The Scroll of Seduction (35 page)

J
uana went back to her silence. I opened my eyes brimming with tears. Manuel exhaled deeply and lit another cigarette.

“My God, our intuition barely caught up with her,” I said.

He turned back to the folders. I saw him pick up the newer one. Suddenly, I was doubtful.

“Manuel, what you just read is what Juana wrote?”

He didn't answer. He was holding a legal-size sheet of typewritten paper. He looked at it and raised his hand to his forehead, again and again.

“What's the matter, Manuel? What's wrong?”

He stared at me, wide-eyed. In the candlelight he looked transparent, his lips blue.

“This really is a night of surprises, Lucía. Do you want me to keep reading? Do you want me to read out this certificate that states that Águeda is actually my
mother
?”

“Águeda? What do you mean?”

“Come on,” he said. “Come with me. I have a feeling I know where this staircase leads.” He snatched my hand frantically. He wasn't letting go. I followed him down the short hallway to the dark stairs, which we felt our way down, me asking all the while, What's wrong? Where are we going? I was afraid of his urgency, of his words. We reached the last step.
We must have been on the second floor. Another door. He pushed it. It didn't budge. He kicked it. And suddenly, we stood in the semidarkness of Águeda's room. She was sitting up in bed, an expression of sheer horror on her face, covering her mouth, having been shaken so suddenly from the deep sleep she drugged herself into each night.

Manuel let go of me. Águeda was staring at us. I stood up against the wall in the darkness, aghast, trying to make sense of what I saw before me: adorning the walls of Águeda's bedroom, like decor in an actress's dressing room, were dresses that looked like they were from Juana's time. Three, four, five, maybe more.

Manuel, meanwhile, rushed to her bed and threw the stack of papers on her lap.

“Would you care to explain this? You
have to
explain it,” he shouted, and then snatched up the papers again, pointing at her. “It says here that you're my mother. This certificate says that you gave birth to a child the very day of my birthday. What does that mean?” he repeated, pacing back and forth before her. “More deceit? What is it, some sort of genetic defect? Good
God
! How many lies will I have to unravel in this family? Why, Águeda, why has it become such a pattern?” His voice was deep, hoarse, almost howling. “My God, you can't be my mother! You have been so many things to me, but please, you cannot possibly be my mother!”

Águeda was whimpering, her face taut, totally distorted.

“Damn your curiosity, Manuel. Damn it!”

Manuel was livid. Calmer, but at the same time more enraged. I didn't even know what was being hinted at, but I felt nauseated. I had to get out of there, I thought, had to breathe.

Águeda spoke. I didn't move a muscle.

“Let me stand up,” she said, getting out of bed, pulling on her dressing gown, her slippers, smoothing her hair, turning on the bedside lamp. “Maybe we're all wicked people, but the woman you thought was your mother–Aurora–admitted it. She had the bad blood of the Denias in her veins, she deceived people without scruples, she lived a dissolute life, intent on making the most of every day, every minute, saying that for her there was no past and no future. It took a long time before I under
stood her, and by then it was too late, she was gone. I couldn't see that I was no better than her. But back then, when I was young, your
Aunt
Águeda,” she said sarcastically, “was the good girl, the introvert, the studious one, the obedient one. Like you, Lucía,” she said, looking at me. “I was the apple of my father's eye, the one who straightened up his study, his papers, the one who discussed history with him, and then one day grew up and got pregnant. It happens. As you know. And to salvage the family's honor, my parents decided that, since Aurora was already a lost cause, she would be blamed for it. They hid me away until the child was born, and then, Manuel, they passed you off as
her
son. What difference did it make, they said, if I was going to be the one to raise you anyhow? They spread a rumor about Aurora's fall from grace, and they themselves took it so seriously that they disowned her and abandoned her to her fate. And you know how she ended up.”

Engrossed in her story, paralyzed by it, I leaned up against the wall. It was trembling. I'm imagining things, I thought, it must be my body that's trembling.

“Tell me who my father was,” Manuel commanded his aunt. They were staring at each other.

“No, Manuel. I can't do that,” she replied. Her face was a mask of horror.

“Tell me.”

Águeda ran from the room.

Manuel ran after her, and I followed suit. The second we were out in the hallway I realized what the vibration I'd felt was. The house was on fire. The third floor had gone up in flames. The walls were making a terrible groaning sound. I couldn't believe how fast it was happening, how quickly the fire was spreading. The burning smell was unbearable. Chunks of blazing wood were beginning to fall. The house was filling with smoke. The roof was on fire, it was going up like a torch.

“Manuel, my God, the manuscripts!”

I was going in circles, not knowing what to do. Manuel too had stopped short. It was as if he couldn't react. Suddenly, he turned around and ran back toward Águeda's room. A second later, I heard the locks being deactivated.

“Go, Lucía, run,” he said, absurdly calm and determined. “Go. I'm going to find Águeda. I can't leave her in here. I'll see if I can save the manuscripts.” And he pushed me, shoved me, toward the back door.

“No, Manuel. Come with me.”

“I'll be right there. Now go, run,” and he gave me one final shove. I thought the house would keep standing until the firemen arrived. I ran toward Recoletos, the main avenue, but stayed on the sidewalk, as close to the house as possible.

The flames kept spreading. The crashing sounds were deafening. Beams fell, walls crumbled like paper. The house roared like an animal. In the distance, I heard the sirens approaching. I prayed, implored the firemen to hurry up. Flames were shooting up everywhere and Manuel was not coming out. He wasn't coming out. There was no sign of Manuel. Nothing. No sign of Manuel. Or his mother.

I
've seen pictures of the fire. It went down in Madrid history as a tragedy in which fabulous works of art were lost forever. When the sun came up, the house was still on fire and onlookers crowded around to see the damage firsthand. Dressed in my long, red, square-necked velvet gown, wearing Juana's cross on my chest, I was in a state of shock. All I could do was replay the scenes from that night in my mind, a kaleidoscope of choppy images dancing before my eyes. I stood motionless, glued to the sidewalk, trembling from both cold and fear. I told one of the firemen I was a friend of the marquess and her nephew, and he handed me a blanket. Around six in the morning, they brought Águeda and Manuel out in black body bags. I wondered if any part of Manuel had been saved from incineration, if, like my father, a hand or an arm had remained intact. I pictured him chasing Águeda through the huge house, her trying to save things from the fire, him maybe running back for Juana's manuscripts. Had Águeda revealed his father's identity? Was that what had killed them both? Was Manuel's grandfather also his father, did that explain the passageway from his office and her bedroom? What had happened between Manuel and his aunt? Why could he not accept that she was his mother, why was he so horrified at the thought of it?

I wandered down Recoletos for ages. Every possible explanation I came up with seemed more horrifying than the last. I had been saved.
Maybe from a fate worse than death. But the fire haunted me. I couldn't get rid of it, couldn't stop seeing it, stop smelling it. My eyes were still burning. Even in the fresh dawn air, I couldn't get free of the soot, the smoke. One blaze had left me an orphan, now another left me as the sole custodian of the last, innocent Denia descendant. I wondered if the baby now growing in my womb would somehow, without seeing, without hearing, sense the strange universe it came from: a father obsessed by a love as mad as that of the woman he was obsessed with, in love with ghosts, both of them. And grandmother Águeda, a captive in the prison of her undisclosed offense, unable to claim her son as hers. Such dreadful ancestry, steeped in lies, silence, and captivity.

 

WITHOUT KNOWING WHERE I WAS GOING, I ENDED UP AT THE FOUNTAIN
of Neptune and then in the lobby of the Hotel Palace. I took advantage of my privileges, my grandfather's name. I asked them to call him, to authorize payment for a room. The concierge could not help staring at my outfit. I am an actress, I finally managed to tell him. I have been playing Queen Juana's role in a play. Juana the Mad? he asked. No, I said, Juana of Castile.

The many contradictory accounts of Juana of Castile's mental health and lucidity that are found in firsthand historical references have allowed historians–males for the most part–ample freedom to interpret the queen's behavior according to their own subjective perception and–why not say it?–prejudices. That is what prompted me–as a twenty-first-century woman armed with a different understanding of the motives and reasons that lead us, women, to act one way or another–to try to imagine Juana's inner life from a female perspective and to draw the conclusions this novel suggests.

In the process of researching this book, I found that many analyses of the illness that might have afflicted the queen concluded she was schizophrenic. Nevertheless, none of the psychiatrists I consulted agreed with this diagnosis. Schizophrenia does not improve or worsen depending on whether a patient is or is not in a pleasant environment. The data that is available on Juana shows that, when she was treated well, the queen went through long periods “with no episodes of madness.” This does not fit with a schizophrenic diagnosis. Juana's crises–when she refused to eat, bathe, etc.–always corresponded to times when she was forced to accept others' decisions or restrictions, or was separated from her children. They happen to coincide, curiously enough, with her rebellions. This is not standard schizophrenic behavior. According to those who so generously offered me their medical interpretations, Juana might have been bipolar, suffering from a manic-depressive
condition, or she might simply have suffered from chronic depression, which would be no wonder, given her circumstances.

Personally, I think that any woman with a strong sense of self, confronted by the abuse and the arbitrary injustices she had to withstand, forced to accept her powerlessness in the face of an authoritarian system, would become depressed. We all have our own ways of showing depression, and it is easy to see how Juana's lack of inhibition when it came to expressing dissatisfaction and unhappiness would be interpreted as madness, especially at a time when repression was the norm.

And then too, as I have already mentioned, it's important to consider the standpoint of those who were doing the interpreting. My reading of the documents, essays, and books on Juana points to the existence–even among male historians–of an unresolved controversy as to whether her behavior was pathological or simply the result of the tangled web of intricate conspiracies she was forcibly embroiled in. For the majority of scholars to lean toward the madness theory is not surprising, given the light in which female historical figures have been seen for such a long time.

It's obvious that Juana did not have the wisdom, political savvy, or willpower that her mother did. It's also true, however, that her circumstances could not have been more unfavorable. Like Juana
la Beltraneja,
who ended up cast off in a convent despite her legitimate claim to the throne of Castile, Juana of Castile fell victim to interests of State and the ambitions of those conspiring against her.

At least, as she was being cast off, she kicked and screamed enough so that, centuries later, we can now make sense of her unrelenting rebellion.

 

ALTHOUGH THE PLOT OF THIS NOVEL IS FICTITIOUS, JUANA'S HISTORY
is not. The facts have been reconstructed based on existing historical data, taken from original sources and from the ample bibliography provided by scholars to whom I am very much in debt.

The information I found in one or another account often showed discrepancies in the dates and the names of places. I chose the dates and
places that seemed best supported by documents from the time. I also took a few liberties by simplifying the retelling of events whose details were unnecessary to the story's aims. For reasons of literary convenience, I also decided to locate Francisco Pradilla's painting,
Juana la Loca at Her Husband's Coffin,
in the Prado Museum, when in fact it is at the Casón del Buen Retiro.

A
DDITIONAL
S
OURCES

Following are additional texts that are held at the Simancas Archive, which may be of interest to the reader. One is the speech Juana gave the Comuneros on September 24, 1520, the only long speech the queen is on record as ever having given, at her first hearing with the Comuneros' Council during their rebellion against Charles I of Spain and V of Germany, when they attempted to put her on the throne and end the imprisonment she had been enduring since 1509.

The other is an excerpt from Catalina Redonda, Juana's washerwoman, in her account of the hiding place and contents of the trunk (that Lucía and Manuel find in the novel) whose disappearance–in line with the plot–I attribute to the Denias.

Santa Monica, January 2005

 

JUANA'S SPEECH TO THE COMUNEROS

 

After God saw fit to take my lady–the Catholic Queen–to Heaven, I always heeded and obeyed my lord, the King, my father, husband of the Queen; and with him I was without care, because I knew that no one would dare undertake evil deeds. And after I found out that God had taken him, I was very sorry indeed and wished not to have learned the news, and wished he were still alive, and that wherever he was, he lived, because his life was more important than mine. But since I had to learn this news, I
wish I had learned of it earlier, that I might have remedied everything that I.
*

I have a great love for all people and any harm or injustice they might suffer weighs heavily upon me. And for so long I have been surrounded by evil men and women who have told me lies and falsehoods and dealt me only trickery when I would have wished to take part in all that affected me, but since the King, my lord, chose to put me here, perhaps because of she who came to take the place of the Queen, my lady, or perhaps due to other considerations of which His Highness is aware, I have been unable to do so. And when I learned of the foreigners who had arrived and were in Castile, I was greatly aggrieved, and thought that they had come to see to certain matters for my children, but it was not so. And I am full of admiration that you have not taken revenge against those who have wronged you, as anyone would, because all things good please me and all things nefarious weigh upon me. If I did not act, it was to ensure my children not be harmed, neither here nor there, and I cannot believe that they have departed, though I am told with all certainty that they have departed. You must watch out for them, although I believe none would undertake any evil, given that I am a lady and second or third proprietary (queen), and thus did not deserve to be treated as I have been, for I am daughter of a King and Queen. And I rejoice to hear of your attempts to remedy wrongs that have been committed, for if you did not, it would weigh upon your conscience. Thus I entrust you to act upon it. As for me, I will endeavor to act, wherever I am able. And if I cannot, it shall only be because I must one day soothe my heart and overcome the death of the King, my lord; though as long as I am able, I will endeavor to do so. And so that not everyone pays call at once, I ask those of you who are here now to name among yourselves four who know the most about these matters to come and meet with me, to tell me everything, and I will listen, and I will address you, and I will hear out your case, whenever necessary, and I will do all that I can.

 

EXCERPT FROM CATALINA REDONDO'S ACCOUNT OF JUANA'S TRUNK

What is known is that in a room in Her Highness's quarters was a trunk like that described in the declaration, in an Anzeo case, and Her Highness ordered this witness to bring out said trunk when she wished to open it because Her Highness had the key, and in this witness's opinion said trunk was quite heavy, and as Her Highness required that I turn my back when she opened it, this witness could never see what it contained, but could only see that it was filled to the brim with bundles tied with white cloth, and this witness knows not what said bundles contained and saw only one stone which seemed to this witness to be a diamond set in gold, as big as a thumbnail, with a handle enameled in gold to hold it by, and the last time Her Highness asked
(sic)
this witness to bring out the trunk was around the day of San Miguel in September of 1554, eight days before or after (…) and that when the inventory of said declaration was taken, and eight days before Her Highness passed away this witness could not find said trunk and said so to those who were undertaking the inventory (…) and this witness knows that no one went into the place where said trunk was kept without Her Highness's permission nor could anyone enter without Her Highness seeing….