Lucena Read online

  “Do you repent, or not?” enquired the Archbishop.

  “Of course I repent,” asserted Isaac. “The question is, of what?”

  “That, you will tell us.” announced the Archbishop.

  “I fucked my secretary.” admitted Isaac.

  “Do you repent?” asked the Archbishop.

  “Of course,” asserted Isaac.

  “What else?” asked the priest at the side of the Archbishop who had the simplest robe, a brown color.

  “I need more light,” said Isaac. “It’s dark.”

  “It is as dark as your soul,” intoned the Archbishop. “Only by repenting will you see the light.”

  “What else must I repent of?” questioned Isaac.

  “Everything.” Said the Archbishop. “Everything. Only then can you save yourself from the fires of hell.”

  Isaac asked himself what “everything” meant but right away he realized there was no end to this. He had to know what they wanted to hear because it didn’t seem that they were concerned with extramarital affairs. What should he say?

  “This is a democratic country and I have a right to an attorney to defend me,” announced Isaac.

  “Democratic?” said the Archbishop. “What does that mean?”

  “Uh, if you guys don’t know that, that means I’m in real trouble,” concluded Isaac.

  The Archbishop began to show interest. “Democratic? Such as in depraved Greece?”

  “More or less. It means the accused person has basic rights and that one can choose his leader,” mentioned Isaac. “That people can elect a leader.”

  “Why would an accused person need rights?” sermonized the Archbishop. “We are here to defend your rights; to make you repent and save you from hell. You say this is a democratic state? Here nobody has ever elected a king. God, and in part, we, elect a king.”

  “Not a king,” corrected Isaac. “In a democratic government there is no king.”

  “If that is the case, you are not in a democratic state because here we have a king,” commented the Archbishop. “King Juan Carlos de Borbón the Catholic. That...is not here.”

  “It was just a few hours ago,” murmured Isaac. “Has there, perhaps been a revolution?”

  “For your own good I suggest you use another line of defense,” commented the Archbishop. “Your stupidity might cause you to be decapitated for speaking like a sorcerer.”

  “Sorcerer?” said Isaac. “I thought they didn’t exist anymore.”

  “Very few,” hissed the Archbishop.

  The three judges began to debate in low voices and then said to Isaac:

  “We propose to interrupt this session until tomorrow and let you rest. You are surely tired and shocked, so you will have time to think about what you want to repent of.”

  “I am not a Spanish citizen,” said Isaac. “I am a Mexican citizen. I want to see my ambassador.”

  “Mr. Benzimra,” reminded the Archbishop. “Mexico is part of Spain. No such ambassador exists.”

  Two men gently took Isaac to his cell. On the way he tried to talk to them. “What is happening here?” But they acted like robots and didn’t answer his questions.”

  In the cell he found another man who, like him, awaited a second debate. As an experienced attorney, Isaac tried to get as much information out of him as possible.

  Fernando María, (that was his name) answered in a magnanimous tone.

  “There is no possible way that you will ever know what to say to them nor what to confess to. I have already confessed millions of things but the only thing they do is look at me and ask me to repent to save my soul from hell. Where is hell? Wouldn’t it be better to arrive there instead of having to go through these millions of confessions? I think that what they want is for me to confess some ancient Jewish custom but I don’t know anything about Judaism any more. Maybe my grandmother’s grandmother might have known something. I’ve already confessed some time ago that I don’t eat pork, even though I eat it daily. I have confessed that I light candles, and that I am circumcised, although they themselves could verify that it isn’t so.”

  “One day they will seat you on the horse and drip, drop by drop, boiling oil on your head. Olive oil, an excellent olive oil, at one hundred seventy degrees. And then you will be disposed to confess anything. I myself am ready to confess that I raped Mary. I would be disposed to confess everything if they told me what I was suspected of, but it’s no use. The boiling oil fries your brain. You start to see your life escape in front of your eyes. But they have excellent doctors, and they stop, just in time, when you are at the point of death. And they send you fainting to your cell.”

  “Boiling olive oil. Then it is the water torture. They drip freezing water into your ear one per minute. You will scream, but you will go insane. The blows are nothing compared to that.

  A few blows, a bit of blood and that’s it. I’d advise you to confess nothing. Try to find out what they suspect you of. I don’t think it’s possible. They know every technique. All of them.”

  “What about an attorney?” interspersed Isaac. “Can’t you ask for an attorney to defend you?”

  “Nobody can defend you,” said Fernando Maria. “Think about it. It’s been five hundred years since there have been any Jews, yet they keep searching for us.”

  “For us?” responded Isaac quickly, a typical legal reaction. “But I’m not a Jew.”

  “Nor am I,” responded Fernando María, “Nor am I. It is just an expression. They search for them. I wish I were a Jew, or at least a little Jewish, a little bit “Marrano”, because then at least this suffering might have some kind of meaning. If I really were, I would refuse to eat pork. I would have been able to pray to the god of the Jews and stop begging Jesus to save me from his priests. Oh Isaac, I don’t know how we are going to get out of this. The problem is, that here, in the gloomy cellars of the inquisition, nobody dies. Here nobody dies, the suffering goes on for years but they don’t kill you. I pray every day to die.”

  Isaac needed to absorb this. “I propose that we sleep until tomorrow.”

  “Sleep, Isaac,” said Fernando Maria. “I wish I could sleep. I can’t sleep. They wake you up constantly, and here in these damp walls you don’t know if it’s day or night. I wish I could sleep even for a minute. To die, to die would be my only dream. I can’t even close my eyes. It’s as if two tweezers held them open.”

  “Great,” murmured Isaac. “Well, I’m going to sleep.”

  “Sleep,” said Fernando Maria. “Sleep my friend. It may be your last chance to do so.”

  But Isaac didn’t manage to sleep while thinking about how to get out of that judicial labyrinth, that strange situation. None of his vast trial knowledge, not even what he had learned about international law were at all helpful. He saw himself as a subject to a state of nonexistence, not because he had disappeared, but because he had never existed in this new world. Perhaps, he thought, the best solution would be something the judges never expected: to attack them by any means possible to shatter their righteousness. Perhaps...perhaps...perhaps...until he dozed off.

  It is hard to say how long he slept. He awoke tired. Maybe he slept an hour, or ten, but the guards left no doubt that it had not been a dream. They escorted him through the passageways to a room where there was only one man, not a tribunal.

  Without any preliminaries the man said: “You will be immediately transferred to the Lucena Inquisition Tribunal. It has been decided that they will be the ones to try you.”

  “Can I say something?” blurted Isaac. “I am going to appeal to the UN and to the Human Rights Tribunal in Prague.”

  Nobody responded. He was covered in a black sack and placed in a vehicle which took him to Lucena.

  The trip took hours. It is as though time had been bottled, or simply put, as if the car had sunk. Isaac didn’t know and nobody told him anything.

  What was the difference between Lucena and Málaga? But there was. There was, and he knew it. He had come
to Spain precisely to visit the city of his ancestors which was, none other than Lucena

  On the road he now saw that things had changed a bit. Maybe it was the way they put him in the car or the atmosphere inside. He was taken directly to a room where there was a man in a magnificent robe different from the previous judge.

  “I don’t agree to proceed like this,” began Isaac. “According to the Treaty of Geneva you are violating my basic human rights and I don’t even know why. I don’t accept your tribunal or your laws. I demand an attorney immediately.”

  “I am Cardinal of Lucena, Martín de Jesús y Ibera, Mr. Benzimra, Please sit down.”

  “I don’t have to answer any questions,” declared Isaac. “Your attitude is offensive and disgraceful.”

  “I am sorry if you haven’t been treated well,” said the Cardinal. “You may submit a written complaint and we will review the issue.”

  “A written complaint?” responded Isaac. “I know all about those from Mexico. I want to speak with your head of state. Perhaps that will shorten the process. I am an important person in Mexico, a well-known attorney.”

  “I advise you to cooperate with us,” said the Cardinal. “So that we may return you to the place from which you came, wherever that may be.”

  “I come from a rational world,” asserted Isaac. “And this is a crazy house.”

  “Do you know this man?” The Cardinal showed a photo to Isaac.

  “Of course. That is Mois Benzimra, the most distant relative of whom I have a photo. I have another at home.”

  “He is a thousand years old and was born in Lucena. He calls himself Lucena and spreads all kinds of lies about us. Do you know anything about that?”

  “The photo is from the nineteenth century, from 1880 more or less, apparently. I’m referring to the photo I have at home. He arrived in Brazil from Tetuán, which is not far from here, and one fine day he disappeared. He supposedly died. People don’t live one hundred and eighty years and in the photo he looks to be forty or fifty.”

  “You’re not much help,” commented the Cardinal. “It is said he seeks out former Jews “Marranos” to convert to Judaism.”

  “Are there still former Jews, Your Eminence?” asked Isaac.

  “Yes, so many,” sighed the Cardinal. “There is one who calls himself the Messiah of the Jews. He is the one we are seeking.”

  “And do you know this young man?” added the Cardinal.

  “That is Samuel, my sister’s son,” said Isaac. “Samuel Felipes, a charming young man. He lives in Mexico.”

  “In Mexico?" said the Cardinal. “It seems he is in two places at once. Here, too, he calls himself Samuel. Samuel Murciano. He writes accounts that he publishes in all kinds of magazines, stories against The Church. Surely he is a “Marrano” or a covert Jew or perhaps just a contemptible liar.”

  “It could be that he just looks a lot like my nephew,” surmised Isaac. “There are people in the world who look alike. I don’t think my nephew writes stories. He is studying medicine at the University of Mexico City.”

  “That is all,” said the Cardinal after a few moments of reflection. “You may go. You may do as you wish.”

  “The question is: How to get back to my world.” asked Isaac.

  “I advise you to ask the least amount of questions possible,” warned the Cardinal. “And that you leave before I regret setting you free and send you back to the Málaga Inquisition Tribunal.”

  Isaac went out toward the street as quickly as he could. He had to walk up many steps. He counted one hundred fifty as he attempted to reconstruct what had happened to him and whether anyone would believe him.

  When he was on the last steps he remembered some derisive comments his son had told him when he was four years old which had made him laugh ‘till he cried but that now had no meaning at all: a man goes into the water and there is a large animal in the water that strikes his head and when he gets out of the water he goes to the grandmother’s house and she tells him:

  “Hi” and “Bye” and then he drinks chocolate milk and buys an avocado at the market and so on.

  At the end of the stairs he came upon a huge room where there were people praying. His first thought was to run but he noticed that the prayer was being sung in Hebrew. The people were pronouncing a phrase he had always heard his mother say. It was something like Shemá Israel. He remembered that phrase which had been a kind of family code. He thought only he knew it. He approached those who were praying, who didn’t even notice him, being so engrossed in their prayers.

  When he got to them, they prostrated themselves several times and the prayer was ended. Someone came up to him and greeted him in Spanish.

  “Who are you?” said the man.

  “Who am I?" said Isaac. And who are you?”

  “I am Samuel Danino,” said the man. “Samuel Danino. I’m from here but you aren’t. Are you a Jew?”

  “It depends,” said Isaac.

  “What is your name?”

  “Isaac Benzimra,” said Isaac.

  “Benzimra... ¿Benzimra from Tetuán or from Brazil? My mother’s name was Benzimra.”

  “Benzimra from Brazil, but I’m from México,” said Isaac.

  “Mexico,” mused Samuel. “Are there any Jews there?”

  “I’m not a Jew,” said Isaac. “I’m a Christian. My grandfather was a Jew.”

  “That can’t be,” said Samuel. “Not in Spain it can’t. Benzimra is a Jewish name and Jews cannot convert to Christianity. That is, yes they can, but there aren’t any such cases. One would have to get permission from the rabbi, and from the priest. And then the king has to authorize it. And then it is obligatory to change names. There are Jewish names and Christian names and Benzimra is a Jewish name.”

  “Well, I didn’t know that,” said Isaac. “Maybe I am Jewish. If the Inquisition investigated me yesterday, today I may be Jewish.”

  “The Inquisition?” said Samuel. “I have heard something about it but it was for the Christians. It was something that existed back in about the twelfth century. It was a good institution. It allowed people to go confess their sins and receive absolution. But they never investigated the Jews. Never!”

  “Well,” said Isaac, “Anything can happen. But what I know is that the Christians and the Inquisition made life impossible for the Jews and kicked them out of Spain.”

  “What I learned was different,” said Samuel. “The Muslims kicked us out of Lucena but thanks to the Reconquista we returned and Lucena was always a Jewish city. Perhaps in Sevilla there may be Christians from the Inquisition but they never harmed the Jews. Here the Christians are good; not like those in Poland.”

  “Mr. Danino, what can I say?” said Isaac. “Anything can happen. Lately history has suffered a terrible mix-up and everything is scrambled. One thing is certain, though. I prefer to be here in this synagogue rather than in the dungeons of the Inquisition where I was yesterday. Who would believe I would be overjoyed to find myself in a synagogue?”

  “Come,” said Danino, “Let’s go have something at the cafe.”

  Outside the synagogue it was a sunny wintery day and there was an enormous terrace where birds fluttered in and out. Isaac remembered the legend of the birds which at dawn fill the terrace of the Wailing Wall and Samuel immediately began to tell it: “It is said that at the Wailing Wall, where our temple stood, each day, at dawn, the terrace fills with birds that sing praises to the creator and then the sun may arrive in Jerusalem. The birds call the sun out. The wise men among us say that without the birds, dawn would not break. The Sufi also believe that the birds bring on daybreak.”

  The two arrived at the ‘Route 66’, where a lot of people were drinking café con leche and eating tostadas or croissants.

  “Hello, Samuel.”

  “Hello, David.”

  “Everybody is really Jewish here,” said Isaac.

  “You have a guest?” said one. “What is better than to have a guest on a sunny day? One can spend ti
me with him and comply with the rule of offering hospitality to guests,” said another.

  “I am Yitzhak Bentolila,” said one fellow at the bar to Isaac.

  “And I am Isaac Benzimra.”

  “Benzimra from Brazil or Tetuán?”

  “From Brazil, although I live in México.”

  “There are Jews in Mexico?” asked Yitzhak.

  “I don’t know,” answered Isaac. “At any rate, the Benzimra from Brazil surely got there from Tetuán.”

  “They say that people from Tetuán are stricter than anyone in the world,” commented Yitzhak. “And it is also said that if one doesn’t taste the sweets they make, one hasn’t lived.”

  “It is said as well that the people of Tetuán are descended from the tribe of Yehudá,”added David. “Which by night watched over the temple of the animals and for this reason they were called “the lions.” People from Tetuán are totally honorable. They don’t make good businessmen but they are great doctors.”

  “How can you say that?” burst out Samuel Danino. “My family is from Tetuán and they are very good businessmen.”

  “Perhaps businessmen,” said David, “but they are an obstinate people. If they tell you a tumbler is made of iron you’d better not argue, and even if it breaks, they will try to convince you it is made of iron and cannot break.”

  “I’ll agree with that,” said Samuel.

  “Good coffee,” interrupted Isaac.

  “It’s the best in the area,” said David.

  “How do I get from here to Málaga? Isaac asked Samuel. “My wife will be waiting for me there.”

  “You can’t go today,” said Samuel. “There is roadwork. They are fixing the hydraulic highway, changing the flow. You can’t go to Málaga until tomorrow. Why do you want to go to Málaga? It’s a Muslim city. Stay here with us. You are a Jew. What is your business?”

  “I’m not a businessman,” said Isaac. “I’m a lawyer.”

  “What did you say you are?” said Samuel.