shop that seemed likely, though it had no marker
outside, and peered through the small window. Inside, a man stood canted over a
workbench with two lamps lit beside him; though it was the brightest hour of
the day, the sun would never penetrate to the interior of this little shop in
its canyon of a street. He held a thick lens to one eye to magnify his vision
as he worked with a delicate, tweezer-like tool. I could see only the top of
his head: graying curly hair and the beginnings of a bald patch the size of a
communion wafer.
A bell chimed as I entered the shop. The man looked up with
a smile that froze on his lips as he registered my habit. He lowered the lens
and straightened his back with an air of resignation.
“Have you come to search my home again, Brother? It is
barely two months since they were last here.” He sounded as if the prospect
made him weary rather than angry. “We are true Catholics, as we have been for
twenty-five years.”
Twenty-five years. He could not be much over fifty; that
would mean he had been little more than my age when he had been asked to choose
between his history and his home.
“No, sir,” I said, quickly, appalled to have caused him
alarm. “I hoped I might speak to your daughter. Maria.”
His face hardened. “Neither of my daughters is home at
present.” As if to betray him, the ceiling creaked with the footsteps of
someone walking in the room above. My eyes flickered upward; his remained fixed
calmly on me. In the light of the oil lamp I saw that his face was drawn, his
dark eyes ringed with shadow. One of his daughters had not come home for two
days; he must already fear the worst. I wondered if Maria had confided in him
about her sister’s lover, the pregnancy, or where she had last seen Anna. I
doubted it; she had said the knowledge of her sister’s affair would break their
father’s heart. She would want to protect him from the truth.
There was nothing more I could do. Inside my habit, the
locket pressed against my ribs in its hidden pocket, but to hand it over would
be as good as announcing that his daughter was dead, and implicating myself.
“No matter. Perhaps one day I will come back and buy a gift
for my mother.” I turned to leave.
“I should be honored, sir.” He gave me a slight bow and a
half-smile; despite his understandable dislike of Dominicans, he knew that he
needed our continued favor.
I felt a pang of empathy; though I could not imagine the
constant threat that hung over this man and his family, no matter how sincerely
devout he tried to appear, I already knew what it meant to harbor secret
beliefs in your heart, beliefs that could lead you into the flames before the Inquisitors’
signatures had even dried on your trial papers. The more I studied, the less
convinced I was that the Catholic Church or her Pope were the sole custodians
of divine wisdom. I could not tell if it was fear or arrogance that led the
Holy Office to ban books that might open a man’s mind to the teachings of the
Jews, the Arabs, the Protestants, or the ancients, but I felt increasingly sure
that God, whatever form He took, had not created us to kill and torture one
another over the name we give Him. Tolerance and curiosity: a dangerous
combination for a young Dominican at a time when the Church was growing less
and less tolerant. I nursed my doubts like a secret passion, relishing the
shiver of fear they brought. I wanted to tell the goldsmith we had more in
common than he realized. Instead, I returned his bow and left the shop, the
bright chime of the bell ringing behind me.
A few paces down the street, I stopped under the Roman arch
and tried to think what I might do with the locket. I could wait until the shop
was closed and try to push it under the door or through a window, in the hope
that Maria would find it. But someone else might see it first, and think to
look inside its secret compartment. I could not risk that. I could walk down to
the harbor and throw it
outside, and peered through the small window. Inside, a man stood canted over a
workbench with two lamps lit beside him; though it was the brightest hour of
the day, the sun would never penetrate to the interior of this little shop in
its canyon of a street. He held a thick lens to one eye to magnify his vision
as he worked with a delicate, tweezer-like tool. I could see only the top of
his head: graying curly hair and the beginnings of a bald patch the size of a
communion wafer.
A bell chimed as I entered the shop. The man looked up with
a smile that froze on his lips as he registered my habit. He lowered the lens
and straightened his back with an air of resignation.
“Have you come to search my home again, Brother? It is
barely two months since they were last here.” He sounded as if the prospect
made him weary rather than angry. “We are true Catholics, as we have been for
twenty-five years.”
Twenty-five years. He could not be much over fifty; that
would mean he had been little more than my age when he had been asked to choose
between his history and his home.
“No, sir,” I said, quickly, appalled to have caused him
alarm. “I hoped I might speak to your daughter. Maria.”
His face hardened. “Neither of my daughters is home at
present.” As if to betray him, the ceiling creaked with the footsteps of
someone walking in the room above. My eyes flickered upward; his remained fixed
calmly on me. In the light of the oil lamp I saw that his face was drawn, his
dark eyes ringed with shadow. One of his daughters had not come home for two
days; he must already fear the worst. I wondered if Maria had confided in him
about her sister’s lover, the pregnancy, or where she had last seen Anna. I
doubted it; she had said the knowledge of her sister’s affair would break their
father’s heart. She would want to protect him from the truth.
There was nothing more I could do. Inside my habit, the
locket pressed against my ribs in its hidden pocket, but to hand it over would
be as good as announcing that his daughter was dead, and implicating myself.
“No matter. Perhaps one day I will come back and buy a gift
for my mother.” I turned to leave.
“I should be honored, sir.” He gave me a slight bow and a
half-smile; despite his understandable dislike of Dominicans, he knew that he
needed our continued favor.
I felt a pang of empathy; though I could not imagine the
constant threat that hung over this man and his family, no matter how sincerely
devout he tried to appear, I already knew what it meant to harbor secret
beliefs in your heart, beliefs that could lead you into the flames before the Inquisitors’
signatures had even dried on your trial papers. The more I studied, the less
convinced I was that the Catholic Church or her Pope were the sole custodians
of divine wisdom. I could not tell if it was fear or arrogance that led the
Holy Office to ban books that might open a man’s mind to the teachings of the
Jews, the Arabs, the Protestants, or the ancients, but I felt increasingly sure
that God, whatever form He took, had not created us to kill and torture one
another over the name we give Him. Tolerance and curiosity: a dangerous
combination for a young Dominican at a time when the Church was growing less
and less tolerant. I nursed my doubts like a secret passion, relishing the
shiver of fear they brought. I wanted to tell the goldsmith we had more in
common than he realized. Instead, I returned his bow and left the shop, the
bright chime of the bell ringing behind me.
A few paces down the street, I stopped under the Roman arch
and tried to think what I might do with the locket. I could wait until the shop
was closed and try to push it under the door or through a window, in the hope
that Maria would find it. But someone else might see it first, and think to
look inside its secret compartment. I could not risk that. I could walk down to
the harbor and throw it
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