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her home.”
    “Is that why you’ve been doubly upset? You want to leave? But if you demanded that…”
    Uncle waved away my questions, began to chant Queen Esther’s prayer, verses of special meaning to us because she, too, had been forced to hide her Judaism: “Help me who has no helper except the Lord. For I am taking my life in my hands…”
    His own hands had formed white-knuckled fists and his lips were trembling. Jumping up, I reached for his shoulders. His eyes gushed with tears. Poor Uncle, I thought, Portugal is driving him to the limits of his body’s tolerance. “The Jewish courtiers will effect Reza’s release,” I said. “Then, if you want to, we will make plans to leave. Somehow, we’ll convince everyone. But now you must rest. Come, I’ll take you upstairs. You may lean on me until we are out of the wilderness.”
    “Let us stay here,” he said. “Please.” Nodding his acceptance of my aid, he said, “Lead me to the mat. The atmosphere of prayer helps me.”
    We sat together in silence as he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. When he laid his hand on my head, he said in a breaking voice, “Where is the vellum ribbon with both our names on it which I gave you?”
    “I put it in my chest for safe keeping.”
    “Good.” He smiled sweetly. “It is a great comfort to know that you have it.”
    I gripped his arm. “Look, Uncle, whatever it is that’s…”
    He silenced me by pressing his hand to my forehead. “You are a worthy heir,” he said. “In spite of what I may shout at you in anger, Ihave never regretted you being my apprentice. Never. Once you have lived more and put more of your prayer into deed, you will be a great illuminator. Your father once told me, ‘There is a lion of kabbalah dwelling in my Beri’s heart.’ And he was right. Of course, it is a blessing to carry such a lion around with you. But a wild beast, even one born of kabbalah, may become inconvenient at times. Now listen closely. Up until now, it has been of little concern, because you have lived a life of study. But when you go out into the world, when action in the Lower Realms takes its rightful place beside prayer, you may have difficulties. Because you will never be able to wear masks like the rest of us. Every time you try to slip one on, you will hear the growling of the lion inside you. That was why you were in such deep despair at the time of the conversion—why, perhaps, God granted you a vision. You will not have it easy. You may have to live apart from people for a time. Or suffer their earthly judgments. But hold fast and embrace the lion inside you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    When I nodded, he continued: “Then that is enough talk. Woe be the spiritual guide who fills his apprentice with pride. We are being threatened on all sides, and if we are to survive, we must work hard. That is more important than natural talent or inclination. Your lion needs to work!”
    Uncle and I sat at our desks. As he painted his panel of Haman and Mordecai, he began to study me with tender eyes. I sensed that he was caressing my form with his gaze to remind himself that—despite Reza’s imprisonment—the world was still good and beautiful.
     
    The next day, Sunday, just after the cathedral clocktower had struck sext, there was a knock on the outside door to my mothers room. She shrieked for me. I ran up from the cellar armed absurdly with an ermine brush. In her room stood a black slave, as handsome as midnight. He wore a jacket of fine blue silk, yellow leggings. He was holding a note sealed with thick red wax. “From Dom João,” he said in halting Portuguese, meaning one of the Court Jews we’d petitioned for help.
    Esther came running in, understood immediately. She nodded for me to take the message, covered her mouth with clasped hands, began mumbling in Persian. I took the note and ripped it open. “We have seduced Pharaoh with gold,” it read. “Swallows will be home before