The Adventures and Misadventures of the Extraordinary and Admirable Joan Orpí, Conquistador and Founder of New Catalonia
Page 19
As they moved slowly through the forest, Orpí had begun to teach Araypuro Catalan.
“Master, why doth thee have a different language from the Castilians?” asked Araypuro, upon his mule with the book open in front of him.
“Well because … because we’re a different tribe,” reflected our hero, riding on his Acephalus. “Dost thou understand what I mean?”
“Yes, master, that thy language is quite similar to Castilian. Although when it comes to teribukitane113 it’s more of a drag.”
“Mind thy tongue, Indian, I love my language very much. What’s more, I’m a Lieutenant now and thou mustest treat me with the respect due to my rank. Keep reading in Catalan, when thou hast learnt it we’ll communicate better.”
“With pleasure, but the mountainous regions in these sad tropics be verily a bitch, master,” complained Araypuro.
“Thou canst address me as Joan, Indian, as that be mine true name,” said our hero.
“Very well, I shall, unless some fearsome beast eats me or I fall off this mule,” said Araypuro.
It was true. They were making progress. But it wasn’t easy getting through that region. The horses and mules slipped on the muddy slopes and the soldiers had to keep helping them get back on their feet. One of the mules skidded and fell into a gully. The forest was teeming with life, and with death, at every step. One of the soldiers got caught in quicksand and there was no extricating him. Everyone watched as he sank in up to his nose and then was swallowed up by the deadly sand pit. The jungle seemed to devour everything and thousands of frogs croaked in the streams, blending in with the crackling of the ancient trees and the whistling, moaning, and howling of the creatures in a titanic cacophony. And thus Orpí’s expedition marched forward until, in the course of one of their incursions through the Venezuelan geography, as they crossed the Macaira River, a tributary of the Manapire, the detachment came across San Cristóbal de la Nueva Écija de Cumanagoto. The town in question was a ghetto filled with cane shanties populated by some thirty-odd Castilians, with beards down to their ankles, ill with dysentery and depressed, surviving on potatoes and other tubers. While the mayor came out to receive them, Orpí observed the gray and khaki stains on the man’s skin, which had become taxidermied, clinically dead flesh. Toothless, his eyes bulged from the sockets as if they were about to explode.
“Betwixt the attacks by the Injuns, the terror sown by the White Pygmy and the ‘French disease’ we keep getting from these eligible catechumen ladies, we’re going to rot here, Don Urpín,” said the town’s mayor.
“The White Pygmy?” asked Orpí. “Whatchoo talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”
“No one has ere seen him,” explained the mayor, shaking with fear. “But legend has it that a wee evil being has a band of runaway slaves and they’ve formed a blockade not far from the Macaira River, and even the Injuns are afraid of them.”
“The wee evil being!” exclaimed Araypuro in fear. “The spirit that governs the Dense-Forest by wielding its dark magick!”
Determined to investigate the intriguing matter, Joan Orpí, who had already learned that the mysteries of that new world grew in the imagination, ordered his soldiers down to the river where they splashed around a bit in the bogs until, amid the savage geography, they caught a glimpse of some Indians smeared with turtle grease: they were the Bubures. Araypuro asked them in their language whether they’d heard tell of a people led by a white pygmy and the Burbures pointed up the river with terrified expressions. While the soldiers travelled upstream, Orpí wondered if that pygmy was the same “Evil Thing” described by the chronicler and conquistador Álvaro Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca who, in Chapter XXII of his Shipwrecks, spoke of a small bearded being whom everyone feared. Focused on those thoughts, our hero, who was heading the expedition through the forest, came face to face with a man black as night. From deep in the forest resounded an uproar of popinjays and other shrieking birds. Then two more black men appeared. Then three. Four. Five. Then they found themselves completely surrounded by black men armed with sabers, pistols, and furious faces.
“Sky’s gettin’ mighty low,” said Martulina, pulling out her sword.
“How ’bout if we just skedaddle?” suggested Araypuro. “We don’t fit in round here.”
“Button your lip, Indian. Soldiers, prepare thine weapons!” ordered our hero.
The runaway slaves were about to pounce on the soldiers when a voice was heard. “Halt! No fighting … I know this dude!”
From among the thicket emerged a stunted little being on a wild pony, and dressed in cow and goat skins and wearing some sort of cap made of piglet hide and covered in medals, a green velvet bodice, and black boots.
“I can’t believe mine eyes …” said Orpí, mouth agape. “I would have never imagined being happy to see thee, Triboulet!”
“Halfman!” exclaimed Martulina.
After embracing his friends, Triboulet the Dwarf led them all to through the forest to a hidden village called Caracazo. The people there received the dwarf and his friends with trumpeting wooden flutes and shaking seeds inside dried gourds, which the locals call maracas, while dozens of mangy dogs barked at the newcomers. They were all invited to drink cassava beer and eat yam bread.
“I know what ye are thinking,” said Triboulet to his friends, with artless smugness, “Ye are thinking ‘what is Triboulet doing here’? I’ll explain it as briefly and simply as I can: after fleeing that bar in Seville where we last saw each other, I was arrested and sent to the galleys. One day, there was a mutiny onboard and they blamed me for it (with goode reason). So they abandoned me on an island and from there I managed to reach the maineland, where I found some fugitive slaves and befriend’d their leader, Negro Miguel. They’d joint up with bucaneers who were illegally harvesting pearls in the Margarita sea. Since then I’ve been living like a pasha, without modern hustle and bustle or imperialist flights of fancy about world domination. One moment …”
The dwarf approached two monsters with rough hides, and threw them a bit of softened bread, “Here boys, come on over … !”
The two crocodiles docilely came over to Triboulet and began to roll over on the ground playfully, just like puppies.
“These creatures must be the maniriguas, as described by Juan de Castellanos in Elegies II,” Orpí concluded literarily, shocked to see that those enormous reptiles with dangerous jaws could be domesticated.
“They’re called babas here. Despite what many people think, they’re quite tame little creatures. And thou needn’t walk them, they walk themselves.”
Triboulet the Dwarf seemed terrifically happy, since there, in that republic, blacks, pardos, ladinos, zambos, and mulattoes lived under the principles of liberty, equality, and fraternity.
“Good on thee, halfman,” said Martulina the Divina. “By the way, whatever became of thine Homunculus?”
The dwarf pointed to a small figure seated beneath a palm tree. He was a strange being, with almost human features, tiny as a bottle of wine. When he saw Orpí, he started to sing:
The soul hath its ups and downs
the wave, don’ let it make thou frown
all we ask for are eyes to see clearly
hands with which to cling dearly
a mouth with which to speak
feets ta keep us on fleek
and we be never ever stoppin’
always we be ever steady popping
yeah, that’s right, never ever stopping
check out these beats we be droppin’
if things don’t work out the way you plann’d
you can cross borders wit’ yer contraband
(and mayhap ye’ll find what ye seek)
Whilst leavin’ yer enemies up shit’s creek
Yes, we be constantly perforating oblivion
on beyonde that sick-ass post meridian
surfing fer pearls here in the Carribbian
Yeah, we half-split yer tir’d attitude
showing two faces amid all
this solitude
don’t play it safe, don’t come unglued
there may be no morrow, by which I mean
please doth feele free to follow your spleen
The soul hath its ups and downs
the wave, don’ let it make thou frown
all we ask for are eyes to see clearly
hands with which to cling dearly
a mouth with which to speak
feets ta keep us on fleek
and we be never ever stoppin’
always we be ever steady popping
yeah, that’s right, never ever stopping
check out these beats we be droppin’
etc.
“Bravo! I see thine Homunculus hasn’t forgotten how to sing in perfect Catalan!” said Orpí, applauding. “Out of respect for our friendship, Triboulet, I shant tell a soul that thou art here. But prithee, try to refrain from evil deeds and pissing off the settlements, or the entire Royal Army will come here and disstroy thee. The King is no fan of rebellious negroes or treasure-hunting buccaneers. Although given your gift for ubiquitousness, I know we shall meet again beneath other skies and in other guises.”
“Speaking of treasures,” said the dwarf, “a few sennight agone some guy named Gregorio Izquierdo came through here with a load of mules and Indians, heading to the city of Caracas. All I remember is that he was missing one hand and was all paranoid, going on about how his wife and her Cataloonian lover had tried to kill him and assume his identity, in order to go to America and claim the gold he’d amassed in Trujillo. And, from what I’ve heard about thee in these lands, thou dost also go by the name Gregorio Izquierdo. Tis not thee who hath the talent for being in two places at one time?”
Estebanico the Blackamoor looked at Orpí.
“Brodel,” said the African. “Please deal with this mattel once and fol all, to cleal my name and youl own. I want aught mole to do with tleasures.”
“What?” asked Orpí. “Wonst thou come with us?”
“No. I’ve decided to remain hele, with these negloes who are blood of my blood. Hele I shall be a flee man at last.”
So our hero bade farewell to Triboulet the Dwarf and Estebanico the Blackamoor, and returned to Cumaná. Pragmatic as few men are, and with permission from his mentor Governor Diego de Arroyo, he resigned from his post as lieutenant in order to resolve the “Gregorio” matter in Caracas before it shot his whole career to hell, as we shall see anon.
___________
113. i.e. reading
Chapter VI
In which Joan Orpí arrives in Caracas and confronts an unpleasant surprise
Accompanied by Martulina the Divina and Araypuro, our hero set sail on the first ship heading out of Santo Domingo to La Guaira. After advancing along the coast, past the Unare Depression, where the coastal mountain range is interrupted, and crossing Cordera Cape, beyond the two mountain crests along the Aroa, the Valley of Santiago de León de Caracas stretched out before him, at the 67th meridian.
Everyone said great things about the city, but when Orpí arrived, he was tremendously disappointed. Caracas was just a bunch of ugly adobe houses, home to around three hundred souls including the two dozen gentlemen who spent their days lounging in hammocks and living off the work of others. The noblemen—failed conquerors or simply freeloaders—had discovered the comfort of a life of leisure built on their own boredom.
The next day, thanks to Araypuro’s investigations, Orpí discovered that the true Gregorio Izquierdo had indeed been through Caracas but had now moved on. He was like a ghost. In any case, after little more than a month, Orpí had made a name for himself in the city as a lawyer resolving legal disputes, even winning the favor of the Governor of Caracas, Juan de Meneses, who named him Lieutenant General, thus elevating even further our hero’s good name.
One day, as he was in dealings with two merchants in the middle of the street, he heard a voice behind him shouting, “Good afternoon, lieutenant! Or perhaps I should say … Don Gregorio Izquierdo?”
Hearing that, Orpí was silent, and his skin turned white as a corpse. When he turned he saw a shriveled, toothless woman who had long since lost the gleam of youth. A tatterdemallion, her hair everywhichway, she looked at him with demented, furious eyes, waiting for a reply, as she picked her nose. Orpí, thinking she was mistaking him for his double, responded, “That be not my name, I sweareth to God. Thou must believe me, ma’am, you have the wrong person. I know that I am not Gregorio Izquierdo. I have authentic documents that certify the Catalan origin of my name and personatge, son of a large family of old Christians, the Orpís … I am one of four siblings and we all look alike: the same aquiline nose, the same bulging eyes … twould be easy to mistake us. And all because of the intermarriage in our great family … ! I have more than two hundred cousins and they’re all half retard’d from the intermingling … anyhoo, these things happen in every family! Mothers are confused about who to nurse … fathers are muddled up and don’t know who to scold … and in the end it’s all a huge mess! But let me assure thee that I am not the man thou seeketh, since I know nothing anent this Gregorio Izquierdo … I mean … I am not him. Take a good look at me! Shed some light on mine face, open the curtains of thine eyes. Dost thou still believe me to be him? Dost thou seest his mustache on my face … ? Canst thou be sure this ear is not mine? Art thou sure this is not my chin … ? Take a good look, for thou art mistaken. I am not whom thou seek … I am altogether someone else!”
“Ha, ha, ha … !” laughed the woman, clapping. “Fabulous. Brilliant. Marvellous. Estupendous. Incredible. Phantastic. Go on and tell, essir, all the estories and lies you weesh, for no matter how well the esstory be told, tis nothing without truth in it. No matter thine elegance and position, I know who thou art. But now wise up and take a good look at my face, look at me and then look again … and try to jog the memory in that mosquito brain of thine.”
Our hero approached the woman, who stank of rotten eggs, and his eyes grew wide as saucers. “God help me … Úrsula Pendregast!”
Exactly. Before our hero was none other than the woman who had gotten him mired in the whole “Gregorio affair” in Seville. Dragging her out of the middle of the street, our hero and the crafty woman walked in silence to his house. Then he sat her down in a chair and began his interrogation:
“What in God’s name art thou doing hither? Why dost the shadow of Gregorio Izquierdo plague me still? And why art thou lain so vile and misshapen of face? This entire story of doubles is too baroque and oppressive … Prithee to explain!”
“The tale is long, cohort, so I recommend thee essit,” said Úrsula, running her fingers through her natural dreadlocks. “Nothing is what it esseems. If you thought that my Gregorio were a cadaever, thou art mistaken. In fact, we both were mistaken, esince he didn’t kick the bucket atall, but rather awoke the following day with nigh more than a bump on his crumpet. After beseeching him a thousand pardons for the evil deed (and taking a harsh beating), he forced me onto the first esship headed to La Española with him, to recover his treasure and unmask thee for false appropriation of name and titles. But, no matter how much the rogue hit me, I didn’t give him thine true name, essince twere I what got thee into this mess: I am a viper, but mostly an honest one.”
“I appreciate that. I did already know, from other sources, that Don Gregorio did not die but rather return’d hence. And I also did learne that his treasure be not his, that although a story composed of lies often ends up being true, the accursed treasure, in this case, was stolen from a good friend of mine named Estebanico the Blackmoor. But anyway, hath thou been on this side of the pond long?” asked our hero.
“Near nigh two months … (Who couldst believe that! The Lord only knows how much misfortune and peregrination I’ve suffered over that treasure!) As I was esayin’, two days after reaching La Española we came without delay to Caracas, through jungles filled with cannibals, to gather all the gold my husband had estored esafely here, before thou couldst cla
im it in his name. Gregorio’s melancholy grewe considerably over our journey to the New World and by the time we arrived in this city, he had completely lost his mind. He was constantly convinced that esomeone was trying to esteal his gold. One morning he disappeared into ze mountains with the entire treasure loaded onto four old mules. I haven’t seen the bastardo essince.”
“A right bizarro tale!” exclaimed Orpí. “I am soothly glad to have lost the letter thou gave me, and I was hoping to meet up with thine husband here, in Caracas, and settle this malignant matter once and for all. Thy plan ne’er would have worked, by the way. Furthermore, tis well known that encountering one’s double is a sign of bad lucke. To be sincere, I also thought I had lost my reason with all that name-changing. Now I can finally put the matter to rest and make the factum of reason the logos of my life hereafter. Never again shall I be anyone else’s cheap imitation.”
“Prithee, don’t get philosophical on me, Cataloon,” said Úrsula. “But to answer thine ultimate question, that bastardio Gregorio ruined my life. After coming to this horrible country and esquandering all hopes of becoming rich, I esspend my days grinding coffee on the plantations and part of the night fornicating with estrangers to earn a few lousy ducats! Pray put paid to mine quest for vengeance, I hath become a FFFF (fugly, fierce, false floozy) … tis a long fall from hustling in Seville to two-bit whore!”
“Thou hast made thine own bed, milady,” said Orpí. “With all the evil thou brought upon thine husband and mineself with thine machavellian plans. Tis the Devil who twists all that should be straight, like the very road to heaven.”
“Estuff it!” bellowed Úrsula, making as if to leave. “Twisted, eshmisted, the just and the esinners are one and the same, I’ll have ye know. Now, farewell. We eshall meet again in the helle at the end of this life!”
And thus, cursing at a few of the saints, Úrsula disappeared from our hero’s life, and he found he had finally recovered his name for, lacking a better word, eternity. And while Orpí continued to exercise his post in Caracas with the utmost diligence, it wouldn’t last much longer, since he heard tell that the Royal Audiencia in La Española had opened up a public grant to become an adelantado114 and set out to conquer terra incognita in the unexplored jungles of Venezuela. That made our hero’s gray matter tingle, as he had always identified with the adventures of Hernan Cortés, because they had both studied Law (and, truth be told, they were both terrible students). He began to dream of riches in the New World and flaunting a noble title that would allow him to return home to Catalonia dripping in gold and live like a sultan, and because he was already thirty-two years old and not wanting to live out his days in Caracas. Or to put it another way: since he could no longer get rich via Gregorio Izquierdo’s treasure, he would become a conquistador and climb the ranks, following the formula of El Cid: honor and profit. If he applied for that grant he could escape that depressing, sordid city, whose history was nothing more than a succession of epidemics, raids, massacres, mass agony, and envy. And so he left Caracas, with Araypuro and Martulina in tow, just as quickly as he’d come and without a word, heading toward Santo Domingo in the manner we shall see forthwith: