The Day of Atonement (11 page)

“I shan’t indulge,” I said, “but you may pursue your own interests when you are not otherwise engaged.”

Enéas snorted out a laugh. “I accept your offer. I was a slave to those men, and never earned a coin for my labor or my sorrow. It is said that the English treat their servants well.”

“Some do, and some do not,” I said. “I do. You will return to my inn and sleep in my front room there. You will eat upon my bill, and rest until dawn. And then I shall put you to work.”

“What manner of work, my master?”

“Seeking information and not being detected.”

The boy nodded and grinned as though this were the very thing of which he had always dreamed.

The next morning, I took a leisurely breakfast of bread and cheese. Enéas had settled into his new position with wonderful alacrity, waking early, preparing hot water and fetching my food. Naturally, I watched him for signs that he was merely biding his time, waiting to steal something of value and flee, but Enéas seemed to appreciate that fate had thrown an inexplicably good opportunity in his path, and he was not about to spurn it. Some men are born to cut purses and throats, and some to draw baths and pour tea. Enéas, I felt certain, was of the latter category.

If anything, I would have to work on making certain he was not overly solicitous. I did not want him reordering my trunk or folding my clothes or dusting my desk. I explained to the boy that his task was to run errands, deliver messages, and bring my meals when I had chosen to eat in private. Otherwise, he was at his leisure. This concept confounded
the boy. Leisure in his life among the Gypsies, I supposed, had been the time Enéas awaited his next torment.

Having finished the last of his bread, I now looked at the boy, who appeared to have no other business at the moment than staring at me with his huge brown eyes, full of equal measures of fear and expectation. “You have eaten already?” I asked him.

“Please forgive me!” Enéas cried, throwing his hands in the air. “You said last night that I might eat upon your bill, and so I took a portion for myself. If this was wrong, I beg you will work me day and night to make amends.”

“You are of no use to me if you don’t eat,” I answered, perhaps a little sharply. I understood that half of this performance was genuine, the other half masquerade, and I found both parts equally tiresome. “Take your fill, and think no more of it. But eat no more than you require.” This last I added lest too much kindness make the boy mistrust me.

“I shall be no glutton!” Enéas said. “I swear by all the saints.”

I leaned forward. “Then you are ready to work?”

Enéas clapped his hands together. “You must but tell me what to do.”

“I need you to find someone for me. I will tell you what I know of him, but it is many years since I’ve seen him, so I cannot say the task will be easy, particularly because I wish you to be subtle. Ask no more than you have to of no people but those you must. Use your eyes and ears, and whenever possible, hold your tongue. Do you understand?”

Enéas nodded. “My old master had me perform such tasks when looking for, well, certain things.”

“Victims to rob?” I suggested.

Enéas nodded. “Oh, yes. Victims to rob, children to abduct, functionaries to bribe. He had a great interest in such things, and I was very good at finding them.” He paused for a moment and looked at me. “I took no pleasure in doing evil, of course.”

“Yes, well, this is nothing of that sort. I am looking for someone.”

More than anything, I wanted to send the boy in search of Gabriela. The idea that I might see her, that I might see her soon, even in a matter of hours, made me feel drunk with excitement. After all these years, to look upon her again. And perhaps more? When I thought of being reunited with her, I thought of taking her in my arms, of holding her, of having the touch of her skin against mine drive away all that had changed me.

I could not, however, send a Gypsy boy poking around New Christian business. Enéas would draw notice and would likely be arrested. He might cause Gabriela to be arrested too. Instead, I chose to send him after someone else from my past.

“I’m looking for an old friend, one I haven’t seen in ten years, but I knew him well when I was a boy.”

Enéas nodded. “Tell me what you can of him, and I shall find him. There is no place in Lisbon he can hide from my ever-watchful gaze.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“That is to say,” the boy corrected, “I shall do my best.”

“His name is Inácio Arouca. His father worked as a factotum for various New Christians in the city, but he also owned a small fleet of fishing boats. He was an enterprising sort, as I recall, and it is likely his son joined the family trade or took it over if the father is not alive. Do you think that is enough information for you to begin with?”

“Yes, my master,” Enéas said, now nodding eagerly. “That is your first task. Now you must think of a second task for me.”

“Perhaps you should complete the first before you begin on the second.”

“I have already completed it,” Enéas said. “I can take you to Inácio Arouca anytime you like. Right now, if you wish.”

I sat up straight. “What? You know him?”

“How should I not know him? Everyone knows him,” said Enéas.
“At least men such as my old master. Thieves and cutthroats and poor slaves like myself. He may be your old friend, and I know you would have scorned him in your youth had he not been a good person. Now, however, Inácio Arouca is a terrible man.”

We met when we were both eleven, and we became friends at once. Inácio was the son of João Arouca, a hard-bitten Old Christian whom my father had hired as a general agent, a man meant to smooth over rougher business transactions, especially with other Old Christian laborers and small merchants and dockworkers. It helped to have a tough-minded man like Arouca, who could make easy conversation and clarify misunderstandings, and perhaps use stronger tactics when necessary. A New Christian had to be on his guard at all times not to offend, and that was not always easy for a merchant. A disgruntled worker or trader might vent his anger, sharpened with a few embellishing falsehoods, to the Inquisition. Arouca therefore stood as my father’s proxy, using a glib tongue or a strong arm as was required.

Arouca came to meet with my father one afternoon and brought Inácio in tow. In the way of boys, I sensed at once the presence of another child in the house. Though my English-born tutor was not present, I—ever diligent—had been at my studies for hours, writing a Latin essay in the style of Cicero. I had applied myself most of the day, but now I wanted to be outside. I wanted to run and climb and kick and throw. I crept down the stairs and saw him. There was something I liked at once about the boy. He had a hawkish nose and curious eyes, and he moved like a predator. Even at eleven, Inácio appeared muscular and powerful, whereas I was as thin as a stray dog. Watching him, I had the undeniable feeling that this Old Christian would be a good friend to have.

I watched the boy, still unseen by him, as he reached out toward a dagger resting upon a stand in the hallway. It had a silver handle, laced with gold and encrusted with rubies, and had been in the family
for many years. I was not permitted to touch the blade, and I understood the boy’s fascination.

“You are Arouca’s son?” I asked.

The boy started and took a step back. “I wasn’t going to steal it. I only wanted to hold it.” He met my gaze, and though his words had been apologetic, his expression spoke of defiance.

“I’m not allowed to touch it either.” I grinned, trying to put the boy at his ease. “But, once in a while, I like to hold it anyway.”

Inácio looked relieved. No doubt he had not expected to be believed. He had imagined this son of a rich merchant would assume he was a thief. “You will not tell my father?”

“Tell him what?” I asked. “That you looked at a dagger? That would make me sound foolish.”

The boy laughed. “I thought that because you are rich you must be cruel.”

“It is a reasonable conclusion,” I said, “but we’re not
that
rich.”

I walked with Enéas, and the boy prattled on endlessly about what he knew of Inácio—what everyone knew of him. He was a smuggler, and a successful one. He had bought a series of houses built up against the old seawall. During high tide, the river rose up to the outer wall of the property, and a false door there allowed Inácio’s boats to move in and out with ease, eluding the customs men. He was said to own a dozen or more—which meant he likely had no more than four or five—which he used to bring in goods from Spain.

That, however, was only part of his business. He did not himself lend money or pimp or run gambling houses, but he took money from those who did, allegedly providing protection from interference, though the interference was more likely to come from Inácio himself than any other source. Every petty criminal in the city, including Enéas’s old master, had had dealings with Inácio, and they were never pleasant.

I had less difficulty than I would have liked reconciling Enéas’s description of a violent enforcer with my memories of my friend. Inácio had never shied away from a fight, and he always had his eye out for a chance to make a few coins. Inácio’s father had tied his fortunes to my father’s, and when a New Christian fell, as Settwell had learned, he often took his friends with him. Inácio may have found himself without money or an honest means of getting it, and I knew all too well how one desperate choice could lead to another.

We walked east, past the Palace and then the fine shops, gated off so that
fidalgos
and government functionaries might buy their clothes and furnishings without having to come in contact with the poor. Then we made our way into the winding alleys of the Alfama, keeping close to the river. Finally Enéas led us up a narrow staircase, covered and nighttime dark, and stinking of the unwashed men and women who had slept there the night before. Beyond that was a small courtyard of uneven buildings made of warped wood and bricks stained by soot and overturned chamber pots. From there we followed another path down, back toward the river, until we came to a set of nondescript doors.

“Here,” Enéas said.

I knocked.

A young man, hardly more than a boy, with a wispy beard, opened the door a crack. The smell of the river exploded from behind him. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I seek Inácio,” I said, straining to see past the man. My efforts yielded nothing.

The man snorted. “Many men seek Inácio.”

“Then they may knock on this door when it suits them,” I said. “It is I who knocks now.”

“They may knock,” the young man said, “but they shan’t be admitted. What makes you think you deserve more than they?”

“Do many Englishmen seek him?” I asked.

The man at the door appeared puzzled.

“That’s what makes me think I deserve more,” I said. “I’m English, and all Englishmen deserve whatever they desire. Surely you know that.”

“Inácio does not see someone simply because he knocks upon the door,” the young man said. “English or otherwise.”

The burden of refraining from violence began to tire me. “He will see me. Tell him his old friend Sebastião is here.”

The man considered this. He scratched at the thin strands of his beard with a bony hand. “You know him, you say?”

“It is what I say. I have just said it. I can say it again if you think it will help you to understand.”

Having come to a decision, the man said, “He’s not here.”

“Why did you not tell us this before?”

“I am telling you now. He is at the Velha Baleia.”

The old whale? “Is that a
taberna
?”

The man studied him. “You speak Portuguese well, particularly for an Englishman, but you evidently don’t know the Alfama. That makes me doubt you are truly Inácio’s friend. Are you certain you wish to find him?”

“I know the place,” Enéas volunteered before I could answer. He drew me further into the winding streets full of craftsmen plying their trades; fish-sellers walking about barefoot, massive baskets on their heads; and cartmen pushing their wares through the narrow alleys. Vendors cried out to me in broken English or, more optimistically, in Portuguese. Enéas made it his mission to shoo them all away.

Everything smelled rank, from the filth that ran openly to the unwashed bodies to the odors of food from the homes of Africans and Brazilians and Saracens. People spoke in a half dozen languages. The wild dogs never ceased their barking. And the singing—everywhere they sang their dark and gloomy songs in a hodgepodge of languages, bemoaning their fate, their
fado
.

At last we came to another set of unmarked doors. These Enéas pushed open without knocking. Inside was the sort of public house
common to the poor of the city. The floor was dirt, the tables and chairs fashioned out of old crates and discarded barrels from the dock. Wine was tapped from casks and poured into cups and glasses and bowls, no one like another.

I glanced about the room, and it took but a moment for me to recognize my old friend. He had changed, of course, but the hooked blade of his nose was unmistakable. He wore his head shaved now, and the skin of his cheeks was rugged and raw with the marks of smallpox as well as a single scar that ran on his left side from his cheek to his jaw. His long and elaborate mustaches made no effort to hide the damage, and I sensed he wore his wounds as a badge of honor. Like me, he had grown taller over the years, and more thickly muscled, and he held himself with a tense and dangerous energy I recognized too well. I had fought enough men like the one my old friend had become, and while none of those men had killed me, a few had come closer than I preferred.