but I could place no deep faith in her.
“I would prefer to stay,” I declared, largely to spite her.
“We shall see,” she said, standing up and walking to the stairs. “We shall both think about what we want and then talk again.”
These were conciliatory words, but I understood from her tone that her mind was already made up.
XXIV
The series of seemingly trifling events that was to greatly influence my decision to remain in Portugal and my choice of profession began when Senhor Gilberto, a local potter, paid a visit to Luna Olive Tree in mid-July, some eight weeks after the French had been expelled from Porto. At the moment of his knock, she had just discovered some drawings of sphinxes and other mythological beasts I had made when I was eleven. In the right lower corner of the first, which depicted a griffin swooping down onto the Clerics Tower, her sister Graca had inscribed affectionately,
“Clever little illustrations,” Gilberto told Luna, once he’d taken a closer look. “Who did them?”
“John Stewart. A lad on our street. The one we gave your tile of a triton to years ago.”
Chuckling, Gilberto said, “He has good taste, this boy!”
“Indeed, except for admiring your work, he has always shown sound reasoning.”
“Ouch!” He feigned an arrow in his heart and pulled it free, then laughed again. “Is he still here in Porto?”
“Yes, but his father was killed by the French. And he needs work, poor boy.”
The two of them came to my house later that afternoon. I was relieved to see Luna again, as she had dressed in black and not taken a single step outside since Graca’s funeral. We kissed tenderly, as an even greater bond of affection had developed between us since her sister’s death.
After she introduced Gilberto to me, I complimented him on his work and told him that his tile was still buried under the weeds in our garden for safekeeping.
When we were all comfortably seated on our patio, Gilberto made his proposal: Having seen my drawings and recognized a certain talent, he was prepared to employ me as an apprentice for a period of three years. During this time I would earn a small salary and have the right to fire as much pottery as I liked for my own use. He would work me hard but he would teach me valuable skills, and I would never want for a line of life. If all went well, he would either take me on as his junior partner on my twenty-first birthday or provide a loan for the establishment of my own enterprise, as long as I agreed to do business at a distance no less than three miles by coach from his own shop.
“This is a most exciting prospect,” said Mother, “but I have my doubts as to its practicality. Of late, we have been considering a move to England, to live with my late husband’s elder sister.”
I felt none of Mama’s doubt; so strong was my desire to remain in Porto and learn a solid trade that I knew I would accept Gilberto’s generous offer.
“Shall I be allowed to work on my own designs?” I asked.
“Codfish cakes!” Luna exclaimed. “Where are your manners, lad?”
Gilberto placed a calming hand on her arm. “Not at first, John. I would not think it wise for you to begin too hastily. But after six months or so, you might start to add your own touches — I don’t see why not.”
“Senhor Gilberto, before we enter into any agreement, I want to tell you some things about myself — to avoid later misunderstandings, you understand. I would not want dearest Luna’s fondness for me to blind you to my defects. First and foremost, I am stubborn. And despite Mother’s entreaties and her stellar example, my manners are far from perfect. Also, unlike many Portuguese, I do not dislike the Spanish. I am most partial to Velazquez, Ribera, and Goya. I hate narrow-mindedness, and I am half-Jewish.”
Gilberto took my arm. “Goya, you say? I have seen his prints at Luna’s house, and his gifts are so great that they frighten me on occasion.” Then he announced, “I’d like to follow John’s sensible speech and say a few words about myself.” Here, the good potter declared himself surly in the morning, neglectful of his own personal cleanliness at times, and inordinately proud of the beautiful things he could make with his hands. He concluded by stating for the record, “I make a special effort to sing off-key when I am with people I do not like and who are wasting my time.” Leaning to the side as though to fart, he added, “And I sometimes have piles that make me howl when I use my chamber pot.”
I laughed for the first time in ages. Even Mama was won over by his effort to make us smile. I was so fond of him already that I would have started my apprenticeship the very next day, but my mother explained that we needed to discuss moving to England and would give him an answer in a week.
She and I did talk at length about his offer several times, and I believe that my decision to stay was in some ways a relief to her. Not that she wished to leave me behind, but she needed to start a new life in a home unburdened by memory and grief — and by my expectations. We were learning to love each other again, but we needed to follow our own paths. I see that plainly now. Our house was simply too full of memories of Father and Midnight for her to bear.
By the beginning of November, Mama felt confident enough to book passage to England. She also had her pianoforte shipped off to Aunt Fiona’s home. On the day before she left, she asked me to fetch her menorah, which I had recently dug up from our garden. Gripping it tightly, she twisted off the round, scallop-edged base.
“I didn’t know it could do that,” I said in astonishment.
“Your father and I were the only ones who did.”
Reaching inside the hollow of the lamp’s stem, she pulled out a vellum scroll, which, once unfurled, revealed itself to be a colorful illumination. At its center was a gold-leaf square containing four neatly scripted lines of Hebrew writing, surrounded by garlands of pink and carmine flowers. At the very top was a peacock whose exuberant tail fanned across the top of the page.
I had never seen any design so stunning.
Allowing me to hold it, Mama said, “It was made by an ancestor of ours. His name was Berekiah Zarco. He was an artist from a family of manuscript illuminators who was born in Lisbon centuries ago and later moved to Constantinople. Berekiah was a very learned man, but that is all my father was able to tell me about him. This has been handed down in our family for many generations. I believe it is the cover for a book of European geography. At least, that is what your grandfather had been told by his parents.”
“Grandfather Joao gave it to you?”
“Yes, and now,” she said, smiling, “I am giving it to you.”
“To me, why?”
“It was always intended for you. I ought to have given it to you on your thirteenth birthday, but with all our problems … For better or for worse, I thought it best to wait. I was worried, too, that you were still upset at being half-Jewish and that this would only heighten your sense of exclusion. As I must leave you now, I wish to delay my gift no longer. I need not say how valuable it must be, nor that you must keep it a secret, since possessing Hebrew writing may still be a crime in Portugal, for all I know.”
“May I show it to Benjamin? He is able to read Hebrew.”
She considered that request. “You may, John, but only upon the condition that he never reveal its existence while a member of our family remains in Portugal.
“I feel I ought to give you some advice,” she continued, “but I find I have none to give. So I’ll only say that I am proud of you and love you. I am counting on you to do better in your life than I have. I’m sure Papa would wish the same thing if he were here.”
I was so sad and nervous that I could hardly speak.
“John, I mean what I say,” she said, almost threateningly. “I think most parents hope their children will grow up to copy their lives, but that’s the very last thing I want. I would very much like you to forget about me.”
“I could never forget you, Mama, so I’m not sure — ”
