“You might actually be kissing a Jewish arse,” added Rixa, pretending to be just as serious. “For, as Pierre de Blois teaches, the Jew, following the ways of the Devil, his father, often assumes monstrous forms.”

“Yes. You are right. It is possible. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Reinmar. Sweet dreams.”

They arrived in Jawor the following day. Rixa knew the way and they reached their destination without a hitch; she was clearly at ease.

“You feel at home here.”

“I am at home,” she said, laughing. “This is River Street. The person we are visiting lives here.”

“And this well-informed individual,” asked Reynevan, guessing. “Who would it be? What is his profession?”

“It is Maizl Nachman ben Gamaliel. He loans money at interest.”

“Is he a usurer?”

“No. A financier.”

The house in River Street was grand but severe, without any decoration. It resembled a small fortress. It was surrounded by a wall, the door in the large arcaded porch was equipped with a metal hasp and staple and completed by a brass knocker and a tiny window. Rixa took hold of the knocker and banged it vigorously. A moment later the window opened.

“Nu?” came a voice from inside.

“Shalom,” said Rixa in greeting. “We are wanderers, here to see the honourable Maizl Nachman ben Gamaliel.”

“He’s not in.”

“I am Rixa Cartafila of Fonseca,” she said, and a sinister note was suddenly audible in her voice. “Tell the rabbi, servant. If he’s not in, may he tell me himself.”

They had to wait again for a few moments.

“Nu?”

“Rabbi Maizl Nachman ben Gamaliel?”

“Never heard of him. And he’s not in.”

“We won’t take much of your time, Rabbi. Let us in, please. We only need some information.”

“Nu? And what else do you need? Cash, perhaps? Perhaps my wife should make Gefilte Fisch for you? Perhaps you’d like to rest your weary feet here? Begone, goys.”

“Rabbi—”

“Still here? Do they want me to bless them? Schmul! Bring the gun!”

“Rabbi Maizl,” said Rixa, lowering her voice and holding a clenched fist up to the window. “I’d be careful with that gun. I am Rixa Cartafila of Fonseca. I wear the ring of tzaddik Chalafta.”

“Oy vey!” came the voice from inside. “And I’m King Solomon. And I have a ring for sealing jinns in jugs. Go away, troublemakers.”

“Don’t call me a troublemaker, Rabbi,” hissed the woman. “I am Rixa Cartafila of Fonseca. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of me.”