The Day of Atonement

Lisbon, 1745

When I was a boy, there were days when I was outrageously, deliriously happy, even while I knew such happiness to be a mistake. Perhaps it is merely the way memory works, but over the decade that followed, I came to believe that the day of my greatest happiness was also the last time I knew of any happiness at all.

I recall running along Chiado Hill, moving with the grace and speed possessed only by the young, winding through streets crowded and so narrow I could have reached out and touched the houses on opposing sides. Seven years before that day, when I had been only six years old, my uncle had been trampled to death by a careless
fidalgo
on horseback not far from the very spot where I ran. My mother often reminded me of the dangers, but I knew better than she—or, I presumed, my late uncle—how to avoid them. I was an expert at dodging beggars and peddlers, avoiding the notice of judgmental priests,
and leaping over piles of donkey turds. I knew how to place my feet to avoid slipping upon the street stones, uneven and loose. I made myself an engine of propulsion, as methodical and unwavering in my purpose as the distant windmills on the hills beyond Lisbon.

That day I ran with perhaps a bit more caution than was my usual. I was thirteen years old, and had the sense of invulnerability of all boys that age, but I was also a Portuguese New Christian, and therefore well attuned to the ways in which the universe’s clockwork mechanism produced irony and misery in equal measure. I’d seen men taken by the Inquisition on the same day they were to be married or had witnessed the birth of a child. Both of my grandfathers and one of my grandmothers had died in the dungeons below the Palace of the Inquisition. My mother often said that too bright an outlook invited bad luck, and I knew she was right. But that did not mean she had to be right today.

Over and over again, I put my hand inside my pocket to make certain it was still there—the necklace I had bought, just that morning, from Old Paolo, the peddler. I clutched it and felt the cool of the silver, which somehow reminded me of the softness of Gabriela’s skin. The necklace was for her, and so it seemed to me almost a part of her already, and touching it felt intimate and exciting and forbidden. I also wanted to make certain a pickpocket hadn’t taken it, for to travel five minutes out of doors with silver on your person was to invite theft.

I had lived all my years in fear and uncertainty, for that was the lot of my kind, but that day, at that moment, all was different. I had decided I was in love, and though she had not said so, I was sure Gabriela loved me in return. Earlier that afternoon, we had kissed for the first time, and I knew, right then, how I wanted my life to unfold. I knew how it
must
unfold because we would not be in Lisbon forever, nor even for long. Soon, we would no longer live in fear. It seemed simple and inevitable.

I was not supposed to know any of this, but I had a habit of eavesdropping.
This was surely my father’s fault. If he did not send me out of the room when he discussed matters of importance, I would not have to resort to listening in secret. If he were willing to share with me the family business, I would never have had to teach myself how to unseal and reseal notes without leaving a mark on the wax. I knew he had his reasons. In Lisbon, secrets could be deadly. Perhaps he was right not to trust a boy my age, but someday he would realize how much faith he could put in me. Until then, I would take matters into my own hands.

I never said a word of what I knew, though I ached to tell this secret to Gabriela. By law, New Christians could never leave Portugal, but my father had money secreted away, and he intended to bribe soldiers and customs agents and sailors. He had friends among the colony of English merchants, that confederation of traders called the Factory. I had read the letters, written in code, that my father had sent to his friend the Englishman Charles Settwell. Our family and Gabriela and her father were going to leave. The five of us would flee to England or the Netherlands or France or another country beyond the Inquisition’s reach.

Perhaps it would not be this month, or even this season, but plans were in motion, and they could not be stopped. My father would soon have the money he required, and in Lisbon, the power of money dwarfed the power of the law, the crown, and sometimes, if luck was with you, even the Inquisition.

No, I could not tell Gabriela about any of this, but I could show her what she meant to me. For now, that would have to be enough.

I emerged from a series of dark and winding alleys and onto my own street, wider and brighter, with attached houses covered with glittering tiles. All through the city, bells rang, as they always did, loud and clear and bright. They were the sound of home. I ran past a trio of New Christian traders, friends of my father, clustered in serious conversation, and if they paused to look up at me as I sped past, I thought nothing of it. I offered the men a wave and moved on. I ran
past a cluster of dark-robed Jesuits, and if their eyes fell upon me, I hardly cared. I even ran past the very worst of that species, the Jesuit Pedro Azinheiro, an Inquisitor who was said to hate Englishmen even more than New Christians. The man was a dandy, a womanizer, a mockery of a priest, and there was no one more feared among the city’s merchants. Even so, I waved at him as well. I was merely running, and even the Inquisition would not make a crime out of that.

The hill grew steeper yet, and I began to run short of breath, but it hardly mattered. I stopped and leaned forward for a moment, breathing hard, feeling the sweat drip down my back. My shirt, under my waistcoat, clung to my body. It was May, and already as hot as summer. I knew it would be cooler wherever my father chose to take us. That would be a nice change.

I found her where she said she would be, only a few streets over from our houses, outside the church of São Roque. She sat on the low stone wall, her legs dangling beneath her long brown skirts. She wore a bonnet that covered most of her inky hair, but the sight of a few wayward strands escaping their bondage excited me in ways I did not yet entirely understand.

Gabriela was lovely, and I was by no means the only one who thought so. Grown men stopped to look at her. That buffoon Eusebio Nobreza often attempted to strike up halting conversations with her, but if I was around, we children would start giggling, and Eusebio would storm off, infuriated.

Now neither of us giggled. I walked over to her, still winded from my run, taking in deep breaths as I let the sight of her wash over me. I tried to be subtle even as I stared at her big, dark eyes, her round face, her sharp nose, slightly flat at the bridge. All of her perfections and imperfections cast a spell, and I found that, for a moment, I could not speak.

“You’re late,” Gabriela said, pursing her lips into a knot. “I told you to meet me here
before
the bells rang.”

Just like that, I was no longer apprehensive. Why should I have been? This was Gabriela, not a stranger. I had no memory of anything before I knew her. We had almost no secrets from each other. She knew the whole of who I was, and knowing that, she had chosen to kiss me that very morning.

“I’m only seconds late,” I told her as I pushed myself up on the wall to sit next to her.

“Still,” she said with a smile both wicked and shy, “you shouldn’t keep a lady waiting.”

“Then I won’t,” I said. “Never again.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the necklace. “I brought you something,” I told her, holding it up for her inspection. What I wanted, more than anything, was to put it on her. I wanted to reach out, placing both hands behind her neck, and gently brush her skin with my fingers as I fastened the hooks. The thought of doing it made my heart pound, and so I hesitated, and that instant became several seconds while I remained frozen, holding up the silver. Gabriela’s eyes went wide and then narrow and finally wide again. What did it mean? I tried to interpret her expression like a Gypsy sorting through tea leaves. As I did, a hand reached out, fast as a rabbit, and pulled the necklace from my grasp. My gift to Gabriela had been stolen.

Once again, I was running, this time downhill, which was both easier and more dangerous. I nearly caught up with the thief just a few streets away. The fugitive was small and quick, but his legs were not as long as mine, and as much as he wanted to escape with the necklace, I wanted it back more. He was greedy, but my need was greater.

I was perhaps ten feet behind the thief when he went flying
through the air in an awkward, flailing tumble. His arms were splayed, and his mouth formed an O of terror and surprise. He landed hard, managing to keep his face up, but his chest slammed into the paving stones. I heard his sudden exhalation of pain.