The Scroll of Seduction

by Gioconda Belli

  I received a letter from Isis. She said that although she hadn’t wanted me to find out the real reason my parents took that final, fatal trip, at least my discovery meant she no longer had to keep it a secret from me. One day, when I was older, I’d understand how fragile love was, and see the pain and suffering people in love had to endure. She said that her invitation still stood, that I was welcome to stay with her in New York if I decided to go to college there, as she’d once suggested. She wanted to know what my plans were, and to make sure I knew that she loved me and I could count on her. Her letter arrived at a good time. It made me feel less lonely. Isis was a modern woman. Maybe in the future I would even dare to ask her for advice.

  TO RECONCILE WITH THE NEW SENSATIONS IN MY BODY ONCE I WAS alone in bed was a challenge. My skin was so sensitive that I wondered whether the end of virginity released a signal that activated previously dormant nerve endings in the female body. Even the sheet brushing against me was arousing, and it sparked off a desire I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I tried. Insomnia would have me tossing and turning until I gave in to my instincts. Then I’d take off my nightgown and panties and let my naked body, the contact of my skin with the night air, stimulate my imagination the way oxygen fans a flame. My cheeks would flush, and with my eyes closed, I would fantasize about other places, other circumstances. My hands became ardent lovers. Playing the role skillfully, they caressed my breasts, my stomach, my sex. Unfaltering, knowing the exact coordinates of my pleasure, they delved into fountains, unearthing warm, flowing water. Slowly, very slowly, like someone caramelizing fruit, they rubbed the wetness over the bud of my sex, flicking it, releasing it, making it blossom, turning it into a tiny bloom ready to explode and scatter its pollen. Possessed by my moaning and my urgency, my lover-hands became hummingbirds, hovering and fluttering vertiginously over the fleshy flower that grew at the center of my body until my head was filled with its aroma. Finally, the enormous flower would melt, disintegrate, ululate and pulse and contract, releasing delicate golden clouds while I, like a wet petal floating over the narrow cot, slowly returned to my young woman’s existence.

  Some nights I repeated this ceremony again and again. I’d challenge myself to push the limits of my desire and my endurance, thinking it would be a perfect way to die. But in the end, neither my spirit nor my death wish was strong enough, and I would simply fall asleep.

  I REALIZED SOMETHING REMARKABLE: I DIDN’T KNOW IF I WAS IN love with Manuel or not. When I thought about him, I would end up wondering about myself. It was as if his gaze were a spotlight shining down to pinpoint the exact spot where I stood on the stage of life. If I used to think of myself as a flat, naive painting, now I saw myself as a three-dimensional being with depth and shadows. Up until that point I’d been just an empty jug, a vessel that adults felt they had to fill with instructions, rules, and vague notions; Manuel instead had no charge over me, no predetermined goals. I had no idea where all of this was leading. I didn’t know where he ended and Philippe began, or if when I was with him it was Juana who loved her husband through me, or if it was just Manuel and I making love. Whatever we had didn’t exist without Juana and Philippe. Inside Manuel’s apartment it was always the Renaissance. His voice was so evocative that I could hear the sound of silk dresses sliding down Flemish palace steps clearly, or smell melting wax dripping from the candelabras. When Manuel was Philippe and I was Juana, I was overwhelmed with love. But after I got dressed and left, when I tried to separate myself from Juana, I would stop and wonder where was my relationship with Manuel leading to. At some point, we would have to disconnect ourselves from them. After all, time would continue passing for us, the live ones, once Manuel had finished telling me the story of Juana and Philippe. We’d just have to see. I couldn’t begin to imagine the future, as caught up as I was in re-creating the past. After all, the future was like the notes my mother jotted down, instructions for the gardener for when she came back from vacation. How long had it taken her to write all that down? She had three whole pages of notes. She’d even made a sketch showing which type of flowers she wanted to plant where. And what for? What good had it done her?

  I LONGED FOR SUNDAYS. I WAS LIKE A SPLIT PERSONALITY, AND I would force myself to be Lucía during the week.

  The story had imposed its own tone, its own routines. I’d get to Manuel’s apartment, go downstairs, and put on the dress.

  ON JULY 20, 1500, JUANA, YOUR FORTUNE CHANGED DRAMATICALLY. After just twenty-three months, Prince Miguel, your sister Isabel’s son–heir to the throne of Castile and Aragon–died. So many deaths, Juana. And your parents have no choice but to name you and Philippe the Princes of Asturias. You went from being third in line as successor to being the future queen of Spain.

  I never thought I would be queen, nor did I wish for it. When I fell in love with Philippe I thought that I had been blessed by finding happiness while also fulfilling the destiny my parents had chosen for me. I thought I could just be Archduchess of Burgundy. My plan was to take pleasure in my role as a minor player–the only girl in my family not to marry a king–without any monumental obligations or concerns. Ironically, I thought that by sending me off to marry Philippe, my parents were somehow permitting me to be a freer spirit than any of their other children would ever be. And I took advantage of that freedom, perhaps excessively. I wanted to prove that I didn’t need them, to prove that lovely, shameless Flanders suited my personality just fine. I thought I was escaping the religious zealotry that had descended upon Spain like a gray shield, imposing its rigid intolerance. I could not forget the sight of the anguished, weeping Jews forming a never-ending, heartbreaking procession; even if they had nowhere to go to, when their expulsion was decreed they were forced to leave. I never understood how my parents could consider themselves righteous when they severed the roots of an entire population, forcing them to seek another land to call their own. My sister Isabel inherited their fanaticism and refused to marry Manuel of Portugal until he promised to expel the Jews from his kingdom as well. But in the Low Countries people are naturally tolerant and religion does not cloud their understanding or compel them to waste their entire earthly lives in the pursuit of a favorable position in the afterlife.

  I wanted to show my parents, who had sent me off into uncertainty, that I could find my way in those realms whose beauty and extravagance had earned them ridicule, better than I could in an atmosphere of religious piety. I was relieved to be far from the prayers and devotions that my compatriots had so arrogantly entrenched themselves in. I decided not to write to my mother, because I didn’t want to have to explain myself or to be submissive. So instead, I used my anger to distance my soul from my country and my family. Perhaps it wasn’t the right thing to do. Sometimes I feel haughty and become convinced I can do anything–or everything–on my own. I become vengeful and arrogant. Rage bubbles up from deep down inside me and then it boils over; I don’t know where it comes from. I revolt against obedience and against the idea that other people can decide what happens in my life. Then I act rashly and end up regretting what I do. And yet, I cannot play the meek role I’ve been assigned without it turning my stomach. I am a Renaissance princess. I’ve read the classics and discussed philosophy with Erasmus of Rotterdam, who according to my brother’s tutor, Pietro Martire d’Anghiera, was astonished by my intelligence. I speak Latin, French, Italian, and English fluently. I love Mallory and Matteo Boiardo’s chansons de geste. Von Strassburg’s Tristan und Isolde is one of my favorite books. Durero, the engraver, comes to show me his vivid images and to talk about the genius of Bosch. I feel lucky to be alive at a time when new lands and routes are being discovered and at the same time, Europe is rediscovering its love of form and of philosophy, and everywhere you go people are talking about the artists changing the shape of Rome: Michelangelo, Raphael, Bottticelli. Here in Flanders, I admire the determination and desire to beautify everyday objects: stunning plates and utensils are made by silversmiths for our meals, fabrics we wear for warmt
h are extraordinarily soft and delicate, prayer books have exquisite, colorful illustrations. The way I see it, the fact that I wear a skirt detracts nothing from my talents. My mother taught me that women have no cause to be humble. She even had her royal standard embroidered with “tanto monta, monta tanto,” to proclaim herself and my father as equal rulers, ruling equally. But it seems her view of women as much more than just life-givers was not applicable to others. She extended traditionally male powers to herself and no one else. Her daughters she saw fit to use as currency, which she could use to buy power and loyalty. She acted as if she were the only woman on earth exempt from servitude to her husband. While all my brothers had respectable dowries, I had none and was left at the mercy of Philippe’s miserly advisors, who hate me for being Spanish. Of all the princesses, I am the poorest; I cannot even keep my loyal courtiers, since I have no maravedis with which to pay them. One by one, they’ve taken their leave. Even my parents’ envoys were shown no hospitality. When Philippe refused to offer them a single meal in our home, all I could do was pout and cry.

  I think my mother also gives her confessors too much credit, which makes her suspicious of my passion for Philippe. No one tells me the rumors, but I can sense it in the air. I know that Torquemada, Cardinal Cisneros, and the prelates who surround my mother like a flock of crows are worried about my joie de vivre, my vitality, and what they call the “detrimental influence of Flanders.” The fact that I am comfortable with my body strikes them as dangerous, as a weakness. Hypocrites. On the one hand, they distrust me for taking pleasure in what is perfectly legal within marriage; on the other, they overlook the scandals in their own church and advise my oh-so-very Catholic parents to come to the defense of Pope Alexander VI in order to create a united front against France. Have they not heard the stories about the Borgia? Do they not know that Giulia Farnese, the pope’s lover, lives a stone’s throw away from the supreme pontiff himself? And what about their three illegitimate children, whom he insisted on naming bishops? My cousin Juana of Aragon, married to the Duke of Amalfi, writes from Naples to tell me of Cesare Borgia’s orgies. He tosses chestnuts onto the floor and makes women get down on all fours to pick them up, naked. And not just any women, but ladies of noble birth. No one says a thing. And yet my love for my lawful husband scandalizes them. There is no doubt that the Flemish do not look favorably upon the Spanish. There is no doubt that they feel more loyalty to France, more love for the French. But who can blame them? The stories my sister-in-law Marguerite tells of what she saw during her two-year stay in Spain only add to the opinion that we Spaniards have “barbarous” ways. Marguerite was in Granada visiting the Nazarí Palace of the Alhambra the day Archbishop Cisneros–my mother’s ascetic, fanatical confessor–went into a zealous rage and ordered that every Arab book in the city’s libraries be burned. Books on agriculture, mathematics, sciences: eight hundred years of Moorish culture were reduced to ashes in Spain that evening. The prelate saved a total of only three hundred books. Marguerite said people hid what manuscripts they could (and I remembered well how many there were when I went with Beatriz Galindo to the Alhambra library after Granada was reconquered), but the rest were destroyed.

  As a result of those winter nights we spent around the fire, listening to Marguerite tell of the atrocities committed during the autos-da-fé and of Torquemada’s fanatical cruelty, Philippe began to punish me, indirectly taking revenge on my parents for their complicity in those crimes against humanity.

  My marriage has become a two-headed dragon. Some days Philippe is overflowing with love and tenderness for me, and others he seems to despise himself for loving me. After a night of passion and giggling, he might get up in the morning and refuse to speak to me. He is haughty and humiliates me in front of others, as if I were just a nuisance to him. Sometimes I still smell of him when I find out he has gone to Lovaina to hunt for several days without so much as letting me know or saying good-bye. Madame de Hallewin is usually the one to tell me. She whispers in my ear when she sees me wandering the palace, searching for him like a dog for its master. On those days, I lose my sense of self, my confidence, everything; I become obsessed, wondering what my courtiers or I might have done to irritate him. I make an effort to regain control, to calm myself, and I long for the bliss we shared just a week ago. Not even my children’s laughter can shake me from my anguish and insecurity when I feel him drifting away from me. If today the distance between us is like a crack, I fear tomorrow it will be wide as a gulf.

  Under these circumstances, the news that we will be queen and king has made me more nauseated than either of my first two pregnancies, or the third, which I now bear. My parents have called us to Spain. Philippe and I must be officially named so that the Cortes can ratify our succession. The Archbishop of Besançon, François de Busleyden–whom Philippe has never so much as blinked without consulting–has convinced my husband that before he goes to Spain he must quell French fears and strengthen Flanders’ relationship with France. He and Philibert de Veyre, another inveterate French defender, have convinced Philippe to secure this alliance by arranging a marriage between my son Charles and Claudia, the only daughter of Louis XII. For Philippe–on the verge of being named heir to the throne of Castile and Aragon–to choose this as the time to approach Spain’s historic rivals and offer them our daughter is such a hostile act that I am overcome with rage–rage that I have struggled so hard to contain, especially now that I live in fear of him deciding, one fine day, that he no longer loves me. When he appeared before me, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, to ask me to sign the document that would help ingratiate him to Louis XII, I flew into a frenzy. I ripped the parchment in half and then continued to shred it into tiny pieces, deaf to the insults he began to hurl at me as he grabbed me by the hair. He forced me down violently into the chair beside the desk next to the fireplace.

  What right did I have? Who did I think I was? he shouted, again and again, unable to proffer any but those two, trite insults.

  “I’ve never denied you anything, Philippe. Let go of me this instant.”

  He let go. He begged me to forgive him. He knelt and wrapped himself around my legs. He would never mistreat his son’s mother, he told me. He had no idea what had come over him. But I had to understand that it was his responsibility to defend Flanders. Good relations with France might be of no concern to Spain, but they were vital to Burgundy.

  “Your adoptive country is tiny, Juana, and regardless of how Spanish you may feel–especially now that you’ll one day be queen–you must be prudent and understand my position. Marrying Charles to a French princess is not condemning him to a life of indignities and affronts. Quite the opposite. Think about it. He will rule an empire far greater than anything we can hope to imagine: Spain, France, Flanders, Germany, Sicily, Naples.”

  “Perhaps later, Philippe, but now is not the time. Louis de Valois has only just begun to govern. When we understand what is best for Spain, when we assume responsibility as future sovereigns of Castile and Aragon before the Cortes, then we can make these decisions. But until that time, I refuse to consider it; I will not sign any such pact.”

  I didn’t sign. After that scene, Philippe saw the light. I even felt he admired my courage in standing up to him, and for weeks he was as sweet to me as he had ever been.

  What was Philippe afraid of? I had only to listen to him to realize that few things terrified him as much as the idea of facing my parents. When he was far away, it was easy to pretend he would know just how to behave. I am always astonished by how readily people fool themselves. They make great claims about what they are going to do or say. Their spirited intentions make it easy to feel bold. Why, I myself have rehearsed speeches to Philippe that I never deliver. He walks in the door, and the carefully crafted arguments that had until that moment risen from the dust of my rage like a strong, solid edifice suddenly crumble and collapse in a heap of rubble. My courage turns tail, my body becomes filled with the thick sludge of dread, and suddenly I fear th
at whatever I say might be the last straw, the thing that finally kills his love for me. I am terrified that Philippe will stop loving me, even though I know that in the end my fear is exactly what will lead to my downfall. He fell in love with my self-assurance and my bravery, not with the submissive, whimpering Juana I have become. I am sure of it, and yet I am unable to change my behavior, to go back to the way I was. Other forces that I cannot grasp exert more power over me than the light that shines on my reason, to no avail. I have always heard that love is not rational, but never did I guess it could make me act against my own interests. And yet I do, much to my regret. I denigrate myself, I lose my head. Perhaps being loveless is like being dead, and so one clings to love at any price. Being so desperate for love that you will make do with scraps, like someone who is starving to death, seems such a tragic fate. I do not wish to appear before Philippe like a beggar, but that is what I am. Lamentably, that is how I feel. When I am rational, I can see my husband’s weaknesses: his fear, for example, of going to Spain. He was so anxious to be Prince of Asturias, had so many plans for us and for our children, and yet with each passing day he finds new excuses to postpone the voyage. Unintentionally, I have become his best one. My pregnancy is advancing. My belly has grown mercilessly. Traveling under these circumstances would be risky as well as uncomfortable. Yet my parents insist, they despair. They send messages asking me to intervene and offer to send an armada to the port of Zeeland for us. They want us to make the voyage by sea. By land we would have to cross France.