The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon

me to get overseas. To carry parcels for him. Yes, that was it! A correio, courier…that’s what he wanted me to be.”

“He used that exact word, correio?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“And what were you to carry?”

“Angels,” he said. Dom Miguel smiles. “Your uncle said, I remember now, that I would be carrying angels to safety. I had no idea what he meant.”

“Hebrew manuscripts,” I say. “He probably didn’t want to tell you the whole truth until he discovered how you felt about being a Jew…where your allegiances would lie.”

“I don’t understand…angels…books?”

“Books are created from holy letters. Just as angels are, according to some. Viewed from this perspective— through a window of kabbalah, if you like—an angel is nothing but a book given heavenly form…given wings, to use a common metaphor. Apparently, you were to to be given the task of saving these winged manuscripts from flames. He didn’t want to call you a smuggler, used a more pleasant word—courier. Which I suppose must mean…” Speech gives way to greater understanding about the betrayal which led to Uncle’s death.

“What?!” Dom Miguel demands.

“Which means that someone who had been smuggling books with him was betraying him. The present correio. So my uncle needed to find a replacement. And he must have been desperate. That’s why he decided to risk revealing your Judaism to you. Perhaps the courier even knew of the location of our cellar and the genizah. Or maybe he worked with a thresher. Perhaps they hired the Northerner who has been watching for Diego Gongalves at his townhouse.” Dom Miguel’s puzzled expression shows me that I’ve confused him with my references. “It’s simple,” I say. “My uncle needed you precisely because his previously trusted courier had begun to betray him. How, I don’t know. Nor for what reason. But this courier, this smuggler, may be the key.”

“And who has he been until now?” he asks.

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out!” I get to my feet. “I’ve got to get back to Lisbon now. Will you be here if I want to talk with you, or back at your palace?”

“Here, it’s where I’m needed.” He laughs in a single exhale. “And where there’s wine. It’s not kosher, but it works just the same.”

In the foyer, a last question which I hesitate to ask makes me pause before the door.

Dom Miguel says, “Would I have saved all these Jews had I not known about my true past? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

“It’s an unfair question. You’ve acted honorably, more than…”

“No, I wouldn’t. Not that I would have applauded the killing, mind you. I’m not a cruel person, and I’ve never believed the Jews very different from… I was about to say ‘us.’ A case of understanding arriving a little late again, no? But I’d have sat in my palace in Lisbon reading by silver candlelight. And when the screams pierced my window frames, I’d simply have had the shutters closed.”

Back in Alfama, irritated with my sweaty exhaustion and the passionate afternoon sun of Lisbon, I knock on Father Carlos’ door to no avail, then enquire after him inside St. Peter’s Church. According to the caretaker, there is still no word of him.

As for Diego, I wouldn’t know where to begin looking for him; with the burly Northerner probably waiting outside his apartment, he is surely not at home. And his only friends that I knew for certain were the members of the threshing group.

Prodded by the hope of finding the names of Uncle’s smugglers or even a suspicious reference to an acquaintance, I decide to check the correspondence belonging to my master which I earlier discovered at the bottom of our genizah. Before going home, however, questions about Rabbi Losa’s whereabouts on Sunday tug me toward his door. In response to my sharp knocks, his gaunt face juts like a gargoyle out the window on the second floor. “What do you want?” he questions unpleasantly.

Strange, but I’m relieved to see his face and hear his crusty voice. I reply, “Just to talk to you, dearest rabbi.”

Perhaps he thinks I’m being sarcastic. “Go back to your accursed kabbalah!” he snaps.

His shutters bang closed. I knock at the door, and sensing my good feelings for him betrayed, shout, “I’m not going away till we’ve talked!” As I wait, an irrational rage seethes in my gut. I begin kicking at the door. “I’m going to break it down! I swear, I’m going break your damn door down!” Fury rises into my head, burns my cheeks and temples. It is as if boiling alcohol has risen into the top chamber of an alchemist’s alembic, and I cannot stop myself from kicking. Obviously, whatever makeshift masonry was giving me firm foundation has suddenly crumbled. Ragged children gather to watch. A scruffy wood carrier shoots me a look of contempt. He dares to say, “You, Marrano, what are you doing there?!” Squatting, he lowers his baskets to the street. His eyes, seemingly unrimmed by lashes, are dim, imply only the vaguest approximation of human intelligence. When he stands, he folds his spindly arms over his chest and leans back into a posture of disdain.

I must be crazed, because I march right up to him behind the silver of my dagger. “I’m about to hack your ears off!” I say, venom spraying from each word. “That’s what I’m doing here!”

In an instant of clarity, I realize that I’m mimicking Farid’s presence in my thoughts. Is that how one gains earthly bravery—by embracing an image of courage and making it one’s own?

Do we learn by carrying into our interior what was once exterior?

The wood carrier continues to eye me defiantly but doesn’t speak. Fear and hate give him a foul odor, redden his cheeks. I turn back for Rabbi Losa’s house. An olive-skinned child with bangs of black hair curtaining his forehead watches me, waves. Suddenly, I realize it’s one of our neighborhood kids, Didi Molcho. Blessed be He who saves the little children. I wave back. He gasps suddenly, points behind me. I turn, jump away from a flying log. Too soon, another one is racing toward my eyes. It catches my ear with a glancing blow. I’m on the ground. Blood stains my fingertips as I explore the wound. My nemesis leans back and grins with sated content. His mouth is a mossy brown ruins. He spits and coughs. I stand, feign wooziness. As he laughs, I run forward, barrel up into him. He is frailer than I expect, all bones and whiskers and yellow skin. Knocked onto his behind, he gasps for breath, then shouts, “Marrano dog!’

I stand over him menacingly and put a finger to my lips. “You’ve still got your ears. If you want to keep them then you’ll keep God’s silence.”

He stands, brushes off his pants, looks away into the crowd. “He’s just a Jew,” he says to save face. “Not worth my trouble.”

As I turn around to walk away, I catch Didi’s eyes. He knows to signal to me should the wood seller approach. He nods that all is well as we come together. “He’s gone?” I ask.

“Already down the street. But listen, Beri, while you were fighting, Rabbi Losa got away. He ran from the house.”

My mother is sweeping the courtyard slate when I arrive at home. She doesn’t ask where I’ve been. “Dirt everywhere!” she says to my questioning eyes.

Reza is preparing codfish and eggs at the hearth.

“Have you checked on Farid by any chance?” I ask.

“He’s still in your mother’s bed. Oh, and look on the table,” she adds. “Something for you from Master Solomon.”

Solomon, the mohel whom I found hiding in the micvah, has dropped off a hulking Latin translation of Averroes commentary on Aristotle’s “De Anima”—perhaps in thanks for liberating him from the bathhouse. “When did he stop by?” I question.

“About an hour ago.”

“Did he mention why he left it?”

Reza shows a fleeting smile. “‘A present for my little Shalaat Chalom,’he said.”

I lug the book to my room and drop it to my bed. Through the inner window, I see Cinfa scrubbing the floor