And as if she heard Juan’s mute questions, La Señora asked: “And my lover?”
“Quick…”
“What would we do with him so that you and I might be together, Guzmán?”
“Señora, by night…”
“And what would you do that I might live without him?”
“My dagger…”
“Do you know me even the least bit, Guzmán? Do you know even the least bit who I am?”
“I have been of assistance to La Señora; I deceived our master to go with her to the coast and find this young castaway…”
“Yes, and thereby gained my confidence. Now you will lose it, poor Guzmán, and gain nothing in exchange.”
“I served La Señora at the hour of pleasure; now I ask to serve her at the hour of duty; that is all.”
“Would you take away my pleasure, this small sensual world that with such effort and such deceit I have succeeded in creating here?”
“The three youths must die…”
“Do you know who they are?”
“We will find out later; for the moment, they are the mystery that threatens us. What we do not understand we must exterminate.”
“I repeat: do you know who I am?”
“You and I, Señora, the will and the blood…”
“You mean power, Guzmán? But the only thing that interests me is fucking the whole day long … poor Guzmán…”
“I am a man, Señora…”
“Hear me, Guzmán; I want an heir.”
“I, Señora, I am a man…”
“I am pregnant by this youth…”
“It’s a sorry heir you will have, then: the youth’s apathy is like El Señor’s; neither the passivity of pleasure nor the weakness of illness will be able to govern these kingdoms…”
“He will be handsome, like his young father: I shall govern with him, Guzmán, with them, Guzmán, with my lover and our son, Guzmán. Do you see how my glorious plan excludes your pitiful hungers?”
“You will need me, Señora, you know nothing of the practical requirements of falconry, the hunt, war, controlling the rabble; you will not govern with pleasure and beauty, no; you will need me, I shall not be here, unless it is as I wish it.”
“The world is full of men like you.”
“Find them, then. Find someone able to take my place. There is no living soul in this palace who does not owe, fear, obey, or depend upon me — even if he does not know it.”
“And who will live in this palace?”
“I do not understand La Señora.”
“I said, who will live in this palace?”
“You and I, Señora, I am a man, let me prove it to you…”
“Fool. You have not understood anything. Only my husband can live here. The rest of us are merely transients. The rest of us are but usurpers. You and I, you and all those you say you control here, all of them and even the palace itself would tumble down on us like sand castles without the presence of my husband El Señor. Fool. This is his palace; it was born of his deepest being, of his deepest need. He raises this palace in the stead of war, power, faith, life, death, and love; it is his, and for it he sublimates, and for it he sacrifices everything. This is his eternal dwelling: he constructs it for that, to live here, dead, forever, or to die here, living, forever. It is the same. Poor Guzmán. How can my husband see Heaven or Hell when the only thing he can see is this palace which is made of stone and which condemns him to stone?”
A trembling stone, the youth called Juan felt an icy sweat on his face and hands: prison of love, accepted, prison of stone, rejected; and his simple reasoning at this hour of the torches was: in a prison of love, I shall be love; in a prison of stone I shall become a statue. His rejection of the latter possibility was paralleled in an urgent plea, Guzmán, speak no longer, Guzmán, act; if you do not act now you never will and you will share the quality you scorn: the passivity you attribute to El Señor, and to me. Guzmán, embrace her, kiss her; come, Guzmán, to our bed. But instead Guzmán said only: “Señora, you and I; Guzmán and La Señora; you and I, together…”
“No, wretch; no, clod; no, peasant; I and greatness; I and pleasure; El Señor and I; I and my lover; never La Señora and a common rogue, the dregs of pestilent cities.”
“Do not wound me, do not say such unpardonable things…”
“Return to the cellars of your servitude; call my black litter bearers: I would rather go to bed with them than with you; before I would go to bed with you, I would choose one of those laborers out there, in the kitchens, in the stables, in the lofts, one of the scullions or the mule drivers; go back there, Guzmán, go to your place, scum. And pray that I do not call my blacks, the mule drivers and scullions, to give you a good drubbing. For that is what you deserve, and not…”
La Señora crawled to the edge of the bed, staking her territory, dominating it, until she reached Guzmán’s extended hands; she spit in his open, imploring palms.
“I and greatness, Guzmán; never you, you who know only ambition and cunning; I and my lover, or I and my husband; never you and I…”
Guzmán wiped the palms of his hands on his leather doublet. Now, implored Juan, the youth, now, Guzmán, don’t let the words, the fury, the tears, the weapons of a woman overcome you, now, Guzmán …
“Is your cunning so limited? How have you dared to confide in me? I can denounce you; it is within my power to ask my husband this very night to send you to be tortured or beheaded, poor miserable, ambitious, wretched … lowest of the low.”
Now, Guzmán, wait no longer, I am choking, the sheets are suffocating me, they are drenched in sweat, they are my shroud, my winding sheets, save me, Guzmán, act now, take her, have her or you will never be master of yourself, please, Guzmán, save me as you save yourself, liberate your violence or it will turn to poison in your blood and you will seek revenge against us all for what you could not do to one woman, now, Guzmán, take her, choke her cries with your lips, don’t speak, don’t let her speak, dominate her or she will dominate us both, you and me, sully that womb with your foul lust, it is not my son that is germinating there, but the son of the mouse that makes its nest in this fraudulent bridal bed, act, Guzmán, for you, for me, Guzmán …
“La Señora forgets that the sword cuts two ways.”
Juan moaned and closed his eyes, making doubly black the sepulcher of the bed.
“My husband tolerates everything; he can desire me only if he does not touch me; he has told me so; and he cannot touch me because his blood is poisoned; there is nothing he can do but tolerate everything. That is my certain if limited strength: he will tolerate everything.”
“Because no one has told him anything. And even more: because no one has written it. He knows, only in secret. And silence is not the source of El Señor’s authority, rather the declaration, the edict, the written law, the ordinance, the statute, the written word. El Señor lives in a world of paper; that is why those of us who know only the unwritten laws of action shall conquer.”
Petrified Juan; Juan of stone; the statue Juan. Your words have defeated me, the young man said to himself; your words, Guzmán, have sealed my fate.
“My husband has what you will never have: honor…”
“A cuckold’s honor, Señora?”
“Yes, Guzmán, see how far you can go; reach the limits of my tolerance, let me have the pleasure of collecting my due in one lump sum.”