King of Castile himself. All nobles are fakes. Look below their finery and you’ll find a jealous peasant thrilled to nestle between the legs of his maidservant. And they’re always overspending. Don’t ever forget that! They never learn. It’s one of the ways you know that they’re not Jewish. If they do learn anything, then our dwarf-minded Dominican friars exclaim, ‘Aha! A Jew!’ and turn them to smoke. So make a lot of money and buy what you want, and never learn a thing, and you, too, may become a count!” He moistens his lips with a sip of wine. “What business is it you’re in, anyway?”
“Father…” Joanna says. “I’m sure that’s not necessary.”
“Of course, you my dear would think so. Everything but love to a young woman is unnecessary.”
Farid signals, “That passes for wit in Castile. I think we’re supposed to smile admiringly.”
The Count turns to me with raised, questioning eyebrows. “I asked what business you are in, Senhor Zarco.”
“My family owns a fruit store. But I really…”
“Oh, please!” he exclaims, flapping his hand at me in protest. “Don’t talk to me of family! Family ties are the curse of Spain and Portugal. You must walk away… no
I look at Farid for his opinion on what to reply. He sighs and signals, “He’s trying to confuse us for some reason.”
“You’re right,” I observe, standing.
“You’re right’ what?” the Count asks, dumbfounded.
“Just tell us why you wanted to buy manuscripts from Simon Eanes,” I say.
“I just told you, my son!
How does this pilfering, silken weasel know that Uncle was keeping Hebrew manuscripts? I ask Joanna, “Is this true? Is it all for gold?”
She fixes my eyes with a grave expression and nods affirmatively.
So this monied vulgarian is implying that Uncle was smuggling the works of Abulafia and Moses de Leon for mere gold! As if such works of kabbalah even had a price in the Lower Realms!
“The time has come for direct talk,” I tell the Count, as if it’s an order. “Did you have my uncle killed?!”
He leans back, offended, but catches himself and gestures for peace between us. “Of course not. I don’t…”
“But if what you say is true, then you undoubtedly considered him a competitor. You might have tried to…” Rage surges as words fail.
“Then you won’t sell me anything?” he asks. “Not even a Haggadah? A Book of Esther? A single…”
“Father, please,” Joanna begs.
“Nothing!” I say. “And if I find that you killed my uncle, I promise I’ll cut your throat!”
The Count smiles. “How very thrilling to be threatened! I expect it’s good for adding a little color to my complexion, no?”
“You sicken me,” I say. My neck burns as I turn and march to the door. Footsteps run from behind. Joanna’s tiny hand presses into my wrist and she whispers, “You must find the noblewoman my father calls, ‘Queen Esther!’ But beware of her!”
Chapter XVII
Up close, the scent of Joanna’s hair was like an invisible extension of my own desires. She squeezed my hand once, then dashed away. From the back of the room, I heard a slap. “This is serious!” her father growled. “What did you tell him?!”
I turned to her, but her eyes flashed a warning for me to leave. Outside the gates of the palace, breathing in the golden light of sunset, I gesture her words to Farid. He signals, “Every name adds a page to our book of mystery.”
“Yes. And we’ve got to check Uncle’s personal Haggadah to see which page. Now I’m beginning to understand. Zerubbabel has got to be there. Queen Esther, too. And when I find them, I believe that they will have the faces of the smugglers.”
“Something else you should know,” Farid gestures. “This Count, he is the same man as the Isaac who wanted to sell you a Hebrew manuscript.”
“What?!”
“They are one and the same, Isaac of Ronda and the Count of Almira.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. The eyes for one thing. They can’t change. And some of his gestures. Surely you noticed Isaac of Ronda’s elegant hands. He’s a good actor, as he says. He must be able to change his voice or you would have known. And he has an excellent disguise. But it’s not perfect. And underneath his scents, there is one that will not go away. Oil of cloves.”
“His blessed toothache!” I gesture. When Farid nods, I signal, “But why would he want to sell a manuscript one moment, then buy Uncle’s books the next?”
“We do not have enough verses to know the rhyme scheme.”
“Farid, come…we’ve got to get home to check Uncle’s old Haggadah!”
“I need to stay,” his hands answer, and he requests forgiveness by bowing his head. “Now that I’m well, I must search for my father. I’ll meet you as soon as I can.”
His fingertips brush against my forearm, petal-soft. I remember how the angels had him clothed in white and hear Uncle say, “Do not abandon the living for the dead.” Yet I am unable to prevent myself from signaling, “I need you to help me. We’re so close now.”
“Beri, please don’t be selfish,” he gestures.
“Selfish?! Uncle is dead! What do you want me to do? What do all of you want me to do?!”
“I don’t want you to do anything but let me search for Samir! So go from me!”
Farid’s gestures cut the air between us. Yet out of guilt and fear, I follow behind him to his friends’ homes in the neighborhood. “I’ll go as fast as I can,” he says.
But his effort to placate me only spills acid onto my rage.
We search with silence wedged between us. The only clue to Samir’s whereabouts comes from a toothless fishhook maker who lives across the street from the old confiscated mosque. In an Arabic which fuses all consonants, she says that she saw Samir praying atop his blue prayer rug on the hillside below the castle. Had he stopped for a moment in his race home to beg Allah to spare his son? She points a scarred red finger, withered almost to the bone, to where he had been. Dusty weeds and a withered marigold mark the spot. Farid straddles them and gazes across the rooftops of Little Jerusalem and central Lisbon to the Tagus.
“It’s too wide,” he gestures.
“What?” I ask.
“The river. One should be able to see to the other side. As in Tavira or Coimbra. Even Porto. Here, we have no intimacy. We cannot hug this city. The width of the river makes us feel like we’re all just visiting. That we’re all expendable. It’s the city’s curse.”
“We’ll keep looking till we find more clues,” I say. My cushioned words belie the impatience twisting my gut; Uncle is dead and he babbles on about embracing rivers.
Farid’s black eyes target me with a passive light that hides his rage. I realize that we have both put on masks again. For each other. For the first time in many years. Even so, despite all the frustration hidden under my
