F0134 · The Maroon Kingdom / Inés at Night
Inés closed the window slowly, feeling the dampness of the night cling to her skin, an uncomfortable reminder of the unease consuming her. The heavy, laden air of Trastevere seemed to magnify the emptiness she carried within. On the other side of the Tiber, Alberto, unable to fall asleep, stood beneath the orange trees on the Aventine. He prayed, or at least tried to, but his thoughts were with Inés. He gazed in her direction, wishing their eyes could cross the distance and meet at some invisible point.
Inés raised a hand to the pearl earring, a gesture she made whenever memories assailed her. She thought of Señor Aguilar, of the words he had spoken at their last gathering: there would soon be news of Columbus. But those practical thoughts faded, and the question that always haunted her returned with force: Did he love me? It was a dagger that stabbed her again and again, without mercy.
Luis Méndez, her husband, had loved others with an intensity he had never reserved for her. The rumors of his escapades with men he was supposed to fight—Arabs, noblemen fallen from grace—were known to everyone. Inés did not judge him; she had learned to expect nothing. When Luis was sent to Rome, she followed him, carrying the burden of a marriage built on duties and inheritances. There she learned of the death of Garci Madruga, the son Luis had fathered in an earlier affair. The loss freed him from a responsibility, but not from his torment. It was then, in his grief, that he turned to Inés. And from that brief, almost desperate love, a son was born: her little Garci, now asleep in his cradle.
Everything Inés had done in her life, she had done for others. Out of love for her father, loyalty to Luis, concern for her son’s safety. She had never acted for her own pleasure, never allowed herself to love herself. Her marriage had been a transaction, an alliance sealed by the weight of a surname. Now, in the solitude of the night, she felt the ghost of that absent love surround her, whispering against her neck with a longing that hurt as much as it consoled.
Inés bent over the cradle and softly sang a lullaby. Her voice, a whisper that barely broke the silence, caressed little Garci until she was sure he was sleeping deeply. Then she let herself be drawn by the sound coming from the library. A distant murmur, like an echo of sadness resounding throughout the house. She thought of Señor Aguilar, her protector, probably drunk at that hour. Did she love him? The question brought a bitter smile to her lips. She did not love him, but she owed him more than she could express. In a world that saw her as a threat, a woman of the lesser Nasrid nobility was always fleeing with a dagger in her heart. Isabella and her new decrees left her no other path.
She bent over her son once more, breathing in his scent with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes. The little boy was her everything, the reason she kept going. She remembered Luis, the alchemist, and the mark that had grown on his chest. A dark stain that had foretold his end long before it came. Inés had kissed that stain so many times, as though with each kiss she might absorb it, carry it far away, save him. But the laws of alchemy were clear: whoever seeks immortality must pay with his life.
The night was growing cooler. From somewhere far away, Farid’s duduk wove melancholy notes that floated through the air. Inés closed the window, shivering without knowing why, and returned to her bed. At last sleep overcame her, and with it came memories. She dreamed of Luis, of his face consumed by the mark, of the inevitable death that stalks those who try to transcend time. And amid the dream, the call of a little owl seemed to mingle with the music, as though the world insisted on reminding her that even in immortality, death always has the last word.
F0134 · The Maroon Kingdom / Inés at Night
Inés closed the window slowly, feeling the dampness of the night cling to her skin, an uncomfortable reminder of the unease consuming her. The heavy, laden air of Trastevere seemed to magnify the emptiness she carried within. On the other side of the Tiber, Alberto, unable to fall asleep, stood beneath the orange trees on the Aventine. He prayed, or at least tried to, but his thoughts were with Inés. He gazed in her direction, wishing their eyes could cross the distance and meet at some invisible point.
Inés raised a hand to the pearl earring, a gesture she made whenever memories assailed her. She thought of Señor Aguilar, of the words he had spoken at their last gathering: there would soon be news of Columbus. But those practical thoughts faded, and the question that always haunted her returned with force: Did he love me? It was a dagger that stabbed her again and again, without mercy.
Luis Méndez, her husband, had loved others with an intensity he had never reserved for her. The rumors of his escapades with men he was supposed to fight—Arabs, noblemen fallen from grace—were known to everyone. Inés did not judge him; she had learned to expect nothing. When Luis was sent to Rome, she followed him, carrying the burden of a marriage built on duties and inheritances. There she learned of the death of Garci Madruga, the son Luis had fathered in an earlier affair. The loss freed him from a responsibility, but not from his torment. It was then, in his grief, that he turned to Inés. And from that brief, almost desperate love, a son was born: her little Garci, now asleep in his cradle.
Everything Inés had done in her life, she had done for others. Out of love for her father, loyalty to Luis, concern for her son’s safety. She had never acted for her own pleasure, never allowed herself to love herself. Her marriage had been a transaction, an alliance sealed by the weight of a surname. Now, in the solitude of the night, she felt the ghost of that absent love surround her, whispering against her neck with a longing that hurt as much as it consoled.
Inés bent over the cradle and softly sang a lullaby. Her voice, a whisper that barely broke the silence, caressed little Garci until she was sure he was sleeping deeply. Then she let herself be drawn by the sound coming from the library. A distant murmur, like an echo of sadness resounding throughout the house. She thought of Señor Aguilar, her protector, probably drunk at that hour. Did she love him? The question brought a bitter smile to her lips. She did not love him, but she owed him more than she could express. In a world that saw her as a threat, a woman of the lesser Nasrid nobility was always fleeing with a dagger in her heart. Isabella and her new decrees left her no other path.
She bent over her son once more, breathing in his scent with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes. The little boy was her everything, the reason she kept going. She remembered Luis, the alchemist, and the mark that had grown on his chest. A dark stain that had foretold his end long before it came. Inés had kissed that stain so many times, as though with each kiss she might absorb it, carry it far away, save him. But the laws of alchemy were clear: whoever seeks immortality must pay with his life.
The night was growing cooler. From somewhere far away, Farid’s duduk wove melancholy notes that floated through the air. Inés closed the window, shivering without knowing why, and returned to her bed. At last sleep overcame her, and with it came memories. She dreamed of Luis, of his face consumed by the mark, of the inevitable death that stalks those who try to transcend time. And amid the dream, the call of a little owl seemed to mingle with the music, as though the world insisted on reminding her that even in immortality, death always has the last word.
F0134 · El Reino Cimarrón / La noche de Inés
Inés cerró la ventana lentamente, sintiendo cómo la humedad de la noche se adhería a su piel, un recordatorio incómodo de la inquietud que la consumía. El aire del Trastévere, pesado y cargado, parecía amplificar el vacío que llevaba dentro. Desde el otro lado del Tíber, Alberto, incapaz de conciliar el sueño, se encontraba bajo los naranjos del Aventino. Rezaba, o al menos lo intentaba, pero sus pensamientos estaban con Inés. Miraba hacia la dirección donde ella estaba, deseando que sus miradas pudieran atravesar la distancia y encontrarse en algún punto invisible.
Inés se llevó una mano al arete de perla, un gesto que hacía cada vez que los recuerdos la atacaban. Pensó en el señor Aguilar, en las palabras que había pronunciado en la última reunión: en breve habría noticias de Colón. Pero esos pensamientos prácticos se desvanecieron, y la pregunta que siempre la perseguía regresó con fuerza: ¿Me amó? Era una daga que se clavaba una y otra vez, sin misericordia.
Luis Méndez, su esposo, había amado a otros con una intensidad que nunca reservó para ella. Los rumores de sus escapadas con hombres que debía combatir —árabes, nobles caídos en desgracia— eran conocidos por todos. Inés no lo juzgaba; había aprendido a no esperar nada. Cuando Luis fue enviado a Roma, ella lo siguió, llevando consigo la carga de un matrimonio construido sobre deberes y herencias. Allí, se enteró de la muerte de Garci Madruga, el hijo que Luis tuvo en un amorío anterior. La pérdida lo liberó de una responsabilidad, pero no de su tormento. Fue entonces, en su dolor, que se volvió hacia Inés. Y de aquel breve amor, casi desesperado, nació un hijo: su pequeño Garci, ahora dormido en la cuna.
Todo lo que Inés había hecho en su vida lo había hecho por otros. Por amor a su padre, por lealtad a Luis, por la seguridad de su hijo. Nunca había actuado por placer propio, nunca se había permitido amarse a sí misma. Su matrimonio había sido una transacción, una alianza sellada por el peso de un apellido. Ahora, en la soledad de la noche, sentía el fantasma de ese amor ausente rodeándola, susurrándole en el cuello con una nostalgia que dolía tanto como consolaba.
Inés se inclinó sobre la cuna y cantó suavemente una nana. Su voz, un susurro que apenas rompía el silencio, acarició al pequeño Garci hasta asegurarse de que dormía profundamente. Entonces, se dejó atraer por el sonido que provenía de la biblioteca. Un murmullo lejano, como un eco de tristeza que resonaba en toda la casa. Pensó en el señor Aguilar, su protector, probablemente borracho a esas horas. ¿Lo amaba? La pregunta le provocó una sonrisa amarga. No lo amaba, pero le debía más de lo que podía expresar. En un mundo que la veía como una amenaza, una mujer de baja nobleza nazarí huía siempre con una daga en el corazón. Isabel y sus nuevas disposiciones no le dejaban otro camino.
Se inclinó una vez más sobre su hijo, olisqueándolo con una ternura que le arrancó lágrimas. El pequeño era su todo, la razón por la que seguía adelante. Recordó a Luis, el alquimista, y la marca que había crecido en su pecho. Una mancha oscura que anunciaba su final mucho antes de que llegara. Inés había besado esa mancha tantas veces, como si con cada beso pudiera absorberla, llevársela lejos, salvarlo. Pero las leyes de la alquimia eran claras: quien busca la inmortalidad debe pagar con su vida.
La noche refrescaba. Desde algún lugar lejano, el duduk de Farid tejía notas melancólicas que flotaban en el aire. Inés cerró la ventana, estremeciéndose sin saber por qué, y regresó a su cama. Finalmente, el sueño la venció, y con él llegaron los recuerdos. Soñó con Luis, con su rostro consumido por la marca, con la inevitable muerte que acecha a quienes intentan trascender el tiempo. Y en medio del sueño, el canto de un mochuelo pareció mezclarse con la música, como si el mundo insistiera en recordarle que incluso en la inmortalidad, la muerte siempre tiene la última palabra.