Altai

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From the rooms in the palace no sounds come. The smell of the Bosphorus and the muezzin’s chant accompany the living into the evening, toward a semblance of peace. Beyond the open windows, the sky is ablaze with purple and gold. Fishing boats part from Asia and drift on the honeyed current.

A thought takes hold of Gracia: The greatest artists in the world — and she knew many of them when she was in Europe — can only imitate the beauty that the Lord has given us; they can never match his wonder.

She lifts the pen from the paper; now she is holding her hand in midair. Her eyes are closed as she listens to the chant.

As the last note fades away, she signs and seals the letter, and finally she relaxes against the back of her chair.

Dana watches her, studies her desk. The letters already sealed, and those awaiting a reply. She knows that the Senyora is exhausted. She won’t be able to spend the evening writing, as she did until a short time ago. Her strength is leaving her, and there is still so much to do. Everyone is calling to her, from one end of the Mediterranean, and Europe, to the other. Fleeing exiles, persecuted Jews, Sephardic merchants, Ashkenazic rabbis.

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