The Sisterhood

Chapter 33


From the Chronicle of Las Sors Santas de Jesus, by the Pen of Dona Isabelita Beltran de Aguilar, the Hacienda of the Sun and the Moon, 1597 AD





I hope that my dear mother, Esperanza, would feel it is fitting and proper that the final entry in this Chronicle is being made by the same Isabelita whose life was saved by Pia’s medal so long ago. My mother had not written in the Chronicle since that event but now that the Chronicle is to leave the Hacienda of the Sun and the Moon, I will take it up to explain where it is going and why.

I will begin with the letter my mother received from La Flor six months ago. Of course everyone has heard of La Flor, the legendary temptress who famously danced and sang her way across New Spain for many years, leaving a trail of broken hearts. Her career ended in a blaze of scandal in Mexico City, when two prominent admirers dueled over her one night outside the opera house where she was performing, and crippled each other. But until my mother received her letter from Mexico, I had no idea that La Flor was one and the same person my mother always spoke fondly of as Sanchia. Sanchia/La Flor wrote that she owed my parents many apologies, that she hoped they could meet once more in this world so she could deliver them in person, and if they would permit her, she intended to pay us a visit.

Her letter asked if my mother still kept this Chronicle. If so, she would like to see it to refresh her memory before traveling “home.” My mother said Sanchia/La Flor had always been restless. By “home” Sanchia meant Spain, where she intends to go on one of her husband’s ships.

To avoid being thrown into prison for loose morals, La Flor married one of her admirers, a widower and wealthy merchant named Vaez Sobremonte, who died a few years later. He was one of the suspect “New Christians”—a Jew, in other words. They say that beyond Mexico City there are whole settlements of these New Christians who practice their religion secretly, and this is where the Sobremontes made their home. My mother replied to Sanchia that we would welcome her with great pleasure, that she had not opened this Chronicle in many years, and how good it would be to look over it together.

Saying that she must show me the Chronicle Sanchia’s letter referred to, my mother went to a leather chest in her room, bound in silver. I had never seen her open it but she did now, and lifted out the only contents, a silk bag inside a rougher woolen one, holding this book and a medal on a long chain, wrapped in a beautifully embroidered handkerchief that looked very old. She unwrapped the chain and held the handkerchief against her cheek, whispering “dear Luz.” Then she held up the medal and slipped it over my head.

“Isabelita, you were Pia’s miracle,” she said to me. “And when Salome died, I lost track of many things. I had been so busy nursing her and caring for all you children, helping the convent…so much was happening that at one time I feared the medal had been lost. After a frantic search I found it again and put it away with the Chronicle for safekeeping.”

That was not surprising. All sorts of objects in this house would disappear, resurface, and disappear again. My mother, Esperanza, had nine children who lived, and the house was always overflowing with babies, cousins, nurses, animals, servants, endless visitors and their children. My mother was strict about our education and refused to entrust it to tutors, preferring to teach us herself. It left her little time to oversee the housekeeping and I can well understand her safely putting away anything she wished to keep.

My mother tapped the medal and said, “This was meant to belong to the convent, and I gave it to Mother Superior not long after we arrived from Spain. But then Pia took it and gave it to you and said you were meant to keep it. Who knows, perhaps it will save another child.” Then we sat in the old schoolroom and she read the family stories again; that of my great-grandmother in Spain, the scribe who began this record; my mother’s account of her voyage to Spanish America; the story of my grandmother Salome.

As my mother turned the pages she grew pensive. “Alas, I have neglected my duty. I never honored a promise I made to the Abbess of the convent in Spain. I must do so before it is too late.” She handed this Chronicle to me, and made me promise to see that Sanchia delivered it to the Mother Superior at Las Golondrinas de Los Andes. I protested that she should tell Sanchia herself, but she shook her head.

I believe she had a premonition. A month before Sanchia came, my mother died in her sleep. Sanchia spent the first hours of her visit at my mother’s grave. She returned with red eyes and had me read the parts of the Chronicle about the four girls, and then insisted I write this last Chapter before she delivers it to the convent, as my mother had wished.

My mother’s old friend has proved a consoling distraction for my husband, Teo Jesus Beltran, and my grieving father. There is nothing of the temptress about Sanchia now, just an old woman who talks incessantly of past times, about her husband’s grandchildren, the charities she patronizes, and what she will find in Spain.

Vaez Sobremonte’s widow has very fine diamonds to enliven her mourning clothes, elegant gowns of silk trimmed with black Belgian lace. She arrived in a well-sprung, cushioned carriage, with a coat of arms on the door followed by a great many wagons loaded with things she is taking back to Spain. A large ship will be necessary to hold everything. In addition to her personal baggage there are several paintings she commissioned at great expense, and one of Marisol, that Marisol’s husband, Don Tomas, had painted to mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of the school for girls which Marisol established on the Beltran hacienda. Poor Don Tomas has not been the same since Marisol’s death, but still, Teo Jesus cannot understand how Sanchia managed to persuade him to part with it. Sanchia also has with her a portrait of her husband Sobremonte, a strong-featured, intelligent-looking man in a skullcap and a kind of fringed shawl. She takes it with her everywhere she goes on her travels.

Sanchia spoke of her intention to pay her respects at the cell where Pia lived and interceded for my life. That cell has remained empty since Pia’s death and they say the nuns hear voices coming from it in the night, that it is visited by spirits—a lady in a dark cloak, and two beautiful young women, one with silver hair and one with dark. The bishop does not know what line to take about this, but fears to upset the local people who believe Pia is a saint.

Sanchia wished to know about us. I told her that we are all married and have families of our own. My eldest sister Maria Caterina is married to one of our cacique cousins. I am married to Marisol’s son, Teo Jesus, and our brothers have also chosen cacique wives, educated at Las Golondrinas. My other sisters married Spanish husbands and two of them died in childbirth. Between us we have many children and a few grandchildren. My father views our increase with great satisfaction, saying that it comforts him to know that through his children Inca will remain on the land until the earth joins the sun.

Sanchia leaves tomorrow at dawn, and I decided to add one more item to her consignment for the Spanish convent. Tonight, Teo Jesus helped me take down a portrait from the sala wall. It is of our youngest child Maria Salome, who entered Las Golondrinas de Los Andes as a novice by her own choice—her demand, I should say—the instant she turned sixteen. She is a strong-willed girl, who in temperament resembles her fearsome grandmother Dona Luisa Beltran. It is a fine portrait, I think. Maria Salome is dressed in a handsome new tunic woven specially on our hacienda, and insisted on wearing all her jewelry, and some of mine and her sisters’. Her expression says it all. She is a formidable nun, young as she is. We intended to give the portrait to the convent here as is the custom, but since Sanchia does not mind how much baggage she travels with, Teo Jesus and I would like to send it back to Spain to hang in the convent where our mothers found shelter.

I am about to close this Chronicle forever. It will finally go to Las Golondrinas de Los Andes where it belongs. I dedicate this last entry to the memory of my mother, Esperanza, and her parents with a prayer I heard continuously on her lips, “God is great.”