Paris: The Novel

sponsor you for the merchants’ guild,” he added.
    Jacob knew his childhood friend meant to be kind. But he was shocked all the same. He’d shaken his head, and Renard had not raised the subject again.
    And indeed, the Jews of Paris had been left in peace. England remained closed to Jews. As might be expected, the English king soon replaced them with Italian moneylenders, sanctioned by the pope. But Philip the Fair did not follow his example. The Jews of Paris breathed easier.

    For Jacob however, the next years had brought problems of another kind.
    The year after the expulsion from England, Sarah had given birth to another child, a son. But the tiny boy had been sickly and had not lived a week. Eighteen months later she had suffered a miscarriage. And after that, nothing. For some reason his wife had failed to conceive. It seemed that Jacob was not to be blessed with a son.
    He accepted this blow, as he knew he must, but he could not help asking himself sometimes: Why had God singled him out for this misfortune? What had he done?
    The old rabbi who had failed to impress Jacob’s father had been succeeded by his son, a stocky fellow of about his own age. Naomi and the rabbi’s son were part of a group of children who played together, another reason to keep friendly with him, and so Jacob had gone to consult him. The rabbi hadn’t been much help, though. He found no fault with Jacob’s conduct, and told him: “We must accept what God decides. It may be for a reason you do not know.”
    Was it from that time that the change within him had begun? Jacob himself could not say. There had been no sudden turning away. He’d attended the synagogue exactly as he had always done. But he got little pleasure or comfort from it. He was conscious of a sense that the Lord had somehow turned away from him, but whether this was a temporary trial, like the tribulations of Job, or whether it was something more permanent he had no idea. Occasionally he failed to go to the synagogue and his absence was noted. Yet each night without fail he said his prayers and took comfort from them.
    His greatest joy was Naomi. He doted on her. With her bright eyes and dark curls, she was an enchanting little girl. He taught her the Shema and said it with her every night, as his father had done with him. He would sit with her on his lap and talk to her on all manner of subjects. He taught her to read so that by the age of eight, she could read and write better than most of the Jewish boys of her age.
    He liked to take her about with him, and he showed her the wonders of Paris, including the great churches.
    So he was none too pleased, one evening shortly after Naomi’s eighth birthday, to receive a visit from the rabbi, who’d asked to speak to him alone. Nor was his mood improved by the rabbi’s opening remark: “I’ve come, Jacob, not only for myself, but for some of your friends. For I must tell you there have been complaints. About your daughter.”
    “What kind of complaints?” Jacob kept his voice quiet and even. “Has she done something wrong?”
    “Not at all,” the rabbi answered quickly. “It is not what she has done …” He hesitated a moment. “Jacob, have you ever considered that it may not be seemly for a girl to receive too much instruction?”
    “You mean that she can read and write better than a boy?”
    “Not everyone likes that. You are treating her as if she were your son. But one day she will grow up and marry, and it is for the husband to lead the family in these things, not the wife.”
    “Anything else?”
    “You take her everywhere. This is your choice, naturally. But when she is older, she will have to restrict where she goes. To family, to friends. We hope you make her understand that it is not seemly for Jewish women to wander about the town. Especially …”
    “Especially what?”
    “Jacob, you have been seen taking your daughter into Christian churches. Is that wise?”
    “We live in Paris. She should know what the inside of Notre Dame looks like.”
    “Perhaps. But not all the community think so.”
    “Is this all?”
    “No, Jacob. It is not. She has been telling the other children stories. Of Saint Denis. Of Saint Geneviève. Of Roland.”
    “But these are the heroes and heroines of France. Every Christian child in Paris knows the story of the killing of Saint Denis on Montmartre. They say now that he picked up his head and walked away with it. Absurd, but a children’s tale. I told