ownership of the globe, to the empire which—if one included the rich Portuguese inheritance that we shared at the time—comprised not only the Indies in the West, Brazil, Flanders, Italy, but also our possessions in Africa, the Philippines, and other enclaves in the remote Indies of the East. I could not conceive that one day this would all collapse when the men of iron were succeeded by men of clay incapable of sustaining such a vast enterprise with only their ambition, talent, and swords. For although Spain—forged out of glory and cruelty, out of light and dark— was already beginning to decline, the Spanish empire of my youth was still a mighty thing. It was a world that would never be repeated and that could be summed up, if such a thing is possible, in these old lines by Lorencio de Zamora:
So there we were that morning, don Francisco de Quevedo and I, outside the walls of what was then the capital of the world, stepping from a carriage into the gardens of the Casa de Campo, before the noble building with its Italianate porticos and loggias watched over by the imposing equestrian statue of the late Philip III, the father of our current king. And it was there—behind that statue, in the pleasant grove of poplars, willows, and other shrubs of Flemish origin that had been planted round the lovely three-tiered fountain—that our queen received don Francisco as she sat beneath a damask awning, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting and her personal servants, including the jester Gastoncillo. She greeted the poet with a show of royal affection and invited him to say the angelus with her, for it was midday and the bells were tolling throughout Madrid. I doffed my hat and watched from a distance. Then the queen ordered don Francisco to sit by her side, and they talked for some time about the progress of his play,
Angelica de Alquezar was not, as far as I could see, among the maids of honor accompanying the queen, and so while Quevedo, overflowing with wit and compliments, was delighting the ladies with his humor, I went for a stroll about the garden, admiring the uniforms of the Burgundy guards who were on duty that day. Feeling as pleased as a king with his revenues, I got as far as the balustrade that looked out over the vineyards and the old Guadarrama road, and from there I enjoyed a view of the orchards and market gardens of Buitrera and Florida, which were extraordinarily green in that season of the year. The air was soft, and from the woods behind the little palace came the distant sound of dogs barking and shots being fired, proof that our monarch, with his proverbial marksmanship—described ad nauseam by all the court poets, including Lope and Quevedo—was slaughtering as many rabbit, partridge, quail, and pheasant as his beaters could provide him with. If, during his long life, the king had shot heretics, Turks, and Frenchmen, rather than those small innocent creatures, Spain would have been a very different place.
“Well, well, well. Here’s the man who abandoned a lady in the middle of the night to go off with his friends.”
I turned around, thoughts and breath stopped. Angelica de Alquezar was by my side. Needless to say, she was looking very beautiful. The light of the Madrid sky lent an added brilliance to her eyes, which were now fixed ironically on me, eyes that were both lovely and deadly.
“I would never have expected such behavior from a gentleman.”
Her hair was arranged in ringlets, and she was wearing a red silk taffeta basquine and a short bodice with a pretty little collar on which glittered a gold chain and an emerald-studded cross. A touch of rouge, after the fashion of the court, gave a faint blush to the perfect paleness of her face. She seemed older, I thought, more womanly.
“I’m sorry I abandoned you the other night,” I said, “but I couldn’t . . .”
She interrupted me impatiently, as if the matter were no longer important. She was gazing around her. Then she shot me a sideways glance and asked:
“Did it end well?”
Her tone was frivolous, as if she really didn’t care either way.
“More or less.”
I heard a trill of laughter from the ladies sitting around the queen and don Francisco, doubtless amused by some new witticism of his.
“This Captain Batiste, or Triste, or whatever his name is, doesn’t have much to recommend him, does he? He’s always getting you into trouble.”
I drew myself up, greatly offended that Angelica de Alquezar, of all people, should say such a thing.
“He’s my friend.”
She laughed softly, her hands resting on the balustrade. She smelled sweet, of roses and honey. It was a delicious smell, but I preferred the way she had smelled on the night when we kissed. My skin prickled to remember it. Fresh bread.
“You abandoned me in the middle of the street,” she said again.
“I did. How can I make it up to you?”
“By accompanying me again whenever I need you to.”
“At night?”
“Yes.”
“And with you dressed as a man?”
She stared at me as if I were an idiot.
“You can hardly expect me to go out dressed like this.”
“In answer to your question,” I said, “no, never again.”
“How very discourteous. Remember: you are in my debt.”
She was studying me again with the fixity of a dagger pointing at someone’s entrails. I should say that I, too, was very smartly turned out that day: all in black, my hair freshly washed, and a dagger tucked in my belt, at the back. Perhaps that gave me the necessary aplomb to hold her gaze.
“I’m not that much in your debt.”
“You’re a lout,” she said angrily, like a little girl who has failed to get her own way. “You obviously prefer the company of that Captain Sotatriste of yours.”
“As I said, he’s my friend.”
She pulled a scornful face.
“Of course. I know the refrain: Flanders and all that, swords, cursing, taverns, and whores. The gross behavior one expects of men.”
This sounded like a criticism, and yet I thought I heard a discordant note, as if, in some way, she regretted not being involved in that world herself.
“Anyway,” she added, “allow me to say that with friends like him, you don’t need enemies.”
“And which are you?”
She pursed her lips as if she really were considering her answer. Then, head on one side, not taking her eyes off me for a moment, she said:
“I’ve already told you that I love you.”
I trembled when she said this, and she noticed. She was smiling, as Lucifer might have smiled as he fell from heaven.
“That should be enough,” she added, “if you’re not a rogue, a fool, or a braggart.”
“I don’t know what I am, but I know that you’re more than enough to get me burned at the stake or garrotted.”
