Cervantes Street (30 page)

“Don Alonso died before I was born,” interjected Doña Juana, who was wiping her plate with a chunk of bread. “In fact, Don Alonso’s great-grandniece and Father de Palacios’s grandniece, Doña Catalina de Palacio, the mother of the delicious Catalina, our greatest beauty, will join us for supper next week. I would have invited them tonight, as I am anxious for you to meet the beautiful and virtuous Catalina, but her mother is in Toledo with her, where they went to collect the rents owed to my friend by her tenants.”

“She does not exaggerate, Don Miguel, when Doña Juana says my grandniece Catalina is Esquivias’s greatest beauty,” said Father Palacios.

My interest was aroused, but before I could ask a question about the beautiful Catalina, a mound of the honeyed quails was set on the middle of the table.

* * *

Later in the evening, after we had retired to the drawing room and reclined on comfortable cushions, Doña Juana announced: “In your honor, Miguel, to show my appreciation for having you in my house as a guest, I have committed one of my greatest sins of vanity: I’ve written a sonnet.”

Many years have passed since that remarkable evening, but I still remember some of Doña Juana’s verses:

Oh hero of Lepanto, that dreadful place

Where as proof of your hidalgo’s honor

You left behind your valorous left digits

In defense of our Magnificent Sun King Philip,

Our Holy Roman Catholic Church—

The only true church—and of our Motherland;

You noble son of Alcalá, captured

By the infamous Barbarosa brothers and abducted

To the hellish dungeons of Algiers . . .

By the time she recited the third stanza, I had drunk too much wine to appreciate the rest of the lofty verses inspired by my “heroism.” The end of the recitation was met with thunderous applause.

“Unfortunately, Don Miguel,” the priest lamented, “Doña Juana writes only one poem per year because she only sings of the most momentous events that take place in our village. If only she were as prolific as Lope, I tell you, Spain could boast of being the birthplace of the Tenth Muse.”

His words were followed by more toasts to me, to poetry, and to Doña Juana.

* * *

After I had been in Esquivias for a few days, I asked my hostess for directions to the home of Sancho Panza’s family and set out one afternoon to meet his wife and daughter.

“Pass the chapel at the end of town and stay on the path that runs alongside it until you come to a drop in the road,” said Doña Juana. “You’ll see a big rock on your right. Make a sharp turn and follow the narrow trail for a short distance. You can’t miss their home; there are no others around.”

The chapel to which Doña Juana had directed me was a simple rectangular structure made of limestone, with a low bell tower atop. A naked cross was carved on the door of the chapel. The austere building was as striking and eerie as the dry landscape on which it was set.

I followed her directions and walked under the warm sun on a pebbly, dusty path that led to a rombo made of stones. In its front yard grew a few grapevines, which had already been harvested. Noisy chickens pecked the red dirt of the yard. A hutch on stilts housed fat rabbits. “Good afternoon!” I shouted.

A plump older woman, with loose, uncombed hair and pendulous teats, covered—but not disguised—by a blouse of indeterminate color, appeared at the door. Her face was sweaty and red, as if she spent a great deal of time near live coals.

“Doña Teresa Panza?” I said.

“At your service, Your Grace.” She stared at me with suspicious eyes, as if she was not used to having visitors come to her house.

I told her my name. “I’m a guest at Doña Juana Gaitán’s house, and I’ve come to pay my respects. I met your husband Sancho in Algiers, where we were both captives in the bagnio.”

Doña Teresa’s facial expression changed from one of puzzlement to one of radiant joy. She wiped her hands on her untidy skirt, rushed in my direction, and then dropped to her knees.

“Allow this humble woman to kiss your hands, Your Lordship,” she said as she grabbed my good hand and washed it in tears.

“My good Doña Teresa,” I responded, “please get up. It is
my
honor to meet the wife of my dear friend.”

“It’s been many years since I had news of my good and honest husband,” she said, getting up. Through her tears she added, “I curse the day my Sancho went to Málaga to work for His Excellency, the count. It was near that city that he was kidnapped by those godless African corsairs. Please excuse my appearance. I was ironing. But just don’t stand there. Come inside our humble abode, which is also yours. Mi casa es su casa.”

The inside of the rombo was almost dark, except for a fire next to which was set a table used for ironing. On the dirt floor there was a large basket heaped with laundered clothes. Doña Teresa looked around and found a wooden chair, which she offered me.

“May I bring you a cup of our wine? It’s very refreshing at this time of day.”

I sat on the rickety chair and accepted her offer. She filled two pewter cups, then pulled out a stool from the ironing table and rested her considerable buttocks on it.

“Pray tell me, Don Miguel. What news do you have of my Sancho?”

I told her about the last time I had seen him; and how I still remembered him with affection and gratitude. “Without your husband,” I concluded, “I would not have survived my first years in Algiers.”

“That’s my Sancho,” Teresa Panza sighed, her eyes becoming teary once more. “He’s a simple laborer but he’s made of gold, like the king’s crown.”

There was a commotion outside. I heard grunting pigs and a young woman’s voice calling out, “Come here, you devil! Where do you think you are going, fatso? Get inside the corral before I slap your ass.”

“My daughter Sanchica is here. She’s the greatest blessing of my life; the biggest fortune my husband left me.” Without getting up, Doña Teresa yelled, “Pray come in, my daughter! And be hasty about it, we have a visitor!”

A barefoot girl came in. Even from the door she smelled of dung. Her cheeks were powdered red by the dust of the road; her clothes looked as is if she had been rolling in the mud; her feet were dark in color. On top of her upper lip she had a black mole that looked like a dead beetle stuck on her face. “I just brought in the pigs and was going to feed them their slops. The big sow is ready to expel her piglets. Who is this gentleman, Mother?” Sanchica inquired, studying me.

Teresa told her who I was, and then explained to me: “Sanchica takes care of Doña Juana’s pigs. All of us worked for her family. These hands”—they were big and scarlet, almost raw—“have washed the clothes of Doña Juana’s family since I was a young girl. And before me, my mother. Our whole family have been humble servants of the Gaitáns since anyone can remember. Before he went to work for the count, and was so cruelly taken from me, my good Sancho tended their herd of goats.”

“Signor, I was a little baby when I lost my father to those Turkish demons,” Sanchica chimed in. “But I remember him like I saw him this morning. People say,
Long absent, soon forgotten
, but not in our house.”

“Your Grace,” Doña Teresa cut in, “we Panzas are firm believers that absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Speaking in proverbs seemed to be a family trait.

“What news have you of my father, signor? Tell me about the last time you saw him.” Sanchica sat at my feet, crossed her legs, and covered her knees with her ragged skirt. She was not older than fifteen and exuded the strength of a young mare. She would have been pleasant-looking if she brushed the nettles and bits of hay out of her matted black hair, washed her face, removed the dirt from under her fingernails, wore a proper petticoat, and cut her long black toenails.

I gave her an abbreviated account of what I had already told her mother.

When I finished, Teresa Panza said, “Tell me, Don Miguel, does my husband still laugh as much as he used to?”

I told her he had made me laugh on many occasions and that he was always cheerful and optimistic.

“So long as he still has his good sense of humor, he’ll survive his misfortunes. Because it’s true that laughter is the best medicine. Laughter can light up the darkest tunnel, and it can make a stale chunk of bread taste as good as a roasted partridge.”

Teresa proceeded to tell me about the last time she’d had any news about my friend. A monk headed to Toledo had stopped by to give her a message from Sancho. “On his way to Spain, he met my husband in some dreadful desert across the sea. Sancho sent him to me with the necklace you see around my neck. I showed it to people in the village who know about such things and was told they are chunks of salt. And they do taste salty, if you care to lick them. Here.” She began to remove her necklace.

“It’s not necessary,” I said. They did look like chunks of salt.

“Whether they be rocks of salt or something else, I don’t take them off even to go to sleep. And so, my Sancho is never far away from me. Fray Nepomuceno, that was the monk’s name, said that Sancho had wanted to remind me not to forget that God may take a long time but He goes by His time, not ours, and that one of these days we will see Sancho again.”

This was astonishing news: Sancho had survived the desert! “Did the monk say anything else about where he last saw Sancho? How long ago was this?”

“I descend from a long line of onion eaters, Don Miguel. I don’t know of years and dates or countries. Fray Nepomuceno told me he bid adieu to my husband as he set off on a camel on the way to the kingdom of King Micomicón, where he hoped to become rich and then return to us to make me a lady. When I received the necklace,” she went on, “Sanchica was too small to take care of Doña Juana’s pigs, for I feared they might eat her. Still, God is great: He took my Sancho, but not before I had Sanchica. It’s true what they say, Your Grace: two people in distress make sorrow less. In the meantime,” she sighed, “I believe no news is good news. People like to say that hope is a good breakfast but a bad supper. For people like us who sometimes must do with a cup of water for supper, hope is plenty.”

We exchanged pleasantries for a while longer. As it was getting dark, I got up to say my goodbyes.

“I can’t let you go, signor, without sending my lady Juana some eggs my chickens just laid today; they are so fresh they are still warm. Tell my lady that I kiss her hands. She’s not like all the other stuck-up ladies of Esquivias who forget we are all equal in the eyes of Our Lord; that when we die He won’t judge us by the quality of the dress we are wearing or the money we leave behind. Doña Juana judges people by the quality of the work they do. Since words don’t butter a piece of bread, if you don’t mind, I would like you to bring her a few acorns. I know how much she loves them; tell my lady that they are the first of the season. Sanchica and I know a secret spot in the forest on the slopes of Santa Barbara that faces Toledo and produces the best acorns, which we pluck before they fall to the ground and the wild boars gobble them down. I don’t believe in the wild boars eating better than we do, even though nothing makes them taste better than a good harvest of acorns. Mind you, Don Miguel, don’t go there to collect the acorns yourself. The wild boars visit the forest in the afternoons and the wolves at night.”

“But we are not afraid of them,” said Sanchica. “I always go armed with a pointy log and dare any wild boar to attack us. When they see me raise my arm they run away in terror.” Sanchica punctuated her words by spitting on the ground. Then she flexed her right arm to show me her musculature.

Teresa Panza laughed. “It’s true, Don Miguel. I believe my Sanchica could scare a lion.”

As I stepped out of the rombo, evening had begun to fall. Teresa Panza handed me a small basket filled with acorns. “If you haven’t already, you must visit our Blessed Lady of Milk in the church. She is the patroness of the town and most miraculous. I always bring her a mugful of milk when I visit her, although I know the curate drinks it. But she’s very happy to receive cheese, and butter too. Pray to her, Don Miguel, and she will grant your wishes. Sanchica and I always pray that Our Blessed Lady of Milk will bring my husband back to us.” Then she added, “I rejoice in your visit, Your Grace. Anyone who is a friend of my Sancho is our good friend too. To show you my appreciation, let me wash and iron your clothes, and Don Miguel can pay me whenever you can.”

I thanked her for her generous offer and then walked back to Doña Juana’s house, carrying a basket filled with the famous Esquivian acorns. I was glad she had forgotten to pack the eggs.

* * *

Doña Catalina Salázar and Doña Juana both descended from old Esquivian families. Like Doña Juana, Doña Catalina was a widow, and Catalina was her only daughter. The widow was also the mother of two younger boys, I was informed by my hostess. On the evening Doña Catalina and her daughter came to supper there were no other guests. Once more I was introduced as a war hero, a captive who had suffered unspeakable tortures at the hands of the Turks, a successful playwright, a well-known poet, and the author of a much-awaited pastoral novel.

At the dinner table the two older women fell into a conversation about crops and tenants and village gossip, which excluded Catalina and me.

Doña Juana’s praise of the young Catalina had not been an exaggeration: she was a Castilian beauty, of medium height with black hair and eyes, and a fair complexion darkened along the way with a drop of Jewish blood. Her lovely hands looked strong, as if they were used to working in the house. In contrast to the older women, she was dressed simply. Her velvet dress was of a faded burgundy color, and she wore a plain gold ring and earrings. A black shawl draped her shoulders, making a stark contrast with her ivory-colored neck, around which she wore no jewelry. Catalina’s beauty rendered me silent.

Doña Juana interrupted her animated heart-to-heart with Catalina’s mother and said to me, “Miguel, don’t be shy. Tell Catalina about the glorious Battle of Lepanto, and the time you spent in Rome, and slavery in Algiers. She will find all of it fascinating.”