I am Venus

by Barbara Mujica

  “I care about you, Diego,” she began. “She doesn’t. Otherwise she wouldn’t be making a fool out of you.”

  Velázquez frowned as he dipped his brush into a tiny pot. “Well, I was abroad and she needed someone.”

  “How can you remain so unruffled? Everyone’s whispering. It makes you look terrible.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Will you? Will you get rid of her? That way, you and I could …”

  “I told you—I’ll take care of it.”

  Constanza arched her back and stuck out the tip of her tongue like a kitten. If people were talking, he had to do something. At the very least, he could confine Juana to their home, or move her to an obscure corner of the city. Perhaps he’d even send her back to Seville or put her in a convent. Which would mean that he’d have more time for Constanza.

  She didn’t actually say these things out loud, but Velázquez sensed that she was thinking them.

  “Do you promise?” she purred.

  “I’m working, Constanza,” he said. “I’ll think about it. Please leave now.”

  Velázquez was troubled, of course. What man wouldn’t be? Especially a man like him. After all, he was a courtier, not just a painter. There was talk of making him royal wardrobe assistant—a highly enviable position. He was beginning to dare to hope that he would someday be named a Knight of the Order of Santiago, one of the most elite societies in Spain. Maybe it was sheer fantasy, yet one could wish. But a scandal concerning his wife would ruin everything.

  Velázquez pursed his lips as he applied swaths of gray-green to the background. Trees and forests appeared magically behind Saint Anthony, who stood resolutely facing the Devil. Velázquez put down his brush and stepped away from the canvas. He stared at his character, old and infirm, yet strong before danger. Saint Anthony was a tough man, thought Velázquez, not because he attacked his enemy with cunning and stealth, but because he looked him in the eye. Rather than sneak around and spy on his wife like a cuckold in a comedia, Velázquez decided to do what characters in plays never did: he would simply ask Juana to explain what happened.

  Mazo came in and began mixing pigment in a corner. Suddenly, he looked up. The two men locked eyes. Velázquez’s breathing had become jagged.

  Mazo looked around as though he thought he might find something appropriate to say floating up by the moldings. “Forgive me …” he began. “Forgive me, Don Diego, but you look troubled. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  The younger man glided across the room cautiously, so as not to spill any paint. Then he picked up a brush and began to fill in the mountains Velázquez had outlined above the forest.

  “Don Diego?” Mazo said without looking away from his work.

  Velázquez smiled. “Yes,” he said softly, “I believe there is something you can do for me.”

  That night, Velázquez found Juana sitting by the brazier in her estrado, Paquita crouched on a cushion in front of her. Both of them were squinting into the flickering light and laughing. Instead of the dainty giggle of a Court lady, Paquita had the full-throated chortle of a farm girl. On a nearby table, an oil lamp sputtered and glimmered. Juana had laid her embroidery on her lap in order to give her full attention to her daughter.

  Velázquez stood in the doorway. Paquita was a satisfying child, he thought—boisterous and unladylike, but smart, good-natured, and disarming. He would have liked to have a son, yes, but God, he knew, distributed riches in unpredictable ways. Some are blessed with children, some with wealth, and some with talent. It’s true that some have everything, but most don’t, and he had no reason to complain. He was the king’s favorite painter, and he was on his way to a promotion. Still, he felt deeply burdened that evening, as if a heavy ball of wax had lodged itself in his stomach. He had no taste for what he knew he had to do.

  His eyes passed from his wife to his daughter. He had been wrong, he realized. Paquita wasn’t a child, but a young woman. She was only twelve, but her breasts heaved under her bodice, and her movements revealed the confidence and carriage of a young lady. Yes, she could be silly, but what woman is above silliness? And Juana? Velázquez searched her face for signs of betrayal, but there, in the shimmer of the flame, he saw only candor.

  “Paquita,” said Velázquez pleasantly, “would you mind giving your señora madre and me a moment alone? We need to speak about a private matter.” He sat down on a stool by the window as Paquita hurried out.

  “What is it?” asked Juana after the girl had closed the door.

  Velázquez noted that his wife seemed perfectly composed. He knew, of course, that women could be cunning where adultery was involved, and yet Juana gave no sign of nerves.

  “Doña Juana,” he began. “People are talking …”

  “About what?” She picked up her embroidery and began to cover a white handkerchief with tiny blue petals.

  “About the prince’s baptism, Juana.” He made his voice as soft and gentle as he could, as unthreatening as possible. If he was going to catch her in a lie, the worst thing he could do was alarm her.

  “Still? Whatever for? That was nearly two years ago. I can’t imagine there’s anything left to say.”

  Did she sound a bit testy? Velázquez pondered the possibility. A bit defensive? “Nevertheless, Juana, many are still talking about the baptism, at least as it concerns me.”

  “You? You weren’t even here! You were in Italy.” Juana was looking at him as though he were out of his mind.

  “That’s precisely the point, Juana. I wasn’t here, but you went anyway.”

  “What did you expect me to do? Stay at home for the biggest event of the social season? What would their Majesties have thought if Velázquez hadn’t been represented at the event of the decade?”

  “You went with another man!” He struggled to strike a delicate balance in his tone—he wanted to sound emphatic, but not accusatory.

  Juana looked at him for a long time, and Velázquez stared back, trying to read her expression. All of a sudden, she burst out laughing.

  “Another man! I went with your apprentice, Juan Bautista Martínez del Mazo! I hardly kept it a secret, Diego. I myself told you about it.”

  “The point is, Juana, he’s a man, you’re a woman, and people draw conclusions.”

  “Virgen santísima, husband. I’m a married woman, thirty-two years old. Mazo is a child.”

  Velázquez knew there was no point in delving further. Juana had gone to the affair accompanied by her daughter and two maids, not only by Mazo. She had walked into the church with him in full view of the Court. She wasn’t a brazen woman—if she had had something to hide, she would have been far more subtle in her behavior. He knew all of this—he had always known it, and he felt foolish for forcing this conversation on her, but even so, if people were impugning his honor, he had to set the situation right.

  “They’re gossiping about it at Court, Juana. They look at me askance.”

  “I see …” She knew the rules as well as he did. If a man became the subject of public chatter, he had to cleanse his name. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to believe that her husband would actually harm her. “What do you propose?”

  “I’ve been thinking …”

  “About running me through with a sword?”

  “I’ve been thinking about Paquita. She’s nearly thirteen.”

  “Oh, Diego, no. She’s just a baby.”

  “If you went to the baptism accompanied by your daughter’s fiancé, no one would think anything of it.”

  “Fiancé. You mean Mazo.”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it? I married my painting master’s daughter. It’s logical that my apprentice would marry Paquita.”

  Juana put down her embroidery and sighed. Tiny wrinkles were forming by her eyes, and in the flicker of the fire, her skin looked rough in spite of the pomades of animal fat she rubbed on her cheeks every night. “Well … She likes him, I know that much.” Juana paused and looked int
o the flame. “He told her she had talent.”

  “She does, it’s true, but she won’t have much need for it once she starts having babies. I’ll talk to him, and if he agrees, you can talk to her. Where’s Arabela? It will be up to her to prepare Paquita’s trousseau.”

  “Oh! I forgot to tell you. Arabela had a visitor today. A young man. Looked like a soldier. Shabby and scruffy.”

  “If he’s looking for work, we don’t have anything.”

  “I don’t think he was looking for work. He wanted to talk to Arabela. He asked for her by name.”

  “At her age?”

  “Why are you so suspicious today? I have the impression he’s a relative.”

  “I didn’t know Arabela had family. Who does she say he is?”

  “I haven’t seen her. In fact, she might still be downstairs talking to him. Although maybe not. It’s pretty late. Should I call for her?”

  “No, let me talk to Mazo first. Then, if he agrees, we can start planning.”

  “Well, I don’t think he’ll need much convincing,” Juana said to herself, grinning slightly.

  13

  FAMILY BUSINESS

  1633–1635

  “I WAS CAREFUL. I DIDN’T WANT TO FRIGHTEN HER. I WASHED my shirt and my feet. The shirt is so threadbare in places that my chest hairs stick out of it, but it’s the only one I have. I’d have liked her to see me in a new suit of clothes with no patches or tears, but you have what you have. I didn’t want to disappoint her, but I did.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t care about your clothes.”

  “‘We used to know each other,’ I said to her. ‘A long time ago.’ She didn’t say anything for a long time. Then she … I don’t know to explain it … she kind of moved her mouth without speaking and caught her breath. I thought she might faint, but she didn’t. She just sort of crumpled onto a stool. She’s not ugly, you know. I mean, for a woman her age. I thought she’d be all wrinkled, crags from her nose to her lips. She has creases around her eyes, of course, and furrows over her brow, but she’s not a hag.”

  “Of course not, Carlos,” I said. “Arabela was a pretty woman when she was young, and she’s aged well.”

  “Finally she said to me: ‘In Seville? Did I know you in Seville?’

  “‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I looked different then. I was a child.’ She blinked at me and her jaw tightened. I could see her straining to figure it out. Then her gaze shifted. She stared down at the floorboards and moved her foot as though she were mashing ashes into the ground. When she finally lifted her eyes, she fixed them on the wall behind me. I knew then that she understood. What did I expect her to do? Jump up and hug me? No, that’s not our way. We’re reserved. ‘Are you … a chandler?’ she asked finally.

  “‘No. I was apprenticed to a chandler, but I ran away and became a soldier.’ She mulled over this new piece of information.”

  “Remember, Carlos,” I interjected. “This was a shock for her. She hadn’t seen you in decades.”

  “But she didn’t seem shocked,” Carlos said. “She just sat there, hunched over on her stool. It was as though she’d always known I’d come back, but hadn’t decided how she’d react when I did. ‘I was in the Low Countries,’ I told her, ‘fighting Protestants for His Majesty, King Felipe IV.’ I opened my shirt and showed her my shoulder. ‘See this, Mother?’ I said. ‘It’s a bullet wound. It’s healed, though.’

  “All of a sudden, her features hardened. ‘You look poor,’ she growled. ‘I can’t give you anything. I’m poor myself. Born poor, die poor, that’s how it is for people like me.’

  “‘You live in a nice house, Mother,’ I said.

  “‘It’s not my house,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t have anything of my own. Once in a while the señora gives me an old dress or a pair of shoes. But I have nothing to share.’”

  Carlos must have felt as though she’d booted him in the gut, but all he said to me was: “I told her it didn’t matter, I was going away again.”

  “Are you?” I asked him.

  “Yes, I am. I’m going to Peru. I told my Mother: ‘In the New World a man like me can make a future for himself. I’m still young. I know how to fight. If you win territory for the king, he’ll make you a gentleman. He’ll give you land and all the Indians in it. There are opportunities in the colonies, Mother. If I say here, I’ll starve.’

  “‘You may starve anyway,’ she said. I laughed. I assumed it was a joke, but even so, I felt uneasy. After that, I shut up. The explosion of words had worn me out. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t know how to end the conversation. ‘What about a wife?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Are you going to take an Indian woman?’ My mother is a servant, but she’s proud of her Old Christian blood. She didn’t want half-breed grandchildren—even if they were halfway around the world.

  “‘The king sends boatloads of Spanish women to the colonies every year,’ I told her, ‘just so Spanish men won’t marry Indians. Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll be waiting by the dock when the ships come in with Christian señoritas.’

  “‘Probably damaged goods,’ retorted Arabela. ‘Ugly or deflowered or dowerless. Or else some lovechild someone wants to get out of the way.’

  “‘It doesn’t matter,’ I told her. ‘In the New World, nobody knows where you came from. And I’ll make enough money that I won’t need a dowry. As for whether or not she’s a beauty … well, sometimes you have to take what you can get. I’m old enough to know that.’”

  Carlos asked Arabela for his blessing, and she gave it to him. I suppose that she had never really known her son, and so she didn’t miss him when he left. At least, nobody ever heard her crying. He appeared in her life suddenly, and he left the same way. It wasn’t until years later that she found out what happened to him.

  It is just before dawn, during the spectral hour before things take on color. Houses, horses, coaches, and fountains that shine bronze in the daylight are nothing more than monochrome shadows at dawn. The air reeks of rotting leaves and piss from chamber pots. Cold grips your temples like pincers. Your nostrils stick together and your throat burns raw. I see you, a silhouette gliding over dull cobblestones. You shouldn’t be out alone, not without a maid. You shouldn’t be floating like a ghost through the dark. But Velázquez has called for you. He says he must speak to you. He has something urgent to tell you. You can’t wait for daybreak. You know that he and Mazo are already in the studio. They arrive before dawn to prepare for the day’s work. They clean brushes by candlelight and stretch canvases. They perform those tasks that don’t require natural light.

  I can see you in my mind’s eye, even though I’m crouching here by the window of my cell with paper and quill. I’m supposed to be shelling peas in the convent kitchen. I’ll go down and finish my tasks as soon as I write these few lines. I see you, even though we’re separated by time and space. I see you now and I see you when I work alone in the kitchen—Cintia never helps with the household chores—and I close my eyes and remember. I see you climbing the stairs, opening the door, entering the studio. You slip off your cape and wait for instructions. Velázquez nods at Mazo, and the younger man leaves the room.

  “When do we begin?” you whisper.

  “Not yet,” he responds. “Not today and, quite frankly, not for a while.”

  “But I thought … You said you wanted to see me.”

  “You didn’t have to come before dawn. I only wanted to tell you we’re going to have to wait. I have too much work right now, and what with Paquita’s wedding …”

  “You said it wasn’t going to be a grandiose affair.”

  “It isn’t, but there are decisions to be made. The dress is of primary importance. I’m going to pick out the fabrics myself, and it will be an involved process.”

  “… But surely the mother …”

  “… No, I’m going to do it. It’s an investment. The fabric will have to be resold afterward. I can’t let Juana do it on her own.”

  I see you scrunching up your face
. Squinting and puckering your lips. You’re prepared to pout and sniff, but Velázquez raises his hand and halts the show, the way he always does when he senses a storm brewing. “I have no time for tantrums, Constanza.” By now light is streaming through the window, the low, pale light of an autumn daybreak. As soon as the angle and intensity are right, he’ll want to get to work. You should leave. “I have this canvas to finish, and afterward the king wants a painting commemorating the siege of Breda. I’ll have to leave before dusk because the seamstress is coming by the house. Juana and Paquita will have something to say about the style, of course, but I will oversee the cloth and trims.”

  “A year has gone by since we first talked about the painting. By the time you get to it, I’ll be old and fat!”

  “I’ll find someone else, then,” says Velázquez cruelly. He is already engrossed in his work. If you say something else, he won’t hear you.

  “I hate you!” you blurt out. Maybe you stomp out of the room or maybe you hold back, weeping softly, praying he’ll change his mind.

  Velázquez told me about that encounter many years after it happened, Constanza. When I think about it, I can’t help but pity you. I didn’t really know you back then, but I’d seen you at Court flirting with the handsome young men who went hunting with the king. People talked about you. Courtiers had seen you and Velázquez at one of the royal lodges. You followed Velázquez around like a hound puppy, even though your husband was right there in the tracking party. Ah yes, Constanza, you were hunting, but not for boar. What happened at that lodge? In those days, I saw you as a rival—how could I not?—but now I feel pity for you. You wanted so much to be Venus. You were such a pretty girl, so full of ambition. Why did things have to end so badly?

  Back at the house on Calle de Convalescientes, Juana and Paquita huddled over bolts of fabric and fashion engravings with the dressmaker.