been allowed to join the others yet. He’s pleased the new arrivals are Moriscos. ‘Our numbers will swell from four to six!’ he says and I’m very surprised. I guess he’s too young to want to hide his shame.
Luis gestures, ‘There they are!’
Two boys are indeed walking across the courtyard with Father Rastro. They look about ten and thirteen. Enrique has surely seen me out of the corner of his eye. But he ignores us as he enters the far cloister, returning the new Moriscos to the monks’ quarters perhaps.
Enrique and Harmen were discussing the new boys during yesterday’s sitting. The Moriscos are orphans of some boat tragedy. An Arab tartan capsized in rough seas off the Spanish coast. The family of deported Cordobans never made it to their destination of Tlemcen. The orphans have refused to speak since arriving in the convento. Enrique gave them a rosary and a statuette of Our Lady, and one of the boys strangled the figurine with the rosary beads. Harmen chuckled when he heard this tale.
‘They weren’t wearing habits, did you notice?’ Luis is saying to me grumpily.
‘Lucky them,’ I say with a wink, eyeing his white cassock.
‘I’ve got to find Benito,’ he says and dashes off.
Father Rastro eventually joins me in the courtyard and we make our way to the round tower for the final sitting. He doesn’t mention the Cordoban brothers. Upstairs, Harmen’s looking forward to leaving the convento and he dances through his remaining brushstrokes. I can’t stick to my pose but it doesn’t matter. Harmen finished painting me weeks ago. I keep swivelling round on my knees to find Father Rastro beaming at my heels. I won’t miss sitting for the painting, but I will miss this contrary priest.
The monk, whom I can always see out of my left eye, doesn’t keep his pose either. He’s supposed to be looking east into the future, but this afternoon he’s looking at mea lot, so much so that I think I must have wiped some ash on my face. At the end of the session I get up and hug the horse round the neck and sniff his clean, musty coat and whisper in the beast’s ear that I’ll miss him most of all. And that’s probably true.
Father Rastro waits until after we’ve said our farewells, and then, when he’s escorting me out of the building, he broaches the matter of the Cordoban brothers.
My initial reaction is one of amusement. ‘The Cordobans need a mother? Well what about me!’ But yes, I quickly add, I will try my hand at mothering. If he thinks I can manage the world, how could I not succeed? (So I’ll be returning, and soon!) I can’t manage this deluge of bliss; I grow as stern as a nun and scowl like I’ve just been beaten.
Enrique is walking me down the steep stairs at the back of the round tower so we can pass by the entrance to the church. He’s usually able to persuade me to step into the porch so that he can dip his hand into the basin of Holy water and sprinkle my hair in a parting blessing. ‘Merciful Mary, give your daughter strength.’ He appears to become another person when he enters the church. This has been his custom, but surely today will be different. I’ve never minded his use of the Latin (well I do a bit perhaps), but I usually find his admonitory tone hurtful. He’s pinching my mind the same way that my step-mama used to pinch myupper arm to make me do the household chores. Today, though, Enrique forgets to sprinkle the water.
‘They will warm to you, a woman,’ he says, and something about his choice of words makes my hopeful feelings immediately deflate.
But Enrique’s eyes have opened wide and he’s staring at me intently, drawing himself up at the chest as if preparing to say something more important. His lips open, but then he seems to lose confidence. He takes a step backward and searches about the porch. There is a wooden table near the door and he goes over and picks up a Holy Bible. As he leafs through the gospels I’m guessing, with a sinking
Luis gestures, ‘There they are!’
Two boys are indeed walking across the courtyard with Father Rastro. They look about ten and thirteen. Enrique has surely seen me out of the corner of his eye. But he ignores us as he enters the far cloister, returning the new Moriscos to the monks’ quarters perhaps.
Enrique and Harmen were discussing the new boys during yesterday’s sitting. The Moriscos are orphans of some boat tragedy. An Arab tartan capsized in rough seas off the Spanish coast. The family of deported Cordobans never made it to their destination of Tlemcen. The orphans have refused to speak since arriving in the convento. Enrique gave them a rosary and a statuette of Our Lady, and one of the boys strangled the figurine with the rosary beads. Harmen chuckled when he heard this tale.
‘They weren’t wearing habits, did you notice?’ Luis is saying to me grumpily.
‘Lucky them,’ I say with a wink, eyeing his white cassock.
‘I’ve got to find Benito,’ he says and dashes off.
Father Rastro eventually joins me in the courtyard and we make our way to the round tower for the final sitting. He doesn’t mention the Cordoban brothers. Upstairs, Harmen’s looking forward to leaving the convento and he dances through his remaining brushstrokes. I can’t stick to my pose but it doesn’t matter. Harmen finished painting me weeks ago. I keep swivelling round on my knees to find Father Rastro beaming at my heels. I won’t miss sitting for the painting, but I will miss this contrary priest.
The monk, whom I can always see out of my left eye, doesn’t keep his pose either. He’s supposed to be looking east into the future, but this afternoon he’s looking at mea lot, so much so that I think I must have wiped some ash on my face. At the end of the session I get up and hug the horse round the neck and sniff his clean, musty coat and whisper in the beast’s ear that I’ll miss him most of all. And that’s probably true.
Father Rastro waits until after we’ve said our farewells, and then, when he’s escorting me out of the building, he broaches the matter of the Cordoban brothers.
My initial reaction is one of amusement. ‘The Cordobans need a mother? Well what about me!’ But yes, I quickly add, I will try my hand at mothering. If he thinks I can manage the world, how could I not succeed? (So I’ll be returning, and soon!) I can’t manage this deluge of bliss; I grow as stern as a nun and scowl like I’ve just been beaten.
Enrique is walking me down the steep stairs at the back of the round tower so we can pass by the entrance to the church. He’s usually able to persuade me to step into the porch so that he can dip his hand into the basin of Holy water and sprinkle my hair in a parting blessing. ‘Merciful Mary, give your daughter strength.’ He appears to become another person when he enters the church. This has been his custom, but surely today will be different. I’ve never minded his use of the Latin (well I do a bit perhaps), but I usually find his admonitory tone hurtful. He’s pinching my mind the same way that my step-mama used to pinch myupper arm to make me do the household chores. Today, though, Enrique forgets to sprinkle the water.
‘They will warm to you, a woman,’ he says, and something about his choice of words makes my hopeful feelings immediately deflate.
But Enrique’s eyes have opened wide and he’s staring at me intently, drawing himself up at the chest as if preparing to say something more important. His lips open, but then he seems to lose confidence. He takes a step backward and searches about the porch. There is a wooden table near the door and he goes over and picks up a Holy Bible. As he leafs through the gospels I’m guessing, with a sinking
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