In the Garden of Iden (4 page)

“She’s a bad lady. She was going to kill me. I told you that.”

He just nodded. “They’re going to try to make you confess to being a Jew yourself, you know.”

“But I’m not a Jew. I told them that,” I said wearily. “If they would only take me back to my mama, she’d tell them.”

“But they don’t know where your mama is. You can’t remember.”

He had me there. I blinked back tears.

“Come with me now,” he said, and held out his hand.

We went back into the other room, he sat me in my chair, and I glared at them all.

“Little girl, tell us the truth,” said the priest.

“I told you the truth already,” I said.

“If you do not tell us the truth,” he said, just as if I hadn’t spoken, “you will be severely punished.”

“I did tell you the truth,” I squeaked.

“Are you a Jew, little girl?”

“No!”

“When were you first taught Jewish rites?”

“What?”

“Have you ever been inside a Christian church?”

“Yes.”

“That proves nothing.” The priest made a gesture of dismissal. “The Jews go to Mass to mock the Sacrament. Many have confessed to it. What creed have you been taught, little girl?”

What was a creed? I sat mute.

“How often does your mother change her linen?”

“Oh, lots,” I said. “She has to wash and wash, all the time.” I meant rows and rows of little diapers drying on the bushes, but that hadn’t been what
he’d
meant.

“She washes, eh? And does she wash your food, also, before she prepares it?”

“Sometimes.”

The priest shot a triumphant look at the man in red. “You see? Even considering the child’s age and mendacity, certain things may be discovered.” Apparently he had scored a point of some kind. I looked from one to another of their faces, trying to guess what I’d done. The secretary got up to light a taper, because the room was filling with night. In this pause, the door opened and in came another Inquisidor.

“Excellence.” He bowed. “The woman Mendoza has testified.”

“And?”

He looked cautiously at me, but the priest waved him on. “She has confessed that she is a practitioner of sorcery and stole the child from her parents.”

“See!” I yelled, and the man in red positively grinned.

“She has also confessed, however,” the Inquisidor continued, “to being a secret Jew, to being a Morisca, to being the concubine of Almanzor, and to being the Empress of Muscovy.” There fell a disgruntled silence.

“Continue the inquiry,” ordered the priest. “Persuade her.”

The Inquisidor bowed and left. “This always happens,” remarked the man in red.

The priest swung back to me. “Do you see what happens to liars, little girl?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I don’t think you do.” He stood up. “We must show you.”

They got up, and the Biscayan took me firmly by the wrist, and we left that room with the secretary scurrying after us, fumbling his paper and pen. We went along some halls to a dark place that smelled bad. I could hear crying, loud crying. I remember a little window high in a wall. They opened it and lifted me up to look through. It was dark in there, but as my eyes got used to the darkness, I could see glowing coals … and other things I would prefer not to describe.

My eyes hurt. And I couldn’t breathe. The priest put his face up very close and said:

“You can save your mother. All you have to do is tell us the truth.”

I remember trying to push his face away with my hand because his breath was very hot. I found myself staring at the Biscayan. He was leaning against the wall, watching me, his mouth set, his eyes blank.

I don’t remember what I said, but I must have said something to make them take me down from that terrible little window and let me look anywhere else. They didn’t take me back to my cell. I was taken to a different room, a tiny place. One chair filled it entirely. Here I was put, and the door was closed. I was left alone in the dark.

But not for long. Briefly the door opened, and the man in red looked in at me. His eyes were full of compassion. “Pray, my child,” he told me. “Accept Jesus Christ as your Savior. Take this comfort.” He hung something on the inside of the door and closed it again.

A little light slanted down from somewhere, and a figure swam toward me out of the darkness. It was Jesus on the Cross.

A word here about comparative styles in religious art. My little village church had been built in the Gothic style. Stone arches, no plaster, not much decoration. Its furnishings were similarly rude and rustic, for we were, after all, a very poor parish. A few rough saints chopped out of the local stone, smoky candles guttering on rock. The church’s great crucifix was old and ax-hewn, stuck up in the shadows behind the altar, and what with the distance and the darkness, Jesus looked as if He were standing in a tree, watching us with alert if yellowed eyes.

But this crucifix, now, was a fine expensive modern thing, from Castile or maybe even Naples. This might have been the Bishop’s very own crucifix. It was as real as they could make it. Someone had carved, someone had sanded and polished that poor gaunt body with such care that every bone and sinew shaped out perfect, anatomically precise. Someone had painted it with matte-smooth paint, the color of gray pearls or the skin of a dying man. And not to forget the details: the wounds pink and crusted with black at the edges for dried blood, just like the real thing. The wet yellow stain seeping down from the side wound. The artist who reproduced those thin red lines from the flagellum must have had a tiny brush, fine as an eyelash; yes, and he must have studied real welts, laid on live sweating backs, to show the bruising so well. The matted hair and vicious crown of thorns were reproduced with such veracity that you could see the dust caking the braids, you could see the bright blood drops.

But it was the face, of course, that was the masterwork.

An intelligent face, eyes wide and dark. You could imagine this Christ laughing, or angry, or asleep. Beyond all that, you could see the God shining through the man.

Having given you all this, this living Christ that your heart went out to, the artist put the knife in and twisted it. The mouth was opening in a gasp of pain, the teeth were bared in agony. Those live dark eyes looked out in desperation from that agony to plead, to ask a question I had no answer for. God was being murdered in front of my eyes.

So He hung before me in the gloom, illuminated by one weak beam of light. I was terrified. I couldn’t get away, I couldn’t.

“I’m sorry, Lord Jesus, I’m sorry, Lord Jesus, I’m sorry, Lord Jesus …”

“Why are you causing me such suffering?” cried my hallucination through bleeding lips.

“I don’t know, Lord Jesus. I’m sorry, Lord Jesus. Couldn’t we get you down from there and get you a barber-surgeon or something?”

“No.”

“Couldn’t we put bandages on you to make you better?”

“No.”

“But why not?”

“Because my suffering is eternal. While men live, they must sin; and while they sin, I must bleed here. I am dying in torment for you. You are the one who pushes these thorns in my flesh by your sin.”

“But when did I sin?”

“In the Garden. Because you sinned there, God sent me to be crucified.”

“I’m sorry! I don’t remember what I did in the garden, but I’m sorry! Can’t you come down now?”

“Never.” The weary eyes closed for a moment. He was so beautiful, He was in such pain, and I’d have done anything to get those nails out of His hands and feet. But I was so afraid of Him.

“It’s not my fault,” I wept. “I wasn’t even born then.”

“That doesn’t matter,” He explained. “As part of the human race, you are born to Sin. You’re one of the daughters of Eve. You can’t avoid Sin even if you want to.”

“Then no matter what I do, I’ll always hurt you?” I was appalled.

“Yes.”

“Who made things this way?”

“I did.” Sweat glittered on His brow. “I took your state upon myself to redeem you from all Sin.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said. “You should go back to heaven and live with the angels. How could I ever be happy again if I hurt you so much? I don’t
want
you to suffer for me.”

“You will not be saved.”

I looked around at the darkened room, remembered my cell and the other room. “But I’m already damned, aren’t I? And at least you won’t be up on that cross anymore.”

“You really mean this?” He looked intently at me.

I meant it with all my heart.

So He shrugged, and the nails came flying out of His hands and feet like bullets. The crown of thorns sprang away from His head like a lute string snapping. His stigmata closed, healed over, were gone. The weals of the scourge receded into His skin.

He stepped down from the Cross, pulled His red robe around Himself, and gave me a courteous nod before striding into the darkness and disappearing. I collapsed back into my chair, overwhelmed with relief. It was short-lived.

The door burst outward and light blinded me. My three Inquisidors stood there, dark against the light like mountains. The priest looked furious. He must have found out that I was talking to Jesus, I thought. “Are you ready to tell us the truth?” he said.

“What?” I blinked at him. He reached in and pulled me out, twisting, by the wrist.

“We have been gentle with you to this hour. We will soon be driven to force if you do not repent.”

“I repent!”

“Then tell us the truth.”

“I did!”

“We do not believe you. We will go down, now, to show you what will happen to you if you do not repent.” And then we went that bad way again, to the bad-smelling place. There the priest set me down and said:

“Now, tell us the truth. Are you a secret Jew?”

And for the first time I wondered: Could I possibly be a Jew and not even know it? Jews were liars, everybody said so. I told lies myself, now and then. Was it possible I’d fooled even myself? Was that why I felt so guilty about poor Jesus? Had I made up a story about Christian parents to conceal my crimes? I swallowed hard and said: “I might be. I think. I don’t know.”

“I see,” said the priest, all smooth now. “And
we
see. We know the truth. You’re a very wicked child, to have waited so long to tell us.” But I hadn’t said positively. I stared at him in bewilderment.

“I’m sorry.”

“You can save your mother more pain if you tell us everything.”

I just stared. I couldn’t think up things off the top of my head, I needed time. “But we can continue later,” he said, as if reading my mind. “At another time. Until then, you can think about the things you will tell me.”

How stupid I’d been, to try to hide anything from such a man.

The Biscayan led me away, back, I thought, to my cell; but halfway there he stopped and put his hand flat on a place in the wall beside us. There was no latch, no subtle engine that I could see, yet a little door clicked and swung inward. “Come with me,” he said, and stepped through quickly and pulled me after him. The door closed behind us.

We went into a brilliantly lit room where there was another man. The man wore some manner of thin white surcoat over his clothes. He talked with the Biscayan in a language I did not know. He sounded nervous. When they had spoken together, the Biscayan left. I looked up at the man in the white surcoat.

He took away my rags and shaved my head. He had to put me in restraints to do that, and I thought the end had come. I screamed and screamed. I said I’d tell him everything. He never said a word in reply, but his face went very red. He put needles in my skin. He drew out a tube of my blood. He spent a long time examining my bare skull with calipers.

Writing about this now, I still can’t bring myself to laugh at it much.

In time he covered me with a blanket and went away. I was left there trembling under the glaring lights. Much later, the door opened, and the Biscayan came into the room. He pulled up a chair and sat down beside me where I lay. “Well, little Mendoza,” he said. “You’re not doing so well, are you?”

“Are you going to burn me in the fire?” I asked him.

“No, Mendoza, not I. I am, in fact, your greatest friend in the world right now.”

I looked at him in deep distrust. His black eyes were kind, he was turning on the charm, but I had seen him looking on blank while the priest deviled me. “I know who my friend is,” I said. “The man in the red clothes. Not you.”

“Well, unfortunately he isn’t here right now. He’s been recalled to the Bishop for a reprimand. And you certainly know that Fray Valdeolitas isn’t your friend. He thinks you’re guilty. I, on the other hand, know you’re innocent.”

“You mean I’m not a secret Jew?” I was dazed.

“No, of course not. You’re only a little girl who has been treated badly for no reason at all. I think that’s unfair. I’d like to help you, Mendoza.”

“Then why didn’t you stop the priest?”

“I couldn’t, then. His rank in the Holy Office is a lot higher than mine. But look, I’ve hidden you away here; and I am prepared to offer you even more safety.”

“How?” My heart beat fast.

“Let’s talk a little first.” He pulled his chair closer. “You know by now what happens to people when the Holy Office finds them guilty, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “They burn in a big fire.”

“And you don’t want that to happen to you.”

“Oh, no.”

“Right. But suppose I let you walk out of here right now. You’ve lost your mama and papa. Who will take care of you? Where will you sleep when night comes?” My eyes filled with tears, and the Biscayan patted my hand soothingly. “It’s scary, isn’t it? But you know what’s even more scary than that? Listen to me, Mendoza.

“You’d go out of here and maybe you’d starve to death in a week or two, because you haven’t got any money, have you? Wouldn’t that be awful? To escape from here and die anyway.”

“Yes.” I was glassy-eyed: New Horizons in Fear.

“But, suppose you didn’t die so soon? Suppose you lived to be twenty years old. That’s good, yes? Except that it’s still very hard to stay alive. You’ll have to do things you don’t like, bad things maybe. And what if you get killed by the plague or soldiers? Terrible, terrible.