What tale should Moishe relate of our history—for the priest would want details, names beyond Lost and Hungry?
At fourteen he had left the dreary shmatte-cart road-ruts of an insignificant shtetl armed only with a questionable book and a taste for the brine-tart air of the horizons beyond the horizon, only to be whipped as a cabin boy, and find driftwood escape from trade as a slave after shipwreck, then kill a priest, entomb a sexton, liberate what was bound—four sacks of heresy—and now had designs on the traitorous life of a Marrano spy working for the Archbishop and the Holy Inquisition itself, may devils make a coracle of his kishkas, his slime-white spine for a mast.
It seemed an unlikely tale, scaffolded by cloud and as fanciful as the second invisible horn of the unicorn.
Though it were true.
Surely the priest would not believe it, even were it to be scrubbed of stain in bucket water, its heresy drowned in a pail like a scrabbling kitten.
Still, of the megillah of tales that he might tell, Moishe had a sense that, spoken plainly, the authority of the truth, though shaped, sculpted, tailored and trimmed for the Church, might speak most authentically to the priest.
Truth sounds most true when it is spoken bespoke.
And it could save our lives. We were, after all, sought by the Inquisition and had been caught crawling up the leg of the Archbishop’s, attempting entry at his back door. This would, we acknowledged, cause him considerable discomfort.
Moishe began:
A cabin boy from the east, he had wandered without design across water and into the history of Spain. There had been whipping, a shipwreck, bandits, the execution lessons of the auto-da-fé, warm heaps of soft soil to sleep on, kindly farmers offering sour milk and the desiccated crusts of old bread.
Yet he should not neglect to recount the assistance of priests and the safe harbour, soft beds and fresh bread of churches.
And his faith.
Padre Luis Dos Almos sat for awhile chewing on some of that soft church bread. Tongues of lantern light worried the stumps of shadow in the kitchen’s dim maw.
“An excellent tale,” he said, finally. “Adventure enough for a bindlestiff of a lad in possession of but a meagre assortment of years. And what you say of history interests me. For it is true, we wander the alleys like flaneurs, sometimes finding ourselves on the main street amidst the chaos of traffic, dodging to avoid becoming flesh shoes on history’s great hooves.”
He poured more wine into both his own and Moishe’s cups. “I observe, also, that you have, perhaps, also wandered from the narrow path of truth into the broad thoroughfare of invention. ‘Miguel’—is that a name from the East? And what of the Goyas of Zaragoza and their parrot? I was born on some day’s yesterday, but let me be clear that that day was not today.”
Which way to run? I saw flight in Moishe’s eyes.
“I requested a story and you have provided a good tale,” Padre Luis said. “I warrant it is a painting with more colour than the pencil outline of the actual. Tonight you will sleep here. When the sun returns day, you will return home, returning to your parents both yourself and their sleep.”
“Yes, Padre,” Moishe nodded respectfully. Sculpted and trimmed, the truth was not as distant as Moishe might have imagined. Sleep and his parents had not shared a bed for some time unless it be eternal.
Padre Luis poured himself another cup of wine to water his ripening cheeks. “I myself have been the wandering I of many adventures,” he began. “I was born in the city of Palma on the island of Majorca. From there, I have travelled much and seen more. The iridescent arbour of the peacock’s tail, the grizzled hump on the ape’s back. Great battles and tender love. Silver-hearted heroes and the mewling of cowards, though often each mistook himself for the other. I have known the jealous turnscrew of the human heart and the incomprehensible round dance of kindness. Jews, infidels, pagans and Christians. And those in between.” He paused to drink again, and this seemed to inspire him. “I am drunk from the jagged edges of life’s broken bottle. I have tasted the sweet blackcurrant wine of a woman’s lips. But, these last several years, I have become a ghost.” He imbibed now with less inhibition and more gusto, spilling wine down his cheeks and onto his cassock.
“I have become a ghost.”
He did not appear to be so, though at this point, it was clear that he was comprised of a high percentage of spirits.
“This Inquisition. This Tribunal of the Farkakteh Holy Office. Shh. We must not speak with such vigour if we are to speak plainly.” He leaned conspiratorially over the table and then continued in a hiss. “I am a ghost. How can I be a man? I am hollowed out by such haunting. Watching. Waiting. Not all who wander are lost.”
Then he placed his soft red face on the table and closed his eyes. “How great is the darkness,” he said and passed out.