The Secret Dead (7 page)

Officially, there were no Jews left in Naples. They had been
expelled in 1541, though a few had chosen to convert and stay. Maria’s father
must be one such
convertito
, if he was permitted to trade here as a
Neapolitan. I had heard that their houses were raided occasionally to ensure
that they had truly renounced the faith, but it was rumored that some had
managed to cling to their traditions in secret. I recalled the deliberate cruelty
of Donato’s insult to Maria; the way she had flinched as if he had struck her. The
insinuations he had made to me — that he could taint me with the same slur if
he wished. What did he know of Maria’s family history? If the girl Anna had
believed herself in love with him, how much might she have confided? To hide
the
Shema
in the locket suggested that, however tentatively, she had chosen
to hold on to her identity. Surely she would not have given up such a dangerous
secret to a man who belonged among the city’s Inquisitors, no matter how strongly
she felt for him?

I folded the parchment and replaced it in the locket with
trembling fingers. As I closed the secret compartment, I saw that a drop of
blood from my finger had stained the edge of the prayer crimson. I could not
think what to do. In my heart I knew I had no choice but to return the locket
to Maria; I understood its value now, not least as a memory of her dead mother
and her sister. But to return it was as good as confirming that I knew
something about the girl’s fate, and the bloodstain on the parchment would surely
fuel their fears; they would take it for hers. I could not keep it. Fra Gennaro
would no doubt see it as more evidence to be erased, so I could not ask for his
help. I hid it again inside my undershirt and prayed earnestly for guidance.

*
* *

Despite Fra Donato’s warning that I was being watched, I decided
to miss my theology class after the midday meal, asking Paolo to say I was
still feverish, and slipped out into the tired heat of the city. With my hood
pulled up around my face, I cut along Via Tribunali in the direction of the
Duomo. Strada dell’Anticaglia stood steeped in shadow from the high buildings closing
in on both sides. Lines hung with washing dripped on me from above as I passed
under the ancient arches of the Roman theater that spanned the street, seeming
to hold up the houses. I walked quickly, my head down, scanning the doorways and
barred windows for the sign of a goldsmith’s. After walking the length of the
street, I returned to the only 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 into the sea, where it could not incriminate anyone.
Though I hated the idea of destroying something so precious, this seemed the
only safe course, for all of us. I had almost reached the end of the street
when I heard quick footsteps behind me, and turned to see Maria running
barefoot through the dust.

“I went to Fontanelle,” she announced, pinning me with her
frank gaze. I stopped absolutely still. I dared not even breathe for fear of
what my face might betray. Every muscle in my body was held rigid. She let out
a long, shuddering sigh and her shoulders slumped. “Nothing. No bodies of young
women found in the past two days.”

“Then perhaps she has run away after all,” I managed to
say, hating myself for it, though relief had made me lightheaded and my legs
weak. I leaned one hand on the wall for support.

Maria shook her head. “I will never believe that. I thought
you might have come to bring me some news?”

I hesitated, then reached inside my habit and brought out
the twist of paper I had wrapped it in. “I came to bring you this.”

She tore it open and stared at the locket, her face tight
with grief. “There is blood on it.”

“Mine. I cut my finger on the clasp.” I held it up as
proof.

She raised the locket slowly to her lips and closed her
eyes, as if in silent prayer. A tear rolled down her cheek. “Did he take it
from her? How did you get it?”

“I found it on the ground.”

“Where?”

Again, I hesitated just a breath too long. “In the street,
outside the gate. She must have dropped it there.”

She shook her head.

“That cannot be true. I have searched the streets around
the walls of your convent for the past two days for any sign of what happened
to her. I would have seen it. And the chain is broken, as if it was torn from
her.” When she saw that I was not going to respond, she rubbed at the tears
with the back of her hand and drew herself upright. “Well. I should not expect
truth from a Dominican. But at least I know now that my sister is dead. She
would never have willingly let this out of her sight.”

“Very wise. It is a beautiful piece of work. Your father
must be a highly skilled craftsman, to have made something so complex.”

She looked at me with a hunted expression as she tried to
discern my meaning. “Did you open it?”

The question was barely a whisper. She knew the answer. She
clenched her hands to stop their trembling and her face was tight with fear —
the same fear I had felt only a moment before at her mention of Fontanelle. The
naked terror of being found out.

“Yes. Is it your mother?”

She nodded, a tense little jerk of her head, her eyes still
boring into me.

“She must have been beautiful,” I said. “But something as
valuable as that should be carefully guarded. Others might not be so
understanding of your desire to honor your family memory.”

She gave a gulping sob and wrapped both hands over the
locket. “Thank you.” She swallowed. “Did you show it to anyone? What is inside,
I mean?” She glanced over her shoulder, as if I might have brought an army of
Inquisitors to hide around the corner.

“No one but me. And I will say nothing.”

“Why?” That sharpness again; the muscles twitching in her
jaw. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because …” Because my own secret is far worse, I thought,
and it is the very least I owe you for the fact that you will never truly know
what happened to your sister. I could not say that. But the answer I gave her
was also true. “Because I believe God is bigger than the rules we impose on one
another. I think He does not mind if we find different paths to Him.”

“That is heresy,” she whispered.

“So is that.” I nodded to the locket in her hand.

“You are a good man, Bruno,” she said. Unexpectedly, she
leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on my cheek, at the edge of my mouth. She
stood back and almost smiled. “For a Dominican.” I could not look her in the
eye.

“Wait,” she called, as I began to walk away. “That man. The
friar. Donato, is that his name? Where can he be found?”

“At San Domenico. Or at the Cerriglio, where you found him
last night.”

“But he is always surrounded by people. I want to speak to
him alone.”

“He would never allow it. Not after your last encounter.”

She shrugged. “Still, I have to try. For my sister’s sake.
I just want to know.”

I considered this. “He is rarely alone, except in his cell.
Or perhaps when he takes one of the upstairs rooms at the tavern, to meet a
woman.”

She nodded, tucking the information away. “The cruelest
part,” she said, with some difficulty, pausing to master her emotions, “is that
he has stolen from us even the chance to bury and mourn her properly. Whatever
he has done with her, I can never forgive him for that.” I watched her teeth
clench. She took a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said, her voice harder this
time, determined. “For what you have done for my family. Perhaps we will meet again.”

“Perhaps.” I bowed and turned away. She would never know my
part in what happened to her sister, but I would carry the weight of that
knowledge with me always.

*
* *

September rolled into October, apples ripened in the
orchard, and mists drifted in from the bay, though without a repeat of the
previous year’s fever epidemic. Fra Gennaro relaxed around me as he realized
that I appeared to have suppressed my qualms and was not going to endanger him
with a sudden eruption of conscience. He requested my assistance more
frequently in the dispensary, and on occasion confided in me his notes and
drawings from previous experiments, as if to demonstrate his trust. He promised
to introduce me to a friend of his in the city, an aristocrat and a man of
considerable influence as a patron of the sciences. As the weeks passed, I even
managed to sleep through the night untroubled by dreams of the dead girl,
though not every night.

But in other ways, my fortunes took a turn for the worse. It
became clear that I had put myself on the wrong side of Donato, and that was a
dangerous place to be. Perhaps he thought I knew too much, or perhaps he just
wanted to remind me of his threat. I was summoned before the prior, charged
with a series of minor infractions of the rules that he could not have known
about unless someone was spying on me. I was given penance and a stern warning
not to repeat the offenses, as there would be no leniency in future. I lost the
small freedoms taken for granted by the wealthier young friars, and found
myself reduced to a life of prayer, worship, and study — which was, I supposed,
no more or less than the life I had signed up to in the first place, but it
still chafed. The watch brothers were told to confirm that I was in my cell
every night between Compline and Matins. My reading material and my
correspondence were subject to unannounced inspections. Everywhere I felt Donato’s
eyes on me — in the refectory, in chapel, in chapter meetings — and I could do
nothing but watch and wait for him to strike. All this petty needling, I felt,
was just a prelude. Donato was afraid of what he thought I knew, and he had
something planned for me. The worst was not knowing what or when, so that I was
permanently on my guard.

Over a month had passed since the night of
the girl’s death. The season was growing cooler; at night, when we trooped
reluctantly to Matins as the bells struck two, the air was tinged with wood smoke.
I shuffled to my place in the chapel one night in October, stifling a yawn
(there was a penance for that, if you did it too often), when I glanced across
the choir and noticed the empty seats. Donato, Agostino, Paolo, and at least
two of the other younger friars had not returned in time for the service. This
in itself was unusual; for all his swagger, Donato was careful to make an
outward show of obedience. He reasoned that, as long as he was present at each
appointed office, no one would question what he did in between. I could see
that the prior, too, had noted the absences, though he made no mention of it.