“That is—interesting,” said Luzzatto, looking introspective for a moment. Mazzare had an idea that he understood the Jewish lawyer’s surprise. Luzzatto had lived most of his life in a place where there were hardly any non-Catholic Christians and non-Christians were formally and punctiliously discriminated against.
Mazzare realized he was being remiss in his duties as host. “Can someone get Maestro Luzzatto a drink? And one for me, as well.” He pointed to one of the bottles on the sideboard. “That one—we have some others, too—was sent to you personally from Don Francisco. He asked me to assure you that it was prepared according to the laws of kosher—ah, kashrut.”
Heinzerling moved to the sideboard, but Luzzatto intercepted him quickly and smoothly.
“Please,” the lawyer said, smiling at the burly Jesuit, “allow me.” Luzzatto opened the bottle and poured himself a glass, murmuring something as he did so. Mazzare didn’t catch the words but assumed it was a religious blessing. Heinzerling seemed a bit surprised at the notion of a guest serving himself, but made no objection. He simply poured a glass for Mazzare and brought it over.
Mazzare noted with approval that Gus did not take the opportunity to refresh his own glass. But, mostly, he was chiding himself. He’d forgotten that Nasi had explained to him that maintaining kashrut required that the wine not be handled by anyone except observant Jews from the time the grapes were put into the bin to be pressed to the time it was poured into the glass.
He sighed inwardly. This was just one of the many ways in which one Larry Mazzare, small-town American priest, felt inadequate to his new assignment. Grantville’s only Jewish family, the Roths, had been Reform Jews and late-twentieth-century variety at that. Dealing with seventeenth-century Jews was another matter altogether. No matter how sophisticated, cosmopolitan and well educated they were, the traditions and customs of Judaism were so deeply ingrained in their attitudes that it was easy to blunder into a minefield without realizing it.
That was even true, in many ways, with nonobservant Jews like Mike Stearn’s wife Rebecca and her father, Balthazar Abrabanel. To Mazzare’s way of thinking, it was odd. But he was Catholic, not Jewish. He knew that where Christians tended to see theological doctrine as the defining issue of their faith, Jews placed far more emphasis on matters of ritual, tradition and customs. Rebecca had been willing to marry a gentile, and her father had not objected. But Mike had told the priest that, very early on, he had learned to respect and accept the fact that Rebecca kept a kosher house and continued to observe Shabbat and the Jewish holidays. Not as strictly as the rabbis of Amsterdam would require, but to what Rebecca and her father regarded as a reasonable level.
He’d told that to Mazzare one evening in the Thuringen Gardens, as he munched on a ham sandwich. “Only time I ever get to eat pork any more is when I do it on the sly outside the house.” But he’d said it cheerfully enough. “What the hell. If Paris was worth a mass to Henry the Fourth, keeping my wife happy is sure as hell worth a few changes in my diet and habits.”
Luzzatto came back over to Mazzare’s side and held up the glass. “Please pass along my thanks for the wine to my cousin Don Francisco, Monsignor Mazzare.” He had a slightly impish half-smile on his face. “The Nasis are quite famous for it, you know.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The Nasis are even famous for it in the City.” The words the City contained a freight of meaning. As if there was and could be no other city in the word comparable to Istanbul. “Until quite recently they were sole suppliers of wine to Topkapi palace. The business is still substantial, despite Emperor Murad’s recent prohibitions.”
“I’d think that would be a bit risky.”
Luzzatto shrugged. “Simply living in the City has its risks. But it was the great shelter for the Sephardim after the Spanish drove us out of Iberia. Truth be told, the risks are small provided one does not wave the matter under the nose of Murad the Mad. Like most Ottoman emperors, he really does not care much what Jews or Christians do in his capital, as long as they do it quietly.”