The Creation of Eve

by Lynn Cullen

  “Nothing, Your Majesty.”

  We spoke no more, even after we had crossed the bridge and were following along the river across from the stable yards, with Cher-Ami bounding before Us, and Francesca plodding behind. We had left the sound of whinnying horses and the voices of the groomsmen and had come to a stand of willows, Francesca trailing out of sight, when the Queen wheeled around.

  “I think I shall burst!”

  I drew back. “Your Majesty.”

  “I am stuck in the stuffiest court in the world, in the most boring little palace, where my every single movement is dictated by the King. One Unapproved move and his fist will come smashing down on me, as will my mother’s, from a thousand miles away.”

  “Of what do you speak? There have been no ‘Unapproved moves.’ ” Had there?

  “He does not even desire me!”

  “The King? How can you say that? You have what every woman wishes, a husband who esteems her.”

  She tore off her veiled cap and flung it to the ground. “Would that I got a single thing I ever wished for!”

  I gazed, dumbfounded, at the fallen cap, to which Cher-Ami had returned to sniff, and then at the Queen. She ripped a pearl-studded comb from her braids. “Here, chéri !” she called, then tossed it to the dog. “Catch!”

  “Your Majesty!”

  The Queen plucked out the remaining ornaments, then shook out her hair. “There. Better now.”

  My skirts and farthingale billowed Up as I crouched down to beat Cher-Ami to the combs. Unescorted by her husband, it was not proper for a married woman to go out in public with her hair unbound, let alone for the Queen of Spain to do so, and in the woods no less. The condesa would be livid.

  “Take off your cap, Sofi. See how wonderful it feels.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Oh, drop those things and do as I say. You must, for your own sake.”

  “It is not proper, Your Majesty.”

  “Are you starting to wish for a pomander? Go on, Sofi, off with it. In the name of Spain, I command you—there, now will you do it?”

  Francesca caught Up with Us. “No, signorina!” she cried, cradling her jaw. “Madonna Elisabetta, your hair! I fix.”

  A man’s voice called from behind Francesca: “Your Majesty! Hallo! ”

  Our clothes swished as we turned in alarm. Cher-Ami bolted to charge the intruder.

  Doctor Debruyne approached, a small leather pouch hanging from each of his wrists.

  “I am sorry,” he said over Cher-Ami’s yapping, “I did not mean to sneak Up on you. Your Majesty, may I speak to you for a moment?” He just then seemed to notice our Uncovered heads, for he stopped abruptly. “Perhaps this should wait.”

  “Cher-Ami—hush!” The Queen smiled, obviously enjoying the doctor’s discomfort. “As my physician’s colleague, please do speak. Surely you have seen the Uncovered heads of your women patients before.”

  The boughs of the willow trees shimmered in the wind while doctor Debruyne frowned good-naturedly as if trying to Understand. “Well, in truth, I am here as a physician and not a man.” He caught Francesca’s piercing look. “Is that permissible?”

  Francesca’s threatening stare was cut short by a wince.

  Doctor Debruyne bent down and held out his hand for Cher-Ami to sniff. “Actually, mevrouw,” he said to Francesca, “it is for you I have come. Your Majesty, will you permit me to speak?”

  “What do you have there?” asked the Queen.

  He stood and held out his arms to display the pouches at his wrists. “Coca.”

  I fear my mouth did ease open. “Coca? For her tooth?”

  He nodded.

  This herb might bring Francesca relief. My wonder overtook my shyness. “Señor, you have had good results with your experiments?”

  Doctor Debruyne paused before answering. “I must tell you the truth. The experiments have been limited.”

  “But there were good results, yes?”

  He drew in a breath. “Well, at least I can personally attest to the results.” He smiled apologetically. “I tried it on myself, yesterday after we had met.”

  The Queen laughed.

  “I had no choice, Your Majesty,” he said. “The coca is flourishing, your woman’s woman is in pain, and the plant has a reputation of bringing relief to all misery. With these things in place, it seemed wrong to wait any longer. I could not wait for doctor Hernández to agree to the expediency of a trial.”

  “Why had you to wait?” I asked. “Doctor Hernández is a man of learning. Surely he would readily agree to your experiment.”

  Doctor Debruyne brushed back the hank of shining dark hair that the wind had blown into his eyes. “I should explain. Not long ago, one of our colleagues tried a root from Peru touted by the Indians to be a nutritious meal in itself. As doctor Hernández and I watched, our colleague eagerly ate one of these roots raw, complaining only as he consumed it of its plain taste. Twenty-five minutes later, he reported a pain in his belly. Within an hour, he was vomiting Uncontrollably. By the morning, I am most grieved to say, he was dead.”

  The Queen gasped.

  “Did he get a bad piece of this Peruvian root?” I asked. “How did he come to be poisoned by something that was reported to be so beneficial?”

  Doctor Debruyne regarded me with regret. “It was only later, in questioning an Indian newly brought from Potosí, that we learned the vegetable should be cooked before consumption. If the skin is still green, the Uncooked root can be lethal if eaten Unpeeled. So you see why doctor Hernández is now rightly cautious. Even plants that are beneficial can have a poisonous nature if not handled correctly.” He sighed. “And we had so much hope for the potato.”

  “Well,” the Queen said to doctor Debruyne, “at least you know this coca does not kill. You say you tried it on yourself, and you have obviously lived to tell Us.”

  The slight gap between his teeth showed as he grinned. “Not just lived, Your Majesty, thrived. After chewing an ounce of coca leaves, I was able to single-handedly dig a new herb garden in an hour. I felt no pain whatsoever in my limbs and back.”

  “It afforded you energy?” I asked.

  “If you think it will help Francesca,” the Queen said abruptly, “then do give her some. I would like to walk along the river while the day is still fair.”

  He gazed at the Queen as if trying to ascertain whether he had offended her somehow, then asked Francesca, “Would you like to try it, mevrouw? Do you want a chance to be rid of your pain?”

  “I not always get what I want.” She sighed deeply. “Bene, bene. But go fast. Madonna Elisabetta want to walk.”

  Doctor Debruyne nodded, then opened one of his pouches and drew out a pinch of pointed, oval-shaped green leaves. “Hold out your hand.” He laid the leaves on her palm, then drew out another pinch.

  “I will accompany you,” he said, “to assure you of its safety.”

  Francesca scowled at the greenery on her hand. “What this do?”

  “What I found when I tried it is that it first numbs the mouth, which in your case is just what you want. Then I found it eased my brain and made me feel quite fine all over, not just in my mouth.”

  “How I Use?” she said gruffly.

  The doctor rolled his own small pile of leaves into a wad. “Please do likewise, mevrouw.”

  As Francesca prepared a little bundle, he slipped his own plug between his gum and cheek. Watching him, she did the same. Their lower cheeks bulged as do goats’ when feasting on refuse.

  The Queen laughed as she threw a stick for Cher-Ami. “Oh, most attractive.”

  Francesca made to remove her wad. I could not bear for her to lose this chance.

  “Doctor Debruyne,” I said, “please—let me try it, too.”

  He looked at me in surprise.

  I blinked, astonished at myself. But if my taking of the herb would convince Francesca to try it, I would.

  “Please. I would really like to.”

  “I am
afraid I cannot allow it,” he said, thick-tongued. He pushed on his cheek, readjusting his wad. “It is not a matter of emergency, and you are a woman, and—”

  “Would you let me try it if I were a man?”

  He paused, his fingers at his jaw.

  “I’ll have you know I have had a man’s training in science. Black bile, phlegm, blood, yellow bile—of which of the four humors would you like me to speak? A patient with melancholy is suffering from too much black bile. Convulsions are the result of an excess of phlegm—the body is trying to rid itself of the obstruction. Persons with fevers obviously have too much blood and should have it let, the volume commensurate with the degree of heat, Until balance is restored. The pulse music should then be—”

  “I believe you, I believe you!” he exclaimed. “Where did you receive your training?” He laughed. “I should not act so surprised. Well I know the abilities of an intelligent woman—my grandmother holds a pharmacopoeia in her mind.”

  “Oh,” the Queen cried, “for the love of God, just let her try it! I can hardly bear to stand here. Go on, I order you.”

  I put out my hand more bravely than I felt.

  He drew in a breath. “This really is not a good idea.”

  I reached closer. “Please.”

  Shaking his head, he drew out another pinch.

  I sniffed the leaves Upon my hand. They smelled of new-mown hay. I touched them to my tongue. There was little taste, just . . . leaves.

  I loaded my bundle into my cheek Until my lip bulged as if tumorous. If he ever found me even slightly attractive, I promise, he no longer did so.

  “I don’t feel anything,” I said with my new fool’s lisp.

  “You won’t,” he said in his own muffled tone. “Not without the secret ingredient.”

  He searched the ground for a small twig, wet the tip of it on his tongue, then dabbed the damp twig inside the other pouch.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  He smiled, making the lump rise Under his lip, affording him an idiot’s grin. “Lye.”

  I drew back. “Lye?”

  “I took some from the woman who scrubs the palace floors. The coca cannot be activated without an alkali. You have to put it in once your wad is in your lip.”

  Opening his mouth, he carefully poked the lye-laden twig into the center of his wad. He readjusted the bundle with his fingers, then retrieved another trace of lye from his pouch for first Francesca, then me. I opened my mouth like a new-hatched bird to let him perform his operation.

  He painstakingly touched the lye to my leaves. “You don’t want to get this on your tongue.” When he was done, he closed my mouth and patted my jaw as one would pat one’s donkey, for good service.

  “When should we feel something?” I said, muffle-voiced.

  At that very moment, a smile spread over his face. I looked to Francesca. Her eyes were widening just as something wonderful began to blossom forth in my mouth.

  It was odd. Odd and marvelous. It seemed as if my mouth had turned into a butterfly—no, it was my entire head—and it was taking wing, floating softly, serenely, on the warm spring breeze. I grinned Up into the trees, at the languidly waving branches. If only there were stairs to the treetops, I would skip right Up them.

  I looked down from my tree-gazing and found doctor Debruyne, beaming at my face. I laughed when I saw him, then he laughed, and then Francesca laughed, the three of Us chuckling at everything and nothing.

  “It appears to be working,” said the Queen, making Us laugh even harder.

  “Good,” she said. “Enjoy yourselves. I am taking my walk. Just watch Cher-Ami, would you? Cher-Ami, stay. Stay.”

  “We follow,” said Francesca, then sat down, giggling like a maiden.

  I picked Up Cher-Ami and sat down beside her. “You know, Francesca, I believe I have never heard you giggle.”

  Her dark eyes narrowed into a frown. Then, with a shrug, she giggled again.

  “How is your tooth?” asked doctor Debruyne, grinning.

  “My tooth?” Francesca felt at her swollen jaw, then smiled with bliss. Green drool trickled from one corner of her mouth. “What tooth?”

  “You’re leaking,” I said, pointing.

  She pointed back. “So you.”

  I felt around my lips. When I brought back my hand, it was wet with green saliva. I had not even felt it.

  Doctor Debruyne wiped his own dripping mouth on the back of his hand. “Salivation is hard to control when you’re numb.”

  “I see.” I wiped my fingers on my skirt so I would not get my mess on Cher-Ami.

  “Take out the tooth,” Francesca said, suddenly.

  Doctor Debruyne pulled back in surprise.

  “Take it out. You know how, dottore. Do it now.”

  “H’m.” He tucked his hands Under his arms. “Might not be a bad idea.”

  “Then get the pliers, signore. Go! While I feel good. I sit here and wait.” She lay back into a tall clump of grass.

  “You know, I believe I will. Ladies, if you will excuse me.”

  “Good-bye,” Francesca said from her clump of grass.

  I watched him sprint off like a youth, then lay back with Francesca, Cher-Ami still tucked Under my arm. I admired the wind playing in the trees and amused myself by snatching at bits of poplar fluff as it wafted by.

  “Where is Madonna Elisabetta?” Francesca said from our bed of grass.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Cher-Ami buried his moist snout behind my neck. A breeze picked Up, twirling the silver-backed leaves of the trees. How I would like to paint them now, flashes of green, yellow, black, and white.

  “Signorina?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did that student, that one of the Michelangelo—did he make you a promise?”

  I turned my head to look at her, grass crunching in my ear. “What?”

  The knob of her chin quivered as she stared Up at the trees. “Oh, signorina, I know how the woman can give herself to the passion—oh, signorina, I know. Have you never ask yourself, how can Francesca have milk for all the babies in your family? Where her baby, to start her to make milk?”

  I sat Up. “Francesca, do you have a child?”

  “This scultore, this Tiberio”—she reached over and stroked Cher-Ami, still lying in the grass—“do he promise himself to you?”

  My heart pounded, from the herb or guilt or astonishment. “Where is your baby, Francesca?”

  She kept her gaze on Cher-Ami. “I left her at the door of the convent outside my village. She is the nun now. No men to cause her trouble. Happy”—she looked Up, then drew in a breath—“I hope.”

  We stared at each other. I marveled at the enlarged size of her shining pupils—an effect of the coca?—at the smooth olive skin of her face. How little I knew about this woman with whom I’d spent nearly every moment of my life.

  A man spoke in the distance. Cher-Ami lifted his head.

  Francesca struggled to sit. “Madonna.”

  “I shall get her.” I sprang Up before she could get to her feet. “Keep Cher-Ami.”

  Unbothered by the tightness of my corset, I strode along the riverside path that the Queen had taken, my body powered with energy, my mind in a confused twist. Francesca had a child out of wedlock? Why did she speak of Tiberio?

  The man’s voice came again, closer now. I heard the Queen laugh.

  The path ended abruptly at a stand of reeds. The only way past them was to wade along the shoreline. I looked behind me. Had I missed a fork in the path?

  I leaned forward. I could hear the Queen speaking. She did not sound afraid.

  I parted the sharp-edged reeds with my elbow.

  On the other side of the reeds, the course of the river curved sharply to the right. Ancient alder trees leaned from both banks, forming a green tunnel down which the call of birds echoed and fluffy stars of poplar down twitched. There, in the tunnel, sat the Queen, on a rock at the river’s edge. Don Juan stood above her, his foot Upon the
rock. They looked like Adam and Eve, content in their earthly Paradise.

  I batted away an insect darting for my eyes. If I barely breathed, I could hear Don Juan.

  “We should go back,” he said.

  The Queen nodded to the pair of swans meandering farther down the verdant tunnel. “Tell the swans to stop. I don’t want them to go away. You can tell them, can’t you?”

  “You listen too much to Alessandro,” said Don Juan. “I have no power over swans or anything else.”

  “That is not true.” The Queen waved away the fluff floating around her face. “You have a good effect on Don Carlos.”

  “Be still.”

  He moved his hand to her sleeve, where a blue-black dragonfly sat, rhythmically lifting its shiny tail. Carefully, he eased his finger Under its glistening black legs, then brought the insect, still raising and lowering its tail, to the back of her hand.

  “El caballito del diablo,” he said quietly.

  They gazed at their joined hands. “The little horse of the devil,” she repeated.

  “He likes you,” he said. “It is you who has the way with the beasts.”

  The dragonfly flew off. Don Juan withdrew his hand.

  The Queen drew in a sigh, then plucked Up a blade of grass growing by the rock. “What was it like? Your childhood, I mean.”

  He pushed away from the rock. “Like any country boy’s, at least at first.” The swans drifted forward as he started out over a chain of low stones that crossed the river. “I’m sorry,” he said, balancing himself, “you would not know what that is like, would you? Well, let’s just say I got in trouble throwing apples in a farmer’s orchard.”

  “You? In trouble?”

  He stepped to the next stone. “I rode every animal I could get my hands on—I cannot recommend cows, in case you ever wonder. I raced the other boys in donkey carts. I broke my arm falling out of a cypress tree, returning a bird to its nest. It was a terrible tree for climbing. Too prickly.”