I am Venus

by Barbara Mujica

  “I squinted at the whiteness. Nothing. No sound. No Dutchman. I turned back toward the road. I spotted an old farmhouse in the distance and trudged toward it. I was still armed. I could kill the farmer and steal his food.

  “But it turned out to be abandoned. I spent the night there and then took off, traveling south. I stole some eggs from a chicken coop, and I stole a chicken, too. I avoided people until I reached Brussels. There I begged a night’s stay at the Carmelite monastery. The friars there were kindly. I confessed the murder of the child to an energetic young priest, and he told me I was innocent. ‘You can’t be guilty of a crime committed by another man,’ he told me. ‘If your friend was guilty—and I’m not sure that he was, after all, the boy came at you with a knife—then God punished him.’

  “The friars were poor. Their supper consisted of a piece of stale bread, a turnip, an onion, and a slice of moldy cheese. Nevertheless, they fed me as well as they could. They supplied me with whatever provisions they could find and a new set of clothes that one of them had kept from the days before he entered the monastery. At the French border I met a convoy of merchants and accompanied them all the way to Paris. From there I joined a band of Spanish Jesuits returning home from a stint at the University of Paris. I remember crossing the Pyrenees into Spain. Home, I thought. Finally. We crossed the fields of Castile in the late spring. It’s dry land, bad for growing crops, but the sky was gorgeous, clear, and cerulean.”

  “Cerulean,” I echoed. I stared at him a moment and noticed, for the first time, that he was rather handsome. I knew I shouldn’t ask—I didn’t want him to think I was mocking him—but I couldn’t contain my curiosity. “Carlos,” I said finally, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but.… vermillion, crimson, cerulean—where would a soldier learn words like that?”

  He looked at me askance. “What do you mean?”

  “Those are poets’ words, painters’ words.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve always known them.” He thought a moment. “When I was little, after my father died, my mother went to work in the home of a painter.”

  “In Seville?”

  “Yes, I told you she went to Seville.”

  “Do you remember the name of the painter?”

  “I don’t. But I do remember that he was very precise about the names of colors. Anyhow, when I was about six or seven, I went to apprentice with a chandler in a village outside the city. I only saw my mother a couple of times after that.”

  “But you didn’t become a chandler.”

  “I hated the man I was apprenticed to. He was stingy and impatient. He whipped me when I dripped wax on the floor. I knew I’d never have a future making candles, so when the king’s regiments passed through the city, I ran away and joined up. I was twelve. The army promised a salary, regular meals, adventure. If I had only known …” Carlos was quiet a while, lost in a labyrinth of memories. “What I don’t understand,” he said finally, “is why it’s our job to kill them.”

  “Kill whom? What do you mean?”

  “If the Protestants are going to go to hell anyway, why can’t we just let God’s will be done without getting involved? Let them believe whatever they want. If God condemns them to hell, it’s their problem, not mine.”

  I thought about it. “You might be right,” I said, although what he had said was probably a sacrilege. Anyway, I was thinking about something else he had mentioned. “The house you lived in as a small child, did it by any chance belong to a man named Pacheco?”

  “I don’t know. What difference does it make?”

  “Carlos, was your mother’s name Arabela?”

  He put down his bota and looked at me, eyes wide, lips parted. But then his expression changed. His jaw grew tense, his eyes small. He nearly spat out the words: “Who are you?” he snarled. “Who the hell are you?”

  11

  ACROSS THE PLAZA

  1629–1630

  WORKMEN LUGGED BEAMS AND TOOLS ACROSS THE PUERTA del Sol, oblivious to the soldiers sprawled over the steps of San Felipe. Spain at last had an heir to the crown, and the king was determined that the baptism of Prince Baltasar Carlos would be the most spectacular event Spain had ever seen. At the moment, the veterans of the wars against the Dutch were the farthest thing from his mind.

  The king hunched over the large marble table in the blue room of his private apartments and knit his brow. The sketches submitted by his architects were splendid, but to turn them into reality would cost money. No matter. He could always borrow gold and raise taxes. He was prepared to spend thousands of maravedís he didn’t have on a massive renovation of the Alcázar. The ugly old building had once been a fortress, and it had retained its heavy, utilitarian look. It’s true that the main facade, which was adorned with marble and gold, gave the place an air of elegance, and the bulkiness of the exterior walls was offset by the surrounding parks and gardens. Still, the Alcázar was clearly too shabby for the baptism of the future king of Spain.

  I can imagine His Majesty on a walking tour of the palace with his architects, stopping in this courtyard and that entrance hall, chin in hand, clucking and nodding. The architects take notes, make measurements, and click their tongues. This wouldn’t be a simple project. The main body of the building had two upper floors, each with three large balconies. The south facade boasted twenty-eight balconies on each floor. A massive main door was reserved for official acts and ceremonies, while a smaller door served for everyday use. In order to ease palace traffic and facilitate access to the main hall for the baptismal celebrations, the king wanted a majestic staircase that extended from the large balconies to the principal entrance. The architects squinted at their carefully lettered notes and asked how much he was prepared to spend. Damn the cost! exploded the king. This was for the baptism of his newborn son! The architects bit their lips, bowed their head, and sighed. They knew they had to carry out orders, although they also knew they’d never get paid.

  After he had decided on structural changes, Don Felipe turned his attention to the furnishings. The walls of the Alcázar clearly needed attention. The king sent his courtiers to El Escorial and the sitios reales, the smaller royal palaces and lodges he maintained throughout Spain, with orders to bring back the finest tapestries in his possession. The most gorgeous would hang in the newly refurbished Alcázar. He instructed Olivares to purchase mirrors and vases to decorate the corridors. He ordered a chandelier of Murano glass and an exquisite bust of Christ from Montelupo for his private chapel. He procured thousands of flowers to adorn every part of the interior. It was November, but the king had to have his flowers, so somehow, they appeared.

  Although Velázquez was getting his monthly allowance, everyone else—from the scrubwoman to the royal dresser—had to do without; no one had been paid for months. Yet there was little grumbling, and the reason was obvious. For too long, Spain had been without a male heir, which meant we were vulnerable: if there was no Spanish successor, the French would surely make a play for the Spanish crown. But now there was no need to worry. With the birth of Prince Baltasar Carlos, our future was guaranteed. The baptism would be attended by monarchs from all over Europe—damn the wars, plagues, and bankruptcies ravaging the continent! All Spaniards, not just the king, wanted the Alcázar to gleam. This was a matter of Spanish honor!

  Juana was as excited as everyone else about the upcoming festivities, but there was a problem. Her husband was in Italy and her father, back in Seville. All of Madrid had been invited to the Plaza Mayor, where there would be music, dancing, acrobats, magicians, jugglers, and trained monkeys. But Juana was not one of the common people. She was the wife of the usher of the privy chamber and had been summoned to the palace itself. But who would accompany her? A lady couldn’t attend an important event at Court unescorted.

  “Surely the señora can go with her maid,” suggested Arabela. Then, so that Juana wouldn’t think she was angling for an invitation, she added, “Julia will be happy to accompany you. She loves the merriment of the Court, and
I know she’s looking forward to the baptism of our dear little prince.”

  “You and Julia will both go with me. Paquita is going, so of course, you must be there. But we need a male escort. How will it look for a gaggle of women show up without a gentleman?”

  “I should think …”

  “It must be someone whose presence won’t provoke gossip.” Juana sat down by the brazier and picked up her embroidery.

  “What about Fonseca?”

  Juana pulled her needle through the cloth and looked up at the maid. “The royal chaplain? Surely you must be joking, Arabela.”

  “He’s a priest, señora. No one will think ill of you for appearing in public with a celibate man of the cloth!”

  “That’s silly, Arabela. Fonseca’s services will be needed at the baptism. He won’t be free to attend to guests. We have to think of someone else. Someone distinguished, who fits in at the palace.”

  Paquita erupted into the room like a cannon ball. “Mamá, Mamá! I have something to show you!”

  “Is there no way to teach this child manners, Arabela? Does she always have to burst into places? Why can’t she just walk through doors like a normal person?” But Juana couldn’t keep from laughing. She was delighted that her daughter wasn’t a porcelain doll who tiptoed and curtsied like most girls her age. “Francisca,” she said with mock gruffness, “will you please restrain yourself?”

  “Look, Mamá!” squealed Paquita. “This is a painting I made! All by myself! Juan Bautista says I have talent!”

  “Of course he does, darling. You’re the boss’s daughter.”

  Paquita pretended to pout. “That’s not nice, Mamá. I think Juan Bautista is sincere.”

  “Now, there’s an idea, Doña Juana,” mused Arabela. “Juan Bautista Martínez del Mazo! He could accompany you to the baptism. He’s only seventeen, señora. It’s unlikely anyone would take him for your lover, and Doña Francisca is only ten, so I doubt anyone would take him for hers. He’s a well-mannered young man from a good provincial family, and in the Maestro’s absence it would be natural for him to fulfill these social duties.”

  “Oh, yes, Mamá! That’s a wonderful idea. Let him come, please!”

  Juana gazed at her daughter and raised a brow. The girl seemed rather too fond of her painting tutor. Soon she would be of marriageable age. It was unseemly for her to show so much enthusiasm for a young man. “I don’t know,” said Juana. “I’d say a handsome seventeen-year-old can indeed set off tongue-wagging. But I’ll think about it.”

  In the end, Mazo did accompany them. The only alternative was to stay home, and no one favored that. For the occasion, Juana chose her finest frocks, with emeralds and pearls dripping from her earlobes. Paquita dressed discreetly, as became a virgin, but Juana made sure she flashed a couple of strategically placed jewels, to make clear that she was from a wealthy family. After all, she would soon have to find Paquita a husband, and although she had no intention of pretending that her daughter was high aristocracy, she certainly wanted to attract an appropriate suitor. Arabela wore a flannel dress with small ruffs as befitted her station, but Juana had the rose-colored gown she had worn to the last Calderón play remade for Julia, who loved to mingle with the other ladies’ maids at Court.

  “Really, Julia,” said Juana, “you look better than I do in that dress.”

  “Nothing would make me happier than to follow in your footsteps, señora.”

  Juana wasn’t quite sure what the maid meant by this, but she decided to brush it aside.

  Juan Baptista had a knack for color combinations that were at once catchy and tasteful, and he cut a dashing figure in an ochre coat with bright red trimming and a golilla, a small, stiff, raised collar. His greguescos—the voluminous, short pants that were in style at the time—were chocolate-colored with gold and silver threads running from waist to knee. I have no idea where he found the money for such lavish outfits.

  Crowds gathered outside the Alcázar hours before the ceremony began. As you might expect, the baptismal procession was a splendorous affair. The Countess of Olivares, seated on a sedan chair of rock crystal, carried the baby into the church in her arms, accompanied by the godparents, his aunt María Ana, the future queen of Hungary, and his uncle, the infante Don Carlos. Dignitaries from near and far approached with costly gifts for the new prince. The ladies wore magnificent brocades with diamond brooches and headdresses of gold. They crowded into the women’s section of the chapel, elbowing each other discreetly for the best seats. They sat with painstaking care so as not to send their petticoats over their heads. They gossiped unobtrusively, remarking on everyone else’s outfit, their skirts caressing their neighbors like the hands of unabashed lovers. The men were no less regally adorned, with heavy chains and medallions and enormous emerald rings. They prayed with great piety, squinting surreptitiously at the bosoms in the women’s gallery. It was all stunningly ornate—like theater brought to life, and the combination of music, incense, candles, and perfume made me heady.

  And yet even that opulence paled in comparison with the dinner! Normally the king and queen ate separately, attended only by their private entourage, but for this historic event they both ate in the great hall, although at separate tables. A long, elegant Oriental carpet had been laid out for the occasion, and an elaborately embroidered canopy had been installed over the king’s chair, while a smaller one hung over the queen’s. Once the guests were present and standing at their places, the serving ceremony began. Accompanied by the royal guard, the dining room personnel entered in order of rank, carrying glasses, pitchers, terrines, salt and pepper containers, tablecloths, silver, wines, and bread. With military precision they passed the items from hand to hand, placing each on the table. Finally the king and queen entered the hall and took their positions. Fonseca, to the king’s right, gave thanks and blessed the meal.

  “¡A la vianda, caballeros!” announced the king, and the guests sat. While we ate, musicians in the balcony played music for our enjoyment, while on the main floor, jugglers, acrobats, dwarves, and jesters circulated.

  Each dish and condiment was prepared by a specialist: the panetero made breads, the saucer made sauces. The royal chef, Francisco Fernández Montiño, was known not only for his culinary expertise, but also for the beauty of his presentations. Every dish was a work of art: golden squab breasts surrounded by crimson love apples and sprigs of cilantro, all sitting in baskets of crisp potato shavings; partridges floating in a stew of prunes and raisins; baked capons adorned with sprigs of parsley and florets of carrots all basking in butter and garlic. Every presentation was more spectacular than the previous one; every concoction was served in the king’s own gold monogrammed porcelain. The waiters paraded in with immense fanfare provided by Court musicians and circled the tables before laying their terrines in front of the guests. It took hours and hours to present the dishes, eat, and then remove the plates for the next round.

  After a long rest period, the elegantly attired staff reappeared with sweets: apricots, strawberries (in winter, just imagine!), red cherries, white cherries, limes, raisins, walnuts, almonds, and preserves of all types. Waiters balanced mountains of cheese on silver trays and returned with creams, puddings, tarts, flaky cakes, and mounds of frothy cream whipped into peaks and decorated with berries and comfitures.

  The following day, the Puerta del Sol was cleared temporarily of soldiers—they were too visible a reminder of reality, and anyway, they would get in the way of the day of dancing arranged for the common folks. In the streets, women flirted shamelessly with men they would never see again. Rumor had it that a young veiled coquette caught the attention of a prowling caballero, who didn’t recognize his own sister behind the long, black mantilla! When he tried to follow her, she took off through a side street and lost him. Hours later, the frustrated lothario dragged himself home, where he found his sister in her room, pretending she’d been at her prayers the whole time. When he bemoaned his rotten luck, she scolded, “That’s what you
get for trying to pick up veiled women! Who knows what kind of a floozy she was!”

  No one who was in Madrid in the winter of 1629 would ever forget those nine days of total excess. Party after party. Nine days of partying in all. Early in December, the king ordered bullfights in the Plaza Mayor, which were followed by cañas, in which the king and the count-duke rode together in the same quadrille. More silks and satins, gold and emeralds. And for ordinary Madrileños, more fun and merriment in the streets. The baptismal celebrations ended with one final grand dinner and ball to mark the departure of María Ana, Queen of Hungary, for her new realm.

  The truth is, I hated the whole thing. During the banquets, the balls, the bullfights, and the cañas, all I could think about was the poor soldier Carlos. Images of Carlos pursued me through the cream-soaked, sugar-dusted, diamond-studded hours. Carlos chewing the air in his dreams; Carlos sucking saliva and ice to stave off hunger; Carlos stealing bread to stay alive; Carlos wading in pools of blood and mud and shit; Carlos cowering in an abandoned farmhouse. Soldiers freezing. Soldiers falling. Soldiers dying.

  Soldiers scattered over the steps of San Felipe in the Puerta del Sol, shivering and sobbing, while the king and his guests savored fresh fruit and tortes and fine liqueurs.

  Velázquez never wrote to his wife the whole time he was in Italy. But many years later, I came upon the following letter to Pacheco folded, like Fonseca’s letter from many years earlier, between the pages of El arte de la pintura. It’s not dated, but it must have been composed around September, 1630.

  Dear Father-in-Law,

  God be with you. I have been working and traveling incessantly since I came to this country of excess and confusion. Upon my arrival I went immediately to Venice to see the Titians. The Spanish ambassador received me amiably, but I was anxious to get to Rome, so I left after only about a week. On my way I spent a couple of days in Ferrara with Cardinal Giulio Sacchetti, whom I had met when he was papal nuncio in Madrid. He was kind enough to introduce me to many of his friends, so many in fact that I don’t remember all their names. I then left for Rome, where Cardinal Francesco Barberini put me up in some rooms of the Vatican Palace on the outskirts of Rome. He was surprisingly gracious considering how aloof he was when he was in Madrid. At the time he said my painting was dull and static, but maybe he views my anxiousness to learn from the Italian masters as a sign of promise.