The fourth time I repeated my charade, after I had left my bag, I glanced back once and saw him pick it up and, as he was beginning to hail me, move the hand holding my bag slightly up and down, as though weighing its contents. He quickly looked around, then put my bag beneath his coat and walked away. This is the man I shall write to tomorrow, and I must admit that I am very fearful. Each time I performed my small deception, I secretly trembled at my intent. How much more difficult will it be to talk openly to this man of what I would have him do for me? I shall be placing myself totally in his hands, relying on the balance I can achieve between his honor and his greed. Will honesty or deception best serve me?
21 February
It is accomplished. My newly discovered relative is Señor Esteban de Palma Rodriguez. Now I can only pray his honor and his reluctance to admit to his own part in this ruse will keep him silent all his days.
Three days ago, I sent a note to Señor de Palma, stating only that I was a lady in need of his aid. I did not mention the incident of the bag, for I wanted to appeal to his sense of his own generosity, not to his shame. The first note requesting a meeting was not successful. I am sure that such gentlemen frequently receive requests for help, but I hoped that mine would be unusual enough to pique his curiosity. For two hours, I waited at the spot I had designated in my note. As each hour passed, I grew more anxious and was subjected to ever bolder looks from the young caballeros passing by. That night was difficult for me, and as I lay in bed, I tried to devise another scheme to achieve my purpose, but I could come up with nothing else. So, rising from my sleepless bed, I wrote another note to Señor de Palma, this one more urgent than the last.
I do not know whether it was my persistence or the tone of my second note that prompted him to meet with me, but yesterday he came. As he walked toward me, I grew more anxious about how he might react to my proposal. I had chosen the Plaza Mayor for our meeting, hoping that the public nature of that place would somewhat lessen the ill impression he would have of a young lady so forward as to approach him in the manner in which I had done. The eyes of passersby also served to protect me from any possible dishonorable intention on his part. It was only at the moment he was about to speak that the thought flashed through my mind that he might recognize me from the incident with my handbag. This, I feared, would raise his suspicions against me, causing him to question my motives and intent. To my relief, however, I saw no light of recognition in his eyes as he came closer.
“Doña Silvia?” he asked, and I thanked the Virgin Mary for the kindness I heard in his voice. I had used Silvia’s name since arriving in Mexico City, as I would need to use her papers to enter the convent. I had not used Silvia’s full name in my note, unwilling to identify myself further before Señor de Palma had agreed to my plan. “I was intrigued by your mysterious notes. How may I be of service to you?”
I thanked him for coming and explained to him that I had come to know of his reputation for honor and generosity and had thus chosen him for my entreaty. Slowly I unfolded my request to him, revealing as little as possible about myself, explaining only that, because of unusual circumstances, I was presently without the means to provide my own letter of reference. It was plain to see that I am a person of quality, and I showed to him Silvia’s papers proving purity of lineage. The matter of payment had to be introduced early in the conversation, to maintain his interest, but also had to be treated with great delicacy. I told him that I very much regretted the necessity to begin my religious life with a deception, but that I was certain of my vocation, and that this was the only road open to me. I illustrated my sincerity by describing my desire to atone for this falsehood by making a substantial contribution to an organization that helped the poor.
“I pray that Our Lord, who reads our hearts, will forgive me this ruse, which will enable me to enter a lifetime in His service. If I might further presume upon your chivalry, I would ask that you handle this donation for me, as I do not wish to be known.”
He hesitated a moment and then replied, “I would be happy to be of service to you, señorita. Who am I to inhibit one with such great faith and charity?”
I am to meet him in two days, at which time he will supply me with my necessary reference, and I will entrust to him the money for the poor. I doubt that they will ever see it.
26 February
I have discovered that the order of the Dominican nuns does not typically take in abandoned infants, but I believe that if a considerable sum is left for Mercedes’s upbringing, the sisters will be persuaded to shelter her. As it may appear suspicious if Mercedes and I arrive at the convent simultaneously, I have decided that I will enter first and Luisa will care for Mercedes for some months, then bring her to the convent. I initially intended to bring Mercedes to the convent first, but I decided that it would work to our benefit if I were already firmly established there when Mercedes arrived. In this way, I hope to be able to influence the good sisters to accept Mercedes if there is any reluctance on their part.
If she wishes to, Luisa will follow shortly thereafter, and I will obtain permission to employ her as my servant. I am already missing my beloved child, even as I look upon her sleeping form. I know that I shall also miss Luisa, as she has become such a friend and support to me.
25 March
Tomorrow I shall enter the convent. It has taken some weeks for my petition for entry to be accepted, but now all is prepared. I have paid the three thousand pesos the convent requires as a dowry. In addition, I was required to keep some money aside, to pay for my ceremony of profession, should I decide to take my vows. I understand that there are women who have retreated to the sanctuary of the convent without committing themselves in this manner, and I shall have much time once I have started my new life to decide whether I wish to submit so completely in heart, mind, and body.
I have entrusted to Luisa the amount to cover their needs until she brings Mercedes to the convent, wrapped within the blankets that will provide her sorry shield from a cruel world. After leaving Mercedes at the convent door, Luisa will wait for two days to present herself, lest their arrival appear connected. I have also given to Luisa a large sum for her to bring with Mercedes.
The money will serve both to lend credence to the story of Mercedes’s birth to a well-placed gentleman and to soften the hearts of the sisters at the prospect of harboring the foundling for many years.
What would my mother have thought if she had known that her jewels would be put to such use? From what Silvia has told me, she was so good that surely she already resides with Our Lord and all of his saints. In these last several months, in my loneliness, I have come to think of her as looking down on me in love, suffering over what has befallen me, and even interceding for me when I am in need. I do not think that she would judge me harshly.
I cannot bear the thought of leaving Mercedes for so long, and I wonder how she will be changed when next I see her. I held her much of the day today, even though at times she seemed anxious to be free of me. I have noticed that she seems most content to lie unencumbered on a blanket and look out at the world. Even though she is but a few months old, I fear that she bears me some grudge for having had to wean her at such a tender age. Luisa and I agreed that finding a wet nurse would require explanations we were not prepared to give. For now, Luisa gives her bread soaked in goat’s milk, and she says that she has also heard of giving babies grains soaked in broth. Any guilt I feel must be offset by the knowledge that I am doing the best I can for Mercedes, given the circumstances of our lives.
I have written the note for Luisa to put with Mercedes when she brings her to the convent. I tried to mimic a masculine handwriting. The note reads thus:
“For the love of Our Lord, who loved all children, please care for this baby. Her lineage from me is noble, but, to my everlasting sorrow, her mother lies in an early grave, having sacrificed herself to give this child life. I cannot bear the grief that it causes me to look upon her face and see my beloved wife. I shall le
ave this land, which has been so unkind, and return to Spain, though my family there will not welcome me. I can only pray that in dedicating my child to the religious life, in some small part I will atone for my guilt at thus abandoning her.
Raise her with the love of a hundred mothers. May the Lord bless you for the patience you will need and the joys you will know! In loving mercy, raise this child, my beloved daughter, Mercedes, away from the world and its anguish.”
36
RACHEL
I was relieved when Juliana and Luisa finally arrived at their destination. I rejoiced when Mercedes was born and grieved at the harsh circumstances she would encounter. I marveled at the inventiveness of Juliana’s scheme to get a letter of recommendation for the convent. I worried that her plans to have Mercedes join her there would somehow go awry, though all of this happened three centuries ago. Although our lives corresponded in no way, other than in the elemental fact of being women, I found myself comparing our experiences as daughters, as well as mothers.
Juliana wondered what her mother would think of her, because she never really knew her. I had my mother till my middle age, but what did I really understand about her? These papers seemed an impossibility, even as I held them in my hand. My mother now appeared to be someone I knew even less than I had thought.
I continued to ration out the pages, allowing myself only a set amount at a time, neither skipping ahead in the journal nor looking at the other papers, which might reasonably have been expected to quickly solve the mystery of their origin. At times I saw a glimmer of my professional curiosity. What of this Father Quijada, who dared to question the wisdom of the Inquisition? How common was it for ordinary people to speak or even feel such doubts?
But such concerns were secondary. These papers seemed to be an unbelievable treasure, but I could think of nothing that would pardon my mother’s deception.
There was another “distinguished” professor in town, and everyone in the department was expected to attend his lecture at four o’clock. The talk was on a medieval work, La Celestina, or The Go-Between. I usually had the Latin American drama class at that time, but I told my students to attend the lecture in lieu of meeting for class. Of course, the topic didn’t have much to do with Latin American playwrights, but I felt justified in the substitution, since most students got little or no exposure to that period in Spanish, or any other, literature.
The professor had finished his presentation and was accepting questions from the audience. I believed that my students had at least learned something of the history of the literature they were studying, lending it context, if not nuance. It had been a somewhat outdated interpretation of the work, and if I hadn’t gained any new insights, I enjoyed hearing such lectures by way of review. I believe that I have never since known, and never will again know, as much as I did when I was studying for my doctoral exams. Though at the time I thought it an excruciating exercise, I afterward looked back on that period as an orgy of self-pampering, allowing myself to spend months solely in the pursuit of a subject that I found intriguing, justified by my mentors’ stamp of authority. Hearing this talk was like regaining knowledge that I had once possessed but that, through lack of use, was slipping into the realm of the forgotten, settling in some distant land with past passions and grocery lists.
Lorraine’s hand went up as the professor was gathering his papers from the lectern, providing less detailed answers to questions, signaling his desire to end the session. I could hear the chairman of the department, a great friend of the lecturer’s, let out a groan. Though he was still wearing some kind of back brace from the injury that had caused him to summon Lorraine back early, and had come to the university today only to escort the visitor around, I felt sure that his complaint was not the result of any physical ailment. Lorraine was notorious for giving guest lecturers a hard time, and what the chairman found even more embarrassing was that Lorraine always made some excellent points.
“Excuse me, Professor González,” Lorraine said loudly, waving her arm in the air. The professor had been looking assiduously down at his papers, trying to ignore any last, lingering questions, probably thankful that he had been able to maintain his pose of infallibility throughout the course of the presentation. Fleetingly I wondered if the chairman had warned him to avoid Lorraine’s entrapments.
“Professor González, one more question here, if you please,” Lorraine persisted, and I eagerly anticipated what I was sure would be a moment of watching the grand, suave professor squirm.
“Yes, señorita,” he responded, the very title he gave her an attempt to put her in her place.
“Professor Marcham,” Lorraine corrected. “Professor, you have said nothing about the interpretation that many scholars give to the final speech in the work, the agonizing despair of the father of the dead girl. Some have suggested that his view of the world could be explained by the theory that the author might himself have been a converso, a Jew, who, having been forced to outwardly reject his own beliefs, now found the universe one of chaos and injustice. Could you give us your thoughts on that?”
She’d lived up to my expectations. In preparation for his visit, the chairman had passed around some of the articles recently published by his friend, so that we could familiarize ourselves with his work. He always did this, and I always found it insulting to our professional capabilities. However, I always grudgingly read the papers. Lorraine, on the other hand, relished these assignments. “Ammunition,” she called them, and the chairman never seemed to learn.
“As you may know, I do not agree with those theories,” replied Professor González, “first of all because it is ridiculous to forget that this is but a character in a story, and not a real human, whose background can only be speculated upon.” This might ordinarily have been seen as an insulting response, presuming to correct Lorraine for committing the distinctly undergraduate tendency to forget that characters are just that, creations with a purpose, not humans as we know them. Readers must have faith that the author has been skillful enough to tell us what we should know about the character, and we should not invent our own interpretations, which may be more pleasing, but unfounded in the work. To use characters to make assumptions about their creator is an even more egregious fault.
But Lorraine knew, as we all knew, that in this case Professor González was not attempting to insult her, but rather he had simply given his primary and only argument against the interpretation she had brought up. In his arrogance, he seemed not to have bothered to closely study the points of those whose arguments he was refuting, but simply to have rejected them out of hand and written an article, confident that one of his friends on the editorial board of some journal would see to it that it got published, as indeed it had.
I almost felt sorry for him as Lorraine read out one quotation after another from the text, all of which gave convincing support for the converso theory. It appeared that even Professor González would have to refute his own article, but he was not one to cower before challenges, especially not one from a woman, and a mere assistant professor. One might have guessed this from his demeanor. Even so, no one was quite prepared for his response.
“Professor Marcham,” he began, allowing only the slightest note of condescension to enter his voice, “it seems obvious to me that those who originally put forth that theory were in fact Jews themselves, and wished only to cast aspersions upon our glorious Spanish culture, choosing to dwell upon those moments of our history that, with the current climate of relative morality, appear to be open to criticism. Nevertheless, these scholars”—and now there was no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice—“have chosen to make their living by criticizing the very culture that has provided for them a pleasant profession. It is quite similar to what the Spanish Americans do when they criticize Spain for the treatment some Indians received hundreds of years ago, even though it is clear that their own Hispanic culture would not even exist if it had not been for the Spanish conquest.”
It was o
bvious that he felt himself righteously aggrieved by this and took the stupefied silence of the audience as agreement. Even Lorraine stood mute before this tirade. But the illustrious professor needed to add one last, admonishing flourish.
“You should particularly remember this lesson, Professor Marcham. It is equally applicable to those black students who would wish to take only classes in Black Studies, while many of the writers studied in those courses would not even exist were it not for the Western civilization that has produced them.”
With that remark, he strode out of the lecture hall, and for once even the chairman did not rush to congratulate his friend on his brilliant performance. The room quickly emptied, only Lorraine remaining in her place, and I along with her.
“He’s a jerk, Lorraine,” I said. “Even the chairman thought so.”
“I’ve always been interested in people like that,” Lorraine said, still staring ahead.
“In people like González?” I said, amazed.
“No,” Lorraine’s voice registered surprise, and now she looked at me. “Like the author of the Celestina. What happens to people, and to their descendants, when they are forced to give up who they are?” Lorraine’s ability to so completely ignore the diatribe we had just witnessed to pursue her own thoughts impressed me.
“How can any of us know who we really came from? Not only blacks, but anybody. How far back can you trace your ancestors? Three, four generations?” she asked.
“If that,” I replied, with a catch in my voice.
“See what I mean?” she said, and got up and left.
It had been a week, and Lorraine hadn’t said much about her altercation with the visiting professor, but I wondered whether, upon reflection, she was more than annoyed. She seemed distracted, though it was not unusual for her to inexplicably withdraw at times and just as unpredictably don her old self again. But I was not as preoccupied with her mood changes as I usually would have been. I had retreated into the diary.
The Lines Between Us Page 19