Cervantes Street (7 page)

Later that day, I inspected a few houses that were available as residences. Afterward, I insisted we go visit the house where Miguel was born, which he told me was a short distance from the grounds of the university. I had heard Don Rodrigo Cervantes talk about the family’s former days of glory, before bad fortune befell them, when they lived in a fine residence in Alcalá. The two-story building, with a garden big enough for a few rosebushes, was situated on the corner that separated the Moorish from the Jewish neighborhood, and was adjacent to the hospital, where the sick, the dying, and the mad coexisted, as was the case with such places all over Spain. I pitied Miguel, who had to grow up listening to insane people raving day and night; the moaning of lepers; and the lamentations of patients dying in pain. The pestilential fumes emanating from the hospital made me nauseous. It was inconceivable to me how anyone could have pleasant memories of that place.

We walked to the schoolhouse where Miguel learned to read and write. It was a tiny abandoned medieval building. Through a broken window, I peered into a room with a low ceiling whose walls were covered with broken Moorish tiles. That visit to Alcalá gave me a new understanding of Miguel, made me feel compassion for the way he grew up, and made it easier for me to overlook his grating ambition. We spent the night in an inn near the university where students went to drink. Miguel consumed carafes of wine in desperation. Twice, I had to intervene to prevent him from starting fights. His volatile temperament, I knew, would get him in trouble, sooner or later.

* * *

My love for my cousin Mercedes was a well-guarded secret. Although she and I had never discussed our attachment to each other, I didn’t need any proof that my feelings for her were returned. From the time of our childhood it was understood by my parents, our grandparents, and everyone else in our family that we would eventually be united in marriage after I finished my studies.

Mercedes had come to live with my maternal grandparents in Toledo while still an infant. Her mother, Aunt Carmen, had died in childbirth. My cousin’s father, Don Isidro Flores, was so overcome with grief at the death of my aunt that he left Mercedes in my grandparents’ care and went to the New World, where he was killed during a skirmish against the savages in an inhospitable jungle.

It was midmorning when we arrived at my grandparents’ home. I was impatient to see Mercedes. A servant led Miguel to a guest chamber to wash off the dust from the road. I wiped my face with a wet rag, combed my hair, dusted off the sleeves of my jacket, brushed the dirt from my boots, and went to Mercedes’s chambers. She knew of my arrival and was expecting me. Leonela, her lifelong maid, opened the door. My cousin rose from her drawing desk and rushed toward me. We held each other in a tender embrace. When Leonela left us alone, I kissed Mercedes’s smooth rosy cheeks, which smelled of jasmine.

She led me by the hand to the cushions by the window overlooking the orchard. Her blond hair was covered with a scarf, but little threads escaped along her temples, gleaming like flecks of gold. “Did you find a house in Alcalá? I heard you went there to look for one.” Her exquisiteness was so enthralling, I hardly heard what she was saying. A fleeting cloud of melancholy swept over her face. “I hope you don’t find me too immodest, when I say that I wish I could be a student at the university myself.” Before I could comment, she asked, “How long can you stay with us?”

I took her soft hand and studied her delicate fingers. “I promised Miguel’s parents we’d be back in Madrid by tomorrow. And I have to return to school right away. But I’ll come back soon and I promise to stay a few days.” She closed her eyes and then smiled.

* * *

Grandmother Azucena had ordered a fine dinner in my honor, which included many of my favorite dishes: pottage of chickpeas and partridge, roast leg of baby lamb, serrano ham, trout stuffed with mushrooms, a salad of fruits, almonds, quail eggs, and a spread of olives, cheeses, and turrones. We washed all this down with vintage wines from the family’s vineyards near Toledo. Throughout the meal, Mercedes was the picture of reserve, purity, and refinement. She kept her gaze lowered and only looked at me and at my grandparents.

Despite my grandparents’ warm welcome, Miguel said little during the delicious meal and only spoke when he was addressed. I had never seen him so quiet around others, but I attributed it to his lack of social sophistication. He favored the serrano ham and was served an extra portion, which he ate heartily. Was this his way of showing my family that he was not a Jew?

When the meal was over, we retired to our chambers for a siesta and agreed to reconvene at four to stop by the cathedral to visit Garcilaso’s tomb.

We rode in my grandparents’ coach, with Leonela as the fourth member of our party. As soon as we were inside the coach Mercedes removed her veil. Her beauty illumined the inside of the carriage.

She asked Miguel how he had liked the Estudio de la Villa. His mood changed immediately: he started to mimic some of our eccentric teachers’ demeanor in the classroom, and told off-color jokes about their appearance. His bawdy sense of humor was uproarious, though perhaps inappropriate in a lady’s company. But Mercedes seemed to enjoy his antics.

She asked, “Do you sing, Señor Cervantes?”

As Miguel demurred, I said, “Yes, he has a very fine voice. You should hear him singing Andalusian ballads.”

Miguel started to protest, but Mercedes interrupted him. “Then you must sing for us. You wouldn’t refuse a lady’s request, would you?”

Miguel’s face turned scarlet. He cleared his throat and began to accompany himself by clapping his hands as he started singing a love ballad. The thought crossed my mind that Miguel’s coyness was a form of seduction; it was almost as if he had set out to make an impression on Mercedes. Though nothing in my cousin’s behavior gave me pause for suspicion, I felt a twinge of jealousy. When Miguel finished singing, we all cheered and clapped; then silence reigned inside the coach for the rest of the ride. Mercedes stared out the window, all the way to the cathedral.

After we said our prayers in front of the main altar, we went to see Garcilaso’s tomb. I was eager to show it to Miguel. He dropped to his knees in front of the marble sarcophagus and kissed the cold stone. I, too, had been overcome with emotion the first time I visited Garcilaso’s resting place. Leonela gave Mercedes a small bouquet of roses she had been carrying and my cousin laid it at the base of the poet’s sepulcher. Miguel offered to recite a sonnet he had written in honor of the great Toledano. The less I say about that sonnet, the better. But Mercedes seemed to approve of it.

I was relieved when we left Toledo together. On the ride back to Madrid, Miguel raved about Mercedes and proceeded to ask me questions of a personal nature. I was careful not to reveal too much.

“She’s so beautiful, and intelligent, and vivacious,” Miguel said.

I nodded but said nothing.

He went on, “Her spontaneity is so captivating.”

Before he had a chance to continue talking about her, I said: “My parents and grandparents have always expected us to get married.” Miguel’s face could not hide the disappointment my news caused him. He had little to say on the remainder of our trip back to Madrid.

* * *

I started classes at the university and was kept busy, delighted with my studies and my new acquaintances. One day a letter from Mercedes came in the mail giving me the usual news about my grandparents’ health and full of questions about university life. In a postscript, as an apparent afterthought, she added that Miguel had stopped by to visit them. At first I thought nothing of it. However, I wrote to Miguel without mentioning the visit; he didn’t answer back. A week passed, then two. His silence preoccupied me. Then the poison of jealousy began to well up in my heart. Immediately, I repudiated the thought that my best friend would try to make love to my intended. As for Mercedes, I knew she was too noble and pure to be capable of betrayal. I had my doubts about Miguel, though. Jealousy began to consume me to the point that I became increasingly distracted and could not study, could not sleep, could not eat. I took residence in the student taverns of Alcalá, where I drank by myself in a corner, until I fell into a stupor. My servants would carry me home before I was robbed and stabbed. I could not continue in that state. I owed an obligation to my family’s name to behave always like the caballero I was. One dawn, after an interminable sleepless night, I got dressed and, on an impulse, woke up the man in charge of the stable and asked him to saddle my fastest horse. I left for Madrid determined to . . . what was it I hoped to find out? I prayed that my suspicions were unfounded.

I rode directly to Miguel’s house and found Don Rodrigo changing smelly bandages on a patient. “Don Luis,” he exclaimed, “to what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

I was too impatient for his usual foolishness, so I said, “Good morning to you, Don Rodrigo. Is Miguel at home?”

My abruptness seemed to startle him. He continued changing the bandages as he spoke. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Miguel since . . . yesterday? I thought he had gone to Alcalá to visit you. Is there anything wrong?”

I shook my head.

“My wife is at the market, Don Luis, but why don’t you go upstairs and ask Andrea? She might know where Miguel is. He should be here this morning, helping me. That’s where he should be.”

I found Andrea breast-feeding her baby. “Please don’t get up,” I said. “I need to find Miguel. It’s urgent.”

“Miguel left for Toledo yesterday,” Andrea responded, hoisting the baby to cover her exposed breast. “He’s been much distracted lately.”

“Excuse my bad manners, but I’m in a hurry.” I bowed to Andrea and ran down the stairs, past Don Rodrigo, and into the street. I was choking for lack of breath.

Insane with jealousy and murderous rage, I left for Toledo later that morning. I had to find out the truth once and for all. I entered my grandparents’ home, our ancestral home, as a burglar: I jumped over the wall in the back of the orchard and then climbed to the balcony of Mercedes’s chambers. The door was open and the room was empty. As if I were a criminal, I hid behind a wall tapestry in her bedchamber and decided to wait for her. I had lost my mind, but I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t have long to wait.

Mercedes and Leonela entered the room followed by Miguel. I almost gasped. Leonela soon left the room and closed the door behind her. Miguel tried to grab Mercedes’s hand. My first impulse was to draw my sword and drive it through his heart, but I had been taught to value restraint.

“I am promised to another man,” she said emphatically. “Now please leave this room and never come to visit me again. You are not welcome in this house anymore. Leonela!” she called.

Her maid entered immediately, as if she had been standing guard just outside the door.

Mercedes said, “Miguel is leaving now.”

Standing at the door’s threshold, the wretch asked if there was any hope for him.

“No,” Mercedes said firmly. “None whatsoever.”

He persisted: “I will never give you up. I will wait for you the rest of my life, if necessary.”

Mercedes approached him, placed her palm on his chest, and pushed him, until he was on the other side of the door. Then she closed it in his face. Her admirable behavior appeased me. I felt ashamed of ever having doubted her. I didn’t have to stay hidden behind the tapestry—I had seen all I needed to see. Mercedes need not ever know what I had witnessed. She threw herself on the bed and started sobbing, burying her face in a cushion. I tiptoed to the balcony and climbed down to the garden below, then I rode back to Alcalá with a mortally wounded heart: I would never again believe in friendship.

Later, in
Don Quixote Part I
, Miguel gave a version of his betrayal in the novella
The Curiosity of the Impertinent Man
, one of those tedious stories he inserted without the least regard for artistry within the main novel. In that narrative he tried to absolve himself of his guilt by implying that I, like Anselmo, had encouraged him to woo Mercedes to test her purity.

As the days passed, my rage swelled and became a living entity that festered in my heart. I had to retaliate in some way, so my life would belong to me once more. I would punish Miguel Cervantes for his impudence and his unforgivable betrayal.

I left Alcalá and went to Madrid. My parents were surprised to see me. I said I had a school project that required my presence in Madrid for a few days. I wrote an anonymous sonnet exposing Andrea’s secret, made a dozen copies, and asked my personal servant to post them on the doors of churches and other important public buildings of Madrid. Then I went to see Aurelio, the man in charge of the stables and pigpen. “I want you to cut off the head of our biggest pig,” I said, “and deposit it in front of a house.” I gave him Miguel’s address. “Do it at dawn. Make sure that nobody sees you.” This was something that was commonly done when you wanted to expose publicly a family of conversos.

It would just be a matter of time before someone insulted Miguel by calling him a Jew, or the brother of a whore, and he would have to fight a duel to defend his honor.

A few days later, I sent word to Miguel with a servant, asking him to meet me at a tavern where poets and other rough types met. When Miguel arrived at the tavern that night, he was in a sullen mood and looked genuinely troubled. We started a game of cards. A man named Antonio de Sigura asked if he could join us. I had seen de Sigura around; he was an engineer who had arrived in Madrid to work for the court, building new roads. De Sigura lost a considerable amount of money quickly, then Miguel refused to keep playing. The inevitable insult came, Miguel wounded de Sigura, and he became a fugitive. My plan had worked! The way he was living his life, it would not be long before Miguel was a dead man.

I left for Toledo at dawn the day after Miguel escaped from Madrid; tumultuous emotions raging inside me. As the golden rays of the rising sun began to warm me up, I felt myself slowly returning to my own life. Sunlight intensified the starkness of the rocky soil of Castile, which spread endlessly toward the south. It made me think of the corrugated skin of a monstrous dragon left out to dry in the open. Flocks of partridges flew above the woods in thick brown clouds, then disappeared in the thicket of low encinas. An intoxicating smell infused the air, as if the earth released it to awaken all the creatures of La Mancha. It was the same smell of rosemary and sweet marjoram from my grandmother’s herb garden in Toledo.