She laughed, but then became serious. Moishe must leave on the boat. With the death of the priest, it was too dangerous to remain in Spain.
“I will sail only with Sarah and the Jews of the Catedral. Another Moses helped the people escape, and so, too, will I.”
“There’s Moses and there’s Moses,” she said. “You’re a brave boy, but he fought with God in his gloves.”
“The back of a guard’s head cannot distinguish between ha-Shem and a rock,” Moishe said. “Besides, I know how we may fight fire with equal fire.”
Crowds would gather around the quemadero. Soldiers. Horses. Priests. Carts. Citizens.
People carried bread and fruit and wine. Nothing like a little nosh before conflagration and death. Food for thought or torture.
Men would also bring something to fill their snoot. Bottles of wine and of liquor. If these bottles were filled with oil, and if, all at once, this oil was used to set alight the many carts filled with straw or the hay bales used for seating, it might be that a rescue would be possible amidst the Judgement Day–like agitation of souls, the excitement of bodies, and a mob flashing mad with a fire-ignited panic.
Fighting fire with fire, Moishe had invented a kind of medieval Molotov cocktail.
The condemned would be taken to a ship before the Inquisition was able to distinguish ground from sky.
“Torquemada travels here, to the Seville Catedral, to celebrate an Easter mass with other Inquisitors. You are at great risk. If you will not leave, I will allow you to remain in my home, but only as long as you stay hidden inside and in the room I have given you. Else, you risk discovery and torture and execution for both of us.”
“I will stay hidden,” Moishe said. “But help me to save the Catedral Jews from the stake. Allow me this.”
“You will stay hidden,” Do?a Gracia said. She would not allow Moishe to play a role in the escape that she was planning. “Then successful or not, you will leave for Morocco on that day.”
Back in our room, he said, “I will remain hidden here, as the Do?a wills it. So hidden that she won’t know when I leave to find Abraham, the shtik dreck uncle of Sarah. Perhaps he suffers from regret. I intend to spare him such tsuris, such woes.”
“And how will you do this?”
“A heart that does not beat feels no pain.”
“Emes,” I said. “It’s true.”
Like owls and murderers, we slept through the day, waking only when the world was dim and without doubt. Besides, we were so tired we didn’t have the energy to go to sleep. Luckily, it came to us.
Some food and then we slipped into the moonless night, seeing little but the shapes of the less dark against the deeper dark. Lit only by certainty, we crept like shadows along the alley walls.
So, emes, it was Moishe who had such certainty. I did not wish to leave our hiding place, to risk our lives, to think only of revenge, but sometimes, thoughts grow legs and carry you forward and you find yourself sneaking through the streets on the shoulder of an impulse, intent on the hunt. All you can do is hold on, try not to end up on the cobbles.
Abraham.
What would we do when we found him? Does a dog wonder what it will do when chasing the car?
“Sarah. She’ll know where he is,” Moishe said.
We slid along the skirts of the church.
“Sarah,” Moishe whispered into the opening. “Are you there?”
Silence.
Perhaps she had a lunch engagement with the Emperor of Cipangu, or a hair appointment.
My own feathers prickling my own skin.
Fear.
What did they do to her?
Then her voice. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous.”
“I have to ask you something.”
“You can’t be here. I am shamed.”
“Not for me. I want to help.”
Her face, a pale, smudged moon, appeared between the stones, “You must leave.”
“I’m looking for your uncle. This is because of him.”
“If not him, then another. Soon it will end for us. You, still, can run.”
Moishe spoke quietly into the stones. “Kiss me.”
Moishe. Sensitive as a barrel of pickles.
Sarah ignored him. “At the residence of the Archbishop, Diego Hurtado de Mendoza. I heard them say that he would be there.”
“Kiss me,” Moishe said again. “For courage.”
“Not for courage,” she said and stretched toward him.
Moishe tried to burrow with great enthusiasm into the side of the church, but, like traitorous crossguards on the hilt of a sword, his shoulders prevented him from plunging fully in. Only his head disappeared into the hole.
A parrot can only know what a parrot can know. In this case, a chicken-slender tuches communicating moonward with avid calligraphic perturbation. I could not read these nether words. Perhaps contact was made, for though the stones were thick, the necks of Moishe and Sarah, in proportion to their bodies, were not.
When it emerged, Moishe’s face, like Sarah’s, was pale and radiant.
Inside him, though this, too, cannot be known from without, adolescent blood, sperm and desire all turned bright silver and quick.
We flew into the night.
Chapter Fifteen