The Ghost of Hannah Mendes (23 page)

“So, you’ve gone through it…” Catherine looked up, her face brightening.

He nodded. “I think,” he said, bending over Catherine’s hand and kissing it gallantly, “that I am a little in love with your Gracia.”

Francesca felt her own fingers tingle.

“Can I hope we will be able to get together soon?” he said, his voice filling the words with significance.

Both women nodded, watching the young men’s straight, handsome backs as they turned and walked past the etched glass into the lobby.

Charming, Catherine mused, studying their handsome, masculine movements as they crossed the room.

Suddenly, she saw Suzanne.

She was walking back toward the restaurant, her strikingly lovely body making small dips and curves as she navigated her way around the tea tables. Her hair had been brushed out from its chignon and fell like a glowing sunset to her bare shoulders, framing her face. The dark green Chinese silk of her elegant, form-fitting dress caught and deepened the color of her eyes, making them sparkle like jewels against her pale, flawless skin. She looked, Catherine thought, like a queen.

With a sense of helpless déjà vu, she saw the blond stranger stop and stare for a moment, then take slow, deliberate strides in her direction. Suzanne’s shoulders stiffened in surprise, her limbs assuming an odd stillness, as if she’d just received shocking news. They stood facing each other for what seemed to Catherine like an amazingly long time. And then, without speaking a single word, both of them turned and disappeared.

An hour later, as the tea cooled in the cups, and the remains of chocolate éclairs dirtied the dessert plates, Suzanne had still not returned.

Francesca threw down her fork. “Of all the inconsiderate, selfish things! But I guess that’s to be expected. After all, we haven’t been abused and aren’t starving in the street. We’re just her family!” She reached out to her grandmother, patting the wrinkled old hand, dreading looking into her face. “
Abuela
, don’t be upset! You know Suzanne. She’s always got better things to do!”

Catherine made an odd noise.

Francesca looked up in alarm. Her mouth dropped in astonishment. Gran looked absolutely radiant!

“Avernas de Gras,” Catherine said, shaking her head in laughter. “The grandson of Antonio da Silva! Yes, I would agree. Much better things to do!”

19

Manuscript pages. Circa 1600-1660. Purchased by Ruiz Martínez of Librería Antiquario, Barcelona. Provenance unknown. Sold to Serouya and Company, London, for private collection of Mrs. Catherine da Costa.

Passion
.

I hold my quill in fingers gone stubby and pale with age and write this word, knowing full well that it will shock you, my children. That you will feel ashamed that I, a woman fading into that haggard precursor of death, not only still remember such things, but feel the joy of her remembrances
.

Yet I will say its name. Did not our wise and most G-d-fearing King Solomon write: “When I found him whom my soul loveth; I held him, and would not let him go/Until I had brought him into my mother’s house…Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth/for his love is better than wine?” And did he not write further: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens”?

Before I knew such a season existed, it was upon me—ravishing all my senses with the mesmerizing heat of summer, the fecund richness of fall, and the dangerous wildness of a winter storm
.

I thought I should surely die
.

It began on a bright, cool autumn day. The smell of old leaves drying in the sun, the moist and fecund earth filled my nostrils as I walked into the forest with my family to secretly celebrate the Feast of Tabernacles
.

It was in the aftermath of Diego Vaz de Oliverca and Andres Diaz de Viana, the
converso
priests who slew the despicable apostate Henrique Nuñez as he kneeled in the Church of Valverde dedicating himself to barbarous treachery against his brothers
.

For Nuñez had been brought from the Canary Islands to begin that fearful process of inquiry and torture meant to destroy those among the New Christians who had kept faith with their heritage. His death had ended for the moment the prospect of the Inquisition’s horrors being exported to Portugal. But the incident, and the execution of Oliverca and Viana, had cast its terrifying shadow, making us conversos doubly cautious
.

We’d prepared our
sukah
in a forest clearing far from prying eyes. It had three sides of wood over which we draped fine rugs and tapestries; and a ceiling of green branches from which we hung pomegranates, apples, grapes, and sweet, baked
biscochos.
The scent of myrtle twigs, willows, and hyssop filled the air
.

Though I knew that the
sukah
was meant to be a humble shack, reminding us that, however fine our solid homes, we were wanderers like our forefathers, dependent on G-d’s providing hand, it made me feel like a fairy princess, reigning in her sylvan bower
.

The only irritant to my joy was my appearance. I felt childish in the long-waisted amber gown with the high white-lace collar, because my aunt had refused to let me wear a farthingale, declaring it was not fitting for an unbetrothed girl of thirteen to sway and show her hips. My hair was even worse: Plaited and drawn back beneath my barbette and fillet, it made me look like some pious young novitiate
.

While the women took out the pot hooks, the pipkins, and porringers to prepare our festive meal, I longed to join the men as they gathered to discuss matters of holy ritual or the profane intrigues at court. But I knew my aunt would not allow it. So I leaned listlessly against a tree, trying to think of some way to amuse myself, when a beautiful small doe darted past. I cannot tell you why, but something in her loveliness and her movement beckoned me to follow, and I did, chasing her deep into the forest until at last I was snared by a well-hidden root. I felt a sharp wrench to my ankle, and fell into an ignominious heap upon the damp ground
.

Stunned, I lay there unable to move, realizing with fright how far I had drifted from the others. Thoughts of bears, wolves, snakes, and bands of cutthroat scavengers inflamed my imagination. I closed my eyes and called to G-d and to my
memuneh
to help me win the heavenly battle against demons of rock and tree, animal and human, now ranged in battle against me! And just when my terror peaked, I heard the sound of hooves beating their way through thick foliage
.

I lay there, frozen with horror, awaiting some terrible outrage to my property or, worse, my person. But when I looked up, two well-dressed strangers looked down upon me from the saddles of their beautifully caparisoned horses. I looked frantically from one to the other, searching their faces for my fate. And the more I searched, the more convinced I became that His blessed hand had reached out to me, for neither seemed inclined to strip me either of my finery or my honor
.

“Are you hurt, child?” one of them asked me kindly. There was a powerful strength of character in his sharp features, which might have frightened me had they not been softened by a refinement that lent them a quiet kind of nobility. He had dark hair and the swarthy complexion of an Italian prince. His attire was royal-looking, too: a striking black doublet of rich, patterned velvet with a scabbard of beaten gold, embedded with tiny jewels that sparkled like a thousand small stars
.

“
Say something
, muchachica!”
his companion added impatiently. He was blond, with the smooth and ruddy color of a happy child and the gay attire of a young nobleman: a
cotehardie
with trunk hose and a high, feathered hat
.

“
I’m not a
muchachica!”
I cried childishly, forgetting all about highwaymen and being terrified, remembering only the argument I’d had with Aunt Malca that very morning on the same subject. “I am a young lady from a very good family!
”

I saw a strange transformation come over the face of the dark-haired prince as his companion threw back his head and roared with laughter
.

“
Forgive us, Doñ. We have been to sea so long we have forgotten how to treat young ladies, particularly
gente grande,”
the dark one said seriously, but with an infuriating merriness about the eyes he could not hide
.

But as I glared at him, I suddenly realized how ridiculous my haughty words must be in light of my vagabondish appearance. For my dress had been muddied by matted wet leaves and my hair disheveled, escaping its hated confines and streaming wildly down to my waist. I looked like a scullery maid. Or worse
.

“But it is not as it appears,” I protested, stamping my foot in frustration. I let out a sharp moan
.

In one swoop, the dark prince lifted me up and I found my cheek resting against that rich, soft material stretched over his broad shoulders. “Where is your family
, señorita?”
he asked, without a hint of mockery this time
.

Impulsively, I pointed in the direction from which I had come. I regretted it immediately, realizing the danger of exposing our secret forest rituals to strangers. I demanded to be put down and let go in peace
.

“You are injured, child. I must see you to them safely,” he said, ignoring my frantic entreaties and spurring the horse to a gentle trot. And then he leaned over me and whispered close to my ear, “Never wander, child. Such loveliness is prey in this world. One in possession of it must guard it closely.”

I stopped struggling, feeling a burning tingle that began in my forehead and streamed through my body. And as I peeked at the dark rim of his eyes, the rich thickness of his manly beard, I felt a clap and a sharp, white-hot wrench to my heart
.

It was the moment where one’s soul enters into another’s and emerges, dazzled
.

I sat erect, my back frozen so as not to touch his, my eyes staring ahead stupidly. It was a reaction, I thought, perfectly in keeping for anyone struck by a thunderbolt
.

Already I hear the clammering of my grandchildren’s sweet
,
questioning voices rising urgently: “Why?” they shout. “What happened?”

How can I tell you, my children?

I can describe only the details: the facts of our meeting, his hair, clothes, eyes, body. I can describe it all, but cannot explain or justify a hundredth—nay, a thousandth—of the mesmerizing charm that bewitched me. Still, I will try
.

He smelled of the forest: clean and richly honest, the scent of cool wind and dry, pleasant sun. His dark beard was soft against my cheek and his arms warm around my waist. I had seen how his eyes could turn caring and humorous, intelligent and kind. I had felt the strength of the muscles in his arms, which magically had not overpowered his gentleness. And those lips—which had come so close to my ear—how well formed they were, not thin or stingy or tightly closed; perfect for the deep, commanding voice that breathed between them
.

I had never in all my life been so close to any man except my father and Miguel. And thus—may the Lord forgive me for my boldness—when finally I heard the voice of my father calling my name and saw him running toward me, I felt my heart ache with loneliness at the thought that my body should soon be separated from his
.

My father’s face was filled with fear and wonder
.

“I am Dr. Luna,” my father said formally, taking me from Francisco’s arms. My cheeks burned in shame. “Can you tell me, sir, what I am to make of this?”

“I’m afraid your daughter was interrupted in her innocent pleasure by an unfortunate—but praise G-d, not serious—mishap. She seems to have twisted her ankle. My brother and I were happily able to see to her safe return.” He bowed formally in the saddle
.

My father, perplexed, bowed back, then laid me on a bed of soft leaves, dressing my swollen ankle with a poultice of herbs and wet roots. When he had finished, he turned to my rescuers
.

“I beg you to receive a reward as befits the deed,” my father pleaded
.

Both bowed and shook their heads. “The pleasure of your family’s acquaintance is our reward,” my rescuer said graciously
.

“And may we beg, then, at least the same?” my father said
.

“I am Francisco Mendes, and this is my younger brother, Diogo. We are traders newly arrived from Venice and Amsterdam.”

“Will you then at least join us for a meal?” my father continued. “We were about to sup in the forest.”

I could not believe my ears! I thought my father would do everything in his power to hide our secret, and instead, he invited them into it!

I saw the two strangers glance at our
sukah
and then at each other. The strange light in their eyes filled me with fear
.

“With pleasure,” they acceded
.

A hut in the forest. Why should they guess it was anything more than an elegant way to protect wealthy people from the harsh sunlight? Perhaps, I thought, this was why my father had invited them in, to show we had nothing to hide. It was a bold move, and one I hoped he would not live to regret
.

When we were all gathered around the table, my father prodded them gently for greater details about themselves
.

I did not understand the conversation, which centered around trade, and Vasco da Gama, and the sea route to India. I sat dazed all through the meal, not tasting anything, my thoughts a turbulent river, rushing streams intermingling in a startling dance that thrilled and frightened me
.