The Hired Girl(68)

“I was there on the Eve of St. John.”

He spoke as if the last words held something portentous, which surprised me, because the Jews don’t usually go in for saints. “What happens on the Eve of St. John?”

“On the Eve of St. John, the Alhambra is haunted,” Mr. David answered, “and not just by Christian souls.” He tapped the engraving with his fingers. “Those lion statues supporting the fountain are Jewish, by the way. That’s why there are twelve of them. They represent the twelve tribes of Israel.”

I thought that was interesting, but I was more interested in the ghosts. “How do you mean, haunted?”

“The past returns,” said Mr. David. His eyes were faraway and perfectly grave. “On the Eve of San Juan”— he made the words sound foreign, and I felt a thrill go down my spine — “The ghosts walk. I could sense it, Janet. Under the plashing of the water in the fountain, I seemed to hear the clanking of armor and the rattle of swords. At midnight, I heard the lute of the Moorish princess who never eloped with her Christian lover. She appears at the fountain, entreating someone to baptize her and grant her peace. Of course she didn’t trouble me, poor little soul, because she sensed I was a Jew. But I heard her music, and I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye — a sweet, vaporous little person, with a red, red rose in her hair.”

His eyes questioned mine. He was trying to see if I believed him. Of course I didn’t. I knew he was teasing me — well, I was almost sure — and I thought maybe I ought to be mad at him. It wasn’t the mean kind of teasing, though. There was something about the corners of his mouth that made me think he wanted me to play, too.

I said slowly, “You left out the lions.”

“The lions?”

“Yes. They’re honest Jewish lions, and they can’t abide humbug. On the Eve of St. John, they come alive, and if a liar passes through the courtyard, they lash their tails and roar as loud as thunder.” I darted a sideways glance at him. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear them, sir.”

He caught his breath. There was a fraction of a second when I wondered if I’d gone too far; he was the master’s son, after all, and I’d as good as called him a liar. But then he laughed — oh my, he did laugh! His voice is like his father’s: exuberant and strong and so loud I thought he’d wake the whole house. “I like you,” he said, and his smile bloomed until it lit his whole face.

That took me aback. It seemed like a bold thing for him to say, and I was in my kimono and it was the middle of the night. I think maybe I ought to have been offended. I mean, maybe he was taking a liberty. But then again, he might not have meant the kind of like that would be taking a liberty. And if I acted offended, he might think I was flattering myself, assuming that he meant he liked me the way a man likes a girl. He might laugh at me for being presumptuous. I couldn’t stand the thought of that.

I felt so abashed I took refuge in being the hired girl. I turned my back on him and tidied up the books. I marked my place in the Meditations and shelved it; I closed Volume I of The Picturesque World and set it on the stand next to Volume II. I fiddled with Mr. Rosenbach’s pencils, making sure the points were facing upward —

“Wait a minute!”

I spun around. Mr. David wasn’t grinning anymore; he was gazing at me with narrowed eyes. “Stay there a minute — don’t move a muscle — don’t stir! Can you do that?”

I did. I froze, like a ninny or an obedient child, while he strode to the desk and rummaged in a drawer for a sheet of paper. He grabbed a sharp pencil from Mr. Rosenbach’s stand. From one of the bookcases, he selected a tall, narrow book, which he used as a drawing board. He made a half circle around me, circled back, stopped, and began to sketch rapidly. “Hold still, hold still,” he murmured, and his pencil scratched the page.

I was afraid to breathe. So I stayed right where I was, but the more his pencil moved, the more afraid I was of what might be taking shape on the page. “Don’t freeze your face,” he commanded, and after a minute, “Would you mind unbraiding your hair?”

My hair was in a single braid. In this weather, having it loose is like wearing a wool blanket over my shoulders. I thought I ought to refuse, but I knew I’d look prettier with my hair down. So I undid the ribbon and scattered my hair over my shoulders.

He said, “Better,” in an absentminded tone, and moved more to the side. I didn’t like that because I don’t look too good from the side. I don’t look that good from the front, either, but it’s worse from the side. My jaw is heavy and my neck is too thick. “Why are you drawing me?”