The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon

you know what I mean.” He squints at me. “Nothin’ goes on here I don’t know about. Your man arrived Wednesday, lookin’ and smellin’ worse than his horse.”

“What room is he in?”

“Upstairs.” He points to an open door at the back of the dining room. “To the left. Last door on the right.”

Aunt Esther answers my knock with a gasp. “Berekiah! Is everything all…”

I push past her. Afonso sits on an unmade bed in his long underwear. His feet are shriveled and coarse, like unearthed mandrake roots. “Ever hear of Simon the fabric importer?” I ask him.

“A friend of your uncle’s. Esther wrote to me about…”

“So she wrote to you.” I bow toward her. “You’ve been using your gifts well, dearest aunt.”

Her face becomes hard and cold. “Your judgment is noted,” she says. “Now get out!”

“Did you ever meet him?” I ask Afonso.

“What’s this about?” he questions, his face all shock and puzzlement.

“Just answer my question!”

Esther pushes against me as Afonso answers, “I honestly don’t remember. I may have.”

Without warning, my aunt slaps my face. As I grab her wrist, Afonso jumps up. “Leave her alone!” he shouts.

Farid steps between Esther and me, removes my hand. He glares at me, signals, “Don’t you dare touch her again,” then leads her to the bed.

She sits and rubs at her wrist. Her eyes are glassy, and her back is bent forward as if she’s weighed down by a locket bearing her grief. Such is my rage, however, that her figure cannot elicit from me even the ash of the burning solidarity I once felt for her. To Afonso, I say, “So you wouldn’t know if he has any disabilities? That he has crutches, wears black silk gloves to…”

Farid signals that I talk too much and suddenly tosses a few of Dona Meneses’ emeralds and sapphires toward Afonso. The old thresher thrusts a hand out and catches one. “What’s this…?!” he demands, showing it to me.

Farid grips my shoulder. “Forget about him!” he signals with a cutting motion. “Not only wasn’t he in town, but look at which hand he used!”

“The left!” I signal back.

“And the slope of the cut across your uncle’s neck, it was…”

Each step in our flight back to my house seems to fix the last of the missing verses of a long-lost poem into place. White Maimon of the Two Mouths! Of course, Gemila was right! In her hysteria, who else would she form out of a hooded killer with scars on his face and blood on his hands? Everything fit: the timing of Uncle’s discovery of Haman’s persona; the blackmailer’s choice of Senhora Belmira as a go-between; even the murderer’s own words about never being tortured again.

And the date on which the blackmailer demanded that Dona Meneses turn over the latest manuscripts to be smuggled from Portugal—that, too, implicated only one suspect.

The garments of mystery drop away one by one until a single face stares at me.

In our courtyard, a donkey with raw saddle sores is tossing flies away with his tail. From the inner window in my bedroom, I see that Cinfa, Reza and my mother are standing in the store with my cousin Meir from Tavira. “Beri!” he cries. He rushes to me open-armed.

“Not now!” I say, raising my hands to keep him away. “Mother, where’s Diego and Father Carlos?”

“Why?”

“Must you ask questions! Where are they?!”

“The priest has gone back again to the Church of Sao Domingos. Diego is in the cellar. He went downstairs to say evening prayers. What do you…”

Cinfa interrupts, “No, Diego came upstairs while we were in here. Just a few minutes ago. You weren’t looking, Mother.”

“Let’s go!” Farid signals.

“Wait, I think I know why he went to the cellar. And what we discover there may help us cross the last gate.”

I unhook one of the lamps hanging from the crossbeam above the table. After sliding away our Persian carpet, Farid rips open the trap door. I take out my knife, descend. But the darkness gives up only emptiness. The genizah is closed. Neatness is a holy duty, I think. It was the murderer himself who reminded me that. With the key from the eel bladder, Farid opens the lid. I shine my light into the hiding place. All of Uncle’s manuscripts are gone! Even our pouch of coins.

We rush up the stairs and head through the courtyard to the Rua de Sao Pedro. Farid’s fingers play against my shoulder blade. “Do you know where he was leaving from?” he gestures.

I shake my head. “But I think I know where he’s gone. He wouldn’t dare try to leave Portugal with Hebrew books. If he were caught—pinga. He must…”

“Berekiah!”

Antonio Escaravelho, the New Christian beggar, is slumped in his usual spot across the street, calling to me.

“Have you seen anyone come from my house—out the courtyard gate?” I shout.

He nods and points down the street toward the Cathedral. “Set off that way just a little while ago.”

Farid grabs my arm, signals, “So where’s he gone?”

“To trade them. With what he stole and the ring I gave him, he could get anything he wanted. He could even buy the volumes of Plato he wanted.”

Soft candlelight frames the shutters of Senhora Tamara’s bookstore. “Blessed be He who opens the Gate of Vengeance,” I whisper as the door handle turns in my hand. Farid comes panting to my side. I caress the wood open. We step inside.

Diego.

Surprise crosses his face for only a moment. He stands over the desk at the back of the room, wary, an owl’s impenetrable silence concealing his thoughts. The books stolen from our genizah are piled by his feet. Senhora Tamara is seated on a stool, her hands linked in her lap. She speaks, but I do not hear. Behind her stands a wiry African slave with large, dull features and the imploded cheeks of a starving man. Confusion and fear crease his sweaty brow.

I fix the scene in my Torah memory.

Diego and I continue to stare at each other across a ritual space of flame-like heat and clarity. Senhora Tamara stands. Her mouth moves. The shadows on Diego’s white robes tremble as he straightens up. My legs tense as if preparing me for flight. My heartbeat swells toward a grace akin to sexual power. Beneath his beard, I imagine the scar on his marble-white chin, red, lined with vertical stitches, a second mouth of betrayal and murder. “White Maimon of the Two Mouths,” I whisper.

He slips a knife from his cloak, long, squared at the end; a shohet’s blade. The slave takes a stiletto from his pouch. In his other hand, he clutches a cane ending in a serpent’s head.

Senhora Tamara’s words penetrate my nervous rage for the first time: “Berekiah, what’s wrong?” She steps toward me.

“Leave!” I order her. My glaring eyes remain fixed on Diego.

She comes to Farid, presses desperate hands to his chest. “What’s wrong, my boy? Tell me!”

“He killed Uncle,” I say.

“Diego?!” She whips around to him. “Is this true?!”

He opens his hands palm up in a peacemaking gesture. “Of course I didn’t,” he replies.

I reach for the Senhora and tug her toward the door. “Go!” I shout.

She stands firm. Still keeping my eyes focused on Diego, I pull the door open. She resists my prodding, caresses my chin. “But dear boy, Diego said you had given him permission to trade the books…that your mother was too frightened to keep Hebrew books in her house.”

“In the name of God, leave!” I say.