22

That night in my room, I kicked the floor cushions, threw myself on my bed and pounded the mattress, pushed my face into my pillow, and muffled my wail. I pulled my hair, though, in truth, that was more to see how it felt. It hurt, so I pulled harder, liking the pain. My face was soaked.

For an hour, I counted by elevens and used numbers to wall off sadness and fury.

Then thoughts came.

Belo believed what he was doing to my future was right. Was it right?

Did he guess the pain I was in?

Probably not.

Was my pain wrong? Was I right or wrong to be angry? I sobbed.

Did I have to do what he wanted?

I wished I could talk to Bela. Should I speak to Papá—or to Samuel, the future rabbi?

No. Neither of them would be able to persuade Belo, and I didn’t want to tear the family apart.

I had a choice, even though he hadn’t offered me one. I could stop being the way he liked me to be. I could dig too hard when I massaged his feet. I could speak louder than he preferred. There were a dozen things. He’d be furious with me, which I didn’t know if I could bear, but finally, he’d decide he could do better without me. I could marry as soon as the shame of Yuda wore off.

Belo might get ill again and stay ill.

God had His plan. Wouldn’t Belo be more important in it than I was?

I walked round and round on the rugs, passing the bed, the low copper table, the two embroidered floor cushions, the door, the chest that held my gowns and my shifts.

Did the Jews really need me? Though that seemed a prideful idea, I breathed deeper.

Would Bela be proud of me?

Might I gain something in place of the loss of my own children, be a bigger Paloma than I’d ever hoped to be?

No, that was too grand.

But I might do more than my sisters and even Samuel could as a rabbi.

On the bed, exhausted, I lay back and was asleep.

But after a few hours, I awoke. Suppose the mob came to our door again, after Belo had died, because I had deserted him. Papá might not be able to send them away. The chief constable of the hermandad might not help us.

The friar and the mob would drag us to the cathedral to be baptized.

Or they’d set fire to the house.

Or take Jento and give him to Christians to raise as a Christian. If I had my own child by then, they’d take him or her, too.

I sobbed.

They’d continue to Ledicia’s house and commit terrible acts there, too, and throughout the judería.

I couldn’t catch my breath. If the mob let me live, I would have lost my littles.

Then I imagined mamás across Spain losing their children, too.

I writhed on the bed.

If I stopped traveling with Belo, I’d have no relief from fear that he’d die and I would be the cause and the cause of everything terrible that followed.

The answer—the only answer—was clear. I would continue at his side.

I slept again.

In the morning, I didn’t return to my agony. The decision was made. I would treasure my nieces and nephews and Jento. For the sake of our family’s littles and all the Jewish littles of Spain, and because I loved him and was grateful to him, I’d be Belo’s amulet. And I would try to count myself lucky.

Yuda and Dueyna were to be baptized on Easter Sunday and take the Christian names of Pero and Marina Díaz.

Belo was still in his bed. While he wrote in his folio, I sat on a floor cushion.

Had it happened yet?

Was the baptismal water cold or warm or scalding?

Did Pero feel God’s wrath? Or His Son’s love?

Was Marina suffering, as I would be?

The day passed.

Belo began traveling with me again, busier than ever, as the monarchs demanded more and more money to finance their war against the kingdom of Granada, the last Muslim foothold in Spain.

Papá traveled often, too, for the same purpose. He once said that his purse had a hole in it. Coins in, coins out, with the king’s and queen’s hands at the opening.

When Belo and I met with his friends over meals, someone usually asked if I was betrothed, and then, when I might be. Belo always said I had plenty of time, and, for now, he needed me. The conversation would end with praise for my kindness in staying with an old man.

Every time, Belo looked as if he’d swallowed vinegar.

The praise sounded empty. I’d chosen my fate, or I was following the furrow God had plowed for me.

Vellida got pregnant again, and so did Ledicia, after five years. I prepared. Every time babies were expected, my heart built new rooms.

Late in May, Samuel and Josefina Bivach married. Everyone in the judería came, as well as Belo’s and Papá’s Christian business friends. Pero and Marina were there, too, because kind Samuel had invited them. I kept my distance.

Before the wedding, while Josefina took her bath, I danced happily in the street with Beatriz, Jamila, and Clara. I clasped the children’s hands. The rhythm entered me, and I forgot myself in pleasure—

—and didn’t expect my pain later during the wedding ceremony. Samuel and Josefina shared a tallit, a prayer shawl, and faced Belo, who recited the seven blessings. My brother looked purely happy: bright smile, wet eyes, a bloom in his tan cheeks.

Belo intoned, “Blessed are You, Eternal One, Who makes the bridegroom rejoice with the bride.”

Shouts erupted. People rushed to congratulate the couple. I swallowed tears.

Nothing had changed, but I stood statue-still for several minutes before I could turn to the feast.

At least a hundred revelers stood, talked with mouths full of food, gestured, laughed. There, at the long table, seeming as if a sun shaft lit only them, were Yose and Gracia Serrano. Playfully, Yose was snapping grapes off their stem and lifting them, one by one, to his wife’s smiling lips.

I had never seen him do anything that wasn’t sweet. In a different world, I would have been his wife. The happiness they shared would have been mine.

“You would have been bored, Lizard. You would have tired of a diet of grapes.”

I mustered words with grape sweetness. “Welcome, Yuda—I mean Pero. I’m glad to see you.”

He looked as ever, smooth and oily, in a tan silk robe and, around his neck, a thick gold chain from which hung a ring of pearls circling a ruby. I inhaled the lavender perfume he still slathered himself with—but not pork. Not a hint. “How fares Marina?”

“Wishing for a child, but Christ hasn’t graced us.”

“Where are you living?”

“Near the market. It’s smaller, but big enough. You should visit.” He gave me directions.

As if I would!

“I’ve been looking for you. I have a message for Belo.” He began in his buttered voice, “If he doesn’t stop spoiling my business, I’ll ruin his life and Papá’s and yours.”

I fought to stay calm. “What is Belo doing, and how will you ruin us?”

“I could have sold this.” He touched his necklace. “A buyer was interested, until he wasn’t. Few come to my shop. I paid fifty reales to discover that Belo is telling his friends not to buy my jewelry.”

“He hasn’t said anything to me. How will you ruin us?”

“I’ll tell the inquisitors he leads his converso friends in prayer in Hebrew. I’ll say he reminds them how to be Jews.”

I could barely breathe. All the good deeds Belo performed for the Jews of Spain would end.

“I don’t want to do it.” He removed the necklace. “Give this to Belo. The workmanship is fine. Tell him to wear it and say who made it. Tell him to say he’s proud of me.”

I nodded.

But Belo listened to no one. The Inquisition would kill us.