“Papá says he will make the final decision,” grumbled Paquita, “but that doesn’t seem fair. I’m the one who’s going to be wearing the dress.”
“We can look at the cloth and see what we like,” said Juana. “But he’s going to pay for it, so he makes the final decision.”
“I imagine you’ll want a bell farthingale,” said the dressmaker importantly. “The verdugado redondo is very stylish.” She opened a fashion book with pictures of wide hoop contraptions, and pointed to the verdugado, a stiff petticoat cinched tightly at the waist that gave form to the overskirt.
By the time Velázquez arrived for the midday meal, Paquita had set aside four or five bolts of fabric to show her father: a peach-colored silk, a flesh-colored satin, a pale pink figured gauze with an elaborate pomegranate design. Brocade was out of the question—the new sumptuary laws forbade it.
Velázquez vetoed the print the minute he saw it. “That one is too fragile,” he observed. “It’ll fall apart when you take out the stitching.”
“But these pomegranate and artichoke motifs are fashionable right now!”
“Well, see if there’s one that isn’t so flimsy.”
After the wedding, the dress would be disassembled, and every part of it, from the fabric to the trim to the buttons and hooks, would be sold, so that Velázquez could recuperate his outlay. That’s what everyone did. Otherwise, how could a man afford to marry off a daughter?
In the end he chose a soft coral silk. The following week, the dressmaker appeared with drawings of a funnel skirt with a close bodice cut low and square to allow for a huge collar and a velvet vest of a deeper shade, long and pointed to extend the torso. Paquita peered at the sketches. From underneath, a salmon-colored crinoline petticoat peeked out, repeating the motif of the lace ruff, which was stiffened to extend at the sides and back. Although a wealthier man might have ordered ornate embroidery incrusted with jewels, Velázquez settled for silver braid trimming. Paquita insisted on fashionably tight sleeves with over-sleeves of rose printed satin with gauzy blush-hued cuffs. Although the feet would be invisible, Velázquez picked out a silk high-heeled shoe, open at the back and adorned with rhinestones.
“How will I walk in this petticoat?” exclaimed Paquita. “To sit down I’ll have to take it off and hold it in my hand!”
Arrangements for the betrothal hadn’t been complicated. Mazo lived in a small room in Velázquez’s house, and he shared Velázquez’s studio at Court. Nothing much would change, except that the young couple would move to a sunny suite facing the street on an upper floor. Eventually, perhaps, Mazo would be able to purchase his own house, but for the moment, this would do. Velázquez offered a dowry of ten thousand ducats.
The wedding was set for late September, after the summer’s stifling heat and before the sad pageants of All Souls’ Day and the Day of the Dead. Earlier in the month, Velázquez painted a lovely wedding portrait of Paquita, a testament as much to the loveliness of the child as to the magnificent finery her father had provided. She wore a long, gold necklace that had been Juana’s and would now be part of her dowry, as well as jewels she borrowed from friends. In the Italian style, she carried a little brown and white spaniel for the portrait. It appeared in the picture with blue bows on its ears and tiny diamond earrings. Paquita hadn’t actually posed with the dog—Velázquez was terrified that if she did, it would rip the subtle stitching to shreds. Instead, he quickly sketched the puppy of one of the Court ladies and integrated it into the painting afterward.
Not six months after the betrothal ceremony, the wedding party set off from Velázquez’s house on Convalescientes to the neighborhood church where the couple was to be married. A small band of friends and relatives lined up in the foyer. It was Sunday, of course, and church bells filled the air—the cathedral bells with their rich, baritone clang; the parish bells with their tenor chime; the tiny bells of the monastery chapel, with their dainty tinkle. Although Madrid can be rainy in the fall, the sun peeked out from a somber firmament and the clouds held their moisture.
The musicians waited outside the house with their pipes and their drums. When the lead piper gave the signal, they began their slow march through the streets of the city. The bride followed, accompanied by girls carrying rosemary and garlands of wheat tied in colorful satin ribbons. Next came the groom and his companions, all dressed in bright colors and elegant plumes. As they wound their way through the city, people called out to the betrothed from their balconies. “May you be rich and healthy!” “May you have a dozen sons!”
Velázquez and Juana waited inside the church—he in the men’s section, and she in the women’s. His entourage was composed of the count-duke, courtiers, and painters, as well as Mazo’s father, brothers, uncles, and male cousins. Hers was made up of Mazo’s mother and female relatives, a handful of friends, Arabela, and Julia.
After the ceremony, Paquita and her party gathered at Velázquez’s house, where a notary was waiting. He was a tall, thin man with a ruddy complexion, and he wore a long burgundy cape and a red cap encircled by a ribbon. In his official outfit, he looked like a giant rhubarb carrying a large book.
Shortly afterward, Mazo appeared with his entourage. The notary took his place at one end of the sala and adopted an imposing stance. The bride and groom stood at either side of the room. He cleared his throat and turned toward Paquita.
“Do you, Doña Francisca, take Don Juan to be your lawful husband freely and without duress?” he asked, repeating the question the priest had asked in the church.
“Yes, I do,” whispered Paquita, blushing.
Then, turning toward Mazo, he said, “And you, Don Juan, do you take Doña Francisca to be your lawful wife freely and without duress?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
Arabela was sobbing like a Magdalene. She had watched her son walk out of her life without shedding a tear, but this was different. Paquita had grown up clinging to Arabela’s skirts. It was Arabela, not Juana, who had swaddled her and changed her diapers, who had brushed and bathed her. Arabela had nursed her through fevers and through her mother’s melancholia after the death of baby Ignacia. She had watched Paquita grow into a young woman, with gentle curves, smooth skin, and tresses the color of almond kernels. And now, Paquita was getting married, even though she still played with a cup and ball.
After the notary had received the couple’s statement of mutual consent, he tipped his leafy head toward Paquita and walked toward her holding out his hand. He led her to her new husband, and the bride and groom exchanged rings before their parents and guests. Everyone cheered, but sedately, as behooved courtiers. The guests then moved into the dining room for the wedding banquet.
The company sat at two long tables, the men with Mazo and the women with Paquita. It was mushroom season, and most of the huge platters that servants brought in were filled with mushrooms in one form or another—in stews, pies, soups. Afterward there were fruits and cakes and spiced wine for the ladies, and brandy for the men. Musicians circulated through the room enlivening the atmosphere. Sometime before the guests left, Paquita and Mazo snuck upstairs to their new living quarters.
Juana watched them go. She hadn’t cried all evening, but now, suddenly, a tempest welled up inside her.
“The baby,” she whispered to Velázquez. “Our baby. I remember the day she was born. Old Almedina delivered her.” Her voice sounded throaty to her own ear, and her hands quivered like aspen leaves in the breeze.
Velázquez laid his hand on her shoulder. He was still a handsome young man of thirty-four, with untamed black hair, a gallant mustache, and a neatly trimmed beard. His swarthy skin, glistened with perspiration. It had been a nerve-wracking day, and although it wasn’t hot, the strain of receiving guests and the heavy party clothes left him drenched. Still, he appeared composed as he steadied his wife, one hand under her elbow and one around her back.
Juana sobbed into his fine velvet sleeve. Quiet, constrained little sobs. “I can’t help thinking …�
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Velázquez stroked her cheek. “Don’t torture yourself, Juana. God’s ways will always remain mysterious to us.”
“But if she had lived …”
“I know, Juana,” he whispered.
“If she had lived, we’d be planning her wedding soon, too.”
“She’s with God now—what else is there to say?”
“I miss her, Diego. I miss my little Ignacia.”
“I miss her too,” he whispered.
I suspect that he was lying. The truth is, I don’t think that Velázquez ever thought of Ignacia. He lived for his work, after all, and he was driven by ambition.
“It was a lovely wedding,” said Velázquez, as he deposited Juana in her suite.
“Except …”
“Yes, except Ignacia …”
“Ignacia and Papá.”
Pacheco had written a fortnight earlier. He just couldn’t come to the wedding, he said. He was too old and too infirm. His right hip hurt, and his knees ached. He could no longer sit in a carriage for hours on end—the jarring thud of wagon wheels against the rocky, mountain road were too much for him. I understand what he meant. Now that I’m old, everything hurts me, too, especially my fingers, my wrist, and my right shoulder. That’s what happens when you get to be my age. There isn’t a single part of your body that doesn’t torture you once in a while, except … well, except those parts that torture you all the time.
I’m too tired to copy down Pacheco’s entire letter. My eyes are bothering me and the joints of my fingers are swollen. On top of everything, my head is throbbing. I’ll just copy down a paragraph, and then I’ll go back to my room and pray to Saint Teresa, the patron saint of headaches.
I’m truly sorry to miss the wedding of my only granddaughter, but as I explained above, I simply can’t travel anymore. And I have another piece of sad news to relate to you, my dearest Juana. Our cherished Sister Inmaculada, spiritual director to us all, passed from this valley of tears just one week ago today. The Carmelite sisters gave her a lovely burial. They have the voices of angels, these dear women, and they sang so beautifully at her funeral mass. I know you haven’t seen her in years, but she never failed to ask about you. She loved you very much, Juana, just as she loved your blessed mother. We will miss her sorely.
The night of Paquita’s wedding, Juana wept for her daughter’s bygone girlhood, and for her own impending old age. She was still in her early thirties, but soon she would be a grandmother, which meant she would be old. She wept for her dead baby Ignacia, gone to eternal life before she had known the joy and bitterness of this one. She wept for her father’s absence and his infirmities, and for the passing of her old friend Sister Inmaculada, who had comforted her after she’d lost her mother. She crumpled into her chair and wept until her eyes stung, a broken carcass of sorrow.
Juana wanted to go to her husband. She wanted to lie in his arms and feel the warmth of his chest and his breath on her cheek. She wanted to feel his touch, his fingers on her aching temples. Only Velázquez could breathe life into her wrecked body. So she rose from her chair, put on her shawl, lit a candle, and made her way down the hall.
Spring followed winter and summer followed spring. Day blended into day, sunrise into daylight, dusk into dark. Time is mystifying. Some incidents you remember in stark detail, but then whole months or even years go by in a blur.
For example, Velázquez did in fact become royal wardrobe assistant, and he passed his usher’s title to Mazo. There must have been a ceremony or at least an announcement, but I don’t remember. And he finished The Surrender of Breda. I’m sure there was an unveiling, but it’s a blank in my mind. Still, the painting’s there, hanging in the Hall of Realms. War broke out with France, the Pope condemned Galileo as a heretic, Calderón wrote his marvelous new play Life Is a Dream—everybody knows these things happened. But what was I doing? I can’t tell you. It’s a fog. It’s strange how you get lost in the day-to-day and forget that outside your little world things are happening.
The next thing I remember with any clarity took place three years after the wedding, on a brisk fall afternoon. Juana was rocking baby Ana while Arabela amused two-year-old Juanita with a cat’s cradle. Juana had taken the baby from her nurse for the sheer pleasure of holding her. It wasn’t her place to be rocking the infant, of course—Velázquez thought it unseemly for a grandmother to perform such duties herself—but Juana refused to be deterred. The sensation of a squirming newborn against her breast, the sweet perfume of freshly scented swaddling clothes—these were joys she had no wish to forgo. Juanita would be sent away soon enough to a convent school or farmed out to a petty noblewoman to be educated in reading, writing, and the feminine arts of spinning and embroidery, as was customary for the offspring of courtiers. While the children were nearby, she would enjoy them.
“Ana, Anita,” she cooed. “La la la Anita.” The tiny body was a warm, moist sponge against her body. She held the child closer, and the baby gurgled.
“Don’t you want to put her in the cradle, señora? She might get accustomed to being held.”
Juana closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “What of it, Arabela?” she murmured. “What of it?”
Sapphire shadows crept across the walls, the familiar harbingers of evening. Forms grew indistinct—the cradle, the cot, the pile of diapers, Arabela’s furrowed brow and slackening jaw. The rocking chair creaked, its irregular, whiny music somehow reassuring.
The nursery door cracked and a silhouette appeared in the doorway. It was Julia.
“There’s someone to see you, señora.” Juana had never seen her fair-skinned maid look so flustered. Julia’s voice was low and uncertain, as though she were hiding something. She looked down at her apron. “It’s Lidia,” she whispered. “Lidia, the housemaid … the one who used to work here.”
Juana’s gaze met Arabela’s.
“Lidia … it can’t be.” Juana felt her arms go rubbery. Alarmed that she might drop the baby, she stumbled out of the chair, clutching it against her. Arabela took the child and laid her in the cradle. “Say I’m not here! The nerve! How dare she set foot in this house!”
Julia pursed her lips. She stared at the floorboards. “Señora,” she stammered. “Forgive me … but I think you should see her.”
“You go,” snapped Juana, clamping her eyes on Arabela.
The old woman gathered up her shawl and slipped out of the room behind Julia.
Ten minutes later, she was back.
“You have to go, Doña Juana,” she said calmly.
“But …”
“You have to go.”
14
APPEARANCES
1636–1638
“LIDIA,” JUANA HISSED UNDER HER BREATH. “LIDIA!” LIDIA, with her delicate frame, her curvaceous hips, and gazelle-like neck. With her soft brown hair. Her irritating habit of placing flowers in Juana’s room. Her more irritating habit of hovering over Juana’s husband. She had posed for his first painting of the Virgin! Lidia—the Virgin! What about Lidia the slut who couldn’t take her eyes off another woman’s man!
Lidia hadn’t occupied Juana’s thoughts for years. The last thing Juana had heard was that the girl’s husband had been promoted to carpenter and shipped off to one of the sitios reales, where His Majesty and his men chased boars all day, danced all night, and slept with every woman in sight. “What does she want in this house?” Juana asked herself as she trudged down the stairs.
Juana approached the servants’ entrance with the regal bearing of Empress Leonora of the Holy Roman Empire. She thrust out her chest, raised her chin, and prepared to issue a command: “Get out of this house!”
But at the sight of Lidia, she deflated. This was not the sassy housemaid she remembered. This woman looked old, at least twenty years older than Juana. Her face was filthy and wadded like a clump of grimy cobwebs. And where were the tiny breasts and waist? This ghoul had a torso like a lumpy pillow. She moved unsteadily, limping and in obvious pain. Her lower li
p was swollen and her jaw had turned a nauseating yellow-tinged blue. Juana gulped air and stared. The visitor stared back out of watery eyes.
Yes, Juana decided after a moment, this actually was Lidia. Behind the damaged exterior she detected a trace of Lidia’s old sultry fierceness, her defiant determination. The woman was a bruised flower, but noxious and barbed, like a thorn apple blossom. The bundle in Lidia’s arms shifted position and whimpered. The baby looked to be eight or ten months old and seemed out of place. Juana was afraid Lidia would drop it and beckoned to her to sit down, but the former maid remained standing.
“Gracias, señora, thank you for seeing me.” Her voice seemed obstructed. She could hardly push out the words.
Juana signaled to Julia to take the baby. Julia scowled as if such a task were beneath her. Her job was to accompany her mistress to Court, her crinkled brow seemed to say, not play nanny to a battered carpenter’s wife.
“Sit down there, on that bench by the fire. I’ll have them bring you some broth from the kitchen,” said Juana. Then, anticipating protests, she added: “Don’t argue with me.”
“Gracias, señora.” In spite of herself, Lidia cowered under Juana’s gaze.
With an unsteady hand, she sucked the broth through swollen lips. The warmth of it seemed to soothe her. Tears trickled from her eyes, and Juana looked away. Lidia reminded her of a storm-battered kitten she had once pulled out from a clump of bushes. Pacheco had told her to get rid of it, but the animal was scrappy and feisty and determined to survive, so she kept it anyway, in the kitchen and out of sight, where it grew into a fine, fat mouser. Would this woman recover as the cat had? Juana had hated this woman, wished her dead, but now she felt an unexpected compassion—and admiration for that boldness that had brought her out of whatever messy situation she was in and back to the place that had been her home. What could have happened to her? Juana thought it would be insensitive to press for an explanation just yet, so when Lidia had finished her broth, Juana ordered Julia to find a place for her and her child in the servants’ quarters and let her rest.
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