The plane crashed at the Albuquerque airport. Fortunately, there were no deaths nor serious injuries. Ambulances showed up and took the passengers to the hospital.
Amena Karanova found herself at St. Joseph’s Hospital with her secretary, Datil Vivanca. Datil had a few bruises on her forehead and a few superficial cuts on her right arm. Miraculously, Amena escaped without a scratch. Both of them were shaken up, but otherwise they were perfectly fine.
Before anyone saw Amena, one looked at her eyes. They were magnetic. They hypnotized and immobilized you. They were immense green eyes with flakes of gold. A fiery green, an incendiary gold. Something wild, something untamed. They lurked inside deep wells, set apart and in darkness. From there they fired flashes and sparks like a vigilant panther from the shadows of her cave.
When you could tear yourself away from her eyes, you became aware of the whiteness of her skin, the whiteness of alabaster, transparent and luminous from within, with a something, an echo, of the green of the olive. Down the sides of her face, upon the pillow, fell cascades of black and wavy hair, the black of ebony with glimmers of the green of the olive.
Her neck was somewhat long, elegant, and had the grace and lightness of the palm tree. Farther down, her full and subtle breasts rejected all disguises and insisted on being recognized, even under the loose and baggy hospital gown.
Her profile, like everything about her, was exquisite and delicate. A high, broad and clear forehead. A long, fine and pointed nose. Full, ripe and flowering lips. A tiny, daring and sharp chin.
When you walked away, you took with you the majestic and imposing image of a glowing green woman. An arrogant and aristocratic woman of a statuesque and classical beauty. You imagined that there was passion and violence, tenderness and compassion in her. You left convinced that she carried a great sorrow, that she concealed a deep mystery, without knowing how or why that woman frightened you. You were certain that menace and danger came with her.
Datil was pretty. As fresh and lusty as an apple. She had sparks in her eyes and cherries on her lips. Her flesh and contours were full and round, attractive in every way, but already pointing towards plumpness.
The two women must have been about twenty-eight-years old. Now they were chatting animatedly in a foreign language.
“Datil, did you notice the light in this place? I’ve never seen such luminosity. I have the impression that it is pouring into my eyes, and even into my pores, and setting me on fire inside. I didn’t see the sun, but it must be fierce. The skies are high and vast, of a blue never seen before. What a ceiling! Since we don’t have to go anywhere, and we’re in no hurry, we’re staying here a few days. This very day we rent a car and travel around and see the place.”
That’s the way it was. They went to Santa Fe and Taos. They visited the villages and the Indian pueblos. Everything, absolutely everything fascinated Amena. It was as if she had discovered a new world. Her spirit and her body, crushed before, were now vibrating with a vitality already forgotten.
The light, the sky and the landscape, the silence of the desert, the solitude of the mountains filled every void in her desires, filled the emptiness of her spirit. They brought back the joy and the peace she had lost. She was ecstatic, intoxicated. She sang, laughed and shouted. The land and the mountains answered her. She felt at home.
The human landscape enchanted her too. The whole range of human pigmentation, from the darkest to the lightest, and everything in between. The courtesy she ran into everywhere reminded her of the gentleness of her own people back home. She felt a mysterious affinity with the gracious people of New Mexico, as if she had known and loved them always. She felt at home.
There’s more. Those adobe houses, mud-plastered by hand, with the traces of fingers on the walls, vigas, lattice ceilings, fireplaces in the corners and strings of chile hanging outside. Those houses, a harmonious blend of Indian and Spanish architecture, that become part of the landscape with grace and dignity, also gave Amena a feeling of serenity, to such an extent that at a given moment she told Datil, “Stop the car. I want a house just like that one.” She felt more and more at home.
Datil could not be happier. Her mistress had lost interest in her life months ago. This trip was a flight from an unbearable life and reality. To see her now madly on fire, laughing and singing again, was for Datil a reason for rejoicing. She had given up on her.
The return trip was silent and pensive for Amena. Datil didn’t say anything either. She knew her mistress very well. Later, in the hotel, the silence and the far-off look of the lady continued. Hazy thoughts and nebulous feelings were taking shape, falling into place, forming a personal and implacable logic.
Suddenly she sat up in bed, her face resolute, her eyes steady. She had made up her mind.
“Here I stay. Here I want to live and die. Here I’ll marry. My son will be born here.”
Her voice was passionate, but controlled. Datil kept silent. She was used to the wild and sudden impulses of her mistress. She accepted whatever she wished.
It was necessary to go to the bank. Amena and Datil showed up at the Central Bank. Funds from European banks had to be transferred. They were shown into the office of the vice-president, Petronilo Armijo.
As they entered, Amena stopped abruptly and stared intensely at the banker who had risen from his chair. She fixed him with a look that was a lance, a green look with flakes of burning gold. They both remained staring at each other for a long while, their eyes locked, in a pulsating vital silence. He, a slave. She, a queen.
In this dense and throbbing silence, she, transfigured, kept saying to herself, “This is the one! This one is going to be the father of my son!” He, fascinated, kept saying to himself, “This one has to be the most beautiful woman in the whole world!”
Suddenly she turned off the ray, and cut off the electric current. Petronilo felt loose and foggy, as if he were made of rags. Amena came forward in the most natural way and offered him her hand.
“Sr. Armijo, I have been told that you can help me with my financial affairs. I am Amena Karanova.”
Petronilo, still shaking and not quite sure of himself, stammered: “Have a seat, señora, I am entirely at your service.”
They spent some two hours making the necessary arrangements. The appropriate contracts were made out and signed. Amena knew how to put Petronilo at ease, how to make him relax, restraining her powerful personality, suppressing her potent will. She made him think that she was a vulnerable woman placing her destiny in his manly hands. He considered himself her protector. Her fortune could not help but impress him greatly. Suddenly: “Sr. Armijo, I beg another favor of you. I want to buy some property in this city and build a house. Since I don’t know anyone, and since I don’t know about those things, I need a person I can trust to take me by the hand. I’ll pay you whatever you say.”
“Sra. Karanova, say no more. I’ll be delighted to serve you in any way I can. A fee for my services is out of the question.”
They agreed that on the following day he would pick her up at the hotel at ten o’clock in the morning. She gave him her hand and an almost imperceptible squeeze. He was not sure. And she fired the green look that burns with flakes of flaming gold. The look appeared and disappeared instantaneously, almost as if it had never existed. She left, a conqueror. He remained, conquered. She knew what it was all about. He didn’t know anything.
Petronilo did not know what he was doing for the rest of that day. That night he could not sleep. He was totally bewitched. He could not see anything but the face and the eyes of Amena. He could not hear anything but the musical voice of the most charming woman in the world. At ten o’clock on the dot he showed up at the hotel.
“I think we are friends, Petronilo. Call me Amena, please.”
This is the way the strange and incredible relationship between one from here and one from there began. That day they covered all the outlying areas of the city without any luck. They stopped for lunch. That night they also had dinner together. He was becoming more and more sure of himself. She drew him out with tricks, jokes and witticisms. Her laughter, her eyes, now playful, caressed, awakened and cheered his body and soul.
From then on they could be seen together everywhere: restaurants, nightclubs, church, out in the country. Always smiling, always happy. Petronilo no longer walked on the ground, he walked on feathers and foam. His family and friends began to suspect a wedding was in the offing.
They finally found the property, just what Amena wanted. She bought it and launched the operation. Petronilo found her an architect who sketched what she told him.
In the meantime, the indoctrination and education of Petronilo went on at a pace marked by Amena. She taught him how to be a man first, and how to be a lover later. At the right moment, determined by Amena, naturally, Petronilo declared his passionate love, and later, his marriage proposal. She accepted both declarations and said yes with due demureness. He was astounded at the courage he did not know he had.
Amena continued to be a mystery to everyone, including Petronilo. She was gracious, generous and affectionate to everyone. But there was something, an enigmatic secret that never came out. This added to her attractiveness, created a certain mysticism that surrounded her, elevated her to high and inaccessible clouds. This was without ever seeing the green look with flakes of flaming gold. She only used that look when she wanted to cut or kill.
Amena told Petronilo the story of her life, but not all. She told him that she came from a distant and exotic land, that she had been the most famous star of the Wagnerian opera on three continents, that she had amassed a great fortune. She told him that the excitement, the coming and going, the constant movement of the life of fame and art had exhausted her. That she had run away in search of peace and tranquility. That was what she was doing when the plane crashed and she had found here what she was seeking, what she needed. That she would never go back.
Petronilo was blinded and astonished as he examined the albums and posters of Amena. She appeared there in the garments of the great characters she portrayed in Wagner’s operas in the grand theaters of the world. She appeared in photographs with kings, presidents, generals, the grandees of the world. He read the clippings of the world press praising the artistic triumphs of “La Karanova,” suggesting possible love affairs with one or another mandarin of fortune.
Petronilo saw all of this and felt misgivings and jealousy because he had not shared in this scintillating life with her. Then, after thinking it over, when he remembered that he was a humble banker in a humble bank, a nobody, and that now he was the master of the most beautiful and most seductive lady in the world, then he swallowed and gave thanks to God.
What Amena did not tell Petronilo was about Damian. Damian had been “La Karanova’s” lover and fiance. They had loved each other and planned to marry. They danced, laughed, sang and said sweet things in the most select and sensual corners of the old and the new world. The press and television recorded, with every detail, their mad and joyous dance, their happy song of love. Those pictures and those clippings were not in the albums.
Damian was rich, handsome and arrogant. He was a sportsman. He drove racing cars on the most famous tracks in the world. Amena went with him to his races. He went with her to her theatrical performances. Everything was as soft and sweet as a pink dream, a robe of silk.
When the two of them were at the peak, on the very threshold of illusion, Damian killed himself in an automobile accident. When this happened, the sun went out for Amena and so did the moon and the stars. The horizons disappeared. The future became black. Amena found herself bewildered and lost in a night without end, in infinite space, without landmarks and without lights. Without a will to live, without a will to die.
Datil took her by the hand and out of the theater, out of the world she knew. She watched over her as over a child. Amena let it happen, as a child. They traveled around the world, no destination in mind, fleeing from the terror, fleeing from the night without end.
That was how they came to Albuquerque. The crash perhaps shook Amena in such a way that she came out of her withdrawal. Perhaps it was the high skies and the fierce light of New Mexico that lit up the dark night of Amena. She came to and became aware of herself. Here, her desperate need to have a son was born.
The construction of her house was on its way. Amena and Petronilo went to Mexico to get the materials. Tiles, obsidian for the floors, carved wood, potted plants, fountains, wrought iron and many more decorations. Everything chosen with the utmost care. Large crates started to come in from overseas: furniture, statues, paintings, fine silks. Amena stayed on top of it all. She did not miss a single detail. The house and its decoration was a passion, an obsession.
The house was taking shape. On the outside, it was a traditional New Mexican house: adobe, vigas, strings of chile, portales, fireplaces. Inside it was a palace of the Middle East: patios, fountains, arches, porches, gardens. Flowers and more flowers. Amena had brought seeds from her native land. Exotic plants and flowers appeared in her gardens, never before seen, strange and sensual perfumes. What attracted everyone’s attention were the black roses with flashes of green and an intoxicating aroma. The gardens and orchards spread out in every direction. To enter the house was to leave the world of every day and to enter the Arabian Nights. It was as if Amena had not built a house. She had created an inheritance, a life not yet born, a life to be lived.
The wedding of Amena and Petronilo took place in the new house on the 25th of September. The Archbishop himself married them. All the distinguished New Mexicans were there. Some came for friendship, many for curiosity. The fame of the house and the lady echoed throughout the area. The mystery of Amena intrigued everyone. They said she was Russian, Arabian, Jewish, Gypsy, Hungarian. Nobody knew for certain and she was not telling.
Amena could not have been more gracious and more charming. She did not fire the magic look a single time. Everyone felt singled out to receive her courtesy and warm affection. She sang for the first time since her tragedy, several arias, accompanied by a symphony orchestra. The New Mexicans had never seen or heard anything like it. It was something out of the dream world, something unforgettable. She won them over, she made them hers, for herself and for her son, who had not been born yet. Petronilo felt himself master and king of the republic.
The married life of the newly weds could not have been more pleasant. Amena was the most fervent lover and the most generous wife that Petronilo could have imagined, even in his wildest fantasies. In love, happy and satisfied, his life was a dream come true.
The social life of the Armijos was strictly upper crust. The most important people competed among themselves to socialize with them. The presence of Amena at any party lit it up with incandescence. Petronilo’s business affairs flourished. He was sought out by the most important business men. Amena made him look good.
Everything was as smooth as silk. Nevertheless, one could tell that Amena was not entirely happy, not entirely satisfied. Petronilo would surprise her in states of deep contemplation, her eyes vague and distant. She spent long hours with Datil in secret and mysterious conversations. It was as if she were giving her instructions, preparing her for something.
Datil got married about that time, at Amena’s suggestion, to the robust foreman of the hacienda. The newlyweds moved into a small house, built precisely for them. Everything was taking place according to a plan.
Amena had an altar with a big bowl constructed in one of the patios. It had small statues of strange figures. No one had been able to figure out its purpose.
“Petronilo, tonight you are going to see something you’ve never seen. You won’t be able to understand what you see. I beg you not to ask me about it now or later. It is something I have to do alone, something you cannot share with me. I want you to have faith in me.”
“What is it all about, my love? You know that whatever you ask of me I shall give you.”
“It’s a religious ceremony. My religion and yours are different. Mine will appear strange and incomprehensible to you.”
“Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Tonight, the first night of the full moon, I have to offer prayers and devotion to my gods. I don’t want to hide anything from you. You may watch from the balcony.”
“So be it. I don’t understand. I only know that I love you so much that your wishes are mine.”
That night when it got dark and the full moon came out, Datil lit a fire in the bowl on the altar. The flames rose high and reached higher. She then decorated the altar with black roses, and on the altar cloth set out incense and other jars with mysterious powders and liquids.
When her preparations were finished, she withdrew into the shadows. The flames teased the waves of moonlight with moving lights and shadows. The black roses filled the air with an intoxicating scent. Out of the shadows came the slow and rhythmic boom of a primitive drum. It was as if time had stopped with a breathless suspense ready to produce a miracle.
Suddenly Amena appeared, tall, slender, dressed in white tulle, a statue of living marble. She walked to the altar. Her steps were slow, deliberate. She walked like a goddess, a hypnotized goddess. Gesticulating, as if in a trance, she lighted the incense, sprinkled water on the black roses, shook powder on the fire. The flames waved voluptuously and took on a garnished hue. The incense let out a green smoke full of sensual insinuations. The roses opened their black blouses. Amena postrated herself at the foot of the altar, her body straight, her arms stretched out, a black rose in each hand. Her feet bare. She seemed to be crucified face down on an invisible cross.
Suddenly, brusquely, she stood up on tip toes. She raised her face and her arms to the moon. The drum came alive. It sighed, it sobbed. Tremulous waves rose from her naked heels to her naked neck. Ecstatic exaltation. Hypnosis. The flames dancing madly. The light, the smells and the colors floating magically.
The drum accelerated its rhythmic beats. It became feverish and violent. The marble statue came alive. It danced. Danced like an angel, like a spirit, like an illusion. It seemed to float, wave its mantle of white tulle floating like wings of transparent mist around the altar of fire and incense, around the altar of unknown gods.
The drum stopped. Amena stopped. She raised her eyes to the eyes of the smiling moon. Her voice rose to the very lap of her moon mistress. Her sonorous song of magic words never heard rose in tremors to rest in pain at the feet of the pleasant moon. At times it whispered. One moment it sang, the next it weeped. Then it stopped. From joyous rebellion it passed to submissive sorrow, over and over again.
Suddenly, nothing. She remained motionless for a long time. Slowly, she bowed her head, let it fall on her chest. Her arms limp at her sides. Her tense body relaxed. The arrogant marble goddess became a humble rag doll. Slowly she disappeared in the shadows.
Petronilo had seen everything from the balcony in a state of tremendous agitation, without beginning to understand what he was seeing. It was a sight outside of time, out of this world. The miracle, the magic and the mystery were beyond the reach of his understanding. It seemed that he was not himself, and she was someone else.
When it was all over, he remained on the balcony for a long while. Then he walked for a long time through the orchard. The rays of the moon through the velvety lace of the trees sketching luminous green stains on the ground.
He could not find a key to the mystery. The woman he had seen was not his wife and never would be. She was a spirit—free and unconquerable. A spirit that challenged men and gods. How small and insignificant he felt!
He had a vague notion that what he had seen was a primitive and prehistoric ceremony. That perhaps it was a pagan ritual of fertility. A prayer to the gods. A ritual offering. Was it divine or Satanic adoration? There was, he was sure, something more, something completely in the dark, and for that reason much more frightening. It could be a childish whim arising from her volatile and violent nature. Or, perhaps, a throwback, a nostalgia, to her theatrical life, her artistic temperament.
He resolved nothing. He returned home in total confusion. He came back scared. He did not know how he was going to face Amena. He did not know if Amena was going to reject him.
He entered his bedroom silently and depressed. Amena was already in her pajamas and in bed, as if nothing had happened.
“You took so long I was about to go out and look for you. Come to bed.”
Petronilo went to bed without a word. Amena received him with open arms and every affection. She was so amorous, so tender and generous to him that he almost forgot what he had seen. Then, she fell asleep peacefully, and he lay awake very much disturbed.
Life went on good and rich. Petronilo kept his anxieties and concerns to himself. Amena offered him sufficient comfort with her love. The fact is, he had nothing to complain about. The next night of the full moon he refused to watch his wife’s ritual performance; he went on a business trip.
Although everything was going well, it could be seen in Amena, and also in Datil, that a sense of urgency was upon them, nervously busy as two ants at a task that only they understood.
Amena had a large room built. The builders made only the shell of the salon. But only she and Datil would do all of the interior work. Petronilo’s protests came to naught. Amena was fervently determined that she would do all the work with her own hands.
The purpose of the apartment soon became evident. It was a studio for a painter. It had large windows facing the western horizon that flooded the room with light and color. Draw drapes filled it with mystery and solitude. It had a blackboard and an easel, ready to use. There was a New Mexican fireplace in the corner. An easy chair and a couch of Moroccan leather. A select library of sketching and technique books, collections of copies of the most famous paintings of the world. Everything necessary for a painter, who had not yet been born.
Amena wrote continuously. She filled three notebooks. One for her son for when he could read. One for her husband for when he wanted to read. One for Datil that she had to read. All this writing was projected into an imprecise future. She set down in these notebooks only what could be put into words. She had other ways to communicate the ineffable. Something harmful happens to concepts and illusions when they are put into words. They come out, damaged, distorted and incomplete.
Halfway through their labors it became evident that both women were pregnant. It was noticed then that the two women were working desperately to finish their task, as if their job were of extreme importance. They worked and talked in their strange native language.
Amena got it into her head to plaster and whitewash the mud walls herself, with her tender, naked hands. The task was rough and difficult, and she dedicated herself to it as if her life depended on it. Involved, affectionately, as if the brush of her fingers on the mud were caresses, she converted the walls into canvasses with strange drawings, into manuscripts of mysterious messages. The marks of her fingers on the mud sketched odd designs and rare arabesques. She did the same thing with the woodwork. She carved on it mystic scriptures with a sharp and obedient knife. It was as if she were saying there what she could not say in the notebooks.
At last the studio was finished. The two women were exhausted, but happy. Amena had a look of supreme satisfaction on her face. She could be heard humming about the house, sometimes singing in a low voice. She spent every moment possible with Petronilo. She fixed his favorite dishes herself. She spoiled him in the most uninhibited way. The moment of truth was approaching.
All of this, her open and sensual satisfaction, her exaggerated affection, the fatigue she could not hide, had Petronilo quite worried. Something was out of joint. He could not figure out what. When he asked her, when he tried to talk about it, Amena laughed and told him not to worry.
The day came, the two women gave birth on the same day. Amena’s son was born alive. Amena died. Datil’s son was born dead. Datil lived. A mother and a son died. A son and a mother lived. It was as if all this had been expected, as if it had all been programmed. Who knows?
Amena’s death was a fatal blow to Petronilo. He was crushed. He would never recover. Amena had been an illusion, a blessing, for him. She had elevated him to heights of happiness he had never known. His life with her had been a fantasy. He remembered and relived every shared moment between sobs and joys. He roamed about the house like a sleepwalker. He wandered through the gardens like a lost soul. He could not accept living without her. He sought no consolation.
The child, baptized Damian, was a jewel, a smile of God, cheerful and good-natured. From the very beginning Datil was crazy about him. She rocked and swung him, danced with him, sang to him. The little one responded with trills and smiles, later with bursts of laughter. Damian was a son to Datil, the son she gained after having lost him. Petronilo said and did all the things expected of a new father, but without excessive enthusiasm. He was burdened with sorrow. The child did not look very much like him, or like Amena. He did not have green eyes.
Damian was growing up in his large painter’s salon with its large windows open to the lovely sunsets of Albuquerque. Surrounded by beautiful paintings. Hearing his mother’s voice in the wonderful songs that had made her famous on the records Datil played for him. The cheerful fireplace and the smell of piñon and cedar. Datil’s love above all else. All of this beauty told little Damian things that he did hot understand but that he absorbed night and day.
Damian became so attached to his apartment that it was only there that he felt at ease, only there he felt secure. When they took him into the house or out in the garden, he was all right for a while, then he cried. Datil realized what was wrong and took him back to his favorite nest. The tears disappeared and the laughter returned. When he first began to talk, one day at the table Damian began to cry and shout, “My pillow!” Datil ran and brought him a pillow. The child rejected it and continued crying, “My pillow!” Datil had to take him to his room. As they came to his door the child stopped crying and said, “My pillow, my pillow!” with so much feeling and so much satisfaction that everyone knew that “my pillow” meant “my room.” From then on that apartment had that name. Who knows why children name things the way they do?
Datil dedicated her life and her soul to little Damian. She taught him his mother’s language, the songs and dances of her country. She started him out in drawing when he was very little, drawing animals, trees, houses for him. Providing him with pictures to color. Reading him illustrated stories, later tracing the pictures. The education of the child, disguised as fun and bursting with affection, began very early. Datil was his dedicated and disciplined teacher.
Petronilo was affectionate but somewhat distant. They liked each other, but did not seek each other very much. When Damian reached the age of six, his father tried to draw closer. They chatted, went on camping and fishing trips, played sports. Sometimes they would watch a football game on television and talk about it. Petronilo would take his son to visit his New Mexican relatives. They treated Damian like a prince. The boy was charming. He gave speeches, recited, sang, danced. And he did it well. By that time his drawings and watercolors were beginning to attract attention. It was obvious that Damian had talent. He always took each one of his uncles an original. Father and son were friends in spite of not understanding each other very well.
Damian had a normal childhood, and also a normal adolescence. It was normal in that he went to school like all the rest of the children, and he was one of them. He participated in sports, parties and escapades with them. He was very popular with the girls, and he lost his innocence at the right moment, with honors and without shame.
So far, normal. But there was a certain something in Damian that set him off from the rest. He had mysterious substances and essences within him that he himself did not manage to understand and that commanded his thoughts and attention, substances and essences that frequently determined his behavior or released his fantasies. He did things without knowing why, that always turned out well. It was as if an inner voice told him where to go. He was a good son, a good student, a good friend. This everyone could see. What they could also see was that he was different in an unexplainable way.
His manner of being imposed solitude upon him. He pursued solitude avidly, sometimes desperately. He would disappear unexpectedly from a party. He would not show up at another. He went by himself into the fields or into the streets. His favorite refuge, naturally, was “my pillow.” The attachment he had as a child for the apartment his mother had built for him had not diminished, it had grown instead. He spent long hours there, sometimes days.
He spent his time painting, reading, writing or contemplating the glorious sunsets of his open horizon. There he read and reread the pages of the manuscript his mother had left him and that Datil was giving him according to the calendar marked by her. The most intriguing part was the fascination, the obsession, with which he contemplated the walls of his “pillow.” His eyes examined the traces of his mother’s fingers on the clay over and over again. Many times he ran his own fingers over those traces with tender affection and deep emotion. He was convinced there was a hidden message in those designs and arabesques. In the background the magic voice of La Karanova. The sensual aroma of the incense of black roses in the air.
We cannot know if Damian ever deciphered the designs on the clay or the writings on the woodwork. He never said. Perhaps because there were no words to say it; the message was ineffable, something his mother herself could not say but found a way to communicate with her son in her way. What we do know is that Damian began to change. He stopped being the cheerful young man he once was and slowly became serious and formal.
When he entered the university he was already a young man apart, more solitary than ever, more than a little melancholy. He had become a romantic type—from another time, another place. Always friendly and courteous when it was necessary, otherwise shy and taciturn. Now he painted with a passion: nocturnal scenes, strange and bizarre subjects, dark figures, flaming labyrinths. His canvasses began to appear in the good galleries. The voice of La Karanova could be heard in the background. Thick was the incense in the air.
One day he read in one of his mother’s letters: “I want you to do my portrait. I want Father Nasario to see it.” Damian did not sleep that night. The images of his mother flashed through his head, one after another, in a giddy procession. Every image was different, a living representation of a woman full of life, complex and mysterious, a woman of many whims, many facets, many moods.
Sometime in the early dawn, when the fire in the fireplace had turned to ashes, the swift parade began to slow down. A thousand images began to come together, began to blend. Only one remained, containing the elements of all of them. Static and ecstatic. Damian’s fantasy came to rest. He was left in a near stupor, contemplating the image he had brought back from a past that was not his own, in complete and submissive adoration. He fell asleep because he was exhausted. He fell asleep murmuring softly: “My Amena.”
The following day he told the family that he was going to paint his mother’s portrait, and that he did not want anyone to enter “my pillow” until the painting was finished. Datil tried to provide him with photographs of Amena as an artist, as a bride, as a wife. Damian told her that he did not need them. Petronilo thought that this was strange since Damian had never known Amena, but he did not say anything. Datil did not find anything strange in this, and she did not say anything either.
Damian began to paint with indescribable fury, the controlled fury of a fierce panther who wildly obeys the orders of the master who holds the chain and the whip. The panther would kill if it got loose.
It was strange but he began with the eyes. Very soon the green waters of those deep and risky seas began to shine and seethe. The flakes of gold began to burn. The eyes were perfect, but the look escaped him, the lance look, the dagger look, the killer look. How difficult it is to paint the invisible! Damian went crazy, became desperate. When this happened, he looked like his queenly mother singing a Valkyrie or dancing around her altar.
Unable to overcome this obstacle, for now, he went on to paint the face. Everything went well. The fine alabaster skin, as if lit up from within, with its subtle, almost invisible, tint of green. The exquisite nose, pointed, with a certain touch of aristocracy. The mouth was perfect, but he could not capture the smile. As with the look, he had to leave it incomplete. The elegant and arrogant chin gave him no problems. The black hair either. He found a way, who knows how, to give it the green flashes that vitalized it. A queen’s hands. The rings of an empress. He dressed her in silk and black lace. He made her an oriental princess. A Jewess, Hungarian, Gypsy, Arabian, Russian? An actress or a goddess?
All of this took a long time. Damian worked as if possessed. He hardly slept. Sometimes he would fall into his Moroccan leather armchair, and in total exhaustion he would contemplate his work for hours as if hypnotized. Suddenly a fit of passion would grip him, an impulse, an inspiration, and he would jump up and paint a tiny touch, a dot, a flick, perhaps a sigh or a sob, that completely changed the appearance. In these moments it seemed that an invisible hand guided him.
The look and the smile perplexed him. Some looks and some smiles have something angelical or something diabolical about them. And who can handle them? The portrait was finished except for these two imponderables.
Damian was worn out. Bearded, thin and dirty. He fell asleep in the armchair because there was nothing more he could do. He dreamed he had gone out to pray at his mother’s altar, that he was dressed in white, that Datil had prepared the altar for him and was now playing the drum for him. He saw himself go, step by step, through his mother’s ancient ceremony. He felt the fire of her passion.
He awoke calmly. He yawned. Then quietly, he picked up the brush and did something to the portrait. Maybe it was a kiss, maybe it was a sigh or a sob. Suddenly the look came alive, full of light and shadow, life and death, love and hate. The smile caught fire with flashes of irony, malice and tenderness. The work of love was ended.
The family and Father Nasario came in the following day to see the portrait. They were shaken and curious. No one was prepared to see what he saw. That was Amena! What she once was and what now she continued to be. The supreme woman, the complete woman. With all of her life, all of her mystery. All that was missing was for her to sing, laugh and dance. Everyone spoke in whispers, gripped by a strange reverence, or respect, or superstition.
They all wondered how Damian, without ever having known her, could capture the volatile personality, the enigmatic reality, the deep mystery, the indomitable character of his mother. It was as if they were seeing her for the first time—as she really was. Father Nasario put it into words: “The eyes of the spirit see farther and much more than the eyes of the body.”
Sometimes the eyes of a portrait seem to follow the viewer from one place to another. Amena’s eyes did not. They were fixed on an unknown vision. With one exception. They followed Damian everywhere, deliberately, it seemed. Damian did not find this unusual; it seemed natural. Nobody else noticed. Except Datil. She noticed, but did not say anything.
Petronilo had entered “my pillow” with deep emotion. He stayed behind and contemplated Amena from a distance. It was as if she had come back to life. He fell into a spell. Silently, slowly, large tears appeared and flowed on their own and unnoticed. When at last he came to, he had the presence of mind to resist a powerful inclination to kneel at Amena’s feet as if she were a saint. He left the room sobbing desperately.
“Damian, my son,” said Father Nasario, “I’m going to ask a favor of you. You know how kind and generous your mother was to the people of the parish, especially to the poor. The people loved her very much, always. Let me hang her portrait in the church so that everyone will have the opportunity to see it.”
“Certainly, Don Nasario, I would like that very much too. Take it right now.”
The word soon got around that the portrait of Doña Amena was in the church. Amena had been famous for her charity, friendliness and courtesy. Everyone went by to see her. She won them over as she had before. The beautiful picture of the woman and the magnetism and passion of the artist impressed them all. There is some superstition in the religious feeling of simple people. The generosity of Amena was well known. The beauty of the painting spoke for itself. The picture was in the church. The time came when all of this came together into a single concept: Doña Amena was a saint, a topic of conversation first, an act of faith later. It came to be that it was not at all unusual to see a little old lady on her knees in front of St. Amena. Father Nasario began to hear, and the word got around, that the saint had produced this or that miracle. The good priest after thinking the matter over for some time concluded that if Amena brought the people some consolation, it was best to leave the pantry where it was.
Damian felt physically and spiritually empty when he finished the portrait. He decided to go to the mountains. He went on horseback and led a packhorse. He cooked, ate and slept in the open air. Took long hikes, fished, read in the shade and in the sun. Sometimes he would catch himself whistling or humming one of La Karanova’s tunes. The clean air, the cool water, long walks, good eating and good sleeping soon restored the young painter. He returned home strong and spirited to find himself famous. Museums, galleries and others wanted to buy his paintings, wanted to commission other works.
Datil gave him a new letter from his mother. Through the years she had been delivering these letters to him at the appropriate moments of his life according to Amena’s instructions. In this manner she had marked out the path that had brought him to this moment through all the vagaries of his life. He always was deeply touched when he read these letters, but this time he felt a strange excitement when he received the letter. He anticipated, who knows how, that there was something portentous in this one. His hands shook as he read:
My beloved son,
The time has come for you to go out into the world. It is now necessary for you to make your way, to find and follow your star, to fulfill your destiny and mine.
I want you to go to Europe for an extended visit. Enclosed I leave you the names of dear friends and old hotels I have known. Tell them both that you are the son of La Karanova. They will receive you warmly.
There is a famous opera singer in Europe now. Her name is Amina Karavelha. On the 15th of August she is going to sing one of Wagner’s works at the Parque del Retiro in Madrid. I want you to attend that performance. Afterwards I want you to do Amina’s portrait.
That portrait will make you famous in Europe. It will open doors for you. Go, then, and act as my son. Forward, courage! Fame, faith and fortune await you.
My love and protection will be with you night and day.
Your adoring mother,
Amena
Damian remained pensive, strangely serene, thinking about the new perspectives now opening for him. What he had just read seemed perfectly logical, normal and natural to him. He did not wonder, for example, how his mother could have known twenty-five years before that there was going to be a famous singer by the name of Amina Karavelha now and that she was going to give a performance on August 15th of this year. The coincidence in the names did not surprise him either. The fact that Datil had not said a word, since she had read the letter too, did not bother him. It seems that Damian knew more than he said, that he already knew how to decipher and read the designs and writings his mother had left him in “my pillow.”
The preparations for the trip were made. Petronilo wasn’t told about Amena’s letter or the details of the adventure. Damian was going to Europe to study art, that was all.
Datil had participated in all the events, even the thoughts and feelings that made up Damian’s history. Nevertheless, she who knew it all was jolted and felt very emotional when she saw the photograph in Damian’s passport. The face and the expression of this Damian were the face and expression of another Damian of another time.
On the 15th of August Damian was wandering through the Parque del Retiro in Madrid. It was a lovely afternoon. There would be a full moon tonight. His thoughts fluttered like butterflies and did not pause on a single thing, on a single rose. He was carrying a bouquet of black roses. Tonight he was going to attend an opera of Wagner.
A full moon. The scent of jasmine in the air. The orchestra playing rhythms of war. The actors singing and gesticulating on the stage. Damian was inattentive, waiting. Suddenly the music stopped. La Karavelha appeared on the stage. Tall, arrogant, majestic. An explosion of applause. Damian found himself repeating over and over again the same words his father had said one day: “This one has to be the most beautiful woman in the whole world.”
She began to sing. The orchestra played. It was a magic voice that one moment rose violently and descended tenderly the next. Amina brandished her lance and the voice threatened. She lowered it and the voice caressed. Sometimes it rose tremulously, with rebellious or submissive tremors, as high as the open windows of the attentive moon. It came down slow and easy to rest tenderly on the collective lap of her listeners. She ended her performance with a fierce shout, a battle cry, a radiant challenge that shook the earth and made the moon cry. And she was still, like a triumphant goddess of marble.
The audience absorbed, stupefied, hypnotized until now, exploded in waves upon waves of admiration and adoration. Damian was screaming like a madman, along with everyone else, “Encore! Encore!” Amina came out to meet the sea of adulation. How small, how exquisite, how delicate she appeared now. She received many bouquets of flowers. Among them there was one of black roses. Amina handed them all to the ushers, but she kept the black bouquet.
Damian had sent his calling card along with the flowers. On the back he had written:
Lovely lady,
I am a painter and would like to do your portrait. Allow me, please, to speak with you.
Respectfully,
Damian Karanova.
He himself did not know why he had signed his name that way. He had never done it before. It just came upon him. Perhaps it was because of the color of the flowers, or because of the language of the message, or maybe it was the name. And Amina, who never received a man in her dressing room, decided to let him come. She sent her secretary, Mandarina, to find him. She did not have far to go. He was waiting outside. Amina and Damian greeted each other in their native language.
“Lovely lady, I appreciate your kindness. I’ve come to render you homage and to offer you my services.”
“Have a seat, sir. My instinct tells me that you carry a mystery with you. Tell me, who are you?”
“I am a not-so-humble painter from very far away.”
“Where are you from?”
“New Mexico.”
“Wasn’t it there that the great Karanova died?”
“Yes, she died there. She is my mother.” The present tense of the verb apparently was not noticed.
“Ah! That explains the black flowers, the language of my people, the name. You and I are related.”
“I hope you like that. It pleases me very much.”
“I want you to know that your mother is still a goddess in the world of the opera. Her artistic triumphs are the model and the ideal for all of us who have theatrical ambitions. I have all her records, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I try to emulate her.”
“Amina, your triumph tonight has to be at the level of the best of La Karanova. I want you to know that in my country my mother is a legend too.”
“Damian, I wish you would tell me about her. I’ve always adored her voice and her person.”
“Delighted, whenever you wish.”
“And, are you a good painter?”
“I think so. In New Mexico they think I am.”
“Don’t you have a sample?”
“No, but I can prove it to you.”
“How?”
“Put on a dramatic gesture, and assume a prima donna posture, and I’ll show you.”
Damian rose and picked up a La Karavelha poster. He looked at it for a while with complete appreciation and obvious satisfaction. Then he turned it over. He pulled out a piece of black chalk and waited. A spark danced in his eyes, a smile played on his lips. Amina laughed, intrigued, and assumed a theatrical pose. One hand raised on high as if she were holding a star she had just plucked from the heavens. The other hand stretched out at her side, like a wing she flapped at random. Her left foot raised behind her, as if she had taken off and was flying through space.
Damian drew fast and purposely, his brow wrinkled, his lips pressed tight, his eyes nearly closed. Intensity and passion. Amina looked at him out of the corner of her eye and was impressed with what she saw. In a few moments he was through and presented the sketch to the object of his obsession.
“Damian, what you’ve done is unbelievable. It’s me, that is the one I was then. But there is more. You’ve put into this sketch something you can’t possibly know and shouldn’t know.”
“You’ve liked it, eh? Then, what I want to know is if you’re going to let me paint you.”
“Of course! You are a talented painter. You can paint secrets.”
“If that is so, and since you’ve been so kind to me, I feel bold enough to ask you to have dinner with me at a small café of our country my mother recommended to me.”
“The Korovil? I’ve also heard about it but haven’t been there.”
“Yes, that one. Shall we?”
“Let’s.”
Mandarina saw them leave with a strange and deep satisfaction. They were an ideal couple. She was the sun that illuminated and heated. He was the land that the sun fired and fertilized.
The food at the Korovil was a true celebration. Everything was heavenly. Good wines, tasty dishes, soft music. Harmony all around, good cheer at the table. Those two seemed to be made for each other. They understood and liked each other. The conversation was animated and uninterrupted. You could almost say that they had grown up together, that they shared the same memories. Over and over again he knew what she was going to say before she said it. She too. It seemed like they had very much to say to each other after a long and painful separation.
They agreed that he would show up at her suite the following morning ready to work. He did. When Mandarina opened the door there was Damian loaded down with an easel, rolls of canvas, brushes and a box of jars of oils. He looked like a real laborer of art and cut a figure that was more than a little ridiculous. When Amina saw him, she burst out laughing. Later, Mandarina did too. And then, without conviction, Damian laughed too. Amina’s laughter hurt him a little, but he forgave her immediately.
He set himself up by the window that faced the park where the light was best. She posed at the other end of the room, far from the light. He knew what he was doing. He wanted the light of his portrait to emanate from Amina and not from the window. He wanted to create the light and the air that surrounded her.
Before they started, they had a cup of tea and chatted for a while. Suddenly:
“What do you want me to wear?”
“For what?”
“For the portrait, dummy.”
“Nothing.”
“You didn’t tell me you were going to paint me in the nude.”
“Forgive me, Amina, what I mean is that the clothes are painted last.” The “dummy” and the “nothing” were buzzing in his head. He felt like a fool.
“You mean, you’re going to paint me naked, and then you’re going to dress me? That’s cute!” Amina was enjoying the discomfort of the young man.
“No, dummy, I’m going to paint your face and head first. Then comes the body, immaculately and virtuously clothed. Do you understand?”
Now they were both “dummies.” The equilibrium was reestablished. They both laughed heartily and went to work. To work and talk. It seemed that they talked only about La Karanova and her house in New Mexico. He never tired of hearing details about her life ante-Damian, A.D. They laughed, somewhat uneasily, when they realized that A.D. meant the opposite in English, after Damian.
Sometimes Amina became tired or bored of holding the same posture for long periods and Damian would scold her: “Don’t move. Open your eyes. Your face fell off. Don’t bite your lip. Smile.” Sometimes she pouted. She would fire a “Grasshoppers to you!” That evidently was a very strong expression in her country. And she would leave. When she returned, she would find Damian working passionately. She would take her pose with an innocuous question: “Did your mother have many jewels?” And the beat went on.
Now and then she would practice her arias with Mandarina at the piano. When this happened, Damian achieved his finest successes. Perhaps singing was Amina’s life. She poured into it all her passion and tenderness. As she sang the voice and the music entered the canvas, dressed in royal colors and the voluptuous aroma of black roses.
The friendship of the painter and the diva was genuine and intimate, as if they were old friends or beloved siblings. He wanted to carry the relationship farther. She did too. He fell in love with her from the very beginning. She fell in love later. They both ran into a mysterious wall between them that did not allow love to cross. He was not shy and did not lack assertiveness. Neither did she. Yet, neither one of them could take the first step, however much they wanted to. A certain respect, a fear or an awe held them back. They did not know why. An anxiety, an uneasiness that verged on anger grew up between them. Their impotence was a constant irritation. They shook it off and went on with their work and friendly conversation. Only to return to it.
Damian and Amina were busy as usual when Mandarina came in.
“Señora, Count Barnizkoff insists on seeing you.”
“Send him away, I don’t want to see him.”
At this moment the said count burst into the living room. He was a dandy, elegantly dressed and combed and sporting a little line of a moustache that looked painted. He had the appearance of a spoiled brat too big and too fat for his age. He was raging or blubbering, one or the other.
“Karavelha, my love!”
“Karavelha, I am. Your love, no.” Her manner and tone could not be more sarcastic.
“I need to talk to you.”
“I do not feel any such need.” Her irritation was growing.
“Why do you return all my letters, my flowers, my gifts?”
“Because you have touched them, and what you touch rots.”
“I adore you, my love.”
“I retain the pleasure of choosing my friends and my lovers. You’re no good as a friend, much less as a lover. Get out!”
At that moment Barnizkoff tried to touch her, tried to put her arms around her. Amina rose like an avenging goddess and fired her homicidal look, the look of green fire and sparks of gold. “Out!” The piercing look and the atomic cry fulminated the count. Destroyed him. It was as if Amina had ripped off his bathrobe and had left him naked, with all his imperfections exposed. She did not leave him a single veil of dignity. Demolished, humiliated, stripped of his manhood, Barnizkoff fell back toward the door, hunched over, covering his impotent parts, as if indeed he had no pants. He disappeared into the nothing from which he had come.
Amina remained stiff like Diana-the-huntress for an instant, still pointing to the door with a royal finger.
Damian, who had contemplated the whole scene in fascination, jumped from his stool, prey to unchained emotion. Beside himself, he took her in his arms, shouting, “At last, at last, Amina, at last you let me see you! At last you let me know you!” Amina, taken by surprise, remained stiff for an instant. Then she put her arms around him tightly, sobbing, “Damian, Damian!” They kissed in holy communion. Thus began the love affair that was going to blind two hemispheres for a long time and which is still remembered with affection.
The following day Damian approached his portrait as calm and serene as he had been one day when he approached his mother’s portrait. That time he had found the key to the secret in a dream of religious fire. This time he found it in a dream of enchanted love. He went to the portrait and did something to it. Perhaps it was a kiss, a whisper, a sob. Suddenly Amina came to life and was complete inside the frame of the painting.
He dressed her in a black evening gown his mother had worn at a gala performance in the White House where she had sung and triumphed. Damian had seen it in a photograph. The gown had gone out of style years ago, but as frequently happens, the style was in vogue once again. Maybe it was the dress, or perhaps it was a subconscious prejudice of the painter, the portrait of this woman had a striking resemblance with that of another woman now hanging in a church in New Mexico.
Because Amina was who she was, the portrait was hung in the best art gallery of Paris in a ceremony where all the artistic groups, the intellectuals, all the servants of art, appeared. The painting was a resounding success. Damian became an instant celebrity, known and praised everywhere.
From this day on he painted her every day. His paintings appeared in many museums and galleries. Although he received many requests for portraits, he turned them all down. It seemed that his mission in life was to glorify Amina. The fame he gave her was added to the fame she earned.
At a party a famous and vain movie star insisted that Damian do her portrait. He resisted and begged off, but she persisted. Finally, to get rid of her and in jest, he said to her, “Very well, I’ll do your portrait. I’ll do it in fifteen minutes, not one minute more. If you like it, you keep it and pay me ten thousand dollars. If you don’t like it, I’ll tear it up, and you don’t owe me anything.” Nothing happened.
A newspaperman heard this interchange and published it and suggested that the portrait be done on television. This created a wave of curiosity and publicity. The telephone would not stop ringing, the television stations and the press offering their services. The actress came to challenge him personally (for her this publicity was priceless). Damian accepted. A date was set.
Because it was a case of three celebrities—Amina, Damian and Virgie Joy—the expectation for the event grew and grew. The publicity was unbelievable. It reached a point where it was decided to broadcast the performance around the world by satellite, so great was the interest. Damian collected a fortune. Damian appeared at the studio with Amina at his side. Virgie Joy was already there. He was amazingly calm and sure of himself. The possibility of failure did not even enter his mind. The words of his mother’s letter echoed in his brain: “The portrait of La Karavelha will make you famous in Europe.”
The canvas and Joy faced the cameras and the audience. A large clock was in the background. A bell rang. Complete silence. Damian moved deliberately, his brush strokes fast but controlled. He drew the contours of the body and head first, then he filled in the empty space. Everything with precision, no hesitation. It could almost be said that he had brought the portrait already made, and that he was only copying it. When the minute hand was at the point of marking the period, Damian faced the public, raised his brush on high like a torch and bowed from the waist in a chivalric gesture. Fait accompli.
The camera zoomed in on the artistic image of the famous and vain actress. The audience burst into resonant applause. The critics were united in their flattery and praise. His mother had been right. The portrait of La Karavelha had brought Damian fame, faith and fortune.
So, it was spring. The honeymoon of the newlyweds was a dual tribute, one to the moon and one to the honey. It was a song and a dance to Love. Smiling, bold and naughty, they went through famous hotels, sunlit beaches, elite casinos, select museums, guarded gardens, 24-karat yachts and theaters singing and dancing to the tune and the beat of Love’s flute. From the heights the gods observed the celebration with satisfaction and carpeted their way with rose petals. Damian and Amina gave the world something to celebrate. Television and the press recorded the miracle of this odyssey of love for the rejoicing of lovers everywhere.
Then they returned to their enchanted house in their land of enchantment. They arrived at sunset. Amina was overwhelmed and fascinated by the violence of the light, the height of the skies, the distance of the horizon, just as Amena had been before.
Datil and Petronilo were waiting outside, impatient and excited. As the car approached it seemed the light itself was trembling. The new Karanova and the same Datil faced each other, both of them vibrating with emotion.
“Señora!”
“Datil!” They embraced, their tears flowing. Petronilo could not speak. Finally, his tongue worked.
“Welcome, Amina, to your house that waits for you with deep affection.”
“Petronilo, I wanted to meet you so much. I owe you so much.”
There were many more expressions of affection. Happiness seemed to hover in the air and fill the estate. Suddenly Amina looked at Damian and said, “I want to see ‘My pillow.’ ” He had never told her the name of his apartment, perhaps because it sounded childish. But her knowing it did not appear to surprise him.
As they came into the room, the setting sun had lit it with color and fire through the large windows. It looked like a magic place. Amina approached the flaming white wall in a state of hypnosis. She remained speechless before it for a long time. Then she ran the tips of her fingers over the traces of Amena’s deliberately, slowly and affectionately, all the while looking at Damian with eyes of infinite tenderness.
Datil prepared a meal, rich in odor and flavor and in exquisite liquors of their country. The house warmed up, cheered up and smiled. It lived again. It dreamed again.
The conversation was exciting. The good faith was boundless. There was so much to say, so much to share. Petronilo felt a happiness and a pride beyond words. Datil was in heaven. The newcomers felt like two love birds who had seen everything, enjoyed supreme freedom together, and had now returned to occupy and enjoy their nuptial nest.
Petronilo wanted to hear Amina sing. With Datil at the piano, as she used to be for Amena, Amina sang as she never had before. Petronilo was bewitched, with tears of utter joy in his eyes.
Damian saw Amina go out and he did not follow her. He went up to the balcony of his room that faced the garden and the patios.
The night was flooded with moonlight, with green light. The air was thick with the fragrance of the black roses. Amina was standing in front of Amena’s altar, silent and thoughtful. Damian waited for his wife, also silent and thoughtful.