Elena Poniatowska - Leonora

When she’s not painting or exhibiting, she returns to the Kristine Mann bookshop, and the owner receives her with an open and happy smile. Surrounded by antique books and treatises on alchemy, he resembles a magus, and when he tells her he has the blueprint of the alchemical rose, Leonora replies that to her the only alchemical rose is a cabbage.

‘A cabbage?’ asks the bookseller in surprise.

‘Of course. The cabbage cries when it is wrenched from the earth, and cries all over again when it is plunged into boiling water, just as trout also do. Have you seen how they are thrown in alive and double up in a final effort to catch their breath?’

‘If you have such a heightened degree of sensitivity, you’ll know how to take care of this book,’ and the bookshop owner presents her with a copy of Roger Bacon’s The Mirror of Alchemy. ‘This is the French edition, published in Lyons in 1553.’

Leonora cannot contain her emotion: ‘Don’t worry, I learnt French as a child, and went on to cultivate vineyards in France.’

Painting a cabbage is akin to painting the alchemical blue rose, or the blue poison that comes from the peyote plant. She erects her easel right by the window, and begins slowly to trace its outline, as if savouring every moment. Drawing such a thing in New York is a challenge. Writing and painting are similar, in that both arts — with music as a third art form — require an external reception. Who will be open to receive this work here in New York? At once, Leonora thinks of the sympathetic expression on the face of the bookseller, and that afternoon, together with Baskerville, she goes on foot to the bookshop. The books warm the walls, the atmosphere is loving, and Leonora takes off her coat.

‘How is the painting going?’ he asks her.

Leonora suspects that at best he simply won’t understand her work, for we are all different, we each perceive things differently, and explaining things makes little sense, for he is bound to only understand things in his own way. And who is he? She realises she doesn’t even know his name. Abruptly, she asks him what it is. It turns out that he is Swiss — German, just like Carl G. Jung; that he comes from Basel; and that his name is Carl Hoffmann.

‘On one occasion a dog barked at a mask I’d made, and to me that was the most honest comment ever made on any piece of my work,’ Leonora tells him, which makes him laugh.

He invites her to dinner and she accepts. The restaurant has something of the atmosphere of a sanctuary and a hearth — just like the bookshop — and after a glass of red wine Leonora starts discussing her views on feminism.

‘I don’t know of any religion which does not proclaim that women are mentally feeble, unclean, or inferior to the male of the species.’

‘Yet the whole of culture gravitates around women, and they are called the cream of our species. What then happens is that Homo Sapiens is less wise than he thinks.’

‘You’re right. We possess the very mysteries of life.’

‘Tomorrow I’ll show you the books I have by Germaine Greer, Betty Friedan, Sandra Gilbert … I am certain you already know those by Mary Wollstonecraft.’

Leonora returns to Mexico. ‘All this time I was trying to distance myself from here. I never could, some spell holds me trapped in Mexico like a fly caught in honey.’

A feminist video artist called Lucero González requests a poster design from her. It is intended to read: ‘Women Con-science’. Leonora paints an Eve giving back the apple and so recovering her right to rule. Her reflections captivate Lucero, who listens to her avidly, sitting at the kitchen table in her home. According to the artist, the Bible contains more omissions than truths, and depends heavily on the interpretations of those who wrote it down. How had God become so popular when he is a furious old man who castigates and destroys? How can people worship someone who sends only plagues and annihilation? Why does Eve get blamed for every catastrophe? Who gave life to human beings made in the image of angels? Eve or Lilith? The Big Bang or the Golem? The serpent god Quetzalcoatl?

Lucero González listens to her without batting an eyelid, and Leonora goes on:

‘If all the women across the globe decided to take control of their fertility, reject war, not to mention racial and sexual discrimination, the world would be a different place.’

Once back in Mexico, the artist becomes as essential an attraction as the pyramids at Teotihuacan or Chapultepec castle. She receives them all — the fan, the gallerist and the art critic — and smiles courteously, in spite of her longing for them all to leave.

Collectors arrive from the United States and Europe, and journalists chase interviews.

What a bloody nuisance! Leonora grows impatient with the number of times there’s a knock at her door.

She protects her private life. As the homage paid to her increases, it becomes more of a burden, since it is impossible to be allowed to keep smoking on a rostrum in front of everyone. ‘Sheer agony!’ she repeats to herself. ‘If only the goddess Diana would descend and transform me into a salt codfish!’

Leonora recites aloud:

‘The codfish lays ten thousand eggs,

The little hen lays but one.

The codfish never cackles

To tell you what she’s done.

And so we scorn the codfish,

While the humble hen we prize,

Which only goes to show you,

Friends: it pays to advertise.’

Although Leonora has never sought it out, she is now being pursued by publicity.

The Mexico City university, UNAM, pays her homage in the Aula Magna of the Faculty of Philosophy and Letters, filled to overflowing. Crowds of young people cram the corridors, dressed in denim jeans and carrying rucksacks on their backs. They talk loudly and scratch their ribs. Some also smoke. Others play chess, regardless of the surrounding racket. The walls are so thickly covered there’s no room for even one more poster.

‘Looking for a student to flat-share, only five minutes from the UNAM’; ‘The Karl Marx Society holds debates every Wednesday’; ‘Learn German with a native speaker’; ‘Tai Chi every afternoon in the UNAM annex’; ‘Under pressure to complete your thesis? We can help you.’ A skinny young man in traditional woven leather sandals collects signatures for a petition demanding that the canteen lower its food prices. All at once, Leonora finds herself surrounded by young people, barely one third her age, who treat her as if they have known her all their lives. A young woman with unkempt hair, dressed in a blue jumper and torn trousers, approaches her with a copy of The House of Fear , and hands the book to her.

‘Señora Carrington, could you please dedicate this copy of your book to me? I am one of your greatest admirers,’ and she holds out a pen.

‘What is your name?’

‘My father called me Leonora after you.’

The Englishwoman’s eyes light up as she writes: ‘From Leonora to Leonora, with affection.’

The girl bids her farewell, and a number of journalists approach the podium. Leonora thinks she recognises one in the front line, a diminutive woman busily writing in a red notebook with the concentration of a Buddha. Suddenly she looks up and asks Leonora point blank: ‘Did you enjoy your First Communion?’

Leonora smiles at her and everyone else laughs.

‘Yes, because afterwards my mother took me to the zoo. I took my First Communion in a small mining village where men would work hard in the dark in order for others to live in the light.’

‘And a hyena taught you to speak French?’

‘Indeed. She read me a chapter from Balzac’s Eugénie Grandet and I promised to return for more the following week.’