“How extraordinary!” exclaimed Doña Catalina. “He expects you to make your way alone, not only here in Sevilla, but across the sea and even in the wilderness of the New World?” Her astonishment at my husband’s decision and her concern for my predicament got the better of her courteous duty to refrain from criticizing my husband to me.
“But he did not think that I would be alone,” I began, glad for this chance to explain my plight of finding myself here without companion or protector. “My brother had expected to accompany me. However, at the last moment, he was called to return to his military post. I decided that my dueña and I would have to make our way alone, as I saw no other recourse. However, on the trip she was taken ill and was forced to return to Madrid. I felt that I could not retrace my steps, for it was my desire and my duty to join my husband as soon as possible.”
“Of course,” Doña Catalina replied, obviously relieved at having been reassured of my respectability, though still distressed by my situation. “You poor thing—you must be distraught and missing your husband terribly!”
“Yes, but I look forward to being able to join him soon,” I replied calmly.
“Surely, señora,” Señor Herrera began hesitantly, “you realize that only sailing with the fleet would be considered appropriate for you, and the next fleet will not sail until May. You must also understand that booking passage is not an easy matter.”
Feigning ignorance of the departure delay, I replied, “I am afraid that my husband’s letter failed to inform me of these details.” I then whispered, “What am I to do?”
“How could your husband leave you in such straits?” Doña Catalina demanded, all attempt at courteous discretion now abandoned.
When I simply looked at her, unable to reply, her generous heart provoked her to continue, already searching for answers to my dilemma. “You may remain here with us, of course. And perhaps your husband’s business acquaintance could arrange for your passage?”
“Oh, that would not be possible!” I blurted out. I had not been aware of the problem of obtaining passage, and so had not foreseen the suggestion of its solution.
“But surely he would be able to perform this small service for the wife of a business associate,” Señor Herrera said, perhaps suspicious of my quick and vehement reply.
I had to think quickly, and appealing to the protective side of the gentleman seemed the best refuge. Perhaps the blush that had colored my face in my agitation served to give credence to my story, masquerading as a symbol of offended modesty.
“I am afraid that I could not return to see that gentleman, let alone ask a favor of him,” I said, with all the conviction I could gather. “You see, I hesitated to include this in my account, but he behaved in a less-than-honorable fashion toward me.” This seemed an entirely likely explanation, for would not a woman traveling under such circumstances easily be open to such insult? Again, their sincere concern for me was touching, and my response produced the effect that I had desired.
“Dear, could you not arrange for passage for Doña María?”
Her husband was flustered by this request, especially since it was made in my presence, where it would be even more difficult to refuse, but his honor as a gentleman was being tested, and he must not be found wanting. Even more than that, it seemed that his wife’s simple faith in him softened his resistance and prompted him to respond, “It is very difficult, but perhaps some business acquaintances will be able to accomplish it.”
I envied the look of love and confidence that Doña Catalina gave to Don Luis, a husband who would endeavor to do for her that which he, for himself, would not have undertaken lightly. This man possessed a sense of honor that shone in stark contrast with the false face offered to society by he who had destroyed me.
Despite his words of encouragement, Señor Herrera seemed worried about the task which he had set himself and, making his excuses, left me in the company of his wife.
“Doña Catalina,” I began, “there is yet another matter of which I must speak to you. I am fearful that my resources will not cover my expenses. I was embarrassed to speak of this before Señor Herrera, ashamed and confused that my husband should not have made better provision for me. I know that the amount that I agreed to pay you for board is more than fair, as I did make other inquiries before my lucky chance of finding you. Please tell me if it would be possible for me to do some work here around the house, and thus reduce the amount you must charge me.”
At this, she looked truly distressed. “But requiring a lady of your quality to work . . .”
“It is from necessity that I ask this. I could perhaps help with the needlework for your family. It is true that up until now I have used my needle only to entertain myself, by embroidering pillows and other decorative articles for the home of my family, but I am skilled with the needle, and I am certain that I could put my abilities to more practical use.”
Still she hesitated. “Would it not be better for you to get word to your family that you are in need of money? Surely they could render assistance that would make this step unnecessary.”
“There is yet another complication, which I had not wished to mention, but your kindness and my necessity prompt me to be totally frank with you. My family did not altogether approve of my marriage. As you have guessed, I am of gentle birth, and my family did not desire a son-in-law who had to work at business to earn his living.” At this I paused, realizing I had inadvertently insulted Señor Herrera, who likewise provided for his family through his business. Doña Catalina gave no sign of taking insult, however, either because she was too taken up with my story, or because she was so familiar with the attitude that she hardly took note of it.
“My parents tried to force me into a marriage that they deemed more proper, but I can be strong-willed, señora, and my family finally acquiesced to my marriage to Juan. So you see, I do not wish to parade before them my chagrin at having their misgivings justified even beyond what they had suspected. It is not my intention to sound disloyal to my husband in saying this. My very loyalty to him compels me to protect him, and myself, from my family’s criticism.”
“Perhaps, if you could be persuaded to help with the children, I could convince my husband.”
I leaped at this chance. “Oh, yes! I love children! I have always enjoyed spending time with my younger cousins. I could play games with them, and read to them, and—”
“Can you read well?” she interrupted.
“Yes, my father demanded that all of his children master that skill.”
“It is settled, then. If you can work with my children on simple lessons you can devise, I am sure that I can convince my husband to accept your services in lieu of any payment. He has a great desire for our young children to increase their learning.”
“But I did not mean to imply that I could pay nothing!”
“No, if you are learned, we will be happy to have you teach our children.”
In the household of my father, I had never considered myself learned, but to Doña Catalina, it seemed that I was, and, amid all my troubles, this gave me pleasure.
“I cannot thank you enough, señora.”
“Nonsense. It is settled to our mutual satisfaction. Now, you must be very tired. Off to bed with you.” And, assuming a protective attitude, she embraced me like the mother I never knew.
How easily lies come to my tongue when urged there by necessity! As I review what I have written here, I find myself yearning to be the young woman I have invented. Oh, that my plight could be exchanged with hers! If only I had a loving husband awaiting me! If only I were leaving behind a caring though disapproving family. But I must make my way alone, my only friendly company the ghosts of families that I have dreamed.
Yet, at least for now, I have this temporary shelter for which to be grateful. Thank you, Virgin Mother, for giving me the protection of these kind people. I pray that you will guide me in my plans. Please watch over Silvia and bring her health and peace.
32
RACHEL
The ease with which the writer of the diary invented lies as she needed them reminded me that all of this could, in fact, be a deception. Still, if it were, it was a very elaborate one—one that took place within my mother’s home. Lately I had begun to wonder whether my mother had herself been tricked somehow. But what would the purpose be? If the diary were not authentic, someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to obtain materials that seemed to be of the period, to write in language appropriate for the place and time, and even to affect a handwriting that seemed similar to manuscripts from the period. And then there was the narrative itself. It seemed to ring true, and I was becoming ever more involved in the story that I had found wrapped in a quilt in my mother’s house.
As a literary scholar, I was trained to read with dispassionate observation, and this trend had become ever stronger in literary scholarship. Any hint of appreciation for the emotional connection of a story had come to be viewed as unsophisticated at best, unprofessional at worst. But I had never been able to repress this emotional pull, nor would I wish to, and I would have hated to see the field filled with those who saw a piece of literature merely as an interesting artifact, with no care for what the author felt or wished to say.
As I entered the Romance Languages Department office, I was thinking about the pages I’d read the night before. I was submerged in Juliana’s plight, and I sadly wondered what the fate of Silvia would be. The details of Juliana’s various deceptions somehow seemed fantastical, yet their level of detail added verisimilitude. I didn’t think that if I’d read those details in a book, it would have strained credulity.
I was lost in these thoughts when I looked up and saw Lorraine. There she stood, sorting through her mail, and the mere sight of her comforted me. Only the day before, I’d mailed her a letter. It wouldn’t reach Buenos Aires for a few more days. She had been on sabbatical, researching the writings of a local poet. As a single woman, she didn’t have the somewhat self-imposed restrictions that those of us with families had. She was able to travel as freely as the men of the department, and, rather than resent her flexibility, we other women were happy that one of our number had that opportunity.
A frantic call from the department chairman, who had hurt his back playing racquetball and needed her to teach his classes, had brought me this unexpected gift of coming upon my friend. Lorraine and I had known each other ever since graduate school, and although we rarely spent time together outside school, she was my best friend. All we had in common was that we were the only two in any of the language departments who had trained at the university where we were now professors. Her colorful language and totally unpretentious manner appealed to me. Hers was a rough facade, built over caring generosity.
I had once asked Lorraine what she saw in me as a friend. “It’s my mission to educate you about the realities of life.” She laughed, but I knew that she was only half kidding. Though she was only two years older than I, and though I’d experienced lots of things in life she hadn’t, including marriage and motherhood, Lorraine still considered me in need of guidance.
Lorraine looked up now and enfolded me in her arms, her smell of cigarette smoke somehow comforting. “How are you doing? Let’s go get coffee.” Though she worked harder than any of our colleagues and was one of the most insightful literary scholars I had ever known, Lorraine was always ready to take a break. She expected everyone to be as flexible as she was and would accept no excuses.
“Come on,” she’d say, “the world of Hispanic letters can wait for your dramatic revelation. Live a little!”
She always won, and as we walked downstairs to the lounge, she often added some other comment about coffee sloshing around with the creative juices. We entered the glorified coffee room, which now went by the name Café Etienne. Lorraine and I had laughed over the name, which one of the French professors had supplied, based on a character in his favorite novel. The lounge had also recently become strictly nonsmoking. Lorraine sighed as we entered.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
“That’s okay.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really. I don’t know. There isn’t much to say. She was hit by a car, and then she was gone. I’m having a hard time, but I’ll be all right.”
“You know she’ll always be with you.”
I looked at her for a minute and then laughed. “Come on. I thought you’d spare me the platitudes.” I could be like that with her. Lorraine was relaxed and sassy, and she made me feel that way when I was with her. She was constantly cracking me up with her dating horror stories, implying how lucky and sheltered I’d been. And she occasionally reminded me of the difficulties of a black woman attaining the position she had.
She stared at me until I felt uncomfortable. “What?” I finally said, but she didn’t answer.
“Oh, Lorraine, I know that she’ll always be with me, in my memories, even in Gabe’s smile. But let’s face it. She’s no more with me than the characters in the novels we teach. She exists only in our imaginations.”
“You’re wrong, and I’ll tell you why.” Lorraine settled into her chair, and I could tell she was going into her lecture mode, but with an unusually confiding manner. “I’m about to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone else, so feel privileged.” I waited while she studied me to see the effect of this prelude. “My apartment is haunted.”
At first I was shocked, then hurt. What she was saying belittled my loss. How could she joke about this?
“Lorraine . . .”
“I’m not kidding.” The urgency in her voice made me realize that she was serious. Whatever she was about to say was important to her, a truth of her life.
“What are you talking about?”
“When I first moved into my apartment, back when we were grad students, I felt there was something strange about the place. In my best moments, I put it down to being homesick, and in my worst moments, I felt scared. Mostly I had a sort of anxious anticipation about whatever it was that might develop.
“Then one night, as I lay in bed, wondering for the hundredth time if I’d screwed up on some bullshit paper or other, I felt a definite presence in my room, sitting in the rocker that was in the far corner.”
“Oh, Lorraine, come on!”
“Shut up now, and listen. I wouldn’t play with you.” But she’d strung me along many times before with her wild, complicated tales, only to draw me in, then turn around and tease me for my gullibility. It was part of her charm.
At my skeptical look, she added, “I wouldn’t play with you at a time like this, now, would I?” And I had to admit that she wouldn’t.
“Over the next few weeks, I found myself getting familiar with that old presence. Don’t ask me how I know, but it’s a woman, for sure, older, who has seen some hard things. Gradually, I moved the rocker nearer to my bed. Now she’s a regular comfort to me. Well, that’s it. That’s what I meant. Your mom could be closer to you than you think.” For once, she wore an expression devoid of all skepticism, and I didn’t know how to read her.
“Lorraine, you can’t seriously expect me to believe you.”
“And why not? Don’t tell me I confided this to you for nothing. What a waste!”
I wanted to believe, an accidental hope. “But why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“At first, I didn’t know anyone here that well. I was probably acting pretty weird, because I won’t say all of that didn’t take some getting used to, but nobody here knew me well enough to know that I wasn’t always that strange. You probably all thought it was part of my mysterious and intriguing persona. After that, well, I just couldn’t bring myself to share it with anybody, not even you.” She paused and gave me a look I had seldom seen from her, a look of loss, or longing for an abandoned wish.
“You know,” she continued, “you certainly don’t tell me every private thing that happens to you. You tell me funny stories about Ned and Gabe, but you don’t
reveal all of the innermost aspects of your personal life to me, do you?”
I was taken aback for a moment, but I knew that I had absorbed more of my mother’s reticent personality than I usually admitted. Somewhere within Lorraine’s comment were feelings of hurt and accusation, but also there was just a matter-of-fact acceptance of what she and I told each other, even as close friends.
“No, and you shouldn’t, either, because frankly I couldn’t take it,” she said, framing her newly revealed feelings in her easy, taunting manner. “Well, I wanted to have something personal, intimate, too, and since it looks like I’m not going to find it in the man department, I had my ghost. She at least was mine.”
“And now mine,” I said softly. “Thanks, Lorraine.”
We sat quietly for a moment. “My coffee’s cold,” she said abruptly, and rose to go over and warm it up. Taking the few steps transformed her back into her old self. I didn’t want to let go of the mood she’d created by her revelation, but I knew that she’d declared it over.
“Why the hell did you think I’ve hung on to that awful old apartment all these years?”
“I did wonder.” That was an understatement, and Lorraine knew it. Her apartment had seemed borderline unlivable even when we were in graduate school and none of us had any money, but as we’d “risen through the ranks,” Lorraine had never moved, always giving flimsy excuses, like not having time to look for another place.
“You know,” I said, “all during childhood I heard stories of ghosts, and witches, too. Some were from my dad’s mother, and then her friends after she died, swearing that she had knocked on their walls and told them to give her family a nice meal after the funeral. Others were from an older neighbor lady, who had more complicated tales. Her sister-in-law was a witch who could change into an animal and back again, always for some dark purpose. But those were all stories from the old country, and my father and mother dismissed them.”
The Lines Between Us Page 15
