laughing, a strident laugh, full of victory.
“Evil witch!” he spat in the darkness.
He took me in a violent fashion, as if he wanted to punish me. I heard a few sobs. Then he went quickly to his bedroom.
He was mine.
Really? No, with that man such a thing was not possible. He wants to go, after all! He himself has admitted it.
He wants to go? Very well, he shall go then, I thought. But first he will experience certain things. The Duchess of Alba does not let herself be tortured so easily. The duchess is a woman who,when she enters a salon, stops the music. And the man who can torture her without being punished for it has not yet been born.
I sat down at my desk and wrote a letter to Manuel Godoy, prime minister and lover of the queen, asking him to leave everything and to come and see me at once, to keep absolutely quiet about the existence of this letter, and not to be surprised at anything he might see when he arrives.
“María, come here. Closer, talking aloud tires me. That’s right, come closer. The concert was no good. Didn’t you hear how out of tune they were? It is as if since the death of Don José music has fallen into a decline. Nothing can be listened to. Do you know what I want now? I want Juan and Manuela to dance a fandango for me. A very fiery fandango. Listen, María, do you remember the Coto de la Doña Ana? And our Palacio del Rocío?”
“Yes, and the magnificent portrait of Your Highness, which the royal painter did at that time. I still don’t understand why milady didn’t take it.”
“What? The picture or the man?”
“I am talking about the picture, milady.”
“Why have you gone all red? My good woman! Why did I not take it? That is my business, María. What I really regret is not having kept that man.”
“There are few men like the royal painter. Apart from the fact that he believes in demons and witches and paints winged monsters. But on the other hand, he carries an image of Saint Pilar around with him everywhere. But for you, my dearestMaría Teresa, it is better to forget about him. If it is a man with a large family, as I have always told you. No, do not cry, child! Oh, I didn’t want to make you sad, my little one.”
“I am not crying. Let’s see, María. When Don Manuel came, how long had it been since Francisco was with us?”
“Ooh, it would be better for Your Highness not to recall that episode. I don’t know; I don’t want to think about it. It was not long afterward, a matter of weeks.”
It was the month of February. Spring was in the air. Through the open windows you could hear the cries of the birds that always rest at the Coto de la Doña Ana on their way to warmer climates and on their way back. We were having lunch, Francisco, Godoy, that boastful, good-looking man, and myself. After Godoy’s arrival I accepted visits from Francisco only very occasionally, and less and less frequently. He made some dreadful scenes, he yelled and bellowed and took me as if I were a cheap harlot.
We ate fruits de mer and fish, each dish with special silver cutlery. That peasant Francisco didn’t know how to handle them very well; I mocked him for it and Godoy joined in. Paco was sweating. I conversed with Godoy in French. We spoke fast. Aragonese Paco didn’t understand us and huge drops of sweat rolled down his forehead. Afterward, Godoy and I began to talk in low voices, so that the half-deaf painter couldn’t manage to make out anything more than isolated words, sounds, laughter. Finally I arranged a journey by carriage to the coast, just he and I and then spoke loud enough so that Francisco could make out what was going on. The blood rushed to his face, but he kept control of himself.
“I think I am in the way here,” he said in a hoarse voice and got up.
I let out an especially joyful laugh while patting Godoy’s hand, so that he too, laughed.
“You don’t know how to do anything other than leave, Don Francisco. Where are you going? To cry on
“Evil witch!” he spat in the darkness.
He took me in a violent fashion, as if he wanted to punish me. I heard a few sobs. Then he went quickly to his bedroom.
He was mine.
Really? No, with that man such a thing was not possible. He wants to go, after all! He himself has admitted it.
He wants to go? Very well, he shall go then, I thought. But first he will experience certain things. The Duchess of Alba does not let herself be tortured so easily. The duchess is a woman who,when she enters a salon, stops the music. And the man who can torture her without being punished for it has not yet been born.
I sat down at my desk and wrote a letter to Manuel Godoy, prime minister and lover of the queen, asking him to leave everything and to come and see me at once, to keep absolutely quiet about the existence of this letter, and not to be surprised at anything he might see when he arrives.
“María, come here. Closer, talking aloud tires me. That’s right, come closer. The concert was no good. Didn’t you hear how out of tune they were? It is as if since the death of Don José music has fallen into a decline. Nothing can be listened to. Do you know what I want now? I want Juan and Manuela to dance a fandango for me. A very fiery fandango. Listen, María, do you remember the Coto de la Doña Ana? And our Palacio del Rocío?”
“Yes, and the magnificent portrait of Your Highness, which the royal painter did at that time. I still don’t understand why milady didn’t take it.”
“What? The picture or the man?”
“I am talking about the picture, milady.”
“Why have you gone all red? My good woman! Why did I not take it? That is my business, María. What I really regret is not having kept that man.”
“There are few men like the royal painter. Apart from the fact that he believes in demons and witches and paints winged monsters. But on the other hand, he carries an image of Saint Pilar around with him everywhere. But for you, my dearestMaría Teresa, it is better to forget about him. If it is a man with a large family, as I have always told you. No, do not cry, child! Oh, I didn’t want to make you sad, my little one.”
“I am not crying. Let’s see, María. When Don Manuel came, how long had it been since Francisco was with us?”
“Ooh, it would be better for Your Highness not to recall that episode. I don’t know; I don’t want to think about it. It was not long afterward, a matter of weeks.”
It was the month of February. Spring was in the air. Through the open windows you could hear the cries of the birds that always rest at the Coto de la Doña Ana on their way to warmer climates and on their way back. We were having lunch, Francisco, Godoy, that boastful, good-looking man, and myself. After Godoy’s arrival I accepted visits from Francisco only very occasionally, and less and less frequently. He made some dreadful scenes, he yelled and bellowed and took me as if I were a cheap harlot.
We ate fruits de mer and fish, each dish with special silver cutlery. That peasant Francisco didn’t know how to handle them very well; I mocked him for it and Godoy joined in. Paco was sweating. I conversed with Godoy in French. We spoke fast. Aragonese Paco didn’t understand us and huge drops of sweat rolled down his forehead. Afterward, Godoy and I began to talk in low voices, so that the half-deaf painter couldn’t manage to make out anything more than isolated words, sounds, laughter. Finally I arranged a journey by carriage to the coast, just he and I and then spoke loud enough so that Francisco could make out what was going on. The blood rushed to his face, but he kept control of himself.
“I think I am in the way here,” he said in a hoarse voice and got up.
I let out an especially joyful laugh while patting Godoy’s hand, so that he too, laughed.
“You don’t know how to do anything other than leave, Don Francisco. Where are you going? To cry on
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