The Sisterhood (39 page)

From the Chronicle of Las Sors Santas de Jesus, by the pen of Esperanza, the Mission Convent of Las Golondrinas de Los Andes, December 1552

The convent is celebrating the feast of Christmas in a manner unknown in Spain. The flowers in the courtyard are blooming and many women have come to stay in the convent. Inside the walls all is chaos—hawkers of sweets and snacks and makers of toys, children and visiting nuns, the widows and beatas and relatives and servants and beggars, together with a great crowd of women of the streets and bedizened mestiza mistresses and concubines suddenly turned into what are called here “penitent women” for the festival. The courtyard is thronged from early morning until late at night! People push and jostle; small children howl on their mothers’ backs or scamper wildly everywhere. Some women spend the entire holiday, others come and go on a daily basis. Every cell is full, and the servants and slaves sleep wherever they can find space.

In the middle of all this, something called a
santuranticuy
, or “buying the saints,” takes place, a kind of market selling small figures of saints and the Infant Jesus whom local people call
El Niño
.
Everyone must avoid stepping on the clay figures the sellers pile up for sale on native blankets, difficult in this crowded space.

A hot drink called “chocolate” is given out to the poor at the gates of the convent, with snacks. The convent kitchen, as crowded as the courtyard, produces a continuous supply of the local sweet bread with fruit, called
paneton
, and little spicy, savory meat pies paid for by wealthy ladies and some of the richer prostitutes. A great deal of wine and local spirits are drunk at this time. Men stumble about or lie drunk and unconscious in the streets, which may account for why so many women come here, where men are forbidden. Inside our walls there are female musicians and singing and dancing among the women, even the grander ladies.

The night before Christmas is called “
Noche Buena
.” The bells rang wildly at midnight and the fiesta continued until dawn. Apparently these exuberant celebrations continue until the arrival of the three kings in January. The lapdogs and parrots are sleepless as everyone else. The dogs run madly through the crowds, tripping servants and barking continuously, while the parrots squawk until they are exhausted and drooping on their perches.

Pia manages to stay aloof and composed, but even she enjoyed many pies and licked her fingers. Sanchia disappeared with some other girls her age, and I glimpsed them prancing and whirling behind the dancing women. I huddle in the least-crowded corner I can find and write down what I observe, for want of something else to do with myself. I miss Marisol, who would have enjoyed it all, but oh for a little peace and quiet!

From the Chronicle of Las Sors Santas de Jesus, by the pen of Esperanza, the Mission Convent of Las Golondrinas de Los Andes, May 1553

Mother has written to Salome, but has not yet had a reply. I must be patient. It is the custom here that widows do not receive visitors for at least a year and sometimes longer. Since Easter, Mother has received inquiries from possible suitors for us, though the prospect makes my heart sink. Meanwhile, much as I hate sewing, the three of us have undertaken the mending for the orphanage in return for our room and food, to save our dowries. The dry season has begun and the air is fresher, and we have a favorite shady spot in the bustling courtyard where we sit at our work. Sanchia grumbles that we have been here half a year and she wishes Pia or I would hurry and find a husband, or that she would, so we could leave the convent.

Pia, calm as ever, reminds Sanchia that she is only twelve and too young to worry about such things, but Sanchia, who has grown tall for her age, tosses her black curls and says that here girls younger than she are betrothed and sometimes married by twelve. Pia’s friend Zarita, who sits with us most days, nods.

Zarita was such a child wife herself and is in the convent awaiting her divorce. Hopeful divorcees stay in the convent, for propriety’s sake, until their petition is considered by the tribunal. Though it takes a very long time, these petitions are usually granted, and women go on to marry another husband they like better than the first one. Sometimes husbands who are being divorced send messages or come to the gate and order or pitifully beg their wives to come home, rarely with success.

We were scandalized at first. Now we are used to a constant procession of disgruntled wives, often accompanied by children, relatives, servants, and their pet birds or dogs. The richer ones bring household goods that are essential to their comfort—candelabra, gold and silver plates, feather mattresses, and many dresses and fans and shawls. Occasionally there is a public outburst of hysterics while a would-be divorcee establishes her place in the hierarchy of wives, widows, repentant prostitutes, and destitute females who occupy the courtyard. It is a world of women we have never seen before and is most entertaining.

Zarita is sixteen and as beautiful as Pia. When they whisper and giggle with their heads together it is like seeing two flowers, one fair and one dark. Zarita was married off at the age of nine by her father, who is now dead. Her brother insists on a divorce because he wishes her to marry his friend. When asked whether she hopes her petition will succeed, she shrugs and sighs. Zarita does not like her brother’s friend any better than her first husband, and would be happy to remain at the convent. She and Pia find solace in each other’s company. But in the end she will be obliged to obey one man or the other, so she hopes the tribunal will not hurry.

Pia is unconcerned about her unmarried state, content to pass her days with Zarita. Mother says that as the eldest of the three of us, I must be married first. She has made some inquiries on my
behalf, but has rejected several possibilities, saying I will not like the rough ways of many of the colonial men.

Would they like me?

Zarita has a mirror, and when she wasn’t looking I picked it up. I have dark eyes, a long nose, long eyelashes, and heavy brows that make me look quite solemn. I tried out a smile. My teeth look very white, possibly because we are all a little brown from the sun. No teeth are missing. I bit my lips to give them a little color, and pinched my cheeks. Would a man like such a face? I am not beautiful like Pia or even pretty like Sanchia; perhaps I resemble my mother.

I told my reflection that I wish I did not have to be married.

There was a bustle and commotion in the courtyard, and I put the mirror down to see that it was caused by a well-dressed woman, veiled, as is the custom among the married women, with a nun and two novices at her elbow and two maids following with cushions and a sunshade and shawls. Clearly she was someone important to have so many people in attendance. The maids plumped the cushions on a bench, a footstool was placed for the lady’s feet, and a servant hurried out with hibiscus water. When the lady was settled, a neatly dressed mestiza maid detached herself from the little group, made her way across the courtyard to us, curtsied, and asked our names. When I told her she smiled a little said, “As my mistress said…please come with me.”

Pia and Sanchia and I exchanged surprised looks, but put down our sewing and smoothed our skirts and followed the maid to the fine lady’s little court. The fine lady threw back her veil and we shrieked, “Marisol!”

“It is!” exclaimed Sanchia and threw herself into Marisol’s arms.

I did the same, then Pia, and the four of us laughed and cried and hugged until we were breathless. As usually happens when
there is any excitement, everyone else in the courtyard stopped what they were doing to watch. Zarita drifted over and joined us as we settled down around Marisol.

She looked very well. In fact, Marisol looked wonderful. Her dark hair tumbled around her shoulders, her cheeks were pink, and her eyes danced. Rings flashed on her fingers and she wore a great many necklaces. Her face had somehow softened, no longer overcast with anger and impatience. She was also unmistakably pregnant. Clearly much had happened since the terrible day that she was abducted.

She blushed. “It was not so terrible after all. In fact, it was quite romantic.”

“Marisol!” We waited in suspense. “Tell us!”

“When the bandits carried me away, I was terrified. But angry, too, that anyone would attack women in this way. The man who seized me was very strong, but fury sustained me, and as we galloped away I determined that when we stopped I would fight, kick, and bite with all my strength. It was the only way not to let the fear overwhelm me.

“We rode and rode, until at last we reached a deserted tumbledown settlement with a few houses that were crumbling and empty, and some sort of chapel with a cross on top. The riders slowed their horses, and though I knew I could count on no help here I decided to fight to the end. I looked up at the villain who had snatched me, and tore the scarf from his face to find it was the impertinent fellow, Don Tomas Beltran! He was laughing and looking rather pleased with himself.

“‘Don Tomas!’ I exclaimed. ‘How dare you treat ladies so!’ and slapped him as hard as I could. He looked surprised but caught my wrists before I could strike him again and held them fast, forcing me to listen to him. ‘I have an honorable proposal. I need a wife of my own choosing. At this very moment my mother is arranging
my wedding to an older woman from a good Spanish family, who is very fat, ugly, and devout, who smells bad, and who is very bossy and will, my mother thinks, succeed in recalling me to my family responsibilities. You, on the other hand…I could not let such a pretty and spirited girl waste away in a convent.’

“This was outrageous of course. But flattering in a way.” Marisol smiled. “Then he went on, ‘With my father’s death I am saddled like a mule with a huge estate and its responsibilities, not least of which is to marry and provide heirs. Legitimate ones, not my others…never mind. I am summoned home to be officially betrothed to the fat dragon, and as my godfather has sworn to have me jailed and taken home by force unless I obey, it is best to marry you now and court you later. It is the only escape I can devise, but I flatter myself that being my wife will have its compensations—I court charmingly. You will be the mistress of a great house and the queen of my heart. You will have many servants and clothes and jewels and everything you desire. Your children will be Beltran heirs. And not least…’ He drew a hand down my bodice and I shivered, imagining how it would feel if his hand slid farther. ‘Unless, of course, you are too holy to be troubled by carnal thoughts…but somehow I think you are not. For that I love you already. Conveniently,’ he pointed to the hovel with the cross on top, ‘we are near a priest. And here, as a token of my good faith and our betrothal, is a ring.’ He bowed and held it out to me.

“A ragged, rather wild-eyed figure in a priest’s cassock shuffled out of the church, squawked like a surprised chicken, raised his hand in benediction and muttered to no one in particular, shuffled back and forth in the dust, as if waiting for worms to appear. The situation was ridiculous—a kidnapping, a pompous proposal in the middle of nowhere, now this human chicken…but the ring was a very large emerald with diamonds. And there was no help to be had in the deserted settlement.

“I said, ‘And if I refuse your gracious offer, Don Tomas, this hermit or vagabond or priest, or…chicken…will marry us anyway?’

“He smiled. ‘Oh, yes. I will marry you now whether you agree or not, that being the only way I can avoid my mother’s plan. But once we are married you will be put to the trouble of swearing to the ecclesiastical court that you were abducted and married against your will. My formidable mother, who I can promise you will be furious, will give you every assistance in your divorce. But consider this—it is also possible that once you are married to me you will not wish to seek an annulment. How else will you know?’

“Arrogant but very handsome. Rich. And his arms carrying me on his horse had been strong. Looking at him I thought, why not accept? The nuns would only find me someone older and duller. I held out my hand and he slipped the ring on my finger. ‘Let it be the shortest of betrothals,’ he said. The old priest led us into the hot little chapel and married us. Afterward the men who had accompanied Tomas wished us joy, left a horse for me, and rode off. Don Tomas gave the priest a gold coin, leaving the man blinking at such generosity, and led me by the hand into one of the little empty houses as the sun was setting. He unpacked food, spread our blankets on the ground, and built a blazing fire that soon matched our passion that night.

“The next morning, Tomas said I was a married woman, Dona Maria Isabella Beltran de Vilar d’Ascension, and when he brought me home as his bride he would insist his family not call me by my childhood name but Dona Maria, as befits the heir’s wife. We needed all the dignity we could muster between us—when I met his mother, I would understand.

“Tomas led my horse by the bridle to keep it from running away. I had never been on a horse before and it was thrilling to be so high up, though it made my back stiff and legs sore at first.
We rode along together as husband and wife, talking and talking, sometimes arguing, often laughing, as if we would never stop. Tomas told me about the country, how his family had come with the conquistadors and been granted a vast tract of land with many silver mines and
encomienda
rights.”