the sick, the dying, the pariahs, the banished. If I had known that I would have to die early, I would have lived in an entirely different fashion. María, tell the doorman not to let in Don Francisco should by any chance he decide to come!
Do you remember, María, how, much against your will, you brought him my personal invitation to an evening together just me and him? To Don Francisco: I will be waiting for you this evening at the Caracol Loco tavern, in Manolería, not far from my palace. María Teresa. Do you remember with what aversion you looked at me when the servants squeezed me into the dress of a maja, with its plunging neckline? When they did my hair with a little fringe, which I hardly ever wear and made me up with bright colors so that people wouldn’t recognize me? In your hand you clutched your cross, which, as you know, has never been able to tame my will.
On the way to the Caracol you let me have one of your sermons, inspired by centuries of piety, although you knew that as far as I was concerned your God could make himself scarce, that I wanted a man, passion, and tenderness. Were you capable of imagining my desire, you who had been born to live as a spinster and deny life?
But that evening there was something you didn’t know: that apart from Francisco, I had invited a pair of admirers of mine to the Caracol, two foolish little students. One was studying medicine and the other, theology, so you could imagine what kind of stuff they were made of. What was more, each was jealous of the other and eager to find out on whom I would bestow my friendliness. As I say, silly little boys, but young, good-looking, with beautiful, noble faces, qualities that stocky Paco from Aragon could not hope to match. That is, he could not from his point of view. From my own, well, you know the answer.
Surrounded by majos and majas, street merchants and humble craftspeople, I was sipping cheap, sour wine in the company of the two students when Francisco appeared at the threshold. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, through my black lace veil which was lowered so that it only covered my eyes. He saw me and was about to throw himself at me, but drew himself up short when he saw the attractive young men on either side of me. He stayed by the bar and ordered a jar of wine. Like the first time, when he passed my crystal glass along his lips and took a little of the water into his mouth so that when he had finished he could leave without swallowing the liquid, so today he filled his mouth with the wine that he passed over his tongue. He didn’t take his eyes off me; he didn’t care for the wine.
I made out that I hadn’t seen him, but the presence of the man thrilled me so much that I began to dance, first with one of the young men, and then with the other. While I danced I pressed myself up against them, as I would have liked to press myself up against the man who was leaning on the bar. My desire grew. I thrust my breast against the young theologist, my waist up against his belly, our legs became entwined, and the inside of our thighs kept touching. We lost the feel of the rhythm. With quick glances I saw the Adam’s apple of the man at the bar move as he drank the wine in fast little sips. Meanwhile, my theologist had forgotten where he was and his hands passed over my body; his fingers drove into my skin through the thin cloth of the dress. Then I felt his nails and his teeth taking my skin. I melted under these caresses and closed my eyes to enjoy the presence of the man standing at the bar. I let go a sigh and almost fell. Never before had I felt what this painter, who was no longer at all young, made me feel at a distance.
Something broke on the tiled floor. The racket brought me back to my senses to make out the painter’s back at the door, which he slammed shut, making more noise. I got rid of the young man and tread on the shards of pottery and the wine spilled on