Page 35 of The Phoenix Bride
Cecilia reaches for the kettle. “You should wait,” I tell her. “It is still brewing.”
“Oh. How long?”
“Only a short while.”
“Like tea,” she says.
“A little. The difference is that we drink the grounds.”
“Like chocolate?”
“Yes.”
An awkward silence settles over us. Then Cecilia asks, “Areyoumarried?” and I splutter in shock. “Pardon,” she says. “Was that too abrupt?”
“Somewhat,” I reply.
“I—I have forgotten how to talk to people, I suppose. It has been some time since I went out.”
“How long have you been shut in that house?”
“I came to London in February.”
“Five months,” I say, appalled. “Five months, and you didn’t leave once?” She doesn’t respond, staring down at her hands, gripping the edge of the table. I feel a fleeting moment of guilt; I hadn’t meant to sound accusatory. I clear my throat. “I am not married,” I say.
“Why?”
I think of Sara. What would she think of me now—if she could see Cecilia and me together, huddled like conspirators over a dish of coffee, pretending there is no more significance to this meeting than sugar and salt and roasting beans?
Would she be angry? Amused? Betrayed?
I say, “I have never had the inclination to.”
“No inclination to marry,” Cecilia repeats, clearly confounded by the sentiment.
“My life is busy enough as it is.” I open the lid of the kettle to check on the coffee; it seems strong enough, so I pour it into the dishes.
Cecilia sniffs hers cautiously. Then she takes a small, hesitant sip, and immediately begins to cough. “It is bitter!” The dish slops dangerously in her hands. “It is one of your decoctions, disguised.”
Her face is scrunched up in disgust, cheeks red, eyes flaring with righteous indignation. It is desperately endearing. I takethe dish back from her. “I swear to you, it is not,” I say. “I will sugar it. And a little salt will also help.”
I do so and pass her the dish again. She takes another sip. “Better,” she mumbles.
We drink in silence. Eventually, I drain my dish. When I look back at her, Cecilia’s is also empty, and she is reaching for the kettle.
I pull it away from her. “I think not.”
“Why is that?”
“You will be overstimulated.”
“I won’t,” she replies, miffed. She bounces her foot against the floor. “May I ask you something?”
“Yes?”
“Why is it that you wear a beard, when it marks you so clearly as foreign?”
“It is preferred that Jews remain unshaven, when possible. I couldn’t wear one in Lisbon. Still, I am obvious enough a Jew, even without it. It is a wonder that my family ever passed for gentiles at all.” I pause. “I suppose, in a way, we did not. We were only ever conversos.”
