I am Venus

by Barbara Mujica

  As soon as the body arrived in El Escorial, Hieronymite friars dressed it in a plain tunic, shrouded it, placed it in a lead casket, and lay a wooden cross on Don Baltasar Carlos’s breast. The friars said masses for the repose of his soul in every chapel of the huge compound, and the next morning, the prior celebrated a solemn requiem mass at the high altar. In the afternoon, vigils with prayers were held throughout the Escorial. At six in the evening, pallbearers carried the coffin from the sacristy to the main cloister. Scores of friars followed the casket, carrying candles and chanting a low, gloomy dirge. The cortège wound its way around the perimeter of the Escorial to the south entrance of the basilica and into the sanctuary, where the air was heavy with incense and flowers, and thousands of candles glowed mournfully.

  The bereaved father was so unsteady on his feet that he had to be propped up by Luis de Haro and the Court chaplain, Crispín de Valdivieso. The king and his attendants, who were all dressed in traditional hooded mourning robes and carried candles, led the procession. Then came the Hieronymites in their white tunics, brown hooded scapulars, and brown mantles, followed by a throng of courtiers, Velázquez among them. Hundreds of paid mourners brought up the rear, moaning and yowling for a boy they never knew.

  The cortège advanced sluggishly. The mourners intoned posas and reponsos, psalms sung responsorially:

  Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda:

  Quando caeli movendi sunt et terra.

  Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem.

  Tremens factus sum ego, et timeo, dum discussio venerit, atque ventura ira.

  Quando caeli movendi sunt et terra.

  Dies illa, dies irae, calamitatis et miseriae, dies magna et amara valde.

  Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem.

  Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine: et lux perpetua luceat eis.

  Deliver me, O Lord, from death eternal on that fearful day,

  when the heavens and the earth shall be moved,

  I am made to tremble, and I fear, till the judgment be upon us, and the coming wrath,

  when the heavens and the earth shall be moved.

  That day, day of wrath, calamity, and misery, day of great and exceeding bitterness,

  when thou shalt come to judge the world by fire

  Rest eternal grant unto them, O Lord: and let light perpetual shine upon them.

  The scents, the smoke, the glow—I feel faint as I try to imagine it. Velázquez went to the funeral and described it to me, but I stayed back at El Buen Retiro with the damas and their maids, and together we watched the black-garbed throngs wailing and swaying and praying in the street. Funeral rituals were going on all over Madrid, all over Spain for that matter. Priests were saying mass in every church, and processions wound through every boulevard and alley.

  Velázquez told me that during the two-hour requiem mass, the archbishop wept so hard he was overcome with a fit of coughing and could hardly get through the service. Afterward, another cortège made its way to the burial vault directly below the high altar of the basilica. Don Felipe insisted on accompanying the cadaver of his beloved son to its final resting place and watching as they placed it in the family burial chamber next to his mother. The experience brought him closer to God, he said. Like Our Father, he knew what it meant to lose a son.

  The realm was deep in mourning when Velázquez approached me that day in the Retiro park, somewhere between the zebras and the orangutans. The air was redolent with the sweet, nauseating odor of animal feces. The sun had disappeared behind the clouds, turning the sky from luminous to menacing. We were glad to be together, glad to talk about something besides death.

  “We should take cover now, before it starts,” said Velázquez, urging me toward a canopy. I hiked my skirt up above the ankle and bolted. An instant later, raindrops like crystal goblets began to fall, shatter on the cobblestone walk, and splinter.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “No, not especially,” I lied, wrapping my cape more tightly.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  We found our way to one of the small parlors near Velázquez’s studio. A fire sweetened by lavender stalks was burning in the chimney. The fragrance filled my nostrils, making me feel inebriated and sleepy. I settled back on a cushion and closed my eyes.

  “You look very lovely this afternoon, my dear.”

  He rarely called me “my dear.” “Don’t be silly,” I snapped. “I’m old.” And then I added, “We’d better be going. No one should find us here.”

  “What difference does it make if someone finds us here?”

  “It’s clear that someone was intending to use this room. Otherwise, why would the fire be lit? We should leave before they come.”

  “I need to speak with you about something,” he said, without moving. “I have a commission—a very important one. A private one.”

  “Oh?”

  “And I need your help.”

  I looked at him, confused. He was nearly fifty and still very handsome. His hair was black and thick despite his years, and his upturned mustache curled fetchingly over his lip. He’d become a bit stouter, as all men do, but he was as dashing as ever in his black velvet doublet and simple ruche.

  “I want you to pose,” he said calmly.

  I was taken aback. “Why?” I asked. “There are plenty of other women willing to pose for you. You’ve painted every duchess and lady-in-waiting at Court.”

  “No, this is different. I can’t ask anyone else to do this.”

  “But why? You’ve never asked me to model before.”

  “Because …” He looked around nervously. “Because it’s for a nude.”

  I burst out laughing. “A nude! Are you mad? You can’t paint me nude! It would be—why, it would be unseemly. What would people think?”

  “The patron wants a female nude, and it’s very difficult to find models in Spain.”

  “I’m sure there are women in this city who …”

  “I have to be very be careful. There are laws … and there’s the Inquisition. And people are watching me. People who are jealous of my success, and who would love nothing more than to have a reason to accuse me of indecency.”

  “Who commissioned this painting?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “He doesn’t care that our beloved prince is dead and that we’re all in mourning?” I sat looking at my hands in my lap. “I don’t know,” I said after a long pause. “I’m not young.”

  “You’re still slim and supple, and with paint …”

  “You can create an illusion.”

  “It’s all about illusion. On a flat surface, you create three dimensions. You create depth with paint and shadows. All I need is the outline of your body. I need the dimensions and the shading. I need to see how the light falls on your skin and what hues are visible in the refraction. I need to see the foundation colors and the contrasts. It shouldn’t take too long.” He made it sound so simple.

  I shook my head.

  “You needn’t worry—it won’t be a perfect likeness. It will be a Venus for an aristocratic libertine. But it won’t be lewd, mi amor, I promise.”

  I smiled. Velázquez so rarely called me “mi amor.”

  I thought about it for a while. “I’d want something in return,” I said coyly.

  “Anything,” he said without hesitation. “Tell me. The patron is a rich man. He’ll give me whatever I ask for.”

  I laughed. “No, I don’t want money,” I said. “I want something else.”

  “Tell me!”

  “I want you to teach me to draw and paint.”

  “But, mi amor, whatever for?”

  “I want to see what it’s like … to do what you do. I want to learn to see the world as you see it. Oh, I know I’ll never be a real painter, but … I want to try!”

  He sighed. “It’s a strange request. I admit it’s not at all what I expected. But if that’s what you want, mi amor, I can arrange to
have Mazo give you lessons.”

  “No, not Mazo, you. I want you to give me lessons.”

  I had him where I wanted him. He was in no position to argue, so of course he agreed. But, I wondered at the time, would he keep his promise or, after he got his painting, would he forget all about it?

  I was as nervous as a Jew in the chapel of the grand inquisitor as I made my way through the streets of Madrid. I was on my way to the house of some unknown nobleman, and it seemed to me that every fishmonger and carpenter hurrying along in the haze of early dawn squinted at me wryly. I had worn my plainest dress and covered it with a simple, black hooded cape in order not to attract attention, but a lady alone in the street, especially at that odd hour, was always suspect. I kept to the lanes and alleys to avoid the watchful eyes of the aguacil.

  I found the palacio of the patron without difficulty and followed Velázquez’s instructions about entering. He had been extremely precise: Do not stop at the front gate. Come in through servants’ entrance—the door will be open—and climb the stairs to your left. Follow the corridor nearly to the end and enter the door to your right. Do not speak to anyone or tell anyone where you’re going.

  Velázquez was waiting for me in a large room, which would soon fill with sunlight. I expected him to kiss me, to thank me profusely for doing him the great favor of posing for his painting. Instead, he hardly looked up from his palette.

  “Disrobe and put on the dressing gown I left for you behind the screen,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ll position you as soon as the light is right.”

  “It’s chilly in here,” I commented.

  He didn’t answer. It was clear he didn’t want to chat.

  When he was ready, I threw the gown aside. I could feel his eyes on me as I moved toward the bed and stretched out on the sheets. I giggled nervously, but he seemed not to notice. He slid his hand under my right hip and positioned my torso, then moved my right shoulder slightly forward. I trembled to his touch and caught my breath. I wanted him to stroke my back or to say something soothing, but instead, he took his place behind his easel.

  “No one saw me leave the house,” I said, to dispel my nervousness.

  “Don’t talk!” he snapped. “Now I have to reposition you.”

  He took my chin in his hand and adjusted my head. He was treating me like an object—a bowl of fruit or a vase. My jaw tensed—imperceptibly, I thought—and I bit my lip.

  Velázquez sighed, annoyed. “You’ve changed the angle of your head,” he chided. “I wish I had a professional model.”

  “So do I!”

  He lightened his touch. “I’m sorry, mi amor, but your body reflects your feelings, and even the slightest movement changes everything. Try to relax your facial muscles.”

  I did as he asked. He walked toward the foot of the bed and observed me from different angles. I caught sight of his face from the corner of my eye. His gaze was detached, cold. I concentrated on the sounds in the street in order to keep myself from moving.

  After a while I grew used to lying there naked. The room no longer felt chilly. I no longer felt uncomfortable. Slowly I began to understand that posing for Velázquez was important. He would immortalize my figure. He would transform me into Venus.

  The bell is ringing to call us to vespers. Cintia’s sordid remarks about Velázquez’s son and his frolic in Italy left me feeling foul, but I must take my place in line to process into the chapel. If I don’t go, Mother Augustina will send someone to look for me. I drag myself to my feet and grope for the bedpan. Then I pour water onto my hands from a jug and dry them on a rag. I make my way out into the hall and follow the shuffle of feet. The nuns move in silence, like disembodied spirits—black silhouettes gliding noiselessly through the shadows. The boarders stand at the rear and enter after the others. I squint, searching for Cintia. Her scent gives her away. She reeks of tobacco and bacon grease. She smiles faintly when she sees me, and then takes her place among the professed nuns. Her maid Trinidad is very devout and prays more loudly than either of us. I bow my head and follow them into the chapel.

  Deus, in adiutorium meum intende.

  Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.

  Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto.

  Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et semper,

  et in saecula saeculorum. Amen. Alleluia.

  O God, come to my assistance.

  O Lord, make haste to help me.

  Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.

  As it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be

  world without end. Amen. Hallelujah.

  The prayer flows like liquid over my body, and I am washed clean.

  16

  THE FACE IN THE MIRROR

  1652; 1660

  “PSST, HAVE YOU HEARD?”

  “Have you heard about Velázquez?”

  “Have you heard about Velázquez’s new painting?”

  “Have you heard about Velázquez’s scandalous new painting?”

  “No one but Velázquez could get away with it.”

  “Now that he’s the aposentador mayor, he can do as he pleases.”

  “He has the protection of the king, the valido, and the Espíritu Santo!”

  “The strictures of the Holy Inquisition mean nothing to him!”

  Gossip: a trickle, a stream, and then a gush. The female nude had turned up in an inventory of Gaspar de Haro’s paintings, and although few had seen it, in the mentidero no one could talk about anything else.

  “He’s so full of himself, he thinks he’s the last egg in the basket!”

  “Well, we all know that people who are too big for their britches are exposed in the end.”

  “She’s the one with her end exposed. He may be immune, but she’s going to get it right where it hurts.”

  “And what about Haro, that womanizer? The way he carries on!”

  The rumormongers couldn’t get enough of young Haro, son of the king’s counselor. They claimed that he lived in a pleasure palace filled with indecent images of frolicking nymphs that fueled his prodigious appetites. Everyone knew that by the time he was fourteen, Gaspar de Haro was a renowned tenorio with a penchant for actresses, courtesans, and foreign-born whores, and that he squandered his father’s enormous fortune at breakneck speed.

  At twenty-one, he’d married Antonia María de la Cerda, daughter of one of the most powerful men in Spain. Doña Antonia was reputedly the most beautiful woman in Spain—slim and graceful, all cream and roses, with silky brown hair and emerald eyes. But in spite of his own wife’s physical charm, Don Gaspar was relentless in his pursuit of pleasure. And Doña Antonia was just as bad, according to the tattlers. In fact, some whispered that the face in Venus’s mirror bore an uncanny resemblance to Haro’s bride.

  But what everyone really wanted to know was how Velázquez got drawn into all of this. There had, of course, been a galanteo or two when he was young, and there was talk of a bastard baby in Italy, but he had always been careful to avoid outright scandal. What mattered to him, people agreed, was to solidify his position at Court. A consummate social climber, he knew better than to make waves.

  As Court painter, Velázquez had always known that above all else, his job was to promote a sense of the king’s majesty. It was not Velázquez’s role to publicize the aristocracy’s taste for flesh. So why had he so boldly wandered into scandal, and so soon after his promotion to aposentador mayor?

  To be honest, I was as wound up over the situation as everyone else. People said that Velázquez had overstepped his bounds. After all, they whispered, you are what you’re born into, and it was only a matter of time before this artisan stepped on the wrong toes and was sent flying into the gutter, where he belonged.

  And where did this all leave me? Now that he had painted my smooth white body, he’d almost forgotten all about me. I was risking my life for him—the day the inquisitors confiscated that painting, I’d be in the bonfire. Perhaps Velázquez really was u
ntouchable, but those black-robed ogres would have no qualms at all about reaching out their claws and grabbing me.

  Every passing day brought more anguish. The longer the gossip churned, the more vulnerable I felt. Velázquez hadn’t made a move to teach me to paint, and, I thought, in view of all I was going through on his behalf, the least he could do was to make good on that promise! It seemed that it had slipped his mind, but I was determined to refresh his memory. I thought that maybe painting would distract me from the hell I was going through—the sleepless nights, the stomach pains. I started begging for lessons, and I wasn’t going to let him pass the job on to his son-in-law Mazo!

  But it wasn’t just that I needed a diversion. I was determined to keep Velázquez away from El Buen Retiro—away from the questioning eyes of inquisitive courtiers. I was convinced that it was dangerous for him to spend so much time among those scavengers. A couple of glasses of wine and a good cigar, and he’d spill the beans and land me on the rack. But most important, I wanted him near me. Since his appointment as aposentador mayor, he hardly had time to paint. And he hardly had time for me.

  Sometimes I’d lie in bed and think about him making love to that Italian woman, the one who had his baby. She was a soft brunette, or maybe a dusty blond, with supple skin and round buttocks. I could feel him kiss her brow as though it were my brow, run his fingers over her shoulder as though it were my shoulder. She shivered at his touch. I shivered. She held his hand to her groin. He moved his thumb across her sex and then covered her with his body. I slipped my hand between my legs and wept.