The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon by Richard Zimler Page A

Diego’s room. It was gloomy and low-ceilinged, stank of vinegar, amber and death. Over each of the twelve cots hung a bloody crucifix. Yellowing linen curtains opened to show men tied with leather belts to beds, peering white-eyed and hungry for life, encrusted in bandages, stinking like manure. Shutters were partially opened for a view of the Dominican Church across the square.
    Diego was in the last bed. Recognizing his large sombre eyes and saffron-colored turban, I smiled with joy and nervousness. But he was wholly changed. His shaved cheeks were the white of marble, nicked here and there with blood. Jowls previously hidden gave his face a heavy, pendulous attitude. He looked suddenly like the kind of tender man who gave presents easily, who doted on children, but who paid a price for neglecting himself—the kind of man he may have been before exile and isolation.
    The gash across his chin had been cauterized and stitched. When he spotted us, he gasped and sat up. Involuntarily, he turned his face to the wall as if preparing for death.
    My uncle stopped, his penetrating emerald eyes seeking to exchange places with Diego’s. When I prodded him forward, he walked to his friend and offered an encouraging smile. From here, we could see he was feverish with sweat. I prayed it wasn’t plague. “You look well—the bleeding’s stopped,” my master said.
    “You shouldn’t have come, seen me like this.” Diego faced the wall again and closed his eyes.
    “You can start growing back your beard as soon as your chin has healed,” I observed.
    He whispered, “I thank you for coming, but I must ask you both to leave.”
    Uncle nodded at me to accede to his request. When I reached thehall, he was sitting at the foot of Diego’s bed. Their whispered conversation was giving my master wild, whirling gestures. Diego hid his eyes behind his hands, bent his head sadly. I said prayers until my uncle came to me. He sighed his frustration. “A bad situation. Diego shall have to suffer for a while.”
    “I guess its a good thing we’re not all subject to a Levite’s restrictions ,” I replied.
    “We’re each of us subject to outside influences. One must accommodate them or live in the wilderness as a hermit. And even there…” My master’s voice trailed away as he scratched his scalp. “Let’s get out of this dungeon,” he said. “I’m beginning to itch all over.”
    “Maybe some manuscripts would cheer him up,” I said. “We could ask to borrow those Latin treatises he wants so badly and…”
    “No books!” Uncle said, holding up both his hands as if to stop an onrushing carriage.
    Outside, a droning chant was shivering the warm air of the Rossio; the daily procession of flagellants was on its way to the Riverside Palace. The sun revealed in Uncle’s drooping eyes that his soul had been brushed with Diego’s despair. He said, “Truth did not come into the world naked, but came clothed in images and names. And lies? What clothes do lies wear?”
    “The same ones as truth,” I said. “It’s up to us to distinguish.”
    “Yes,” he agreed in a dry voice. “And are all crimes seen by God?”
    “You mean, will those boys who attacked Diego be punished?” I asked.
    “If you like.”
    I was considering my response when Uncle squeezed my hand. “Sorry. I can’t bear to talk any more about this. Let’s go for the walk we’d planned.”
    “But I haven’t brought my sketchbook,” I replied.
    “Draw the birds in your Torah memory, my son.”
     
    Uncle and I spent a lovely afternoon together, watching our beloved cranes. To see creatures so large and gangly, so white, descending from out of the blue like feathers—it took our breath away. Breezes swept by us with the gentleness of flowers, and when my uncle told me it was time to get back home, I was surprised to find myself separate from the day itself.
    When we reached our house, Cinfa and Aunt Esther were preparing our Passover seder in the kitchen,