The Ghost of Hannah Mendes (51 page)

She nodded dreamily. “Toledo. Córdoba. I guess you can take a Sephardic Jew out of Spain, but you can’t take Spain out of a Sephardic Jew. Wherever the Jews of Spain wound up, they brought with them a little of the world they’d left behind.”

“Marry me,” Marius murmured.

“What?”

He took her hands eagerly into his. “I tried calling you in Venice. But you’d already left.”

“Why did you leave me in Venice?”

“Because I had to see the notes in the margin of that manuscript myself.”

“Were they important?”

He whistled. “You might say that. They were in Hebrew. I think it means the whole manuscript might have been translated into Hebrew. It might be in some collection of medieval Hebrew manuscripts.”

“You’re impossible! That’s all you think about! You shouldn’t have left me in Venice. It was our moment.”

“All the moments can be our moments,” he said softly.

“Did you go see Elizabeta?” she said, changing the subject.

“There was no one at that address but an elderly caretaker who didn’t have a clue as to what I was talking about. But a professor friend of mine told me Elizabeta Bomberg of Venice died fifty years ago. Apparently, she’d been working for the Italian underground and was caught and tortured by the Nazis.”

“What? That’s impossible. Elizabeta Bomberg took us to a costume party! Sh…she…” She stopped. Cold chills ran up her spine.

“I think someone said, though, that she had a niece with the same name, a professor of history in Venice…. Let’s not talk about that, though. I want an answer!”

“I also want an answer! About the other things, the things I asked you in my letter.”

“You mean about marrying you for your money…? You can’t be serious!” He shrugged, amused.

“Yes, I am,” she said stubbornly. “I have to know! Were we set up? Did Gran discuss dowries and who knows what else with you behind my back? Don’t lie, Marius. Gabriel already told Suzanne he didn’t meet her by accident.”

“Of course he didn’t. Your grandmother approached my uncle, who approached me. It was my idea to introduce my best friend to your lovely sister. Although when your grandmother first saw Gab, she was ready to execute us both,” he chuckled. “I guess he didn’t have that settled, Semitic look about him. So what? I think it turned out rather well, don’t you?”

“Can you answer me?”

“The answer is yes. I discussed the idea of forming a relationship with you with my uncle and asked him to intercede with your grandmother and gain her permission. I did this the first day we met, out of respect for tradition and for your family. Because this is the way things are done. Your grandmother was all for it, by the way. But Uncle thought it was a terrible idea….”

“He did?” she said, swallowing hard.

“Yes, indeed. You struck him as a very fine, sensible girl. He thought I’d be very bad for you.” He grinned.

“Well…then…” she sputtered, beginning to feel embarrassed and foolish. “And you never once…I mean…Gran never once told you that you’d get something if you and I…if we…wound up…” She took a deep breath.

“Actually, it wasn’t your money I was after,” he deadpanned. “It was your grandfather’s book collection.”

“This isn’t funny! At least not to me.”

“My dearest Francesca—you look so ravishing! Have I mentioned that? Promise me you’ll wear this dress on our honeymoon? Ah, yes. You’re waiting for an answer. Let me think of how to put it best. Hmm…Okay. It is true that I will go into Brazilian rainforests, climb Carpathian mountains in January, and sneak through secret police roadblocks to get my hands on something I want. But there are certain things even I won’t do, because they’re much too dangerous. Marrying you, if I didn’t love you, is one of them.”

He put his arms around her and pulled her close.

She hesitated. “Can we sit down a minute?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Marius, how would we live?”

“Happily ever after.” He shrugged.

“No. Seriously. I mean, where, for one thing. I suppose I could get a job in London, but I don’t know if I’d want to leave the States. And…and…” This was hard. But it had to be said. She couldn’t start out a life together with him without saying it. “How long do you plan to keep running around the world like some pirate, or treasure hunter? What are your plans for the future?”

“You mean, what am I going to be when I grow up?” He wasn’t smiling.

“No. I mean…Yes. Exactly.”

His face went ominously dark.

“I think I could help,” she said hurriedly. “We could open up a store in Manhattan, something similar to your uncle’s. I mean, I could crunch some numbers, and call some real estate friends…”

“Francesca…” He got up and put his hands into his pockets. She could see the outlines of his tightly squeezed knuckles bulge through the material.

“I’m not a shopkeeper. I earn a very respectable living at what I do. And I’m good at it. I’m the best. Do you think Picasso should have given up painting and opened a nice little shop selling framed clown prints? Home by six, supper at six-thirty? That’s not who I am.”

“But I think…I know…that is who
I
am.”

They stared at each other across the empty pews, the sound of celebration suddenly gone, replaced by an eerie silence.

“Can’t I change your mind?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly.

42

Letter, found on the desk of Catherine da Costa on the morning after her death, addressed: To All My Children. Read, together with her last will, in the presence of her family in the offices of Schnader, Lipton, Morrison, and Siegel, Attorneys at Law.

It is late. The wedding was beautiful, worth everything I did to keep me alive a little while longer
.

Tell that suicide doctor I think he’s an ass
.

I’m sitting in my living room; my music is playing and there’s a good fire on the grate. I’ve had a lovely glass of wine, and some of those chocolates I adore but haven’t eaten in ages. I think I’ve eaten four or five. I’ve lost count
.

Gracia’s with me, of course. She calls me Rivka and tells me to call her Hannah now, as that was always her true name. She wore the name Beatrice like clothing; Gracia like skin. Hannah was the name that echoed in her soul; the name she heard G-d call her. She’s sitting on the couch keeping me company, supplying me with words when I need them, ideas when I can’t think
.

I have my pen and paper ready. I think I understand Gracia at last. I, too, wish to leave behind something to keep you all safe and happy forever. I don’t have her noble, exciting history, but I have certain things I know, and others I’ve learned. I have a history that I, too, would like to share
.

My mother, Elizabeth Nasi, valued family and education. She raised her husband’s nephew. In addition, she had living in her home her unmarried sister (who was a school principal, and later the head of an academy that trained many fine teachers) and her father, who was crippled in a railroad accident. She supported many other family members in a quiet way
.

Recently, someone told me that she slipped money to a Sunday-school student for him to donate to charity, as the child was embarrassed not to have anything to give. A refugee from Hitler’s Germany told me she taught him English, and a neighbor said she came daily to read to a dying child to amuse him and relieve the family
.

She taught Sunday school, and each year the highlight was a model Seder, which she made as beautiful as possible by bringing all of her finest dishes, silver, and the most delicious food
.

I think she inherited a wonderful character. A wonderful goodness. And it has made me think that I understand something I never did before
.

We are all part of something, something truly great, a oneness that encompasses everything. The important thing is not to fight that. To understand your place in it. Once you see yourself as a part of that whole, a clear ingredient in the universe, a partner with the G-d who created you, you will stop fighting so many things, accepting them and being enriched by them
.

Accept the past
.

Learn from the good that was part of your history, that which ennobled and raised your people ever higher. Don’t battle it, don’t insist you were born rootless. It will take so many years of your life to fight, and in the end you will lose, because the truth can’t be overcome. Only when the legacy of one’s ancestors corrupts and enslaves the human spirit should one pick oneself up and walk away, forging a different path. That is the legacy of Abraham
.

Accept that there is within you an eternal part that cannot be destroyed. There is no reason to fear death, no reason to fear the future. You will always be part of it in some way. While you live, create your own beautiful bead, the jewel of a life intelligently and generously lived, so that you may leave it behind to be strung on the necklace that adorns mankind, time, and history
.

There is also no reason to battle mankind, other cultures, other races. All of mankind is one, each contributing a unique and matchless truth. There is no need for one truth, for one contribution, to negate the others. We are all endangered species, all cultures, all religions, as mankind marches into the future with jeans and Rollerblades and bad T-shirts and Walkmans. There is no danger in our differences; but in the overwhelming tedium of the damning sameness that is drowning out what each of us has learned, what each of us can contribute. A sameness that is turning the necklace of mankind into a string of cheap plastic beads of dull and even color, which jangles around our necks like a noose, cutting off our oxygen, choking us like the detergent-fed plankton of a dying sea
.

Fight the degradation of your culture, of your environment, of your nation and community. Dust off the jewels in the attic, shake out the skeletons—stare them in the face
.

Stop being afraid
.

Wisdom will be yours, because you have earned it
.

Peace will be yours, because G-d will be yours, as you rest in His fathering care, His mothering spirit of good
.

G-d bless you all,
Catherine da Costa,
of the House of Nasi

43

Eighteen months later
.

The phone rang.

Francesca rolled over in bed, groping for it. It was Paul Chorman, her new supervisor. She listened in dismay as he outlined another ten changes he wanted to the presentation she had to give that morning on the client-server current account reconciliation system.

“No, no problem at all,” she lied. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m usually up this early. Of course. I’ll take care of it. See you at work.”

She lay on her back a few moments looking at the shadows on the ceiling. They were big and gray with uncertain edges, something like storm clouds in a dull, wintry sky. If they’d just listened to her and gone in the direction she’d wanted to in the first place—an integrated PC network—there wouldn’t be any of these problems!

She dragged herself out from under her warm covers, taking the eight hundred pages of specifications from her attaché case. She looked at the bulky document. It was the old story. Big, solid males wrapped up in big IBM mainframes. She penciled in notes frantically.

It had been fairly simple to find a new job in another big bank. People at the office were friendly, although most of them were already living with someone. Her social life was the usual blank: She’d gone out with a dentist Janice had sent her way, who’d talked about his sailboat all evening. And then there’d been the owner of a shoe store she’d met at the gym—a congenial and sensible fellow who spoke in measured, calm tones about financial strategies, new plays, workout techniques, and summer vacations. Before her trip, she would have considered him pleasant company. Now, she was excruciatingly bored.

She exercised, showered, then went to her closet to find something to wear. It was uncomfortably stuffed. Clothes had been her one indulgence since her inheritance. She’d paid off her mortgage and invested the remainder—almost half a million dollars—in treasury bonds, a sensible stock portfolio, and money market funds.

Along with the cash, she’d inherited Grandpa’s book collection (except for the family Bible and Gracia’s manuscript), some beautiful jewelry, expensive sets of dishes, and half of the heirloom silver. Suzanne had gotten her equal share of everything, and vowed she was actually using the silver ritual objects, particularly the candlesticks.

According to the will, neither she nor Suzanne was allowed to sell the heirlooms. But if they chose, they could donate them to a museum collection in their grandparents’ name. The Bible and Gracia’s manuscript were with Mother, to be passed down to the eldest great-grandchild with the stipulation that they be kept forever in the family.

She looked around. She could certainly afford a larger place now, she thought. But the idea of uprooting all that lovely cash from where it was growing like pretty little plants in the sun was painful.

Besides, she was in no hurry. She had everything she needed, really, didn’t she? Life would go on, calm and serene. She need never get her feet wet again, she thought, with a strange absence of satisfaction.

She looked out at the cold, pale city sky, the indifferent glass eyes of the brick towers. Red geraniums, she thought, spilling out of window boxes in Córdoba; the smell of orange blossoms in Seville; the sound of gondolas in Venice.

Restlessly, she paced around the room, stopping finally at the coffee table. She picked up a photograph. Little Hannah in Suzanne’s arms, holding a tiny flag that read “Save the Whales,” a mass of red-gold curls tumbling over her tiny shoulders. Gabriel was standing next to them, one arm around them both, the other resting on Suzanne’s rounding stomach. In the background was the new Women’s Health Center, which Suzanne had used a considerable amount of her organizational powers—and her inheritance—to help create.