noble ladies had done; I wouldn’t let him paint my portrait. But what if I commissioned a portrait of my husband, playing the violin or the harpsichord? Don José Álvarez, Marquis of Villafranca, painted by mister . . . what did Consuelo say his name was? Gómez? No. Goya? Goyanes? My curiosity was getting the best of me, but I told myself that I wouldn’t stoop to believe the tittle-tattle of the servants and I forgot about the whole business.
Get out, girls! Close the doors. I shall try and wash my face.
Where was I? Ah, yes, the doll: my mother’s puppet. But it was truly my mother, it had to be, there was no other with me on the day of my birthday. I bathed before going to bed while the mama-puppet sat on a chair by my side. I dried myself and she followed me with her eyes. I put on a nightshirt and picked her up in my arms, very carefully so as not to tousle her hair. I even smelled her: it was she. Then I stretched out in bed, she sat on the mattress, and I rested my head in her lap, playing with her hair, which had become unfastened, playing with the brooch, the ring. Now my hand rested on her head. I went to sleep. Just for a little while, but happily, because Mama was keeping me company. I put her head on the pillow next to my own and tucked myself in. It was cold and the fireplace wasn’t lit. I gave her a big hug. I covered myself with her arm. She dried my cheeks. Within her embrace the tears poured out of me like water from a fountain overflowing from rainfall. When I woke up, her arm was around my waist. I pressed myself against her and the brooch stuck my chest. I took hold of her hand and in my palm I felt the ring, with its inscription: CATEYANA DE SILVA. Then I saw that name by the light of the candle, written in reverse on my skin.
I took her in my arms so as to carry her into the bathroom. The servants were asleep. I filled the bath, let fall a few drops of perfume, and placed her in the water. It seemed to me that she was smiling voluptuously. Mimamámemimamucho, I sang while I took the slipper off my left foot. And splash! I submerged Mama into the water and then let her float to the surface. I removed my other slipper and with both feet in the bath I pressed on the cloth belly. The water was scented. I liked sitting with my feet in the water, and after a while, when I opened my eyes, Mama had dissolved. Her body had puffed up and then burst; the eyes and lips of the face were missing. The wig was floating next to my legs. Only the brooch and the ring were still whole.
I took my feet out of the bath, scented them with rose dust, and went to bed. Through the window I could vaguely make out the moon, and dawn was dyeing the sky pink, a sky as indifferent and empty as the day that was beginning.
It was very late in the morning when my mother woke me up, standing beside my bed with the dissolved doll in her hands. She knew . . . or did she? There was no way to read anything in those gray eyes of hers.
“It isn’t right to treat gifts in such a way,” she said, letting the doll drop to the floor, “Take this, at all events it forms part of what will eventually be your inheritance.” On my bedside table she placed the ring that a few hours before I had placed on the doll’s finger. “We shall see each other at dinner,” she added from the threshold.
“Mama! Wait! I want to tell you that . . .” But the door had already closed.
She didn’t come to dinner.
A little time after that, Father died. It was not as if I saw him very often, but suddenly he just wasn’t there anymore. Then my stepfather died. I mean my mother’s lover with whom, for a long while now, she had spent more time than with my father. Soon after, it was my grandfather’s turn, in whose place I would rather have died myself. Then came the day of my wedding. Mine and that of my mother’s, who was marrying