Goya's Glass (2 page)

Finally the guests began to arrive, wishing me many happy returns and kissing me while I fretted that the white powder would come off my cheeks and the perfume of rose water would fade. I kept a lookout for Mama although I knew that her triumphant entrance would put an end to my pleasure at being the center of attention. And the fact is that Mother always became the focus of attention because she was the most beautiful, the most elegant and refined, the kind of woman for whom, when she entered a salon, the musicians stopped playing, so dazzled were they. And then I made a firm resolution that would be the aim of my life: to stop the music playing when I entered a salon.

My grandfather bid the guests welcome. He was all dressed up, his chest gleaming with orders and medals: a military man who had earned his merits,
Capitán General
. He looked so fine! How proud I was to have him. I thought that when I was grownup, I would marry only a general, strong and good-looking, who would proudly wear the uniform that makes men look so beautiful. But quite the opposite happened: they married me to a man
who was neither strong nor good-looking, and who wore no uniform. I think that if my grandfather wore his gala uniform on the day of my birthday, it was only to make things pleasant for me, to make me happy, because as a rule he never dressed with the pomp that was customary in Madrid, but in a simpler fashion. I suppose that this was out of respect for the authors who were banned in Spain, and who I also imagined dressed in a simple, humble fashion, all those French encyclopedists: Diderot, d’Alembert, Voltaire, and, above all, grandfather’s great friend Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

The guests were now in the salons and we had only to wait for my parents. People formed groups and conversed, and I told myself that when I was grown-up, beautiful, and admired, I too would make people wait for me.

Father came in with a very large packet, and I grumbled that I didn’t want a present of any kind. I wanted Mama and nothing else. He put me in my place with a severe look, gave me a kiss, and told me that I was already a young lady, that I was eight years old, and that I had to behave myself like a great lady and stop grumbling like a badly brought-up girl. And he kissed me again and promised me that Mama would come to my birthday party, that she would be only a little late, and that we were not to wait for her for dinner. He pronounced this last sentence in a clear, loud voice so that all those present could hear. Everyone behaved as if nothing untoward had happened, but I noticed that their indifference was feigned and that they felt sorry for me.

My father gave me that enormous packet:
“De Maman!”
and I grabbed hold of it and left the room like a shot because the corners
of my mouth were trembling and if I had said anything by way of explanation, my voice would have faltered. I ran upstairs to my chamber, threw the packet into a corner and, with my head under the pillow, I thought that if my mother wasn’t coming, then I didn’t want to see anyone at all.

After a while grandfather came in, made me sit on his knees, wiped away my tears, and held me tight. Then he himself took the packet and opened it. An enormous doll appeared on my lap, with blue-gray eyes like those of my mother. I thought that she had sent me a puppet to take her place for good. Once in the dining room, I placed the doll on my mother’s chair and ordered the maid to pour wine in its glass and serve food on its plate.

After dinner I went into my mother’s chamber; I wanted to paint the doll’s face. I spread cream on its eyebrows until they disappeared completely, powdered its face, and drew high brows using black eyeliner, which gave it the expression of permanent and cold surprise that my mother so often wore. I straightened the hair of the wig and powdered it until it was white, and at the back of the neck I tied her hair up in a little net. I was happy with my creation. In the end I pinned her favorite brooch on the doll’s breast, the half moon of diamonds on a background of sapphires, and on three of the doll’s cloth fingers I placed the ring that bore the inscription MARÍA DEL PILAR CATEYANA DE SILVA, DUCHESS OF HUÉSCAR. Now I had my mama.

I have just taken a nap. I have reached the stage at which anything tires me, even memories. Consuelo, my chambermaid and confidante of many years, never stops giving orders and hopping about all over the place.

A long, long time ago, it was she who, with the expression of someone about to tell a secret, told me the story of a painter à la page in the highest of high society. “Especially among the ladies!” Consuelo smiled maliciously. “A fat little peasant from the back of beyond, from the Aragonese desert. With small, sunken eyes, a potato nose, and fingers like chunks of wood. The lady nobles do not want their portrait to be painted by anyone but him and they pay him their weight in gold, not so much for the portraits, which are excellent, to be certain, but rather for . . . ” Consuelo whispered, always with the same ambiguous smile. “He is the lord of Madrid,” she exclaimed. “There are so many children of his running through the city, apart from the ones he has with his wife. He has cured the infertility of more than one Madrid lady. But I think the only women who really attract him are the
majas
and the
manolas
. What’s more, he’s a regular of the dubious districts with the poor light in which the street girls wander. And our noble ladies cannot resist the temptation of tasting a man with a reputation such as his.”

At that moment I made a violent gesture to shut up Consuelo so as not to hear any more gossip, but nonetheless a little worm of curiosity had begun to nibble away at my heart. No, I certainly wouldn’t do as those silly noble ladies had done; I wouldn’t let him paint my portrait. But what if I commissioned a portrait of my husband, playing the violin or the harpsichord? Don José Álvarez, Marquis of Villafranca, painted by mister . . . what did Consuelo say his name was? Gómez? No. Goya? Goyanes? My curiosity was getting the best of me, but I told myself
that I wouldn’t stoop to believe the tittle-tattle of the servants and I forgot about the whole business.

Get out, girls! Close the doors. I shall try and wash my face.

Where was I? Ah, yes, the doll: my mother’s puppet. But it was truly my mother, it had to be, there was no other with me on the day of my birthday. I bathed before going to bed while the mama-puppet sat on a chair by my side. I dried myself and she followed me with her eyes. I put on a nightshirt and picked her up in my arms, very carefully so as not to tousle her hair. I even smelled her: it was she. Then I stretched out in bed, she sat on the mattress, and I rested my head in her lap, playing with her hair, which had become unfastened, playing with the brooch, the ring. Now my hand rested on her head. I went to sleep. Just for a little while, but happily, because Mama was keeping me company. I put her head on the pillow next to my own and tucked myself in. It was cold and the fireplace wasn’t lit. I gave her a big hug. I covered myself with her arm. She dried my cheeks. Within her embrace the tears poured out of me like water from a fountain overflowing from rainfall. When I woke up, her arm was around my waist. I pressed myself against her and the brooch stuck my chest. I took hold of her hand and in my palm I felt the ring, with its inscription: CATEYANA DE SILVA. Then I saw that name by the light of the candle, written in reverse on my skin.

I took her in my arms so as to carry her into the bathroom. The servants were asleep. I filled the bath, let fall a few drops of perfume, and placed her in the water. It seemed to me that she was smiling voluptuously.
Mimamámemimamucho
, I sang while I
took the slipper off my left foot. And splash! I submerged Mama into the water and then let her float to the surface. I removed my other slipper and with both feet in the bath I pressed on the cloth belly. The water was scented. I liked sitting with my feet in the water, and after a while, when I opened my eyes, Mama had dissolved. Her body had puffed up and then burst; the eyes and lips of the face were missing. The wig was floating next to my legs. Only the brooch and the ring were still whole.

I took my feet out of the bath, scented them with rose dust, and went to bed. Through the window I could vaguely make out the moon, and dawn was dyeing the sky pink, a sky as indifferent and empty as the day that was beginning.

It was very late in the morning when my mother woke me up, standing beside my bed with the dissolved doll in her hands. She knew . . . or did she? There was no way to read anything in those gray eyes of hers.

“It isn’t right to treat gifts in such a way,” she said, letting the doll drop to the floor, “Take this, at all events it forms part of what will eventually be your inheritance.” On my bedside table she placed the ring that a few hours before I had placed on the doll’s finger. “We shall see each other at dinner,” she added from the threshold.

“Mama! Wait! I want to tell you that . . .” But the door had already closed.

She didn’t come to dinner.

A little time after that, Father died. It was not as if I saw him very often, but suddenly he just wasn’t there anymore. Then my stepfather died. I mean my mother’s lover with whom, for a long
while now, she had spent more time than with my father. Soon after, it was my grandfather’s turn, in whose place I would rather have died myself. Then came the day of my wedding. Mine and that of my mother’s, who was marrying again on that very day, beside me, in the same church. She even had to belittle me on my wedding day.

However, her new husband died soon, and she didn’t take long to follow him. And then eventually, much later, my own husband died.

After my mother died, I got used to wearing the ring she had given me on my index finger. MARÍA DEL PILAR CATEYANA DE SILVA, DUCHESS OF HUÉSCAR. I turned the ring to the right and to the left. It was my ring of Gyges ring, a magic ring. I slept with whom I wanted to, but I always went to bed alone. Then I turned the ring which indicated who the next day’s man would be. I couldn’t bear anyone for very long, but I turned the ring and went on turning it.

Until Francisco turned up. Then I had the ring smoothed down so as to engrave a new name upon it: GOYA. Since, I have always worn the ring with the letters turned inward, toward the inside of the hand, so that when I close it Goya’s name is imprinted on my palm.

“Consuelo, stop hunting around for spiders. They bring good luck! You were the one to show me, one day many years ago, that Goya, the royal painter, and de Godoy, the prime minister, shared a secret, didn’t they?”

“The fact is, Your Highness, at that time . . .”

“If there’s something I can’t stand, it’s cowardly excuses. That day you told me that Don Francisco Goya had all kinds of tangled love affairs, in houses of ill repute as well as the palaces of the nobility, and a permanent lover who, according to you, he shared with Manuel de Godoy—a village girl, vulgar but exciting, originally a
manola
, you assured me. Although she got everything she could out of the prime minister, she was in love, heart and soul, with the painter. That is exactly what you told me.”

“Highness, I meant that the royal painter, already in the period before he met you, was the only man worthy of the name in Spain. I am certainly not one to judge, but it is undeniable that the painter Goya enjoyed such fame.”

“He
was
the only man?”

“Is.”

“Be careful. And who was the girl he clung to so?”

“It was the opposite: she clung to him. That would be Josefa de Tudó.”

“Pepita! That snake! Do you know this for sure?”

“That is what they said.”

“They said so many things, you gormless thing! I don’t believe it. Francisco would never have fallen so low. Neither do I believe the rest of the gossip that was told behind his back. And now go, run! Your presence reminds of things that I do not wish to remember. And if anyone has to attend to me, let it be my
aya
; she is more restful.
Aya
María was both mother and grandmother to me, while I laughed at and ridiculed her endlessly. Go, girl, call for her.”

One day I was sitting in an armchair, curled up like a ball of wool, a kitten, just eight years old. I hid myself in the darkest corner, in my black dress with black lace, wrapped up in my black hair as if it were a blanket that hid me from the eyes of other children and from adults. The light of dozens of candles and the happy voices of the guests who filled the salon fell on me the way leaves fall in autumn, unstoppably. I didn’t put up any resistance, but I made myself smaller and smaller. I burrowed into the depths of the armchair. I let more and more of these leaves made of light and voices fall on me; I imagined that they would bury me.

Someone touched my hair and brought me out of my dream world; to judge by her perfume, it was Aunt Ana. She took me by the hand and dragged me over to one of the circles of guests. I sat in a chair next to her.

“Aunt, how is it that suddenly people aren’t there anymore?” She talked to me about heaven and the angels and the meeting up of twin souls, the same things my
aya
María told me, only that, unlike my duenna—where are you María, can you hear me?—my aunt expressed these thoughts with elegance, as befitted the select company.