Read Online A Woman of Seville by Sallie Muirden - Free Book Online
Authors: Sallie Muirden
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big to-do about drawing near and fondling my bare feet. Rising, he patted my veiled head to reassure himself it was really me. Felt the bones of my face, ‘Good for sculpture, eh.’
Really? He’s too much. Then theatrically pulling his blindfold off. ‘Bless you Paula. Blind no longer!’
What a charmer. Anyone who can make me feel that special deserves my affection. Love? It looked like it might go that way for a while. I was attracted to Harmen in the beginning. Probably because I sensed he wouldn’t stoop to barter for me. There’s that supple time when getting to know another. One is open to the possibility of love. But it went no deeper with him. Or with me, to tell you the truth. It doesn’t go deep for me with many men. (A risk of heart seems beyond me.) But Harmen’s gregariousness iscompelling and he’s handsome in that sandy, solid Fleming way. I might have been receptive to something more with him, but I sensed he was privately disapproving. Or unavailable.
He told me straight out one afternoon, ‘You’ve stolen my sight Paula, but you’re not going to take my heart.’
I began to doubt my allure. Concentrated on my trade. To kneel silently for two hours takes a lot of fortitude. I have to control my impulse to call it quits or to complain about the pain it causes me to stay kneeling with my head twisted around for such a long time. Father Rastro understands my discomfort, because he’s always waiting to help me stand after each protracted sitting. He insists I walk around in the intermissions. He offers me water from a glass that he polishes clean before giving to me. The crystal sparkles in his hand. Then it’s sparkling in my hand. The water tasting sweeter than normal.
I’ve never met a person like Enrique Rastro before. At first I found him rather languid in manner, but more recently I’ve started thinking of him as serene. He’s the same, inside and outside. The outer Enrique appears to live in perfect harmony with the inner, private Enrique. He’s a glove and you touch him first on the outside. When you put your hand inside, you find the lining is the same. I’ve noticed that in the average person there’s usually some discordancebetween the two, but Enrique is a perfect match. This may explain why he’s suited to the single life of a friar. A marriage has already taken place, a marriage within himself.
I’m a little starry-eyed about both Harmen and Enrique. On occasion I leave the convento physically exhausted, but mentally refreshed. As I make my way towards the river, I don’t notice the acrid smells of dying day, the stench of chamberpots spilled in gutters, the food refuse piled high in laneways. When I cross the bridge the breeze lifts the hem of my gown and twirls the manta round my body. My wings pulse like a bird’s. I float free in a wet-dry silver sky.
Having finished cleaning my red dress, I lay it down flat across the base of the closet. (It’s too threadbare to hang upon a hook.) There’s something I’m looking for. Don’t know where I put it. No daylight left to draw upon. I hover in darkness for a moment. In the absence of a reassuring image in a mirror, what aspect of myself have I retained? Just a pulse, my voice and a few threads of language tangled in my head like old necklaces in a jewellery box. Starting out again in a completely dark world I would be both powerless and anonymous; I would have no choice but to seek out the man with the nutcracker. Let the ladder-man water me as he does the neighbours’ birds and plants. I would do it for love perhaps; but after the wonder, comes the hurt. Why does the hurt last longer than the wonder?Was the breaking not meant to happen? Is it against my nature to be broken from?
I’m contemplating love from a new angle tonight. One possibility, I think, is to enter a completely dark world and resort to the primary sensations of taste, touch and smell. Sounds, like the snapping of the nutcracker startle; they remind
Really? He’s too much. Then theatrically pulling his blindfold off. ‘Bless you Paula. Blind no longer!’
What a charmer. Anyone who can make me feel that special deserves my affection. Love? It looked like it might go that way for a while. I was attracted to Harmen in the beginning. Probably because I sensed he wouldn’t stoop to barter for me. There’s that supple time when getting to know another. One is open to the possibility of love. But it went no deeper with him. Or with me, to tell you the truth. It doesn’t go deep for me with many men. (A risk of heart seems beyond me.) But Harmen’s gregariousness iscompelling and he’s handsome in that sandy, solid Fleming way. I might have been receptive to something more with him, but I sensed he was privately disapproving. Or unavailable.
He told me straight out one afternoon, ‘You’ve stolen my sight Paula, but you’re not going to take my heart.’
I began to doubt my allure. Concentrated on my trade. To kneel silently for two hours takes a lot of fortitude. I have to control my impulse to call it quits or to complain about the pain it causes me to stay kneeling with my head twisted around for such a long time. Father Rastro understands my discomfort, because he’s always waiting to help me stand after each protracted sitting. He insists I walk around in the intermissions. He offers me water from a glass that he polishes clean before giving to me. The crystal sparkles in his hand. Then it’s sparkling in my hand. The water tasting sweeter than normal.
I’ve never met a person like Enrique Rastro before. At first I found him rather languid in manner, but more recently I’ve started thinking of him as serene. He’s the same, inside and outside. The outer Enrique appears to live in perfect harmony with the inner, private Enrique. He’s a glove and you touch him first on the outside. When you put your hand inside, you find the lining is the same. I’ve noticed that in the average person there’s usually some discordancebetween the two, but Enrique is a perfect match. This may explain why he’s suited to the single life of a friar. A marriage has already taken place, a marriage within himself.
I’m a little starry-eyed about both Harmen and Enrique. On occasion I leave the convento physically exhausted, but mentally refreshed. As I make my way towards the river, I don’t notice the acrid smells of dying day, the stench of chamberpots spilled in gutters, the food refuse piled high in laneways. When I cross the bridge the breeze lifts the hem of my gown and twirls the manta round my body. My wings pulse like a bird’s. I float free in a wet-dry silver sky.
Having finished cleaning my red dress, I lay it down flat across the base of the closet. (It’s too threadbare to hang upon a hook.) There’s something I’m looking for. Don’t know where I put it. No daylight left to draw upon. I hover in darkness for a moment. In the absence of a reassuring image in a mirror, what aspect of myself have I retained? Just a pulse, my voice and a few threads of language tangled in my head like old necklaces in a jewellery box. Starting out again in a completely dark world I would be both powerless and anonymous; I would have no choice but to seek out the man with the nutcracker. Let the ladder-man water me as he does the neighbours’ birds and plants. I would do it for love perhaps; but after the wonder, comes the hurt. Why does the hurt last longer than the wonder?Was the breaking not meant to happen? Is it against my nature to be broken from?
I’m contemplating love from a new angle tonight. One possibility, I think, is to enter a completely dark world and resort to the primary sensations of taste, touch and smell. Sounds, like the snapping of the nutcracker startle; they remind
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