The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon by Richard Zimler Page B

they could be anywhere.”
    “I must go back…maybe they’ve made it home. I must find them and…”
    He gripped my collar. “Listen, the only way to find them is to stay alive. You must get away.”
    “How did it start?! Who’s responsible for this…”
    “In the Dominican Church. A crucifix with a hole covered by mirror . A lit candle slipped in from the back by the friars. They tell everyone that the light is a sign from the Nazarene, a miracle. About an hour ago, a New Christian, Jacob Chaveirol, the tailor, he was…”
    “I went to school with his son, Menni. He’s brilliant in Torah. A man of wonders. He has a shop up…”
    “He’s an idiot! He said how much better it would be if Christ gave us rain instead of fire!”
    “And…?”
    “Beaten to death. They slit his abdomen and pulled out his… Two priests called on the congregation to kill the Jews. His brother, Isaac, killed as well, ripped to pieces. The head in the bell tower, it’s his. Northern sailors contributed money for the wood of the pyre. And soon…and soon…” David’s words faltered.
    “And the King, why doesn’t he come to our defense? Twenty years we were given to…”
    “King Manuel?!” Master David sighed. “He a coward, but he’s not stupid. He knows that if he sends troops to our aid, the mob will call for his head. The people hate him almost as much as they hate the Jews. He’ll give the riot time to burn itself out, then take control of the city again.”
    He and I clung together in silence. I could not speak of Uncle; my revelations would have confirmed that he would never return to me. And I could trust no New Christian until I learned more about the murder. I asked, “Have you heard anything of the fate of Father Carlos or Diego the printer?” When David shook his head, I added, “And Samson the vintner?”
    “Not a word,” he replied.
    My eyes were adjusting to the gloom; we were in a spiral stairwell. Above us, dim light filtered through a thin portal covered by a grill. Suddenly, I could distinguish a face above us peering around the central axis of the stairs. I lunged. Caught a leg. Stifled a scream with my hand. It was a girl. She struggled, but I held her with the force of my stored fear. “Stop! I won’t hurt you!” I said.
    She fought me for a moment more, then shook free of her terror. Her breathing came warm against my hand.
    “Damn her!” the chazan whisper-screamed.
    “We can’t stay here anyway,” I said. “We’re too close to the Rossio. You go now and I’ll meet you outside the porta de Santa Ana, St. Anne’s Gate. Past the monastery, on the crest of the next hill, is a single large oak. Meet me there. I’ll stop her from shouting till you have had time to get away.” I could see my friend clearly now. His prayer shawl had been tugged through his ripped mantle. “And for God’s sake, toss away your tallis .”
    “But what about you?” he asked.
    “You’ve saved me once. I’ll do the rest. Now that I’ve awakened to what is happening, I’ll get away. Just get rid of your shawl.”
    “I can’t,” he said. He hid it back inside his mantle.
    “And you think that Jacob the tailor was crazy? Look, I’ll meet you beyond St. Anne’s. Go!”
    Master David paused as if to speak, then squeezed my arm and dashed out the door.
    Power and fear produce a color of emotion unlike any other, and with the girl in my grasp, I felt my body to be silver, reflective, beyond confinement. “I’m going to let you go in a minute,” I said.
    She breathed hot against me. As I unfurled my hand, she straightened up and tugged my fingers back to her mouth. Her tongue flicked like sexual prayer against my palm, traced edges of desire along my thumb and forefinger. She reached fingertips to my sex. Squeezed once with the pressure of curiosity. The in and out of our intertwining breathing gave rhythm to our tongues dancing together. Two sinful lunatics we were, swelling together in a stairwell