​La Monstrua, by Isabel Cristina Legarda

Eugenia Martinez Vallejo Clothed by Juan Carreño de Miranda, c. 1680

​La Monstrua
​1674-1699
 
I.  The Father
 
My wife’s water broke in church,
and the priest just kept going. Maybe
I should not have made love to her
right before Mass. Our baby girl­—Eugenia--
came fast. People were muttering Latin responses
between contractions, receiving communion
while Antonia pushed. The priest even came down
from the altar so the midwife could receive.
 
She was not a real midwife.
We have no such luxuries in Bárcena.
 
The baby suckled well. People were pleased at first--
her birth in the church a good omen for wealth,
the vigor of her feeding a sign of good health.
Dios te conserve el apetito, they would say,
smiling into her chubby face, cariñosos.
 
But soon it was clear. She grew and grew
and became almost spherical. The villagers’ smiles
dissolved into mean monikers over time.
Chicharrón. Jamoncito. Bola de grasa.
 
Like Adam and Eve aware of their nakedness,
children know well the sensation of shame.
After a few years, we hid her inside the house.
But we had to tie the cupboards and food stores shut.
 
II.  The Emissary
 
His Majesty wanted a girl with the head of a cat
for his retinue of court jesters,
like the one in the court of Parma
painted by Fontana a century ago.
He has a particular fondness for hermaphrodites,
conjoined twins, hunchbacks, necromancers,
men with impossible joints or skin blacker than tar.
No more dwarves, however.
We have over a hundred of those already.
 
We shall see what he thinks
of a six-year-old girl with the heft of a man.
People from neighboring towns
travel to her house just to mock her.
 
If one is born to be ridiculed
why not endure it in style
and entertain the worthy, meanwhile?
 
III.  The Mother
 
I’m sleepless.
It’s been hours.
The insects outside have gone quiet.
 
A man appeared in the village this week.
We’d never seen such an entourage.
Members of the royal guard, horses, banners.
 
The king wants to bring Eugenia to court
(or so this Emissary claims).
He promises they’ll care for her,
feed her, clothe her in their finest.
She’ll want for nothing.
 
I’ve heard of their bichos raros--
their “gente de placer” --
playthings for rich children
whose parents, too, will point and laugh.
Hurting her will satisfy --
like mutton gnawed from bone,
the taste of char from the grill delicious.
But the pleasure won’t last,
so they’ll continue.
 
If she goes, I may never sleep again.
But if she doesn’t go,
how on earth will we feed her?
I can’t swat away these murcielagos alone.
I shake Pepe and prod him till he’s awake too.
 
What if this “Emissary” is an impostor?
What if they bind her to a post
and throw shit at her for sport?
What if he takes her away and sells her
to horrible men who’ll do horrible things?
 
We’ll go with her for a time, Pepe mumbles.
We were invited. We’ll make sure.
 
She’ll be paraded around, I object.
She’ll have no love.
She’ll cry.
As I say it, I’m crying.
 
But, says Pepe, she’ll be alive.
 
Te quiero mucho, mi amorcito.
You will never be hungry again.
 
IV. The Chronicler
 
The courtiers mock her openly,
imitating her wide and sluggish gait,
chortling in her presence,
teasing her when she eats.
Why shouldn’t they have another toy?
Why have to put up with boredom, or melancholy?
 
The prettiest and thinnest are cruelest,
though also (I’ve noticed) most unhappy in their unions,
unlike this girl’s parents, who grew up on the same street
and married for love, a blessing their child is unlikely to enjoy.
 
At least she suffers in finery, well-fed, warm in winter.
Her sweet disposition has earned her some friends.
The dogs adore her; and the dwarves,
comedic and sometimes rough with the adults,
are less brusque in her company.
I wonder what will happen
when her height surpasses theirs.
 
I chronicled her arrival at court and called her
una niña giganta. I might have written,
Gargantúa. Gran garganta. Gorda. Gruesa.
The “curioso lector” I addressed on the first page
is concerned only with the sensational:
the difficulty with which she moves her weight about
(cinco arrobas y veinte y una libras,
heavier than the adolescents who call her La Monstrua);
the hunger she can neither hide nor control;
the way rolls of flesh on her thighs
completely obscure the private area between them.
 
Our illustrious Juan Carreño de Miranda
painted her portrait — twice.
One with her in a dress of red brocade,
ribbons in her hair, an apple in one hand
and a pear in the other.
Another with her undressed, a little Bacchus,
in which tiny white brush strokes captured
the tears welling up in her eyes.
 
V. The Child, Eugenia Martínez Vallejo
 
I had to hold still for such a long time.
I was afraid to say my feet were hurting.
I was hungry but wasn’t alllowed to eat
the fruit I was holding. The dress
was itchy on my arms, and heavy,
and I felt silly with those red ribbons in my hair.
 
Then they made me take the dress off.
So many layers. Not even a screen.
I felt cold even though it wasn’t cold that day.
The painter looked at me, brushed the canvas,
looked and brushed, looked and brushed.
The corners of my mouth started shaking.
Salty water stung my eyes.
 
I felt a worm crawling inside my chest.
I wanted to cover the writhing
the way they put out tapers at Mass,
but it kept slithering around,
and I couldn’t move.
¿Mami? ¡Mami!
¡Sácame de aquí!
I think I might be dying,
and the worms are here to eat.

Isabel Cristina Legarda

Isabel Cristina Legarda was born in the Philippines and spent her early childhood there before moving to the U.S. She is currently a practicing physician in Boston. Her work has appeared in the New York Quarterly, The Dewdrop, The Lowestoft Chronicle, and others. Her chapbook Beyond the Galleons was published in April 2024 by Yellow Arrow Publishing. She can be visited at www.ilegarda.com or on Instagram (@poetintheOR).

Eugenia Martinez Vallejo Naked by Juan Carreño de Miranda, c. 1680