Cervantes Street

by Jaime Manrique

  “Signor, I was a little baby when I lost my father to those Turkish demons,” Sanchica chimed in. “But I remember him like I saw him this morning. People say, Long absent, soon forgotten, but not in our house.”

  “Your Grace,” Doña Teresa cut in, “we Panzas are firm believers that absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  Speaking in proverbs seemed to be a family trait.

  “What news have you of my father, signor? Tell me about the last time you saw him.” Sanchica sat at my feet, crossed her legs, and covered her knees with her ragged skirt. She was not older than fifteen and exuded the strength of a young mare. She would have been pleasant-looking if she brushed the nettles and bits of hay out of her matted black hair, washed her face, removed the dirt from under her fingernails, wore a proper petticoat, and cut her long black toenails.

  I gave her an abbreviated account of what I had already told her mother.

  When I finished, Teresa Panza said, “Tell me, Don Miguel, does my husband still laugh as much as he used to?”

  I told her he had made me laugh on many occasions and that he was always cheerful and optimistic.

  “So long as he still has his good sense of humor, he’ll survive his misfortunes. Because it’s true that laughter is the best medicine. Laughter can light up the darkest tunnel, and it can make a stale chunk of bread taste as good as a roasted partridge.”

  Teresa proceeded to tell me about the last time she’d had any news about my friend. A monk headed to Toledo had stopped by to give her a message from Sancho. “On his way to Spain, he met my husband in some dreadful desert across the sea. Sancho sent him to me with the necklace you see around my neck. I showed it to people in the village who know about such things and was told they are chunks of salt. And they do taste salty, if you care to lick them. Here.” She began to remove her necklace.

  “It’s not necessary,” I said. They did look like chunks of salt.

  “Whether they be rocks of salt or something else, I don’t take them off even to go to sleep. And so, my Sancho is never far away from me. Fray Nepomuceno, that was the monk’s name, said that Sancho had wanted to remind me not to forget that God may take a long time but He goes by His time, not ours, and that one of these days we will see Sancho again.”

  This was astonishing news: Sancho had survived the desert! “Did the monk say anything else about where he last saw Sancho? How long ago was this?”

  “I descend from a long line of onion eaters, Don Miguel. I don’t know of years and dates or countries. Fray Nepomuceno told me he bid adieu to my husband as he set off on a camel on the way to the kingdom of King Micomicón, where he hoped to become rich and then return to us to make me a lady. When I received the necklace,” she went on, “Sanchica was too small to take care of Doña Juana’s pigs, for I feared they might eat her. Still, God is great: He took my Sancho, but not before I had Sanchica. It’s true what they say, Your Grace: two people in distress make sorrow less. In the meantime,” she sighed, “I believe no news is good news. People like to say that hope is a good breakfast but a bad supper. For people like us who sometimes must do with a cup of water for supper, hope is plenty.”

  We exchanged pleasantries for a while longer. As it was getting dark, I got up to say my goodbyes.

  “I can’t let you go, signor, without sending my lady Juana some eggs my chickens just laid today; they are so fresh they are still warm. Tell my lady that I kiss her hands. She’s not like all the other stuck-up ladies of Esquivias who forget we are all equal in the eyes of Our Lord; that when we die He won’t judge us by the quality of the dress we are wearing or the money we leave behind. Doña Juana judges people by the quality of the work they do. Since words don’t butter a piece of bread, if you don’t mind, I would like you to bring her a few acorns. I know how much she loves them; tell my lady that they are the first of the season. Sanchica and I know a secret spot in the forest on the slopes of Santa Barbara that faces Toledo and produces the best acorns, which we pluck before they fall to the ground and the wild boars gobble them down. I don’t believe in the wild boars eating better than we do, even though nothing makes them taste better than a good harvest of acorns. Mind you, Don Miguel, don’t go there to collect the acorns yourself. The wild boars visit the forest in the afternoons and the wolves at night.”

  “But we are not afraid of them,” said Sanchica. “I always go armed with a pointy log and dare any wild boar to attack us. When they see me raise my arm they run away in terror.” Sanchica punctuated her words by spitting on the ground. Then she flexed her right arm to show me her musculature.

  Teresa Panza laughed. “It’s true, Don Miguel. I believe my Sanchica could scare a lion.”

  As I stepped out of the rombo, evening had begun to fall. Teresa Panza handed me a small basket filled with acorns. “If you haven’t already, you must visit our Blessed Lady of Milk in the church. She is the patroness of the town and most miraculous. I always bring her a mugful of milk when I visit her, although I know the curate drinks it. But she’s very happy to receive cheese, and butter too. Pray to her, Don Miguel, and she will grant your wishes. Sanchica and I always pray that Our Blessed Lady of Milk will bring my husband back to us.” Then she added, “I rejoice in your visit, Your Grace. Anyone who is a friend of my Sancho is our good friend too. To show you my appreciation, let me wash and iron your clothes, and Don Miguel can pay me whenever you can.”

  I thanked her for her generous offer and then walked back to Doña Juana’s house, carrying a basket filled with the famous Esquivian acorns. I was glad she had forgotten to pack the eggs.

  * * *

  Doña Catalina Salázar and Doña Juana both descended from old Esquivian families. Like Doña Juana, Doña Catalina was a widow, and Catalina was her only daughter. The widow was also the mother of two younger boys, I was informed by my hostess. On the evening Doña Catalina and her daughter came to supper there were no other guests. Once more I was introduced as a war hero, a captive who had suffered unspeakable tortures at the hands of the Turks, a successful playwright, a well-known poet, and the author of a much-awaited pastoral novel.

  At the dinner table the two older women fell into a conversation about crops and tenants and village gossip, which excluded Catalina and me.

  Doña Juana’s praise of the young Catalina had not been an exaggeration: she was a Castilian beauty, of medium height with black hair and eyes, and a fair complexion darkened along the way with a drop of Jewish blood. Her lovely hands looked strong, as if they were used to working in the house. In contrast to the older women, she was dressed simply. Her velvet dress was of a faded burgundy color, and she wore a plain gold ring and earrings. A black shawl draped her shoulders, making a stark contrast with her ivory-colored neck, around which she wore no jewelry. Catalina’s beauty rendered me silent.

  Doña Juana interrupted her animated heart-to-heart with Catalina’s mother and said to me, “Miguel, don’t be shy. Tell Catalina about the glorious Battle of Lepanto, and the time you spent in Rome, and slavery in Algiers. She will find all of it fascinating.”

  I was getting tired of repeating my story for the benefit of Doña Juana’s guests.

  Seeing me demur, Catalina remarked: “I’m afraid you’ll find me very dull, Don Miguel. I have seen little of the world. I’ve been to Toledo, and went with my mother once to Madrid on business, after my father died. I accompanied her only because my two brothers are too young to be good traveling companions for her. A gentleman who has seen the world like yourself must find it so unexciting to talk to a provincial like me. What’s more,” she blushed, “I confess I don’t read much poetry and have never seen a play. But I do like pastoral novels. So you can count on me to read yours.”

  She held my gaze and spoke with a directness that was unusual among Spanish ladies.

  * * *

  The following afternoon, I took advantage of Doña Catalina’s invitation to stop by her house. During my first visit, she sat with Catalina and me in their par
lor, the furniture of which was of good quality, but from another century. Afterward, in what became daily visits, Catalina’s little brother, Francisco, chaperoned us.

  As the late-September afternoons had become cooler, I proposed going for walks. We would head not to the church or the town’s fountain, as most couples did in Esquivias, but away from the town, into the countryside, accompanied by Francisco, who always ran ahead of us chasing lizards or aiming at birds with his sling. Catalina was devoted to her little brothers. After her father died, her mother had come to rely on her help in managing the housekeeping as well as the family’s finances. Despite her beauty and her pleasant disposition, she did not seem to have any suitors. When I remarked on this, she said abruptly: “I don’t care for the good-for-nothing men of Esquivias, Miguel. I’d rather become a spinster than marry one of our irresponsible men.”

  Catalina asked me many questions about the adventurous life I had led. I was flattered that this beautiful young woman relished my company; and the direct way in which her burning eyes looked at me, a penniless man with a bad arm, made me feel hopeful about the future. When she peered at me, I saw admiration and respect in her eyes. Not since Zoraida had a woman gazed at me in that way.

  I had sworn off love after coming to understand that both Mercedes and Zoraida were unattainable ideals. The only women I had known in a carnal way were whores, or women like Ana de Villafranca, whose bed had been shared by more men than bedbugs. Catalina’s gentle manner made me want to be around her constantly. During the day, as I sat at the desk of my late friend Pedro, I felt more inclined to write love poetry than to work on deciphering his manuscripts. Or, when I managed to do a little work, I would come upon one of Pedro’s love poems that expressed so well the feelings I had for my Esquivian beauty.

  Maybe Doña Juana was right, after all. Perhaps the time had come for me to marry and grow roots in one place. All I needed to settle down to write was an understanding wife who had the means to support us while I did my great work, which I was convinced lay ahead of me. But what were the chances that a fine young woman of noble lineage, and with properties, would become interested in me?

  * * *

  One afternoon in October, Francisco was unable to accompany us on our walk due to a cold. But the weather was so balmy that Doña Catalina insisted we take advantage of the perfect conditions. Catalina and I reached one of our favorite places, a secluded hill to the south of town rarely visited by the locals. Up to that point, Catalina and I had held hands furtively, whenever Francisco was distracted, looking for bugs under rocks. To rest our limbs after the climb, we sat on a patch of grass beneath an oak tree. The moment we were alone, and our hands brushed, the first kiss followed and every feeling that had been held in abeyance flared up in abundance. The skin of Catalina’s face, and her hair, smelled of ripe grapes. Her warm and soft lips lacked experience kissing but searched mine with eagerness, as if they had been waiting for this moment for a long time. When we lay on the grass pressed against each other, and I buried my nose in her dewy breasts, I knew that what had been started could not be stopped. Afterward, as we lay panting and sweating, I suddenly remembered the saying that a pickle cannot be turned back into a cucumber. After what had happened that afternoon, the only honorable thing to do was to marry Catalina.

  That I was twice her age, with only one good arm, could bring no dowry to the marriage, and was a member of a notorious family whose purity of blood was in dispute, were no longer obstacles under the circumstances. In a village like Esquivias, a dishonored daughter was the worst of all stains on the name of a family of good stock.

  On December 12, 1584, barely three months from the moment we first met, Catalina de Palacios and I were united as husband and wife by her uncle, Juan de Palacios, at the Church of Our Blessed Lady of Milk. The wedding happened with so little preamble that no member of my family was able to make the journey from Madrid to attend it. Besides Doña Juana and Catalina’s mother and brothers, the only other people in attendance were Rodrigo Mejía, Diego Escribano, and Francisco Marcos, Doña Catalina’s Esquivian neighbors who served as witnesses.

  * * *

  Several days before the wedding, I presented Doña Juana a clean and corrected manuscript of Pedro’s poetry. In addition to the twenty escudos we had agreed upon as my fee, Doña Juana gave us another twenty escudos as our wedding present. Forty escudos was a handsome sum with which to begin our married life.

  The idea of returning to Madrid became unappetizing. For the time being, I was content to stay in Esquivias with my beautiful young wife. I wanted to rent a house where we could settle down to a life of domestic happiness that would be conducive to writing, but Catalina was reluctant to move away from her family. “My mother and my little brothers need me too much, Miguel,” she said. “Our house is large enough so that we can still have privacy as husband and wife.”

  We installed ourselves on the second floor of the Palacios’s ancestral home, which was shaped like an L. Three large rooms with high ceilings offered views in every direction of the village and the Manchegan countryside. It was a tranquil place where I could have devoted myself to writing, except that now that I had finished cataloguing Pedro’s poetry, and the impending publication of La Galatea became all too real, I was apprehensive about beginning a new project. It took great determination to scribble a few inert lines of verse.

  Catalina was eager to learn every trick I had mastered in bed from countless whores of many nationalities. I had also picked up a few new tricks from Ana de Villafranca’s vast repertoire; but Catalina’s youthful and virginal body, her desire to please me and please herself, were a delicacy of which I could never tire. Late at night, when Esquivians were immersed in their deep slumber, Catalina and I made love with such abandon that the dogs in the town, and the wolves in the countryside, answered my groans and her ecstatic yelps with excited barking and howling. In the mornings, when I went to the kitchen for my breakfast, Doña Catalina couldn’t look at me, or talk to me, without blushing. As I walked around town children would follow me, agog at anything I did. When women alone, or accompanied by other females, saw me going up the street, they would hurriedly cross to the other side and walk by quickly, their eyes on the ground. And the old men who sat outside their front doors, smoking a pipe and saying hello to the passersby, would blurt out: “Hostias! Hombre! Joder!” and blow plumes of smoke as I greeted them.

  Many Spanish women covered their faces with a veil while their husbands made love to them; Catalina, on the other hand, lit all the tapers in our chamber so that we could admire and explore each other’s bodies from head to toe. While most Spanish women made love in the horizontal fashion, Catalina, after I had shown her a few variations, wanted to ride me, bobbing up and down my crotch as if she were riding a camel; or she made me sit on a straight-backed chair and, pressing her breasts to my chest, impaled herself on my organ, until I felt I was deeper in her than I had been in any other woman. Whereas the whores I’d made love to performed in every position known to man, their pleasure felt feigned and they never asked for more; with those women lovemaking ended when I climaxed, but Catalina was not satisfied until she had pleasured herself. Whereas all the whores I had known had allowed me to penetrate them, Catalina was eager to penetrate me as well—with pickles and cucumbers and carrots; with the whores, affection ended when I had sated myself, but Catalina loved to stay awake, whispering the parts of her story I didn’t know, and now and then pausing to nick my nipples, slap my ass, or give my manhood a moist suck. We cuddled until exhaustion made us close our eyes and they opened again only to greet the new day. All the lovemaking I had known before expired by the end of the night. With Catalina I had found a woman whose love did not vanish in the daylight. I was never again as happy as that winter of my honeymoon in Esquivias, when our lovemaking made the chilly nights of La Mancha as warm and embracing and supple as the sands of the Sahara just after sunset.

  * * *

  If Catalina had been an o
rphan, we might have found lasting happiness as man and wife. But she had a mother, and not just any mother. Soon after our wedding, I realized that Doña Catalina was desperate for a man to take charge of the properties and precarious finances of the family. At his death, three years earlier, Catalina’s father, the late Fernando de Salazar Vozmediano, an improvident man and a gambler, had left large debts, and the family’s financial affairs were in disarray. Fortunately, Catalina’s properties were inherited, and Don Fernando’s many creditors could not claim a piece of them. But my mother-in-law expected me to collect the rents from the houses in Toledo and other villages of La Mancha, and to oversee the planting, harvesting, and selling of the produce from the orchards and vineyards.

  My newly acquired duties as the head of the family kept me away from the writing desk. My dream of a bucolic life in which I could devote myself to writing began to seem like another chimera. At first, I went along with my new responsibilities without complaining. I hoped the publication of La Galatea would make me financially prosperous so that I could hire a man to oversee the family business. I failed miserably at collecting the rents owed by Doña Catalina’s tenants in Toledo and nearby villages. Extracting money from these families was like trying to squeeze milk from a rock. These were people who barely managed to survive. In the best cases, most of them paid their rent in the form of chickens, eggs, a few bottles of wine or olive oil, and—this was indeed a miracle—a piglet, or a kid goat.

  Upon my return to Esquivias with a menagerie in place of money, Doña Catalina showed her displeasure at my lack of experience in dealing with her tenants. “If these people can’t pay their rent, you must put them out on the street, Miguel. By force, if necessary. If I were a man I’d do it myself with my own hands. I’m not made of gold. I, too, must feed my family, and now you!”