20

“Prior to the twentieth century,” Anthony began, speaking without a pause like someone who has prepared a talk, “paintings of nudes do not exist in the Spanish tradition. Goya’s Naked Maja is an exception. So too, and even more striking, is The Toilet of Venus by Velázquez himself. The reason for this is obvious: in Spain it was the Church that commissioned works, and to a lesser extent the royal household. That means religious imagery, portraits and a few everyday pieces. In Italy or Holland, things were different. There the nobility and the wealthy commissioned paintings to adorn their salons, and, since they had a less strict moral code, they were delighted to see mythological topics with a profusion of naked females. Spanish painters of the time knew how to paint naked figures, but under the Counter-Reformation they only used that knowledge to paint the male anatomy: scenes of martyrdom and countless crucifixions and descents from the Cross. In this respect, as in so many others, Velázquez found himself in a privileged position: as a member of the court he received private requests, and was able to demonstrate his art in every genre, including the mythological: The Feast of Bacchus, Vulcan’s Forge, and quite a few more. Among them was The Toilet of Venus, now in the National Gallery in London: the first and for many years the only female nude in the history of Spanish painting.”

There were not many people in the Michigan café: no one was at the counter, and only a handful of tables were occupied. The late risers had already had their breakfasts, and it was not yet the noisy aperitif hour. Two solitary customers were taking their time reading A.B.C. and El Sol respectively; a third customer was busy writing, a smile on his lips; an artillery officer was smoking, staring absentmindedly up at the ceiling. Beside one of the windows, two middle-aged ladies were talking together nonstop; on the table, next to their big cups of milky coffee and the tin sugar-bowl, they had left their missals and carefully folded black mantillas. Anthony was impressed by the variety of places such as this Madrid offered. Not even the celebrated cafés of Vienna, where he had spent many hours between visits to the Kunsthistorisches Museum, could compare to the ones in the Spanish capital. In Vienna, the cafés gave him an awkward feeling of theatricality and decadence; in Madrid, however, there was nothing anachronistic about them, and they were always buzzing with life. Unlike Vienna, in Madrid the café walls were not covered with mirrors, because the customers did not need them: in Madrid cafés they looked directly at each other, without any need to hide their curiosity. There was nothing wrong with this self-assurance, he felt, because in the Madrid cafés people forgot one another just as readily as they looked at them. It was all part of the gentle flow of things in that lively, generous and superficial city. Nevertheless, the euphoria his surroundings produced, the fact of being with Paquita and the chance to talk to her about his favorite subject did not make him forget that he was caught up in something that was vitally important for many people, starting with himself, since his career was on the verge of taking a completely unexpected twist if his first impressions were confirmed and he was not making an irreparable gaffe.

“In the 1640s, Velázquez was at the height of his fame,” Anthony went on, trying to keep his voice neutral, “and in addition to his duties as court painter, he received and accepted commissions from the Church and from important figures among the Spanish nobility. One of his clients was Don Gaspar Gómez de Haro, son of the Marquis del Carpio, who succeeded the Count-Duke of Olivares as Philip IV’s adviser. I don’t know if you’re aware of all these historical details—if not, it doesn’t matter. What is important is that Don Gaspar was not only a very powerful man, but a passionate collector. He commissioned Velázquez to paint a canvas with a mythological theme: a naked Venus in the manner of Titian. Despite the unusual nature of the request, to judge by the result Velázquez carried out the task with obvious relish. When the painting was finished, Don Gaspar prudently kept it in his palace, so that no one else saw it until many years later, when all the protagonists of this story were dead and buried.”

Anthony paused. He wanted to tell the rest precisely but carefully: he had no wish to offend the sensibilities of his beautiful companion with crude details.

“Don Gaspar Gómez de Haro,” he went on, lowering his voice and his gaze, “was not merely an art connoisseur, but a man of licentious habits. As a man, he was more like Don Juan Tenorio than Saint John of the Cross, to put it mildly. Perhaps it was this weakness that led him to ask Velázquez to paint him a picture so incompatible with the morality of his age. However that may be, the main question is: Who is the woman in the painting? Did Velázquez use just any model, or even a prostitute, to represent Venus? Or was the model, as some claim, one of Don Gaspar’s lovers whom he wanted to immortalize on canvas? And what if, as others maintain, the woman in the painting was none other than Don Gaspar’s own wife? Those who support this thesis argue as proof that the features of the Venus in the painting, reflected in the glass Cupid is holding, were deliberately blurred by the painter so that nobody would recognize them—something that would have been unnecessary if she were just a whore.”

“And what’s your theory?” the young woman asked.

“I prefer not to commit myself. The idea that an illustrious married woman would pose naked is odd, especially in Spain under the Inquisition, but it’s not impossible. There are always exceptions to the rule. Don Gaspar’s wife, Doña Antonia de la Cerda, was related to Doña Ana de Mendoza y de la Cerda, the Princess of Eboli, who is said to have been Philip II’s lover. Both were women of great beauty, strong-minded and daring. Even so, I can’t see the logic in such a compulsively unfaithful husband wanting a naked portrait of his wife, even if it was Velázquez who was painting it. It would have been much easier to have her painted in her clothes. Anyway, we will never know the exact truth: the history of art is full of surprises.”

“I haven’t the slightest doubt about that,” said Paquita.

“I detect a hint of irony in your voice,” said Anthony. “I’m probably boring you with my ramblings. But I must insist that you’re wrong. Experts’ debates and theories may seem dull, and my articles definitely are, but art itself isn’t. Paintings mean things, just as much as poems or music do—important things. I know that for a lot of people an old painting is nothing more than a precious possession, a collector’s item or an excuse to show off one’s knowledge in order to advance in the academic world, and I won’t deny that these factors exist and need to be taken into account. But above all, a work of art is the expression of something both sublime and yet at the same time deeply rooted in our beliefs and emotions. I prefer the barbarism of an inquisitor ready to burn a painting he sees as sinful to the indifference of someone who is only concerned with confirming its date, antecedents or sale value. To us, a painter, a client and a model from the seventeenth century are nothing more than entries in an encyclopedia. But in their day they were flesh and blood like you and I, and they poured their souls into these paintings for very deep reasons, sometimes spending fortunes on them or even risking their lives. And they never imagined that all of that would one day end up in a room in a gallery or in the corner of a basement.”

“My word,” she said, “yet again I have to ask you to forgive me. It’s obvious that my relationship with you is one long succession of offenses and apologies.”

“It will stop being so when you no longer consider me as useless as a watchman’s whistle, if that is the right expression. But I am the one who should apologize. I tend to get carried away when I talk about this topic.”

“That’s all right, it makes it more appealing. Carry on with your hypothesis.”

“There is a lot of debate as to when exactly Velázquez painted The Toilet of Venus. Everything suggests it was toward the end of the 1640s, because in 1648 Velázquez went to Italy and did not return until 1651, by which time the painting was already in Don Gaspar’s palace. It may have been painted in Italy, where there was an abundance of canvases of naked women, but I don’t think so. In Madrid there were also many similar paintings by masters such as Titian or Rubens, even in the royal collections. Although they were not on public display, as keeper of the Crown’s artistic heritage Velázquez was familiar with them. I’m convinced the Venus was painted in Madrid before his stay in Italy, probably early in 1648, and in the strictest intimacy.”

As though this phrase had activated a spring, the artillery officer leapt from his seat. The waiter ran over to help him on with his greatcoat, which was hanging from a stand. Handing the waiter a coin, the army man headed for the door. As he passed their table, he gave the Englishman a sideways glance, and then stared more openly at Paquita, who had lowered her gaze. The officer bowed in midstride and left the café. Anthony thought his companion looked uneasy, but did not think it wise to ask her to explain what it was all about.

“In November 1648,” he continued, “Velázquez traveled to Italy a second time on the orders of Philip IV. The aim was to acquire works of art to add to the royal collections. However, this time the trip lasted longer than expected: two years and eight months. The King grew impatient and called his favorite painter back, but Velázquez kept delaying his return. During his prolonged stay in Italy, he painted very little: in Rome he did portraits of Pope Innocent X and prominent members of the Vatican curia. While convalescing from some fevers he also painted two tiny, melancholy paintings of the Villa Medici. The rest of the time he spent traveling round Italy, meeting artists, collectors, diplomats and patrons, buying paintings and sculptures and making sure they all reached their destinations. His wife and two daughters stayed behind in Madrid. When Velázquez finally came back to Spain he was a weary, dispirited man. In the decade between the return from Italy and his death on the sixth of August 1660, he only painted portraits of the royal family, among them Las Meninas.”

“Well, that’s something at least,” said Paquita, who appeared to have recovered from the incident with the artillery officer.

“Yes, of course. It’s an extraordinary painting and it shows that Velázquez was in full possession of his faculties, at the height of his creative capacity. But if that’s so, why did he paint so little?”

“Do you think the Venus brought him bad luck?”

“I think that after painting that picture, or while he was painting it, Velázquez went through a tremendous personal crisis he never really recovered from. What’s more, I think the real cause of the crisis lies in the painting itself. I’ve been arguing over this for years with an English expert, an old Cambridge professor who’s now a curator at the National Gallery. He supports . . . a different theory from mine. He doesn’t like women, and perhaps that’s why . . . Well, let’s not dwell on that. It’s Velázquez’s personal problems that matter here, not mine.”

“Perhaps they coincide,” said Paquita, “and you can tell me about them if you wish. It’s easier to talk of one’s own worries than to wait for Velázquez to come and paint them.”

“No, no, I’ll do no such thing. We can’t stray from the question. Look, I’ll tell you what I think happened: in 1648, Don Gaspar Gómez de Haro commissioned Velázquez to paint a naked woman representing Venus. His own wife or somebody else, that doesn’t matter for now. Velázquez accepted the commission. He painted her not once but twice. First as Venus at her toilet, with her features carefully blurred in the glass so that nobody could identify her; and then, also naked, with her features clearly painted and without resorting to the subterfuge of mythology. Obviously this second painting was for himself. It never appeared in the inventory of Don Gaspar Gómez de Haro’s possessions. By painting this second picture, Velázquez was running a great many risks. If its existence became known, there would have been a huge scandal: the Inquisition could have become involved, and in the best of cases he would have lost the King’s favor. Ever since he arrived in Madrid and pushed out the former court painters with his innovative style, there had been no shortage of enemies plotting his downfall. Then there is Don Gaspar Gómez de Haro himself. If the relationship between painter and model had gone beyond the purely professional and entered the realms of romance or something even worse—as the painting appears to indicate—whether it is the portrait of his legitimate wife or his lover, a bloody revenge is called for: we are in the Spain of Calderón and the principles of honor, and Don Gaspar is powerful. Only an unbridled passion could have led someone as naturally sedate, almost apathetic, as Velázquez was to commit such a folly.”

As he grew carried away with his account, Anthony had gradually been raising his voice, and now he paused to regain his composure. Watching him, Paquita’s brow furrowed and her eyes misted over. Oblivious to this, Anthony drew his hand across his face and went on.

“Velázquez was aware of his position. Being an intelligent man and realizing his passion was doomed, he decided to put distance between himself and Spain. He had no difficulty persuading Philip IV to send him on an official mission to Italy; and so off he went, on the King’s orders, taking the second portrait with him.”

“A poor substitute,” said Paquita.

“But better than nothing. Besides, to Velázquez reality and painting often merged into one, although that is another story. What concerns us here is that when he returned, his passion cooled by the lengthy absence, he left the compromising canvas in Italy, probably in Rome. Over the years someone acquired it, brought it back to Spain, and now it’s there, a few meters from this café, waiting for—”

“Waiting for Anthony Whitelands to make it known to the whole wide world,” Paquita interrupted him.

This time the young woman’s tone of voice did succeed in alerting the Englishman.

“Of course,” he said, “although first we have to settle a few details. Are you angry?”

“Yes, but not with you. All the men who cross my path seem to be dreamers. But let’s leave that. It’s not me who is important here, but Velázquez.”

Her voice quavered, and with a sudden movement of her head, as though something else had caught her attention, she turned her face away. Disconcerted by this abrupt change, Anthony did not know how to react. A few seconds later, she turned back to him. Again her eyes were misty with tears, but she said in a steady voice:

“Yesterday, in front of the Christ of Medinaceli, I begged you not to authenticate that painting. At the time I believed I was offering you something valuable in exchange. I see now that for you I am worth less than the picture, or what the picture signifies. Nothing will make you turn from your path, and I do not reproach you for that. I am not humiliated at being defeated by a woman who died three hundred years ago, and of whom we know only the face and a fair proportion of her anatomy, but you must understand that it makes me feel rather odd.”

“I can’t understand properly if you won’t explain the reason for the way you behaved,” said Anthony.

“Let me have your handkerchief.”

Anthony passed it to her. Paquita dabbed at invisible tears and handed it back.

“A few minutes ago,” he said, seeing that she did not seem to want to add anything more, “you asked me to tell you my concerns. I’ll do so briefly. For a few years now, my life appears to have come unstuck. I am in a rut professionally and personally, and there is no sign that the situation is about to change. I’ve seen too many similar cases to have any illusions: brilliant studies, great expectations, a few years of splendor, and then nothing: stagnation, repetition, mediocrity. I’m following the pattern: I’ve left my youth behind, and now I’m going backward, like a crab. Then all at once, in the most unexpected way, I’m given a unique opportunity, not just in my life, but in the history of art in general. It involves risk, borders on the illegal and, as if that were not enough, powerful emotional factors come into play. And yet, if in spite of everything this turns out well, if just this one thing turns out well, I would achieve something far beyond satisfying my ridiculous academic vanity. I would gain prestige. And money—yes, enough money to purchase my independence and my dignity. At last I would be able to stop begging . . . Have you any idea what that means, Señorita Paquita?”

“All of us women know that, Señor Whitelands. But don’t worry, I’m too proud to insist. I understand your reasons, of course, as you would understand mine if I revealed them to you. But I cannot—not yet. I can, however, offer you some clues. You’ll have to deduce the rest, and then we’ll see if you are as good at unraveling the present as you are at following the ins and outs of the seventeenth century.”

While they were talking the original customers in the café had gradually been leaving, and their place was taken by a fresh, noisier set of people. Anthony called the waiter, paid, and they left. The wind had dropped, and high in the clear sky the sun was spreading a warmth that heralded spring. The first buds were appearing on the trees. Without exchanging a word they walked to the side gate of the garden, then came to a halt while she searched for the keys.

“Earlier,” said Paquita, with the gate already ajar, “I said I would ask a favor of you. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“No. Tell me.”

“At seven this evening José Antonio Primo de Rivera is holding a meeting at the Europa cinema. I want to go and I want you to go with me. Meet me at six on the corner of Serrano and Hermosilla. We can take a taxi from there. Can I count on you?”

“It will be a pleasure.”

“We’ll see about that. I think you’ll find it an instructive experience, anyway. At six then. Punctual as an Englishman.”