The Lines Between Us

by Rebecca D'Harlingue

  30

  RACHEL

  The fading daylight, obscuring the lines of writing, returned me to the present. The world had gone silent, filled only with what I’d just read and my mother’s final words: “I am like Ana. I have failed Juliana.” Here was a Tía Ana, and the writer, who said that she would change her name from Juliana Torres Coloma.

  I sat immobile, staring into a past over three hundred years old. I don’t know how long I sat there. How could this be genuine, sequestered here in my mother’s home? Yet surely she wouldn’t perpetrate such a cruel hoax, even to her last moments.

  As I read the first few pages of the diary, how could I not feel the genuine desperation? Still, as a teacher of literature, how many times had I admired the creation of whole worlds that never existed? How many times had I ached for the tragedies of its inhabitants?

  I told myself that I would rely on my professional knowledge and detachment. The writing did seem genuine, and similar to other seventeenth-century Spanish texts that I had read, like reading Shakespeare, but not in your first language. I reminded myself that I knew from my studies of Golden Age theater that nothing was more precious than honor, which was to be defended at all costs. But then I faltered. Could a flesh-and-blood father follow such a monstrous course? But maybe this very question showed that I, too, was hampered by the perspective of my own time and place.

  I gathered the papers and placed them in the quilt, then put it all in one of the grocery store boxes. Even as I doubted their authenticity, I felt guilty at handling precious original sources so unceremoniously.

  I shouldn’t have driven in my state, but I needed to get home. Ned and Gabe would be wondering where I was. I’d manage to act normal enough. After all, they’d seen me in a lot of different moods over the last weeks.

  On the way home, I decided that I wouldn’t tell anybody what I’d found. Not only was I unsure of what it was, but the note from my mother, saying that the papers were for her granddaughter, pulled me to secrecy. I wouldn’t let the papers overwhelm reality. I’d allow myself to read only a few pages a day. Maybe if I took more time, things would make more sense, I told myself, but I knew I was reluctant to unmask a truth that could be painful.

  And still I had my mother’s death to mourn. I struggled to maintain my equilibrium. My colleagues seemed to think my strained manner was attributable solely to my mother’s passing, though I tried to appear cheerful. I was reminded of that old show tune about whistling to hide your fear and in the end defeating it. But I had never been able to whistle. When I was a child, I would pucker my lips and try desperately to make a sound, dreading a stalking terror that would find me unprepared.

  “Some days are easier than others.” That’s how I responded whenever anyone asked me how I was doing, their simple question a code for other questions, too raw to ask. How are you accepting your mother’s death? Are you getting back to the normal, comfortable friend we miss? I knew that this was what they meant, because it was what I’d meant when I’d asked the question of friends after some sorrow or trouble disturbed the predictable rhythm of their lives. So I knew that they cared. They just didn’t know what to do. But how could they not see the tumult within me? I shored up a resentment that I knew to be unjust, isolating myself within my secret heart.

  Even with Ned and Gabe, things couldn’t be normal. Each of them had grieved in his own way. Ned had really cared about Helen and had done everything he could for her when she was alive. I sometimes kiddingly complained that my mother found in him her ideal son-in-law, that I was being overshadowed. Of course, it wasn’t really true, and I had been glad that we could be a sufficiently closeknit group, my mother, my husband, and my son. Still, for Ned grief was something that he had learned to conquer, or at least not to let it conquer him. He often saw people die, but he had to get beyond the loss. Sorrow wouldn’t help the next patient. He had become used to doing all he could for people while they were alive, and then letting them rest in peace. He mourned my mother’s death and was shocked at the suddenness of it. But he knew that his attentions gave her joy when she was alive, and he allowed that to console him. Unlike with my inertia, he seemed to push himself harder at work. It probably wasn’t a conscious decision, but it seemed that helping the living would be his memorial to Helen. I knew that it was difficult for him to see me as I was, apparently still lost in grief, but I held myself and my secret apart, and he had no way to reach that part of me.

  Gabe seemed to be coping better now. Though he was getting to be a young man, his sorrow was that of a child, overt and deep but not irreparable. He brooded for a few weeks but then seemed to have put his sadness behind him, or at least not to take it out so often to look at it.

  So I hoarded my secret and my grief, glad not to have to share them with anyone. If that required some deception, then I forgave myself. What happy family doesn’t have some dissembling? Without a private self, what depth is there to anything we give?

  I was becoming ever more caught up in Juliana’s diary, searching sincerely for a meaning behind the avalanche of words. I quelled my skepticism about the pages’ origins. While I had conscientiously avoided reading prematurely the other papers enclosed with the diary, as Helen had directed, I couldn’t help but notice that among the papers in English were some that seemed to be a translation of the diary.

  I treated the pages as a precious new piece of literature. The joy of reading it for the first time could never be relived, so I didn’t allow myself to look ahead to solve the mystery. I was well practiced in suspension of disbelief.

  Every moment that I spent reading the papers now bound my mother to me, but it was a two-edged connection. I didn’t want to come to the end of the papers and lose this new bond. At the same time, though, I was afraid that there might be some revelation that I would regret learning. Worse, what if the papers didn’t reveal my mother’s secret at all, and I would be pushed even further from her? And so I only slowly allowed the papers to divulge their truth, in the hope that I would build up my strength for whatever was to come.

  While restricting my reading, I allowed myself to search for other clues that might shed some light. I spent time in the university library, reading about antique papers and inks. I knew that there were extant manuscripts at least as old as what I’d found, but I needed more confirmation that a seventeenth-century diary could have survived intact. I spoke to the university’s archivist librarian, and she told me that yes, it was certainly possible for a document from that period to have survived, that paper in that period was usually made from cotton and linen rags and in fact was sturdier than most paper made today. She was quite intrigued by my question and told me that if I had such a document, she would be very happy to look at it. I avoided answering her.

  At times I told myself that if the letters had no real connection to me, it wouldn’t matter. If they were genuine, they could be of great use to me professionally. My married female colleagues and I joked about the great discovery we would make, which would advance our careers, guarantee us tenure, and ensure the respect of our male counterparts. Our sarcasm masked our recognition that we had made other commitments, precluding the freedom to spend summers abroad, discovering trifles about some author.

  A particularly obnoxious member of the French department used to leave his wife and three children every summer to study in Paris. The year before, he had published two articles on an intriguing new aspect that he had discovered about the life of a nineteenth-century novelist. He had spoken at a conference and was working on a book, for which he already had a publisher. We told ourselves that we didn’t care, that his information wasn’t crucial, that works of literature should speak for themselves and not require the revelation of some obscure aspect of the author’s life. But we were envious. It wasn’t easy to gain recognition in our field, and none of us would shy away from such an opportunity. Perhaps this manuscript was my chance.

  31

  Juliana

  2 March


  We rest tonight in a home for visitors to Sevilla. My relief is tempered by Silvia’s illness, brought on by the rigors of our travels and her duties in the caravan. I believe that the size of the city, even larger than Madrid, assures our anonymity, but Silvia disagrees and says that my father knows that we have fled together, and that separating will make it less likely that any inquiries he makes will lead him to me.

  3 March

  Silvia will go to stay with some distant cousins who live outside the city. Although she did not wish it, I pressed upon her some of the money from the sale of my mother’s jewels. I also paid for a messenger to send word to her cousins that she is in need of their aid. They will arrange transport for her to their home.

  I tried to set up a means for us to communicate, but Silvia said that it would be dangerous for us. I cannot see how this could be, but, as she became ever more agitated, I agreed to her demands. She left with me her papers that I will use to enter the convent, in case we do not meet again. Our parting was most sorrowful, and I feel that yet another stone has been placed upon my heart.

  I fear for my beloved dueña, who has been a mother to me. I do not know whether rest will answer her needs. I do not know whether I shall ever see her again. Shall we never stop paying for the evil in men’s hearts?

  4 March

  Today I learned from a man of business staying here that my only chance to travel to the New World is to go with one of the two fleets that cross the Atlantic to bring supplies and return with riches from our colonies there. Although courier ships, avisos, leave with some frequency, they do not usually offer passage, and would never allow an unaccompanied woman. The treasure fleet will have some sixty ships. Many of these are warships to protect the cargo ships on which I hope to book passage. The next fleet will not sail until May, bound for Vera Cruz, so I must remain in Sevilla until then. Perhaps this delay will mean that I shall have the chance to see Silvia again.

  5 March

  I have obtained a room in the home of a businessman and his family. Señor Luis Herrera Moreno is somewhat portly, but has an open and pleasant face. He is respectable, but not so prosperous that he disdains the fee my room and board will bring him. His wife, Doña Catalina, has a soft, matronly look, and a kind, cheerful manner. My obvious fatigue allowed me to delay giving them the particulars of my circumstances here, but tomorrow I will need to explain why a young woman would be traveling alone, arriving in a city with no sheltering friends or relatives awaiting her. I had to invent yet a new identity for myself. I am Señora María Ramos de la Fuente. I shall have to carefully work out the particulars of my story before I attempt to present it.

  But I am so tired now. I believe that I will sleep tonight, although my heart aches for my Silvia.

  6 March

  I presented my tale to the Herreras this afternoon. I shall write here the details of our conversation. Perhaps because of the height of my emotion during our discussion, I remember each moment.

  After the modest but adequate midday meal, Doña Catalina turned to me. “How is it that a young woman of such obvious refinement finds herself alone in Sevilla, without even an acquaintance to offer her shelter and protection?”

  “Ah, señora, you may think my story is somewhat strange. I confess that much has happened in the last weeks, many details of which I do not understand. Naturally, I must trust in the wisdom of my husband and try my best to do as he has instructed.” Having started out with what I hoped would be an adequate excuse for any discrepancies they might discern, I went on with my narration.

  “I am the wife of a young merchant, Juan Vásquez Méndez. Shortly after our marriage in Madrid last year, Juan traveled to Sevilla and sailed with one of the fleets to the New World. He had made a small investment of his own, and he managed to persuade some important businessmen to hire him to oversee their much more impressive sums.” I smiled shyly, modest in my pride of my imagined husband, who was entrusted with so much by men of such influence.

  “It is most unusual for investors to accompany the fleet, and even more so for powerful men to entrust large fortunes to a young man who, if you will pardon my saying so, señora, has not much experience,” Señor Herrera said, frowning slightly. “He had no previous dealings with these men?”

  I realized my unwitting error and hastened to correct it. “Of course, one of the men had employed my husband for some time, in the management of some of his business ventures in Madrid. It was his recommendation that helped Juan to win the appointment.”

  “Evidently a young man of much talent and integrity.” Doña Catalina nodded and smiled.

  “Once Juan arrived in Vera Cruz with the fleet, it seems that he found even greater trading opportunities than he had expected. When he returned, the investors realized a very nice profit, and they were quite pleased with his accomplishments on their behalf. Juan decided to try to convince them that by staying in Vera Cruz and working there, he would be able to effect even greater returns for them if they would undertake to hire him for that purpose. He would receive as payment a certain percentage of the profit. Although he had done well for them on the first venture, the investors said that they needed several weeks to decide the matter, so he returned to me in Madrid to await their response.”

  “It is possible that correspondence to France, or even farther, had to be sent and received,” Señor Herrera murmured thoughtfully.

  Fearing that I had already embroiled myself in another problem, and truly not understanding Señor Herrera’s comment, I innocently confessed my ignorance of his meaning.

  “I do not understand,” I said, with more than feigned confusion. “I believe that all of my husband’s associates reside here.”

  “Of course, there is no reason why a young and pretty wife, unacquainted with the trade, which is our lifeblood in Sevilla, should understand my idle wondering. You see, foreigners are excluded from direct commerce with the New World. However, at times they employ local agents in Sevilla—traitors, I consider them—to represent them, to serve as a front for their trade, and thus skirt the law. These dealings rob from our city, and from the monarchy itself, valuable revenues that are ours by rights.” Bitterness entered his voice as he said this last.

  He mistook my blushes for embarrassment or indignation, and continued more gently. “I am not implying that your husband is knowingly employed by such men, but it is very common, and their long delay in coming to their decision aroused my suspicion.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to him, and so he continued, apparently still concerned that he had hurt or insulted me.

  “But I should not worry you about such things. These gentlemen are probably only being cautious and wish to examine the proposition from all sides.”

  Somewhat flustered, I went on.

  “Only three weeks ago, Juan received word. They had accepted his proposal, and he was to leave as soon as possible. Within a day, he had left for Sevilla. I was to follow him in a week, after I had prepared for our journey as well as I could and bidden an anguished farewell to my beloved family, whom I shall never see again.”

  Doña Catalina sighed and said, “And your poor mother—how could she bear parting with such a lovely child?” I could see her picturing such a fate for herself, and her horror at the thought of forever losing her own daughter, now a chattering girl of six. But I sensed that she also felt sincere sympathy for me, and a pang of guilt made me sorry for this necessary deception of these kind people.

  “My mother and I . . .” I trailed off into silence, unable to imagine a parting from a mother I had never known.

  Doña Catalina must have taken my reticence as grief and apologized for intruding into my pain. “Please continue, my dear.”

  “I was to go to a place my husband had described to me—the home of one of the investors. When I arrived in Sevilla yesterday, I engaged a young boy to show me the way. Upon arriving at the house and inquiring for the gentleman, I encountered his wife, who was of course curious about why a young w
oman, unaccompanied by relative or dueña, would be asking for her husband. After I had explained myself, she seemed to be satisfied and instructed one of her servants to accompany me to her husband’s office, where she said he could be found.

  “I reached the office and made my request to a clerk sitting at a desk. He simply looked at me and nodded but kept on with his writing. After waiting a good deal of time, I again approached the clerk and asked him whether I might be able to have a few moments of his employer’s time. He asked my name again, as he must already have forgotten it, and reluctantly rose and slowly walked to a closed door and knocked twice. A voice answered from within, and he entered. He immediately came out again and said that I might go in.

  “After introducing myself to the gentleman, I explained further. ‘I am the wife of Señor Juan Vásquez Méndez. I have just arrived from Madrid. I believe that you have engaged my husband in some business dealings, and he gave me your name, saying that you could put me in touch with him.’

  “‘Ah, yes, Señora Ramos, forgive me,’ he said. ‘I am afraid that you have missed your husband. So well had he convinced us of the wisdom of having a man residing in Vera Cruz, we decided that he should return there as quickly as possible. We managed to get him onto one of the avisos. He was extremely agitated about missing you, but he left several days ago.’

  “I’m sure that I turned quite pale at this news, because he seemed alarmed and quickly approached me, adding, ‘But he has left a message for you.’ At this, he crossed to his desk, opened a drawer, and produced a paper. It was a letter from my husband, instructing me to follow him on the next available ship. The letter also included the name of a gentleman whose acquaintance Juan had made when he was last in New Spain. Juan wrote that if I inquire for this gentleman upon reaching Vera Cruz, I will surely be directed to his business establishment, and that he will contact Juan for me.”