BRINK
The locutory stands in readiness. By a bookshelf I sit radiating an admirable, a mighty calm. Gutiérrez has just left. I need not remind myself that in the past he has brought reliable information from the Holy Office: rumours of cases, advance word of rulings, gossip of the Inquisition’s inner tensions and debates—monthly casualty reports from the war between the Jesuits and the Dominicans. Today, as one of two consultants on the case, Gutiérrez brought news of a licensing application—routinely approved, yet whose implications for me cannot be routine.
Father Antonio Núñez de Miranda is to be granted licence to publish The Penitent Communicant. It is written, Gutiérrez assured me, in a prose as rigorous and subtle as it is dead. Following Thomist doctrine, Father Núñez holds that the act of transmuting His flesh and blood into the wafer and wine is Christ’s most sublime expression of love for Man. Not a half-dozen theologians in all the Catholic commonwealth can match Núñez’s learning on the Eucharist. And it is his secret conceit, as a good Creole, that to further deepen our apprehension of this supreme mystery, no one is better placed than the (sufficiently disciplined) theologian raised among the ruins of cannibal Mexico. According to Gutiérrez, who has dubbed it The Shriven Communicant, the work’s underlying message is that anyone who finds grounds for an ecstatic communion, in so holy a mystery, had better think again.
But while I was speaking of this with Gutiérrez, my mind could not be deflected from a detail I found sobering enough to meditate upon. The Penitent Communicant is dedicated to don Manuel Fernández de Santa Cruz, Bishop of Puebla. The Bishop is my friend, the Bishop is not here yet, the Bishop was to be here an hour ago. Suddenly it is not beyond imagining that the Bishop has come all the way from Puebla to look over Núñez’s manuscript, not to see me.
Antonia sits fidgeting at the desk, having filled the inkwells and twice restocked the paper and quills. At the middle window, the little table is set for two, one to each side of the grille. While I radiate calm, the afternoon sun streams brightly through crystal wine glasses, blithely over bowls for whipped chocolate, blindingly across the matching sideplates—pleasant peasant patterns of pheasants and ferns on the blue-on-white ceramics of Puebla. No, calm. On the visitors’ side rests a platter of the dulces encubiertos for which San Jerónimo is extolled by our sweet-toothed patrons. Candied figs and limes from the orchard, candied squash and peppers from the garden. Behind the arras in the back, the giggling has stopped, which almost certainly means that today’s escuchas,† Ana and Tomasina, have abandoned their listening posts to search the street for signs of our eminent guest. It has been some time since the Bishop’s last visit from Puebla. The times are anxious—Antonia, ever incapable of hiding her feelings, looks more worried than I would admit to feeling.
Carlos has been home from his latest expedition for several days now, but chooses this precise moment to pay a visit. Thinking it is the Bishop in the passageway I rise to stand fetchingly by the grille. As Carlos comes through the doorway I would like to be angry—and try to look it, but in truth it is good to see him. He has been away through most of the winter and all of spring.
A bachelor dressing without a woman’s touch, Carlos has today achieved somehow a shadow of mournful elegance in a black cape too heavy for April, a small, reasonably white collar and a high black tunic laced firmly at the neck.
“Have you run out of people to see, Carlos?”
“This is lavish even for you,” he says, glancing over our preparations. “Are you so pleased to have me back?
“I am, exceedingly.”
He takes the Bishop’s seat. I stand a moment longer trying not to look exceedingly pleased, staring down at the broad pale forehead, the hairline seeming a little higher than six months ago, con mas canas. He is almost handsome, the cheekbones finely formed, over cheeks a little too hollow just now.
“So this isn’t all for me.”
“You don’t eat sweets, or still didn’t the last time you graced us with a visit.”
“I’ve been a little unwell.”
“The malaria …? Tonia, will you bring our friend a cordial?”
“Probably.”
“Lime, beet, tamarind?”
“Lime …”
Antonia, who is fond of him, hurries over with a glass. “Gusto en verlo, don Carlos.”
“Hola, Antonia. Gracias.”
“Something more substantial, Carlitos—a soup, a stew?”
“I’d be glad to make you something, don Carlos.”
“The cordial is fine, Tonia. I’m fine. And yes, it is nice to see you too. But you—I leave for a few months and come back to this. What deviltry have you played on Núñez now, after so many years? ?En qué avíspero te has metido ya?† ”
“Aside from publishing without seeking his approval?”
“You couldn’t have sent one copy to Núñez?” He shrugs, a maddening little hitch of one shoulder. “Not even as a courtesy?”
“You mean, Carlos, as an invitation to meddle. But you’re right—had I realized there’d be advance copies turning up everywhere …”
“He’s the one turning up everywhere. The university, the Audiencia, the Brotherhood. Criticizing your spiritual director—”
“Before Dorantes can blame it on him instead.”
“Was that Gutiérrez I just saw leaving? Tell me the Inquisition isn’t involved.”
“He had been hoping to see Bishop Santa Cruz.”
“Ah, a war council.”
“What have you heard?”
“Something about a sermon. Given by Núñez, I take it.”
“He preached an old sermon by Antonio Vieyra, so he could—with suitable humility—knock it down again in private at the rectory afterwards.”
“So, for a few select churchmen,” says Carlos, “you knocked his straw man down, what—more elegantly than he?”
“Something along those lines, yes.”
“Have things been so dull?”
“If he’s so bent on talking about me, let him have a sturdier quintain to tilt at.”
“I thought you’d cured it, this mania of yours for taunting him.”
“Unlike you, I do not have the option of running off for months at a time. And if you know so much about my affairs before even showing your face here, it just goes to show how little privacy I have. Nor do I have the option of being ignored.”
“Thank you.”
“You know that is not what I meant.”
“And now the Bishop is coming all the way from Puebla…. I should tell you, then. I’ve invited an interesting young Frenchman for you to meet.”
“When?”
“In a minute or two.”
“Estás en tu casa.”
“Don’t be annoyed. Most of these types are rather less than they seem to be, but I’m convinced this one is rather more. He’s spent half his young life at Versailles. He has brought me a letter from the King, in fact.”
“Not theirs.”
“Louis XIV.”
“You’re serious.”
“Perfectly.”
“We could be at war again with France any day now—how has he been allowed to come?”
“Well for one, he appears to be a near relation of every monarch in Europe. I haven’t really the head for this sort of thing, but he seems to be the grandson of Henri IV and Catherine de Medici—”
“Marie. Catherine was her mother.”
“He is also the nephew of Isabel de Francia—and therefore first cousin to María Teresa by his aunt Isabel, making Philip IV—”
“His uncle by marriage. But this would also make Louis XIII his blood uncle, which in turn makes Louis XIV his first cousin …”
“By blood and by marriage. Yes, Juana. Moreover, on his father’s side are Stuarts. So I may be about to introduce you to the future King of England. Or France, or—”
“Spain. Permission to come, then …”
“Would not have presented an insurmountable difficulty.
What I have not worked out yet, is why he’s come.”
“Other than to deliver your letter.”
“He says he is in America to round out his education, is quite wide-eyed at the prospect.”
“What better education than Mexico for a future King of Spain?”
“He claims to have no interest in politics.”
“Then what does he claim claims his interest?”
“Generally speaking, literature …”
“And specifically?”
“You.”
“Me.”
“He wants to translate you. To France. All of France, I gather.”
“So now you want me to help you find out what he’s really up to.”
“They have a way of revealing themselves to you.”
“Because naturally he couldn’t have come so far for a thing so trivial as his stated purpose.”
“That’s not—”
“Juana, don Carlos—disculpen but there’s a French gentleman here. Tomasina swears he’s as beautiful as an angel.”
“Yes, that will be him,” Carlos smiles.
Antonia used the word beautiful. And so he is, with the beauty of sculpture—features pale yet warm like finest Carrara marble, lips full with just the faintest hint of rose, ice-blue eyes shading to lilac … older than the face, more knowing. His hands are pale, blue-veined, with long, finely-wrought fingers, broad palms. An angel’s hands, and clasped with no apparent effort in one is the strap of an impressively heavy looking satchel.
“Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, je te présente René Henri de Borbón. Vicomte d’Anjou.” Adds Carlos, in accents vaguely Italianate, “special envoy of King Louis XIV de Francia. The Viscount has just arrived from Paris after a few weeks in Seville. We spent a marvellous afternoon yesterday discussing the latest astronomical discoveries—a wonderfully educated young man.”
“I apologize for the intrusion, Sor Juana,” begins the young nobleman, “but it’s really out of clemency to your learned friend don Carlos, whom I’ve been hounding for five days straight to be given the opportunity of at last meeting you. An honour all Europe may now envy me.” He adds, with a little flourish and a low bow, “My compliments.”
“And my compliments on your Castilian.” I indulge myself in another moment of looking him over. There is nothing quite like French men’s fashions on Frenchmen. The hair is beyond doubt his, but his habiliments are those of the latest fashion doll. It seems the ostrich-plumed hat is no longer. The petticoat breeches are of course an incalculable loss. The collarless, fitted coat is almost knee-length now, this one in lilac-coloured silk, and embroidered at the cuffs and buttonholes, with violet sash and waistband. An ensemble worn with perfect assurance and without the slightest irony. And so the French man sallies forth dressed for it but not in it. I sense Carlos following my appraisal and avoid his look. With Carlos drab is good, drab is wise—it is in the flourish that disaster lurks.
“You are kind, my lady. The languages of France and Spain were spoken in our household in almost equal measure, but I confess that the Castilian tongue always gave greater joy….”
“Carlos tells me you were able to take great pleasure, too, in walking about Seville.”
“A good deal, yes. It holds up much better than does Madrid these days.” Brightening, he adds, “But even in Madrid—everywhere I’ve looked, in fact—the booksellers are out of your Inundación Castálida. Three Spanish editions sold out in five months—and here the first shipment gone, I’m told, in three days!”
“Carlos and I were just talking about my local channels of distribution. Have you been able to get a copy yet, Vicomte?”
“Don Carlos was good enough to give me his.”
“How kind of him.”
“I had read them, Juanita, or most, in manuscript….”
“How I envy you that privilege, señor.”
“Or the unenviable duty. Our Carlos has so many.”
“I’ll get another copy eventually, Juana.”
“Now it is his patience that we are to envy—”
“Pardonnez-moi, Sor Juana, but was not Castalia the Sibyl granted eternal life by Apollo in exchange for her favours?”
“That was Deiphobe.”
“It is a shame that a Sibyl so aptly named,” says Carlos, “could not see into her own future. You see, sir, she forgot to ask for eternal youth.”
“Carlos will tell us next that to wrinkle eternally comes as just punishment for refusing the advances of Apollo. Now if our friend has said enough on Deiphobe, I can tell you, Monsieur, that the Castalia you ask about was a nymph—I am hoping a water nymph….”
“You must think me entirely lacking in culture.”
“But not at all. You were exactly right about the connection with Apollo.”
“If I might exculpate myself a little. My thoughts have been with the Sibyls since yesterday. At the house of don Carlos, we were speaking with a Brother …?”
“Bellmont,” Carlos says gloomily.
“Bellmont, yes—where I heard him refer to you as the Sum of the Ten Sibyls. People all over the city speak of nothing but Sor Juana—”
“Come, Vicomte, we have so many more interesting topics before us. Tell us about your King.”
“But you must call me René Henri—please do me the courtesy of informality, my lady. Now where to begin? Aunt Ana taught Louis a passable Castilian, which, after his marriage to my cousin, la Infanta, he spoke often with her. Even after her death he takes a great interest in Spanish affairs—”
“An interest some find worrisome.” Carlos is about to continue when Tomasina and Ana burst shoulder to shoulder into the locutory—barely suppressing giggles—each bearing a freshly heaped tray, but with eyes only for our beautiful guest.
“I’ve heard rumours he has remarried.”
There seems an excellent chance that Tomasina will step on Ana’s robe and one or the other of my escuchas—or both and the trays—will crash through the grille into the Viscount’s pretty lap.
“We have heard those same rumours, Sor Juana,” continues the young noble, plainly accustomed to such attentions from novices. “The happy date is not something he disposes to announce. She is well beneath his station. His lover of many years, even before the death of her husband, the poet Scanlon. Not that this has, for me, the least importance. What matters rather more is—”
“That the King and his new wife have a shared love of poetry?”
Carlos is being particularly obstructive today, given that the guest is his. The Viscount seems not to have noticed. Perhaps the wit at Versailles was too quick for our young émigré.
“Tell us what matters, René Henri.”
“Gladly my lady. Louis’ great interest in the lessons taught us by Spain have led him to emulate her in proclaiming our own golden age. And what better model for a palace life than that of our uncle Philip’s Palacio del Buen Retiro? A great patron of learning, Louis has empowered me to offer don Carlos a singular commission. Royal Cosmographer!”
“A gallant offer.”
“He’s serious, I assure you, sir. Your income would be handsome. Your skills as an astronomer are well known to him—to all of Europe, after your besting of the famous Father Kino.”
“Skills not much esteemed here, sir, I assure you. Notably by our local poets.”
“So often the case, don Carlos, with prophets in their own land. And Sor Juana, we’ve convents too in France …”
“Yes, some quite near the palace, I’ve heard.”
“If my king had the faintest hope you might be persuaded—”
“Nonsense! She can no more leave than I. We’re Mexicans, our place is here.”
“Yes of course,” the Viscount looks slightly bewildered. “I intended—”
“No offence given, René Henri, it’s an old debate,” I say soothingly. “After all, you will have noticed with what equanimity Carlos ponders his own departure, if not yet mine. Tell me, is it true they’ve taken to calli
ng your cousin the Sun King?”
“Perhaps because he throws about so much gold,” Carlos mutters.
“Spoken like a true astronomer, Carlos.”
“Indeed they have, my lady. It is a title which doesn’t displease him.”
“Might the title fit so well, Vicomte, because his new home is a palace of light?”
“Ah le Palais de Versailles! Mais c’est une merveille! Which is not to say Mexico—Mexico City outgleams even Paris. But Versailles! Apollo’s palace of the dawn a du luire ainsi a l’aube du temps!”
“I hear he’s lavished almost as much on the palace,” says Carlos, “as on the artists he stables there.”
“Louis does seem at times to love his artists more than their art. He’s spoiled Boileau beyond redemption and Racine—mais what a pauvre type I am! Sor Juana I’ve brought for you from France—” says our young visitor, reaching into the leather pouch at his feet, “Don Carlos wrote … that no gift could be more precious to you than books. You’ve read Molière I’m sure. And Corneille? Yes? I must be making a terrible impression—blathering away like an idiot.”
“Not at all, René Henri. The candid is one of my favourite modes. You wear it well.”
“I had only wanted to say that to gaze on Racine today, once the brightest light of all, is to make one fear our brief golden age is already in its sunset years. The horizon contains none with his talent now. Ah, what a colossus he was!—clawing his way up out of the ooze des origines des plus obscures to command centre stage in Paris and defend it against all comers. A sensation at twenty-eight—younger even than Corneille. When as a boy I first met him, you should have seen the man. But, already at thirty-eight—”
“Not quite your age, Juana.”
“Carlos’s sympathies remain with Deiphobe.”
“But no! Were it not for your air of gravity and—”
“Ah, my gravity,” I say, unable to resist, “another little reminder of time’s swift transits and steep descents. Carlos will be grateful to you.”
“Forgive me, my lady—” he stammers. I feel myself blushing now at the pleasure of seeing him blush, as he struggles gamely on. “I express myself poorly. It’s just that if you could see Racine now—hero of my youth—a genius, now grown docile enough to accept the King’s commission to write nothing but the Royal Historiography.”
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