The King’s Portrait Isabel Pedrazuela
T
he sun entered the room from the tall windows, covering every corner and bringing the colours of the walls to life. Pieter Paul observed the rays and studied them, mentally deciding which wall would be the perfect background for his piece. He slowly turned around, his eyes scanning every curtain, every moulding, every tiny bit of dust. It was a majestic room, only fit for a king. Or for a caliph, he thought. Even though the palace had been renewed and the decoration had changed, Pieter Paul could still see the remains of the Islamic fortress it had once been. He had heard of them, the Muslims that had invaded the peninsula many centuries ago, and he had also heard the stories of the kings and queens that had expelled them. They had taken over the land, with a cross in their hand, and they had sworn to gain back what had never truly been theirs. Two centuries later, the remains of the civilization that had lived inside those walls were still present in every corner of the city. Pieter Paul decided to put those thoughts aside. It was not his place to comment on the politics of the Empire. He had been born far from the capital, and he was considered a stranger in those lands. Humming a song he didn’t know the lyrics to, he started to prepare for the king. First, he set the easel, made of the best wood his master had found. Then, the canvas, white like marble but soft like the king’s clothes. Finally, his tools. Five paintbrushes of different sizes and a box with pigments in glass containers. The pigments had been a gift from the king, and Pieter Paul was now the proud owner of one of the most extensive collections of pigments he had ever seen. He took out the oil and started to prepare the colours. His work was suddenly interrupted by the loud metallic noise the doors made as they opened. An old man, twenty or thirty years older than Pieter Paul but with hair and a moustache as black as coal, entered the room with his chin up. He wore all dark clothes, with puffy sleeves and broad, heeled shoes. Two apprentices walked
quickly behind him, carrying his tools. The man saw Pieter Paul and walked straight to him, not pausing a single moment to admire the room they were in. “The painter from Flanders, I presume?” The man spoke with a steadiness that only age and experience add to one’s voice. “I’m Pieter Paul,” he said, and cordially shook his hand. “Diego,” the man replied, quickly turning around. He moved swiftly, like a willow, as if he were being carried by the wind, even though all the windows were closed. It only took the apprentices a few minutes to set Diego’s working space up. Pieter Paul looked back at his own and realised how modest it seemed. “I was thinking that the red curtain could be the background for the portrait,” Pieter Paul said, pointing at the velvet fabric. Diego lifted his eyes for a split second to look at it, and then focused on his tools again. “The red is too juvenile. We will use black, to show the king’s power,” he stated. “But the black is too dark, the people will see the king and think of death.” “Better to think of a king who brings death to his enemies than to think of a king who lives for the entertainment,” Diego replied. “The people need to be reminded of his power,” he concluded. Then he turned to Pieter Paul as if he had just remembered something. “You are the diplomat, aren’t you?” Without waiting for the other painter’s answer, he continued. “Yes, I have heard of you. I saw your paintings in France, they are quite decent. The queen speaks wonders of you.” Pieter Paul felt his cheeks turning the colour of the velvet curtain. He had travelled to Madrid in an attempt to leave the queen, her opulent parties, her dark eyes, and the ghost of the dead king behind. “But of course,” Diego continued, “you must understand that the Empire is not France. We do not indulge ourselves in the kind of behaviours you must have seen in Paris. Here, the portraits are made so the people fear the king, not the 68
