“I think she hated him because he brought Don Felipe to my house.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Cintia. Doña Isabel had more important things to think about. Those were terrible years. Plague, crop failures, inflation, and those interminable wars that Olivares started. And Doña Isabel struggling through it all to keep the country together. When Catalonia rebelled and the king went to put down the uprising, she saw her chance to go after Olivares. Anyhow, by then he was nuts.”
“They say he lost his mind after his daughter and her baby died.”
“He picked fights with everybody. He couldn’t govern anymore.”
“Well, at least he was a steady customer. It was good while it lasted.”
I close my eyes and listen to the leaves crackle under Cintia’s feet. The cold bites my cheeks and my ears. I look at my hands and see that they’re quivering. Cintia taps her pipe against the edge of the bench, and a little mound of tobacco falls to the ground. She spits on it and wipes her mouth on her sleeve. She’s a vulgar woman, that Cintia, but what can you expect from a whoremonger?
It was a day like this one when Velázquez set out for Italy for the second time with his slave and disciple, Juan de Pareja. By then Melgar was dead, and Pareja had replaced him. Velázquez was fond of Pareja. Sometimes he had him finish off the details in his work—repetitive patterns in clothes, that sort of thing. When they were in Rome, Velazquez signed the papers to give Juan his freedom. He also painted his portrait, which was displayed at a big exhibition at the Pantheon. Velazquez was proud of the painting. It was the first time he’d been able to create such interesting optical effects through the use of variations in surface. Pareja’s suit is gray, but changes subtly from warmer to cooler tones to create a sense of light dancing on the cloth. I never saw it, of course, but Velázquez described it.
“Juan was a customer of mine,” says Cintia, bursting into my thoughts. “He was swarthy, but the girls liked him. Anyway, that’s why I know about the boy. Velázquez’s love child, I mean.”
“Shut up, Cintia.”
“It must have been about 1649 when they left. I remember it was right before the outbreak of the second great plague.”
Cintia pauses and hunches down against the wind. The October air slices at you like a knife. Leaves swirl in little circles—brown, red, orange, and yellow whirligigs spun by invisible hands.
I mean to get up but instead settle back onto the bench. The mention of the plague brings back memories. Sickness and death everywhere. It was even worse than the pestilence in Seville at the turn of the century. “It must have been right before they threw out Olivares, and Haro came in. Everything was falling apart. Haro just wasn’t a favorite in the same way the count-duke had been.”
“By then the king had fallen under the spell of Sister María de Ágreda,” Cintia says.
“María de Ágreda … The flying nun.”
“I never believed those stories about how she flew through the air without ever leaving her cell to preach to the Indians in Texas and New Mexico. That’s bullshit.”
“With God’s help, anything is possible.”
Don Felipe had met María de Ágreda on one of his trips to Aragon in 1643. I remember it was in 1643 because it was the same year that Pacheco died. She was the abbess of the Convent of the Immaculate Conception, and they said she bilocated: she could be in the American territories and in her convent in Ágreda at the same time.
“I hated that old nun,” says Cintia. “She made the king feel guilty about his innocent pleasures. But that’s stupid. Brothels keep poor girls in decent clothes and give men something to do in their leisure. Besides, it’s a natural thing … but anyway, King Felipe was feeling guilty, so he stopped coming.”
“The king was getting married, Cintia.”
“So he was getting married! That’s no reason to give up whoring!”
“What a selfish woman you are!”
“I remember Queen Isabel’s funeral. A cortège from here to the moon and months of national mourning. I’m telling you, everything contrived against me, a poor old woman just trying to keep bread on her table. What I remember most is that they closed the theaters. That was María de Ágreda’s idea. Men like to go to the theater in the afternoon, then have a nice fuck afterward. But the old nun insisted performances be suspended during the mourning period. The best plays are the ones about girls who lose the jewel. The heroine dresses up as a man so she can go look for the cad who screwed her and trap him into marriage. My customers would see those actresses parading around in britches, showing off their legs. They’d come out of the theater all worked up, and I’d make a killing. On a good night, the ducats would pile up like shit in the gutters. But María de Ágreda …”
“Don’t be vulgar, Cintia.”
“Why not? I’m a whoremonger. The king was in Zaragoza when he got the news that the queen had a fever. He was headed for the campaign in Catalonia, but he turned around and headed home. Six royal doctors attended her. They gave her potions and bled her, but she died anyway. They say the king just fell apart. He didn’t even want to see the body. He hid at the sitio real in El Pardo. Prince Baltasar Carlos rode out to be with him. Don Felipe wrote long letters to María de Ágreda looking for consolation.”
“Funny how these unfaithful husbands get so religious when their wives die,” I say.
“Bah, it’s a natural thing.”
“You see everything through the dished glass of your brothel window, Cintia.”
“My brothel didn’t have glass windows. I was just a poor workingwoman, don’t forget. Anyway, everyone sees things through distorted glass. That’s the way of the world.”
“Velázquez was at the height of his career when he went back to Italy. He’d just been named Superintendent of Royal Works, and he was in charge of furnishing El Buen Retiro. In spite of the fact that his coffers were empty, Don Felipe raised Velázquez’s stipend to seven hundred ducats. Velázquez thought he might even be named a Knight of Santiago. In Italy, he bought paintings for the king—works by Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese …
“I don’t know them,” growls Cintia. “If they don’t pay me, I don’t know them.” She puffs on her pipe and spits.
“The duke of Modena treated him like royalty. He even painted a portrait of Pope Innocent X while he was in Rome.”
“No shit! The pope?”
“That’s when Velázquez developed his new style, what they call the manera abreviada. It’s bolder and sharper than his earlier style. They say the portrait shows such ruthlessness in the eyes of the pontiff that everyone thought he’d throw Velázquez out, but instead he gave him a gold chain!”
“Did Velázquez tell you about the boy?”
I want to punch her. An image flashes through my mind: Cintia crumpled over on the ground, starbursts of pain radiating through her chest. Instead, I take a deep breath and stare at the leaves drifting and fluttering like wounded birds. “Of course not,” I say.
“Who told you?”
I purse my lips.
“Anyway,” she snickers, “I’m more interested in his Venus. Now that is a real scandal.”
I feel my fingers go numb, and my arms hug my body as if preparing for an assault. “Venus?” I utter feebly.
“Don’t you know about Venus? Everyone knows that he painted nudes while he was in Italy, but Venus is the only one he brought back with him. Some of my customers saw it.”
“Where?”
“At Gaspar de Haro’s house—you know, the son of Luis de Haro.”
“Gaspar de Haro? Did you … I mean … did anyone ever say anything about the model?” I feel as though I’ve been pierced in the gut with a knitting needle.
“Ah, now you’re interested. I thought you would be. She was a young girl, by the looks of her body and the face in the mirror. Maybe she’s the …”
“What mirror?” I know what mirror, of course, but I want to make sure we’re talking about the same painting.
“
According to what I heard, Venus is lying with her back toward the painter and admiring her face in a mirror held by a cherub. Maybe she’s the mother of the …”
“Cupid. The cherub’s name is Cupid.”
“How do you know?” Cintia squints at me through the sweet smoke of her pipe.
“They always show Venus with her son Cupid. He’s the Roman god of physical love, Cintia. You should know that.”
“I don’t know anything about love gods. I don’t care about them, either. Anyhow, the woman is thin and graceful, with round buttocks and brown hair. A vixen, all right. I wish I’d known that girl. I’d have had her come and work for me.”
“Just because she posed like that doesn’t mean that she’s a prostitute, Cintia. In Italy they have professional models.”
Cintia snorts and runs her hand over her brow. The mole on her chin transforms itself into a bug—a tick preparing to spring at me and bore into my skin.
“Well, she was gorgeous, that’s all I know. All the men wanted to take her from behind.” She smirks and locks eyes with me to see if I cringe, and I do. “She’s lounging, admiring herself in a mirror. Very sensual. Very enticing.” Cintia is needling me. “Cupid, that sex god you were talking about, he’s standing over her, looking at her while she’s sprawled out on the sheets. She knows she’s luscious. She knows men want her. She knows they can’t see what they want to see because her back is turned toward them. But they can glimpse her face in the mirror. It’s as though she’s winking at them over her shoulder. She lazes there, teasing them …”
“Go to hell, Cintia!”
“What’s the matter with you? It’s just a painting that he did while he was in a foreign country, far from his wife and family. What do you care? All men fuck around. Velázquez was better behaved than most, but a man is just a man. That woman meant nothing to him. All the painters in Italy were painting naked women, so of course he wanted to try it, too. And maybe one thing did lead to another. Maybe she is the mother of his brat. What of it? The king produced a gaggle of bastards! Did you expect Velázquez to behave like a mushroom or a doorknob or a stone while he was spending the days staring at some Italian girl’s bare rump? He’s a man, un hombre de carne y hueso, and when he’s in some exotic place, he’s going to want to sample the wares. And if a kid pops out, what’s the big deal?”
Her words course through my head and the horrible buzzing gets louder. I know Velázquez didn’t paint Venus in Italy, of course, but I bite my tongue. How can I tell her I know for certain the model is not Italian and is not the mother of Velázquez’s son?
I take off toward the house. The path is strewn with leaves, and I feel them crunch under my sandals. All I can see is a blur of yellows and browns. The breeze whirls and spins, lifting dry foliage from one little pile and depositing it in another. I slow down as I approach the back door, which opens onto a porch accessed by a set of steps. In my diseased eyes, one stair dissolves into another, but I’ve negotiated these steps so many times that they usually give me no problem. Still, I grab the handrail and take them one at a time. Once inside, I hug the walls. It’s getting harder and harder to make my way around the convent, even though I know the layout perfectly. I only hope I won’t run into anybody. The buzzing in my head has turned into pounding. Cintia’s words pummel my brain.
Once back in my cell I look around for my breviary because I desperately need to pray. It’s not in the pocket of my habit, but I won’t go look for it. I’ll stay here, in my room. The recreo will be starting soon. Nuns will be pouring into the yard to chat and relax. Some will stroll up the path. Others will play games under the trees, twiggy and bare. I don’t want to run into them. I lie down and close my eyes, and I remember:
I am reclining on the divan facing the wall, my back to the artist. Gossamer sunbeams caress my left shoulder and buttocks. He has posed me looking away from the window, but I can feel the fingers of light warming my body. They stretch over my arm toward the plush red curtain that hangs around the foot of the bed. I lie on a maroon-colored silk sheet that will eventually turn charcoal, the better to show off my mother-of-pearl skin. The luster of flesh against the sheen of the cloth fills the scene with light and creates an atmosphere of luxurious intimacy. That’s what he says: “luxurious intimacy.” He’s a well-spoken man. He is, after all, a courtier.
I feel his eyes sweep my body. For the first time in all the years we have been making love, I am truly the object of his gaze. He scrutinizes my form, discerns curves and lines, colors and shadows. I am not a person, but a thing to be measured and dissected into shapes—circles, ovals, rectangles. I am a figure composed of cream and rose, beige and blue. Every detail, from the indentation at the shoulder of my extended arm to the shadow between my buttocks, is worthy of his attention. His stare is cold, but the image, that emerges on the canvas is warm and tangible.
He has reinvented me. He has elongated my limbs and made my torso luscious and smooth. He has restored a raw sensuality I no longer possess. My waist is slim and delicate and inviting. My buttocks are two juicy melons. Look at Venus lounging insouciantly on luxurious sheets. You want to run your hand along the arch of her silhouette from the knee to her graceful hip, then into the concavity of her waist and up her back. She’s relaxing in her private boudoir with a naked Cupid, a winged boy who holds a mirror to her trunk, and you are there. You have snuck into her private chamber. You’re a spectator, a voyeur. Your thirst is awakened, and you drink her in. The atmosphere is charged with eroticism, and you are heady with it.
I lie staring at the curtain, at the spot where Cupid will kneel when Velázquez paints him in. Sunlight spills in ribbons over my body. It’s hard not to move. A frisson shoots through my leg. I feel as though someone had strewn feathers over me. They tickle my toes, the arches of my feet, my calves and knees and thighs. I feel them on my haunches and between my cheeks. Soft, downy feathers that drift like snowflakes and settle on every part of me. The tickle works its way up between my legs and into my body. I want Velázquez to put down his brush and touch me. I want him to run his fingers over my earlobes and bend down to kiss me.
“Stop fidgeting!” he barks.
I bite my lip and force myself to hold still.
Why do terrible things always happen in October? Maybe it’s because October leads up to November, which begins with All Saints Day and All Souls’ Day. It’s a time to think of death, to remember the dead, to visit cemeteries and pray for souls in purgatory. The convent grounds are a needlepoint of oranges, browns, and yellows—the colors of death. It’s beautiful in the way funerals are beautiful. There is splendor in the rituals of death—the dazzling candles of the capilla ardiente, the funeral carriage pulled by black horses, the chanting and the prayers. There is solace in the hope that the deceased has gone to everlasting life and is resting in God’s embrace—or will, after he has done his time in purgatory.
It was a gloomy day in 1646 when Velázquez asked me to pose for him. Gloomy not because of overcast skies, but because Madrid was in mourning. The sky was diaphanous—at least at first—and the air as crisp as an ice flake, but the cortège that wound its way from El Buen Retiro all the way around the city had made the atmosphere grim. People were not only morose, but also frightened, for no one knew what would come next. Who would rule? What would the future bring? Olivares was gone, his replacement Haro was ineffective, and Don Felipe couldn’t last forever. A black void filled the hearts of Madrileños.
Prince Baltasar Carlos had been his father’s greatest treasure—his heart’s desire, his constant companion. As the boy approached adulthood, Don Felipe thought it essential to teach him the art of governance. The king had always considered his wife his most trusted advisor after Olivares, but now that he had lost both of them, Don Felipe needed a new political ally. The prince was bright and energetic. He was curious about affairs of state and disposed to serve. And like his mother, he loved the Spanish people in spite of his Bourbon blood. He would make a fine ruler, th
ought Don Felipe. And this wasn’t just fatherly pride. Anyone could see that Baltasar Carlos was gifted: handsome, chivalrous, athletic, and prudent.
Father and son started visiting the regional assemblies around the time the prince started to grow a mustache. First they set off for Zaragoza so that the Cortes of Aragon could swear allegiance to him. The following year they went to Pamplona to allow the Cortes of Navarra to do the same. But on this second trip, Baltasar Carlos fell seriously ill. A wave of panic rippled through the king’s entourage, and the news quickly reached the Court. The envoys from Aragon were urging the king to lead the resistance against the French, who were pushing south through the mountains into Lérida, but Don Felipe refused to leave his son.
It wasn’t until two months later that physicians deemed the prince well enough to travel. Don Felipe was overjoyed. He admitted he had been frightened, but thanks be to God, Baltasar Carlos had come through. His Majesty ordered that their bags be packed, and he and the prince left for Zaragoza in order to attend to the hostilities with the French. After a few weeks and a visit to the pillar where the Virgin once appeared to James the Apostle, doctors stated confidently that Baltasar Carlos had fully recovered. The king—and his nation—heaved a sigh of relief.
Two days later, father and son attended a mass commemorating the second anniversary of Queen Isabel’s death. During the service, the prince began to sweat and sway, and the doctors carried him off. They fingered and prodded him and determined he had a raging fever. They bled him three times, but Baltasar Carlos continued to lose color and grow weaker. The king sat by his bed and sobbed. He wrote to María de Ágreda, his faithful correspondent, mentor, and spiritual guide. Now he needed her more than ever because deep in his heart the poor king knew that all he could do for his ailing son was call the priest to administer last rites. The boy wasn’t yet seventeen years old.
Some said he died of smallpox, but others said it was appendicitis. There were also insinuations that like his father, he prowled around so much that he’d caught what they called el mal francés, syphilis. There were even those who insisted that ambitious courtiers, jealous of the prince’s growing influence on his father, had poisoned him. But what difference did it make? The boy was dead and the king had no heir. The disconsolate father was mad with grief. Poor Don Felipe. Choir boy and libertine. María de Ágreda had warned him to mend his ways or God would punish him.
I am Venus Page 20