Rosa were all in attendance. Having sobbed throughout the proceedings, my grandmother told me afterward that I was a villain for failing to bring Francisca to her for her permission.
I played the gemsbok and would not be provoked.
Our first child was born on the Twenty-Eighth of February of 1814. It was a difficult birth, and Francisca was weak for weeks afterward. We named her Graca in honor of Graca Olive Tree.
Lying with my wife and our new baby in my parents’ old bed, I discovered for the first time that I wished to disappear into my wife and child. This, I’ve found, is one of the great mysteries of our fear of death, for if passing away were to mean merging into a loved one — into one of my daughters, for instance — I should not mind it in the least. Yet ceasing to exist the way we do, without this union with another being to whom we are tied by affection, has always struck me as damnably unfair.
Esther was born just over a year later, on the Seventh of March of 1815. This birth proved even more troublesome and led to complications for Francisca, who became prey to fits of rage and melancholy. For nearly two months she didn’t care whether Esther lived or died. Nor could I trust her with Graca, since she had on two occasions struck out in fury at her.
The lighthearted friend I’d married was replaced by a bedraggled Medea. Her silken hair grew tangled, as though burnt by the heat of madness raging inside her. I contracted a wet nurse to suckle Esther, and as I was loath to let a physician purge Francisca or apply his accursed leeches, she was tended to by Benjamin. At all hours that good man would come to our home to help with Francisca and the children.
In my wife’s lucid moments, tears of fear and regret fell in an endless stream, and I spent much of my time trying to reassure her.
“Do not abandon me,” she once begged, clawing at me in her panic. “Please, John, I could not bear it.”
“I could never abandon you,” I replied, but my fears for our future compromised that pledge. I placed her shawl over her shoulders and sang softly to her until she fell asleep.
Needless to say, this was a miserable time for us — a terrible test of our love. For a time, I am ashamed to admit, my affection for her was eclipsed by anxiety and resentment.
I am certain that Benjamin’s calming curatives saved her life in the end and safeguarded her sanity in the process. For as quickly as she vanished, she returned to me. A change became apparent to me in the wee hours of one cool night in May, when she came to my old bedroom, where I was trying to calm Esther, who’d been crying so much that I was worried for her health.
When I opened the door, my wife kissed me on the cheek and held out her hands for the baby.
I hesitated, but Francisca assured me, “Your friend is back and all is well.”
“It is truly you?”
She took my hand and brought it to her lips. It is strange to say so now, but when we embraced I could smell the change in her. I nuzzled my head into her neck, then burst into tears and placed Esther in her arms. After we discussed what had transpired over the past weeks — for she had little memory of much of what she’d said or done — I returned to our bed in my parents’ old room, where I slept for a good twelve hours.
Having suffered this terrible time, we thought it best not to have any more children.
Grandmother Rosa was still furious about the wedding and made no attempt to see Graca after she was born, but she did visit our house after Francisca’s difficulties had ended to get a first peek at Esther. She was now almost eighty years of age, yet she still insisted on dousing herself with her expensive French perfume.
After holding the wee infant in her arms, she started to cry. “John, is there no chance at all for me to start over with your children?” she whispered.
Convinced that her sentiments were genuine, I allowed her to visit whenever she wished, though I made Francisca swear she’d not leave her alone with either of the children until she’d proved her affection. The two of us would observe my grandmother at play with the girls on dozens of occasions over the coming years. And though she never displayed great patience or understanding, she did show them a certain brittle tenderness, which Esther in particular grew to adore.
When I asked my grandmother once why she had swallowed her pride and come to see Esther, she rolled her eyes as though I’d disappointed her with yet another silly question and said, “I’m old, John, and I’ve not much time left to me. You’ve got many more years than I do, so you hold the grudge for both of us if you want.”
Heartened that she had not lost her biting wit, I smiled admiringly at her, but she just cleared her throat and went back to the children.
Our marriage through those early years was a good one, I believe, though not without its difficulties. I was young and mule-headed, and it took me some time to respect Francisca’s opinion as equal to my own. I also worked too hard with Gilberto at our shop and occasionally returned home long after the children and Francisca were asleep, causing her to suffer bouts of profound loneliness. When I would inevitably fail to read her mind, she would sit sullenly by herself, her hands moving over her knitting with frightening swiftness. I would have to beg her many times before she would put down the shawl or scarf she was fashioning and tell me what was troubling her.
The more we found the courage to overcome our frailties, the greater our friendship became.
As anyone who has been married for a long while can attest, it is essential to adjust to the changes in one’s beloved every few years and, if you will, silently agree to marry them once again.
One rather startling discovery I made not too long after our marriage was that Francisca’s fondness for mantillas and vests of her own creation had led her to experiment — without my knowing — with boldly patterned fabrics for her own clothing. The second summer after Esther’s birth, by which time she had long regained her trim and girlish figure, she expressed this previously restrained desire by making herself two dresses from textiles woven in Morocco and the Portuguese colony of Goa.
As I say, I was not privy to this. Indeed, Francisca — demonstrating that penchant for secrecy I had first seen in her eyes — cut and sewed like a demoness during her afternoons, her patterns spread on the floor before her, while I was busy at my pottery and tile. By the time I returned home to her and the children in the evenings, she had everything safely tidied away, perfect innocence in her welcoming eyes.
I only chanced upon her secret one Friday evening at sundown while searching through one of her clothing chests for the red shawl I had given her when we’d first met, since — on a whim — I wished her to wear it at our Sabbath dinner with Luna Olive Tree and Benjamin. I ought to have asked her permission to rummage through her things, but since she was already at Luna’s house with the girls, I was in one of my typical frenzies.
Holding my lamp in one hand, rather like a tomb-robber, I lifted out the first dress and laid it on our bed. “What’s this we have here?” I whispered to myself, delighted by the mystery.
It had bell sleeves and a low circular collar and was made of tightly woven wool — very soft to the touch — on which pink and crimson circles spun against a background of brown. The second, a long-sleeved empire gown, was bright canary yellow covered in black butterflies made from triangles trimmed in burgundy and orange. From a distance, their wings seemed to capture three different positions of a single flutter. It was miraculous.
I ran down our street to Luna’s house and, panting like Fanny at the finish line of one of our obstacle courses, insisted Francisca return home with me.
“What’s wrong?” my wife exclaimed, reaching for my arm in concern.
“Nothing.”
“Then why must — ”
“Just come. You will see when we get there.”
When she continued to protest, I dragged her off, like a child leading a parent to a treasure chest. Casting a look back over her shoulder as she shuffled behind me, she told Luna, “We shall return shortly — at least, I earnestly hope so.”
“Have no fear, I shall not sell the girls unless I get a good price,” Luna giggled.
Once we’d reached our bedroom, Francisca was confronted with the evidence of her deviousness. “You’ve found me out,” she gasped.
I kissed her hands and peeled them from her eyes, which were sealed tight. “As the spontaneous generation of gowns is an extremely rare phenomenon,” I said, “I am guessing that you made them.”
I laughed heartily, but she refused even to smile. Instead, she began to cry.
