The Day of Atonement (22 page)

I had hoped to be done with Lisbon before the end of summer, but August turned to September and though things progressed, there was no end in sight. I observed the festival of Rosh Hashanah, the new year, in isolation. I remained in my room and read from my prayer book and dedicated my thoughts to the holy day.

As I considered my weeks here in Lisbon, I could not but take satisfaction in what I had accomplished, even if it were not yet enough. I engaged in small deals, made some profits. It was nothing remarkable, but it was credible, and I began to make a name for myself. I met with Rutherford and Roberta Carver with some regularity, planning out our business together. There was always a tension now with Roberta, and I could not tell if she looked at me with anger or with longing. I avoided being alone with her, or even sitting next to her. I hoped she believed in my anguish, and, much to my surprise, I found myself hoping she did not mock me behind my back.

Inácio, Franklin, and Settwell had all given me the same
advice, so I went to no Portuguese
tabernas
but the one Eusebio frequented. I established my base of operation, and I did not stray from it, for there was no advantage in spreading myself too thin. I became a familiar fixture there, the Englishman who hoped to cajole this New Christian or that into offering me credit.

Every now and again, I recognized a man who walked into the tavern. I saw Senhor Meldola, who specialized in importing English and Dutch foodstuffs, and Senhor Cardozo, a dealer in whale oil and ambergris. My father had done business with them long ago. Each time I prepared myself for denials, even an altercation and flight. But who would recognize a grown Englishman of business as being the skinny thirteen-year-old son of a New Christian merchant last seen almost ten years earlier? All took me for what I appeared to be and sought nothing beneath the surface.

Eusebio remained guardedly social with me, but his father gave every sign of enjoying my company. Eusebio would make polite conversation and ask after my health, but no more than that. I understood that when he was ready to do business, he would let me know. And so it went until that afternoon in September when everything changed, the day the Inquisitor walked into the
taberna
.

There was no truce, and there was no understanding. Inquisitors did not make a point of avoiding New Christian
tabernas
, but there was simply no advantage in entering them. Inquisitors wanted that men should eat and drink and speak freely so their agents would overhear anything blasphemous or otherwise significant. Everyone knew that there would be Inquisition familiars in the tavern—in every tavern—but Inquisitors hoped that now and again someone with something interesting to say would drink too much and feel a little too safe.

All of which explained the sudden silence when the Inquisitor entered the room. Someone was going to be arrested. Why else taint this tavern forever, make it the place where an Inquisitor might walk
in at any moment? The newcomer, with his black robes and his gold cross, pulled back his hood to reveal the face of Pedro Azinheiro.

Azinheiro smiled at the room as though he had not stunned them into silence. Every man present had lost a friend or a relative to this priest—I was sure of it. Azinheiro had been an Inquisitor for more than twenty years, longer than any other in Lisbon. It was hard to imagine anyone more reviled and feared by the city’s New Christians, and yet he did not look to be a Daniel in his den of lions. He gave every appearance of a man who had entered a pleasant-looking eatery, where he expected to make friends shortly.

He walked to the barman with an easy saunter. There he cleared his throat and, in a cheerful voice, ordered a cup of wine. He watched while it was set before him, and as he picked it up, smiled to himself as if remembering a funny joke.

No one spoke. No one dared. I knew it was not out of fear of the priest, but because the first man who reentered his conversation would be suspected of being too comfortable around the Inquisitor, and thus very possibly an agent of the Inquisition. And so we all sat in silence, none eating or drinking, while Azinheiro sipped his wine and continued to smile. Occasionally he hummed.

At last he finished his wine. He wiped his mouth with his clerical sleeve and slapped the pewter cup down. Every man in the tavern held his breath. Maybe the Inquisitor would leave. Maybe his presence there did not mark the end of anyone in particular. Maybe he wanted to send a message that no one understood or could heed. They could worry about its meaning later, in the comfort of their own homes, away from Azinheiro. It would make sense then, surely. But now, it would be enough for him simply to depart.

He did not. Instead, he leaned toward the barman as though readying himself to share a great confidence, and with all the good humor in the world, ordered another cup of wine.

The barman hesitated a second, his long face twisted with confusion. Perhaps he toyed with the idea of asking the Inquisitor—as
politely as he could, of course—if he would not mind considering taking his wine somewhere else. Perhaps he was merely too terrified to move. Then, like a man on a carriage startled out of an unexpected slumber, the barman roused himself, shook his head slightly, and poured the wine.

That was when I rose to my feet.

All eyes were upon me as I strolled over to the counter. Had anyone asked me, I could not have said what it was I was doing, what I intended. I had moved beyond thought. I saw only the counter and the back of the Inquisitor, with his head bent, and just enough of his grinning old mouth. I felt a relentless thrumming in my temple, a staccato drumbeat, neither urging me on nor dissuading me from my course.

I leaned against the bar, my forearms flat, my fingers intertwined. “Another cup of wine,” I said to the barman. When it arrived, I drank it down, almost all at once. I then turned to the humming Inquisitor.

I had expected that I would need to call upon all the skills I had learned from Mr. Weaver to contain my anger, but much to my surprise I found myself already quite in control. It was not that, seeing him again, away from the Palace of the Inquisition, I did not wish to kill Azinheiro. I did. I wished to remove my hidden dagger and slice Azinheiro’s throat and watch while he writhed upon the floor like a fresh-caught fish. I could see it clearly—the priest’s body below while I stood with blood splattered upon my hands, my clothes, my face. I could taste the coppery residue in my mouth. It could not happen now, but it was, I believed, inevitable, and perhaps that was why I was so calm. I was where I should be, moving closer to my goal.

“Good afternoon,” I said to the priest.

The Inquisitor nodded at me. “And to you.”

So, we did not know one another. That was how the priest wanted it. Then why had he come to the
taberna
? Did he want to remind me of his power and his presence, or had he something else in mind?

“What do you here?” I asked. I kept my voice low, though the barman
had stepped away, not wishing to hear anything. For all that, it was the sort of question I might have asked if I had not known the priest.

“I drink wine,” said the Jesuit. “I am thirsty.”

I tapped the side of my cup, and the barman refilled it. I took another long sip. “You’ve had your drink, and your thirst is quenched. Now you must consider that you are making these men uncomfortable.”

The priest turned to me. This was evidently a man who believed deeply in his own cleverness. “Why should they be uncomfortable if they have nothing to hide?”

“Do you jest?” I asked, meeting his eye.

The Inquisitor picked up his cup and began to swirl the contents. He studied them like an augur for a minute. “You are very forward, sir.”

“The English are a direct people,” I assured him. “Perhaps you know a thing or two about the English character.”

The priest narrowed his eyes. “You are also bold.”

“Simply observant.”

“Then I shall return your English bluntness and tell you I expected you to be even bolder,” the priest said, barely above a whisper. “You falter, sir, and that makes you of no use. I am here to offer some support.”

Of course the priest was monitoring my actions. I knew he would, and there could be no place I would be more observed than a New Christian
taberna
. So what kind of support did Azinheiro intend to offer?

“I shall tell you the truth,” the priest said, now more loudly. He wished this part of the conversation to be overheard. “I was thirsty and wanted a drink. I was thinking of something private and amusing, and I hardly even noticed where it was I walked into. I did not mean to make anyone uneasy.”

“You’ve had two glasses of wine,” I said, moving away from him,
as though my business were concluded. “Surely your thirst is quenched.”

The priest picked up his cup and drained it. “Indeed it is. You have convinced me. Good day, Englishman.”

He turned from the bar, walked the length of the tavern, and stepped out into the street.

I continued to drink the port, but I did not turn around. I wondered if, in sending the priest away, I had poisoned my own well. I had rid them of the Inquisitor, and that could be regarded as no small favor, but had I also marked myself as someone too comfortable with Azinheiro? Then I heard the men whispering. They had overheard Azinheiro’s last comment, and they were repeating it.
You have convinced me to leave
. The New Christians were gazing at me with wonder and respect.

I stared into my wine and waited for something to happen. A few minutes later, I felt a hand upon my shoulder. I turned around and saw old Nobreza staring at me, his eyes wide and sparkling. “Mr. Foxx, would you join me at my son’s house for dinner tomorrow afternoon?”

At last some progress with the Nobrezas. The pleasure of it was admittedly lessened by the knowledge that the Inquisitor had made it possible. More than that, it was what the Inquisitor himself desired. I had come to Lisbon to set the pieces on the board, but I now had the uneasy feeling that it was the priest’s hand moving them from square to square.

Unlike in London, where the fashionable eat their evening meals as late as six or even eight in the evening, in Lisbon dinner was still commonly served, in accordance with older customs, between noon and three in the afternoon. If a man wished to dine later, he would invite his guests to stay the night.

I had no particular wish to visit Eusebio’s home, which was only a few streets over from the house in which I spent my childhood. I would not walk down my old street, and I would not look at that house. There were certain things that could not be endured. It was easier to sit down with the Inquisitor who had arrested my father.

Only shortly before I left the inn did I realize that my meal would be ending as Yom Kippur began. The evening services for the holiday were called Kol Nidre, named for the central prayer—a plea for forgiveness for vows broken against one’s will. For foreign Jews whose families had previously converted under the Inquisition, Kol Nidre held special significance. In London, many Jews believed that
their distant relatives in Portugal secretly practiced Judaism while pretending to observe Catholicism in public. I had never had the heart to tell those I met that while I could not be certain, I did not believe there were any such clandestine Jews remaining. Generations ago, such families existed. My patron, Mr. Weaver, told me his had been such a family. I, however, had never met a secret Jew, never seen a furtive sign of hidden observance. Such people no longer existed. The Inquisition and time had done their work.

I shut out all sights, all smells, all sensations, and walked until I found myself outside Eusebio’s house. It was much as I remembered it, an unremarkable three-story building in the middle of its block. I was admitted at once and led into a sitting room by a mulatto woman who gave me a glass of port without troubling to inquire if I wanted it. Perhaps she spoke no English and thought it would be easier that way. As soon as she set the glass before me and curtsied, she hurried out of the room as if escaping my noxious Protestant vapors.

The room overlooked the downward slope of Chiado Hill, and from a chair I gazed out at the houses below, and at the river beyond them, before glancing at the room. The furnishings were new and fine, with detailed woodwork and velvet cushions. Beneath the line of the window, the walls were decorated in elaborate tiling depicting the labors of Hercules. I studied the pictures for a moment and again looked out the window to the distant water, watching the light play off the waves and the flutter of lax sails upon the ships. There was, I supposed, a bakery nearby, and the air smelled of fresh bread and scorched rosemary. The sunlight was bright and somehow revealing. I remembered something—not an event, but a feeling, of being a child and smelling this air and basking in this light and being happy. The memory disturbed me, and I shook it off.

I looked up as a woman walked into the room. Eusebio’s wife. She was tall and quite lovely in the Portuguese way—poised and formal, but also graceful. There was something in her manner that struck me as regal, and I found myself staring at the sea-green gown that hugged
her arms tight and flowed down to her ankles. She had dark hair and green eyes and a long, thin nose, slightly flattened at the bridge, giving her a touch of imperfection that served to render her utterly perfect. It was that flatness that struck me, that made me understand instantly who she was, that robbed me of all uncertainty. It was Gabriela.