Father came in with a very large packet, and I grumbled that I didn’t want a present of any kind. I wanted Mama and nothing else. He put me in my place with a severe look, gave me a kiss, and told me that I was already a young lady, that I was eight years old, and that I had to behave myself like a great lady and stop grumbling like a badly brought-up girl. And he kissed me again and promised me that Mama would come to my birthday party, that she would be only a little late, and that we were not to wait for her for dinner. He pronounced this last sentence in a clear, loud voice so that all those present could hear. Everyone behaved as if nothing untoward had happened, but I noticed that their indifference was feigned and that they felt sorry for me.
My father gave me that enormous packet: “De Maman!” and I grabbed hold of it and left the room like a shot because the corners of my mouth were trembling and if I had said anything by way of explanation, my voice would have faltered. I ran upstairs to my chamber, threw the packet into a corner and, with my head under the pillow, I thought that if my mother wasn’t coming, then I didn’t want to see anyone at all.
After a while grandfather came in, made me sit on his knees, wiped away my tears, and held me tight. Then he himself took the packet and opened it. An enormous doll appeared on my lap, with blue-gray eyes like those of my mother. I thought that she had sent me a puppet to take her place for good. Once in the dining room, I placed the doll on my mother’s chair and ordered the maid to pour wine in its glass and serve food on its plate.
After dinner I went into my mother’s chamber; I wanted to paint the doll’s face. I spread cream on its eyebrows until they disappeared completely, powdered its face, and drew high brows using black eyeliner, which gave it the expression of permanent and cold surprise that my mother so often wore. I straightened the hair of the wig and powdered it until it was white, and at the back of the neck I tied her hair up in a little net. I was happy with my creation. In the end I pinned her favorite brooch on the doll’s breast, the half moon of diamonds on a background of sapphires, and on three of the doll’s cloth fingers I placed the ring that bore the inscription MARÍA DEL PILAR CATEYANA DE SILVA, DUCHESS OF HUÉSCAR. Now I had my mama.
I have just taken a nap. I have reached the stage at which anything tires me, even memories. Consuelo, my chambermaid and confidante of many years, never stops giving orders and hopping about all over the place.
A long, long time ago, it was she who, with the expression of someone about to tell a secret, told me the story of a painter à la page in the highest of high society. “Especially among the ladies!” Consuelo smiled maliciously. “A fat little peasant from the back of beyond, from the Aragonese desert. With small, sunken eyes, a potato nose, and fingers like chunks of wood. The lady nobles do not want their portrait to be painted by anyone but him and they pay him their weight in gold, not so much for the portraits, which are excellent, to be certain, but rather for . . . ” Consuelo whispered, always with the same ambiguous smile. “He is the lord of Madrid,” she exclaimed. “There are so many children of his running through the city, apart from the ones he has with his wife. He has cured the infertility of more than one Madrid lady. But I think the only women who really attract him are the majas and the manolas. What’s more, he’s a regular of the dubious districts with the poor light in which the street girls wander. And our noble ladies cannot resist the temptation of tasting a man with a reputation such as his.”
At that moment I made a violent gesture to shut up Consuelo so as not to hear any more gossip, but nonetheless a little worm of curiosity had begun to nibble away at my heart. No, I certainly wouldn’t do as those silly