Hunting Midnight

While we walked to her home through the impasse of silence I had created, I fell into despair, presuming I’d scared her off with my direct manner. At her door, I apologized for speaking inappropriately.

“John, please say no more, you have done nothing wrong,” she said, placing her hand over my mouth for a moment. Her touch made me jump. “I understand you better than you think. My father and I, there isn’t a day that passes that we do not miss my mother.” She smiled sadly. “Please come inside and sit with us. There is no need to be reticent. We are people who understand loss.” She took my hand and gazed deep into my eyes. “Please, I am your friend,” she assured me.

Five small words, but the way she said them — with the care of a person setting delicate flowers in a simple vase — convinced me that she understood that it was not mere momentary diversion I sought from her. I brought her hand back to my lips. The possibility that my loneliness was at an end … I smiled and kissed her once more, closing my eyes to breathe in her scent.

We discovered Senhor Egedio stoking the fire. I was touched by the eager affection he displayed toward Francisca and impressed by the sense of ease he created around him. He offered me a glass of wine.

“I should like to show you something, John,” he said. Scratching the whiskers on his chin, his eyes twinkled mischievously. “I shall return presently. And, Francisca, if you discuss me while I am gone I shall know!” With that, he disappeared upstairs.

“He never sits still. I was born to a weaver’s shuttle,” Francisca whispered.

Egidio came back into the room carrying a stack of mantillas. When Francisca saw them draped over his arm, she hid her head in her hands and groaned.

“What is it?” I asked her.

“The clever lass is embarrassed because she made them,” her father said.

He held them in the cradle of his arm for me to study, as though each were an infant. He had large coarse hands, with flecks of dirt in his fingernails, but his extreme gentleness in all things involving his daughter moved me — and reassured me as well that I was right where I ought to be.

Francisca cringed while we discussed her handiwork and refused to come and join us. “No, no, no,” she said, shooing us both away playfully.

In one mantilla of deep red she had incorporated a fire-colored pattern of autumn leaves. In another of chestnut, she had created a white and yellow blazing sun. I had never seen anything like them, as shawls in anything other than block colors were generally not worn in Porto. But what impressed me most was her imagination.

When I caught her eye and smiled, she sighed. “Papa lives to torture his children.”

“It is called pride, child,” he corrected with a wink.

Francisca continued to dismiss her work as I asked her questions about knitting techniques and methods. “With all that goes on in the world, who could possibly care what I make?” she told me.

I refused to give in to her modesty. “If,” I said, adopting the pose of a fine British gentleman, “if, young lady, I were to commission you now to make a waistcoat for me with the sun — or any other design you choose — incorporated in its weave, would you finally believe my admiration is real?”

As she still thought that I was merely being polite, I gave her a hard look and tossed her a hundred- reis coin, which she caught in both her hands. She shook her head at such an absurdity, then grinned. I could tell that although I may not yet have won her heart, I had indeed gained her trust.

*

The next evening she wore the red shawl I had given her as a gift. We walked again by the river, and she suggested that we take the ferry to the far bank. Without warning she looked at me defiantly, hoisted up the fringe of her dress, and raced off toward the boat, laughing all the way. I didn’t try to catch her; it was such an unladylike thing to do that I couldn’t take my admiring eyes off her.

Once on the ferry, I could think of nothing but kissing her, and my conversation was patchy at best.

In great danger of fainting, I risked everything by pressing my lips to hers.

*

Later that evening, defying all convention, we dared to enter my home unchaperoned. We were so nervous that we did not speak. My heart seemed to be beating outside my body.

After we’d kissed for a time once again, I slipped my fingers under the ruffles of her dress. She started when I did so, and I begged forgiveness for my impetuosity. But she clasped my hand and said, “Your fingers are cold, John, that’s all.”

Then she asked where my room was.

Hence, it was in my old bed that we first made love, creating a raft of our own entwined bodies and drifting off to sea.

Afterward, I was giddy. I pranced about the room stark naked, singing Robert Burns’s “Rantin’ Rovin’ Robin” in an operatic voice.

The next night, I asked if she would be my wife, and she agreed.

As a parting gift, I gave Francisca the letter from Joaquim to Lucia that had fluttered out of The Fox Fables when I was seven, which had taught me so much about the language of love. She sat with her legs crossed on my bed like a child and read it by candlelight. While she was reading, I went to my window and, gazing up at the stars, whispered a prayer for Violeta’s safety. I think it was my way of saying good-bye to her forever.

After Francisca and I had slunk back to her home like criminals, she brought out my going-away present. It was a vest knitted of black wool, with the moon in different phases patterned into the weave. That seemed the most promising gift possible, as it was the moon, Midnight had said, who had told men and women of their eternal life.

*

So it was that I left for London already betrothed, and though my two months’ sojourn with Mother and Aunt Fiona was heartwarming, and the majesty and madness of London made my mouth drop open in amazement on many an occasion, I wished to be home in Porto at every moment.

Mama was, of course, overjoyed to hear of my impending marriage. She had become as eager and open with me as when I was young, and nothing gave her more pleasure than simply sitting with me. She had me describe everything about my evenings with Francisca, and though I was careful to omit the more intimate details, she guessed the truth soon enough.

“You have always shown great patience for many things, John, most of all for me. But you have never wanted to wait for affection.” She laughed. “Though I suppose that is a good thing. Why must so deep a love as you have found wait?”

Francisca and I exchanged letters twice weekly, which served to deepen our intimacy. She wrote to me once that she had woken in the night to hear me imitating birds.

Then you spoke to me, and you said, “Fly, Francisca, anywhere you wish. I shall try my best not be jealous.” Isn’t that odd?

Dream or not, I wrote back, we shall endeavor to make it true. Though I beg younot to soarso high that I losesight of you. And you must promise to always return to me.

I give you my vow, she agreed.

She always signed her letters, Your friend, Francisca. That meant everything to me.

*

We were married three months after my return, on September the Fourteenth of 1813, by which time Francisca had missed her time of the month on three successive occasions.

I was eager for my mother to attend the ceremony, particularly as we had rediscovered so much of our spontaneous affection during my stay in England, but she was hesitant to declare herself ready to return to Porto. In the end, we decided it best to proceed without her. I assured her that she would be with us in spirit, and that her blessing was all that mattered.

We were married in the Sao Bento Church, where I compromised with Francisca and agreed to take Christian vows — like thousands of Portuguese Jews before me. Luna, Benjamin, Gilberto, Senhora Beatriz, and Grandmother