The Lines Between Us

by Rebecca D'Harlingue

  The other rooms of the ground floor revealed nothing unusual, and Ana proceeded up the stairs to the suite of drawing rooms. As was to be expected in the home of a man of her brother’s station, there were several salons. Everything seemed as ordered as Sebastián always demanded the reception rooms be kept, and Ana walked quickly through them, the religious figures looking at her from the paintings on the wall, apostles and martyrs giving mute testament to the silent space.

  The door to her brother’s study, adjacent to the last, least formal salon, stood ajar. Ana opened it farther and entered. She had never been in this room, for, as much as his bedroom, Sebastián considered this his private domain. Here he pored over reports on the deteriorating conditions of his country: depopulation; abandonment of the countryside; decreasing production in the areas of agriculture, textiles, metallurgy, and shipbuilding; unstable money supply; deteriorating trade; millions spent on armies struggling to keep control of the far-flung empire. And what the reports did not say: the rich living from the labor of the poor; the king spending money on the upkeep of the Buen Retiro, his second residence, and the lavish entertainments held there while the peasants starved. Here Sebastián struggled to devise plans to help his country out of this morass. To analyze and see what should be done was the easiest part of the task. To create a plan that could get past city cortes, royal councils, ministers, powerful families, and the king was the nearly insurmountable difficulty.

  So much information to absorb, yet the room seemed barren. The massive writing table was completely cleared of any article. No writing instruments, no books, no papers, nothing to suggest that a lifetime’s work was in this room. It was as though Sebastián hoped to counter the deluge of his country’s problems with his own order, as though his will could check the world’s collapse.

  One could not search here, for to do so would have meant to remove each book and paper from its shelf. There was no hint of the occupant’s latest thought or emotion, no place to start. It was too daunting.

  Across from the door through which Ana had entered was the threshold to Sebastián’s bedroom, and she crossed it. The order in the room was less complete than in the study. A clean collar on the floor, a single boot, an overturned candlestick betrayed some haste. The open door to the armario revealed the remaining clothes all pushed to one side, as though rejected. Nothing whispered the cause or destination of a flight.

  Ana opened the massive chest, which she recognized as having once occupied their father’s room. Its contents were undisturbed, and the articles had the scent of things long stored. On top was a lovely lace mantilla, the most delicate that Ana had ever seen, and which she remembered Margarita, Juliana’s mother, having worn on her wedding day. Ana was shocked that Sebastián had preserved this treasure from his wife, she whose memory he had sought so desperately to banish. Ana smoothed the mantilla, and an intense sorrow flooded her, but it was an old torment and she dare not sink into its embrace. The mantilla covered a baby’s dress, made of the finest silk: Juliana’s christening gown. Storing such sentimental treasures was normally a woman’s domain, and Ana felt a pang of sorrow for her brother’s lonely life, his need always so well hidden.

  Cushioning the veil and dress was a small, yellowed pillow, embroidered with simple flowers, and Ana’s eyes filled as she caressed the gift that she had made for her brother’s fifteenth birthday when she was only six years old. Their father had been displeased with the offering, saying that it was fit for a woman, not a young man, and he had told the servant to take it from the room. Ana had never seen it again and had not dared to ask its fate.

  The rest of the chest’s contents seemed to be old clothing of Sebastián’s, too worn to be of use but kept against some unexpected future extremity. As she returned the other items to the chest, Ana heard a sound, as of paper, and reached beneath the clothes to find a package wrapped and tied. As soon as she had opened the chest, she had realized that it would cast no light on her current dilemma, and she had been loath to probe her brother’s private world, but the beloved items had led her on, and the hope to see another impelled her to remove the ribbon and lay aside the folds of paper.

  A woman looked at her from a gilt frame—not a beautiful face, but a happy, strong one. The face looked familiar, and as she studied it, she saw reflected her own jaw and brow. Though a lovely portrait of their mother smiled on all who entered Sebastián’s salon, this one seemed more intimate somehow, and Ana again felt the desolation of a child who never knew her mother, gone in childbirth. Ana came back to herself and wrapped the portrait, ashamed at the thought that her brother might discover she had riffled through his things.

  She stood to go and saw something protruding from under the bed. She retrieved the book La Celestina, the familiar story, written at the end of the fifteenth century, of two young lovers brought together by a go-between. The young girl, Melibea, kills herself upon seeing her beloved die. The book was lying open toward the last pages, the lament of the father at his daughter’s death:

  “But, what forced my daughter to die, but the strong force of love? So, flattering world, what remedy do you give to my fatigued old age? How do you command me to remain here, knowing your falsehoods, your snares, your chains and nets, with which you trap our weak wills? Where have you put my daughter? Who will keep me company in my lonely sojourn? Who will turn my waning years to gifts?”

  Ana read the words. Here, before he fell asleep, her brother must give himself a short reprieve from the reports that could only enumerate his country’s failing grandeur. A strange relief, this, to journey in his mind from a real sorrow to an imagined one.

  Ana left this room but passed by Juliana’s, knowing that it would take the longest, and advanced to Silvia’s room. The starkness of the empty chamber mocked her efforts, as though saying, Here you will find nothing of aid or solace, and Ana quickly quit the room. She hoped to find the chaos of her niece’s room more welcoming, the discarded clothing and broken jars at least implying that once there had been life here.

  Vaguely aware that she had hurried through so many rooms that might have held some secret, Ana disciplined herself and began to methodically examine her niece’s belongings. She picked up and shook each piece of clothing, though she could not imagine what she expected would fall from them. She walked carefully around the remnants of the jar of cream and began to examine the contents of the delicate chest of drawers, with its mother-of-pearl inlay. Most of the drawers were empty, though some held remnants of clothing that her niece had outgrown.

  The vargueño was the last thing to be searched. More of a writing cabinet than a table suitable for a young girl, it was another of Sebastián’s indulgences. Ana had thought it excessive but could understand her niece’s delight in the abundance of intricately detailed drawers. As she opened each one and perused the contents, she remembered the first time she had seen the desk. Juliana had been only thirteen years old, brimming with excitement as she showed her aunt her new treasure. Ana had smiled at how enthusiastic the usually serious girl was over a piece of furniture at which her father expected her to spend many hours of study. She had insisted on opening each of the four tiers of drawers, each level’s drawers deeper than the ones above it. At the third tier, she had leaned close to her aunt and whispered, “Look, Tía, this is a secret compartment, which I discovered quite by accident. When you drop something behind the drawer, it disappears into the space behind the drawers below, and when you open the drawers on the bottom row, you do not see what has dropped behind, unless you take the drawer out completely.”

  “My, that is interesting,” Ana had replied, fearing that the “secret compartment” was caused more by the cabinetmaker’s negligence than cunning. On the top two rows, the shelf upon which the drawers slid went all the way to the back wall of the desk, so that one did not run the risk of loose articles falling behind the drawer. But on the third level, for whatever reason, this precaution had been abandoned. Still, she would not spoil the girl’s pl
easure, nor her own at the intimacy of the confidence.

  By now Ana had come to the fourth row of drawers and pulled the end one out all the way. The light was getting dim in the room as the afternoon waned, and the overhanging drawers above obscured the back wall of the desk, so Ana reached her arm into the opening and felt the smooth wood of the desk. The examination of the second drawer produced the same result. Upon removing the third drawer, she noticed that a hint more light was reflected, a paler color at the back of the slot. Upon extending her arm into it, Ana felt something softer than wood. Only her fingertips touched it, but when she stood and bent her body forward, she was able to reach somewhat farther and to grasp what was held against the wooden back of the desk. She pulled out a book, a tooled-leather journal, whose pattern was geometric yet somehow suggested leaves. She rubbed her hand over the beautiful design. Opening it, she recognized the shape of her niece’s handwriting, but in the dim light she could not discern the words.

  Any illumination in the room came from the one window and the balcony door. Stepping over the jumble of discarded objects, Ana made her way to the door, opened it, and stepped out onto the small balcony. The chaos of the room seemed even to extend out here, where the flowering vines on the railing appeared to have been disturbed. Ana opened the book to the first page:

  Madrid

  30 September, Year of Our Lord 1660

  Journal of Juliana Torres Coloma

  Daughter of the illustrious Don Sebastián Torres

  López, and of his beloved wife, Doña Margarita Coloma Girón, taken to Our Lord in the year 1644, giving birth to her first child

  As she closed the book resolutely, the simple words chilled Ana, in part because of the mention of her young sister-in-law, dead of an injustice, not the travails of childbirth, gone now these many years, the slightest allusion to her forbidden by Sebastián. Indeed, she wondered at Juliana’s mention of her mother’s name. She had not even known that Juliana knew her full name. Silvia must have revealed this to her in those close moments when she filled in for loving mother.

  Ana was reluctant to learn the secrets of another’s heart, but she put the book into a small pocket sewn within her skirt. Then she abandoned her brother’s house.

  Upon reaching her own home, she went to her room, dismissing Clara’s inquiries more brusquely than she knew she should. She closed the door, deposited Juliana’s journal atop the trunk that Clara had packed, and escaped to Emilio’s writings.

  16

  Emilio

  September 1645

  I had not realized how much I had come to rely on Ana’s assistance. When she came with child, she quit accompanying me, and since the loss she has had little heart to return. I shall try to convince her to start again. I believe it would be good for her, and I would greatly benefit from her aid and her companionship. I do not doubt that if I ask her she will take up her work again, for she is a most obliging wife.

  April 1646

  Ana takes great comfort in her niece, Juliana, and the affection seems mutual, as much as one can ascertain the opinions of a child not yet two years old. Of course, Juliana has no memory of her mother, and she retains the delightful openness of any child her age. It is as though Ana is trying to place herself into a familial line. She naturally nurtures her niece but also appears to seek to resurrect her own mother, enacting a role cut short when Ana was but a newborn babe.

  Indeed, lately Ana seems to visit Sebastián’s home ever more frequently, and I am left to occupy myself. I know that I am always welcome, but there remains a pall upon the household, which no denial can crush or banish.

  Still, Sebastián and I have had many stimulating discussions, on topics from the theater to his views on how to make a better Spain. But while he may feverishly seek to occupy his thoughts concocting grand schemes to cure the land, I must plod along and treat the sick one by one. By day’s end I am weary and often seek a restful evening.

  November 1646

  I still pray each day that Ana will conceive, though we rarely speak of this. I barely know what she thinks or feels, though I believe that she still most ardently desires to give me a son. I still have not spoken to her of the hopes I had of going to the Indies. We could not plan such a journey when there is still hope for a child, for I would have to commit to the ship months in advance, and I am certain that Ana could not endure the trip if she were with child.

  December 1647

  I see that I have not visited these pages for over a year. I have not had the heart. I have never spoken to Ana of my fond desire to see that New World. Neither do we speak of children anymore. I do not know which gives more grief: the sudden dashing of a dream, or to see one’s hopes die slowly, day by day.

  We have our work together, and it saves us from the quiet moments. What fills the silence of those who have no such endeavor?

  May 1649

  I will not go to America. I have known this for a long time now, but there is a relief in the finality of writing it here. Though I am not old, neither am I young, and a sea voyage would not be as easy as it once would have been. What would I have done there? Even remaining for a year or two would not afford me the time to answer my questions, yet I could hardly stay longer. It would be difficult to begin in life again, to start a new practice, build a home, make new friends.

  Even more, I cannot think that Ana would wish to forsake all that she has known, and I will not ask it of her. She sees Juliana as a daughter, and to tear her away would be to force upon her a second childlessness.

  February 1650

  I had believed my dream to understand the Indies was denied me, but it is not so. I had hoped to comprehend the New World for itself, and for its import to the Old, and through my studies I know more than I’d have known had I never dreamed. In my questioning, I have already glimpsed an answer. I know that we can never understand all that those lands are. As for us, the answer is the dream itself, and how each man greets it. Embrace it or reject it, a new possibility presents itself to us. How we answer as a man, and as a kingdom, will forever haunt or bless us. Perhaps the hand of God showed Colón the way, not for conquest, but for redemption.

  January 1657

  I had not thought about this journal for years, but I came across it yesterday, and I have just finished reading through it. Here I see my days reflected: my marriage to Ana came to replace my dream of the New World. I now do not regret it, though I confess that there were times when I resented her. Some would say that to let a woman supplant a man’s desire is to sacrifice his very manliness, but it is not so. My love of Ana has not blocked my life but opened it, and brought me to places I did not know my heart could go.

  In life we do not end with the same questions with which we started. It is not because we have found the answers to them, but because the life that we have led has reshaped the very things we ask. That this is so does not make the questions less honorable or the truths we find less worthy. Who is to say that the truth found in the secret chambers of our hearts is less than the truth found in a new world?

  17

  ANA

  Ana knew that she should rise, for Señor Rojas would soon be there with the carriage for the days-long ride to Sevilla, but her thoughts lingered on the final entries of Emilio’s journal. Though she felt Emilio’s sorrow at having sacrificed his dream to see the Indies, she would never have wished to accompany him, nor to be without his company for the years such an exploration would require. Ana was comforted that Emilio had said that his life with her had taught him truths he otherwise would not have known, but she wondered whether she had trespassed when she had read her husband’s words.

  Clara entered the room with a breakfast tray and announced that the carriage had arrived early. In the necessary haste to help Ana with her preparations, there was no time for further discussion of the trip, but as they approached the waiting transport, Clara began her arguments anew.

  “I cannot believe that you intend to make this journey alone! This is
insanity. What can you hope to accomplish? Even if you are correct and they have gone to Sevilla, how will you find them there? A woman traveling alone invites disrespect, at the least, and very likely danger.” Since their discourse the previous day, the housekeeper seemed to have repented her submission. It was as though Clara feared that she would bear the guilt for any hazards Ana might encounter, for they might have been averted if only she had been unwavering in her objections.

  “Do not upset yourself so, Clara. I have good reason to believe that my brother has gone to Sevilla, for he spoke only recently of going there to take care of some business concerns, and to study the latest effect on trade of the king’s new policies. I go under the protection of Señor Rojas, trusted retainer of Señor Monsalve, and once I arrive I will refer myself to Señor de Ovando, partner of Señor Monsalve and acquaintance of my Emilio. So you see, I can hardly be accused of striking out on my own.” Ana hoped that her voice did not betray her own misgivings. She had found nothing at her brother’s house to support her present course. “I wish that I could bring you along, but there is no room in the carriage. Besides, it is hardly likely that a widow of my age and demeanor will be called upon to defend her honor.” They both smiled at these words, but Clara was not easily dissuaded.