conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a book about Lisbon, Kabbalist, Berekiah entitled The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon: Based closely on the events of the Lisbon Massacre of 1506, The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon is – at its most accessible level – a classic closed-door mystery.\nThe novel is narrated by Berekiah Zarco, a 20-year-old kabbalist and manuscript illuminator.\nDuring the clandestine Passover celebrations held by the secret Jews of Lisbon, an anti-Semitic pogrom breaks out and Berekiah returns home to find the door to the family cellar (and secret synagogue) locked.\nBerekiah endeavors to identify the murderer with the help of his Islamic friend and soul-mate Farid, although, as a kabbalist interested in the symbolic nature of the world, he grows more interested in learning the underlying meaning of his uncle's murder for his family, the Jews of Lisbon and all humanity – and even for God.\nBerekiah's family lives in one of Lisbon's oldest quarters, the Alfama, and much of the action of the book takes place there.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about \nInside, Uncle, Abraham, naked.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon: Based closely on the events of the Lisbon Massacre of 1506, The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon is – at its most accessible level – a classic closed-door mystery. \nThe novel is narrated by Berekiah Zarco, a 20-year-old kabbalist and manuscript illuminator. \nDuring the clandestine Passover celebrations held by the secret Jews of Lisbon, an anti-Semitic pogrom breaks out and Berekiah returns home to find the door to the family cellar (and secret synagogue) locked. \nInside, he discovers the naked and bloody body of his Uncle Abraham, his spiritual master. \nBerekiah endeavors to identify the murderer with the help of his Islamic friend and soul-mate Farid, although, as a kabbalist interested in the symbolic nature of the world, he grows more interested in learning the underlying meaning of his uncle's murder for his family, the Jews of Lisbon and all humanity – and even for God. \nBerekiah's family lives in one of Lisbon's oldest quarters, the Alfama, and much of the action of the book takes place there.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon
  I handed Miguel back to her, let the manuscript fall open naturally. The Book of Ezra faced me, verses about the rebuilding of the Temple. Each and every name of God had been crossed out with brown ink. It was chilling, as if a talisman of evil.
  Rana spoke in a hurried voice, as if stalked. "Samson told me, 'We must bury the Jewish god. After Passover, we'll say prayers for the Lord and then we must bury Him and then we must forget Him.' Samson crossed out all His names!"
  Her shout seemed to split the air between us. "But your son?" I asked. "Who would care for him?! Now that..."
  Some Jewish parents had murdered their children, then committed suicide to avoid the forced conversion nine years earlier, acts which were written in a script I'd never comprehend. "You can't mean that," I told Rana.
  She leaned forward, placed Miguel in my arms. Her eyes glowed with frightening resolve. She grabbed a thick bread knife from the table, jumped up, pointed it toward me, her body clenched with rage. "I would do it now if you told me that I must sew a shroud for my God!"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He nods. "Just keep it away from me." He leans his head back suddenly and yawns. "Sometimes I think that I could sleep for a century or two," he says.
  She takes my hand, squeezes it. The scent of henbane clings to her. In a drowsy voice, she says, "If only he were one of us."
  I awake early Friday morning at the kitchen table to the smell of brackish seawater—great hides of salted codfish are soaking in a cauldron of water by my head. Roosters cry the dawn. Cinfa and Father Carlos are preparing verbena tea.
  It is the seventh day of Passover, and the final evening of the holiday will descend tonight. The fear that time is running out for me to catch the killer shakes me fully awake.
  Cinfa fixes my gaze with a cheerful face. "Mother says a person can live like a king on just codfish and eggs," she observes. Her imploring eyes seek to have me confirm her fantasy happiness.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: As for my hesitation to speak of this... Not surprisingly, part of me would like to dismiss my words as rubbish. For if my faith points toward the truth, then I have failed my uncle miserably. Twenty-three years ago, I allowed my cousin, Reza, to remain behind in Portugal. May Uncle forgive me. For if he is right, if my reading of the verses of the past is correct, then her family is doomed.
  That is why I must take the blessed keys dear Lourenço has given me and re-enter Portugal's gates. This manuscript is the weapon which I will carry with me. May its words string together to form the noose that will hang Haman.
  Farid says he will accompany me, that I will need his protection. Perhaps he is right. Together, we will fetch Reza and her family and bring them back to Constantinople.
  The first thin light of dawn has just pierced my window shutters, and my wrist aches. It is time for me to reach into my ink well for the last few strokes of my pen. Let the angels behind my words press understanding into my soul and yours.
  As I said at the very beginning, this is a story of warning. You who read these words, whether Jew or New Christian, Sephardi or Ashkenazi, if the borders of Europe still enclose you, then you are in grave danger. The Inquisition will spread, and very soon our Bleeding Mirror will run with blood as it never has before. That is why Uncle appeared to me now. The killing is only just beginning. You can be assured, the European kings and their hateful bishops will never stop dreaming of us. They will never allow you and your children to live. Never! Sooner or later, in this century or five centuries hence, they will come for you or your descendents. No village, no matter how remote, will be safe. No aristocrat or foreign army will come to protect you. This is the meaning I make of Uncle's death. So take off your mask. Face Constantinople and Jerusalem. And start walking.