The Day of Atonement (25 page)

“It is the Senhora Carver, is it not?” Enéas said. “The fiery red hair, the creamy white skin. I have seen many men desire her, but
she
desires only you, senhor.”

“Thank you for your opinion, Enéas,” I said. “I am lucky to have an advisor such as you in these matters.”

“And how could she not love you?” he cried. “A handsome man, and a courageous one! A man of action and one of principle! A man who rescued poor Enéas from a life of misery and want. That she loves you proves the worth of her mind, and yet you push her away. It is most curious. Perhaps it is not Senhora Carver, then. Perhaps it is—”

I set my hand down hard on the boy’s shoulder. “It is not your concern. I would prefer not to speak of it.”

Enéas nodded, and the grave look upon his dark features suggested he understood he had escaped something terrible. “I will be more careful to mind my tongue. I never wish to offend the senhor. I am grateful for all the senhor does.”

“That is good,” I said. “But I don’t need expressions of gratitude. I need only loyalty—and, perhaps, some privacy.”

“And you deserve such things. I will respect your wishes. Even so, I will say only that though I am young, I know much of love. A great deal of love. I am very much, in my own way, an oracle of love, and the senhor need only ask for advice, and I shall give it.”

“You still appear to be talking.”

Enéas studied me. “What is strange to me is not that you resist her beauty, for there are many beautiful women in the world. What is strange to me is that you resist her nature, for you and Senhora Carver are very much alike. Very well suited, I think. That is strange to me.”

“What is strange to me is that you are still speaking of this,” I said.

“And to me too!” Enéas agreed. “I cannot imagine why I don’t stop. My loyalty prompts me to speak the truth even if the senhor does not wish to hear.”

“I should very much like it if your intelligence would prompt you to be quiet before the senhor administers a beating.”

“The senhor has not beat me in all these weeks. I think it unlikely he would begin now,” Enéas said. He glanced at my face. “Though certainly not impossible.”

Three hours later, I sat at my desk in my rooms, going through my correspondence. There was a damned lot of it for a man only pretending to engage in trade. I could not imagine how much there would be if I sought to make money in earnest.

I had shoved my papers aside in disgust when I heard the knock at the door. I knew it was the boy before I called for him to enter. Turning
and sighing, I was about to warn him against offering any more advice, but then I saw Enéas’s pale complexion, his trembling lips.

“What is it?”

“It is Senhor Franklin,” Enéas said.

“Is he hurt?”

Enéas shook his head. “I saw him upon the street, senhor, speaking with the Jesuit, Father Pedro.” On saying the Inquisitor’s name, Enéas crossed himself.

“Go on.”

“I could not hear what they said,” the boy explained, “but the priest gave Senhor Franklin gold.”

“You’re certain?” I asked.

Enéas nodded.

I thanked the boy and sent him away. I returned to my desk and closed my eyes. So Franklin was an informant. I had liked him years before and now, though the man had become somewhat ridiculous, I liked him still. I knew that men did what they must to survive in Lisbon, but it was one thing to give the Inquisition information under duress, quite another to receive money for it.

Franklin knew who I was, but I’d not yet been arrested. That could only mean he’d taken money for promising to keep an eye upon me. Perhaps he might grow desperate later and pretend to have then discovered my true nature, but it seemed to me more likely he would continue to sell innocuous details of my comings and goings.

This changes nothing, I decided, though I was now determined to keep a careful eye on the innkeeper.

When I left my rooms that afternoon, I found Franklin waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. “Mr. Foxx, how go your ventures?”

“Very well, thank you,” I said, making a point to meet the man’s eyes and smile.

“I should very much like to discuss them with you,” Franklin said,
hurrying after me as I made my way to the door. “I know I don’t appear to be much these days, but once I knew the Factory as well as any man.”

“I should like that myself,” I assured him, hardly slowing my pace.

“Just name the time, sir,” Franklin said.

“I shall do so,” I replied.

I headed out to the street, Enéas trailing behind me. I did not look back, but I felt certain the innkeeper watched after me until I was well out of sight.

I left Enéas outside the Three Speckled Hens and went in to meet with the Carvers. They were both there, and I was relieved not to be alone with Roberta. It unnerved me how she watched me, searching for signs that my eyes lingered on her. It troubled me not because I disliked it, but because I liked it rather too much. I sat with Rutherford between us, keeping my gaze on the plump man, wondering what she had told him to make certain he always acted as a buffer. Was I too bold in my advances? Was I untrustworthy? Was Rutherford willing to overlook my designs on his wife because he had designs on my money?

Roberta sat slightly apart from us, placing one hand over the other, and looking off into the distance. Meanwhile, Rutherford and I discussed matters of business for the better part of an hour. His chief area of interest seemed to be how I might secure my connections with Eusebio, though he continually distracted himself with tales of his own conquests among the New Christians. These stories were relevant, he assured me; if I paid attention I might hope to emulate his success. Rutherford appeared to believe, to the depths of his soul, in his own greatness, although he surely also recognized his wife’s contributions.

After some time, Rutherford saw a pair of Factory men he wished
to speak with and excused himself, promising he would return momentarily. It was the first time since the incident in the inn that Roberta and I found ourselves alone together.

Roberta looked at me, then lowered her face and turned away. When she looked back, she was blushing only a little, and smiling awkwardly. “I thought I was too old—and too married—for this kind of foolishness.”

“I don’t know that this is the best place to discuss this,” I said quietly.

“Then where?” Her voice was quiet but harsh. “All those private conversations we have together? Where else can I speak of what I feel when you will not ever be alone with me?”

“Roberta—” I began, but she raised a hand for me to stop.

“You need not say it,” she said, flicking her fingers upward in dismissal. “I don’t blame you. I wish I had not made a fool of myself in your rooms. I understand that your interests are too closely bound up with ours for you to feel like you can reject me. You do not have to deceive me to do business with us. I wish only to know the truth. I want—I want to stop wondering. I want to stop lying awake at night, dwelling upon the same absurd things over and over again in an endless circle until I think I should go mad.”

I admired her frankness—and felt a tug of pity—but it was too late to veer from my chosen course. “I have told you how I feel, and you have no cause to doubt me. Until you are ready to leave your husband, speak not of love. I cannot bear it.”

“I love Rutherford. He is kind to me, and I do not wish to betray him. Not utterly. But he is not enough. Can you not understand that?”

“I can,” I said. And I did. I, who had traveled across Europe and embroiled myself in a thousand mad schemes because I despised who I had become, understood this kind of existential dissatisfaction all too well. But what did she truly want from me? Passion? Redemption?
She claimed to love me, to want me to bring her something she was missing, but all the while she planned to steal my gold. I could hardly tell her lies from her truths.

“You will give me nothing?” she asked.

“I have told you how I feel,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

“I cannot forgive you.” She brushed some dirt off her glove. “I can forgive you for spurning me, but you should never have kissed me. I cannot forgive you that.”

It was then that her husband returned. I remained for another quarter hour lest I seem conspicuous. Then I departed, making every effort to look like a man hurrying off, all the while wishing I could steal Roberta’s money so I could stop pretending to be too in love with her to take her to my bed.

It was time to secure the loan. I wrote at once to Eusebio Nobreza, telling him that I had a business prospect. Eusebio wrote back and invited me to his home two days hence. It was not as soon as I would have liked, but there was no helping it. Furthermore, I told myself, if there had been a polite way to suggest another location, I would have done so. I did not want to go to that house and see Gabriela—and, simultaneously, I wanted to go most desperately.

I met Eusebio at his home at midday. There was no sign of Gabriela, and I felt many things, but chief among these were relief and despair. Nevertheless, the elder Nobreza was there, and I had come to take genuine pleasure in Luis’s company. He accompanied me and Eusebio into the study, where we drank excellent Madeira and spoke of nothing significant until I forced the issue.

“Sir,” I said, “I believe I may have found a prospect with a pair of English merchants called Carver.”

“I know them,” Eusebio said. “They are on firm ground. What do you require?”

I did not hesitate. “Two thousand, English.”

Eusebio was silent for a long time. Would it hurry him along to let him know that I needed his money so I could kill the man who wanted to cast him in chains? Somehow, I thought it would not.

Then Eusebio appeared to end an internal debate. “Send me the details in writing,” he said. “I shall look it over and, based on the reputation of the Carvers and your merits as a person of character, I shall secure your credit should the venture appear well conceived.”

I smiled. All was in play. Now I wanted only for the Carvers to receive their funds from abroad and place their money in their vault.

“I am very pleased that we shall do business with this Englishman,” said Luis, raising his goblet. “You are the most curious of men, Senhor Foxx. You are as polished as a courtesan and as blunt as a German. I have told my son that, in my opinion, you are a man whose honor we may depend upon.”

I rose and bowed to both men. “You flatter me.”

“I speak the truth,” Luis said with an amiable smile.

“Do not think Mr. Foxx is not driven by greed, just like all the rest.” Eusebio’s mood appeared to have shifted quite suddenly. He cast me a sour expression. “You Englishmen exploit our wealth, the same as the Inquisition.”

“We do not seek to exploit you,” I said. “We work with you, sir. Is it not the English who aid New Christians in secreting wealth out of the country? Were it not for us, nothing of what you earn could be safe.”

“In the main, that is true,” Eusebio said, though the look upon his face suggested the admission was distasteful. “Forgive my dark mood, Mr. Foxx. This system is not of your devising. I know that. But I am trapped within it, waiting only for the hammer to fall and for everything I have, everyone I care about, to be taken from me.”

“I cannot claim to understand what it is to live as you do,” I said. “But know this: if I can serve you in any way, you need but ask.”

Eusebio nodded. “You are kind to say it. Many Englishmen have sweet words, but few will put themselves at risk for one of my kind.”

“Let us pray, sir, that you never have cause to put my words to the test.”

I followed one of the servants to the door, but when I turned to leave, I realized Luis was behind me. “Forgive my son, Mr. Foxx. He is very bitter sometimes, and who can blame him? But I am glad the two of you have come to an understanding.”

“The younger Senhor Nobreza honors me with his confidence,” I said.

“He would be a fool if he didn’t. You will join us for dinner tonight to celebrate?”

“I do not wish to impose upon your son or make work for his wife,” I answered, perhaps too hastily. I could not sit down to a civil meal with Gabriela and pretend she was nothing to me. I had done it once, but I thought to do so again would break me.

“Then have dinner with me now. We shall go to a
taberna
together. You do business with the son, but does that mean you cannot be friends with the father?”

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“Then you shall eat and drink upon my bill.”

I followed the older man to the street and a nearby
taberna
, where we took a quiet table by the fire. Luis ordered a plate of roast pork. I called for chicken.

I winked at the older man. “Come, sir. You may be candid with me. Is the pork for show?”

“I cannot be candid with anyone, for anyone could be an agent of the Inquisition, even you, sir. My son or his wife could be in their service and I would not know. But I shall tell you truthfully, for there is no secret in it. We are not Jews. We have not been Jews for generations. There would be no New Christians if we were permitted to marry Old Christians. My parents and grandparents made a point of showing they were not Jews by eating pork, but for me and my children
it is but one of the foods we eat, one we ate when we were children and which, perhaps, reminds us of better days. It is ironic, do you not think, that pork should be the meat most likely to produce nostalgia in one of my kind?”

“So you do think of yourself as a distinct people.”

“We must do so. The laws of this nation keep us a people apart.”

“And if you were to escape Lisbon with your wealth and live wherever you chose—how would you live then?”

“It is something I do not dare to dream of, and so I do not think on it.”

“Has no one ever escaped?”

“Once we were permitted to move to the colonies, but no longer. As for other means of leaving the country, they are difficult. You mentioned Englishmen who take risks to help my kind. Do you know the merchant Charles Settwell?”

“I have met him,” I said, measuring his response. “I know he is not well thought of by the Factory men.”