The Scroll of Seduction (3 page)

“I don't know if you know anything about dream catchers, little nets that are woven and used by Native Americans to trap dreams. Well, I suggest we make one. I have a dress made in the style of the time. I want you to dress like Juana. I want you to imagine yourself in her place as I tell you the story, identify with her passion, her confusion. Some people make intricate time machines in order to travel to other times. What I'm proposing is a trip that requires nothing more complicated than silk and velvet. And through my words, she'll come to you and we'll both get to know her. I don't know why, but ever since I first saw you, I was sure that you'd be able to understand her. Not a moment goes by when I'm with you that I don't feel her presence near me.”

 

I STARED AT HIM, NOT KNOWING WHAT TO SAY. THE IDEA BOTH
attracted and scared me. I already knew for sure that Manuel's voice would be able to transport me to another reality. It was like a current, and time swam in it, untroubled. He talked about the past the way people talk about the present. My maternal grandfather had been like that: a fabulous storyteller who had fanned the flames of my imagination since I was a little girl. I thought about Scheherazade and the caliph and how she saved her life by spinning tales. I wondered what Manuel thought he would get out of it. I was well aware of the power of words; after all, words were what had led me there, to that strange proposal, that afternoon.

 

LESS THAN A WEEK AFTER OUR VISIT TO EL ESCORIAL, I GOT A LETTER
from Manuel. It was late afternoon when Mother Cristina handed me a letter postmarked from within Spain. I didn't recognize the writing. Through the flimsy, white envelope I could see the colors of a photograph. In the afternoons, the nuns passed out squares of chocolate with slices of baguette. I had never tried bread and chocolate together before coming to Spain, but ever since that first day when I followed the other girls' example, placing the chocolate between two pieces of bread like a sandwich and biting into it, I fell in love with the combination. It was delicious, and I usually ate mine sitting on a bench behind some bushes, next to the niche with the Virgin Fatima statuette. Rather than play basketball with the rest of the girls, I liked to spend that time of the afternoon reading. And that afternoon in particular I put the envelope in my pocket and took several pieces of bread and chocolate to my little spot. When I ripped open the envelope, I found a postcard. It was a reproduction of a fifteenth-century painting of a young woman with delicate features, her hair parted down the middle. It was Juana of Castille as painted by Juan de Flandes in 1497. Disconcerted, I read the back of the card.

“Lucía, Juana of Castille was sixteen years old when she married Philippe the Handsome. She felt lonely in Flanders, like you do. She was far from her family. Let me know if you need anything in Madrid. Feel free to
write to me at this address: calle San Bernardo, 28, 4
°
, Madrid, 00267. Warm regards, Manuel de Sandoval y Rojas.”

 

I ANSWERED HIS LETTER THE VERY SAME DAY. I WROTE DURING
study period that night. After nine o'clock, the nuns had what they called their “great silence,” they only spoke if it was strictly necessary. We were supposed to keep quiet too while we sat in the big hall at tables lining the rectangular, high-ceilinged room with its tall windows. Mother Sonia, who was in charge of supervising us, sat behind a desk on a dais in front of the blackboard. At regular intervals, perhaps marked by the time it took her to recite the rosary, counting the polished, olive-pit beads that hung from her waist, the nun would get up and wander slowly up and down the rows of girls. Her footsteps were almost silent, as if she were levitating, but the coarse material of her habit as she moved, her rosary beads clicking against one another, and the overpowering smell of wool that trailed behind her were like the wake of a huge ship gliding stealthily through the sound of turning pages and pencils scratching on paper.

I did my homework, finished my reading, and then began my letter. I wrote carefully, taking care to make sure my handwriting was neat and well rounded. I used a piece of lined cardboard under the onionskin paper to keep my lines straight. The whole process gave me great pleasure. I don't know how I ended up writing so much just to thank Manuel for his postcard. I filled page after page, telling him about myself, taking great delight in creating a text. In spite of my age, I felt mature, as if my suffering and orphanage had granted me a higher level of understanding than one might surmise from my biography. I wanted to know more about Juana, I said. I was captivated by the idea that the queen in the portrait and I were almost the same age and that, despite all our differences, we both might have felt the same loneliness. Mine, as an only child, was always strewn with characters out of books, or the ones I'd invent to keep me company from a very early age, I said. Even though I'd had to adapt to another culture, in my case, leaving home–where my parents' absence would have been palpable and unbearable–was a form of salvation. I was also interested in Juana's tragedy, the love
she felt for Philippe the Handsome, and her jealousy, I added toward the end.

By ten thirty, when Mother Sonia clapped her hands to let us know it was time to go to bed, I had written seven pages. Back in my room, I spent a long time staring into my mother's silver mirror, imagining that she could see me in the reflection of my eyes. Maybe through Juana I could come to understand what she had gone through. It struck me as providential that Manuel had written to me just then, when thoughts of my parents were hounding me night and day.

 

THE NEXT DAY I SIGNED OFF, SEALED THE ENVELOPE, STAMPED IT,
and took it to Rosario, the doorwoman and caretaker who was in charge of posting our letters. That was the beginning of a correspondence that introduced me to a life of risk and adventure, one that I embraced with a passion even I myself didn't comprehend. I supposed it was because no man had ever shown any interest in me before, and at my age I was just beginning to imagine what it must feel like, or maybe because it was the first chance I'd ever had to express myself to anyone who knew nothing about my family situation, whose opinion of me would be based solely on me and whatever I did or didn't say. As I wrote, I imagined the impact my words would have on my correspondent: I pictured him outside, in the hustle and bustle of the metro, going about his daily business, reading my letters as he had a cup of coffee or a glass of wine in some local bar. I felt like a castaway, sending messages in colored bottles and tossing them out to sea.

I realized as I walked down the hall on my way back to the room that few things in the last few years had given me as much pleasure as writing to him. I liked the way my neat, round calligraphy looked on the paper; I liked trying to imagine the person my words would conjure up in Manuel's mind. When I stepped back and disassociated myself from the letter, I had to admit I liked the girl portrayed in my digressions.

I imagined Rosario carrying the mail to the box on the corner, my letter slipping through the slot and dropping onto a dark pile of envelopes at the bottom.

Manuel wrote back immediately, charmed and impressed by my maturity.

But he didn't just write.

 

“WAS THAT WHY YOU SENT THAT POSTCARD TO ME AT SCHOOL?” I
asked apprehensively. “Because you thought I could help you get to know Juana?”

“I don't know what I thought, Lucía,” he said kindly, softly, taking my hand. “I liked how smart you were, your interest in history. I suspected you'd have a lot in common with Juana.” He smiled. “I teach the Renaissance at college, but I don't often meet girls of your age who show much curiosity in what they're studying. Besides, I have to cover Juana's entire life in one class. Even though I'd love to dedicate more time to her the syllabus does not allow it. I thought instead that you might share my interest.”

“You know, it's funny, after you mentioned her, her name came up in a conversation I had with Mother Luisa Magdalena about my mother's jealousy.”

“That's not surprising, Lucía. Ask anyone. Ideas have magnetic properties, thoughts attract other thoughts, they lead to sudden revelations and inexplicable coincidences. To some extent, we've all had that sort of experience, those apparent coincidences.”

Manuel got up to make coffee. I watched him maneuver around in his tiny kitchen. It felt so natural to me, now, to be there with him. But if it hadn't been for a whole series of events, we might never have met and there might not have been another chance for us to become friends. There was no doubt that he was the one who had orchestrated our encounter. The Sunday after our trip to El Escorial I bumped into him down the street from my school.

 

THAT DAY I HAD WOKEN UP WITH A MIGRAINE. MOTHER LUISA
Magdalena found me doubled up in bed. She tucked me in, gave me a few drops of Cafergot. She had been nice to me all week, considerate and attentive. It was her way of trying to console me for something that nei
ther of us could do anything about. In the early afternoon she brought me lunch and stayed, sitting with me for a while. The hot soup and medicine started to have an effect. They were soothing, and I began to feel better. She suggested that I take a bath and then go for a short walk before it got dark. The bakery would still be open, she said, winking. She was very observant. She knew I always came back on Sundays with a selection of pastries.

I took a long shower. On weekends there was never any fear of running out of hot water after everyone had bathed, since so many girls went home then. So I used that time to wash my hair, scrub my hands and feet with a pumice stone, shave my legs, and just wallow in the pleasure of water running down my naked body. Over the four years I'd been there my body had undergone tremendous changes, and I had watched the process, startled and thrilled at the same time. My breasts began to take shape almost overnight, two raised mounds crowned with large, light pink nipples. From a size 32A at thirteen, I had gone to a 36C. My pubis, which had been smooth and hairless when I arrived in Spain, was now entirely covered with curly, wiry, black hair. My waist had become slightly more defined, though not much. I would never be one of those women with dramatic, voluptuous curves. My hips were narrow and my legs were skinny, though I did have a nice, round bottom. I didn't know if I'd grow any more before I turned eighteen, but I prayed to God I wouldn't; I already felt like a giant. The thing I liked most about my body was my flat stomach; my belly button was so deep and tiny that the only way I could clean it–as part of my weekly ritual–was by using a cotton swab that went almost halfway in before hitting the end. And for some inexplicable reason, whenever I did that, I felt a tickling sensation in my rectum.

After the shower, I felt less dazed and sluggish. I powdered my face and put on some eyeliner. On my way out, I crossed paths with Margarita, one of the other boarders. She was just coming in, walking through the foyer–which was decorated with Talavera ceramic tiles–wearing a plaid, pleated skirt and carrying a few packages. Margarita was a tall, childlike girl from Guatemala; she had a big heart and we got along well.
She was also good at telling jokes and knew how to make me laugh. She seemed surprised to see me. That morning, Mother Luisa Magdalena had told her I was sick.

“I see you're feeling better.” She smiled.

“It didn't last long. I had a headache, a migraine. But it's almost gone now. I'm just going to the bakery and coming right back.”

To get there I had to walk up the narrow steep street that intersected with Atocha, by the Antón Martín metro stop. The school was in one of Madrid's oldest neighborhoods, close to the train station, the botanical gardens, and the Lavapiés district. It was almost the end of May and the days were getting longer. But at that time of the afternoon–a little after five–there weren't many people wandering about. In Spain people ate lunch at two or three, so most of them were either finishing up their extended Sunday lunches or having a siesta. The cool wind blew in my face. I walked past Castilian-style buildings in the bright afternoon air, looking up at the wrought iron balconies that stuck out at regular intervals. The street level of what had once been stately homes were now shops, businesses, and bars. Regardless of whether it was sunny or overcast, there was always a sorrowful air on that street. Probably because just in the stretch next to the school there was a convent of cloistered nuns, cut off from the rest of the world for life, a hospital with high walls and gloomy architecture, and the municipal morgue. I had stopped absentmindedly to look at a pair of shoes in the window of a small store when I heard a voice beside me.

“I can't believe it! What a marvelous coincidence.”

When I looked up I saw Manuel. He was wearing the same clothes as the last time I'd seen him, and he was carrying a portfolio. I remember I stood there looking at him, not knowing what to say, not daring to think he might have been hanging around hoping to see me, though it was hard to believe he was actually there by chance. His friend Genaro lived nearby, he said by way of explanation. He was the man who was supposed to have been our guide at El Escorial, the reason why we had met in the first place. Manuel said he was returning some papers to him. Then he asked me which direction I was headed. As soon as I recovered from my shock I told him I was just going to the bakery and then back to
school. He offered to escort me, and we started up the street. He was smoking with relish and looking around as if he'd never taken a Sunday stroll in his life. He told me he spent most weekends reading in his aunt's library or assembling models of some sort. He was a big fan of models and jigsaw puzzles. He did not enjoy the multitudes wandering aimlessly like robots summoned by an invisible command to have fun. Instead, I loved going out on Sundays, I said. The school was like a fortress, and being locked up in there made it hard to remember the city even existed. That day, though, my headache had kept me in bed. “Poor thing,” he said gently, placing his right hand lightly on my back for just a second. “Wouldn't you be better off staying away from pastries?” I smiled. On the contrary, I said, the sugar would do me good. The way I saw it, just walking into the bakery was a delight. After all, the nun who was taking care of me had been the one to suggest it. Desserts, chocolates, sweets, were my weakness. What I missed most from my country was a thick guava jelly that we used to eat at breakfast. My grandparents had a guava tree in their garden, and it smelled incredible. “You'll have to teach me about tropical fruits. I'm sorry to say I've never even seen a guava.” When we crossed the street, Manuel put his hand on my back again, near the shoulder. “I really enjoyed your letter,” he said. “You write very well. I forget how young you are when I hear you talk, and I forgot it even more when I read your letter. Your observations are very wise.”