The Scroll of Seduction Page 3

  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 neither 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 str
eet 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.”

  We had reached the bakery. Old women in mourning, wearing thick black stockings and clunky black shoes, were clustered around the counter. The owner greeted me as I walked in. The smell of honey and cookies was wafting in from the oven. I chose my standard treats. Manuel was looking up at a stack of guava paste boxes and asked the baker to get one down. (Those are very expensive, Manuel, I said, getting close to him.) He made the owner open a box so he could see the block of cellophane-wrapped guava paste inside. He raised it to his face and sniffed, and then held it to my nose. I breathed in and then sighed. The smell of the fruit reached my lungs despite all the packaging. I couldn’t persuade him not to buy it, even after I told him that in my country it was never prepared in a thick, densely flavored bar. “That’s how they eat it in Cuba, with pieces of cheese,” the owner said. “It’s exquisite. Come on, sweetheart, you’ll love it. Let him treat you if he wants to. You deserve it.” Manuel wouldn’t let me pay for anything. After all, didn’t I realize that fate, by placing him on my street that day, demanded that he celebrate our fortuitous, unexpected encounter?

  Besides the surprise of meeting him by chance, the memory of that day brought back to me the way he took my arm as we left the bakery. He leaned so close to me that I got chills down my neck. He seemed not to be particularly aware of personal space, and I didn’t feel like he was doing it to provoke a reaction but more like a clumsy child, unaware of the effect of his earnest gestures.

  When we got to the entrance of my school he made me promise to write to him again and then kissed me good-bye on the cheek. I stood there for a little while after he’d left, waving as I watched him walk down the street.

  “HE MUST HAVE BEEN HANGING AROUND ALL DAY WAITING TO SEE you,” said Margarita, smiling maliciously. We were the only ones at dinner on Sundays. “It’s hard to believe in ‘coincidences’ like that. You’re so lucky: you hardly ever leave this place and yet you’ve managed to find yourself a boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend? You’ve got quite an imagination, Margarita.”

  “Hey, let me try that guava paste. In Guatemala we eat it with cheese or cream, like in Cuba.”

  We didn’t have any cheese or cream, but we spread it on our bread. And we savored it, as if little pieces of our childhoods, our distant countries, were dissolving on our tongues.

  “NOW THAT WE KNOW EACH OTHER BETTER, MANUEL, TELL ME. That day we met on the street by the school, was that merely chance or were you lurking around, waiting for me to appear?”

  “Well, I did go there thinking of you. But I never thought I’d see you. I have to admit, though, that when I bumped into you I felt like there was more than just a coincidence behind it.”

  “Do you believe in telepathy?”

  “Telepathy? Everything in the world is related, it all interacts. Telepathy is just a manifestation of that interaction, of the interconnectedness of the world. Reality is both more complex and more malleable than it seems. And so is time. Which is why I think you’ll be able to intuit Juana’s innermost thoughts and feelings as soon as I immerse you in her atmosphere, her era, her personal circumstances. Believe me. It’s not just some crazy plan so I can cast a spell on you. It will work. You’ll see.”

  “Alright, Manuel. It’s true that Poe, Borges, and Lovecraft are my favorite writers–I just never thought I’d end up in one of their stories.” I smiled, slightly embarrassed at my own mistrust. “I’ll do it, but where’s that dress you were talking about?”

  “Follow me,” he said, standing up, holding out his hand. “We’ll go to my room.”

  “If it makes me uncomfortable to wear it, you’ll just have to tell me the story without ceremony. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” he said.

  CHAPTER 2

  The nuns would never approve of what I was doing. Not even Mother Luisa Magdalena, my friend and protector, would understand my friendship with Manuel. That Sunday was not the first I had spent with him. I had seen him two or three times before the end of the previous school year and then several more after my summer vacation. We usually met at the Prado Museum, which I was used to visiting every Sunday. He would wait for me at the entrance, smoking and reading the paper next to the statue of Velázquez.

  I had told him about my Sunday visits to the museum when I wrote to him after our chance encounter. “Most Sundays I go to the Prado around eleven o’clock,” I wrote, perfectly aware of what I was insinuating.

  The first time I saw him there I was wearing a new, plum-colored wool cape. On my way to the museum, I wavered between being sure he’d be there and fearing he might not have taken my veiled hint; I felt different–more mature, more womanly. I know I was giving off a different air because of the way men looked and smiled at me. Some didn’t hold back even if they were in the company of a woman. Instead, the surreptitious exchanges seemed to add to their excitement. They flirted with me while they continued talking or hugging the women they were with. I was shocked by how experienced they seemed in their duplicity. I thought about my father. All week I had been distressed by the revelation of his infidelity. His ghost and the ghost of my mother had taken new life in my mind, as if every conversation and gesture of theirs stored in my memory were suddenly infused with new meaning. I was so mortified to have gained this knowledge now, when it could do no good, that I kept imagining I was living those memories anew, except that now I was scolding them, warning them of the
price we would all have to pay for their marital crisis. And even though to a certain extent it helped me to appease the impotence I felt for having been an ignorant spectator to the drama, my effort to relive the past was choking me with all the words I wished I could have said to avert the tragedy. I felt hurt, tense. Perhaps that’s why I told Manuel about it.

  When I saw him, waiting for me by the Velázquez statue, I felt flushed. He walked over to greet me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. We had a long talk while we strolled through the gardens on Paseo del Prado. Queen Juana’s jealousy must have been like my mother’s, I said. He looked at me. He would have to tell me the whole story, he said. It was long and complex, it would last through many Sundays. After the summer vacation, I said. Once the school year started again, there would be no lack of Sundays.

  I FOLLOWED HIM DOWNSTAIRS. HIS APARTMENT WAS LOCATED IN Malasaña, one of Madrid’s older neighborhoods. San Bernardo was one of the only wide streets in the area. Farther ahead it gave out to the Gran Vía. To get to his apartment one had to go up a narrow set of stairs, past a wrought iron entryway. Manuel had told me that the buildings on either side had once been part of a palace that belonged to one of his ancestors. He said he divided his time between that apartment and his aunt’s house. She needed his company as much as he needed his solitude.