By Fire, By Water (33 page)

“But where is this place?” asked Levi. “Where is the Garden of Eden? Is it here in our world, or somewhere in the heavens?”

“You know, my son, it is both. In the Torah, there is the story of the land where Adam and Eve lived. It’s still there, in the Far East, guarded by angels and a flaming sword. Some day, when the Messiah comes, we’ll be able to go back.”

“And what about the other paradise?”

“That one is in the world to come. Only a few have been allowed to go there alive, and return.”

“What is it like?” asked Judith.

“When you arrive there, the angels take away your clothes and wrap you in a robe of mist. They lead you to a valley filled with rose and myrtle bushes. They give you a room on the hillside. Outside each room there’s a fruit tree. On every branch of this tree, there’s a different fruit. When the wind rustles in its leaves, the sound it makes is the sound of words, and the words are more wonderful than anything we can understand, here in Andalusia.”

Tall and ungainly, Levi fell asleep with his head on Baba Shlomo’s lap, his mind full of images of a place where he would go, one day, where nature and mankind spoke the same language.

It was still dark when Baba Shlomo awakened Levi and Judith for their crossing into the Christian side of Andalusia, the realm of Castile. As they groggily led their donkeys out of the cave, the lush valley before them glowed under a three-quarter moon. Animals and spirits grunted, whistled, and brushed against leaves in the near distance. The three travelers huddled close and talked little, so as not to attract attention. “We’re lucky,” remarked Baba Shlomo. “These demons hide in the shadows, and the moon is bright. If we stay on the path, out of the shadows of the trees, they won’t attack us.”

In truth, the old man was no less frightened than his companions. When he heard the almost inaudible flutter of an ethereal being’s diaphanous wings, Baba Shlomo was the first to stop. Trembling, he shouted the incantation, “Die and be cursed, you child of mud and clay, like Chamgaz, Merigaz, and Istema!” Only when the noise died, as if withered by his imprecation, did he permit his companions to continue on their way.

The border crossing itself was uneventful. No gate or customs house marked the frontier. At dawn, they met up with a family of farmers pushing carts of produce to the nearest town and noticed they spoke in Castilian. The two small groups of travelers cautiously ignored each other.

In the marketplace of Jaén, for the first time in their lives, Judith and her nephew saw pigs hanging by their feet, to be roasted and eaten. They saw opulently attired merchants and noblemen’s pages devouring blood sausages. They saw monks in dark robes and women in showy dresses, their breasts bulging upward like bloated fish gasping for air.

They witnessed a death parade. Musicians playing hurdy-gurdies, bladder pipes, and drums led a procession of black-robed monks swinging incense burners through the town’s main square. Black-hooded undertakers pushed a cart heaped with putrescent human corpses, whose stench the sweet odor of the monks’ incense hardly masked. Men, women, and children, some wearing crudely painted masks, others bearing flowers, danced wildly behind.

They had indeed entered the realm of the heathen. All they saw confirmed Judith’s impression that Christianity was a death cult, with no sense of what was clean and what was unclean. Even Baba Shlomo, who had spent some of his childhood in this other world, felt ill at ease.

That night they prayed in a small synagogue, a room filled with painted arches and candelabras, with a balcony for the women. After the service, the rabbi and his wife invited them home, where they gave them ill-fitting local clothes, showed them how to wear them, and advised them to avoid speaking Arabic in any town.

Baba Shlomo sometimes felt dizzy and weak. He drank cool lemon water, which provided a measure of relief. Following more weeks of travel, while they were traversing a long path through seemingly endless fields, he slumped forward and fell off his mule. He appeared to be sleeping but when Levi tried to wake him, he discovered his grandfather was not breathing.

Tradition dictated that a corpse be buried as soon as possible. Judith and Levi found a stand of oak trees, moved the old man’s body there, and stretched it upon the ground.

“Take Baba Shlomo’s mule into Daroca,” Judith instructed Levi. “Sell it for a shovel and a few yards of linen. I’ll stay here with Baba …” She caught her breath. “With Baba Shlomo.”

She tore a small gash in the side of her dress as a sign of mourning, sat on the ground, and pondered the ways their lives would be different. Baba Shlomo had come to occupy a central place in her life, becoming her living connection with the past, with the land she and Levi were nearing.

Her family had come from the north centuries ago. His had emigrated from the east hundreds of years before that. Her mother’s ancestors had dwelled in the Jewish quarter of Zaragoza with Baba Shlomo’s ancestors, attending the same synagogue, eating the same food. Their paths had surely crossed many times over the centuries. By comparison, Judith’s life in Granada, as well as Baba Shlomo’s, had been but a moment.

Baba Shlomo had bequeathed to Judith a livelihood, and to Levi a tradition. Although Levi had guided the blind old man almost everywhere, in truth Baba Shlomo had been guiding him. Without Baba Shlomo’s gentle, protective presence, Levi would have had no man to look up to following the death of his father. With whom would Levi have discussed, over the Passover seder, the issues of slavery and freedom at the heart of the Jewish tradition? Who would have chanted the prayers in their home, before Levi himself mastered them? Judith still heard Baba Shlomo’s voice twisting through those ancient melodies.

After Levi finally returned with a small cart, a shovel, and a length of linen, he began digging without a word. Lovingly, weeping, Judith wrapped Baba Shlomo in the white cloth.

At last the hole was deep enough. Through his tears, Levi began reciting the Aramaic words of the Mourner’s Kaddish.

Yitgadal
…
veyitkadash
…
sh’may rabah
…

The old silversmith, who as a child had witnessed the death of his parents, who had created a new life for himself in a foreign land, was laid to rest much the way he had lived: in exile.

Oseh shalom bimromav, hu berahamav ya
‘
aseh shalom aleinu
… “May He who makes peace in heaven, in his mercy make peace for us.”

Levi and Judith took turns shoveling dirt onto the coffin.

V’imru, amen
. “And let us say, amen.”

Luis de Santángel awoke to the noise of Iancu rapping on his bedroom door. The Moldavian informed him that two foreigners were waiting outside, with a donkey.

“Did you ask their names?”

“Migdal, my lord. A woman, a boy.”

“Migdal?” He had not heard the name pronounced in almost two years, except in his own mind. Why would she be here, in the kingdom of Aragon, at his door? Then he reminded himself: it would do no one any good if he were to be seen with her.

“Tell them I’m in Barcelona,” he instructed Iancu.

While buttoning his pourpoint, he wondered what purpose could have driven a family of silversmiths all the way from Granada to Zaragoza. He saw them through the window, walking up the narrow street with their overburdened burro. Judith looked leaner, her skin a shade darker. She had lost none of her beauty, but Time, reflected the chancellor, wove a veil of sadness over every mortal’s countenance. Or perhaps that veil covered his own eyes, causing him to see the ravages of experience all around him. Despite his better judgment, he finished dressing and hurried through the alley behind his estate. As he emerged to the street, Judith saw him and stopped.

“Chancellor, I thought you were in Barcelona.”

“I apologize. I’m eager to learn what brings you to Zaragoza. Unfortunately, I cannot be seen with you. Not here. Not now. I hope you understand.”

She looked at him with her familiar, clear regard. “Why? Because I am a foreigner? A Jew? I thought you said the Jews fared as well here as in Granada.”

He realized she was observing the gray hairs that had appeared here and there on his head, and that he was slumping, slightly but noticeably. He imagined Judith could perceive the black fog that enveloped his heart. When he had last been with her, his life had been difficult, to be sure. Since then, it had become miserable. He adjusted his posture.

“That night, that evening …” The chancellor paused, collecting his thoughts, and continued more deliberately. “I still thought of myself primarily in terms of my function, as a representative of my kingdom.”

“You were lying?”

“I was … I suppose I was. But that’s of little importance now, isn’t it?”

She offered him a tentative smile.

Levi spoke to his aunt in Arabic: “He doesn’t want us here.”

Levi’s voice had grown deeper. Santángel turned to him. Levi was a man now, gangly but strong, his chin covered with a wispy beard.

“That isn’t true.”

Levi blushed. It was the first time he had heard the chancellor speak in Arabic.

“The last time I saw you, you wanted to know whether Jesus was a magician.”

“Yes, I remember. Have you found a better answer?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Santángel turned back to Judith. “Perhaps we can meet after sunset.”

“Where?”

That night, he led Judith and her mule through the concealed passage to the king’s trysting place.

“Where is Levi?”

“We dined in the judería. Baba Shlomo would have been so happy to meet the rabbi. His father was Baba Shlomo’s cousin. Levi fell asleep. He wanted to come, but he needs to rest.”

“Of course. Is that where you intend to spend the night, in the judería?”

“Yes. They’ve been so warm to us, like family.” She reached under the burro’s belly for the tongue of the saddlebag belt. The bag slipped to the side and might have fallen to the ground had Santángel not caught it.

“Let me take that.” As Santángel carried the bag, its contents clinked.

He guided her inside, to the table, where he lit a candle. Judith looked at the paintings and furniture.

“Tell me why you have come here.”

She turned her eyes to meet his. The chancellor once again felt she was reading his heart, that she sensed his desolation. She smiled wistfully and began recounting Baba Shlomo’s dreams, his desire to travel to the land where his parents had lived and died, to see their graves. She described his sudden demise and burial.

“I’m so sorry.”

“The journey here,” reflected Judith, “was a kind of fulfillment for Baba Shlomo. We spent so much time talking. He told us the stories he grew up with. I think that was what he wanted.”

“After he passed away,” observed Santángel, “you continued to Zaragoza.”

“With the war, the market for silver in Granada …” She finished the sentence with a gesture of defeat. “I was hoping we’d find a buyer here.”

“Did you?”

“Not yet.”

“Please, let me purchase your silver.”

Judith laughed. “You haven’t seen it.”

“I should like to.”