I wasn’t outside but found myself behind the altar. Bells began to ring. Nice of them to celebrate my freedom. I flew up into the vault of the nave. The light was startling and I bumped into the diamond-shaped panes of the leadlight windows several times before I adjusted. One of them was open and I flew out and above the slate roof. The city was a vast ocean around me, Moishe a tiny craft adrift in the narrow alleys between its waves.
I flew in a large circle, unsure which way to go. There were few people out in the streets. Because of the plague, they kept out of public places, except when absolutely necessary, for example, to perform their civic and religious duty in the witnessing of a good life-affirming stake-burning.
I saw one of the men—I remembered his name as Avraham or Abraham—from the secret basement talking furtively in a nearby square. I landed on a roof to listen. He was speaking to a red-robed priest about a stash of books. Jewish books. Moishe’s books. They were negotiating a price.
How did he get the books? Did it have anything to do with Diego?
There are advantages to being a bird.
Flight.
Feathers.
Enticing little feygelehs with pretty wings.
The ability to play dumb.
I flew down, landed on Abraham’s shoulder and tried to look stupid.
So, nu, not such a stretch for me.
“Hello. Howaya? Hello.” I imitated first-rate parrot repartee.
They were both surprised. They may have thought I was an idiot, but I was exotic, more unusual than your Generalife-garden variety idiot.
“How did it …?” Abraham began. “Stupid bird.” He was worried that somehow I might compromise the negotiations. If they went awry, instead of being served a hearty helping of gold he could end up as Jewish barbecue himself.
“Hello,” I said. “Howaya? Hello.”
They hurried through their discussion, not wanting me to draw attention to them.
Their plan: Abraham would meet up with the other hidden Jews and produce the books. Then the priests of the Holy Office would burst in and the red-capes would catch them right-to-left-handed with the forbidden books. They were supposed to have been New Christians, converted Jews. To set eyes on anything but the Gospels was heresy and would certainly mean death by fire.
Unless they repented. In which case, as I’d just seen, they’d be killed twice. First by strangulation. Then fire.
Choke and smoke.
The Catedral wasn’t going to be the meeting place. They wanted to preserve it as a trap for the future. For now, the books would be both lure and hook. Abraham would arrange a meeting in a “safe” place.
The two men parted. The priest in the blood-red Inquisition robes strode confidently across the square. Abraham slithered furtively, checking over his shoulder.
“Hello,” I chirped from his other shoulder. “Howaya? Hello.”
As soon as the priest was out of view, Abraham slapped at me. “Leave, vermin,” he said, and I obliged, flying up above the gables, following him like the conscience he didn’t have.
The priest navigated his jagged way forward through the illogical, dark and narrow alleys.
He must have been navigating by faith.
Like that priest who walked into a bar.
There’s a few Inquisition guys playing cards and they invite him to join them.
He asks, “What’s the ante?”
“Ten silver pieces,” they say.
Priest says, “I’m gonna get burned at those stakes.”
So, nu, I lost Abraham as he walked under some awnings and, before I could find him again, he slipped into—I think—a building attached to the Catedral. Me and God. We can’t think of everything.
By now it was dark; it was doubtful I’d find Moishe. I’d flown to where I’d gone head-to-knuckle with Diego and then to the quemadoro, where there was nothing left but ashes and shadows instead of people. The grandstand stood mute and fraught with expectation, a psychopath waiting for another touch of those silk-covered tucheses.
If I didn’t find Moishe and the hidden Jews, by next week they’d be the entertainment, the puffs of sweet human smoke that the Sevillano audience would breathe as they cheered.
Chapter Nine