Hunger's Brides

by W. Paul Anderson

  They say Sor María is half-Indian, but that is what they always say if one learns Nahuatl. I could write to her, too late, but now at least there was little danger. Send a message in Nahuatl through a servant. María de San José, our paths are not separate. Here is a man who takes back what he has given, who eats his excrement twice. Here is a man who does not care about the outcome, only that there should be conflict. Here is a man for whom the game does not matter, only that he should set two sides upon one another—that in playing him they play against themselves, that to everyone he brings pain and trials. You know this, as I do. You have entrusted to him your secrets too. But the traitor is a gossip—in necoc yaotl, ca chiquimoli.30 This expression we have in your valley and mine. We have known him here, we have known him all along.

  Necoc yaotl. Enemy of Both Sides.

  Once I had been afraid of the dark.

  First as a child, then as a girl, in Mexico. Now though the nights of trial were filled with doubt, my fear of the dark returning, I ceased trying to sleep except during the day, between the hours of prayer. I wanted to be awake, on my feet, when the Enemy came. I ceased going down to the workrooms, the refectory—though I did try to eat. They wanted me weak. But there is something else I have feared. I have feared it all my life.

  This void … this lightness, without books or ballast, without work or measures for my mind, this mind turning round, emptily, hungrily, upon itself. Now in darkness. It was clearly explained, why they would not leave a lamp or a lantern. If the Church requires something of Sor Juana for which she has need of light, then she will be brought a candle.

  For one who does not sleep the nights are long. Longer yet in darkness. But the cell is not always empty now. The emptiness comes and goes. When it comes, it is, but when it has gone, I am sometimes grateful for the company. The demons come in many forms. To some they come as a naked mulatto. This is to be preferred. Sometimes they come as revenants of the dead.

  I had a visitor, in the locutory—I did not take visitors. She said she was my cousin. Magda. Magda was dead. But then what harm in seeing her? This was cunning. Had Magda said that?

  The locutory was dusty. Mould and rust at the base of the window bars. Mildew had crept down from the ceilings, the finish on the grille scored with it and dull. The clavichords, the things on the walls, in the shelves, they should have been taken with the things in the cell. I would no longer be attached to these. These were not to die for. They could come for them when they liked.

  A sour smell, as of fermentation, hung above the stench of the canals.

  The woman was not Magda, but she had Magda’s eyes. An onyx cross. Cunning. A long white dress, silks and silver. She dressed like Aunt María had, if without the veil. Ravaged face, blossoms about her nose and cheeks from drink. Almost hairless. Dead, Magda might come to look like this. And if she were not dead, a veil would have been wise. But the eyes, these were alive, not terribly so for eyes but for inanimate objects. Like Magda. Small, hard, polished. Like beans, lychee pips. They were alive with their hatred of me.

  “Hello, Juana.”

  Magda died not long after her mother had, Uncle Juan many years before that. María had sold off all his enterprises but one. She kept the pulque concession, the most profitable. At her death, Magda inherited. She married soon after, and followed her husband into the north. Zacatecas …? No, it was Queretaro. When he left her, she died there by her own hand.

  Magda had been exhumed by the Inquisition, and sent to me.

  “The Archbishop has asked me to come.”

  “A recent one?”

  “I’d heard you were like this.”

  “And I you.”

  She did not quite understand but never could, and hated me now a little more for it. A spiritual hatred, it seems, is not unchanging, but grows beyond the grave. Like hair they say. I looked over her sparse pate. She was not long dead, maybe.

  “Why send you?”

  “I asked to come.”

  “To see for yourself.”

  “More or less.”

  “To bring a message.”

  “More than one.”

  “How does he look? Describe him.”

  “You know His Grace does not consent to see us.”

  “You spoke to a secretary.”

  “I bring an offer, a last chance.”

  “To save myself.”

  “Not you, Juana. She will be condemned. The sentence will be death. She will burn here.”

  “Will you come?”

  “Are you prepared to have a woman die for your pride?”

  “Who.”

  “Don’t pretend. It’s weak.”

  “Tell me her name.”

  “They did not give me leave to speak of that.”

  “Just a last chance.”

  “Her last chance.”

  “To have her die not here.”

  “Or not at all. Perpetual imprisonment. The trial and the sentence to be carried out elsewhere.”

  “She cannot hold out much longer. The difference is small.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “You know not the first thing about it—”

  “Yes, how small of me.”

  “And now I am to believe they would modify her sentence. Or is this merely to spare myself the trial?”

  “Think of your convent, at least.”

  “The conditions.”

  “No contact with the court. Here or in Madrid. No letters to or from. No visits, except as directed by the Church.”

  “There is more.”

  “A general confession of your sins, a renewal of your vows, a return to the state of novice.”

  “A stay of all proceedings against me.”

  “The Secretary did not mention that.”

  “Was there anything else.”

  “Two things. A reminder, and also a message. If you want it. I have it here.”

  “From.”

  “From you, Juana. From you….”

  The seal had been broken.

  “Did you know, Cousin, your father took care of delicate business for my father?”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “No harm can come of it now.”

  “You mean, no good.”

  “Yes, I mean no good.”

  “Then why, Magda, listen to you?”

  “Because you want to know—always, everything, or to think you do. You agreed to see me today, didn’t you?” Into her eyes came a look of triumph. The letter would come at a price. Knowing the contents, she already believed I would pay it.“But first you shall hear everything else I have always known. About you, Juana. And for this, there is no charge. Did you know that our grandfather—our grandfather—introduced my father to yours? Or that my father was engaged to your mother when your father met her? He had heard so much about the beautiful daughter. Uncle Pedro wanted to see for himself. So you got her looks, and I got the other’s.”

  “You have them still.”

  “Tell me, Juana, when was the last time you saw yourself? But no, let’s not quarrel yet, not when there’s so much left to tell…. Did it never once enter your head you were named after my father? There, you see? It was only when Aunt Isabel had you that he gave up. I was almost four when he married my mother.”

  “You owe your legitimacy to me, then—take it as payment for the dresses.”

  “And always so clever about your fifty pesos. Such a bargain hunter. My father paid thousands, ran around to wherever you’d been, paying off your debts like a secretary. But I am forgetting the reminder now … from Bishop Santa Cruz: When he went to give your mother her last rites, they had a long talk about you, about their many hopes for you.”

  “I suppose you’ll be taking the canal back.”

  “He said you would see….”

  “Swimming again, I imagine—you should have insisted on a boat.”

  “Did she never tell you about the other fifty pesos?”

  “When you ge
t back, do give my regards to Sáenz de Mañozca.”

  “Did Isabel ever tell you it was the name that broke her heart—?”

  “And my respects to Torquemada—tell them the one who sent you was a bastard, too.”

  “Amanda—the cook’s daughter. You remember her—”

  “Get out.”

  “But you don’t know why yet, Juana, why it broke her heart. You will want to know this, Cousin….”

  Gutiérrez had promised me I would be brought to remember things, bear witness against others, as others would against me. Gutiérrez was a liar, Gutiérrez was a Judas, Gutiérrez was my friend—surely it was shame that had made him leave the Inquisition, book passage for Manila.

  Magda did not leave the locutory for some time. And if I did not either, it was because there were things I needed so badly to know. She was right about this, right about me, and would not leave until I had heard them. She had made no move yet to hand me the letter. I added a condition, before giving her what she wanted, a single piece of information. Hearing it, she nodded in satisfaction, as though it had only confirmed something she had already known.

  If I felt shame, then, I told myself it was because of the condition. I told Magda I wanted to know the beata’s name if I co-operated. More childishness. They could give me any name they liked. Magda did not answer directly, though I could see she wanted me to believe she knew who the woman was. But I knew they would bend to my will. I would have a name, eventually, for the holy officers who had sent Magda knew it would be worse once I had one. It was only afterwards that it seemed like haggling over the beata’s name to get what I wanted.

  As the hours passed, my mind returned to what I had told Magda—because I could not bear to see that letter in her hand, and the seal broken. I told myself they had already known about Carlos, about his last visit, about the manuscripts, of course they had. I had suspected him for days, since he last came. No, I had suspected him for months—Gutiérrez had said there were testimonies and reports on me dating back thirty years, even before I moved from my uncle’s house to the Palace. Why tell me this unless the identity of my betrayer would be a devastation? Carlos. Magda was dead. Even if I had thought of her, even if it were true my own cousin had informed against me, this would come as no great surprise, at best would make me furious yet not hurt me. I could not possibly think less of Magda. And Magda was dead. What would be the object?

  After Carlos had left for Florida, of course I began to wonder why he had truly come. To say good-bye, or was it to test my defences, my readiness to express contrition? But I was forgetting: he had come to show me a way forward with the Archbishop. Yes His Grace and I had so much in common, much common ground. Our interest in the philosophies of Heraclitus, our regard for Antonio Vieyra—like a father to one who has never known one. And, of course, our friendship with Carlos. What did I know about friendship—who had my friends been? The seed of doubt sown by Bishop Santa Cruz had long since put forth its flowers. Carlos always knew when to leave, always managed to be away when unpleasant things befell his friends. Had he so much as tried to warn me the day of the chess game? He had merely left, excused himself. He was going to the archives to study the papers of Bishop Zumárraga.

  Zumárraga—why even mention him if not to make reference to stories I had heard from my grandfather the night he died? Stories I had told only Isabel after, because I could not help myself. Mentioning Zumárraga the day of the chess game only reminded me Carlos had gone behind my back to be her friend, who in turn had betrayed to him my confidences. Isabel I knew I could never count on, or turn to—but Carlos was only telling me that everyone here informs on everyone. A little earlier would have helped, dear friend, but I had it, now. Thank you, Carlos.

  Carlos was exactly the one to have been sent to strip my cell—he was the Archbishop’s almoner, after all—yet Carlos was always leaving, just as he had been away when Fray de Cuadros went to the burning ground.

  And now the Holy Office knew without a doubt that I had his manuscripts. It was clear that Carlos had brought them to incriminate me and save himself.

  Magda too had come to show me a way forward with the Archbishop. And surely here was the meaning in the message she had brought from Santa Cruz, that he had taken my mother’s last confession, had taken from her my confidences and my secrets—everyone betrays everyone, everyone informs on everyone. This was a lesson Santa Cruz had been giving for some time, the same lesson someone had been preparing for me since 1663. It was not too late to believe it could have been Magda: it was too late to believe it could not have been Carlos.

  They have turned me against a friend.

  Who is the Enemy of Both Sides, if not I….

  Emptiness. It is the sound of such a vastness.

  It brings other sounds with it, other voices. Sometimes, hearing them, one would leave, go anywhere, distant times, places. The holy officers can arrange this, change verdicts and sentences, book passage to Manila, send fools into exile, spare the beata. They can bring Magda back from Purgatory, where mortal sins are purged not with the Light of Love but by dark fire. They can bring me to fail another friend, to fail the living or the dead. Magda came many times. I did not like her visits. I did not know why I always saw her. I was not to have visitors. The Enemy comes in many forms now, living and dead. They come as payment for too many questions and doubts, for the petitions for special knowledge, for this hunger so displeasing to God.

  Does the vision bring peace, is it actively sought or passively received, does it lead toward God or the Enemy …

  Sometimes they come in visions, but sometimes take no form at all. As when Antonia comes to sit in the dark with me. Remember our lessons, Antonia, remember irony? Close your eyes. A blade with three sides, in profile, diminishing to a point in an infinite regression of triangles—inserted, the wound it inflicts takes an eternity to heal.

  Philothea, Bishop of Puebla. Theophilus, Bishop of Alexandria.

  Philothea, Loving God. Theophilus, Beloved of God.

  This is the knowledge the Enemy offers me.

  Theophilus, Christian tyrant. Hypatia of Alexandria, pagan maiden.

  Maximinus, pagan tyrant. Catherine of Alexandria, Christian maiden.

  And note, Antonia, how a fine-drawn wire wound round the blade forms a spiral. With a wire fine enough, one may turn around the three-sided blade endlessly. Like this … the minions of Theophilus pull Hypatia down from a chariot, scrape the flesh from her bones with oyster shells. The henchmen of Maxentius behead Catherine spun upon a wheel. The followers of Hypatia turn upon themselves….

  But I knew now why Magda came. She had given me the hint I needed. To desire vision, to hunger for knowledge excessively, this was to admit the Enemy. This was why Magda had been sent to me, with messages and reminders. For the Enemy has no power over the soul except through the operations of its faculties, and especially through the medium of knowledge that lodges in the memory. If, then, the memory annihilates itself with respect to the faculties, the Enemy is powerless.

  They had sent Magda to keep me from annihilating my memory.

  Turtle shells …

  I did not want to remember. Not here, not now, not like this.

  We had gone out through the tall corn behind the hacienda, a herd of deer going over the fence ahead of us…. She had a surprise for me, hanging from the branch of a cedar, something in a bucket leaking water. She wanted me to take the bucket down. Her eyes glowed with excitement. Wide, almond eyes. I also had a surprise. The night before, there had been an incident at dinner, an old story I had led Diego into telling, about a bridegroom impaled on a wedding tree, and something about a wolf…. In the telling, it had become clear that he had been using his dog to track us into the woods. After, my mother had said nothing to him in our defence but had spirited me out of the room instead. I would be going to live with my aunt.

  Reaching up for the leaky bucket that morning I said we were going away to Mexico. Her face stiffened—she as
ked if she was to go as my maid. She ran away from me then, too fast for me to follow. In the bucket that morning were two turtles … we had had such turtles at a special place of ours, high on the mountain. I walked back alone to the hacienda, water trickling onto the dust beside me and across my feet. I came through the passageway leading from the portals and saw Diego in his dress uniform in the middle of the courtyard. Before him, he had lined up the campesinos as though for inspection. But it was my mother, rocking calmly, he looked at as he drew his sword. Impassive, she watched him pacing up and down the file, screaming questions in pidgin Spanish at the bewildered men—Who did who did it, point him point him, save you, not save him, I won’t kill … I could not tell what he was asking. They could not have understood. He questioned the next man, holding the sabre beneath his chin. Wild with frustration he turned to the man next in line and waved the sword-point back and forth close beneath the campesino’s eyes. He twisted the flashing blade a hair’s breadth above the bare chest of a third, as though to drill a hole. They were too terrified to answer. Wilder yet, he stepped to the next. As he raised his sword in both hands, something relaxed in him.

  Isabel’s voice was not loud, yet rang clearly over the ranting man’s, rang through the run of blood in my ears.

  “Diego, enough.”

  She had not moved, had not so much as sat forward, but the rocking had stopped. The baby let the nipple slip from between his lips to look up at the source of that voice.

  “You do know innocence, don’t you, Diego? You do see …”

  Or perhaps she truly did mean innocents.

  The tone, calm, agreeable, lent the words an edge of menace and contempt. Slowly Diego lowered the sword.