The Scroll of Seduction (31 page)

I reread the paragraph countless times. Then I closed the book and left Manuel's room. I didn't want to touch my belly, but I did. I felt the slight bulge that I had taken to stroking, because it promised an end to my orphanage, one achieved by my own means, because in the end that was how I'd resolved the issue of whether to let it live or free myself from it. My choice not to have an abortion, more than fear or guilt, was based on a feeling of complicity with that tiny creature that–still in its larval state and more aquatic than mammalian–was a biological tie to another human being, my only family. But just reading a simple paragraph in a medical textbook was enough for my bubble to burst. Was Manuel afraid this might be my case, or did he think that was all it was?

I hadn't fully recovered when I heard them return. I heard the voices along with the sound of the locks being released.

 

I WENT TO THEM AND TOLD THEM I NEVER AGAIN WANTED TO BE
left locked up in there. Never, never again, I repeated. I had never been so scared in my whole life.

“But it was for your own safety, child. Did you think we were going to leave you here alone with no protection? How could that scare you, after all those years in a convent?” asked Águeda.

“I hope you didn't think we were imprisoning you, like Juana,” Manuel said, smiling.

Nothing more was said. I helped them unpack the food. The aunt pulled out Christmas puddings, candy, chocolates, chatting away about how much she was looking forward to preparing a proper Christmas Eve
supper, one that would make me forget all those Christmases I had spent alone in Málaga. Although my irritation slowly wore off, I was left with an empty feeling down inside. And yet, if it was true, if my pregnancy was false, imaginary, pseudocyesis or whatever it was called, everything could revert to the way it had been. I would regain my freedom, even if it meant I would go back to being alone.

Manuel suggested that for Christmas Eve dinner I wear Juana's red velvet gown with the black front panel, and even managed to get Águeda to agree to lend him the gold crucifix locked up with all the treasures upstairs. When I saw myself in the mirror–my hair pulled back, wearing a gold-trimmed headdress–I was astounded at how much I resembled Juana's portraits. Dressing up like that was a concession to my hosts' obsession, but that night I didn't care. I preferred to feel like a princess or a queen rather than an orphan. I preferred Juana's ghost over the many other ghosts that stalked me, determined to prove, perhaps even through what was going on in my womb, how deceptive reality could be.

During dinner, as Águeda and Manuel chatted away, reminiscing and stirring up innocuous or pleasant memories, I debated whether Manuel's refusal to take a urine sample to the lab reflected his suspicion that I might be suffering from a false pregnancy. But then, why bother to claim he was so certain I was pregnant as to dismiss the need to confirm it with a scientific test? It didn't make any sense, the logic was beyond me. I shouldn't have champagne, they said, it would be best if I had fruit juice at dinner, given my state, but I insisted on having a glass of champagne. I didn't finish it, though, plagued by new doubts. What if Manuel had just come across that description while he was reading up on pregnancy? The asterisk might just have been his way of acknowledging his surprise. Maybe he wasn't aware cases like that even existed. It didn't mean he thought it was my case. At some point, watching the two of them eat and laugh, I felt ashamed at having felt they could be so mean as to want to imprison me, and I was relieved they had no way of ever discovering my private conjectures. Dread gave way to my urgency to love them with that youthful energy that constantly tries to make reality match wishful thinking.

When it was time to say good night and go to bed, I hugged Águeda. Manuel got into my bed that night, and when I told him again how frightened I'd been when I heard the locks click into place that morning, he looked at me flirtatiously, imitating my little-girl pout very seductively. Now, you're not identifying a little
too
strongly with Juana, are you? he wanted to know. I ended up laughing at myself. I was going to ask him about the book in his room, but then I decided not to. After all, I couldn't just say that I'd been in there, rummaging through his drawers, looking for proof that I was his only star pupil. We made love languidly, almost lazily, taking our time to cuddle each other like a pair of vulnerable children that quickly evolve into felines grabbing and going at each other in a passionate contest. My waist was hardly wider, although it was losing its definition slowly but surely. My breasts, on the other hand, were undeniably bigger. And my nipples darker, like eclipsing suns. On the bed, next to Manuel's light skin, mine looked like brown sugar. I told him I wanted to go ahead with the urine test right after Christmas.

Manuel went to his room to get cigarettes and a snifter of cognac. He came back barefoot, wearing sweatpants, and laid on the divan. I stayed in bed, curled up under the blanket. He had been thinking about the picture of the room on the third floor, he said. He blew the smoke from his cigarrette, making rings in the air. It was intriguing, he admitted.

“Do you realize that nobody outside of our family has ever been up there? You're the only one. That's precisely why I find your observation bewildering. You know, once you get used to your surroundings you don't even notice the obvious. Remember how I told you about Juana's trunk, the one that disappeared without a trace? My mother, who I met furtively a few times when I was a teenager, told me that there was evidence that proved that Juana had not been mad, but that our family hid it, fearing it would discredit them–not so much because of what had taken place in the distant past but for preventing the information from becoming public domain. It tends to happen with lies and secrets. Keeping a secret can end up becoming a worse shame than the secret itself. My mother used to draw a parallel between that secret and the one related to my birth, but the relationship between the two always escaped
me. Both were family secrets, I guess. Because until I turned thirteen, I was led to believe that Águeda had adopted me from an underprivileged family. Only when my grandfather died did she come clean and reveal to me that my mother was her sister.” Manuel took a sip of cognac.

I was befuddled. I didn't know what to say. I felt sorry for Manuel.

“A strange family you have. Maybe all families are strange, full of secrets.”

“The trunk I was telling you about disappeared eight days before Juana died. There was such an uproar when they found out it was missing. A papal nuncio went as far as writing a bull of excommunication for whoever had dared to take or destroy it, a thing I find rather odd. For all I know, once Juana died my ancestors might have feared the wrath of God. Maybe I'm just speculating and the trunk no longer exists, but it is a sort of archaeologist's dream for me. I picture myself discovering it, opening it, reading all the documents inside.”

“What kind of documents do you imagine?”

“Diaries, letters, accounts. I sometimes imagine that my intimate understanding of Juana comes from knowing that if I were to read all those papers, they would resemble the reality you and I have been weaving together. It is as if I had already read them. I imagine this story is the same Juana would have written, the same that has been kept hidden, waiting for someone to come along and discover it, so that justice can be done to the kingdom of her memory.”

 

WHEN I WOKE UP AND WENT DOWN TO THE KITCHEN FOR BREAKFAST,
all I found were Manuel and Águeda's coffee cups in the sink. It was late, almost eleven o'clock. I got scared for a minute, thinking they might have locked me in again. But when I tried the door to the garden, it opened right away, much to my relief. The neighbors could see into the backyard from their windows, but it was sunny, and the fresh air was too tempting for me to resist. Wearing my slippers, clutching my flannel robe tightly across my chest, I went down the two or three steps between me and the gravel path that led to the fountain under the chestnut tree. It was cold, but the blue sky was dotted here and there by white, puffy, clouds. It was a beautiful, luminous day. I rushed out to the foun
tain and back, like an inmate escaping into the prison yard. When I got back, just as I closed the door, I felt Manuel behind me. He took my hands. “You're going to catch cold,” he said, obviously annoyed. Nothing would come of it, I said. It had been just a brisk outing to get a breath of fresh air.

“This isn't child's play, Lucía. You and I have to be careful, or we could put my aunt in a very awkward position. I don't think that's how she deserves to be repaid for all the hospitality she's shown you.”

I didn't answer. I thought he was being overzealous, but I also felt guilty. I filled the teakettle with water and put it on to boil.

“I'm sorry, Manuel. It won't happen again.”

“Come to the library after you change your dress.”

Manuel knew exactly how to make me feel silly and small. Changing the tone of his voice and his gestures, he could, in an instant, establish a distance between us, and I could not rest easy until I felt I was back in his grace–which could happen in the same inexplicable manner: all of a sudden he would be affectionate and gentle again. Occasionally he remained distant for long stretches, leaving me to wonder whether he was silently cursing the day he met me. Back at school I had already noticed these sudden changes, but now that we saw each other every day, I became aware that this behavior pattern for some strange reason made me docile, submissive.

I took a bath, got dressed, and rushed down to the library. Then I became Juana again, this time imprisoned in Tordesillas.

O
n February 14, 1509, three hours before dawn, my father stormed into my room in Arcos, shouting. Imperious and harsh–as he was in my worst childhood memories–he made me scurry out of bed and forced me to depart for Tordesillas.

Clearly, he'd counted on taking me by surprise. How could I be anything but surprised by that peremptory order that shook me from a deep, predawn slumber and forced me to be on my way? I assumed the plague was at our doorstep or that a rebellion had broken out and our lives were in danger. Thinking of Catalina's safety, hoodwinked by the joy of seeing little Ferdinand arrive with his grandfather, I agreed to proceed to the move, caught up in the urgency of those scampering around me, packing and rushing off with furniture, tapestries, and curtains.

By the time I reached the patio, the horse-drawn carriage was already there, waiting with Philippe's coffin, the torchbearers, and the clerics from my retinue. Doña María de Ulloa, still wiping the sleep from her eyes, carried Catalina, who was frightened and crying. I took my daughter in my arms and sat her on my horse, Galán, with me. And then, under my father's personal vigilance, our long procession hauled out. The villagers came out to wave me off, many still wearing nightshirts beneath their jackets. We made slow progress through the rugged Castilian plains, dotted here and there with dark pinelands where we
stopped to rest. Flocks of birds would suddenly take flight above us, flying to and from the Duero River, whose rushing song began to be heard in the distance. I can distinctly recall the silhouette of the Convent of Santa Clara, to the right of the stone bridge we crossed as we entered Tordesillas. Before it housed the cloistered nuns, the convent had been a beautiful palace, built by Alfonso XI to commemorate the battle of Salado. Pedro the Cruel had lived there his romance with María de Padilla. When she died, the king ordered his daughter Beatriz to bequeath it to the Santa Clara nuns. Philippe and I had visited it on our first trip to Spain. We'd sat beneath the Mudejar chapel's gold-plated ceiling, and even Philippe had to admit that no church in all of Flanders boasted such magnificent coffering. Neither he nor I could have know then that his body would lay beneath it for sixteen years.

To the left of the village, behind the walls, I saw the Church of San Antolín and the exterior corridor linking it to the palace, with the charming, conical-roofed tower at the end of it. From there most certainly one would be able to see the wide river, slithering like a green snake among the tall reeds on the banks. Storks rested atop other towers in the distance; their nests looked like gray balls of yarn balanced precariously on the tall domes and roofs of the village.

Finally we reached the palace, followed by the watchful eyes of the villagers who came out to get a look of the strange procession that, in more ways than one, would alter their lives. I waved left and right, fully awake now, and frightened. I was beginning to realize that I could expect nothing good from such a hurried relocation. The Palace of Tordesillas was medium size. When it was first built by Enrique III, it must have been comfortable and majestic, but since that time it had fallen into disuse and was almost entirely unfurnished. The night Philippe and I spent there it had seemed sad and neglected to me: salons and ballrooms surrendered to age and decrepitude. It never occurred to me that this place would be my final destination. I thought it was just another move. I remembered my father mentioning that the tiny village of Arcos, where I had lived for eighteen months, could no longer accommodate the court.

Our procession went first to the Convent of Santa Clara to deposit Philippe's body in the chapel. The sisters had obviously been informed of our arrival, because the prioress was waiting for us and the cloistered nuns could be seen behind the trellis where they heard mass. Once inside the central nave of the church, I ordered that every candle be lit and stayed there for quite some time, keeping vigil over my loved one. Catalina and Ferdinand dozed beside me, sprawled out on the chapel benches. “Wait here,” my father said, leaving me in the care of Doña María de Ulloa. A deep fatigue had taken hold of my bones. I figured that having Ferdinand back had released me of the anguish and rage I had carried within for so many months. My body needed to rest. With no strength left, I submitted to whatever was to come. As long as I had my children by my side, anyplace would do. Maybe Tordesillas, near Valladolid, was actually a good place to set up residence. While prayers for the dead were being said for Philippe, while the nuns sang the Dies Irae, I drifted off to sleep. I foresaw long, monotonous days in Tordesillas, unaware that this would be my final resting place, the last stop in my pilgrimage both through Spain and through life.

My father departed, leaving me settled down in the palace. It wasn't long before I realized I was being held prisoner. At first I had been occupied furnishing the palace to make it more inviting, hanging tapestries on the walls to make it warmer. I don't recall exactly when it was that I noticed that my maids, Anastasia, María, and Cornelia, were restless, talking among themselves in whispers and exchanging sorry looks. I called them over to inquire the reason for their distress. Teary eyed, Cornelia confided that she had overheard a conversation between two members of the Espinosa Royal Mounted guards, who according to her, were commenting that they had received orders from Mosen Luis Ferrer–the palace governor designated by my father–to prevent me by any means from going out of the palace. If I wanted to go to church, I should use the palace corridor that led to San Antolín; if I chose to visit Philippe's body, they were to accompany me and form a human wall around me so that no one could see or approach me. Because, he had told them: “The queen is mad and no one must know about it.” Cornelia finished, weeping and distraught at having to bring me such news.

I ordered my maidens and Doña María to get me ready and prepare themselves to go out for a stroll in the village. But then, that small man, Mosen Luis Ferrer, came before me. He was short, his chest puffed up with the effort of keeping himself erect, hoping, I guess, to compensate with his posture what he lacked in stature. His round head was nearly bald, but he had a small, well-cared-for beard, many rings on his fingers, and impeccable clothes. Though I had seen him often, I had rarely addressed him. His beady eyes sparkled defiantly when he told me that under express orders of King Ferdinand, my father, I was not to leave the palace, as the plague was spreading through neighboring villages.

“And how is it that no one but yourself has mentioned the plague?”

“Your Majesty, your illustrious father thought it wise not to divulge the information so that you might not worry and panic not spread through court, but I tell you that the palace is surrounded by the plague like an island by water. For your own good, you must stay within its walls.”

I suspected it was simply a stratagem to keep me isolated. And indeed it was. The plague came around every time I attempted to get out. At times I thought I had no option but to come to terms with that confinement: I read, meditated, took care of my children. Other times I would be seized by despair and lash out like a caged animal, pouncing against everybody, including myself. I would throw myself on the floor and refuse to eat, to bathe. My utter impotence would keep me crying day and night and the hatred for my father overwhelmed me, obscuring my reason and gnawing my entrails.

But it wasn't just my freedom they disposed of. My son Ferdinand was taken from me too, soon after that. I had no way of knowing to what extremes their hostility and desire to silence me would take them. Like a cave, the palace was populated by equivocal shadows. A new, childlike fear swept over me, keeping me constantly on edge. I arranged for Catalina to sleep in a room that could only be reached by crossing mine. Nights found me closed up in my quarters with her, fearing she would also be snatched away from me.

 

“WHILE IN TORDESILLAS, JUANA WAS BEING THRUST INTO A WEB OF
deceits aimed at making her accept a false reality, King Ferdinand unencumbered and holding the reins of both Castile and Aragon applied himself to the conquest of Europe,” said Manuel, bringing me out of my reverie. I threw my head back against the sofa and listened to him, staring at the afternoon light, unable to tear myself away from the image of Juana embracing Catalina, besieged on all sides.

“A square patch of blue can contain the entire sky” a mad poet from my country once wrote from a cell that had just one small window.

“After two years of plotting and forging alliances, Ferdinand had consolidated his power in Naples and Castile. His troops marched into Navarre and finally separated it from France, giving him control over the Pyrenees pass.”

“And he didn't even go back and visit his daughter?”

“In 1509, Fernando signed a pact with Maximilian that named him legitimate guardian and governor of Juana's ‘goods and her person.' Although the document recognized her as queen, it stripped her of her royal authority by claiming she was unqualified to exercise it. Once his position was guaranteed, Ferdinand came to visit in 1510, accompanied by the constable and admiral of Castile, the Dukes of Medina-Sidonia and of Alba, the Marquis of Denia, archbishop Santiago, and Emperor Maximilian's guests. He snuck into her chambers because Mosen Luis Ferrer had told him that Juana was going through one of her rebellious stages, refusing to eat, change clothes, or leave her rooms. He wanted everyone to see her in that state, to justify his position as regent. Juana was outraged when she realized what he'd done and insisted that the visitors stay long enough for them to see her behave as the queen she was. She sent for her royal gowns, got changed, and appeared before them again, but the damage was already done. The nobles and ambassadors had seen her ‘weak and disheveled.' It would be nearly impossible for them to see that her lack of personal hygiene was a form of protest, a way of acting out against the manner in which Ferrer dealt with her. It's quite well known that he went so far as to punish her physically–what
they called ‘giving the lash'–under the pretext that it was the only way to make her eat and thus save her life.”

“Didn't Juana have any way to tell someone what was happening?”

“The whole purpose of her incarceration was to keep her from being able to contact anyone. Four of her ladies-in-waiting, Francisca, Isabel, Violante, and Margarita, were relatives of Ferrer. The rest of her household was loyal to Ferdinand and his governor. They were, that is, until Ferdinand died. It's quite revealing that her father would go to such lengths just to isolate a ‘madwoman,' don't you think? That he felt the need to constantly restate her incapacity to rule. But the constraints did result in her isolation, which was quite effective. Mosen Luis Ferrer, and later the Marquis of Denia, even refused to allow her to go to the church using the high corridor outside of the palace that led to San Antolín. They feared she might shout from there down to the people going by. Tell me, how would you have broken through such a degree of isolation?”

“I would write, perhaps; I would keep a record of everything that was happening to me in the hopes of delivering it to someone who would make it public or would use it to set me free. I would remember that under Philippe's orders, Martín de Moxica wrote a log that my father later used to get the Cortes to cede him rule of the kingdom. I certainly wouldn't resign myself and do nothing. It was not in Juana's character to silently tolerate abuse.”

“You see? I was right,” Manuel cried triumphantly, grinning and looking smug. “You are like her. You and Juana, two young women, centuries apart, are very much alike.”

 

AH! THE COUNTLESS HUMILIATIONS I SUFFERED AT THE PALACE IN
Tordesillas from the time of my arrival in 1509! It was rage that provided me the strength not to submit. I learned to be alone with myself, to speak only to Catalina and Augustina, my washerwoman. When Mosen Luis Ferrer's rudeness and cruelty became intolerable, I would infuriate him by refusing to eat. I knew that my father needed me alive to carry out his plans. If I died, his regency was over. The Flemish would seize Castile and Aragon from him, because Germaine's youth had not
granted her the fertility she so envied of me. Ferdinand had not been able to produce the heir he so longed for. The baby born in May lived only a few hours. He even brought his new wife to Tordesillas once, hoping I would reveal to her the secret of my fecundity. I was kind to her, for she was just a child, but I made sure she knew that nothing other than the ardor and zeal of my love had made my womb bear fruit. And what fiery passion could she know, when she was forced to lie with an old man who wheezed and snored? Find yourself a lover, I was tempted to say. Which she did later on. I found out. She had a daughter, Isabel, from my son, Charles.

Desperate at seeing that my strength did not wane, one fine day Mosen Luis Ferrer dared to do the unthinkable. Six soldiers came and took me from my rooms to the palace cellars, dragging me along like a lunatic. I fought them all the way, kicking and screaming, but finally they ripped off my shift. A hooded man lashed me with a whip. I did not cry as the leather tore through my flesh. I slipped away in my mind, as I often did, recalling the music in my life, the birth of my children, my love for Philippe. My back crackled. I felt as if a pack of wildcats were ripping me to shreds. But I made not a sound. Once I was alone, though, oh how I wept! The image of my mother flashed before me, and I saw her, sobbing also in her queen's eternity, separated from her children. Not even she, hard as she was, would have wished this upon me. Wretched destiny of ours: strong women feared by men! They had to imprison us, humiliate us, beat us, to mask the terror we inspired in them and feel like kings!

Those were years of constant rebellion. Years I held on, recording my hardships, years I harbored vengeful dreams that belied my Christian upbringing. At least my rooms overlooked the Duero, and the sight of those waters flowing out to sea soothed my soul. They talked of moving me to another wing of the palace, allegedly to protect me from the cold and the elements, but it was from men, not the forces of nature from which I needed protection. Neither rain, lightning, nor blizzard caused me the sufferings they did. Catalina and I went about in rags. Dressed like the most destitute of my vassals, my little girl ran around in a leather doublet while I wore what looked like a nun's habit made of
coarse wool. But my daughter and I had our own secret world. I told her tales of my life as if it had been what I had wanted it to be. These fantasies amused her. She'd beg me to tell the same stories over and over. I even described the New World for her as if I'd seen it. I spoke of great jungles full of strange foreign trees, populated by flocks of brightly colored birds. I described the bare-breasted Indians and their glittering gold. Mosen Luis Ferrer could never guess how free we were in the confines of my room! A window overlooking the river was enough for us to sail the open seas and to discover worlds that only Catalina and I would ever know.