The Inquisitor's Wife Read Online Free PDF Page B

not rejoined me on the balcony but remained waiting in her bedroom for Máriam’s return—my gaze wandered away from the players to the spectators, where it caught a gleam of dazzling red-gold. A willowy fourteen-year-old boy was standing near the Hojedas’ house, beneath a tree covered with white blossoms and bright ripe oranges. He had reached up to pluck a piece of fruit, and the sun had caught his hair, which was the astonishing color of pale gold mixed with copper. Forgetting my concern, I smiled at him. Somehow he sensed my presence and looked up to return my smile.
    The boy was Antonio Vargas, three years my senior. He lived on the property to our immediate north, which abutted the empty lot dotted with gnarled, untended olive trees at the end of the cul-de-sac. Like the Hojedas, the Vargases were Old Christians, but there the comparison ended. Antonio’s father, don Pedro, was firm in his belief that all converts were equal before God, and he did his best to make my family feel welcome and at ease; when the weather was inclement or my mother was too frail to walk, the Vargases invited us to ride with them on Sundays or holidays to the Church of San Francisco, our mutual parish. My father socialized with don Pedro, and we were always welcome at each other’s table; the wife, doña Elena, was warm and kindly and always brought food and comfort when my mother was sick. Being a girl, I was forbidden to play with their son Antonio without a chaperone—but none of our parents knew about the hole in the stone fence separating the sprawling gardens behind our houses. When I was five and Antonio eight, he grew tired of whispering to me through the gap in the stone and had widened it so that he could wriggle through onto our property. Out of sight of the gardeners, he and I climbed the limbs of the tallest olive tree in Seville, and there we exchanged our secrets.
    The smile I shared with Antonio in the street was fleeting; I looked away quickly so that no other boy would notice our affectionate exchange and taunt him.
    Fortunately, all other gazes were fixed on the Lions team, as Gabriel and his best friend, a hooligan of a player named Miguel, quickly advanced the ball down the street toward the ancient pile of rubble that marked the goal. My gaze soon followed, and with dozens of boys, I reacted as an intruder moved onto the playing field.
    His stooped back was to me, and I assumed that he was an old mendicant monk. He wore an ankle-length black linen cloak with a raised hood, and he leaned upon a great wooden walking stick, heavily favoring one leg. He had been making his way down our side of the street, past our house and then the Vargases’ when he darted into the cul-de-sac at the very end of the street, apparently thinking to take a shortcut through the abandoned orchard.
    He must have been fairly deaf, since he seemed unaware of the small army of young men hurtling toward him at top speed. Behind him, both Gabriel and Miguel shouted for him to move aside, while the others began to whoop with excitement. He didn’t turn to look back at them but limped toward the goalpost of ancient rubble with increasing velocity. Miguel and the closely following Eagle defenders veered off in time to keep from hitting the old man, but the Lions screamed for their captain to kick the goal; this caused noticeable consternation for Gabriel, who couldn’t decide between chivalry and winning. At the last instant, he glanced over his shoulder at his teammates, as if trying to gauge the depth of their determination—but he was still running at full tilt, and the act caused him to lose the ball and slam into the old monk’s back.
    Pushed from the street onto the softer earth of the old orchard, the old man fell facedown, tangled in his black robe; his walking stick flew forward, struck a tree trunk, and rebounded back into the street, clattering against the cobblestones. Gabriel ran to him as Miguel went to fetch the stick, while all