The Antiquarian (36 page)

“I do not understand. What do you mean?”

“We know that in 1348 more than fifteen thousand people died. In 1365, it was seven thousand. And in 1385, the number was barely three thousand. I do not know how many Jews died in the first or the second plague, but I do know that eight years ago, thirty-five thousand people were living in Barcelona, and of them, more than four thousand were Jews. This means that, for every nine Christians, one Jew should have died, if the laws of logic are true, and my studies tell me they are. But it was not so. There was scarcely one Jewish death for every eighteen Christian deaths! The census ordered by the
batlle
after the plague so confirmed it.”

“Do you mean that they may have had a remedy against the Black Death?”

“Indeed. I firmly believe it. Perhaps a lesser number of them could have died—coincidences are possible, but never in such disproportion. It was not by chance. I believe that the Jewish physicians possess a secret that helped them mitigate the epidemic.”

“But, then, we must go at once the Call and try to find the remedy!” I said, rising, and ready to turn words to action.

“No! You cannot do that!” Aimeric restrained me hard by the arm. “If you rush into the Call with such a demand, openly, you will put the small Jewish community still dwelling there in danger of a new massacre, as much as they now enjoy King Joan's protection, and have become
conversos
.”

“But my daughter's life is at stake!”

“And could you live in peace knowing it cost three hundred deaths to save? I know you, Pere Casadevall, and you are an honorable man. I know you would regret it once it happened.”

I wrung my hands feverishly, wracked by doubt. What could I do? Aimeric was right. Entering the Call through either of its two gates was forbidden for old Christians, even in times of royal protection. But doing so in search of an unknown medicine that could cure the plague would stir up a mob thirsty for mass murder, especially as the number of Black Death cases rose in Barcelona. Moreover, I knew several
conversos
, there were several among the glass workers who prepared the panes of the cathedral, and I had known others in Narbonne and other places. No, I could not sacrifice those people for the sake of a vague hope. But how to reach them? And if I did encounter the right person, one of their physicians, how could I convince him to share his secret with me? Would he not, in revealing the cure to an old Christian, expose himself and hand me the key to his future? Were I a
converso
keeping such a secret, I would never dare share it with one of those who, just two years ago, entered the Call through Portal de Sanahuja to kill me and my people.

“What can I do, Aimeric? What can I do?”

Aimeric had no answer, either. But, if neither he nor I had one, a voice sounding from the darkness offered a possibility. Anna came into the light from the pantry, from whence she had overheard our conversation. I felt as if a ray of hope were illuminating her lovely face when she spoke to offer us the solution.

“Mr. Aimeric, my lord Casadevall, I am but a governess, but you know well of the affection I have for Eulàlia in my heart, and I do not wish to let her die.”

“But what can you do?” Aimeric asked.

“Women may reach places men cannot. I know several women who are now Christians but were once Jews. We draw water from the same well, in Plaça Nova. After so many years it is normal for us to talk, for us to know things about each other. I could speak with them and tell them of the problem.”

“Could you enter the Call without drawing attention to yourself?”

“Who would look twice at a governess wrapped in her shawl carrying a jug of water?”

“If you do it, I could wait to report to the
batlle
, perhaps until late afternoon.”

“I will have spoken to the right people by then. After that, all that is left is to hope. And as for the quarantine, I will be the one to stay with Eulàlia.”

“No!” I immediately responded. “I will not remain away from her.”

“Anna is right. If you both stay in the house, who will contact the
conversos
? For now, it is necessary for you to be outside, not locked in here.”

They were right. Anna could provide the contact, but it was my responsibility to see that it bore fruit. Locked inside my house, I could do very little. With great pain in my heart, I let Aimeric and Anna leave. Seated next to Eulàlia's bed, I awaited their return with my daughter's tiny hands clasped in mine.

Six hours have passed.
Honorata
stays true to her vocation, and her peals are strong and clear throughout the city. All of the goldsmiths and craftsmen who work in the streets, who once used the sun to determine when to open or close their shops, now do so guided by her sound. As I write, it is seven in the evening, and the sky begins to darken. The city's narrow streets, now teeming with activity, will soon empty. The craftsmen will furl the canopies hung to protect their goods, and bring them inside their storehouses. The coopers and carpenters will leave a clear path to the well in Pla de l'Estany once they abandon the square. Along the shoreline, landlocked sailors waiting for hire on a ship will spend their last coins on wine and women, and will be lucky to eat a plate of
malcuinat
, that crude but cheap, giblet stew. The city will be reborn at night, the night most do not know or pretend not to know—that night that lives behind our backs, and now hovers over ignorant Barcelona. The
seny del lladre
curfew bells have rung: the city gates will close until tomorrow. Thus we believe ourselves safe, as if all evil came from the outside, when in fact, the evil and
horror are so close that we bear them inside ourselves; we, the poor living dead, ignorant of this cruel truth. What will happen when the plague sweeps the city? What will become of the joy, the games, the festive mood? What good will supplications and devotions do? How many of us will die? How many of us will live? And Anna has not yet arrived.

Eulàlia has improved somewhat. I fed her fish broth; she took a few spoonfuls. I was at this task when Anna returned. I left the girl covered up and ran to meet her.

“What news? Have you met your friends?”

“Yes. In the home of Ángel Martín, a
converso
who was formerly called Mossed Cayim. She was once called Miriam, but now her name is Marta. She is the niece of Martín, married to one of his nephews. I spoke with her. And though it was hard for me to overcome her first reluctance, for which I do not blame her, as they have little reason to trust us, she promised to speak with a person able to study our petition. She left me abiding in her house three hours while she went to report the situation.”

“But time is passing, and the sickness worsening! Many have died in less time than Eulàlia has been ill! They must not tarry or her body will not resist!”

“That is not in our hands. In this I did not force her at all, as she must be aware that the mere knowledge of a possible cure could be used as blackmail against her. She must also know the consequences that information could bring, as we well imagine.”

“So then?”

“We will have news from them tomorrow. They will come for you at the Blat Inn early in the morning. And now, go. Go before the soldiers of the
veguer
come to seal this house! We need you to be outside, to buy food and attend the
conversos
.”

I nodded, and left, first kissing my daughter on her forehead. A whim of the malady: her face is yet untouched by boils, and is still beautiful. My kiss was given in a moment of peace, and if one did not know the reality hidden by the sheets, they
would never dispute that Eulàlia still had many years to live. I have one more night to abide. This time, I will not even be with her.

Day of our Lord December 8, 1393

Night has fallen. Everything that has happened to me has been so strange and peculiar that I cannot resist the temptation of writing it in this makeshift diary. Though it will be a long explanation, it can be concluded thusly: there is still hope! But I must order my ideas, and to do so, it is best to start from the beginning.

After another sleepless night, the day dawned with rain. I could hardly restrain my desire to go home and verify Eulàlia's state, but, truly, I could not without the risk of my awaited visitor arriving at Blat Inn and not finding me there. And thus I remained until nine, when—at last!—into the hall of the inn walked a tall elder, of some sixty years, dressed in common craftsman's garb. And yet, he was unmistakably a Jew; he had the aquiline nose and undulating hair characteristic of his people. At that hour, the inn was empty, and so he walked toward me, greeting me with a nod of his head. As I was waiting for him seated at a table away from the others, there was nothing to disturb us.

“My name is Ángel Martín, and you must be Pere Casadevall.”

“That is right.”

“I must be certain. Who has sent for me?”

“Anna. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“The day we
conversos
have nothing to fear from old Christians will be the day of our downfall, which is not far off, I venture. But I digress. What do you want from me?”

“Master Martín, you well know my situation. Anna told you what was happening in my house, which I will not repeat here. I need help that only you and yours can provide.”

“And do you truly believe that that ‘help,' as you call it, exists?”

“How else to explain the scarce deaths among your people years ago, when the pestilence scourged Barcelona?”

“Let us imagine, for a moment, that such a thing existed. Are you aware of what such knowledge would mean for my people?”

“If my aim had been to harm you, I could have done so already. It would not be necessary for there to be cure for the malady. I would need only to go out on the Pla d'en Llalla or Plaça del Borne and speak of it there. No, I wish no harm to the
conversos
, nor to the Jews. I only wish to see my daughter better. I only want my daughter to live!”

“I know you speak sincerely. Anyone can see the heaviness of your heart. I know you do not lie; since Anna spoke to my niece yesterday we have learned a great deal about you, Master Casadevall.”

“Will you help me then?”

“Keep your voice low. We would be wise not to speak here. I trust you, but not this place. Accompany me to a safer one.”

I paid the innkeeper fifteen shillings for a miserable dinner I did not even taste, and the room where I spent the night. We walked toward the Call. Despite the destruction suffered, it still maintains part of its closed structure, though there are plans to demolish the tower of the Call gate and prepare some streets for Christian settlement. Moreover, several
converso
families had moved outside the walls, settling along Tres Llits Street, near the Trinitarian convent, perhaps seeking the protection of nearby ecclesiastics in their condition as new Christians. We crossed Sanahuja Gate; where once stood the synagogue known as the
Escuela Mayor
, the synagogue of men, a small chapel in the honor of San Cristófol has been erected. Martín entered the chapel, crossing himself, and I followed his example. We walked toward a bench to one side of the small altar, from which we could view the entire chapel.

“No one comes to this church, except the priest to offer mass, and that is only at twelve noon and again at five. The old Christians still remember that, despite its destruction, a synagogue stood here not long ago. Here we can speak alone, and no one will overhear us.”

“Let us speak clearly, then. As I said, I mean no harm to the
conversos
. I only desire medicine to save my daughter!”

“Were I to admit such medicine existed, I would be putting the lives of many into the hands of others, and my responsibility for doing so would be great. What security would I have that the knowledge will remain between us? Would you, in my place, be capable of doing the same? Do you understand the weight of responsibility upon my shoulders?”

I thought carefully before I answered. Martín was right. What security could I offer him? How to secure his essential trust? Suddenly, an intuition: his very presence there, speaking with me, allowed me to think that Martín, too, had an unspoken motive. I could have reported him and caused another massacre, or blackmailed him to my own benefit. In either case, it would not be necessary for Martín to speak long with me. Only in the event that he wanted something more would it make sense to prolong our meeting.

“I am willing to do whatever you wish to prove my trustworthiness.”

“You are in a chapel, before an altar. Would you swear before your Lord to keep the secret?”

I had to offer him my deepest trust. I have bared my soul before him.

“Had you asked for this very oath eight days ago, I would have taken it without hesitation, even risking my soul. But today, with Eulàlia ill and my wife and two other children having died years ago from the same plague, I have nothing but doubts and uncertainties with respect to my faith. If I swore before that altar, my soul would not be in the oath. Though I regret it, as I would wish to believe as I once did,
today I feel no affinity toward Him to whom I have so pleaded and who has so chastised me, and so taken little heed of my plight.”

Martín remained silent, thinking over my words. If they surprised him, he did not show it. He remained deep in thought before answering.

“Those are grave words. If the inquisitors knew them, and of your contact with us, your fate would be sealed. Your station as master builder of the cathedral would serve you little. You would be stripped of your property and tortured, perhaps even until death.”

“I know.”

“Could you put your discontent into writing? Would you write a document incriminating yourself so?”

“Give me quill and paper and you shall have your security in writing.”