The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon

I realize then that we look like peasants who’ve come from a day of labor in the fields. “I bear no letter, but he will see me.” As he sizes me up, I hold the Northerner’s amethyst hat to my chest and feign the supercilious posture of a gentleman farmer bored with ill-bred servants. I turn to Farid, grumble in my best Castilian accent about a coming banquet for a fictitious friend named Diaz; Castilians irritate but impress the Portuguese, particularly when they can afford servants. My effort seems forced, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see the doorman passing along my message to a footman inside the gate.

We wait under the monstrous sun of Lisbon, watching slippery lizards streaking through cracks in the cobbles. With longing, Farid gazes east along the rooftops of the Moorish Quarter.

“After we’re done here, we’ll ask again at the blacksmith’s workshop for Samir,” I signal. “Maybe we can find someone who knows something.”

A footman with only one hand shuffles up to me. “I will escort Senhor Zarco to the Count’s rooms,” he says.

“Come,” I say to Farid, and together we pass through the gate.

Inside the palace, the scents are of must and amber. We march down a hallway floored with mosaics imitating Persian carpets. The walls are whitewashed, and every three paces give way to concave alcoves. Centering each alcove is pedestal hoisting aloft a great blue ewer brimming with pink and white rosebuds.

Above us, the vaulted ceilings are painted with gold and white arabesques as a background to carefully executed figures of magpies, hoopoes, nightingales and other common birds. I have no idea what the footman makes of our florid hand movements as Farid and I identify the local names of the various kinds; his eyes betray only a passing interest.

A gnarled tree occupies an immense wire cage at the end of the hallway. Upon reaching it, we discover that finches from Portuguese India and Africa have nested in it, are darting around like arrows of yellow and orange and black. I point to the mess of white droppings they leave in an attempt to spoil the beauty of such a display. Understanding my intention and finding it hopeless, Farid simply gestures in reply, “Even a king may understand something of beauty.”

“If he did, then he would not keep them caged,” I say.

“For a king, freedom and beauty can never mix!” my friend answers back wisely.

The Count’s rooms are on the second floor. The waiting chamber for his apartments is parqueted in a chessboard pattern. A table of rose-colored marble centers the room, is surrounded by four chairs embroidered with the King’s armored spheres. We are invited to sit, but on the wall to the right of the entrance hangs a disturbing triptych which grabs our attention. It depicts a bearded, prostrated saint begging in a ruined city peopled by rat- headed priests and all manner of sphinxes. With a wry smile, Farid signals, “Someone who knows Lisbon well.”

The door to the inner chambers suddenly opens. “Ah, I see you like our little painting,” the Count says to me in Castilian. He purses his lips as if awaiting an important reply. His beaked nose and thick black hair give him the wily, clever profile of an ascetic, a deceitfully youthful air as well.

“I don’t know yet whether it pleases me or not,” I answer. “But the artist has talent.”

“I like a man who doesn’t make his mind up too soon. Less likely to get swindled, no?”

“I’ve no intention of bartering for it,” I say.

He laughs with good humor. There is no hint that he recognizes me from our previous encounter. He leans into the main panel of the triptych after dismissing the footman with the slightest of nods. “Frightful what saints have to put up with,” he says. “Not worth it, I should think. It’s by a Lowlander named Bosch. King Manuel received it as a gift. But he hates it and hangs it here for me when I’m in Lisbon.” He smacks his lips. “We always enjoy the King’s leftovers.”

He gestures for Farid and me to enter his sitting room like an elder inviting youths toward wisdom. The two emerald rings crowning the index and middle fingers of his right hand suddenly seem dyed by holy  light.

Inside, the girl from his carriage stands by a shuttered window at the far wall, her right arm behind her back. She wears a long gown of cream-colored silk which rises to a lace partlet and ruffled collar. A violet wimple draws her hair back into a cone ringed with silver filigree. Her face is pale and gentle, curiously girlish, centered by inquisitive eyes. Spurred perhaps by my stare of fond solidarity, she shows her hidden arm. It is short, stubby, reaches only to her waist. A quiver in her tiny fingers as she grips her pearls marks her anxious hesitation, but the longer I gaze upon her, the more solid becomes her expression of tenderness. I sense that she would like to caress the tips of her fingers across my lips.

“My daughter, Joanna,” the Count says.

With a mixture of gratitude and sexual desire, I think: praised be God for not making her his wife. I bow and offer my name. I extend my hand toward Farid and introduce him. “He is deaf and cannot speak. He will read your lips.” Farid bows with the deep Islamic grace he has inherited from Samir. It is intended to remind us that we are representatives of Allah and must meet together with a seriousness equal to our origins.

“I’m overjoyed you’ve come,” the Count says. “You’ve saved me a trip out to that pestilent Alfama. Let’s make ourselves comfortable, no?” He takes the elbow of his daughter’s left arm and leads her across the room as if about to dance. Farid and I slip uncomfortably down into gold and scarlet brocade chairs around a table of marble marquetry. A pewter tray holds a rose-colored ceramic carafe and four silver goblets. Joanna pours us wine. The Count studies us with insistent eyes. The two of us seem awkward, hesitant, like sea gulls on land. Farid signals, “The sooner we leave, the better.”

“I assume that when you gesture like that you are talking together,” the Count remarks. He twists his body to the side as the skeptical often do, stares at me above his nose with a mixture of curiosity and superiority.

“We grew up together and developed a language,” I explain.

“A language of the hands. And for obvious reasons,” he says, nodding toward Joanna, “I am fascinated by hands. Tell me, do you spell every word?”

“A few. But most words have signs.”

“And when you spell, is it in Portuguese or Hebrew?”

The Count smiles cagily at my silence. A grin from a man who likes to pose and prosecute, to confuse his victims before… He laughs suddenly and claps his hands. “Watch,” he says. He leans forward and lays an invisible object onto the table, picks corners apart as if unfolding a piece of expensive material. Bowing his head and mouthing some words, he blankets his head and shoulders with an invisible shawl. Facing east, he chants the opening of Jewish evening prayers in a faint whisper. As his words fade, he turns with a gentle expression requesting patience. He says in whispered Castilian, “From our century forward, acting will be a good profession for Jews to study. I predict that we will be the best, in all countries, in all languages, until the Messiah comes, when we will take no more roles.” He smiles through pursed lips and nods as if seconding his own theory, straightens up and swirls his invisible shawl into the air like a magician. “No matter how lucrative those roles may be. So forgive my little play. An actor without an audience is nothing, and I must use all my opportunities.” He nods at me, then Farid. “I do indeed remember you both from the street. And your uncle of blessed memory, almost caught by the King’s guards in his phylacteries.” He leans across the table to take my hand. “It’s pointless hiding when amongst your own,” he observes.

I slip out of his cold and sweaty touch. “Then you are New Christians?” I ask.

“Yes,” Joanna answers.

“And a little bit ‘no,’” adds the Count with an apologetic shrug.

Has the girl spoken because she senses that I do not trust her father? Sensing my weakness for her, Farid signals, “Do not put your faith in either of them.”

I lay my hand on Farid’s arm as reassurance. To the Count, I say, “You’ll have to speak more plainly with me.”

“Simple really,” the Count says. “We are and aren’t New Christians. We have delightful little cards of pardon from King Ferdinand. Blessed be He who creates a stain and removes it. And he’s also conferred upon me a sweet little title, of course. How did I get this delicious bit of powerful nothing? Marriage, my young man. Remember that when it comes time to plant your seed. Joanna’s mother of blessed memory sprouted from the branches of a very important family tree.” He nods toward his daughter and holds up a finger as if the truth must be told. “Very important, but very broke. So money is also how I became a count. Don’t look at me as if that’s to be belittled. No, senhor. No, indeed! I’m no different from the