The Scroll of Seduction (10 page)

The moonlight shone through the stained-glass windows of the cold, dark monastery corridors, casting moving shadows of the pine trees in the garden lashed by the wind, and the incessant rain. With both hands I clutched my shawl to my chest, and thus, terrified and covered up, I lay eyes on Philippe for the first time.

Before my eyes could focus, I saw his, staring at me from the blue blur of his clothing, as if his gaze were an entity of its own, trapping me, encircling me, like a strange, delightful silk bow. Slowly, the gaze acquired hair and cheeks, neck and long fingers. He was taller than I, thin, blond, and handsome, but none of that mattered as much as the energy that flowed from him to me, the complicity with which he transmitted his initial doubts, and his present relief. I felt the abundance of warped, foreshadowed images we both had about our meeting. And though we would both have confronted our destinies regardless of our mutual impressions, gazing at each other and realizing that we both liked what we saw unleashed a strange, euphoric complicity. Conscious of how little each of us had intervened in the machinations of our lives, we wordlessly communicated to each other the conviction that together we would find new ways to use the freedom our marriage granted. So well did our silences speak that little doubt remained in our minds that we had fallen in love at first sight. I was about to curtsy, but he stopped me, taking my
hand instead and leading me to the other side of the fireplace, motioning for me to sit, out of reach of our attendants. I admired the aplomb he showed before the others, a quality so hard to come upon us, women. We had hardly begun to converse when he asked the abbess, the members of his court and mine, to leave us. Given that we would be spending the rest of our lives together, he told them, we might as well start to know each other without delay. Once everyone had left, my determination to berate him for not having met me upon my arrival was totally dissipated, replaced by a warmth in my chest that rose all the way up to my eyes, producing a sort of dizziness that made me whimper and giggle with relief. Not knowing how to conceal these inappropriate emotions–so unfitting for the moment–I buried my face in my hands, fighting to regain composure. He knelt beside me, concerned, but I told him not to worry. I was tired after so many days on the road, and pleased to see that I would have no cause to curse my destiny, after all. He took out a handkerchief and dried my tears. I think not even five minutes had passed when he embraced me and kissed my lips. He lips were thin, but his tongue was like a sword darting into my mouth. I could taste beer, and I recall the tang of malt and the heat that his tongue produced on mine, which traveled down my throat like a flame, making me tremble and feel that within me lived a body I had not known I possessed.

I pulled away to take a breath. His blue eyes were so close that they seemed like a moon on his forehead. He touched my cheeks and I touched his, which were hot and flushed. Then suddenly, he took my hand and placed it between his legs, beneath his blue riding jacket. What I felt was like a bunch of grapes, and I moved my hand around in order to understand it, since in truth I had almost no knowledge of male anatomy. As I explored, Philippe kissed my collarbone, and his mouth, leaving a moist trail, bit into the edge of my breasts that peeked out over my décolletage. At that moment, I remembered the vial hidden in my bodice, and the thought of him discovering it made me suddenly recover my other body, the one that knew no passion. I took my hand from between his legs and placed it between us.

“I beg you to desist, my lord,” I said. “We must be patient and wait until our union has been blessed,” I added, making a face as I smoothed my skirt, ran my hands over my bodice, my hair, and then stood to step away from him.

“I am only doing what they have ordered us to do,” he replied devilishly, flashing me a smile I could not help but return. He stood and went to the table to take a long drink of beer. Then he smiled again and added, “Now that I have seen you, I can see no reason why we should not be free to decide when and where we carry out our orders. Let me show you right now.”

He strode to the door. As we had both suspected, members of both of our entourages were huddled just on the other side, trying to overhear our conversation. Philippe ordered his governor to call the abbess. When she arrived, minutes later, I was shocked beyond belief to hear him ask for authorization to carry out our wedding ceremony immediately.

“The princess and I have lost an entire month and we would like to spend the night together tonight,” he said, adopting a solemn air, his expression making it perfectly clear that there was no room for argument.

I sat down, staring at the reflection the candles made on my velvet skirt. Despite the considerable embarrassment I felt at being so willing to take part in this game, despite my fear that Don Fadrique and Beatriz would think I had lost my wits, each time I glanced up at Philippe's back I was flooded with joy at the fact that fate had bestowed such a man upon me. I could not have hoped for anything more daring or chivalrous than the scene unfolding before me. Courtiers came and went. His governor exchanged hushed comments with mine, off in a corner. The abbess had gone to find Don Diego Ramírez de Villaescusa, my chaplain, who rushed in and then approached me, whispering in my ear, “Is this what Your Highness wishes?”

I lowered my eyes with false modesty, concealing the glee and the disquiet I felt in my chest.

“I am happy to abide by my future husband's decisions. And I concur; if I have come here to marry, there is no sense in postponing what
I came here to do,” I whispered, meeting Philippe's eyes. Unlike me, he made no attempt to hide his amusement.

The memory of the improvised ceremony beside the fireplace where he first kissed me is still vivid. Candles were lit and brought in from other rooms, and before the crude table from the abbey entry hall, Don Diego married us, in the presence of the most cherished members of our entourages. The shadows of those present were elongated on the building's gray walls. I saw the silhouette of my hands in his (his fingers as long and slender as mine) projected like storks' beaks above the priest's head. Without having even used the vial that was still concealed in my bodice, my fiancé seemed to have fallen under my spell. He looked at me in joy and adoration, as if what was happening were the culmination of a long-standing desire. I felt the same, awed at his awe. We had fallen in love with the possibility of love. My mother had been correct in thinking that our youth was fertile ground. I thought of her as the priest gave us his blessing. She would not have approved of our urgency. And yet, her wedding had not been so very different.

 

“LUC
í
A.”

It was as if a wave had hurled me from the gentle sea to the hard surface of a rocky beach. I opened my eyes. It must have been four or five in the afternoon, judging by the light. Manuel was walking to the kitchen. He returned with two glasses of red wine.

“I think a little wine will help us return to reality,” he said with a sad smile.

“You say that as if you'd rather not come back.”

“I'd give anything if I could be inside their heads. Imagine. She was sixteen; he was eighteen. They'd just met. She was a virgin, beautiful and flustered. He was worked up after the cavalcade, excited by the power of his rank. His sexual desire intertwined with the wish to provoke the Spanish and defy convention. It was cold. Juana would have looked like you, rosy-cheeked, trembling. Come, let's get those clothes off. You look like you're under a spell.”

On the stairs going down into the darkness of Manuel's room, my legs felt wobbly. I didn't want to leave behind the scenario my imagina
tion was still projecting: undergarments strewn across the floor of an austere, monastic bedroom.

Manuel sat behind me and gently removed my pendant, and as he did so he bent over my neck and kissed it tenderly, running his tongue along my hairline. I was about to protest, but instead my skin rose up as if dancing, lifting itself against my reticence and my surprise. It felt as if the world had become all silk and gauzes. I closed my eyes and let myself drift into a time hundreds of years in the past. I was Juana all over again. Philippe and I were alone at last after the ceremony. He was tracing the contours of my shoulder blades with his lips while his hands undid the ribbons on the front of my dress, making it fall softly around me. I felt like a dove being let out from her cage. I inhaled deeply. His kisses, the wetness of his tongue went after every inch of my skin like short-frequency-rippling-lake waves tugging my clothes off little by little. My breasts were set free, emerging out into the open space. My nipples stiffened, contracting like round gourds. He embraced me from behind. His hands cupped my breasts, kneading them slowly and deliberately like dough, as if he had to make the yeast of my skin rise until it swelled up in pleasure.

When the dress fell down over my waist, Philippe pushed me lightly. He led me silently, wordlessly to the bed. I felt the silk of Manuel's bedspread on my back. He was breathing heavily as he slid the gown down my legs and over my feet. I was naked now, just with my panties on, and I didn't want to think or to open my eyes. All I wanted to do was give in, pretend I had no will of my own. I wanted to open my body, cast aside all warnings, let it happen. Manuel tugged at his clothes. I felt his masculine body, the plain skin enveloping his taut muscles, no round forms just solid, angular shapes, the scant hair on the chest, the pounding, racing heart at its center, brushing against my breasts. And Philippe leaned into me, rubbed himself against me, sank his mouth into my hair, into my ears, making a sound as if in pain, touching me all over, feeling his way along my ribs, my legs, tugging off my panties hurriedly, as if he feared I might suddenly disappear. I glimpsed a white body, his penis erect between his legs, coming out from the bush where it lived in hiding, like a large index finger in the act of offering an almost laughably
stern reprimand. I stared at it, fascinated, as he lay beside me and began to kiss my navel, to run his fingers slowly down the entire length of my legs, like a command, making me want to spread them wider and wider, so that his hand would come and stroke my pubis. Then I heard my moans join his, while inside a warm sensation spread like honey pouring out of my entrails, honeycomb oozing a warm, viscous liquid. He plunged his hand between my legs, wetting himself with my juices, taking his fingers to his mouth and then wiping them over my lips, letting me taste myself. I writhed madly and instinctively took hold of Philippe's strong, erect member and brought it to my lips like a goblet of wine. Then I grabbed onto his back to help him mount me and I shivered at the exquisite sensation of the first approach, his hardness trying to cross the moat that guarded my innermost castle, but when my instincts encouraged him to enter, to come into my secret chambers, suddenly alarm bells began ringing and the pain of forbidden places, of doors intractably locked, interfered. I whimpered and whispered that I couldn't, that it wouldn't fit, but Philippe or Manuel, I don't know which and no longer cared, pinned my arms down on the pillows and despite my cries pushed himself inside me like a drill in search of water, and I felt the agony of penetration, his flesh losing itself in mine, and I cried out in pain and in relief, thinking it's done, it's all over now, feeling that it was what he had to do, forgiving him, crying, as we both rocked back and forth, our cries louder and louder until suddenly there he was pulling out of me, kneeling above me, and letting his hot, thick liquid spurt onto my stomach.

K
yrie eleison.”

“Kyrie eleison.”

 

FATHER JUSTO, THE SCHOOL CHAPLAIN, SWUNG
the censer above the altar like a pendulum. Dense, fragrant smoke filled the chapel. I closed my eyes and let myself be carried off by the rhythmic clinking of the censer's chain. Beside me kneeling on the bench were Margarita and Pilar. I wondered if they noticed the smell coming from me; I felt as if my skin were producing its own sacred aroma. I had showered the night before, but when I woke up that morning I stuck my head under the covers and noticed a sort of ocean smell. I rubbed myself with a towel and then had to rush to make it to the second mass, for day pupils, trying not to aggravate the pain and burning I felt between my legs. Paradoxically, that aching made me feel absurdly superior to the other girls, to the eleven thousand virgins surrounding me. The image made me smile into my missal.

I couldn't believe it was so easy to hide such a transcendental event, that it wasn't written all over my face in great, big letters. The routine, the Mondays of the world, were going on as usual. But inside me, everything was changed. I felt like my parents' house on the day the movers came and put everything into storage: my corridors full of boxes, the lawn strewn with shredded paper, chairs and tables all out of place. My virginal girlhood was moving out of me. I couldn't help but wonder
why innocence was considered such a valuable virtue. Now that I had lost mine, I certainly didn't miss it. Quite the contrary: childhood and puberty seemed like a long, dark period full of confusion and superstitions. All that fear of the body and its orifices. All that imagined pain and shame when sexuality seemed full of clarity: a revelation of the intimate bond between body and spirit. How could I not be awed to see my body instinctively act with such confidence? To see how in tune my skin and my brain were? It was like finding an old map hidden in my subconscious. Or coming upon Aladdin's lamp and having the genie pop out the first time I rubbed it, turning wishes and fantasies into reality. Even though, in the darkness of the chapel, kneeling between the virgins in my class, I wondered if I should feel ashamed. Inside all I felt was joy and celebration. I wanted to take communion when the priest raised the host before us and asked us to come up. I thought having made love allowed me to understand the idea of communion. Now I knew what it meant to cherish another being in the most intimate part of yourself. And yet I didn't dare go take the host. I was scared. I was sure that if I went to confession, Father Justo would scold me and might even deny me communion. Like the poor nuns, he would never know what it was to make love. The love of the flesh was impure according to them. They held, and would always hold, the absurd belief that sex was just a necessary evil, something required for procreation. The priests and nuns distorted one of the most crucial elements of life, turning it into some dark act. I felt a surge of anger when I thought about the constant admonitions warning us about the wailing and gnashing of teeth. Luckily, at my house, religion had always been more of a social formality, a convenient artifice, something that provided a sense of continuity and stability. Or, as my father used to say, it was a story, a morality tale we told ourselves in order to feel better about the inevitable end. It was soothing, he said, to imagine heavenly courts and intergalactic journeys after death, instead of just nothingness, which for him was a certainty. But everyone had to find their own truth, go through their own process, and it was I, after all, who would have to decide for myself once I could discern between science and mythology. My mother didn't contradict him, but she did maintain that neither of them was any worse off for having had
a religious education. She liked to pray with me at night, but I got the distinct impression she did it for tradition's sake, like a sweet and harmless ritual. My parents' indifference to the principles of faith–which the nuns hammered into us as if making sure we felt guilty for our existence was the only path to becoming decent human beings–had restrained my devotion. I wasn't indifferent to the sermons on eternity and everlasting damnation, but the cruelty of the punishments described didn't seem to fit with the intelligence of a Supreme Being capable of creating a hummingbird or a wave. The idea of a gentle, loving God seemed much more consistent, as far as I could see. But it was hard to know if my father would see the absence of divine retribution as a good reason for allowing myself to be seduced by Manuel, for example. The idea of his watching over me made me very uncomfortable. I thought I'd better find someone outside the convent to take my confession, some adult, someone who could give me counsel. It couldn't be Father Justo, but if I avoided communion again, Mother Luisa Magdalena would notice. And even a skeptic like me didn't feel comfortable taking communion without having confessed.

That week more than ever I regretted not having a close friend, someone I could tell I was no longer a virgin. It seemed like such a transcendental occurrence that I was dying to tell someone, to share a secret that I was sure that neither Margarita nor Piluca nor Marina would be able to swallow without choking or gaping at me in incredulity. It wasn't the risk of their disapproval that stopped me but the fear that they would be unable to contain themselves and might tell others. News would spread throughout the school like wildfire, and that was a chance I couldn't take. But I wanted so badly to show off in front of them! The truth is I felt proud of my affair, even though I could hardly believe I had been so daring. How could I have let Manuel seduce me, just like that? Would he think I was some sort of shameless hussy? And where did my own uncontrollable sexual urge come from? Why instead of ebbing away, it kept coming back every time I thought about Manuel's hands, about the way he touched me, about the tender way he soothed me after it was over and I cried like a baby?

In the middle of the week I made up a reason why I had to call my
grandparents so that I could use the pay phone and call Manuel. He seemed disconcerted by my phone call. He said he wasn't expecting it. I didn't talk for long because he felt so distant it made me uneasy. I hated being so susceptible, but I had been like that ever since I was a little girl. Sometimes I was overwhelmed by the fear that because of my sorrows no one would fall in love with me. I wondered if perhaps Manuel was regretting what had happened. Perhaps the guilt I lacked was all weighing on
his
conscience. Maybe he'd say we shouldn't see each other anymore. I was so worried I couldn't sleep. I hardly ate. But on Friday I received a postcard with a picture of a Flemish tapestry.

In the Church of San Cipriano, not far from school, they took confession on Saturday afternoons. I walked in and genuflected as I tried to make out the confessionals in the dim light. They looked like huge wooden armoires on either side of the church's circular nave. I took a seat on the benches near one of them, where several old women were waiting their turn. I was immediately wrapped in the church's cavelike, silent atmosphere. No matter the times I had told myself I wouldn't be condemned for what I had done, first of all because hell probably didn't even exist, and secondly because God would understand me, being there made me feel like a sinner, an impure Mary Magdalene. The effigy of Christ on the cross above the high altar was like a higher authority, rebuking me with his agonized presence. I held my head in my hands. At that moment, my repentance was genuine. I wanted to believe that I was being honest when I told myself I wouldn't do it again, that I would return, like the prodigal daughter, to the path of righteousness. But my mind jumped from one thing to the next, preoccupied with figuring out how to tell the priest. “A man seduced me, Father, and I let him,” or “Father, I confess to having lost my virginity.” The first version seemed
like it would be more palatable for the priest, less incriminating for me, but not altogether honest. That was as far as I had gotten when it came time for my turn. My hands were sweating as I knelt and repeated the set phrases of the Ave Maria. The confessional was very dark and smelled of old, rancid wood, of musty, spilled sins. The priest was hidden behind a short purple curtain, but I could see his shiny shoes through a crack.

“Come, child, tell me your sins,” the deep, masculine voice said, after asking me how long it had been since my last confession.

“I made love with my boyfriend, Father.”

There was a pause. The priest cleared his throat. I dug my fingernails into my arms, which were crossed over the wooden ledge below the little window.

“Did you do everything you could to resist temptation?”

“I don't know. I wasn't expecting it. This force just…came over me,” I faltered, not knowing what else to say.

“Tell me all about it. Tell me what happened.”

I couldn't do it. I ran out, flustered. It was ridiculous, to be expected to confess such intimate things. What right did priests have to hear one's most private affairs? In the end I went to the confessional in the school chapel. I confessed to Father Justo for having impure thoughts and desires, sure that God would be able to decipher my code.

Sunday, rather than hail a taxi, Manuel led me down the side streets near Paseo de la Castellana to a small, cozy restaurant with low ceilings and adobe arches. They served tapas. He ordered mussels, Spanish tortilla, Serrano ham, cheese, olives, mushrooms, and I don't know what else. To drink, he ordered the house red wine. He was acting normal, just like always, as if nothing had happened. I was a little disconcerted. But seeing him so unemotional I thought maybe that was the way adults acted, so I played my part.

I noticed he looked pale and had bags under his eyes.

“Is everything okay, Manuel? You look tired.”

“I didn't tell you when you called, but I've had to take care of my Aunt Águeda all week. She's normally very healthy, but when she gets sick she becomes absolutely helpless and gets in a bad mood. I've hardly been at my apartment these past few days. Fortunately, the library where
I work is in my family's home. It's a beautiful house, a museum of the history, the shame, and the secrets of my family.”

“And is your aunt better now?”

“Yes. She had an ear infection that ended up causing labyrinthitis. That's an inner-ear inflammation that makes you lose your sense of balance.”

“Why didn't your Aunt Águeda ever get married?”

“Because of me, most likely,” he said somberly. “She's always devoted herself to me. You'll have to meet her,” he added in a lighter tone. “She's like a magpie hording her treasures. I suspect she has a few she hides even from me. Once, when I was a teenager, she told me about a trunk that belonged to Queen Juana that she'd seen as a child. I only recalled that recently when I came across references in some old documents to a trunk the queen kept hidden in her room that contained her most cherished objects. I asked Águeda if that might have been the one she'd seen, but she seemed not to remember anything and denied ever having mentioned it. I don't know what to think, but I'm intrigued by the possibility that she really does know where it is. If it exists, she'll have to tell me one day.”

We were having coffee. Manuel stirred sugar into his espresso pensively.

“Just imagine if you find it. I wonder how it would feel, peeking at things she hid centuries ago,” I said.

He put his hand on top of mine and squeezed so hard that I withdrew it.

“I'm sorry,” he said, flicking back a lock of white hair that was always hanging down in his eyes. “You don't know how much it means to me to have you take part in this investigation with me. Some people live entirely in the present, they hurl themselves into the chaos of existence as if there were nothing beyond their senses. But others among us don't see time as linear, we see it as a constant state of becoming, with the only division between past, present, and future being artificially established by human emotional needs. For a historian, studying reality the way someone from a specific period of time perceives it is like exploring the unknown depths of the ocean for a marine biologist. As far as I'm con
cerned, there is nothing more exciting than uncovering the mysteries of human behavior. The Marquises of Denia deceived Juana for years, lying to her about what was going on outside the four walls of Tordesillas. Ferdinand the Catholic, her father, had been dead for four years before Juana heard the news. The marquis tried to convince her that her ill father had retired to a convent. He instructed her to write to him. He wanted to use her letters as proof of her insanity. Not only that, but in order to persuade her not to leave the palace, they told her the plague had spread throughout town and organized bogus funeral processions all day beneath her window. Did they take pleasure in being the architects of this farce? They must have felt
some
kind of pleasure. But what kind? Do you know that poor Catalina, the posthumous daughter of Juana and Philippe, who grew up imprisoned with her mother, used to spend all day at a palace window tossing coins down to the children below so that they would run over and she could at least watch them play? You'll learn the rest of the story soon enough. We've hardly even got past the passion of their first meeting. The body is so simple, Lucía. It's the purest thing we have. The mind, on the other hand, is full of twists and turns. The mind is the real labyrinth. And in real life there is no Ariadne, no silver thread to find your way back. It's just you and the Minotaur, panting. And he's always close by.”

 

AT LUNCH AND ON THE WAY BACK TO HIS HOUSE, WE DIDN'T TALK
about what happened last Sunday. Personally I thought it was rude–given that I'd lost my virginity–that he didn't even bother to ask me whether or not I had felt uncomfortable. But maybe men thought women's discomfort was something trivial, something that didn't merit comment. Or maybe he thought it was impolite to ask. The other disquieting possibility was that maybe he thought it had happened between Juana of Castile and Philippe the Handsome rather than the two of us.