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should go to New Spain, like the narrator of
El Buscón
, an autobiographical novel he wrote soon afterward (though he never acknowledged authorship). “Seeing that this matter was of long duration,” says his protagonist, “and that ill fortune pursued me ever more adamantly, I determined to remove myself to the Indies, not because I had learned my lesson—I am not so level-headed—but out of weariness, as an inveterate sinner, in hopes that in a new world and land, my luck would improve.”
    It’s very likely that, once in Seville, they did travel on to the south of Italy—which was within the comfortable embrace of empire yet not within easy reach of the bailiffs of Philip III. At the time, the viceroy of Naples and the Two Sicilies was theduke of Lerma, a close relative of Osuna’s and protector of Quevedo’s family. In the end—and this does show up in a number of documents—it was the wife of the viceroy of Naples, the duchess of Lerma, who obtained the royal pardon for the young Francisco, which allowed him eventually to receive his bachelor’s degree and return to the halls of the university for a doctorate in jurisprudence and grammar.
    There was no need for a royal pardon for Osuna. In the countries where Spanish is spoken, nothing ever happens to the bearers of great names, unless they entangle themselves with bearers of even greater names—and the poor slain soldiers were not that.
    Neither the duke nor the poet was the sort to stay put: under the protection of the viceroy of Naples, they must have ranged farther. The allure of Rome at the turn of the seventeenth century was irresistible. No matter the day—October 4, 1599, included—anyone would have been better off in Rome than at a graduation ceremony.

First Set, Third Game

    W hen at last he could get up—his balls still throbbing like two melons with lungs—he walked over to the railing of the gallery and said in a faint voice to his second that he couldn’t play like this: You have to do something. He rubbed his crotch gingerly. The duke, his eyes still brimming with tears of laughter, put a hand on his shoulder: You have to keep playing; Spain turns out nothing but soldiers and artists and you can’t let anyone here know that you’ve never been to war. But it wasn’t fair. You won the game, it was fair. So how am I supposed to move with a pair of octopuses for balls? Go and serve.
    Holding the railing, he tried a few squats. Give me my sword, he said to the duke when, if not capable of playing, he at least felt capable of living. No, he’s provoking you, the duke responded. Give it to me. I won’t; it’s Italian cunning, as if you don’t know what they’re like. I won’t even unsheathe it; Spanish bluster.
    The poet did one more squat, and when he rose, the duke was holding his sword belt over the railing. The moment the poet reached for his sword, Saint Matthew lunged for the artist’s blade. The poet withdrew his hand and spat in disgust,stirring the spittle with the toe of his boot. He stared at the Italians as if they were creatures from another world, and then he returned to the line of service without giving them a second glance. All right then, said the duke, setting down the belt. With a half smile and a nod, the Lombard acknowledged that his opponent had recovered his dignity, and he moved to the rear of the court. The mathematician—who all this time had been counting the beams in the roof of the gallery—had fallen asleep.
Tenez!
    The first couple of points were played with force and fury (15–15). The artist was finally focused, and the poet had forgotten the encumbrance of his hangover and was intent solely on winning. The third point began with an extraordinarily vicious serve from the Spaniard, and the slice with which it was returned brought a moment of light to the court. Against the odds and perhaps the laws of