Read Online The Day of Atonement by David Liss - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Liss
Ads: Link
some visitors like to do.”
“Why ever not?” I asked.
Franklin squinted. “With your coloring, sir, you could well be taken for a New Christian, and the last thing you want is the Inquisition looking at you twice.” So saying, he stepped out of the room and closed the door.
Franklin was going to be a problem.
It might well be that he would never see my resemblance to my father, though I saw it with unavoidable clarity whenever I gazed into a glass. Even so, I must be prepared to deal with the innkeeper.
That was a matter to be resolved later. Now was the time for considering how best to proceed. I breathed in the floral air, laced with the sea scent of the Tagus. Then I decided I would no longer try to spare myself. I approached the window and looked outside, taking it all in: the river and its many ships, the glittering jewel of the Palace, the commotion of the quays.
Then I reached into my waistcoat and tore at the lining, removing two items, setting them both down on the table near the window. The first was Gabriela’s scarf, the indigo dye faded now to a dull sky blue, the embroidery spotty and the edges fringed with wear. I held it to my nose and breathed in the perfume with which I refreshed it from time to time. It no longer smelled of Gabriela—her scent was long forgotten—but I imagined that the perfume contained something of her essence. This thing, this one artifact, remained of her, but maybe there would be more soon. When I first decided to return to Lisbon, I told myself not to hope she would be here, in the city,unmarried, free to join me. Yet I did hope, and now that I was here, I knew I would seek her out. There was more than one ghost for me to search for in the city.
The other item was a duodecimo volume of Hebrew prayers. I considered, with some amusement, my conversation with the priest who had sought to make certain I smuggled no Protestant texts. What would he have done if he had suspected the truth, that I was an escaped New Christian, returned as a Jew? The irony would have been lost on him, of course. I had been raised Catholic, as had my father. Perhaps my father’s father or grandfather had cleaved to Jewish practices, observed in secret, but over time the knowledge and commitment had decayed. As a child I knew no faith but that of the Church, and so it was the Inquisition that had, however circuitously, returned me to my people.
Centuries before, Jews had prospered in Portugal. It had been the country to which persecuted Jews had fled. Once, thousands of voices would have risen up to recite the afternoon prayers, the
mincha
. Those voices had long ago fallen silent. Though hardly the most observant of Jews back in London, I was now prepared to rekindle a tiny spark of that stifled flame. There would be one who dared pray, if only in a whisper. My voice breathy and trembling, not from fear but from anger, I read, and every syllable was a blow of defiance.
Chapter 4
The idea of killing the priest had come to me that night in the alley, but returning to Lisbon had been on my mind for months before that. It had begun in the Bevis Marks Synagogue, on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. I had heard the words every year since my relocation to London. It was part of the liturgy taken from the Mishnah.
For sins against God
, the liturgy says,
the Day of Atonement atones, but for sins of one man against another, the Day of Atonement does not atone until they have made peace with each other
.
How could I make peace with the dead? How could I atone for leaving my parents behind to be tortured and die in their prison cells? It had been a strange jumble of ideas. I was not even sure they made sense to me, but I had begun to sense that I needed to leave London and come to Lisbon. I needed to restore order to my broken life, and that could only happen in the city that had broken me. And now here I was. I had left my friend and mentor; I hadabandoned everyone and everything in London. I was
“Why ever not?” I asked.
Franklin squinted. “With your coloring, sir, you could well be taken for a New Christian, and the last thing you want is the Inquisition looking at you twice.” So saying, he stepped out of the room and closed the door.
Franklin was going to be a problem.
It might well be that he would never see my resemblance to my father, though I saw it with unavoidable clarity whenever I gazed into a glass. Even so, I must be prepared to deal with the innkeeper.
That was a matter to be resolved later. Now was the time for considering how best to proceed. I breathed in the floral air, laced with the sea scent of the Tagus. Then I decided I would no longer try to spare myself. I approached the window and looked outside, taking it all in: the river and its many ships, the glittering jewel of the Palace, the commotion of the quays.
Then I reached into my waistcoat and tore at the lining, removing two items, setting them both down on the table near the window. The first was Gabriela’s scarf, the indigo dye faded now to a dull sky blue, the embroidery spotty and the edges fringed with wear. I held it to my nose and breathed in the perfume with which I refreshed it from time to time. It no longer smelled of Gabriela—her scent was long forgotten—but I imagined that the perfume contained something of her essence. This thing, this one artifact, remained of her, but maybe there would be more soon. When I first decided to return to Lisbon, I told myself not to hope she would be here, in the city,unmarried, free to join me. Yet I did hope, and now that I was here, I knew I would seek her out. There was more than one ghost for me to search for in the city.
The other item was a duodecimo volume of Hebrew prayers. I considered, with some amusement, my conversation with the priest who had sought to make certain I smuggled no Protestant texts. What would he have done if he had suspected the truth, that I was an escaped New Christian, returned as a Jew? The irony would have been lost on him, of course. I had been raised Catholic, as had my father. Perhaps my father’s father or grandfather had cleaved to Jewish practices, observed in secret, but over time the knowledge and commitment had decayed. As a child I knew no faith but that of the Church, and so it was the Inquisition that had, however circuitously, returned me to my people.
Centuries before, Jews had prospered in Portugal. It had been the country to which persecuted Jews had fled. Once, thousands of voices would have risen up to recite the afternoon prayers, the
mincha
. Those voices had long ago fallen silent. Though hardly the most observant of Jews back in London, I was now prepared to rekindle a tiny spark of that stifled flame. There would be one who dared pray, if only in a whisper. My voice breathy and trembling, not from fear but from anger, I read, and every syllable was a blow of defiance.
Chapter 4
The idea of killing the priest had come to me that night in the alley, but returning to Lisbon had been on my mind for months before that. It had begun in the Bevis Marks Synagogue, on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. I had heard the words every year since my relocation to London. It was part of the liturgy taken from the Mishnah.
For sins against God
, the liturgy says,
the Day of Atonement atones, but for sins of one man against another, the Day of Atonement does not atone until they have made peace with each other
.
How could I make peace with the dead? How could I atone for leaving my parents behind to be tortured and die in their prison cells? It had been a strange jumble of ideas. I was not even sure they made sense to me, but I had begun to sense that I needed to leave London and come to Lisbon. I needed to restore order to my broken life, and that could only happen in the city that had broken me. And now here I was. I had left my friend and mentor; I hadabandoned everyone and everything in London. I was
Similar Books
