I am Venus

by Barbara Mujica

  And so it was that on a cold day in January, 1623, a crowd of neighbors stood gawking in disbelief as the royal carriage rolled into the portal of Pacheco’s home. The six white horses that pulled the vehicle were a far cry from the decrepit mules that had brought Velázquez back from Madrid. The carriage was a sleek number with an open body. It was covered in black leather decorated with geometrical designs formed by gilt tacks. The roof was a magnificent canopy supported by four pillars, and at the front was a huge chest for travel gear. Two coachmen rode on the front left and back right horses, maneuvering the coach with some difficulty through the narrow streets. Instead of curtains, window panes suspended by leather straps protected travelers from the elements. When the footmen opened the doors, you could see the plush red velvet interior, with four red seat pillows under each of which was—I hope you’ll forgive me for mentioning it—a chamber pot.

  No one was more surprised by this extraordinary interruption than Pacheco himself. As he stared out a window, he saw a servant in royal livery ring at his gate. Moments later, a messenger alighted. Pacheco gasped and clasped his hands when his own servant conveyed the news that the king’s messenger had brought a communication for Don Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez from Fonseca, the sumiller de cortina.

  The artist read and reread the letter in disbelief. He would have his chance after all! He had not yet fully unpacked from his last trip, and now a carriage was outside to take him back to Madrid. It would be easy enough to gather up pigments, brushes, canvases, resin, glue, dying materials, and his very best ruffs and stockings. He would pack the materials he had and obtain the rest there—eggs, cochineal, whatever else. As far as his wardrobe went, he had had a new jubón and cuffs made before the last trip. Velázquez, usually a measured man, could hardly contain his joy. He flung his arms wildly and let out a yelp.

  Juana blinked at him, her eyelids tinged with salt, her eyes sunken in their sockets.

  Velázquez reined in his flailing limbs and gulped air. “It’s … it’s an opportunity,” he stammered. “It’s what we’ve always wanted.”

  “Your baby girl hasn’t been dead a day.”

  Velázquez stared at the floor. “I’ll stay for the burial, but I … I have to go, Juana. I have to.”

  “Tell them no.” Juana directed her words to the messenger, who stood at attention waiting for a response.

  “Juana … This will change our lives … Everything will be better. We can have another—”

  “Tell them no!” She shot him a look like a broad arrow. “How dare you,” she hissed.

  The following day, Juana and Arabela bathed the baby and dressed her in her baptismal gown. Juana counted and kissed each little finger, then cupped the child’s hands in her own. Her tears fell on Ignacia’s tender flesh—so perfect and yet so cold—and merged with the perfumed bathwater. How could this innocent little baby be dead? What had she done to make God yank her from her mother’s breast so cruelly? And what had she, Juana, done to deserve this punishment? Nurse her child? Make love with her husband?

  Although little Ignacia was destined straight for heaven, many things had to be done to expedite her journey. Early in the morning Pacheco had sent Ángeles to the market to buy victuals for a respectable spread, for the velada would be that very afternoon. It was the custom in Seville to bury the dead within forty-eight hours of their demise, sometimes even sooner. This meant that the house had to be readied for the vigil, and food had to be transported to the church for the funeral supper, which would take place after the burial. All present would attend, including the clergy. In addition, it was the custom to offer a feast to the poor—almsgiving would ensure the swift and safe flight of the soul to the Other World. A man of Pacheco’s stature had the obligation to stage an elaborate funeral. The servants were still exhausted from preparing and cleaning up after Velázquez’s homecoming, but now they had to clean and scrub all over again, then drape the windows in black, turn mirrors toward the wall, and buy candles for the funeral mass.

  Neighbor women began to arrive at Pacheco’s home around two. Then came Pacheco’s students, the academicians and their wives, friends of the family, and the members of the painters’ guild. Father Pineda led them all in prayer. After the vigil, neighbors helped Juana and Arabela shroud the tiny corpse in linen and place it in the miniature white coffin. Pineda grasped a cross and held it aloft, then stepped out into the rain-soaked street. One by one the parish priests fell in behind him in hierarchical order. The officers of the painters’ guild took their places behind the clergy, followed by the dozens of laymen from different charitable confraternities who routinely attended funerals, and the children Pacheco had paid to walk in the cortège and wail loudly for the deceased. In order for Pacheco to make a proper statement, the mourners had to be numerous and noisy, and so he promised as many children as his servants could round up a couple of coins and a hearty meal for their services.

  At the end of the cortège came Velázquez and Pacheco carrying the coffin, followed by Juana, Julia, the household servants, and, finally, Arabela with Paquita in her arms. As the cortège wound its way through Seville’s twisted alleys the rain, which had stopped momentarily, started up again. Velázquez was ashen under his wide felt hat. Droplets dribbled from the brim, saturating the shoulders of his cape. He seemed not to notice the downpour, but stared ahead with deadened eyes. Pacheco stooped over the casket, his expression stoic. He walked mechanically, one foot in front of the other, praying in a whisper. Juana trailed behind them, weeping softly. Tears, snot, and raindrops bathed her chin. Periodically she teetered on the slippery cobblestones, then flailed and grabbed Julia’s hand. The servants of the wealthier mourners carried a canopy that they held over their masters’ heads to protect them from the rain. Those with no servants carried their own canopies or trudged over the muddy cobblestones clutching wool wraps to their heads. Their grubby hems clung around their ankles or trailed out behind them like dripping fishermen’s nets dragged over sludge. Juana carried no canopy, and soon she was drenched. In spite of the storm, the cortège swelled as standers-by joined in the marching and moaning.

  When the mourners at last reached the parish church, men and women divided into their respective sections. The tabernacle was ablaze with tapers that gleamed and glittered like a million sparkling stars. Wax was dear, but Pacheco spared no expense to show the depth of his love for his grandchild. (Of course, he was just as concerned with impressing his neighbors and his relatives. After all, how better to flaunt your wealth than to squander money on five hundred candles for a deceased infant?) After the mass, little Ignacia was laid to rest inside the crypt next to her grandmother, Doña Leonor de Miranda. Then Pacheco invited the entire crowd for refreshments. People sniffed and sighed and fell into clichés.

  “Poor little angel.”

  “She’s with God now.”

  “Better to die without sin and soar straight to heaven.”

  Eventually they dried their tears and dug into the food. Soon everyone was gossiping and even laughing—the gloomy ceremony had become just another social event. The mourners had forgotten about little Ignacia—all, of course, except for Juana, whose eyes were set in a blank stare.

  Velázquez had consented to Juana’s demand that he remain in Seville, and so the king’s coach returned to Madrid without him. Now the artist stayed in his studio. He rose early and worked all morning. He took his meals in his room. Although they lived in the same house, Juana hardly saw him. He was like a ghost who slipped through door cracks, appearing and disappearing mysteriously—silent and stealthy.

  Soon enough, Juana began to suspect what he was up to. It had been raining since March, but once the precipitation began to let up in mid-May, she saw the slave Melgar coming and going, carrying canvases and pigments and compounds. She caught sight of the tailor, who had come to measure Velázquez for a new suit of clothes. She heard the academicians in the sala murmuring about his chances at Court on a second try.

&nb
sp; “This time there’s a definite position for him.”

  “He should paint Olivares and circulate the portrait.”

  “If only the king could see his work …”

  Every few days, Juana would stand in the hallway and try to eavesdrop, but most of the time she wandered through the house like a somnambulist or stood for hours peering into Ignacia’s empty cradle. Sometimes she wept into her sheets, her tears falling like rain on a barren, snow-covered field. Other times, she grabbed Paquita and smothered her with kisses, holding her so tightly that the child shrieked.

  Velázquez set off for Madrid in July, but this time, no royal coach came to ferry him over the difficult terrain. He had the stable boy saddle the mules, kissed his wife and daughter good-bye, embraced his father-in-law, and set off toward Córdoba with Melgar, just as he had the year before. Juana turned away dry-eyed. She knew his departure was inevitable. After all, Fonseca had called for him. But it was also necessary. Velázquez had to realize his dream and succeed at Court. Otherwise, he would dissolve into melancholy.

  As they rode through the lush Andalusian fields, Velázquez dreamed of elegant state dinners, fur-trimmed capes, and maybe even acceptance into a prestigious society such as the Order of Santiago, reserved for the most prominent men in the land. Never mind that he hadn’t even been appointed to the post of royal painter. He was already convinced that once at Court he could achieve anything. Wasn’t Fonseca a cleric-courtier? Then why couldn’t he, Velázquez, be a painter-courtier? Painting would be his entrée to a world of power, influence, glamour, and excitement—not an end, but a means. Velázquez once told me that even before he reached Ciudad Real, he was convinced that this time, he would triumph. I can imagine him prodding his little mule along the rocky roads from Ciudad Real to Toledo, shoulders back and chin thrust out, his breathing exuding self-confidence, as though the very air should have been honored to fill his lungs.

  When he arrived in Madrid early in August, he was not surprised to find Fonseca ready for him. The gritty old chaplain had promised Pacheco that the previous year’s fiasco would not be repeated, and to that end, he devised a strategy. Fonseca wasted no time putting Velázquez to work. He lodged him in his own apartments and set up an easel for him in a well-lit loft that had been used for storage.

  “Paint my portrait,” ordered Fonseca. “Right here and now.”

  Velázquez was exhausted from the road. He thought he would rest a while and then take a leisurely stroll along the Prado before setting up his workplace. Besides, he had not come to Madrid to paint the sumiller de cortina. He had in mind to start with a portrait of Olivares, or maybe the king’s younger brother, the infante Fernando. The priest-courtier studied the crestfallen young painter and sized up the situation. Fonseca was a kindly man, loyal to his Sevillian friends and ambitious for his protégé. He was also shrewd and savvy.

  Velázquez thought to stand his ground, but upon examining the face of the man before him, he felt suddenly disarmed. His host, Velázquez realized, bore an astounding resemblance to a ferret. He had rounded ears; a bulbous, pink, upturned nose; and black, inquisitive, globular eyes. His mustache and beard were white and smooth. Yes, there could be no doubt at all: for all his elegance, Fonseca looked charmingly like a ferret. In spite of himself, Velázquez smiled. Fonseca peered at him over his long ferret muzzle, out of his tiny ferret eyes.

  “I know I’m not Apollo the Beautiful,” he chuckled, “and I know I’m not the grand Olivares. But for our purposes, my likeness will do. Paint my portrait. You have one day.”

  Velázquez positioned Fonseca and assessed his features. Velázquez was beginning to suspect that Fonseca not only looked like a ferret, but also had the sneaky animal’s ability to wiggle into clandestine spaces and observe what no one else could see. The artist pondered whether to paint a perfect likeness or to camouflage Fonseca’s ferretness in order to create a more pleasing image. It occurred to him that by placing his model at an angle, he could disguise the length of his long, muzzle-like face. He repositioned the priest, then stood back and took measure.

  “You only have one day,” Fonseca reminded him.

  “I need only a few hours,” countered Velázquez.

  “Arrogant young pup,” mumbled Fonseca under his breath.

  By mid-afternoon, the work was ready. The chaplain ordered a messenger to take it immediately to the palace of Gaspar de Bracamonte, fifth son of the Count of Peñaranda, who was an assistant to the infante Fernando. By evening Don Fernando had shown it to his brother the king, and Don Felipe had made his decision.

  6

  VENUS SPEAKS

  1660

  FINGERS LIKE KNOBBY TWIGS LIE USELESSLY IN A HEAP. HANDS like rough bark fouled by wormy veins that weave among patches of fungus. Time is a villain. My face—I imagine it furrowed and crinkly, eyelids drooping, lips thin as ink lines. I think I have a wart above my eyebrow, but I cannot be sure because we’re not allowed to have mirrors. Books are forbidden, as well—even bibles. Scripture in the vernacular was banned decades ago, as were most inspirational books of the kind they read in the days of Saint Teresa. I have my poem, though—the one written by Rioja that I once copied down. From time to time I pull it out from the lining of my shift and read it: “leaves and thorns surround you, / and rob you of the pure radiance and dazzling / purple I saw beginning to tinge your petals, / and at the same time, of the sweet vitality of / the verdure, through which peeks an ardent rose.” I, Venus, am that rose—once pure radiance and sweet vitality. Once, a long time ago.

  Tears dribble over my quivering lips, onto my chin and then into my wimple. I sniffle and wipe the sleeve of my habit over damp lids that sheathe ailing eyes. “¡Mal haya el tiempo!” I say aloud. “Damn time!”

  But I’m not going to snivel. What’s the use of crying over the inevitable? I have work to do. I have this history to finish, and I can only write during the hour of recreation, right before vespers. When the bells call us to prayer, I will have to hide my writing materials in the little chest I keep locked under my cot and take my place in line with the other gray veils. My friend the convent chronicler—her name is Sister Tomasina—sneaks paper to me. Paper is dear, of course, but she can get it, since she keeps the house records. You have to be wily to accomplish anything, not just here, but everywhere. Anyhow, I couldn’t work for longer, even if I had the whole day free. My hands ache and my eyes are going bad. I see everything through a milky lens, and writing makes my head throb. It’s just as well that the chapel bells call me away.

  I should be clear: I’m not a nun. I’m just a boarder at Santa María de los Ángeles. Where else but the cloister can an old woman with no family go? This convent is full of stray cats—orphans, deflowered girls, widows and spinsters—homeless females who dwell here at the mercy of the mother superior. We wear habits like the sisters, but ours are gray, not black like the aristocratic choir nuns’ or white like the scullery nuns’. Naturally, we keep the same schedule as everyone else: up at four, before sunrise; morning prayers; chores, then breakfast; more prayers. I could go on and on about these routines, which, no matter how familiar, never fail to depress me. But it’s far more exciting—and wonderfully distracting—to remember everything that happened when Velázquez got to Court …

  His Royal Highness Felipe IV, King of Spain, Portugal, and the Netherlands, stood before Velázquez’s quickly crafted portrait of Juan de Fonseca, a brother on either side.

  “Hmm …” says Don Fernando a bit uncertainly. “It looks like …”

  “It looks just like him,” says the king.

  “Yes, yes it does. It looks just like him. But doesn’t it look like … look strangely like … What I mean is, doesn’t it remind you of … some sort of animal?”

  “Hmm …” says Don Carlos. “I see what you mean. Perhaps a … let’s see …”

  “Maybe a ferret?” says Don Fernando.

  “Exactly,” says the king, “a ferret. But in truth, Fonseca does look rather like a
ferret.”

  “Yes,” whispers Don Fernando, “indeed he does.”

  “I agree,” says Don Carlos. “He looks like a ferret.”

  I wonder sometimes if it occurred to the three of them that if Velázquez painted such a realistic, unflattering portrait of Fonseca, he would one day do them the same favor. The Habsburgs, after all, are all notoriously ugly, with overgrown jaws that protrude so much that they prevent some of them from eating properly. Add to that noses so long they can wipe them with their tongues. I suppose that Don Felipe figured that a Court painter would never dare to portray a monarch with all his defects and impurities, and he was right. Velázquez knew what he had to do to survive. By day’s end the king had commissioned him to paint the royal portrait—but not right away. Velázquez would have to wait until after the festivities in honor of the Prince of Wales. Anxious though he was to begin the portrait, Velázquez was so thrilled over the possibility of seeing the prince that he joyfully postponed beginning work.

  And what does Charles, Prince of Wales, have to do with any of this? Well, Prince Charles’s sister Elizabeth was married to the Protestant German Frederick V, King of Bohemia, whose people had just replaced him with a Catholic ruler. King James, Charles’s father, wanted to help his daughter and son-in-law reclaim power, but he was afraid that would mean an expensive war with Catholic Spain. That’s why he decided to marry his son Charles to Princess María Ana, King Felipe’s sister. Not only would the princess bring a hefty dowry, but the union would secure an alliance between our two countries, thereby avoiding yet another war.