As he translated what the woman was saying for Nora, Rafi slipped in a word of warning. “The sheikh met this woman, but he didn’t get the answer he was looking for. So we need to gain her trust.” She took them across slopes and up hundreds of steps to show them the conflict between modern and ancient architecture. She made them stop in front of the Arts Center and the City Hall, hulks of concrete isolated in the midst of all those stone buildings, to lament the victory of modern brick. She showed them secret passageways that led to the heart of that bloody mountain, taking them all the way up to the summit. She didn’t let them stop, not even at the Church of Santo Tomé where El Greco’s The Burial of the Count of Orgaz hung.
“El Greco is life itself,” she opined. “He was a Jew who disguised himself as a Christian and some people say he was the real author of Don Quixote, rather than Cervantes. He was a literary character as well, like in the story of Sidi Hamid Benengeli, the Arab historian who was the inspiration for Cervantes’ character Hidalgo or the melancholic knight, who’s identical to El Greco. El Greco’s paintings are all about how art can transform human beings into something holy and he was always trying to commemorate the beauty of Toledana women.”
There was a sudden tragic note in her voice. “We are very sad. I don’t mean us women, I mean those of us who are life’s missionaries. People who have a message don’t really live in this world so much as in a world of ideas and disguises. They’re cut off from life and desire and all petty things.” She’d make some comment on art and then politics and her own personal tragedies, before turning to religion and architecture. Her conversation dizzied them.
“Here’s an example of religious architecture in the Islamic style from the Almoravid period. This is Puerta Bab al-Mardum and that’s the Church of Cristo de la Luz. This piece of artistic genius was brought here by the Almoravid ruler Yusuf ibn Tashfin in 1086 when he came to the aid of the party kings at the Battle of Sagrajas and took Toledo back from Alfonso the Sixth of Castile. Look at the imposing gates and the decoration on the roofs. It reminds you of the exquisite architecture of Marrakesh, Fez, and Tlemcen.”
Without even pausing to take a breath, the woman led them over to the Synagogue of El Transito. “This synagogue was built in 1356 as a family synagogue for the king’s treasurer. It’s the oldest synagogue in Toledo, but it was turned into a church in 1492 after the Jews were expelled from Spain.” She led them to the center of the synagogue, where through two arching windows a mosaic of sunlight fell over their faces. She paused in front of three gypsum arches. “Here we see where my forefathers and yours, Jews and Muslims, came together to create a most outstanding example of Sephardic artwork.” She drew their attention to the intersecting web of plaster with Hebrew and Arabic calligraphy, Islamic motifs, and the name of God repeated many times. She sighed. “If only all this hadn’t been suppressed, mostly in the sixteenth century, you would’ve been able to see the variety of religious architecture for yourselves. Art used to fight over this city. Whoever set foot in Toledo would fall in love with the city immediately, and it didn’t matter how protective the city’s other lovers were, how they plotted to keep the city for themselves and eliminate their rivals.” Nora giggled suddenly, her laughter as slight and airy as the woman herself.
“It’s time for my morning coffee.”
They insisted that she let them take her for a coffee. She sat across from them in a cafe on the Plaza de Zocodover and told them her story. “You know the building where we met? It’s sort of a home-cum-school for orphan girls, run by the Church. They provide them with all their basic needs until they’re old enough to get married and then they move on to a different life. I was one of those girls, except for one small difference. I spent my entire life in that dark, bare school and although I could’ve left its austerity behind by getting married, I was too scared to go out into the world when I finally grew up, so I became a teacher at the school. A prophet of austerity, in a way, but I at least hope I’m able to teach the girls to be braver than I was so that they can go out and have their own lives. In the midst of that asceticism, I preach the gospel of escape; I feel like an infiltrator. I’ve taken my vows to be a spiritual hypocrite.” Rafi looked deep into Nora’s eyes as he translated what the woman had said. She was prepared to spend the whole day with them, talking and listening, as if she loved nothing more than filling the time with her own stories as they climbed through the city like she didn’t even have to breathe; and, of course, it was intoxicating to hear herself being translated into another language. She insisted on writing her address at the school for each of them in her severe handwriting, paying most of her attention to Nora.
“Will you send me a postcard? You will? I don’t believe you. I want to have a collection of postcards from the world outside. Places I don’t dare to go myself. I hope you come from somewhere very far away so I can hear a voice from the other side of the world.”
“I’m from Mecca. The city that Noah visited to retrieve the bodies of Adam and Eve from the floodwaters just as his grandson would later visit Toledo.” It was the first time Rafi had ever heard Nora mention her hometown.
“O merciful God!” the woman said before standing up and walking off — without acknowledging them at all — ducking into the first lane she came to. Rafi knew they’d missed their chance to ask what the sheikh had come looking for. He settled the bill while Nora went into the cafe to look for a bathroom.
As she was washing her hands, the woman in white appeared beside her all of a sudden. “Did you really say you were from Mecca? Meeting you and you promising to write to me on this beautiful, sunny morning is the highlight of my life.” She pressed yet another piece of paper with her address on it into Nora’s palm.
“Please write to me a lot. Write with the dust and the sweat and the dreams of your city. Maybe I’ll give your postcards to my students. It’s good for them to imagine different cities, different religions.” She turned to leave, but then she turned back again. “Are you another one of those religious types that come here pretending to be tourists? Deep down, we all suffer the burden of our religions. A city like this attracts people in disguise from all over the world. Here, being this high up, we’re closer to God, so we don’t need all the different names religion goes by. God himself is near to us and nameless. We can free ourselves from our masks and ambitions; it’s enough that we’re meek. Here we can forget about the world down below and stop caring about life.” She walked away again, no explanation given, no response expected. Nora hadn’t understood a word of what she’d said, of course. Rafi was astonished to see them walk out together. The woman leaned down over the table.
“The El Greco Museum is closed on Mondays, but you can still go see The Burial of the Count of Orgaz in the church.” As soon as she stepped away from the cafe, her expression became humorless once again. She was preparing to reenter a world that knew everything there was to know about her and about which she, too, knew everything.
“Should we follow her?” There was enough skepticism in Nora’s voice that Rafi felt able to acknowledge that it wasn’t worth it.
“I think she must be insane, that woman. That’s the conclusion the sheikh came to.” At that altitude, the sheikh had begun to matter less. Nora was swept up in the moment; she wanted to pursue an adventure that would take her far away from everything she’d left behind.