“Girl, what are you carrying there?” he asked.
“A libel, señor,” replied the girl, giving a quick curtsy.
I smiled inwardly, but tried not to let it show outwardly. The doctor also maintained an impassive expression, although I’d be willing to bet that he wasn’t the least bit pleased — a libel is a small booklet, usually unsigned and filled with slanderous accusations against someone, told in the most ridiculous manner possible. The printer Señor Diaz regularly prints libels in Sevilla — although he, of course, categorically denies this — which mock various members of the city council (or sometimes the whole council) or Señor Espinosa, the merchant. There is also a slanderous rumor going around that Juan Amarillo and I are the authors of a libel against the father of his former fiancée, with an appendix attacking Lope de Vega, which came out shortly after Lope’s visit to Sevilla — a perfectly timed release. This, of course, is not true, but in any case I know very well what libels are. Dr. Monardes may be many things, but he is not an author of libels. But this girl surely thought that every book was called that.
“And where are you taking this book?” asked the doctor.
“To the caballero Señor Fuente,” the girl replied. “As a present from the countess.”
“Wonderful, my girl,” the doctor said with a wide smile, and he even took two small coins out of his pocket and dropped them into the girl’s palm, at which she curtsied, her face beaming. “Wonderful!” the doctor repeated. “And why are you taking him the book? Did the countess read it?”
“Oh, señor, she can’t read,” the girl replied quickly.
I knew that the doctor was up to something. Whereas girls are so foolish. All girls are very foolish. The clever ones, too.
“Why was she taking it to Caballero Fuente?” I turned to the doctor a bit later, as we walked along the path.
“Why do you think?” the doctor replied with a sour expression.
“Perhaps she meant that the countess cannot read because of the migraines. Perhaps things are a bit more complicated,” I suggested.
“There are complicated things in my book. And in some others as well. Here”—the doctor made a sweeping gesture with his hand—“there is nothing complicated!”
Yet when we went in to see the countess, the doctor’s face lit up in a wide smile. She, incidentally, was feeling slightly better.
Count Béjar was absent, by the way. He was in the army, one of those duffers who occupied a post in Duke de Alba’s staff by virtue of his provenance alone and mainly in order to be able to puff himself up like a peacock. The true wonder is that all these fools still do not manage to screw up Duke de Alba’s campaigns. Duke de Alba is a great commander. Despite the fact that those idiots are constantly getting in his way, he always manages to bring things to a victorious conclusion. I suspect he does not listen to them about anything. This is surely the reason he reaps victory upon victory and yet has simultaneously earned almost everyone’s hatred. They hate him, but they are afraid of him. And since he reaps victory upon victory, they can’t get rid of him.
When we went to see the countess on the morning of the fourth day, she met us with a happy expression. She looked almost unrecognizable.
“Oh, Señor Monardes,” she said, grasping his hand in both of hers, “for the first time in months I’ve woken up without a headache. How nice! I feel like a girl.”
She really did look rejuvenated. Good health and especially happiness rejuvenate people. This is a fact of life!
Her good mood was not contagious, however, at least not for Dr. Monardes, and, alongside him, not for me, either. Not since we met that maid, I mean. But of course, we did not show this in any way whatsoever.
The countess was very happy, indeed. She played the harp for us, singing some song I hadn’t heard before. Yet she didn’t seem very content with it.
“The harp is not suitable for happy melodies, which are surely what this young man would like to hear,” she said, meaning me. Then she called in the maid and had her bring a lute. It turned out that she could play that instrument as well. And after that she requested they bring a lyra, and she played that, too. She played very well. The lyra especially, being a bowed instrument, is very difficult in my opinion, and I was truly impressed. The doctor, too, it seemed to me.
“Señora, I am astonished,” he said, getting up from the armchair he had been sitting in and bowing with his hand to his breast after her performance. “You play wonderfully on all these instruments.”
“Oh, thank you, señor,” the countess replied. “Although my parents deserve the credit, not me. They strove to give me a very good education. Well, not like yours in the sciences, which are very, very difficult”—she waved her hand coquettishly—“but in the arts and literature.”
The doctor and I quickly exchanged glances.
“I can also play the cornicher, the erpsicher, the rancocher and the regalia-violus,” said the countess.
“Bravo!” the doctor exclaimed.
He made a few more compliments, after which the countess showed us around the palace. She walked in front of us in her wide, rustling skirts and led us from salon to salon. We entered them through wide openings in the walls, without doors, with various arches above them. Indeed, I thought to myself, in such a wide gown she simply could not pass through a normal door. At the risk of exaggerating, I would say that her gown was as wide as Jesús’ whole house.
“What is an erpsicher, señor?” I asked the doctor quietly as we walked a dozen yards behind the countess.
“What is an erpsicher, you ask?” he replied. “You truly are a fool, Guimarães! What a question! Who cares what it is. Just say ‘bravo’ and don’t ask!”
We toured the palace. A palace like any other — big and beautiful. From there we went out into the garden which occupied part of the Béjar estate. Not that it would impress anyone who had been to the Alcazar Gardens, but still it was a very beautiful garden, covered with different colored flowers arranged into geometric figures — red, yellow, blue, and white, with palms and orange trees, as well as all manner of bushes, one of which looked familiar to me.
“What was that plant, señor?” I asked the doctor.
“Coca, a medicine from Peru,” he replied. “I have it in my garden. You should plant some tobacco, señora,” he turned to the countess. “Many now grow it as a decorative plant. I can give you seeds, if you wish.”
“Oh, most definitely, señor,” replied the countess. “I would love to repay that miraculous, healing plant. Let the young Señor da Silva bring me the seedlings,” she said and smiled at me.
The countess was clearly flirting with me. At first I could not believe it, but she did it quite obviously, and the examples multiplied, such that in the end I was left with no doubts whatsoever — the countess was flirting with me. The human female! Whichever way you look at her, she is what she is.
The doctor looked worried. He was surely afraid that I would get up to some mischief.
“Don’t worry, señor,” I told him. “I’m not that wet behind the ears.”
As we walked through the garden, the doctor was seized with a long and violent coughing fit, so bad that the countess grew concerned. He pressed his thick gray kerchief to his lips. Much matter and rottenness had been coming up from his lungs recently.