,” she says. “The world starts caving in every time I sit still.” She stares up at me with lost eyes and chews nervously on the ends of her hair, a habit from childhood she has regained.

For Uncle, Mother chooses a spot by a young almond tree whose candelabrum arms are upraised in prayer toward the turquoise sky. The girl has found rest by a broad cork tree whose branches unfurl like the arms of a welcoming grandfather.

The scribe Isaac Ibn Farraj chants with us. He is here burying Moses Almal’s head; it seems that Isaac was the lunatic who had raced in front of the pyre in the Rossio to steal his friend’s last vestige from the flames and spare his ghost from a wandering afterlife in the Lower Realms. “I’ve seen enough Christians for one lifetime,” he confides to me. “I’m learning Turkish. It’s easy, written with Arabic characters. I’m going to get on the first boat to Salonika I can find. They say it’s becoming a Jewish city. Anyway, I suggest you do the same.”

“And what of your home here?”

“Pretty soon all our friends will be gone from Portugal anyway. And believe me, I won’t make the same mistake Lot’s wife made!”

Thinking of the note which slipped from Diego’s turban, which mentioned the name “Isaac,” I ask, “Before the riot, did you set up any special meeting with Diego Goncalves the printer?”

“Not that I recall.”

“And the twenty-ninth of this month, this coming Friday—does it mean anything special to you?”

Isaac scratches the white, fungus-like hairs on his chin and folds out his lower lip. “Beri,” he says, “I can see you’re in trouble and need help. But you’ll have to talk plainer if you want me to understand.” He takes my hand, and his eyes focus upon me with tenderness.

It suddenly seems ridiculous to have suspected him of being the Isaac mentioned in the note; he has never had any connections to the threshing group, nor any reason for antagonism toward Uncle. I realize that I’m beginning to mistrust everyone. “Never mind,” I say. At my request, he then tries to revive Esther by beseeching her in Persian. She replies with eyes of glass.

Seven times I circle Uncle’s grave praying. As it should be for a Ba’al Shem, Master of the Divine Name. My Hebrew prayer voice, rising and falling like water across walls of weathered sandstone, seems to originate in an ancient past. Forced to walk, I leave my family to bury Senhora Rosamonte’s hand below a lemon tree. With my thanks, I take her aquamarine ring as her last gift and place it in my pouch with Diego’s message and the girl’s wedding band; it may one day redeem the life of another swallow taken by Pharaoh.

On my way back to my family, I pause for a moment to place the palm of my hand flat against the trunk of a massive cork tree whose valuable bark has recently been peeled away. For some reason, perhaps to better feel the power of the verdant giant, I close my eyes. Immediately, a great light sets the darkness ablaze with an orange- black fire and a humid warmth seems to pass right through me. A great rustling of leaves comes to me from high above, as if an eagle or heron has alighted on a topmost branch. “Yes, we are here,” comes Uncle’s voice. “But do not open your eyes. Our radiance would overwhelm you.”

As I squeeze my eyelids closed in protection, he says, “Berekiah, the bark of a tree is not merely a symbol to be used in poetry. It is a real presence which shares the Lower Realms with you. It grows, it dies, and it can be removed by a woodsman. Feel your hand meeting the solidity which lies beneath such bark.”

I squeeze the trunk between my hands, sense a fluid power rising from the earth up through my legs and into my head.

“You have been drawn to this tree because it has reminded you that a mask can be something other than a metaphor,” he says. “It can be a real adornment, as well.”

As I think, Please, Uncle, address me as simply as you can, he replies in a tone of anger: “We speak in the language of the Upper Realms and know of no other way to converse!” Regaining a tone of compassion, he continues: “Remember, our shadow is your light. Our simplest clarity is your greatest paradox. Berekiah, listen. You must never send your illuminations with a courier who doesn’t recognize himself in his mirror from one day to the next. And remember the eyesight of he who speaks with ten tongues.”

At that, there is a quivering in my hands and a flapping sound from above. The blazing darkness behind my eyelids fades to gray; the bird—Uncle—has flown away. Opening my eyes, I stare through the empty canopy of branches above into the great blue sky.

His words repeat inside me: Never send your illuminations with a courier who doesn’t recognize himself in his mirror from one day to the next. Was he referring to a man with no self-knowledge? Or someone without memory, perhaps, who has sought to leave behind his past, to deny its existence. A man who cannot recognize himself because he does not wish to recall the personal history which helped to make him who he is today.

And remember the eyesight of he who speaks with ten tongues. Farid. Uncle could only have been referring to his fingers—his ten tongues. My master meant for me to count on his discernment in learning the identity of this man who could not even recognize himself.

For a moment, I am tempted to pray over the vellum ribbon on my wrist for my master to visit me again, to give me a clearer answer in the language of the Lower Realms. Deep in my gut, however, I fear entering the realm of practical kabbalah; Uncle must have had his reasons for speaking to me in riddles.

“Beri!” It is Mother, calling to me from across the field.

As I start toward her, I think: More and more, the world is intruding on my inner life of contemplation. Just as Uncle knew it would.

After Reza and I wash our hands in a nearby creek, we leave the Almond Farm right away; I am afraid for Farid’s life. And the Old Christians could descend like locusts at any time.

Just before reaching home, I jump down from the cart to enquire about Father Carlos at St. Peter’s Church. There is still no sign of him, and his apartment remains locked. So I climb the streets and outdoor stairways of the Alfama to Diego’s townhouse. The cobbler who helped me avoid capture the day before hails me from his doorway, nods for me to come to him. “Don’t go in,” he whispers.

“Why?”

“A man came looking for your friend Diego. He left a little while ago. But he’s been here before, watching. He may be here even now. Hiding, waiting. Just smile and nod at me, then go away.”

I do him one better and feign a laugh, then ask, “Who is this man?”

“I don’t know. A Northerner. Blond, strong.”

I bow my thanks and leave, my steps repeating the question: Could the same manwho killed Uncle now be hunting Diego?

At home, hard-boiled eggs are being prepared for lunch by Reza. Of course, cooking should be a neighbor’s duty during our initial mourning period of seven days, but there is no one left who isn’t grieving. All the ceramic debris has been swept from the kitchen into the courtyard, the floor mopped. Even the leg of our table which had been knocked off has been nailed in place.

“Brites did it while we were gone,” Reza explains. “She’s cleaning the store now with the others.”

“Esther’s with her, too?” I ask.

“No, she’s sitting vigil over Farid in your mother’s room.”

“And Aviboa?”

“Yes, she’s helping clean up, is sticking close to Cinfa.” Reza chews on the ends of her hair and sighs. “I’m going to have to adopt her, you know. I can’t leave her to fend for herself. Graca, her mother, was a widow and an only child.”

“Is she Jewish?”

Reza’s eyes flash. “A four-year-old girl? Who are you, Berekiah Zarco, to ask such a question about an orphan? You think kids are born knowing Hebrew or something? What difference could it possibly…”

“Reza, you misunderstand me. I don’t care. It’s just that it could create complications.”

“I live with nothing but complications.” She sighs again, brushes her hand against my arm as an apology. “Her father was a New Christian, Graca was Old.”