A Woman of Seville (12 page)

Who can I confide my anguish in? On my way home I decide to visit Harmen Weddesteeg and to this purpose I cross the city and enter the forecourt of the Alcáazar
palace. Here I’m told Harmen isn’t in residence this day, and as I don’t know where else to look for him, I return to Triana, crossing the bridge at a child’s pace. ‘And I thought Enrique was such a good person he would never hurt me.’

Once home, I avoid my servants and go straight upstairs to cuddle my lap-dog, Alanis. It’s a shame, I think, as the dog licks away my salty tears, but worse has happened, much worse. I can cope with this loss.

I’ve avoided seeing Bishop Rizi for a whole month. It wasn’t Father Rastro’s subtle recommendations but his habitual presence at my side that have fortified my resolve. I’ve been living for the furtive, elated moments I got to spend with Enrique in the convento.

In bed with Guido Rizi later the same day, I close my eyes and imagine it’s Enrique who is fondling my breasts and stroking my thighs. I muffle a squeal when Guido’s fingernails intrude in my most sensitive parts. That didn’t happen. Enrique would handle me like fine paper; he would never do such a thing. While Guido transports himself on top of me, I grind my teeth and silently cry out to Enrique for help.

My sojourns with the ladder-man had been keeping pace with my visits to the convento until Enrique Rastro left for Castile. What the Mercedarian leader inspired in me, the ladder-man fulfilled. Once, during lovemaking, I even called the ladder-man Enrique by mistake. The ladder-man wrote on his slate, ‘Who’s Enrique, for God’s sake?’

‘Tell me
your
name first,’ I demanded.

‘If I tell you, will you promise never to mention it to anyone, or start calling me by that name?’ he wrote.

I promised of course.

‘AURELIO,’ he wrote in big letters.

‘Aurelio,’ I whispered, and showed my gratitude by fulfilling his desires late into the night.

But yesterday, the day after Father Rastro left Seville, Aurelio had a fall on the roof and cracked his ladder in two places. Today he’s retiring under his shelter like a man with a broken leg. I tell him I’ll take his ladder down to the place of streets and horses and have it repaired. He writes that the wood is split and it’s irreparable, but I insist. Modern carpentry can work wonders. I’ll leave him my own beautiful amber ladder instead. When I carry his ladder away he sheds a little tear. He may not see it again. But, if worse comes to worse, it will do him good to have a new ladder.

I visit six carpenters who all say it cannot be fixed before I find one who agrees to repair it. ‘It’ll cost more than a new one though.’ That is okay, I say.

He has a little workshop in the main street of town, with lots of folding doors. I can’t find my way into the shop and, then, when it’s time to go (having secured the deal) I can’t find my way out. When I return to collect the ladder the next week, the carpenter says something that surprises me.

‘I made this ladder, five years ago.’

‘You did?’

He shows me some hieroglyphic indentations on the side beam. Then, as if to impress me, he goes over to a
desk and consults a heavy ledger. I watch him running his finger up and down the margins till he finds the reference he’s seeking.

‘Ah, it’s Aurelio’s ladder.’

I stare open-mouthed.

‘Still up on the rooftops, is he?’

I’m sworn to secrecy.

‘He may have changed his name,’ I reply, wriggling out of committing myself to knowing him.

The carpenter is persistent, ‘The mute lad. Minus a tongue?’

I pause for a few seconds. How stupid I was not to realise.

‘What happened to his tongue?’

‘Didn’t you know? Zamorana culled it.’

I don’t have to pretend to look appalled. ‘What was the crime?’

The carpenter snickers. ‘Bit of back passage stuff, or so I heard. Jilted lover he did it to betrayed him.’

‘A female lover?’

‘Of course,’ he says indignantly. ‘What are you thinking, lass? He’d have lost his head if he’d done it with a man.’

I go home carrying Aurelio’s ladder under my arm, trying not to swing it about and knock people down. I’m feeling so dejected that a couple of men say to me in passing, ‘It’s not that bad, is it Missy?’

My poor little ladder-man. Thousands do it, and he had to be the one to get caught. And what sort of woman would have betrayed him on a matter so intimate? He doesn’t choose his women well. That’s a worry because of what it implies about me.

The sky is purple tonight. An oyster moon hovers, silky and generous, though not as full as yesterday. Aurelio and I exchange ladders and blank kisses in the dusk. There’s a fish for him to eat that Prospera baked at my request. As he eats, I watch him like a hawk, but there’s no seeing into his mouth. We can’t ever talk to each other and we can’t kiss properly either, but we can do all that really matters with our bodies in the dark.

They are only hands. I’m somewhat relieved. A pair of small, soft hands are forcing my eyelids closed. Warm breath at the back of my neck, and muffled chatter. Beneath the enfolding hands, a slit of light. The lacy hems of women’s gowns and dozens of slippers, scampering.

I was sitting innocently by the pond staring at the stagnant goldfish when someone attacked me from behind. I decided not to resist. The hands were delicate and scented. The high-pitched laughter clearly female. Those fancy satin slippers told me a party ruse was underway.

Shortly before the incident, I’d arrived at the widow
Rosano’s mansion with Pacheco. I took one look at the glittering guests and searched for the nearest exit into the garden. My clothes weren’t formal enough and I didn’t have a bejewelled mask to match those that some of the guests were wearing. If I’d had one of those masks to put on, as a disguise, I would have followed my master into the crowded hall.

The secluded courtyard seemed a safer option. But the slippered fiends had snuck up on me as I sat at the edge of the pond, staring at the bloated goldfish. A hissing fountain and ribald frogs assisted the girls in taking me unawares.

Now mischievous hands are slipping a blindfold over my eyes. The fastening fingers are clumsy and a piece of my hair catches in the knot. Many hands are patting my arms, tugging on me, making me stand, twirling me around so that I go with them, dizzily. I let myself be led away. (If they’ve managed to steal my purse they’ll be disappointed; it’s virtually empty.)

I’m guided away from the indoor music. For a moment, a small clammy hand, holding my own. Then the animal moan of a gate opening and closing. We have entered a more ample garden. The scent of plants is strong and I feel solid earth underfoot. I’m led hastily, so that I can’t help but stumble and trip. I fall forward, knocking someone down. A girl whimpers in pain. Angered, I want to rip off the
blindfold and smack them all. I’m on my own with these scurrilous nymphs. The scuffling slippers come to a halt. The hands make me sit down on a hard bench. Muffled directions are given. Scented bodies press close and excitement tames my annoyance. A sharp stone or ring grazes my chin. I grab at air. Nothing. A shaking sound over my head. Something soft; feathers falling? Whatever it is tickles as it slides down the back of my neck, inside my shirt. Ouch! A wire obstruction has been placed on top of my head. It doesn’t hurt for long, but later I can’t work out why I didn’t force the blindfold off at this point. Say enough is enough.

Instead I continue to sit, disarmed, compliant.

The chorus of girls is laughing and then multiple slippers are running away. Am I abandoned? The footsteps peter out. I hear a gate in the distance squeak open and clang shut. I’ve been left on my own, apparently. A lizard or bird shifts in nearby leaves. I’m still unsure if I should pull off the blindfold. Isn’t something else going to happen? I remove the wire contraption from my head. Loosen the blindfold. In the moonlight I find myself covered in leaves and petals. The wire coronet in my hand is a garland. Flowers are piled high on the ground at my feet. I stand up and wipe the decorative coating from my clothes, empty my pockets of petals and leaves, shake myself tidy as best I can. But a lot of the petals stick to me.

So this is what girls do, do they?

I go back to the noisy hall, no longer shy. Then I see Catarina. Masked, like the first time I saw her. Encircled by her sisters, each a shorter version of herself. The four sisters coalesce under party lamps, age-weighted from tall to small as gritty gold, amber, hazelnut, and the youngest whom I liken to boiled toffee. Shining with success, gossiping and giving cheek. I can’t prove it, but I know it was them, for sure.

I haven’t stopped missing my goldfinch. Every time I pass Catarina’s house in San Pedro I listen for its song. I look through the gate into the patio hoping to see my cage hanging from a tree. Maybe I’ll see a flutter of wings dipped in yellow. How I’d smile to see your spry head jut once again, goldfinch. Actually, I wouldn’t mind if this girl Catarina is the thief. What I love, she perhaps chooses to make her own.

Once I saw a nun emerge from the Loyola gate with Catarina’s mother in tow. Two old women, but no sign of a seductive daughter. I crossed the road and bought some water from the vendor who’s always working there. As I was drinking I stole a clandestine look back at the house. The curtains had opened upstairs and four sisters stood bunched beneath a dark veil. They looked like a nun who’d sprouted four heads. The faces stayed still as statues, all looking in the
same direction, though not at me. It unsettled me a bit and I hurried on.

And now these mischievous Loyola girls, whom I consider of modest means, have turned up at a party for rich Sevillians. They must have some kind of relational connection with the wealthy family to be here tonight. Maybe they’re just helping out. I’m standing around at a loss when our Genoese hostess, Doñna Fillide, appears with her son, Marius. The youth and I size each other up. Age acknowledges its kin. The night will be easier from here on. Marius invites me upstairs to play quoits and I jump at the chance to escape the formalities and frivolities.

I can’t mention my near-collision with him in the Giralda. Nor can I ask him about Catarina without giving away my own interest. Ask to see the Rosano aviary? Not without getting him suspicious. One thing I’ve worked out for myself, thinking about it for weeks since, is that Catarina must have known Marius was going out in the middle of the night. Marius must have told her his intention, and she must have decided to follow him (without letting him know). For some reason she’d held back, decided not to confront him. Or maybe something got in the way of her plans. Maybe I did. Which would explain the theft of my bird. Possibly.

While I play quoits I’m comparing myself with my
long-haired, very feminine opponent. I can see that I don’t stand a chance of beating Marius in the appearance stakes. Looking for imperfections I soon find one. Marius has a perverse fascination with the occult. He isn’t observing the stars for their own sake; he actually believes the positions of the stars influence the actions of people on the Earth.

I’ve studied astronomy and mathematics and I know he’s talking nonsense. When he mentions a recent visit to the Giralda my ears prick up.

‘There was a constellation change happening and I needed to be up high, above the halo of the city, to see it,’ he tells me.

Marius is a conversational grasshopper. Now he’s asking me which sky sign I’m born under? When I explain I have no idea, Marius says he can work it out from the day of my birth. Born on May thirty-first would make me a Gemini, and so, Marius claims, I will be plagued by inconsistencies because I am fundamentally ruled by a pair of twins.

‘Twins? Impossible!’ I’ve lived in the world for sixteen years and I’ve shown no tendency for division.

‘Wait and see. As your life unfolds you will be torn in your allegiances—two women, two vocations, two cities, two countries.’

‘Two faiths?’ I’m incredulous.

‘Perhaps not,’ Marius concedes, then launches a new attack.

‘I hear you’re quite a genius-in-the-making with the Guild of Saint Luke.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ I reply defensively.

Marius smiles. He wants to know my opinion of the Weddesteeg painting,
The Penitent Woman
.

‘Is it as valuable a work as my mother thinks? She paid many escudos for it.’

I shake my head. ‘Art cannot be valued in fiscal terms.’ This is something I’ve heard Pacheco say often enough. Marius probably thinks I’m avoiding his question. I cough and continue, trying to make it seem I was just pausing.

‘I believe it is the work of a master. It has the stamp of Rome upon it, which makes it valuable here, but in Rome, perhaps less so.’

‘Fillide loves the painting.’

He’s speaking of his mother, Doñna Fillide. And so I can be frank in my admiration.

‘It is the white horse that I find remarkable, and the placement of the Morisco standing behind the horse—‘

‘There’s a Morisco in the painting?’ Marius raises his eyebrows.

‘The monk, yes. He’d have to be Arabic.’

‘But the horse is a grey.’ It’s not a question.

‘No, white I think,’ I say.

‘But you’re not sure?’ Marius persists.

I hadn’t been unsure, but Marius has made me doubtful, damn him.

‘Ten maravedís it’s a grey,’ Marius challenges.

I shake my head and try to laugh it off. I’ve promised my mother I will never lay a bet if I can help it.

‘Let’s go downstairs and check,’ Marius suggests.

‘Where’s the painting now?’

‘In Fillide’s chamber.’

I’d like to look at the painting again so I agree to his suggestion.

Marius and I throw a quoit back and forth as we amble along the upstair’s corridor and trundle down the staircase. I nearly fall backwards over the banister when I’m reaching up to catch the high-flying quoit. Honour makes it more important to catch the ring of braided metal, than protect myself from broken bones.

Dancing, music and laughter encroach and part of me wants to go back to the salon where I last saw Catarina and her sisters, but Marius takes me by the arm and leads me to his mother’s chamber instead.

The room is pitch black. Marius disappears and returns with a candle-end and a giant candelabra. He places the candelabra on a table and lights six candles. The large
painting is standing upright on the floor, resting against a wall. It hasn’t been hung as yet.

It’s still too dark to decide on the colour of the horse. Marius brings the flaming candelabra right up to the painting. Abracadabra. A horse appears in the room. A tail swishes between muscular flanks. I catch a whiff of manure.

‘Mottled-white’ we say, almost in unison. I’m relieved I wasn’t entirely wrong.

Marius lies down in front of the painting resting on an elbow and cradling the candelabra in his hands. He’s posing like a decadent Adonis, his head thrown back. He wants to be in the painting too. He wants to be looked at and admired.

Chimerical flames lick at the bottom portion of the painting, making it look like a scene from Hades.

‘Don’t flick wax on the painting,’ I caution Marius.

‘Hmm,’ spoken dreamily.

The slightly stealthy atmosphere in the parlour—Doña Fillide could walk in any time—obviously appeals to him.

But I’m suddenly in a bad mood. The painting doesn’t look as remarkable as I remember it being. Perhaps I’ve perjured myself telling Marius it’s the work of Rome.

I find another candle and light the wick at Marius’s superb triadic holder. I cup the candle in my hand and hold it close to the surface of the painting. Shifting the candle this
way and that, up and down, back and forth, searching for clues. I’ve spent the last four years looking at paintings and I know nearly as much about them as my master, Pacheco.

‘Marius,’ I say solemnly, ‘this is not the Weddesteeg painting. It is a copy.’

‘Yes, it is a copy,’ agrees Doña Fillide with a rueful smile.

She has left her guests to come looking for Marius, wanting him to take a partner in the dancing.

‘So where’s the original?’ Marius asks, mystified and annoyed.

‘In a safer place,’ replies Doña Fillide.

‘It is a poor imitation,’ I say.

Doña Fillide sits down at the table. ‘This version was painted by the monk assisting Harmen in the convento,’ she explains. ‘He’s an engraver and a copier of religious art for the Mercedarians.’

She points at the monk in the painting. ‘You see him there. Victor María!’

We stare at the figure, matching the name to the face.

Doña Fillide continues: ‘Victor María worked on his copy in the evenings. He finished it a short time after Harmen finished the original.’

Just before waking this morning, Doña Fillide tells us, she had a vivid dream. In the dream, the Inquisitor
Zamorana broke into her home. He forced open the French doors and carried
The Penitent Woman
away. Recollection of the dream propelled Doña Fillide into action. She ran downstairs to check her painting was safe. Finding it was, she ran back upstairs, dressed, wrapped her hair in a headscarf, and rushed out onto the street. She only realised she’d lost her beautiful Florentine scarf when she was sitting on a bench in the outer gardens of the palace Alcázar, waiting for Harmen to come down from painting the Duke and his dog. She considered retracing her steps, then gave the scarf up for lost.

Harmen arrived, wiping paint from his hands with a dirty rag. ‘He didn’t believe in the augury of my dream,’ explains Doña Fillide, ‘but he said he’d help me out, anyway. He offered to switch the paintings to allay my fears.’

‘So there’s going to be a burglary tonight, is there?’ Marius asks.

‘The theft may not happen,’ Doña Fillide advises. ‘My dream was obviously based on future intent, rather than fulfilled action.’

‘Aha,’ said Marius probingly, ‘and your dream was right, because you
did
lose something. You lost your best scarf worrying about losing something else.’

Fillide Rosano looks deflated when Marius says this. He’s being very hard on her. There’s an intense familiarity
between them. I’ve not seen the like of this before, between a mother and a grown-up child.

‘How’d you know where to find us just now, Fillide?’ Marius asks. That casual manner with her again. But there’s just the two of them living here in a big house with lots of servants. Marius’s wealthy Spanish father passed away some years ago, and he has no living siblings.

‘Your painter friend has left a trail of petals,’ answers Fillide Rosano and touches me lightly on the arm while pointing to some leaves on the carpet.

Then she claps her hands. Have we forgotten she has a party of guests to attend to? She has no time for further discussion. She insists we both return, so she can assign us dancing partners.

We do as we’re told. As we wander back to the dance hall, I’m pondering the strange coincidence between Doña Fillide’s fears about Carlos Zamorana (revealed in her dream) and Pacheco’s revelations to me about the Dominican prelate. Zamorana has an obsessive interest in the painting. He’s been known to destroy ‘indecent’ artwork in the past, so perhaps it’s provident the paintings have been switched.