“Then this wickedness is your idea?”
“No, Inés, those orders come from La Gasca, the supreme authority of the king and the church in this part of the world. I have the papers here; you can see them for yourself. Your adultery with Pedro is the source of scandal.”
“Now, when I am no longer needed, my love for Pedro is a scandal, but when I found water in the desert, treated the ill, buried the dead, and saved Santiago from the Indians, then I was a saint.”
“I know how you feel, my daughter—”
“No, Padre, you do not have the least idea how I feel. It is devilishly ironic that only the concubine is guilty, she being a free woman and he the married adulterer. I am not surprised by La Gasca’s baseness—I would expect that. I am horrified by Pedro’s cowardice.”
“He had no choice, Inés.”
“A well-born man always has a choice when it comes to defending honor. I warn you, Padre, I will not leave Chile, because I conquered it and I founded it.”
“Be careful, Inés! That is your pride speaking. I can’t believe that you would prefer for the Inquisition to come and resolve all this in its own fashion.”
“Are you threatening me?” I asked with the shudder the name of the Inquisition always evokes.
“Nothing further from my mind, daughter. I have brought the gobernador’s message, proposing a solution that will allow you to stay here in Chile.”
“And what is that?”
“You could marry,” the cleric managed to get out, clearing his throat several times and squirming in his chair. “That is the only way you can remain in Chile. There are many men who would be happy to wed a woman with your merits, and with a dowry like yours. Once you put your worldly goods in your husband’s name, they will not be able to take them from you.”
It was some time before I could speak. I could not believe that he was offering me this tortuous solution, the last that would have occurred to me.
“The gobernador wants to help you, even though it means giving you up. Can’t you see that his is a selfless act, a proof of his love and gratitude?” the priest added.
He was nervously fanning himself, waving away the flies of the summer, while I strode back and forth on the gallery, trying to calm myself. This plan was not the fruit of sudden inspiration. Valdivia had suggested it to La Gasca back in Peru, and he had approved it. In other words, my fate had been decided behind my back. Pedro’s betrayal seemed contemptible to me, and a wave of hatred washed over me like dirty water, as my mouth filled with bile. At that moment I wanted to kill the priest with my bare hands and I had to make an enormous effort to remind myself that he was merely the messenger. The person who warranted my vengeance was Pedro, and not this poor old man whose cassock was wet with the sweat of fear.
The next instant I was struck by something like a dagger in my breast; it took my breath and made me sway on my feet. My heart was leaping like a wild pony, something I had never felt before. Blood rushed to my head, my knees buckled, and everything went dark. I managed to fall into a chair; had I not, I would have crumpled to the ground. This swoon lasted only an instant; almost immediately I came to my senses and found myself with my head resting on my knees. I waited in that position until the beating in my chest became regular and I was breathing normally. I blamed that brief faint on anger and the heat, never suspecting that my heart had broken, and I would have to live thirty years more with the damage.
“I suppose that Pedro, who wants so badly to be of help, also went to the trouble of choosing a husband for me?” I asked Marmolejo when I could speak.
“The gobernador has a name or two in mind . . .”
“Tell Pedro that I accept his arrangement, but that I myself shall choose my future husband because I intend to marry for love and be very happy.”
“Inés, I must warn you again that pride is a mortal sin.”
“Tell me one thing, Padre. Is the rumor true that Pedro brought two women with him?”
González de Marmolejo did not answer, confirming with his silence the gossip that had reached my ears. Pedro had replaced a forty-year-old woman with two twenty-year-olds, a pair of Spanish women: María de Encio and her mysterious servant, Juana Jiménez, who also shared Pedro’s bed, and, they said, controlled both of them with the arts of sorcery. Sorcery? That was what they had said of me. At times, all a woman has to do is dry the sweat from the brow of a weary man and he will eat from the hand that caresses him. You don’t have to cast spells to do that. You have only to be loyal, and happy to listen—or at least pretend to be listening—and be a good cook to keep him, without his realizing, from doing anything foolish, to revel, and make him revel, in every embrace . . . those, and other equally simple things are the recipe for total devotion. It can be summed up in two phrases: iron hand, velvet glove.
I remember that when Pedro told me about the nightdress with the opening in the shape of a cross his wife, Marina, wore, I made myself the secret promise that I would never hide my body from the man who shared my bed. I held to that decision, and so naturally that up to the last day I lay beside Rodrigo, he never noticed that my flesh had grown flabby, like any old woman’s. The men I have lived with have been naive: I acted as if I were beautiful, and they believed it. Now I am alone and I have no one to make happy with my love, but I know that Pedro was happy when he was with me, and Rodrigo as well, even when illness kept him from taking the initiative in our lovemaking. Forgive me, Isabel, I know that these lines will be disturbing for you, but you need to learn. Pay no attention to the priests; they know nothing.
Santiago was by then a town of five hundred inhabitants, but gossip circulated as quickly as in a hamlet; for that reason I could not fiddle around, though my heart continued cavorting for several days following my conversation with the priest. Catalina prepared cochayuyo water, dried sea algae she set to soak overnight. For thirty years I have drunk this viscous liquid upon awakening, and am accustomed to its foul taste—and thanks to that I am still alive. That Sunday I dressed in my best clothes, took you, Isabel, by the hand, because you had been living with me for several months, and at the hour when people were leaving mass, so everyone would be sure to see me, crossed the plaza in the direction of Rodrigo de Quiroga’s home. Catalina came with us, wrapped in her black mantle and muttering Quechua spells, which are more effective in such matters than Christian prayers. Baltasar brought up the rear, trotting along like the fine old dog he was.
An Indian servant opened the gate and led me into the sala, while my companions stayed behind in a dusty patio covered with chicken shit. Looking around I realized that it would take a lot of work to convert that bare, ugly military billet into habitable quarters. I suspected that Rodrigo did not have a decent bed but slept on a soldier’s cot; it was no wonder that you, Isabel, had adapted so quickly to the comforts of my home. I would have to replace the wood-and-leather furniture, paint, buy something to cover the walls and floors, build galleries for sun and shade, plant trees and flowers, put fountains in the patio, take off the straw roof and put on tiles—in short, I would have projects for years. I like projects. Minutes later Rodrigo came down, startled, because I had never visited him in his house. He had taken off his Sunday doublet and was wearing breeches and a white, full-sleeved shirt, open at the throat. He looked very young, and I was tempted to turn and flee the way I had come. How many years younger than I was that man?
“Good day, Doña Inés. Is anything the matter? Is Isabel all right?”
“I have come to propose matrimony, Don Rodrigo. How does that sound to you?” I blurted it straight out; this was no time to beat about the bush.
I must say, to Quiroga’s credit, that he took my proposal with theatrical gusto. His face lighted up, he lifted his arms to the heavens and let out a long Indian whoop, unexpected in a man of such sobriety. Of course he had already heard the rumor of what had happened in Peru with La Gasca, and of the bizarre solution that had occurred to the gobernador; all the captains were talking abou
t it, especially the bachelors. Perhaps he suspected that he would be my choice, but he was too modest to take it for granted. I tried to spell out the terms of the agreement, but he did not allow me a single word; he swept me up in his arms with such verve that he lifted me off the floor and, without further ado, closed my lips with his. I realized that I myself had been waiting for that moment for almost a year. I grabbed his shirt in both hands and returned the kiss with a passion that had been there for a long time, dormant or disguised, a passion I had reserved for Pedro de Valdivia and that clamored to be lived before my youth deserted me. I felt the strength of his desire, his hands at my waist, at the back of my neck, in my hair, his lips on my face and neck; I caught his young man’s scent, heard his voice murmuring my name, and I felt blessed. How could I in less than a minute go from the sadness of having been abandoned to the joy of feeling loved? At that time I must have been very fickle. I swore at that instant that I would be faithful to Rodrigo till the day he died, and not only have I fulfilled that oath to the letter, I have loved him for thirty years, more every day. It was so easy to do; Rodrigo was always an admirable man, everyone agreed about that, but the best men can have serious defects that are revealed only in intimacy. That was not true with that distinguished hidalgo, that soldier, friend, and husband. He never tried to make me forget Pedro de Valdivia, whom he respected and loved; he even helped me assure that an ungrateful Chile did not forget, but remembered him as he deserved. Rodrigo did, however, set out to make me love him, and he succeeded in that.
When finally we broke apart and caught our breaths, I went out to give instructions to Catalina, while Rodrigo greeted his daughter. A half hour later, a line of Indians were carrying my trunks, my prie-dieu, and the statue of Nuestra Señora del Socorro to the home of Rodrigo de Quiroga, while the citizens of Santiago, who had been waiting in the Plaza de Armas following mass, applauded. I needed two weeks to make plans for our wedding; I did not want to marry quietly, but with pomp and ceremony. It was impossible to decorate Rodrigo’s house in such a short time, so we concentrated on transplanting trees and shrubs to his patio, constructing arches of flowers, and setting up tents and long tables for the feast.
Padre González de Marmolejo married us in what today is the cathedral, but was at the time under construction, before a large assembly of whites, blacks, Indians, and mestizos. We altered one of Cecilia’s virginal white dresses to fit me, since there was no time to order cloth. “Marry in white, Inés, because Don Rodrigo deserves to be your first love,” Cecilia advised me, and she was right. The wedding was accompanied by a high mass, and afterward we celebrated with some of my special dishes: empanadas, a casserole of game birds, corn cakes, stuffed potatoes, beans with chili peppers, lamb and roast kid, vegetables from my country gardens, and a variety of desserts I had planned for Pedro de Valdivia’s arrival. The feast was duly punctuated with wines I took from the governor’s cellar with a clear conscience, for it was also mine. The gates of Rodrigo’s house were open the entire day, and anyone who wished to eat and celebrate with us was welcome. Among the crowd were dozens of mestizo and Indian children, and seated in chairs arranged in a semicircle were the elders of the colony. Catalina calculated that three hundred people filed through the house that day, but she was never good at numbers; there may have been more. The next morning, Rodrigo and I, along with you, Isabel, and a train of Yanaconas, left to spend a few weeks of love at my country estate. We also took soldiers to protect us from the Chilean Indians, who often attacked unwary travelers. Catalina and the faithful serving girls I had brought from Cuzco stayed behind to do what they could with Rodrigo’s house, and the remainder of a large cadre of servants stayed where they had always been. Only then did Valdivia dare come ashore with his two concubines and return to his home in Santiago, which he found clean, orderly, and well stocked, with no trace of my presence.
SIX
The Chilean War, 1549–1553
IT IS OBVIOUS THAT THE WRITING is different in the last part of this account. For the first months I wrote in my own hand, but now I grow tired after a few lines and I prefer dictating to you. My handwriting resembles fly tracks, but yours, Isabel, is fine, and elegant. You like the brown oxide ink, a novelty from Spain that I have trouble reading, but since you are doing me the favor of helping, I can’t impose my black inkwell on you. We would move along more quickly if you did not waylay me with so many questions, child. I love to hear you. You speak the singsong, gliding Spanish of Chile. Rodrigo and I no longer try to instill in your speech the harsh h sounds and lisping th of Spain. That is how Bishop González de Marmolejo spoke, since he was from Seville. He died long ago; do you remember him? He loved you like a grandfather, poor old man. At the last he admitted to being seventy-seven, although he reminded me of a biblical patriarch of a hundred, with his white beard and the way he was constantly predicting the Apocalypse, a quirk he acquired in his old age. His obsession with the end of the world did not, however, prevent him from engaging in material concerns; he seemed to have received divine inspiration in his financial dealings. Among his grand enterprises was the horse breeding in which we were partners. We experimented with mixing breeds, and obtained strong, elegant, and docile animals, the famous Chilean horses that now are known across the continent for being as noble as Arabians but with better endurance. The bishop died the same year as my Catalina; he from a disease of the lungs no medicinal plant could cure, while she was killed by a tile that fell during a temblor and struck her on the back of the head. It was deadly accurate; she never even knew there was an earthquake. Villagra also died during that same period, so frightened by his sins that he dressed in the habit of Saint Francis. He was governor of Chile for a time, and will be remembered among the most powerful and bold of military men, but no one appreciated him because he was so miserly. Avarice is a flaw repugnant to Spaniards, who are known for their generosity.
I must not linger on details, daughter, because if we dally, this account may be left unfinished, and no one wants to read hundreds of quartos only to find that the story has no clear ending. What will the ending of this one be? My death, I suppose, because as long as I have breath I will have memories to fill pages; there is much to be told in a life like mine. I should have begun these memoirs some time ago, but building and bringing prosperity to a town takes a lot of time. I began writing only when Rodrigo died and stirred my memories. Without him, I spend sleepless nights, and insomnia is very conducive to writing. I wonder where my husband is, whether he is waiting for me somewhere or if he is right here in this house, observing from the shadows, discreetly watching over me, as he always did in life. What will it be like to die? What is on the other side? Only night and silence? It occurs to me that to die is to fly like an arrow through dark reaches toward the firmament, toward infinite space, where I must look for my loved ones. It amazes me that now, when I am thinking so much about death, I still feel the urgency to accomplish projects and satisfy ambitions. It must be pure pride: to “earn fame and leave memory of myself,” as Pedro always said. I suspect that in this life we are not going anywhere, and even less in haste; one merely follows a path, one step at a time, toward death. So let us keep going, Isabel, and tell this story as long as we have days left; there is still much I want to recount.
After I married Rodrigo, I determined to avoid Pedro, at least in the beginning, until I had lost the feeling of animosity that had replaced the love I’d held for him for ten years. I detested him as deeply as I had loved him; I wanted to hurt him, where before I had defended him from harm. His defects were magnified in my eyes; he no longer seemed noble, but, rather, ambitious and vain. Once he had been strong, astute, and severe; now he was fat, false, and cruel. I expressed those feelings only to Catalina because my resentment of my former lover embarrassed me. I was able to hide it from Rodrigo, whose own rectitude prevented him from noticing my unworthy sentiments. As he was incapable of base thoughts, he could not imagine them in others. If it seemed strange to him that I d
id not go out when Pedro de Valdivia was in Santiago, he didn’t tell me. I dedicated myself to improving our country houses, and extended my stays there as long as possible, using the pretexts of sowing, cultivating roses, and breeding horses and mules, although in truth I was bored and missed my work in the hospital. In the meantime, Rodrigo traveled between town and the country every week, beating his kidneys to a pulp on a fast horse in order to see you and me. The fresh air, physical work, your company, Isabel, and a litter of pups, offspring of old Baltasar, helped me.
During that period I prayed a lot. I carried Nuestra Señora del Socorro into the garden, settled us both beneath a tree, and told her my woes. She made me see that the heart is like a box; if it is filled with rubbish, there is no space for other things. I could not love Rodrigo and his daughter if my heart was choked with bitterness, the Virgin informed me. According to Catalina, bitterness turns one’s skin yellow and produces a bad odor; for that I began drinking cleansing teas. With prayers and teas I cured myself of my rancor against Pedro in two months’ time. One night I dreamed that I had grown talons like a condor’s, and that I swooped down on him and tore out his eyes. It was a stupendous dream, very vivid, and I awoke avenged. At dawn I got out of bed and confirmed that the pain in my shoulders and neck that had tormented me for weeks was gone; the pointless weight of hatred had dissipated. I listened to the sounds of awakening: roosters, dogs, the gardener’s brush broom on the terrace, the voices of the servant girls. It was a warm, clear morning. Barefoot, I went out to the patio, and the breeze caressed my skin beneath my nightdress. I thought of Rodrigo, and the need to make love to him made me shiver, as it had in my youthful days when I escaped to the orchards of Plasencia to lie with Juan de Málaga. I yawned a great yawn, stretched like a cat with my face lifted to the sun, and immediately ordered the horses so I could return with you to Santiago that very day, with no luggage but the clothes we had on, and weapons. Rodrigo did not allow us to leave the house without protection, out of fear of the bands of Indians that roamed the valley, but we went anyway. We were lucky, and reached Santiago by nightfall, with no misadventures. The town sentinels sounded the alarm from their towers when they sighted the dust raised by our horses. Rodrigo came out to meet me, frightened, fearing some misfortune, but I threw my arms around his neck, kissed him on the mouth, and led him to the bed.
Ines of My Soul: A Novel Page 28
