by Markus Orths
“She’s a saint in the eyes of the people. The Church refuses to recognize her.”
“Some people say that she never even existed,” said Urquiza, “that it’s just a story‘
“But then where does the picture come from?” asked Catalina.
“There are pictures of her all over the place, in every country,” said Urquiza’s wife.
“She’s also known as Wilgefortis,” said Urquiza.
“That comes from virgo fortis!
“The strong virgin.”
“Uncumber in England.”
“Kummernis in Germany‘
“Livrade in France.”
“Komina!”
“Comera!”
“Cumerana!”
“Hulfe!”
“Ontcommene!”
“Dignefortis!”
“Eutropia!”
“Reginfledis!”
“And whoever calls upon her at the hour of his death,” said Urquiza, “will die with a quiet mind.”
*
Those were weary days in Trujillo. Urquiza had let the two travellers move into the small living quarters at the back of the shop. Catalina did all she could for Juan, and spent the rest of her time sitting in the shop—which was slightly off the beaten track—waiting for customers and thinking. Or rather, not so much thinking as digesting what she had seen in Urquiza’s house—the picture of Saint Liberata. Her musings put her in a strange mood, and just when she was in this mood a woman called Adeida de Cardenas entered the shop. That was the first link in a fateful chain of events.
Adeida was hardly over the threshold when she espied the new shop assistant. A young man, bored, looking at nothing in particular. A very young man, with the merest hint of down on his upper lip; thin, almost gaunt, his face somehow a little crooked. But there was something in that face, as he looked up at her now, something in those eyes, an expression quite different from that of most men she met; an innocence, a sleepiness. Here was a man who still had no idea of what awaited him when one day he would… There was only naivety, no lust there, not the suggestive look men usually gave her, which wrapped itself round her like a layer of grease—not the fire that was like a dog’s tongue hanging out of men’s eyes. Yes, thought Adeida, it must be far more pleasurable to conjure that fire into a man’s eyes for the first time than just to be burnt by it.
She bore down on the young man, greeted him, asked him his name, Francisco Loyola, where he came from, San Sebastian, about his journey to the New World, a shipwreck, a shipwreck? And soon she had him enmeshed in conversation. The shop assistant’s natural, uninhibited manner, which showed no sign of crumbling in her presence, only increased Adeida’s eagerness. After she had told him what items she needed and he had noted them down, she leaned towards him, touched his hand, not accidentally, not ambiguously, but with undisguised intent and unequivocal meaning; putting her face close to his she looked into his eyes, and her sensuous lips whispered provocatively, “Will you bring the things round to me this evening?”
Chapter fifteen
Men or women
When Adeida held out her hand to her, a bag of air seemed to expand inside Catalina’s stomach. It was a feeling she recognized at once. On the beach, just moments after coming safely ashore, she had had the same feeling—a few weeks ago, when Juan had been lying next to her, his arms, his chest, the hair falling across his face. And now here was Adeida: ‘Bring the things round to me this evening!“ It was an unequivocal invitation. Catalina knew what Adeida wanted of her. And she knew how one did the thing that Adeida wanted of her. She knew it in a precise, anatomical, abstract way, because the ’act‘ had been described in detail in Juan’s books. So what now? Both in the convent and during the years since then it had taken all Catalina’s energy to maintain outward appearances, to keep her voice and behaviour under control, and so she had simply ignored the mysterious inner domain of natural urges, thrusting away into obscure recesses of herself any sexual feelings that did begin to stir. But now, here, in Trujillo, now that maintaining her chosen role came easily and naturally to her, those urges, so long suppressed, became more pressing, and Catalina could ignore them no longer.
The evening at Adeida’s house, she could see it now: the room empty and unfurnished, everything unnaturally bright. Under Adeida’s gaze Catalina’s chin and nose suddenly possessed a strange beauty. She saw Adeida take her clothes off, one garment at a time, and finally stand naked before her. But all at once that naked body was duplicated, it stepped out of itself, discarding softness, curves and fragility like a few last, invisible pieces of clothing. Now there were two bodies standing in front of her. Two faces. Juan and Adeida. They drew closer to her. And not to her alone. They drew closer to her and Francisco. Gently, without haste. The four of them stood there, touched and took possession of each other, and Catalina found herself gazing into absolute whiteness, for several seconds, a whiteness in which she dissolved.
It was some time before she recovered her senses. She was sitting in the shop in Trujillo. With her right hand between her thighs. It was warm and damp there. Her fingers pulled away sharply as if she had burnt herself. She looked around. There was no one in the shop, no one had seen or heard her. Now she was sitting there, breathing hard, with her hand, still damp, on her lap. She brought it up to her nose—an acrid smell, not unpleasant, not pleasant, just new. She licked her fingers, trying to clean off every trace. Felt a deep sense of relief. As though a stone lying in her stomach had been lifted away. But she knew that the relief clamoured to be repeated, and that the fantasy was crying out to become reality.
Summoning to her aid the dispassionate hand of reason, Catalina considered the matter calmly, as though she were setting up an equation. There were two options: men or women. She had to decide. But every thought, instead of clarifying the situation, brought only more and deeper confusion. As Francisco Loyola she needed to find a woman, but at the crucial moment a woman would unmask Francisco, the spurious man; and as Catalina de Erauso she needed to find a man, but how could she do that without first discarding her male costume?
Actually, why not, she asked herself. Why not just drop Francisco? Now. Right away. That would put an end to all the confusion at a stroke. Things would return to normal. Everyone would know where they stood. There would be no more ambiguity. After all, Francisco had achieved his purpose, his mission had been fulfilled, he had brought Catalina to the New World. Now it was only one more step to Potosi, and she could take that step perfectly well as Catalina. But—she would have to tell Juan. Could she do that? Had she not been deceiving him for years? Had she not been putting on an act all the time they had known each other? What if Juan did not understand? What if he simply rejected her? Who could blame him if he did, in his disappointment, confusion, sadness at losing his friend, at losing Francisco Loyola? For Catalina knew how fond Juan was of Francisco. She did not know whether he would be equally fond of Catalina. And she herself had grown accustomed to Francisco. More than that, in fact. Much more. She had grown to love him. To repudiate him just like that would be like murder. No, killing off Francisco was not an option. But then where did she go from here? Her mind was a mass of insoluble contradictions. A woman like Adeida wants a man, not a woman. A man like Juan wants a woman, not a man. But she, Catalinafrancisco, was both and neither.
All the same, she would go to Adeida. This evening. She would follow the dictates of desire and take what she wanted—but without giving away her secret. This meant observing just one rule: she must not reveal too much of herself. She must be the one to decide what would or would not take place in Adeida’s house. She would use the other’s body while denying her her own. That was the best she could do. I’ve divided my life between myself and Francisco, Catalina thought, and so I’m left with only half the pleasure. She would bring Adeida to that point of warm, damp relief but then get up and leave her, and at least she would have real, physical images in her mind, images that would go beyond childish fantasy and
be filled with the breath of actual experience; she would leave with the smell on her hand that came from touching another’s body, and she would put that hand between her own thighs and give herself what she had not been able to get as Francisco. It’s the simplest solution, she thought.
She sat in the shop in Trujillo watching the time go by. Muleteers, urging on their weary, shabby-looking beasts would peer in at her as they passed the window and give surly greetings; now and then a donkey brayed. Whenever these dirty-looking men appeared at the left-hand edge of the window and then disappeared off to the right, that was a bit more time used up. Occasionally a customer came. Catalina would name the total to be paid and either take the money or else enter the figure against a name in the black book. This wait for the evening to come was a mixture of pleasant anticipation and uncertainty. But all time eventually comes to an end. Shouldering Adeida’s parcel, Catalina left the shop.
She had no difficulty in finding the address she had been given. The streets were arranged in a regular grid, with the bigger ones named after saints or local guilds, and the rest numbered. Like most of its neighbours, Adeida’s house, a patrician residence, was in the Andalusian style: it was built of stone but with a wooden framework as a precaution against earthquakes, and it had an imposing main entrance, and windows fitted with fly screens through which one could still see what went on in the street. Catalina was shown into the salon. There she saw a big chest made of tooled leather, beside it a small writing-desk inlaid with tortoiseshell, and in the middle of the room, two sofas with a low table between them. Corner shelves held all kinds of silverware, big plates and bowls, and alongside them on the walls were tapestries and elaborate embroideries. Catalina did not know whether to sit down or not. She looked at her fingers and tried to avoid thinking of what lay ahead.
When Adeida de Cardenas appeared she placed her hand on Catalina’s arm, asking, “Have you got time for a cup of chocolate?” Catalina had anticipated this offensive, and yet now, here, with Adeida before her in the flesh, she could only nod, completely tongue-tied. She had worked out her plan in the safe haven of the shop, alone with her thoughts. She had never doubted that she would be the one dictating the course of events. But now Adeida’s glance, the renewed touch of her hand, her question, softly whispered in a single breath, had scored a palpable hit. Catalina could not match Adeida in experience. She must take defensive measures. She sat down on the smaller of the two sofas, which hardly had room for two, hoping that Adeida would take a seat opposite her. She must avoid physical proximity until she felt equal to the situation. But Adeida promptly sat down so close beside her that their legs touched straight away. For a while nothing happened. Catalina tried to block out all thoughts from her mind. The maid came in with the chocolate. Catalina took the cup and raised it to her lips, held on to it as if for support and sipped her drink, making it last for as long as she could. Then she began to talk. She talked—because Adeida was not saying a word and the silence had become unbearable—about how beautiful the little town was, about her work for Urquiza, about looking after Juan. She talked away, without Adeida having asked her anything, clinging for safety to the cup and to what she was saying. As long as she was holding the cup, Catalina thought, her hands could not be touched, as long as she was talking her lips did not present a target.
Adeida, for her part, simply waited, like a spider that is sure of its prey and watches with a lazy smile as the insect struggles frantically to free itself but only becomes more and more hopelessly caught up in the gluey threads.
As time passed Catalina grew calmer. With every sentence she spoke she felt more at ease. She got used to Adeida’s physical closeness, the touching of their legs, Adeida’s breath, her face. After a quarter of an hour Catalina set the cup down on the table and leaned back. She stopped talking. Looked at Adeida. Those eyebrows, plucked into a curve, the nose, small and turned-up, the lips, only slightly accentuated with makeup, the skin, delicate, smooth, soft; and finally Catalina stole a glance at Adeida’s breasts, half spilling out of her bodice—much larger than her own, thought Catalina, much more rounded, what would they be like to touch? She pressed her leg against Adeida’s so that the contact was no longer casual but definitely suggestive. It could not be long now, she thought, before Adeida leaned against her, touched her cheek and parted her lips with her fingers. Now Adeida was talking. Catalina did not take in what she was saying. Her whole attention was focused on Adeida’s body. But Adeida suddenly drew back a little. Her leg no longer pressed so hard against Catalina’s. Standing up and moving towards the table, Adeida turned round with an enquiring look, and Catalina realized that she had just been dismissed. She stammered a few words, rushed out of the house and ran back to the shop, where she cowered down in a corner. What was the matter? Why had Adeida changed her mind? Where had she gone wrong?
She went to see Juan. He was lying in bed, sweating. Catalina asked him how he had slept, whether the pain in his limbs was any better and whether he was hungry. Juan was unable to answer, his mind far away. Catalina fetched a bowl of water. She dipped a sponge into it and wrung it out. Dabbed the sweat from Juan’s face. Turned back the blanket and unbuttoned his shirt. Squeezed the sponge out on his chest and could feel his body through it. She washed his sweaty chest, his throat and the back of his neck, and his legs, with meticulous care, her heart pounding. And in the night she lay awake, unable to sleep, and instead hurled herself, as many times as she could, into the abyss of relief. It was already morning when she sank, trembling, into a light sleep.
Chapter sixteen
First killing
All the time Catalina was at Juan’s bedside, every second of it, she never stopped talking. She did not know it, but it was her voice that kept Juan alive. As he lay in bed he was crossing a vast, white field, grazed totally bare. Strangely enough it was cool there, almost cold, even though his body was running with sweat. There were no sounds to be heard in the field, no rushing wind, no bird calls. He was not aware of how Catalina was constantly washing him and cooling him down, nor of her sitting at his bedside and holding his hand, starting to stroke his body, resting her cheek on his chest. The one thing that penetrated his consciousness, the one thing that kept him alive was that voice, that muffled voice. Catalina talked because she knew Juan could not hear what she said. She talked about what she hoped to do with Adeida. How could she conquer Adeida de Cardenas? Conquer, thought Catalina, what a strange word to use for what it refers to. She asked Juan how he approached a woman, how he looked at her, how he touched her, undressed her and took her, exactly what he did with her: a man-to-man talk, Catalina said, that was what she needed.
Adeida, for her part, was satisfied with what she had achieved. She had relished Francisco’s uncertainty, the melting away of his nervousness, the awakening of lust in his eyes: she had taken what she wanted to take from their meeting. She intended to drag this phase out for as long as possible. Not until this Francisco was at her mercy, had surrendered to her utterly and lost all will of his own, would she give him what he wanted. Adeida was in no hurry. She was performing a stately ritual. She let a full five days elapse before showing herself in Urquiza’s shop again and asking the young assistant, as before, to deliver the things to her house. Catalina had high hopes of this second evening, and of the three others that followed in the next few weeks—evenings which all turned out very much like the first. Catalina felt each time that she was getting a little closer to her goal, but each time, as the decisive moment approached, Adeida de Cardenas stood up, withdrew her body and saw her guest to the door. But Catalina was used to fighting for what she wanted. She was not going to give up just like that. She would not stand by and be made a fool of. Five evenings were enough. More than enough. She was prepared to stake everything on one card. She made up her mind that at their next meeting she would tear Adeida’s clothes off her by force and not let go of her body until her lips had touched every inch of it. But on the sixth evening at Adeida’s she found tha
t this took more courage than she had anticipated. It was only at the very last moment—she was already in the doorway of the salon, the moment of departure had come—that she suddenly leaped upon Adeida as she had resolved to do, seized her by the shoulders and fiercely brought her lips down onto her face. Adeida reacted with unexpected force. She resisted with all her might, tore herself free and struck Catalina in the face, leaving four long scratches on her cheek. But then a strange thing happened. Placing her hands on Catalinas shoulders, Adeida pushed her lightly, even gently, out of the house, whispering a few words and smiling. Then the door closed. Catalina was outside. Now at last she understood. She saw that Adeida was playing games with her and gave a wry smile of her own. It’s a game, is it, she thought. Two can play at that.
The next time Adeida came into the shop, Catalina ignored her oblique remarks and hints. Adeida asked about the scratches and tried to touch them, but Catalina drew back. When the inevitable invitation came to bring the shopping round in the evening, Catalina said, “Yes, I’ll send someone.” Adeida smiled at first, but then said, very softly, “But I want you to come, you? Catalina answered, copying her tone, ”But it won’t be me coming, not me.“ Then Adeida leaned forward in such a way that the shop assistant could not avoid looking at her breasts, and said, ”I thought that perhaps this evening we could—‘