I am Venus

by Barbara Mujica

  Velázquez tottered in front of his easel and struggled to get his bearings. He thought about Paquita, his own little girl. She had never been a pretty child, but her spontaneity and verve imbued her with charm. Like all little girls, she was candid and shrewd at the same time. She could disarm you with a smile and twist you around her little finger. That is what he wanted to capture in the infanta: her artful artlessness, her vivacity, and her magnetism. And when do little girls display such traits? In the company of other little girls. He would place little Margarita Teresa among her playmates, the meninas, her maids of honor. This would not be yet another stiff rendering of a porcelain doll in a shellacked farthingale. Instead, he would capture the child’s bloom and sparkle.

  A knot formed under Velázquez’s sternum. It was as though his viscera had forgotten their function and huddled together into a ball. He had never paid enough attention to his body—or to Paquita—and now his body was irritated and she was dead. The pain he felt in his chest was the work of seditious organs collaborating to bring him down. Hot drops splattered onto his hand.

  ¿Está bien vuestra Merced? Mazo stood in the doorway. When did young Mazo get to be a middle-aged forty-four-year-old with graying temples? wondered Velázquez. For a man who had just lost his wife, Juan Bautista looked strangely serene. Instead of mourning clothes, he wore a dark blue doublet adorned with nightingales. Rumor had it that he had already set his sights on a replacement for Paquita: the buxom, dark-haired Francisca de la Vega.

  Estoy bien. Gracias, Juan Bautista.

  Mazo remained motionless.

  “I don’t need your help,” said Velázquez evenly. “You may go.”

  Velázquez holds his breath. The king has seen the painting at different stages, of course, but who knows how he will react to the final version? Will he think it’s a caprice—or worse, a joke? A shrewdly realistic rendering of Court life or an insult?

  He has painted a domestic scene, with little Margarita Teresa center stage. Wearing a wide farthingale, her blond hair thrown over her shoulders, she looks out at the spectator, childlike yet strong-willed and imposing. She is surrounded by her ladies in waiting, a nurse, a bodyguard, and the dwarfs Maribarbola and Nicolasito. The large brown mastiff that lies beside her looks friendly, but is clearly powerful enough to take off your head if you bother his little girl. Everyone is frozen in the midst of the hum and buzz of a typical afternoon.

  The painting offers more questions than answers. Velázquez has incorporated his own image into the canvas, but is he looking at the viewer or at King Felipe and Queen Mariana, reflected in a mirror behind him? And where are the king and queen, anyway? Are they outside the picture space like the viewer, or are they the viewers? Are they posing for the painter or just watching him paint? And that mirror—does it show the king and queen, or is it actually a painting of the royal couple? What is real? What is an illusion? Is royal authority an illusion? The faces of the royal couple are blurred, just as the face of Venus is blurred in my painting. Is the very notion of the ideal monarch nothing more than a deception? Is the very notion of ideal beauty embodied by Venus nothing more than a sham?

  Velázquez waits for the king to speak. But kings must always be opaque. They are symbols of authority, icons of the Empire, and they can never reveal their true thoughts. Don Felipe stares at the painting, at the painter in the painting staring back at him, and says nothing.

  Velázquez closed his eyes and concentrated on the sensation: the liquid felt warm and soothing on his back. Pareja’s hands moved deftly, splattering orange-scented water over his shoulders. Velázquez felt the droplets dribble down his spine to his buttocks, down his arms, down his chest. He had never expected to feel such serenity. He had thought he would be nervous, fidgety. But now that the glorious day had come, calm enveloped him.

  Don Ávaro de Zúñiga, tenth duke of Escalona and Grand Master of the Order of Santiago, looked on as Pareja dried Velázquez with perfumed linens, and then slipped a white tunic over his head.

  “White, to symbolize purity,” intoned the grand master.

  Purity? Velázquez thought of Antonio. How could he, who had fathered a bastard son in a foreign land, claim to be pure? He bit his lip and remained silent.

  Escalona held a red robe out to him, and Velázquez slipped his arm through the armhole.

  “Red, to symbolize nobility.”

  Nobility? The words “artisan,” “plebian,” “tradesman” ran through the painter’s mind. He had been called those names all his life. In spite of royal support, the commission on lineage refused to dispense with the usual investigation. Both Velázquez and Juana had to prove they were Old Christians, free of Jewish or Moorish blood. There were endless questions, endless petitions, endless interviews with courtiers, neighbors, maids. Did the Velázquezes have the house cleaned on Friday? Even if they weren’t crypto-Jews, it could be a custom inherited from some ancient ancestor, who scrubbed and polished on Fridays to get ready for the Sabbath. Could Velázquez produce five witnesses who would swear that for six generations there had been no gente non sancta in the family? That there had never been a moneylender or a carpenter or a baker? After this barrage of humiliations, the commission refused to clear him. He was an artisan of artisan stock, they said. In the end, the king himself had to intervene on his behalf, arguing that Velázquez was not only an aristocrat, but an influential courtier. Furthermore, as the royal painter, stated the king, Velázquez could hardly be considered a “tradesman”—obviously, he did not sell his paintings.

  “Black, for death,” declared Escalona. “For we are mortal and to dust we shall return. Blessed is he who gives his life for the one true faith.”

  Death. This time Velázquez had no doubts. He knew he would die, and suspected it would be soon.

  “You have completed the ritual cleansing of the body,” proclaimed the grand master. “Do you swear by Almighty God that you would die in defense of the Immaculate Conception of Mary? Are you prepared in mind and spirit to proceed to the royal chapel for the night vigil?”

  “I do,” murmured Velázquez, “and I am.”

  The grand master moved down the corridor like a triumphant hunter, his robe trailing behind him like captured prey. Velázquez kept his eyes lowered as he followed the duke to the chapel. Slightly behind him came the count of Ordóñez, followed by Pareja. Velázquez heard the shuffling footsteps as though through a light drizzle. He felt his newly washed skin tingle in the frigid palace air. He wondered what he would do if he should need a chamber pot in the middle of the ceremony, but shoved the thought out of his mind. He could hardly believe this was happening.

  Once in the chapel, the grand master placed a sword and shield—symbols of the Order’s warrior origins—on the altar. Velázquez felt the weight of fraud on his shoulders. He had never been to war or defended the faith against Moors. He had never killed anything but rabbits and ducks. Nevertheless, he knelt before his weapons and bowed his head.

  His escort left the room, and the vigil began. He had cleansed his body with the ritual bath, and now he would cleanse his spirit with ten hours of prayer and meditation. He was utterly alone. The candles in their silver candelabras flickered, sending eerie shadows along the walls. Christ hung on his Cross—head bowed, hands and feet bloodied. The Virgin stood in her corner and smiled tenderly. She would keep him company. Beams of blue streamed through the stained glass. The vows of the sacred Order of Santiago constituted a solemn commitment. He bowed his head and swallowed.

  The next morning, we all flooded into the chapel to witness the dubbing. I wished Paquita could have been there to see it. She would have been so proud of her father. It was hard to believe she’d already been dead for three years. By then my eyesight had already started to falter. The tapers and the gleaming sword were gobs of light surrounded by mysterious auras.

  The chapel reeked of incense and candle wax, perfume and sweat. The air was close and heavy. The priest’s smooth pate was hardly visible over the head
s of the congregation. The celebrant faced the altar, his Latin consumed by the crackling of the tapers. Then Velázquez made his vows in Spanish. I only remember fragments of what he said—“not trafficking with traitors …,” “serving the Lord faithfully …,” “protecting the faith …,” “respecting all ladies …,” “observing fasts …,” “hearing mass every day.”

  The priest blessed the sword and shield that lay on the altar. Then the grand master and the king rose and took their places on either side of him. Both wore the black habit of the Order, with a red cross of which the lower part forms a sword blade—the mark of the warrior. Escalona solemnly took the weapons and handed them to the king.

  Velázquez, still in white, knelt and swore his allegiance to His Majesty. His voice and his hands were steady. His cheeks were damp with tears.

  The king unsheathed the sword and laid it on Velázquez’s shoulder. Then he said the words: “I dub thee Sir Knight of the Order of Santiago.” Finally, he raised the sword and struck Velázquez’s shoulder with the flat side. Escalona slipped the white tunic over Velázquez’s head and dressed him in the black habit of the Order. Velázquez turned toward the congregation to display the red cross. Women cried and men cheered right there in the chapel.

  The celebrations lasted three days. The bankrupt king invited the entire Court to join him in an orgy of feasts. Once again, endless platters of food paraded into the banquet halls, and musicians stationed on the mezzanine entertained the guests with music and song. There were juegos de caña in the afternoon, and balls at night—all in honor of the painter Velázquez, favorite of the king.

  Las Meninas, as Velázquez’s game of mirrors came to be called, had hung for three years in a salon off the main corridor of the palace. But, a month after Velázquez had been dubbed a knight of the Order of Santiago, the king ordered that it be taken down and brought to the same room where it had been painted. Don Felipe himself supervised the move. When the workers had placed the huge painting in its original position, the king ordered that they go to the studio of Don Diego de Velázquez and fetch a pot of red paint. The king checked the color for shade and consistency. Then he called for Haro.

  The valido was astounded to find the painting standing in the oversized easel that had been constructed for it. A spark of satisfaction probably flashed through his mind. Finally, Haro must have thought, Don Felipe had tired of the painter. Perhaps His Majesty had finally realized how much the absurd celebrations for the man’s knighting had cost. Now he was taking down his paintings to send them off to some rarely visited sitio real or to sell them.

  “Have Velázquez brought to me.”

  Haro bowed deeply. “Yes, Your Majesty. Right away, Your Majesty.”

  Haro hobbled to his office and called for a secretary. “The king wishes to see the painter Velázquez in the mauve salon.”

  By the time the secretary called for a page and the page brought Velázquez, the red paint had begun to thicken.

  “Don Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez, Knight of the Order of Santiago,” announced the page.

  In an instant Velázquez took in the scene. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The pressure in his chest became unbearable, and the color drained from his face as he knelt before the king. His knees were stiff, and when Don Felipe told him to rise, he had to struggle to straighten his legs.

  “Check the thickness of this paint,” ordered the king.

  Velázquez stirred the paint with a stick and added thinner. He bit down on his lip to keep it from trembling. Las Meninas was his masterpiece, and now the king was going to order it destroyed. Velázquez had known he was taking a chance when he depicted the royal family as a play of reflections. It had taken the king and courtiers a while to catch on, but now that they had, his days of glory were over. Would they confiscate Venus and destroy it, too?

  “Is the pigment ready, Don Diego?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” whispered Velázquez.

  “Good.”

  Don Felipe took the pot of red and stood before Las Meninas. While Velázquez looked on horrified, the king dipped the brush in the paint. But then he thought better of it and turned to Mazo, who had been standing unnoticed in a corner.

  “Here, Don Juan Bautista, you do the honors.”

  Mazo took the brush from the king. Then he reached up and drew the red cross of Santiago on the black garment of the image of the painter Velázquez.

  “Now,” said the king solemnly, “the painting is complete.”

  18

  REVELATIONS

  1660

  VELÁZQUEZ TOUCHED MY HAND, AND I FELT A FRISSON—A shiver of fire. It frightened me, and I looked away. I didn’t want him to see the foreboding in my eyes.

  “Is something wrong, my dear?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just that I’ll miss you, that’s all.” I caught my breath. He called me “my dear” more frequently now.

  “I’ve been away before, sometimes for more than a year. This will be a short trip, just a couple of weeks.”

  “More than a couple. His Majesty isn’t scheduled to meet the French king until June. It’s only the beginning of April.” I forced my lips into a smile. Something about the way he shifted from one foot to the other was making me nervous.

  The valet appeared and bowed. “Maestro, we will be leaving shortly.”

  “Yes, yes of course.” Velázquez looked around absent-mindedly, waiting for the man to exit the room. Finally, he said, “You may go now.”

  The valet bowed again.

  Six days earlier, Luis de Haro had commanded Velázquez to pack his bags. If Velázquez had qualms about traveling, he didn’t show it. He took a deep breath and ordered his staff to ready his wardrobe. I knew he was exhausted. I could see it in his eyes. We women are observant creatures, and when you love a man, you’re sensitive to his every groan and twitch. And yes, I did still love him. He was fading now—we both were—and we needed each other. He clung to me, even though he didn’t allow me to cling to him. And so I clung on to the memories of our life together—our intimacies, our disappointments, our tears. No matter what he had done with other women, I was still his best friend, his lover, his Venus. Sometimes he’d sink into a chair and doze off in the middle of the morning. When we shared a table, he’d close his eyes and catnap mid-bite. I’d take the morsel from his fingers and try to lead him to bed, but then suddenly he’d open his eyes and wrest his arm from me.

  “What are you doing? Let me go!”

  “Take a little rest, Diego,” I’d coax. “For just a few minutes.”

  “I’ll do no such thing! Why would I? Do you think that I’m a doddering old man?”

  “No, not at all. But I do think that you need a break.”

  As aposentador mayor and a knight of the Order of Santiago, he had responsibilities. He had to show His Majesty that he was worthy of his titles.

  Haro had been precise in his instructions: Velázquez would travel with a small party of assistants to prepare the way for the king’s journey north. The hostilities with France had ended at last, and the truce between the two countries was to be signed on the Isle of Pheasants, which has always been considered neutral territory. Haro would represent Spain and his French equivalent, Cardinal Mazarin, would represent France. To confirm the agreement, King Louis XIV of France was to marry the Spanish Infanta María Teresa.

  Velázquez seemed nervous, but perhaps it was because I was looking at him so intently.

  “I feel like a theater director,” he said finally, “creating a massive spectacle on twenty-three separate stages.”

  “Maybe it’s too much for you, Diego. After all, you’re no longer … young.”

  I shouldn’t have said it. He didn’t like to be reminded that he was now a man of sixty, with pains in the chest, aches in the knees, swelling in the fingers. I saw his jaw tighten and waited for him to snap at me, but instead he stroked his beard and looked down at the diamond-studded medallion with the red enameled cross of S
antiago he had placed on the secretary.

  “Very stylish,” I whispered, stroking his wrist. “You’ll be more elegant than Don Felipe himself.”

  Velázquez picked up the medallion and turned it over in his hands. The skin around his eyes was thin and crinkled. He already looked exhausted, and he hadn’t even set off yet.

  The present assignment was an enormous undertaking. Velázquez was to plan the king’s journey from Madrid to Fuenterrabía, situated on the west shore of the mouth of the Bidasoa, in Basque country. In order to get there, the king and his party would have to make twenty-three stops along the way, and it was up to Velázquez to prepare every single one of the royal habitations that Don Felipe would visit. Was the decor dazzling enough? Were the sheets silky enough? Would the roses be in bloom in the gardens to provide a proper vista for a king? Velázquez had to attend to every detail.

  “I wish you could devote more time to painting …”

  Velázquez grimaced. He was a statesman now, a true confidant of the king. He constantly met with important officials and even participated in state meetings. As it was up to him to organize ceremonial visits and audiences with his Majesty, he was privy to all kinds of secrets, and from time to time, he even had the opportunity to express an opinion. Paint was the last thing he wanted to do.

  “You seem more relaxed when you’re painting …”

  “I don’t have time for that now,” he said curtly. “I serve the king. I speak with him regularly. I even …” He puffed out his chest as if to emphasize his importance. “I even give him advice.” He paused. “When he asks for it.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Velázquez had never been an arrogant man, although he was ambitious. Now, he was clearly proud of how far he had come.

  A stocky young man accompanied by three uniformed attendants entered the room. He gave the order, and the others finished packing the few last personal items that Velázquez would carry with him. One took the diamond medallion and placed it in a locked coffer, which he nestled in a trunk full of velvet and fur. They hoisted one of the trunks onto their shoulders and disappeared. I imagined that the procedure would be repeated until all the trunks were in carriages, but I didn’t wait to see. Instead, I accompanied Velázquez down the corridor toward the main entrance. We ducked into a small parlor to say our good-byes in private.