Teresa, My Love: An Imagined Life of the Saint of Avila

That young noblewoman advancing toward her bed, isn’t that Casilda de Padilla, the daughter of the Castilian adelantado, Juan de Padilla Manrique? Her father died when she was very young, leaving her to be raised by her mother, María de Acuña Manrique, and guided by her confessor Fr. Ripalda — the inspired Jesuit priest who ordered the writing of the Foundations.

TERESA. I miss you, daughter. (Now her words run through the dying woman’s mind, through neurons that obstruct or let them pass, but no word is uttered.) Why did you leave me? Barely a year ago, it was. For the Franciscans of Santa Gadea, near Burgos, I seem to recall. (Long stare.) I recognized myself in you, or rather not — you ranked so far above me. And again, I hated that stubborn taste of mine for the finer things that drew me to you, that ambushed me in my unwitting state as a semi-Marrana determined not to know, that made me laugh at myself when I caught myself being so frivolous! First, from tender youth, like me you despised the world. (Fast.) They found a way to betroth you to a brother of your father’s, so as to keep the fortune and the family name; your brother and one sister had already taken vows, that was enough, they thought. Your parents obtained a papal dispensation to license the match with your uncle. You were only twelve at the time. You fled to a convent, they dragged you out, you went back, your uncle-husband got you out, you fled again, but this time you came to me, to the house at Valladolid.

(The film rewinds inside her head, the brain sees, speaks without uttering, scrambles, speeds up, bumps into itself.)

Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we. Your story reminds me of my own paternal uncle, the pious, unforgettable Pedro Sánchez. (Jumpy encephalogram.) No connection? You’re right, there isn’t. Except, and this is the point, that Uncle Pedro was the one who made me decide to take the veil. I can admit it now. Nobody knows, only you. Do you see? My story was the exact opposite of yours: I didn’t marry my uncle, he made me marry Jesus. Strange, isn’t it? By the grace of God, I escaped sooner than you did from the fate reserved for women, mothers, families. You took your time. You tried to do it through me. At last you obtained what I offered, didn’t you? (Pause.) In matters of love only the Other’s love endures, don’t you agree? The rest, including the attractions we feel as women, or especially those, is insoluble: the shadow of the mother gets in the way, do you follow me?

Teresa contemplates her reflection in Casilda de Padilla’s specter, plunges into the other’s life before retreating, lucidly; doubles briefly back onto the self to loop the loops of the writing and the girls’ portraits sketched out in the Foundations. That’s not me, is it? It’s not me so who is it, who is she, what is a Me? Exile or castle? Dwelling places, maybe, but no me, there is no Me…unnameable Me that tells lies, basely splashing in the unnameable fount divine, of the Word rejuvenated.…

TERESA, like an excited little girl. Is that still you, Casilda, or have I got you mixed up? Do you know you’re dressed like doña Catalina, my father’s first wife? In the clothes that were packed away in wardrobes and precious chests. How can that be.…

CASILDA. You dressed me yourself, Mother, just now, with your own hands. (She’s trying to explain that it’s all happening in the older woman’s foggy mind. Or is it La Madre speaking, taking Casilda’s role? She stares at the visitor for a long time. Superimposed images, chromatic deluge.) You picked out this shantung skirt, made from the watered silk of old China, with a bias binding in slashed yellow taffeta and a red lining. And this violet damask bodice, ribbed with black velvet. You used to say your mother Beatriz used to put them on when she wasn’t feeling sad, until, near the end of her life, she wore nothing but black…