The Sisterhood

Chapter 29


From the Chronicle of Las Sors Santas de Jesus, by the pen of Esperanza, the Mission Convent of Las Golondrinas de Los Andes, March 1554





When we returned to the convent we learned that Pia is calmer but will not leave her cell, even when the beatas open her door and try to coax her out. She does not sleep for the battles waged by angels and demons for her soul. She is so thin her skin is translucent. It makes Sanchia and me cry to see her.

I have delayed writing to the Abbess and Sor Beatriz. It is impossible to know if letters reach their destinations, or whether letters from me will pose a danger to the convent, or whether they will be able to write back. I long to know if Luz is safe. I have her handkerchief still.

But to business…Mother called me to her parlor to discuss my future. After our visit to Marisol there were more inquiries about Sanchia, Pia, and me, especially Pia, with a view to marriage negotiations. Pia was in no state to marry anyone and I was reluctant for the three of us to be separated, so I managed to avoid the issue.

However, when we returned from our visit to Salome, Mother said someone has particularly inquired about me. I experienced a moment of foolish hope that it might be Don Miguel but Mother said, “Don Hector Santiago. He is sixty and has never married, so you would not have to manage stepchildren. He is a distant cousin of the Beltrans. He was very particular about selecting a wife—so long as she is Spanish he is prepared to consider one with no dowry, provided she is plain, devout, modest, submissive, quiet, not given to fine dressing, and likely to breed. Preferably a simple girl not educated beyond reading her prayer book.”

I tried to match the name to one of the haughty landowners. When I did my heart sank. “Oh. I remember him, Mother—a little pinch-faced, sharp-nosed bantam of a man who thinks highly of himself, with dreadful breath, as if his teeth were rotting.”

“He is very rich—the family own many silver mines,” said Mother severely. This news makes him even less appealing. Don Miguel told me how natives are worked to death as slaves in the mines.

“His grandfather was one of Pizarro’s generals. Naturally the family will consider your background before a formal offer is made, but I trust they will find no obstacle?”

Worse and worse, I thought.

I had already told Mother as little as I could about my family, saying only that my mother had died when I was born and that my father had been a scholar. But now I protested vigorously that I did not fit Don Hector’s requirements as I had been rigorously educated at home.

Mother made a dismissive motion with her hand as if to say, “Let us ignore that.” She is anxious to have our futures secured, and I feel sure she will set this information in the best possible light when she replies to Don Hector. She told me to think Don Hector’s proposal over seriously. The idea made me shudder, though it would enable me to keep another promise—to give Sanchia a home before she gets into serious trouble.

Sanchia grows more and more restless in a way that alarms me. She slips out of the convent from time to time to join troupes of traveling players and musicians and dancers who entertain on platforms in the public squares and the new theaters. This is dangerous behavior. There are too many men, too many adventurers and drunkards, who think all women and girls are theirs for the taking. Especially the dancing girls that she befriends. She insists that the performances are religious in nature, morality plays to educate and Christianize the natives, but they draw unruly crowds all the same.

Sanchia has also begun to speak of her family, very painful memories that make her cry, but she says that now she is growing up, it is her duty to remember them, however terrible it is, “or they will die again, Esperanza. I understand that they died horribly because they were Jews. I want to be a Jew, too.” I shushed her and said that whatever we think, we must be careful what we say.

“Don’t be such a prig, Esperanza! You have a secret of your own. Anyone who has a secret can tell when others do also,” retorted Sanchia.

This is true.

In addition to her newly acquired performing skills Sanchia surprised me by taking a studious turn. And a dangerous one. On one of her illicit excursions she has acquired a printed Old Testament in Spanish from a mestiza bookseller who they say deals in forbidden merchandise. It is very beautiful. Sanchia spent half her dowry on it—without my knowledge—and reads it assiduously. She tells me it was the work of Italian Jews. I warned her that these Bibles in the vernacular are banned by the church. I cannot reason with her and carelessly said that she had no inkling how dangerous they are. Sanchia retorted, “Oh, but I have.” She pulled up her skirt and peeled down one stocking. The purple scars are terrible. “These remind me that I must find a way to be my parents’ daughter. That is why the Almighty has allowed me to live. I do not know how yet, but I will think of something. In the meantime, I will learn the story of my people.”

Meanwhile Don Hector is pressing Mother for my answer. Mother grows impatient that I do not give one. I would have delayed until the sky fell into the sea, except that last night Sanchia narrowly escaped being caught by a night watchman. Today I have agreed to marry Don Hector on the condition he is willing to have my sister to live with us. His answer was that he is willing to have Sanchia provided she is a godly and obedient young woman. Fortunately he knows nothing of Sanchia or he would refuse. How I shall manage them both when we are married, I have no idea.

I make Sanchia hide the Bible in her mattress. I told her of my decision to accept Don Hector’s proposal and that she must come with me to my new home. Sanchia looked at me in horror. “Not the one with breath like rotten fish! Ugh. And he is old, like a desiccated beetle. Imagine those dry little beetle hands all over you! Even Dona Luisa did not push Rita his way. Esperanza, you cannot!”

But I must. My own dowry is nearly gone, and I do not know what else to do.

I must not think of Don Miguel now, but oh, how I wish he had been present when we visited Salome.

The banns are posted for my marriage. Sanchia is gone again, the wretched girl! I am put to great trouble concealing her absence, which is a strain just now. My wedding day approaches far too quickly. I should prepare my trousseau, but my heart is too heavy and my hands too unwilling for such work. Mother has reminded me to pack a nightdress at the top of my trunk. I will never survive my wedding night!

I went to tell Pia of my marriage. Pia only responded in a dreamy voice that she is married to a heavenly bridegroom. The beatas who look after her persuade her to eat a little by telling her it is heavenly manna. She pointed to the jug of water in her cell and whispered it was God’s tears. At least she seems calm.

I pray for strength and remind myself that at least I will fulfill my promise to my father. Sanchia and I have few choices. We cannot stay at the convent indefinitely without embracing the religious life in some form. Our money is nearly gone. We can neither of us become nuns; it would involve too much pretense and betrayal of what we are.

I hope Sanchia returns in time for my marriage. I need one friend by me.