The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon

face, though not unpleasant to look at, seems too round and small, perhaps because her brown tresses have been drawn tightly back and wrapped inside a tall black cone tasseled with yellow ribbon. Her flowing silken jupe bears vertical stripes of royal blue and brilliant green, is puffed fashionably at her belly to give the impression of pregnancy. Staring at her as I never have before, I have the impression that she is terrified of aging; her flaring eyebrows and long lashes are thickly penciled, black as midnight, and an unsightly pinkish powder pales her olive complexion. Her lips are pursed to indicate impatience, are the red of rubies. She closes her parasol suddenly, fingers her choker of emerald and sapphire beads with exquisite reserve. She targets her gaze at Farid. Turning back to me, she assumes a kind of false and urgent sympathy. “I came as you asked,” she says. “So would you be kind enough to please tell me what it is…”

“Why haven’t you brought my uncle’s Haggadah?” I demand.

“Rude, you are,” she says, as if that’s a proper answer to my question.

“Where is it?” I repeat.

“I don’t know.” She raises her eyebrows as if puzzled by my concern. “But you can rest assured that I haven’t got it.”

“That’s impossible,” I say.

“But it’s true,” she replies. “Tell me, have you told anyone about me, about…”

“Don’t worry, we will trail no spies to your door. As far as the world outside knows, you are as Old Christian as the Castilian Inquisition itself.”

“Would you tell me how you found out?” she asks. “Your mother, perhaps?”

“Does she know?!”

“Ah, so dear Mira kept her word and didn’t tell you.” She caresses her fingers down from her chin across her neck with noticeable relief.

“No, she said nothing.” As I speak, insight comes with a jolt. “The basket of fruit with which you always left our house,” I say. “The books were always hidden below. She knew.”

“Once, Attar’s ‘Conference of the Birds’ got stained by grapes. Your uncle was furious.” Dona Meneses shows me a false, practiced smile. Seeing I won’t reciprocate, she asks in an arrogant voice, “So how did you find out about me?”

“You’re illuminated in my uncle’s personal Haggadah as Queen Esther. There could be no doubt of your religious origins. And in his depiction, you are shown not merely bringing a Torah to Mordecai, but also concealing a copy of the Bahir below your arm.”

She fingers her necklace and proffers a deferential bow. “Clever. My compliments. But I must say that your uncle took far too many chances in his work.”

“Is that why you killed him?” I ask.

She starts. “Killed him? Me?!”

“Your surprise is as false as those crystals around your neck.”

“These gemstones happen to be worth more than both your lives,” she points out.

“These days, that means they are worth almost nothing, dear lady.”

“I can see you are much like your uncle.”

“But not as naive,” I reply. “I know who you are and what you’ve done.”

“Do you?” She tilts her head and grins, as if amazed by the tricks of a dog. “Tell me what you think you know!”

“I’ll tell you nothing.” I take out the manuscripts from my pack. “I’ve come to offer you these for my uncle’s last illuminated Haggadah. I know you have it. And these are worth far more. Both have annotations in the hand of Master Abraham Abulafia himself, blessed be his name.”

“If you’re sure I’ve killed your uncle then why haven’t you already tried to take my life?”

“Your death would not bring him back,” I say.

“Logic matters not to revenge. Your hesitation must mean that you’re not absolutely sure about my guilt.” She nods up at me as if to receive my assent.

“I want his Haggadah!” I shout. “And you won’t leave here unless I get it!”

Disregarding my threat, she asks in a calm voice, “Why here? Why the Almond Farm?”

“It was also illuminated by Uncle, in the same panel with Zerubbabel. When I dreamt of it, he told me that I would cross the last gate of this mystery here. Now where’s…”

“He told you that? Master Abraham?” She traces her fingers along the taut tendons of her neck. She is as nervous as I am.

“Yes, I spoke with my uncle,” I reply.

“When?” she asks urgently.

“That’s of no concern to you. You are simply here to…”

“Did you know that it was here that we sealed our fate together?” she interrupts in a voice which seems to come from her gut, from fear. “Four winters ago, on the thirteenth of Adar, the day before Purim. We were to symbolically re-enact the ancient victory of the Hebrew people over the Syrian army which took place on that day” She stares inside herself at memory. “Your uncle insisted that I meet him here at the Almond Farm to set up our smuggling network.”

“Why here?” I demand.

“You know the story of Aaron Poejo and his…”

“Yes,” I interrupt.

“And his vision…?” she asks.

“The blond savages with iron masks over their mouths who would come to sack Lisbon.”

“Iron masks to prevent communication,” she says, as if offering a citation of wisdom. “Blonds because they are Christians. You should understand. You were Master Abraham’s chosen one. Imagine it as scripture.”

“Yes. It was a vision that the Christians would one day take our words from us, our books.”

“And it was here, your uncle said, that we would plan their downfall.”

The answer to a riddle which Uncle posed to me just before his last Sabbath sprouts inside me. He had asked, What lives for centuries but can still diebefore its own birth?

A book, I now realize; it is born anew in each of us when we read it. And it can die in the Inquisitional flames as surely as any of us.

Dona Meneses peers at me over her nose. “You know, if you hadn’t asked to meet me here, I might have had you killed, as well. But there is something about this place…”

“Where’s the Haggadah?!” I ask her with renewed fervor.

“I haven’t got it. Berekiah, let me…”

“I do not grant you permission to speak my true name! Use my Christian one!”

“As you like. Pedro, I was working with your uncle. For more than three years now. Tell me, do you remember Senhora Belmira?” she asks.

“The Jewish woman beaten to death by the Madre de Deus Fountain a few months ago.”

“Yes. Have you wondered why she was killed?”

“There are Old Christian men in Lisbon who will do anything to a…”

“No! It was my driver. Remember him? The swarthy one I used to have. Not one of these new Flemings I’ve got.”

“Your driver killed her?” I ask.

“Yes. A note had been sent to me. A blackmail note. I was to start handing over the Hebrew manuscripts your uncle was entrusting to me or the blackmailer would reveal my Jewish past. Not a very good position for me to be in. And not just for me, but for members of my family, as well. I was to leave a first manuscript in a hiding place by the Madre de Deus Fountain. So I did. Or rather, my driver did. He hid and waited. A woman came for it at nightfall. Senhora Belmira. My driver took her, tried to find out who had sent her. But she would not talk. Nothing he did… I’m afraid he got carried away in his loyalty to me. A boorish man. I’ve sent him back to his family in Toledo. Castilians are born murderers. Never hire them except for bullfights.”

“Did you tell my uncle?” I ask.

“I told no one,” she replies.

“You didn’t trust him?”