by Amy Maroney
A woman wearing a quilted navy blue down jacket appeared around the corner of the building. She rummaged in a black handbag, heading for the door of the library. Zari saw a metallic glint in her gloved hand. Quickly she walked across the street.
“Hola!” she called.
The woman paused, one hand on the door, glancing over her shoulder. “Si?”
“I’m Zari Durrell.” Her words were nearly swallowed by the wind.
The woman looked at her blankly.
For some inexplicable reason Zari blurted out, “I’m Izar Mendieta Durrell.”
It had been a long time since she said her birth name aloud. Zari’s mother named her Izar, or ‘star,’ and her brother Eguzkia, or ‘sun,’ in homage to their Basque ancestry. (It was also a concession to Zari’s father, who balked when Portia floated the idea of hippie names for their children. He only acquiesced when she suggested using Basque words instead of English. It was one of the few parenting decisions Zari’s father made that filled her with endless gratitude.) Over the years their names had morphed into Zari and Gus.
Now the woman cocked her head, regarding Zari skeptically.
“Follow me,” she said after a moment, sweeping through the doorway.
Inside, Zari opened her laptop and gave an abbreviated version of her elevator pitch about Miramonde de Oto. She clicked through slides showing evidence of Mira’s existence and work: prayer books with Mira’s self-portrait hidden inside, along with the words ‘Mira illustrated this book’; three portraits that Zari had once believed to be the work of Cornelia van der Zee, then discovered they all contained hallmarks of someone named Mira; the ‘ADL’ stamp that adorned the back of each portrait, signifying Arnaud de Luz made them. She concluded with the notary records proving Mira and Arnaud were married, they were involved in the merino wool trade, Mira was contracted to paint portraits for a powerful merchant of Toulouse, and in 1506 their baby son Tristan was immortalized in a Bayonne birth registry.
“I’m trying to prove Mira de Oto painted these portraits. Historical documents about Tristan de Luz may help me find more evidence about Mira’s life and work,” Zari finished, returning to the series of three portraits. She zoomed in on the images one by one: Baroness Marguerite de Oto; the Aragónese merchant Carlo Sacazar and his family; the blue-clad wife of Toulouse merchant Estevan de Vernier.
“May I?” the librarian asked, gesturing to the laptop.
Zari nodded.
The woman clicked on the portrait of Marguerite de Oto, enlarging it to fill the entire screen. She slipped on a pair of reading glasses, looking at the image carefully. Finally she turned to Zari.
“We don’t keep historical records from that era here. This is not an archives, it’s a municipal library. It’s possible that at one of the larger archives, in Burgos maybe, there could be documents related to Tristan de Luz that have not been digitized yet. But I can tell you this—I’ve seen her before,” she said, removing her reading glasses and pointing at Marguerite de Oto’s image. “In a house here in Getaria.”
An electric charge of anticipation seized Zari’s body. “Whose house?”
The woman’s expression tightened. “Señora Perez. My mother is her friend. She is more than than ninety years old. But she’s moved away now.”
The surge of disappointment that struck Zari was like a physical blow. “Oh.”
“The house is still hers. It’s in the old town, by the harbor.”
“Is the painting still there?”
The woman nodded. “I imagine it is. Her home is closed up now. She has family in Madrid but they never come. The dust in that house...I am afraid to imagine it.” She sighed. “The family sent her to a dementia facility. In San Sebastián.”
“Why do you think you saw this woman in her house?” Zari nodded at Marguerite de Oto’s image on her laptop screen.
“A portrait of her hangs in that house, but as a younger woman, and the background is different.” The librarian tapped a finger against the computer screen, confident of her assessment. “I’m sure of it.”
“I need to see that painting,” Zari said, her excitement returning.
“I wish I could help you, but there is nothing I can do.”
“Do you have any information about where Señora Perez is in San Sebastián? I would like to visit her.”
“What good would that do? Her mind is gone,” protested the woman. “She can’t talk to people about normal things anymore. She’s lost to the world now.”
“Sometimes people with dementia remember things from the old days, even if they can’t remember faces or names or what they did last week.”
The librarian considered Zari, her brown eyes cool and assessing. Reaching for a notepad and a pen, she scribbled a few lines.
“Here.” She tore out the sheet and handed it to Zari. “I will call the facility and tell them you may be contacting them. It is my reputation at risk if you upset this woman, you understand.”
“I will be respectful,” Zari promised. “You have my word.”
Thanking the woman profusely for her time, she slipped on her jacket and put away her laptop. “Which house is it, if I may ask? The one where you saw the portrait?”
The librarian bent over her notepad again, writing a street name. “It’s quite close to the old harbor. All of the houses on the street are well maintained except two. One has been abandoned for many years. The other, the one with green trim, is hers.” She tore off the sheet of notepaper and handed it to Zari. “I wish you luck, Izar.”
No one had called Zari that since she was a small girl. The truth was, she had been Zari from the first moment she understood the meaning of personhood and names. She dropped her eyes, feeling like a fraud. Then she took a deep breath, gathered herself again, and returned the librarian’s gaze.
“Thank you, señora.”
50
January, 2017
San Sebastián, Spain
Zari
As soon as Zari returned to her hotel room near Getaria’s harbor she phoned the facility in San Sebastián where Señora Perez lived. She struggled to understand the fast-talking receptionist, but finally the arrangements were made. She would go during visiting hours tomorrow afternoon, when Señora Perez made a daily pilgrimage to a solarium overlooking the coast, and she would be allowed thirty minutes for the visit.
After ringing off, Zari stared at the mobile in her hand, shaking her head. Thirty minutes? That was barely enough time to get pleasantries out of the way.
She went to the window. The restless sea looked like a layer of hammered silver stretching to the horizon. Did Tristan de Luz once stand in this village and stare at the same view? Did Mira?
Zari shook her head, clearing it of dreams.
The next day Zari took the bus back to San Sebastián. The weather was blustery, just as it had been in Getaria. The dementia facility was on a hill outside the city, and getting there by foot would consume nearly an hour. But she was feeling a disquieting mix of anxiety and anticipation. Walking would calm her mind, and she could use the time to plan the right questions for Señora Perez. Although planning for a meeting with a person lost in the fog of dementia was likely a waste of time.
Before leaving the heart of the city, Zari stopped in a bakery on a busy street for another slice of the creamy tart that she’d sampled on her first visit here. It was every bit as decadent as she remembered. She wolfed it down rapturously as she walked, then stepped into a café and stood at the bar, where she guzzled a single shot of hot black espresso with plenty of sugar.
The rest of her walk passed in a blur of adrenalin. Caffeine and sugar pounded through her blood. So much for calming my mind, she thought ruefully. Still, Zari felt emboldened. She ascended the last few blocks up the hill with fierce brisk steps, imagining herself a Basque goddess with her long brown curls flowing out behind her
, cheeks flushed, hands balled up in fists. It was time for a Portia-style empowerment speech.
Channel your courage, Zari, she began. Upon reflection, she made a slight correction in her narrative.
Channel your courage, Izar. Star goddess of the Basques. You have a right to be here. These are your people, this is your land. Speak your truth, honor your ancestors, be respectful, and above all, listen.
The facility was in view now. It was not as grim as she had imagined, though it fronted a busy road roaring with diesel-spewing trucks. It was painted white, perhaps three stories high, with a classic Basque red tile roof. A glass solarium abutted the southern end. Tall hedges and leafy shrubs softened the building’s facade.
Taking a deep breath, Zari turned down the driveway.
“Señora Perez, I am Izar Mendieta.”
Señora Perez’s hazel eyes were luminous. Her silver hair was long, twisted into a low bun on the nape of her neck. Her wheat-colored skin was latticed with fissures and folds. She sat in a wheelchair, a white crocheted blanket over her pale pink wool robe, her hands folded in her lap. Zari marveled at those hands, at the constellation of brown sunspots and freckles that had sprung up there over the decades.
Señora Perez smiled in Zari’s direction without making direct eye contact, showing a set of teeth so perfect Zari assumed they were dentures.
Conscious of the passing time, she pulled a pink-upholstered armchair close to the woman. All around them, other residents were soaking up the winter light afforded by the solarium’s glass walls, their eyes fixed on the distant waves. A few of them chattered to one another, or with aides, or to themselves.
Zari opened her laptop and found Marguerite de Oto’s portrait. She held it up for Señora Perez to examine.
“I wonder if you recognize this woman...” she began, abandoning any attempt at pleasantries.
Señora Perez’s gaze settled on the computer screen. Her smile faded. She clasped her hands together more tightly.
For a moment Zari wondered frantically if she should close the computer and begin again, perhaps talk about the weather. If Señora Perez got upset now, her thirty minutes would be over before they even began. The dull thud of Zari’s heart sped up and a rumble of nausea tore at her belly. Good lord, why had she eaten that tart?
Then Señora Perez turned and looked into Zari’s eyes. “My sister was meant to have her, but I got her in the end,” she said quietly. “I was the bad one, you see, the one who always got in trouble. My sister was the sun and stars to everyone in the family. But she died. The good die sometimes, you know.” She inclined her head at the image on the screen. “That one, she’s safe with me. Everyone knows it. Even if I did nothing else right, I kept the lady safe.”
She relaxed her hands.
“Where did she come from?” Zari asked. “Did she belong to your parents? Your grandparents?”
Señora Perez laughed. “My grandmother. And her grandmother. And on and on. I have a granddaughter. But she won’t want it.”
“Where is your granddaughter?”
“Who knows? All she talks about is Madrid. Cities are dangerous, I tell her. It’s stupid to go to a city. You get swallowed up in those places. You lose yourself. But does she listen?”
Zari felt her hope crumbling a little. This was making no sense. She decided to focus on the painting.
“Look at this,” she encouraged Señora Perez, pointing at the portrait’s background, the snowy peaks, the cliffs, the antlered figures of ibex. “In your painting, does she have this scene behind her?”
Señora Perez frowned. She was quiet for several minutes, staring trancelike at the image.
“No, no, no,” she finally asserted. “My lady, she sits before the sea. The sea, which takes life and spits it out at us again.”
She flung a hand at the glass walls, at the undulating waters visible on the horizon. Then she raked Zari up and down with a piercing stare.
“My lady’s got a necklace, too,” Señora Perez declared, reaching out a hand and putting a shaky finger on Zari’s scallop shell necklace. “Just like that.”
Zari flinched a little at the woman’s touch. “Like the one in this painting?” She placed a finger on her laptop screen.
“Yes.” Señora Perez’s voice was gentle now, laced with honey. “A fine shell.”
Zari checked the time on her mobile and stifled a groan. Had half an hour ever passed this quickly before?
Quickly she clicked through to an image that showed the ‘ADL’ mark used by Arnaud. “Señora Perez,” she said, holding up the laptop. “Does the back of the painting have this mark on it?”
The old woman’s eyes drifted to the computer screen and focused on Arnaud de Luz’s boldly etched initials. Her face was transformed by a radiant smile.
She turned to Zari, drew in a breath, opened her mouth to speak.
An aide bustled up to them. “Rest now,” she said firmly, coming between Zari and Señora Perez. “Visiting time is over.”
Zari attempted to regain eye contact with Señora Perez.
“You know this mark?” she asked, holding out the computer.
The aide reached out a hand and closed the lid of Zari’s laptop.
“Visiting time is over,” she repeated sternly.
Slowly Zari stowed the laptop in her bag and stood.
“Thank you, Señora Perez,” she said, stepping clear of the aide to look at the elderly woman one more time. “You’ve been very kind.”
But Señora Perez’s attention had drifted to a loose thread on her sleeve.
Whatever she had been about to say was lost forever.
51
Autumn, 1506
Nay, Béarn
Amadina
Amadina went to the window and glanced at the street again. No one was about. Absently she patted her silver cross, calming herself. Worrying would be premature. She had dispatched her men three days ago, and their instructions could not have been more clear: burn the Belarac wool and kill the oxcart drivers. Steal their coin purses to make it look like the work of common road bandits.
There was a scratching at the door.
“Enter!” she called, hoping supper was ready.
The heavy oak door creaked open.
“Lady Abbess Amadina, excuse me.” The servant’s eyes were wide and fearful. “Please come quickly.”
Gripped by a feeling of foreboding, Amadina hurried downstairs. A man stood mutely in the entrance hall, dark bloodstains on his shirt. His head was bowed and his scarred hands were clasped at his waist.
She clapped at the other servants in annoyance. “What are you gawking at? Go about your business.”
Amadina gestured to him to follow her into the library and shut the door.
“Stand on the stone pavers. I do not want your blood on my rugs,” she instructed. “Now quickly, out with it.”
“We ambushed the Belarac shipment, shot at the oxcart with arrows of fire, but there were too many of them.” His voice was dull and flat. “They outnumbered us.”
“What do you mean? There was only the one cart.” Amadina snapped.
He shook his head. “There were mountain men with them. The Ronzal shepherd who came to Nay with his wife in the autumn, the ones you invited inside your brother’s home. And others.” The servant winced and pressed a hand over the wound on his shoulder. A trickle of blood oozed between his fingers. “They traveled with three carts of their own. They were armed. Some of our number were wounded. A few got away.”
“Did you manage to kill any of them?” she asked acidly.
He shrugged, averting his eyes.
“The Ronzal shepherd you spoke of—what of him?”
“We fought. I was wounded. I fled under cover of darkness. But not before he threatened to go to the bailiff.”
Amadina stalked
close enough to see the sweat and blood smearing his cheeks, the dirt caked on his ravaged hands.
“I care not for a shepherd’s idle threats,” she hissed. “The bailiff of Nay knows me to be a fine upstanding citizen.”
The servant shook his head. “Not the bailiff of Nay. The bailiff of Pau.”
“What?” she breathed, horrified. “Why would he go all the way to Pau to report a skirmish in the hillsides?”
“He said he knows what you’ve done, and soon many others will know.”
Amadina stiffened. The Nay bailiff did not concern her. She had delivered a purse of gold to him the day she dispatched her men. It was a longstanding arrangement that suited them both. She fed him a steady drip of coins, he ignored every complaint that concerned her.
But Arnaud de Luz tarnishing her good name all the way to Pau? His shepherds and wool purveyors would fan flames of animosity toward her all over these mountains, and whether an official from Pau ever darkened her doorstep or not, she had no doubt something terrible would rush at her one day as a consequence.
“What good are you to me?” she asked her servant angrily. “You have failed.”
He said nothing.
“When you came to my brother’s doorstep as a boy, he gave you shelter, employment, food, clothing. He met your every need and exceeded it. And I welcomed your sister into my convent, showering her with the same kindness.” She circled him with slow, deliberate steps. “But now I’ll turn her out. As God is my witness, I’ll let her wander the world penniless and alone. She will soon be nothing more than a common whore.”
The muscles worked in his jaw. His black eyes narrowed to slits. Amadina saw him wrestling with his anger, waited to see if he would unleash it.