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
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
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