Ines of My Soul (36 page)

Juan and Cecilia's house was much smaller and more modest that ours, but it was splendidly decorated with furnishings and adornments from Peru, including some from the former palace of Atahualpa. The floors were covered with several layers of many-colored wool rugs with Inca designs; my feet sank into them as I walked across the room. Cecilia's home smelled of cinnamon and chocolate, which she managed to acquire while the rest of us made do with maté and infusions of local herbs. During her childhood in the palace of Atahualpa, she had grown so accustomed to her chocolate drink that in times of the disturbances in Santiago, when we went through periods of severe hunger, she never cried because she was hungry for bread; her tears were for chocolate. Before we Spaniards came to the New World, chocolate was reserved for royalty, priests, and the upper echelons of the Inca military, but we quickly adopted it.

When we took a seat on cushions, Cecilia's silent serving girls brought us that fragrant beverage in silver cups fashioned by Quechua artisans. Cecilia, who in public always dressed like a Spanish woman, at home followed the mode of the Inca court; it was more comfortable: a straight, ankle-length skirt and an embroidered tunic cinched at the waist with a sash woven of brilliant colors. She was barefoot, and I could not help comparing her perfect, princess-bred feet with mine, those of a rough country girl. She wore her hair loose and her only adornment was a pair of heavy gold earrings she had inherited from her family; they had reached Chile through the same mysterious channels as her furnishings.

“If Pedro notices your wrinkles, it will be because he does not love you, and nothing you do will change his feelings,” she advised me when I told her of my worries.

I don't know whether her words were prophetic or whether she, who knew even the most closely guarded secrets, was already informed about something I did not as yet know. To please me, she shared her creams, lotions, and perfumes, which I applied for several days as I impatiently awaited my lover. However, a week passed, and then another, and another, and Valdivia had not shown his face in Santiago. He was on a ship anchored in the bay at Concón, and was governing through emissaries, but there was no message for me. I could not comprehend what was happening; I debated with myself, torn between uncertainty, anger, and hope, terrified by the thought that he had stopped loving me, and waited for the tiniest positive sign. I asked Catalina to read my fortune, but for once she found nothing in the shells, or else she did not dare tell me what she saw.

Days and weeks went by with no news of Pedro; I stopped eating, and could scarcely sleep. During the day I worked until I was exhausted, and at night I paced like a wild bull through the galleries and rooms of my house, my heels striking sparks from the floor. I did not cry, because in fact I wasn't sad, I was furious, and I didn't pray because it seemed to me that Nuestra Señora del Socorro would not understand my problem. A thousand times I was tempted to go visit Pedro on the ship and find out once and for all what he was doing—it was only two days by horseback—but I didn't dare. My instinct warned me that in this particular circumstance it would be best not to confront him. I suppose that I foresaw my misfortune but out of pride did not put it into words. I did not want anyone to see me humiliated, least of all Rodrigo de Quiroga, who fortunately did not ask questions.

Finally, one very hot afternoon, González de Marmolejo turned up at my house looking exhausted. He had gone to and returned from Valparaíso in five days' time, and had bruised buttocks from the ride. I greeted him with a bottle of my best wine, apprehensive, because I knew he was bringing me news. Was Pedro on the way here? Was he calling me to come join him? Marmolejo did not allow me to ask further questions but handed me a sealed letter, then with bowed head went out to drink his wine beneath the bougainvillea on the gallery while I read it. In few, and very precise, words, Pedro communicated the gist of La Gasca's decision to me. He reiterated his respect and admiration for me—without mentioning love—and urged me to listen carefully to González de Marmolejo. The hero of campaigns in Flanders and Italy, of revolts in Peru and the conquest of Chile, the most courageous and famous soldier in the New World did not have the nerve to face me. That was why he had hidden for two months on the ship. What had happened to him? I could not possibly comprehend his reasons for running away from me. Perhaps I had become a dominating witch, a virago; perhaps I had trusted too much in the solidity of our love. I had never asked myself whether Pedro loved me as much as I loved him; I had assumed that our love was an uncontestable truth. No, I decided finally. The blame was not mine. I was not the one who had changed; it was he. Feeling that he was getting old had frightened him, and he yearned to be the heroic soldier and youthful lover he had been years ago. I knew him too well. At my side, he could not reinvent himself or begin again with new trappings. Beside me, it would be impossible to hide his weaknesses or his age, and as he could not deceive me, he was tossing me aside.

“Read this, please, Padre, and tell me what it means,” I said and held the letter out to the priest.

“I know what it contains, daughter. The gobernador did me the honor of confiding in me and asking my counsel.”

“Then this wickedness is your idea?”

“No, Inés, those orders come from La Gasca, the supreme authority of the king and the church in this part of the world. I have the papers here; you can see them for yourself. Your adultery with Pedro is the source of scandal.”

“Now, when I am no longer needed, my love for Pedro is a scandal, but when I found water in the desert, treated the ill, buried the dead, and saved Santiago from the Indians, then I was a saint.”

“I know how you feel, my daughter—”

“No, Padre, you do not have the least idea how I feel. It is devilishly ironic that only the concubine is guilty, she being a free woman and he the married adulterer. I am not surprised by La Gasca's baseness—I would expect that. I am horrified by Pedro's cowardice.”

“He had no choice, Inés.”

“A well-born man always has a choice when it comes to defending honor. I warn you, Padre, I will not leave Chile, because I conquered it and I founded it.”

“Be careful, Inés! That is your pride speaking. I can't believe that you would prefer for the Inquisition to come and resolve all this in its own fashion.”

“Are you threatening me?” I asked with the shudder the name of the Inquisition always evokes.

“Nothing further from my mind, daughter. I have brought the gobernador's message, proposing a solution that will allow you to stay here in Chile.”

“And what is that?”

“You could marry,” the cleric managed to get out, clearing his throat several times and squirming in his chair. “That is the only way you can remain in Chile. There are many men who would be happy to wed a woman with your merits, and with a dowry like yours. Once you put your worldly goods in your husband's name, they will not be able to take them from you.”

It was some time before I could speak. I could not believe that he was offering me this tortuous solution, the last that would have occurred to me.

“The gobernador wants to help you, even though it means giving you up. Can't you see that his is a selfless act, a proof of his love and gratitude?” the priest added.

He was nervously fanning himself, waving away the flies of the summer, while I strode back and forth on the gallery, trying to calm myself. This plan was not the fruit of sudden inspiration. Valdivia had suggested it to La Gasca back in Peru, and he had approved it. In other words, my fate had been decided behind my back. Pedro's betrayal seemed contemptible to me, and a wave of hatred washed over me like dirty water, as my mouth filled with bile. At that moment I wanted to kill the priest with my bare hands and I had to make an enormous effort to remind myself that he was merely the messenger. The person who warranted my vengeance was Pedro, and not this poor old man whose cassock was wet with the sweat of fear.

The next instant I was struck by something like a dagger in my breast; it took my breath and made me sway on my feet. My heart was leaping like a wild pony, something I had never felt before. Blood rushed to my head, my knees buckled, and everything went dark. I managed to fall into a chair; had I not, I would have crumpled to the ground. This swoon lasted only an instant; almost immediately I came to my senses and found myself with my head resting on my knees. I waited in that position until the beating in my chest became regular and I was breathing normally. I blamed that brief faint on anger and the heat, never suspecting that my heart had broken, and I would have to live thirty years more with the damage.

“I suppose that Pedro, who wants so badly to be of help, also went to the trouble of choosing a husband for me?” I asked Marmolejo when I could speak.

“The gobernador has a name or two in mind . . .”

“Tell Pedro that I accept his arrangement, but that I myself shall choose my future husband because I intend to marry for love and be very happy.”

“Inés, I must warn you again that pride is a mortal sin.”

“Tell me one thing, Padre. Is the rumor true that Pedro brought two women with him?”

González de Marmolejo did not answer, confirming with his silence the gossip that had reached my ears. Pedro had replaced a forty-year-old woman with two twenty-year-olds, a pair of Spanish women: María de Encio and her mysterious servant, Juana Jiménez, who also shared Pedro's bed, and, they said, controlled both of them with the arts of sorcery. Sorcery? That was what they had said of me. At times, all a woman has to do is dry the sweat from the brow of a weary man and he will eat from the hand that caresses him. You don't have to cast spells to do that. You have only to be loyal, and happy to listen—or at least pretend to be listening—and be a good cook to keep him, without his realizing, from doing anything foolish, to revel, and make him revel, in every embrace . . . those, and other equally simple things are the recipe for total devotion. It can be summed up in two phrases: iron hand, velvet glove.

I remember that when Pedro told me about the nightdress with the opening in the shape of a cross his wife, Marina, wore, I made myself the secret promise that I would never hide my body from the man who shared my bed. I held to that decision, and so naturally that up to the last day I lay beside Rodrigo, he never noticed that my flesh had grown flabby, like any old woman's. The men I have lived with have been naive: I acted as if I were beautiful, and they believed it. Now I am alone and I have no one to make happy with my love, but I know that Pedro was happy when he was with me, and Rodrigo as well, even when illness kept him from taking the initiative in our lovemaking. Forgive me, Isabel, I know that these lines will be disturbing for you, but you need to learn. Pay no attention to the priests; they know nothing.

Santiago was by then a town of five hundred inhabitants, but gossip circulated as quickly as in a hamlet; for that reason I could not fiddle around, though my heart continued cavorting for several days following my conversation with the priest. Catalina prepared
cochayuyo
water, dried sea algae she set to soak overnight. For thirty years I have drunk this viscous liquid upon awakening, and am accustomed to its foul taste—and thanks to that I am still alive. That Sunday I dressed in my best clothes, took you, Isabel, by the hand, because you had been living with me for several months, and at the hour when people were leaving mass, so everyone would be sure to see me, crossed the plaza in the direction of Rodrigo de Quiroga's home. Catalina came with us, wrapped in her black mantle and muttering Quechua spells, which are more effective in such matters than Christian prayers. Baltasar brought up the rear, trotting along like the fine old dog he was.

An Indian servant opened the gate and led me into the sala, while my companions stayed behind in a dusty patio covered with chicken shit. Looking around I realized that it would take a lot of work to convert that bare, ugly military billet into habitable quarters. I suspected that Rodrigo did not have a decent bed but slept on a soldier's cot; it was no wonder that you, Isabel, had adapted so quickly to the comforts of my home. I would have to replace the wood-and-leather furniture, paint, buy something to cover the walls and floors, build galleries for sun and shade, plant trees and flowers, put fountains in the patio, take off the straw roof and put on tiles—in short, I would have projects for years. I like projects. Minutes later Rodrigo came down, startled, because I had never visited him in his house. He had taken off his Sunday doublet and was wearing breeches and a white, full-sleeved shirt, open at the throat. He looked very young, and I was tempted to turn and flee the way I had come. How many years younger than I was that man?

“Good day, Doña Inés. Is anything the matter? Is Isabel all right?”

“I have come to propose matrimony, Don Rodrigo. How does that sound to you?” I blurted it straight out; this was no time to beat about the bush.

I must say, to Quiroga's credit, that he took my proposal with theatrical gusto. His face lighted up, he lifted his arms to the heavens and let out a long Indian whoop, unexpected in a man of such sobriety. Of course he had already heard the rumor of what had happened in Peru with La Gasca, and of the bizarre solution that had occurred to the gobernador; all the captains were talking about it, especially the bachelors. Perhaps he suspected that he would be my choice, but he was too modest to take it for granted. I tried to spell out the terms of the agreement, but he did not allow me a single word; he swept me up in his arms with such verve that he lifted me off the floor and, without further ado, closed my lips with his. I realized that I myself had been waiting for that moment for almost a year. I grabbed his shirt in both hands and returned the kiss with a passion that had been there for a long time, dormant or disguised, a passion I had reserved for Pedro de Valdivia and that clamored to be lived before my youth deserted me. I felt the strength of his desire, his hands at my waist, at the back of my neck, in my hair, his lips on my face and neck; I caught his young man's scent, heard his voice murmuring my name, and I felt blessed. How could I in less than a minute go from the sadness of having been abandoned to the joy of feeling loved? At that time I must have been very fickle. I swore at that instant that I would be faithful to Rodrigo till the day he died, and not only have I fulfilled that oath to the letter, I have loved him for thirty years, more every day. It was so easy to do; Rodrigo was always an admirable man, everyone agreed about that, but the best men can have serious defects that are revealed only in intimacy. That was not true with that distinguished hidalgo, that soldier, friend, and husband. He never tried to make me forget Pedro de Valdivia, whom he respected and loved; he even helped me assure that an ungrateful Chile did not forget, but remembered him as he deserved. Rodrigo did, however, set out to make me love him, and he succeeded in that.