The Sevillian Deceit

Sevillian Deceit by Tom Hokanson

The manuscript is finished and the search for an agent is moving forward. Here's some tidbits to help you understand what the story is about.

Meet Mateo Freeman, the Protagonist

A troubled American boy, Mateo spends the summer at his grandfather’s villa near Seville. The boy wanders into a hidden room filled with crates of canvasses and family secrets dating back to 1648. An extraordinary masterpiece catches Mateo’s attention: The Sevillian Deceit, one of three paintings by Augusto Iglesias, Mateo’s ancestor and an apprentice to Diego Velázquez. 

When Mateo asks about the painting, his grandfather pulls out another treasure, the journal of an ex-soldier/spy named Silvestre Daza. The tales in Daza’s Journal intrigue Mateo, but summer is over. The boy returns to unravel the tales hidden in the journal and learn how his family’s legacy is defined by the paintings of Iglesias.

An Excerpt from Chapter 1: A TRIP TO SEVILLE

    The boy slipped the backpack off his shoulder and crept into the kitchen.

    “Where are you going, Mateo?” his mother asked.

    “Just looking around,” he called.

    He paused for a minute to attune his ear to the sing-song Spanish between his mother and his grandparents. Listening hard, he figured out his mom was describing the long flight from New York to Madrid and the high-speed train they took from Madrid to Seville. 

    Mateo was thrilled to be on the edge of Seville where his mother, Patricia Veliz Freeman, grew up. As long as he could remember, she would speak in a fascinating mix of English and Spanish, entertaining him with stories of climbing olive trees, playing with friends in the nearby creek, or digging in the garden. This sprawling place was called Viña Real Sevilla, home to Marco and Sofía Veliz - Papi and Abuela.

    Mateo went over to see what was simmering in the large, shallow pan on the stove. Using the towel, he lifted the lid and was met by an explosion of flavors. Rice and colorful peppers, small chunks of meat, and peeled shrimp in a red orange broth. He set the lid down and left the kitchen, wandering down a short hallway toward a door. He paused to listen to the voice behind him. 

    “Patricia, you need to tell Scott how you feel.” Abuela was speaking.

    “I know, but Scott is only doing what he thinks is best, giving us a comfortable home near the best schools in New Jersey. That’s how he was raised.”

    It was his mother talking now, about his dad. Mateo didn’t really want to hear it, so he went through the doorway and entered a large room. The first thing he saw was Papi’s easel. Beyond the easel was a chair and a table and he imagined his grandfather sitting there, painting the large portrait of his mother and father on their wedding day - the one that hangs over the grand piano back home. “An heirloom,” his mother called it.

    Walking around the easel, the boy stood before a canvas. Tilting his head to the right, eyes scrunched up in puzzlement, Mateo tried to figure out what this unfinished painting would become. Right now, it was just a strange mix of colorful shapes. He studied the small table beside the easel, a menagerie of palette knives, brushes, rags, and a palette full of fresh paint. He glanced at the door then let his fingers probe the collection. These brushes were much longer than the ones his mom gave him for Christmas.  

    Grabbing the end of one of the brushes firmly, he began dancing around, stabbing and slashing like a pirate — or a Jedi with a lightsaber. Moving closer to the canvas, he saw a large, green splotch and jabbed at it as if were an alien creature, only to be startled when a half-inch swath of green was added to Papi’s painting. I better fix this fast, Mateo thought. So, he got to work.

    The tip of the brush easily manipulated the fluid paint. So, reciting the mantra of his art teacher — “here’s a leaf, and another leaf, a cute little leaf there” — and using short, firm strokes, Mateo transformed the smear caused by his imaginary lightsaber into a tree. Like the huge tree at the entrance to the olive grove that grandfather called Old Mamut, Mateo mused.

    Satisfied, Mateo turned his attention to the yellow circle that was certainly the sun. Intuitively, he knew the same brush would turn the paint into a lime green, so he selected a new brush. With circular strokes, the yellow blob grew rounder. He added long rays, like those in the paintings at the museum in Manhattan. Easy.

    He picked up a third brush to start on the massive trunk of Old Mamut.

    “Mateo! What are you doing?”

    Marco’s gruff voice made him jump and drop the brush. Mateo stooped over, picked up the brush, and set it gently on the table. He turned to his grandfather, hands at his side.

    “Nothing.”

    Marco examined Mateo’s work, rubbing his chin as if deciding what to do about a boy who would spoil another’s artwork. Mateo spoke first.

    “I didn’t realize the paint was wet. ¿Cómo trovador?”

    Papi laughed and spoke briefly in English.

    “Does your mother not teach you anything?” He teased. “Trovador is a musician, a singer. I think you mean ¿Cómo trabaja?… How does it work.”

“Disculpa. ¿Cómo trabaja?” Mateo corrected.

    Marco returned to his native tongue, speaking slowly.

    “Your mother says you have been painting with acrylics. I use oils, and paint in the classical way that I was taught. I started painting this morning, so the paint is still wet.”

    Marco walked over to stand beside his grandson.

    “You are a curious one. Your mother is hoping I will give you some lessons while you a visiting. Would you like that?”

    “Sí.”

    “Bueno. And when this painting is done, we will sign it: Marco Veliz and Mateo Freeman.” 

    

    Chuckling, his grandfather took Mateo gently by the shoulders and turned him around to face the unfinished painting.

    “I like what you did with the tree, Mateo. Did you know that each layer of paint has a purpose? First, you prepare the canvas with an undercoat, a bland color like light brown or green. With the second layer, the shapes of what you wish to paint begin to form. Then you add detail to those shapes and colors, so they begin to become real. That is the third layer, and what you have begun here.”

    “And the fourth layer, Papi?”

    Marco leaned down so close that Mateo felt his breath in his ear and whispered softly. “Magia. The fourth layer is when the magic begins.”

An Excerpt from Daza's Journal

                                    17 de Abril 1647 Palacio Arzobispal, Sevilla

    Having observed Count Severino Fernández and Maria Escalante, I hastened to Cardinal Almonte’s residence at first opportunity to make my report. I had doubts about the relevance of the clandestine meeting between the two lovers, Nevertheless, I would faithfully offer what I witnessed to my employer, expecting payment in return.

    I looked up at the large white columns, the Albero gold walls, and the ornate balconies of wrought iron, then knocked on the door. The evening was warmer than the reception I received when I asked for the Cardinal. But seeing revulsion on the face of the priest was something I was accustomed to, being a penniless ex-soldier. Hosting an uncultured, ill-dressed man, especially one who preferred Cervantes over God, would be distasteful to the residents of the Palacio Arzobispal. This sprawling walled palace was home to bishops and archbishops, not paupers or spies. But the Palace’s most prestigious resident could admit whomever he wanted and so eventually I was allowed to enter.

    While being escorted to the Cardinal’s quarters, I was treated to an array of art that had to rival the best of Spain. An oval painting of a glowing Madonna with the Child. Dramatic, embellished art depicting unnamed saints, halos atop their heads, winged angels hovering in the skies. Sober, dark portraits of Cardinals or Archbishops from the past, staring at me with accusing eyes saying: we know who you really are. I cannot name the artists because my art is my pen, but I am sure they were renowned. 

    At last, we reached the Cardinal’s residence and I entered. 

    “Who was the girl?” 

    Almonte’s interest piqued at first mention of the Count’s señorita. The tall, angular man moved across his lavish chamber to a serving desk where he poured two glasses of sweet Malaga. One he handed to me, his informer, which I greedily accepted. We were deep within the compound, inside its most extravagant apartment, near the grand library. Outside the Cardinal’s quarters, the walls echoed with tales of saints and angels. Inside, our discussion embodied schemers and devils. Our exchange would remain private, save for a manservant who was kept in a back room.

    “María Escalante,” I responded.

    The Cardinal’s eyes narrowed. “Daughter of Jorge Escalante? How old can she be?”

    “Eighteen, my Lord.” 

    I had anticipated the Cardinal’s questions, having learned to do so for generals on the fields of Flanders. Jorge Alonzo Escalante was the most prominent member of Consulado de Mercaderes, the merchant guild of Sevilla. He controlled much of the shipping interests of Spain, carrying silver and other products from the New World to be distributed across the Spanish Empire. Much of the Church’s fortune, and the Monarchy’s wealth, was amassed from his operations. María was Jorge’s only daughter. I could sense my Lord’s intrigue upon hearing María Escalante was having an affair with Count Fernández. 

    “And were you seen?”

    “No, my Lord, I was most discreet and no one else was there. I am the Invisible Man, and the vineyard is secluded.” 

    Perhaps Almonte is a fan of Don Quixote after all, for he insisted on hearing the exact details of the tryst. I spoke and he listened. The gaunt Cardinal closed his eyes as his hands met, lightly touching the tip of his thin nose… but I knew he was not praying. A scheme was forming in his mind, for I overheard the Cardinal whisper: “Severino Fernández and María Escalante — how convenient.”

    I did not, at this time, realize the import of my information. But what I reported seemed to be of value. I handed him my manuscript which he thumbed his thin fingers through before walking over to a small desk and retrieving several reales which he dropped into my outstretched hand.  

    “You have earned your pay. Go and continue your duties.” 

    Satisfied, I bowed and found the door while the Cardinal set down his unsampled glass of Malaga and settled into a chair warmed by a small fire. Once outside his quarters, I paused to listen as the Cardinal called his servant and asked for a glass of Burgundy from the ancient Abbey of Cluny. I was aware of the risk I faced by my eavesdropping, but was compelled by curiosity when I heard him speak what was certainly his mantra, “Nothing in life is given to you, you must take it.”

    The refrain was apropos. The Cardinal’s early life was well known to the people of his parish for he would often recount how he had arrived at his current station. His story was this. As an infant, Lucien Almonte was abandoned by his parents on the doorstep of the Sevilla orphanage. He could have been like thousands of lost children, doomed to a meager subsistence and without hope. But young Lucien watched closely the priests who came to the orphanage to say Mass and offer religious instruction to poor children. Among these priests were a few holy men who advanced to become bishops and even archbishops. He made note of the way they walked, the way they talked, the people who bowed to them, and those who did not. Eventually, the perceptive boy decided priesthood offered him his best chance to reach his goals, so that became his pursuit. After his ordination, Cardinal Almonte recounted overcoming his childhood to anyone who would listen. That included those in the orphanage where he made a habit of visiting to play with the children and encourage them to lofty aspirations.

    I heard him repeat: “Sí, nothing in life is given to you, you must take it.”

    I visualized the Cardinal swirling his glass, releasing a bouquet of intense aromas, and reflecting on his life. I imagine that he despised the Benedictine Order who produced the fine wine, simply because they held too much influence in Madrid and Rome. But I had heard they made a good Burgundy, which would suit the Cardinal’s tastes for finery.

    It grew quiet on the other side of the door, so I rushed out of the palace, retreating to my little hovel to count my coins and write down a record of the encounter. The Cardinal and I were not the same. He started life alone and grew up to find community. I started life with a family and grew up to be alone. I sensed our souls were even farther apart. But, still, I wondered which character of my favorite book he would identify with. Every soul I have ever met, in my many travels, identifies with one of Cervantes’ characters.

I attest to the truth of this narrative.

                                        Silvestre Daza

May 14, 2024

Finished "final" edits on The Sevillian Deceit and beginning the query process to find an agent. Contact Tom at thokanson@gmail.com if you are interested in pre-reading or an agency relationship.

March 27, 2024

The Letters of Seville has been renamed The Sevillian Deceit. Early this year, I invested in a professional editor who has helped me sharpen my pen. He felt the new name better described my tale. My target date for completing my final edits is May 31st and then I hope to send out queries. From all I've read, it's a long shot so I'll be patient and see what happens.

October, 2023

I'm continuing work on my debut novel, The Letters of Seville. Started in February, 2023, I completed my manuscript in August and am currently on my third editing pass. Wish me luck as I go through the process of finding an agent and getting it published!

Teaser: Mateo Freeman travels to Spain as a young boy to spend summers with his grandparents. While there, he discovers the joys of painting from his Papi and the story behind three magnificent paintings by Augusto Iglesias, his great-grandfather fourteen times over. There are parallel tales of intrigue, danger, and surprise in the modern days of Mateo and the historical days of King Philip IV of Spain as told in a journal written by a colorful itinerant ex-soldier named Silvestre Daza. 

I'll keep you updated. Contact me at thokanson@gmail.com if you are interested in pre-reading or an agency relationship.