Ines of My Soul (37 page)

When finally we broke apart and caught our breaths, I went out to give instructions to Catalina, while Rodrigo greeted his daughter. A half hour later, a line of Indians were carrying my trunks, my prie-dieu, and the statue of Nuestra Señora del Socorro to the home of Rodrigo de Quiroga, while the citizens of Santiago, who had been waiting in the Plaza de Armas following mass, applauded. I needed two weeks to make plans for our wedding; I did not want to marry quietly, but with pomp and ceremony. It was impossible to decorate Rodrigo's house in such a short time, so we concentrated on transplanting trees and shrubs to his patio, constructing arches of flowers, and setting up tents and long tables for the feast.

Padre González de Marmolejo married us in what today is the cathedral, but was at the time under construction, before a large assembly of whites, blacks, Indians, and mestizos. We altered one of Cecilia's virginal white dresses to fit me, since there was no time to order cloth. “Marry in white, Inés, because Don Rodrigo deserves to be your first love,” Cecilia advised me, and she was right. The wedding was accompanied by a high mass, and afterward we celebrated with some of my special dishes: empanadas, a casserole of game birds, corn cakes, stuffed potatoes, beans with chili peppers, lamb and roast kid, vegetables from my country gardens, and a variety of desserts I had planned for Pedro de Valdivia's arrival. The feast was duly punctuated with wines I took from the governor's cellar with a clear conscience, for it was also mine. The gates of Rodrigo's house were open the entire day, and anyone who wished to eat and celebrate with us was welcome. Among the crowd were dozens of mestizo and Indian children, and seated in chairs arranged in a semicircle were the elders of the colony. Catalina calculated that three hundred people filed through the house that day, but she was never good at numbers; there may have been more. The next morning, Rodrigo and I, along with you, Isabel, and a train of Yanaconas, left to spend a few weeks of love at my country estate. We also took soldiers to protect us from the Chilean Indians, who often attacked unwary travelers. Catalina and the faithful serving girls I had brought from Cuzco stayed behind to do what they could with Rodrigo's house, and the remainder of a large cadre of servants stayed where they had always been. Only then did Valdivia dare come ashore with his two concubines and return to his home in Santiago, which he found clean, orderly, and well stocked, with no trace of my presence.

IT IS OBVIOUS THAT THE WRITING
is different in the last part of this account. For the first months I wrote in my own hand, but now I grow tired after a few lines and I prefer dictating to you. My handwriting resembles fly tracks, but yours, Isabel, is fine, and elegant. You like the brown oxide ink, a novelty from Spain that I have trouble reading, but since you are doing me the favor of helping, I can't impose my black inkwell on you. We would move along more quickly if you did not waylay me with so many questions, child. I love to hear you. You speak the singsong, gliding Spanish of Chile. Rodrigo and I no longer try to instill in your speech the harsh
h
sounds and lisping
th
of Spain. That is how Bishop González de Marmolejo spoke, since he was from Seville. He died long ago; do you remember him? He loved you like a grandfather, poor old man. At the last he admitted to being seventy-seven, although he reminded me of a biblical patriarch of a hundred, with his white beard and the way he was constantly predicting the Apocalypse, a quirk he acquired in his old age. His obsession with the end of the world did not, however, prevent him from engaging in material concerns; he seemed to have received divine inspiration in his financial dealings. Among his grand enterprises was the horse breeding in which we were partners. We experimented with mixing breeds, and obtained strong, elegant, and docile animals, the famous Chilean horses that now are known across the continent for being as noble as Arabians but with better endurance. The bishop died the same year as my Catalina; he from a disease of the lungs no medicinal plant could cure, while she was killed by a tile that fell during a temblor and struck her on the back of the head. It was deadly accurate; she never even knew there was an earthquake. Villagra also died during that same period, so frightened by his sins that he dressed in the habit of Saint Francis. He was governor of Chile for a time, and will be remembered among the most powerful and bold of military men, but no one appreciated him because he was so miserly. Avarice is a flaw repugnant to Spaniards, who are known for their generosity.

I must not linger on details, daughter, because if we dally, this account may be left unfinished, and no one wants to read hundreds of quartos only to find that the story has no clear ending. What will the ending of this one be? My death, I suppose, because as long as I have breath I will have memories to fill pages; there is much to be told in a life like mine. I should have begun these memoirs some time ago, but building and bringing prosperity to a town takes a lot of time. I began writing only when Rodrigo died and stirred my memories. Without him, I spend sleepless nights, and insomnia is very conducive to writing. I wonder where my husband is, whether he is waiting for me somewhere or if he is right here in this house, observing from the shadows, discreetly watching over me, as he always did in life. What will it be like to die? What is on the other side? Only night and silence? It occurs to me that to die is to fly like an arrow through dark reaches toward the firmament, toward infinite space, where I must look for my loved ones. It amazes me that now, when I am thinking so much about death, I still feel the urgency to accomplish projects and satisfy ambitions. It must be pure pride: to “earn fame and leave memory of myself,” as Pedro always said. I suspect that in this life we are not going anywhere, and even less in haste; one merely follows a path, one step at a time, toward death. So let us keep going, Isabel, and tell this story as long as we have days left; there is still much I want to recount.

After I married Rodrigo, I determined to avoid Pedro, at least in the beginning, until I had lost the feeling of animosity that had replaced the love I'd held for him for ten years. I detested him as deeply as I had loved him; I wanted to hurt him, where before I had defended him from harm. His defects were magnified in my eyes; he no longer seemed noble, but, rather, ambitious and vain. Once he had been strong, astute, and severe; now he was fat, false, and cruel. I expressed those feelings only to Catalina because my resentment of my former lover embarrassed me. I was able to hide it from Rodrigo, whose own rectitude prevented him from noticing my unworthy sentiments. As he was incapable of base thoughts, he could not imagine them in others. If it seemed strange to him that I did not go out when Pedro de Valdivia was in Santiago, he didn't tell me. I dedicated myself to improving our country houses, and extended my stays there as long as possible, using the pretexts of sowing, cultivating roses, and breeding horses and mules, although in truth I was bored and missed my work in the hospital. In the meantime, Rodrigo traveled between town and the country every week, beating his kidneys to a pulp on a fast horse in order to see you and me. The fresh air, physical work, your company, Isabel, and a litter of pups, offspring of old Baltasar, helped me.

During that period I prayed a lot. I carried Nuestra Señora del Socorro into the garden, settled us both beneath a tree, and told her my woes. She made me see that the heart is like a box; if it is filled with rubbish, there is no space for other things. I could not love Rodrigo and his daughter if my heart was choked with bitterness, the Virgin informed me. According to Catalina, bitterness turns one's skin yellow and produces a bad odor; for that I began drinking cleansing teas. With prayers and teas I cured myself of my rancor against Pedro in two months' time. One night I dreamed that I had grown talons like a condor's, and that I swooped down on him and tore out his eyes. It was a stupendous dream, very vivid, and I awoke avenged. At dawn I got out of bed and confirmed that the pain in my shoulders and neck that had tormented me for weeks was gone; the pointless weight of hatred had dissipated. I listened to the sounds of awakening: roosters, dogs, the gardener's brush broom on the terrace, the voices of the servant girls. It was a warm, clear morning. Barefoot, I went out to the patio, and the breeze caressed my skin beneath my nightdress. I thought of Rodrigo, and the need to make love to him made me shiver, as it had in my youthful days when I escaped to the orchards of Plasencia to lie with Juan de Málaga. I yawned a great yawn, stretched like a cat with my face lifted to the sun, and immediately ordered the horses so I could return with you to Santiago that very day, with no luggage but the clothes we had on, and weapons. Rodrigo did not allow us to leave the house without protection, out of fear of the bands of Indians that roamed the valley, but we went anyway. We were lucky, and reached Santiago by nightfall, with no misadventures. The town sentinels sounded the alarm from their towers when they sighted the dust raised by our horses. Rodrigo came out to meet me, frightened, fearing some misfortune, but I threw my arms around his neck, kissed him on the mouth, and led him to the bed.

That night was the true beginning of our love; what had gone before was practice. In the months that followed we learned to know and give pleasure to each other. My love for Rodrigo was different from the desire I had felt for Juan de Málaga and my passion for Pedro de Valdivia; it was a mature, joyful sentiment, without conflict, that became more intense with the passing of time . . . until I could not live without him. My solitary trips to the country came to an end; we were apart only when the demands of war called Rodrigo away. That man, so serious before the world, was in private tender and playful. He spoiled us; we were his two queens, do you remember? And so the prophecy of Catalina's magic shells, that I would be a queen, came true. In the thirty years we would live together, Rodrigo never lost his good humor in our home, no matter how grave the external pressures. He shared problems concerning the war, matters of government and politics, his fears, his cares, but none of it affected our relationship. He had confidence in my judgment, sought my opinion, listened to my counsel. I never had to tread lightly to avoid offending Rodrigo, as I had with Valdivia—and as one usually must with men in general, who tend to be prickly regarding their authority.

I suppose you would just as soon I not go into this, Isabel, but I cannot leave it out because it is an aspect of your father that you should know. Before he was with me, Rodrigo believed that youth and vigor were all that was needed at the hour of making love, a very common error. I was surprised the first time we were together in bed; he rushed along like a lad of fifteen. I attributed that to his having waited for me so long, loving me in silence and without hope for nine years, as he had confessed to me, but he was equally awkward on the nights that followed. Apparently your mother, Eulalia, who loved him passionately, had not taught him anything. That task became mine, and once I was over my anger with Valdivia, I took it on with pleasure, as you can imagine. I had done the same with Pedro de Valdivia years before, when we met in Cuzco. My experience with Spanish captains is limited, but I can tell you that those I knew were ill informed in regard to lovemaking, although well disposed to learn. Don't laugh, daughter, it's true. I tell you these things just in case. I do not know what your intimate relations are with your husband, but if you have any complaints, I advise you to come to me, for after I'm dead, you won't have anyone to discuss them with. Men, like dogs and horses, have to be domesticated, but there are not many women capable of doing it, since they themselves know nothing unless they have had a teacher like Juan de Málaga. Besides, women are saddled with inhibitions; never forget Marina Ortiz de Gaete's famous nightgown with the embroidered keyhole. So you see, ignorance is multiplied, and tends to end the best-intentioned love.

I had been back in Santiago for only a few days, and was just beginning to cultivate pleasure and blessed love with Rodrigo, when the city was awakened early one morning by a sentinel's trumpet. A horse's head had been found impaled upon the same stake where so many human heads had been exhibited through the years. A closer inspection had revealed that it was the head of Sultán, the governor's favorite steed. Everyone who rushed there had choked back a cry of horror. A curfew had been imposed in Santiago, and Indians, blacks, and mestizos were forbidden to go about at night, under threat of a hundred lashes at the whipping post in the plaza, the same punishment applied when they held fiestas without permission, got drunk, or bet on games—all vices reserved for their masters. The curfew eliminated the mestizo and indigenous population, but no one could imagine that a Spaniard could be guilty of such a hideous act. Valdivia ordered Juan Gómez to use torture, as necessary, to find the perpetrator of that outrage.