‘Where art thou, lady mine, that thou
My sorrow dost not rue?
Thou canst not know it, lady mine,
Or else thou art untrue.’
Excerpt From: Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. ‘Don Quixote.’
“This is what you brought from Cordoba.”
William waved at the pile of manuscripts carelessly heaped on his desk.
“When I started this research, I never thought that I would need to become expert in translating medieval Spanish, Italian and God knows what else. I’m tired Paul. I’m 75 years old and really tired.”
Paul was startled. In all of the time that he had known William – which was for most of his life – he had looked up to him as a dynamic, energetic achiever. Yes. William always got things done. This was new, different – a man that he barely recognised. He glanced towards the open window as down in the garden, a bird started its last song of the day.
William seemed to pull himself together and continued. “They tell a fascinating story. Most of them are letters and documents that were written around 1577. You have read Cervantes I assume?”
“Of course. At some time or other, I think that everyone has a go at Don Quixote. I pride myself on the fact that not only did I finish it, but I actually enjoyed it. It was a forerunner to Fawlty Towers. And I mean because of the slapstick and not just Manuel.”
“Be that as it may”, continued William, “Not many people realise what a character Cervantes himself was. He was forced to leave Spain because of a duel. He studied Renaissance art in Italy. He then joined the Spanish Marines and took part in the battle of Lepanto where he was seriously wounded. In fact he permanently lost the use of his left hand. He was later captured by Algerian corsairs and held captive for 5 years. And all this before he had started his first novel. Some of the letters that I have were written to his parents asking for help with his ransom. I really don’t know how they came up with the money because they were poor people. It could, of course be the reason that it took 5 years for him to be released. While he was held in Algeria, he recorded his experiences of his time in Italy, a sort of biography I suppose. That’s what I have here and if you have an hour to spare, that’s what I would like to tell you about. You will see that it’s not just a random tale, it is an integral part of my research to date.”
Paul walked across the study. It was just getting dark and despite the room being high up in the tower, the moths were starting to become attracted to the wall light. He carefully closed the leaded window which despite its size was well balanced and moved easily on its hinges. Another example of his attention to detail he thought. He glanced at his glass and then at the half full bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin. William had just refilled his own glass with his favourite single malt that he had sent across direct from the distillery by the crate load. Paul settled into the high backed Chesterfield ready to listen.
“When Cervantes was a teenager, he met and fell in love with a barmaid named Josefina. The couple were madly in love and planned to elope. Her father found out and perhaps because of his impoverished background, she was forbidden from ever seeing him again. This is well documented but he does refer to it several times in the Algiers documents. I also suspect that it had an impact on the story that I want to tell you about part of his life in Italy. It’s also well documented that he left Spain for Italy because of a quarrel with a certain Antonio de Segura. Unsurprisingly, it was about a woman. Cervantes was a little too friendly with De Segura’s wife and the duel that resulted left de Segura badly wounded and Cervantes being pursued by the authorities. I think that it is safe to conclude that he liked women and could hold his own with a sword. Both are relevant to what happened later.”
William paused for a sip from his glass and Paul looked around. The only light in the room now was the glow from the dimmed wall lamp. William continued.
“I have paraphrased the bulk of this story from his letters and documents as it’s the only way that it really makes sense. The letters to a certain extent and his memoir much more so are told in a way that is a precursor of his later writing style – and you obviously know what that is like. This part of his story was written whilst he was incarcerated in Algiers and refers to an incident that persuaded him to join the Spanish Marines who were based in Naples close to where he was living at the time.
Journal Entry Tangiers 27 March 1577
Two years in this stinking hole and no sign of a ransom being paid by my parents. I can’t believe that the chest that I sent from Naples has not yet reached them, unless that is, the friend with whom it was entrusted has absconded with its contents. There was certainly sufficient gold to cover the ransom that these heathens have been demanding. I suppose that all things considered my conditions could be much worse than they are. I am able to converse with these corsairs and they do not work me unduly. In return for my cooking and carrying they allow me some time to myself and access to paper and quill. Even when I was recaptured after my latest attempt at escape they were not unkind and made something of a jest of my efforts.
My spare time is spent in planning a parody in the modern style which recounts the adventures of a retired gentleman who decides to become a knight-errant in search of adventure. The idea came to me after I had to leave Naples in something of a hurry because of my entanglement with a man such as this. Truth be told, it was his wife with whom I entangled and the aforesaid gentleman foolishly tried to reclaim his honour by calling me out. At his age, he should have seen sense, but at least, the last time I saw him, he was not dead although he was sore wounded by my sword. As a parting gift, his wife had pressed into my hands a likeness of her that had hung on the wall of their house. I say a likeness of her and it is true that there was a superficial similarity, but I believe that the sketch was actually made some seventy years earlier of a distant relative of this Contessa. I look forward to seeing this artefact again although as it travelled home with my other goods and belongings when I joined the Marines I have serious doubts as to its eventual whereabouts. My future, oddly, is inextricably linked with this sketch because if it has been taken, then so has all of the gold that was therein. That would explain the lack of response to my pleas for ransom as my parents are but poor people. Meanwhile, I am incarcerated in this excessive heat doing the bidding of these non-believers.
The rest of this paper is fascinating but provides no further clue as to the destiny of the sketch. I am convinced that the picture to which Cervantes refers is the Leonardo that we are looking for. There is however, another fragment that is dated some thirteen years later. As you will see, this provides us with more crucial information.
Journal Entry Seville 27 March 1590
Once again I am held against my will through no fault of my own. This time it is because of the bankruptcy of the Mateus brothers with whom I had deposited a large amount of gold which I had collected in taxes through my work as a tax collector. As a result, I cannot pay the exchequer the amount that is owed. It has given me an opportunity though to make a start on the tales of Don Quixote that I conceived in similar circumstances in Tangiers some dozen or so years ago. I do not know how long I am to be held here in Seville but I hope that my release will come soon. It is certainly because of my intransigence that I find myself so frequently in such disagreeable circumstances but I could not have foreseen or altered the misfortune that has befallen me at other times. Take, for example, the chest that I sent from Naples to my parents just before I was forced to leave Italy. It was entrusted to a man that I would have called brother. When I eventually arrived home after all of my adventures, it was only to discover that he had absconded with the contents – the gold that was to keep me for the rest of my life and even the likeness of the Contessa (whose name I have since forgotten). It was a truly remarkable piece of art, sketched by an artist who was a master of his craft. The lady was in profile looking over her right shoulder wearing a simple gown that showed her beautiful shoulders.”
William paused at this point and looked at me with eyes that would once have been described as piercing but now could only be said to be rheumy with age. “The portrait of Isabella in the Louvre” he said quietly, “Has her looking over her left shoulder. In this picture, she is looking over her right. This letter explains how the picture travelled from Italy. What it doesn’t tell us is how it reached France from Spain.”
“And who the friend was that absconded with his trunk.” I added. I also noted to myself that William had started talking about us and we in this search for the history of the picture whereas it had started out with him referring simply to himself. I wondered what had changed to make him want to include me further in this mystery.”
He continued with Cervante’s tale.
“I tracked my friend to Granada which is where I will travel next when I have been released. I do not know his exact whereabouts but he cannot be that difficult to find. The trouble is, I have so little spare time having to work to earn my keep. I have little hope that anything is left but I would like to know the truth about what he did and his reasons why.”
“So it is Granada where we must continue our search” William concluded quietly.
Under 1000 days 