The Rosas Affair. Donald L. Lucero

she shared her secrets. He hoped that he had chosen his priest well—a reprobate, it was said, an unprincipled scoundrel, who might be willing to accede to his request.

      “Say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys,” said Fray Juan de Vidania to the unseen woman who knelt on the other side of the confessional. “And now say an Act of Contrition and do not sin again!” he commanded, as he closed the small window on the other side of the booth.

      Nicolas heard Fray Vidania moving about in his cubicle as he rearranged his seating. Then a prolonged silence ensued. Finally, a small window on Nicolas’s side of the box slid open to reveal a wooden trellis behind which sat Fray Juan de Vidania, a transfer from the Franciscan province of Michoacan, and one whom the Franciscan Order had unaccountably accepted into its ranks after his expulsion from the Society of Jesus.

      “It’s Nicolas Ortiz, your Reverence,” Ortiz whispered, using the priest’s more formal title. “It’s exceedingly important that I speak with you.”

      “And what is it, my son?” asked Fray Vidania.

      “I came to make a request, Father, a request regarding Maria Perez de Bustillo,” Nicolas said. “It’s imperative that I speak with you,” he repeated, “but not here, Father. I only came here because I had been told that you were hearing confessions. May I speak with you in private?” he asked.

      “About what?” Fray Vidania asked, with a note of irritation in his voice.

      “About a gift and a promise of love, Father.”

      Fray Vidania was quiet for a long moment, and then Nicolas saw the small door being slid along its waxed runners as the good father again covered the trellised aperture. Nicolas strained but could hear nothing more. Suddenly, Fray Vidania rose and stepped out from within the confessional, rudely brushed aside the curtain which had shielded Ortiz from view, and with his purple stole still prominently displayed against his gray cassock, demanded, “Come with me! I’ve heard enough sins for one day. These little old ladies dressed always in black, their sins are of little moment and will wait till tomorrow.” He grabbed Nicolas by his sleeve. “A gift and a promise of love?” he asked as he and Nicolas walked toward the door leading to the office that Vidania had established within the Hermita’s small sacristy.

      “Yes, Father,” Nicolas said. “I want to give Maria a gift, something she’ll remember me by when I go on the wagon train. For when I leave, Father, I’ll be gone for three long years.”

      They entered the office where Fray Vidania motioned for Ortiz to sit on a cushioned stool that had been drawn up for that purpose, the cleric himself taking a seat in a chair. Vidania, a gentleman of perhaps 50 years of age, lean and hard, and dressed in a drab cassock of enormous dimensions, gave the young Ortiz the once-over and then turned to his desk. “A prenda . . . a prenda,” he muttered to himself regarding the marriage pledge for which he was searching as he rummaged around within the desk. Pulling out drawers and then searching within them, he opened and then slammed them shut one by one, saying, “You could give her a small piece of jewelry . . . or a medal or some such. I’ve got one here someplace. One of Our Lady. Silver. The weight of a silver coin.” Shrugging and seemingly annoyed that he could not find what he was looking for, he said, “Or you could give her a poem. I’ve got one here.” He felt around within his cassock. “A takeoff on a lovely Jewish ballad I found that I’ve been rearranging for just such an occasion,” he said while taking from within the sleeve of his robes a folded slip of paper. Clearing his throat, he said, “The poem is called ‘There Is a Beautiful Lady,’ ” He read:

      There is a beautiful lady,

      No one is lovelier:

      Her forehead is dazzling.

      And her hair is like brass.

      Her brow mother-of-pearl,

      Her eyes, the shape of almonds,

      are green,

      Her nose fine as a feather,

      Her cheeks are roses,

      Her mouth very rounded,

      Her teeth are pearls,

      Slender her throat,

      Her breasts, golden apples,

      Her waist small, her body

      Drawn fine like a cypress

      When she comes to Mass

      The church dances with light . . .1

      He stopped then, looked at Nicolas and smiled, covering nicely the tinge of embarrassment he was experiencing—for had not his rendition been inspired by Nicolas’s Maria? He put the folded piece of paper back into the crease of his sleeve and said, “Or you could give her one of these,” pointing to a box full of rosaries. “They’d be fine,” he tossed off with a shrug. “But I’ve seen your Maria, Nicolas,” he said with a wide grin, speaking of the young beauty with the gaping blouse whom he had often seen kneeling on the stairs of the sanctuary. “She is lovely!” he exclaimed. “A jewel in herself! I think she should have something more, something better, something substantial.” Fray Vidania, who liked to think of himself as an expert in matters of love, then knelt on the cold flagstones of his office floor and pulled out from beneath his desk a small hidebound chest. He opened it and very carefully unwrapped a copy of the Traetatus, a book of courtly love, which in his inglorious departure from the Society’s motherhouse, he had stolen from the Jesuit library. “Nicolas,” he exclaimed, while holding the gilt-edged book before him, “it’s all here, devised by men who should know these things!” Taking the book, whose binding was laced and tied with a leather thong, he ruffled through several pages of the well-worn manuscript, leafing back and forth among the book’s many folios, the parchment of the ancient vellum crackling beneath his touch. Finally finding the exact passage for which he had been searching, he said, “These are the gifts a gallant might make to his lady.” He cleared his throat and read from the book:

      . . . a handkerchief, a wreath of gold or silver, a brooch, a mirror, a purse, a tassel, a comb, sleeves, gloves, a ring, a powder box, little dishes, or any little thing which might be of use in the bath or in helping the lady to remember her lover, if it’s assured that the lady is without a trace of avarice . . .

      “Avarice? Nicolas questioned. “I don’t know that word, Father.”

      “Greed!” Fray Vidania exclaimed with great emotion. “Greed!”

      “But it’s not a prenda I seek, Father. She’s to be my bride, not my mistress. She is referred to by her father as an infanta, or royal princess, but she knows nothing of greed.”

      “Well, then, you’re a very lucky man!” responded Fray Vidania while replacing his cherished book within its velvet cover. “Have you asked for her hand?” he asked.

      “That’s why I’m here, Father,” Nicolas said, “to consult with you regarding a gift and to ask you to marry us.” He waited a moment before continuing, saying finally, “Her father has said that she’s too young to marry and I fear what will happen to her in my absence.”

      “Has he denied your request? Um, dealt you the calabazas as they say?” he asked with a wide grin.

      “I haven’t made the request myself, Father, and I don’t have parents here who might make it for me. But the problem is this,” he said, leaning forward from his stool and speaking intently. “Maria’s father, don Simon Perez de Bustillo, has three daughters and only one son. His older daughters, Catalina and Juliana, married well. His wish is to further cement the alliances he now has with other prominent families by arranging advantageous marriages for the other two, for Nicolas and for Maria.”

      “Like a feudal lord?” Vidania queried.

      “Like an old colonist!” Nicolas said. “Like a moradore who, in contrast to an encomendero, does not have rights to Indian tribute and who must, therefore, maintain his superiority among the other colonists through marital alliances. I understand all of that,