A Woman of Seville by Sallie Muirden Page B

offering. Decomposing sunlight casts a copper hue; the kitchen walls have turned the burnished colour of the curved tureen in which Violeta is stirring eggs.
    Prospera washing parsley. Shaking it dry over-vigorously like she’s burnt her hand. Possibly trying to shake off my stare. I loiter at the window, vaguely. Unready to come inside. I see Violeta shake her head at Prospera. Tss. Why is mistress sticking her neck in here? After hours holding my breath in a roomful of men, I crave some female company. Between the strong arms of Violeta and Prospera I floatto the surface. Permission to be myself? Not quite. Either hanging in a painting, or leaning against the window frame, I don’t quite belong.
    Today Diego Velázquez visited us in the convento. Such a surprise to see him there. I didn’t find out exactly why he’d come either. Perhaps Father Rastro wanted another opinion on the painting. Diego knows one of the Mercedarian boys, so that may have been his purpose. How tall Diego’s grown since those days when I sat for his master. Then I saw him frequently. I still have a flared cape of Diego’s that Pacheco lent me to go home in one cold night. I should have returned it, I know, but a man’s cape can come in handy. And it has. It’d be too small for Diego now, but perhaps I’ll return it anyway.
    The light in the kitchen is changing again, dulling the molten gleam of Violeta’s exposed elbow as she stands, arm bent, boiling eggs in the watery bouillon. The shutters creak as I press them closed. Walking round the side of the house, I find I’m still clucky about the earth I’m standing on. Paula Sánchez, a property owner! (Bishop Rizi gave me the house, but I chose it.)
    Take off my transparent manta in the hallway and cross the indoor patio. After doing a loop around my gurgling fountain I perform a little balancing act on the stone rim. On the absent ladder-man’s behalf, I say to myself. Star jumpdown from the rim then rush upstairs inspired. Change out of my convento clothes. The red dress, poor lamentable thing, is fraying at the cuffs and collar. The seams are splitting, but Harmen Weddesteeg says this isn’t a problem for the painting. In fact it helps that I look a bit worse for wear. The dress must be sponged clean for tomorrow’s sitting. I scent a pan of hot water with ambergris. Dampen a muslin cloth and gently spot the velvet. Handle with care lest thy robe fall apart. Lest thy self fall apart in the process!
    I admit to feeling more at home in this Magdalen dress than any I’ve worn since being a child, those coarse plain frocks my mother stitched, then captured me in. But it’s not really the dress, it’s the company of Enrique Rastro and Harmen Weddesteeg that nurtures me. It’s the men’s desultory joking, their mirthful carry-on during the sittings when their clever conversation makes me feel I’m at the theatre, witnessing a comedia. I hope the men are conversing for my benefit, as much as they are for each other. Sometimes I venture an ‘oh’ or ‘ah’ of curiosity, but I don’t like to expose my ignorance. Listen out for praise, yes. Harmen sheds compliments like a fire sheds sparks. He’s always pretending he’s lost his sight to me.
    ‘Ah,’ he says, leaping down the last five steps of his ladder. ‘Where is she, where’s my Magdalena?’ He covers his eyes with his hand like he’s shielding them from the sun.He flounders about. Stumbles towards me. Harmen takes a quick peek through the shield of his fingers. ‘My angel,’ he cajoles, stepping back, mouth agape. Am I shooting golden arrows? No, not even penitent, though I’d like to be.
    Harmen drinks me up. ‘My sight is returned. I only have eyes for you, Paula.’
    Once when Harmen climbed down from his loft he was actually wearing a blindfold. Can you believe it? What recklessness! He tripped over a bucket then crawled across the floor towards my amused titter. I couldn’t help loving his silliness. He made a