Aldonza blushed. Nothing seemed to escape this child. “For now, put that case back exactly where you found it. When your father returns, try not to bother him with unnecessary questions.”
“I want to know what this family keepsake is.”
Don Diego had gone to the outskirts of a plantation to attend to sick Indians. The Indian overseer had come to him personally, full of worry: he feared the outbreak of an epidemic.
“What’s an epidemic?” Francisco had asked as his father organized his instrument case.
“The rapid spread of a disease.”
“How is it cured?”
“I wouldn’t say it can be cured, only restrained.” He gestured toward Luis to pick up the case, as, with the other hand, he made reassuring motions in an effort to keep the Indian overseer calm.
“Restrained? Like a horse?”
“Not exactly. It must be isolated. Locked in, with a kind of wall.”
“Are you going to build a wall around the Indians who have the epidemic?”
Don Diego smiled at his son’s persistent curiosity. “Only figuratively. First I need to find out whether what the foreman heard is true.”
That night, as soon as his father returned, Francisco let loose another question. “What’s in that purple case in the chest?”
“Let him unwind,” Aldonza protested. She’d run to receive her husband with a cup of chocolate and some sprigs of mint.
“Is it an epidemic?” young Diego said, approaching.
Don Diego tousled Francisco’s hair and addressed his older son. “Fortunately, no. I think the foreman jumped to that conclusion out of fear. That man is too cruel. He demands so much of the Indians that he ends up believing they’ll unleash an epidemic to avenge themselves.”
Francisco’s eyes stayed glued on his father, who owed him an answer.
“I’ll talk to you about what’s in the case,” he finally answered. “But first I need to bathe, all right?”
The little boy couldn’t contain his joy, and he thanked his father in advance. He went out to the garden, picked some ripe purple and white figs and lustrous pomegranates—his father’s favorite fruits—washed them, and arranged it all on a copper tray.
Don Diego entered the dining room in clean clothes, emanating freshness after his bath. His damp hair and beard shone, dark and bright. In his hand, he held the mysterious case. He placed it on the table. Francisco climbed onto the chair beside him; Diego, Isabel, and Felipa also gathered round, though Aldonza kept her distance, seeming uninterested in the matter. In reality, it unsettled her, but she didn’t dare express this discomfort with anything other than silence.
“It’s a family keepsake,” their father warned. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
He untied the knot that held the thick cord in place. He stroked the worn brocade, which had no inscription of any kind. He looked up, seeking better light, and asked for the candelabra to be brought closer. The strong flames made the old cloth glimmer.
“This has no material worth. But its spiritual worth is boundless.”
He lifted the lid.
“A key . . .”
“Yes, a key. A simple iron key.” He cleared his throat, raised his eyebrows, and said, “There’s an engraving on the handle. Can you see it?”
All the children leaned in closer as their father adjusted the candelabra. They made out an image.
“It’s a three-pointed flame,” he explained. “It might be the flame of a torch. That’s what it looks like. A symbol, no? The engraving itself is nothing exceptional.” He cleared his throat again. “So why do I keep this object in a case and consider it so valuable?”
Francisco leaned in until his nose was almost touching the key; he could smell it, but he couldn’t decipher the mystery. Don Diego held it out to him, solemnly, as if it were a hallowed thing.
“Touch it. It’s pure iron, no silver or gold at all. My father gave this to me, in Lisbon. His own father gave it to him. It comes from Spain, from a beautiful house in Spain.”
Francisco picked up the key gingerly, holding it with both hands the way priests hold up bread and wine to consecrate it during Mass. The flickering light of the candelabra reverberated on its coarse surface. It seemed to emit a radiance of its own: the small three-pointed flame on the rusted handle gleamed.
“It belongs to the lock of a majestic set of doors once walked through by many princes. In that home there was a gorgeous room where gatherings were held around precious documents that were written there, and copied there. Look at the key’s texture. It was made by a blacksmith known for his holiness. He used metal filings that had never been part of any weapon, that had never hurt a man. That faint yellow patina covering it is like a robe protecting something that’s never tarnished. This key was stroked by great princes, remember, whose dignity and wisdom we can just barely hope to emulate. When those princes, against their will, had to stop going to that splendid place, and our ancestors had to abandon that house, they closed the sturdy door and decided to carefully guard the key. Yes, this simple and, at the same time, precious key symbolizes those documents, that room, that whole assembly of dignitaries, the magnificent home of our Spanish ancestors. I’ll tell you more: my great-grandfather tied the key to his belt. He never parted with it, even though he had to weather storms that would have frightened the bravest among us. When the angel of death came to visit him, even in his weakened state, he would not loosen his grip on the engraved handle. His son, my grandfather, had to tear it from his hand, weeping as though he were committing sacrilege. That’s when he sewed the case and lovingly wrapped it with brocade so that the shameful story of forcing a dead man’s hand would never have to be repeated. My grandfather told my father to guard this object as though it were a treasure. My father said the same to me. And now I’m telling you.”
A heavy silence fell. Don Diego’s four children were bewildered. The candlelight streaked their cheeks with red.
Their father lifted the relic close to the faces of Diego, Felipa, Isabel, and Francisco, in that order.
“Take another look at the flame in the engraving. Doesn’t it seem enigmatic? Can you imagine what those three points might mean? No? Look: they resemble three petals, each one held up by a wand, and those wands in turn rest on a thick horizontal beam.”
He paused for further questions, but their astonishment left no room for opinions.
“One day you’ll know.” He brought the key to his lips and kissed it. “The princes and our ancestors believed they would return to that house. That’s why we guard the key.”
Finally, Francisco stammered, “Can we return?”
“I don’t know, my son, I don’t know. When I was little I dreamed of becoming one of those legendary princes and opening those majestic doors.”
The young Alba Elena is startled awake by the noise and starts to cry. Her mother takes her in her arms. Francisco Maldonado da Silva tries to approach them, but the officials grasp his arms all the more tightly, their hands firm as shackles. His stunned young wife, holding their daughter, approaches the nightmarish group, which is illumined by the lamp of Lieutenant Juan Minaya.
“Don’t be afraid,” Francisco manages to say.
“Silence!” orders the lieutenant.
Francisco strains against them. The officials grasp him harder.
“I won’t escape,” he exclaims with unexpected authority, meeting their eyes.
The human shackles are paralyzed. A surprised doubt invades those military bodies. They suddenly remember that this man is a physician whom the authorities have honored, whose father-in-law is a former governor of Chile.
Little by little the rough fingers loosen, and Francisco frees himself. He recovers his poise and walks toward his beloved Isabel Otáñez and their daughter. He dries the mother’s tears and kisses the child. He fears that he may never see them again. They will take him to war. To the most unjust of wars, the results of which are only known by God.
6
Graneros had built his home in a neighborhood of artisans. There, as soon as dawn broke, the forges lit up and the workshops hummed with noise. Everyone knew the silversmith Gaspar Pérez, who created pieces for altars, as well as the shoemaker Andrés, who fashioned rustic boots, monks’ sandals, and fine footwear with copper buckles. The saddler Juan Quisna repaired harnesses, polished saddlebags, and sewed saddles. The tailor Alonso Montero made doublets, ribbed jackets, habits for religious dignitaries, and suits for royal officials. The hatmaker Melchor Fernández molded the thick felt that covered the heads of captains, feudal public servants, and magistrates. Almost all of them were men with some mix of indigenous blood, though they were anxious to assimilate into the culture of the European conquerors. They dressed like Spaniards and strove to speak only Spanish.
The morning promised to be a hot one. Francisco was carrying a slingshot that the enslaved Luis had made for him with the bladder of an ox. He used it compulsively, aiming at any target: a wild fruit, a flower on a bush, a faraway pebble. He’d become infallible in hitting the lizards that darted like sparkling arrows. The first time he hit one on the head he buried it with honors, even making a cross out of two twigs to mark its tomb. “Anyone who kills lizards with a slingshot is not only agile, but also clever,” his father had declared.
The neighborhood of artisans emitted a spicy scent, a mix of metal, leather, dyes, and wool. Behind the workshops, a pair of tall walnut trees marked the entrance to Graneros’s factory. It was gigantic, so extensive that it had been nicknamed “a nation.” Under an awning stood carpentry tables, boxes of tools, and scraps of copper and brass. Several wagons were finished, while others resembled the skeleton of a prehistoric animal. Curiously, the compact assembly could be achieved without a single nail, and the structure of these vehicles was so sturdy that they could carry at least two tons. The wheels were a marvel, more than two feet in diameter; two of them could sustain the entire weight of the wagon and its cargo, and they were joined by a single, sturdy axle. The center of the wheel was a solid mass carved from the center of a tree trunk.
Lucas told the brothers that his father had given him a spinning top for his birthday.
“It’s this big.” The boy demonstrated with his hands. “The size of a pear.”
It had been made from light wood and a metal tip. Then it had been painted with bright colors.
“May I take this piece of wood?” asked Francisco.
“Of course,” Lucas responded, as he examined his sack of bait. “What do you need it for?”
“To make myself a top just like yours.”
Lucas laughed. He picked up another piece and walked toward a group of men. The conversation was so brief that when the brothers approached he could already tell them that the following day he would give Francisco a spinning top just like his own.
“With a metal tip, and nicely painted!”
He leapt with happiness.
“For now, I’ll lend you mine,” Lucas offered.
Francisquito took it, overjoyed.
They headed for the river, leaving behind the active commotion of the workshops, and took a path that was partially shaded by oaks. They arrived at the equally busy northern terrace, crammed with merchants, slaves hauling cargo, and packs of mules prepared to take new burdens. From the large inn, whose walls bore strange remnants of red paint, there spilled a group of strangers, while another group entered a grocery store shaded by the foliage of a carob tree. Beside the great gate in the fence, a small chapel stood watch. They went through the gate, into the deep, compelling jungle.
A few minutes later they arrived at the river; its waters resounded between the verdant shores. They climbed to the rocky edge that both Diego and Lucas considered the best spot for casting their lines. As they prepared their bait and tackle, Francisco played with Lucas’s top. There were a few horizontal slabs among the rocks, like wide steps. He wound the string around the shiny wood, tied the end to his index finger, and threw it down at an angle. The metal tip drew sparks from the rock. The toy spun madly, its stripes becoming blurred rings of color. The top reached the stone’s edge and fell down to the next level, still spinning. Then it tilted from side to side, as if uncertain, and lifted its metal tip as if it were an animal with a wounded foot. Francisco picked it up, rewound the string, and aimed to make the top descend more stones. He calculated the distance, pulled back his arm, lifted his opposite leg, and threw the toy at a slant. Its landing was sure: the top advanced quickly toward the stone’s edge, leapt to the next one down, kept spinning, progressed to the next edge, leapt again, went on spinning, and Francisco began to shout and urge it on with palm fronds.
“Three steps! Come on! Let’s go, let’s go! The fourth!”
“The fourth!” exclaimed Lucas.
Diego became excited, too. He left the fishhooks and approached the toy, which kept spinning, though it was starting to show signs of fatigue. It grazed the edge of the fifth step, but it leaned too far and fell, landing upside down. It kept turning, as if angry with itself.
“What a shame.”
“It was too good,” Lucas said.
“It’s going to fall off!” warned Diego.
It was true: the top was almost at the rocky cliff’s edge. In an instant, they’d lose it to the river. Diego lunged to grasp it and slipped on a clump of grass. His foot jabbed right into a hole.
Lucas and Francisco rushed to his aid. The crevice was deep and sharp edged. They couldn’t pull his leg out. Carefully, they turned Diego to realign his body with the hole’s shape, until finally they could move his leg. They pulled him out slowly, sweating under Diego’s screams. His ankle was covered in blood, and a chunk of flesh hung loose from his leg. Despite the pain, Diego had the presence of mind to ask Lucas to bandage the wound.
“With your shirt, with whatever you’ve got. Quick! It’s got to stop bleeding.”
Then they carried him: Lucas took him by the shoulders, and Francisco by the knees. They asked for help from a group of black men, who lent them their donkey. Everyone helped Diego mount; he wrapped his arms around the beast’s neck. They walked home, followed by the retinue of men, who were afraid of losing the donkey. They put him to bed immediately. Aldonza ran in search of salves. Diego fought to mask his pain, insisting that it wasn’t serious. The shirt turned tourniquet was now dark red. Luis brought in a washbowl full of warm water, undid the bandage, and carefully washed the skin, fearless at the sight of so much blood. He adjusted the hanging flap of skin and wrapped a clean bandage around the wound. He placed three pillows under the boy’s leg so that his ankle would be higher than the rest of his body. Then he left in search of the doctor.
Lucas stayed with his friend until Don Diego arrived. Francisco blamed the accident on the spinning top. The doctor took a sweeping look at the prone body, and asked questions as he examined the limb. He requested more warm water, and for everyone to move aside so as not to obstruct the light. The slave lifted Diego’s leg, and the doctor unwound the bandage almost all the way. The boy began to complain of pain, because the cloth had become stuck. Luis poured water while Don Diego maneuvered until he’d completely freed the ankle. He chose a pair of tweezers and extracted the imperceptible foreign objects that had insisted on remaining lodged in the gash. Then he approached the borders of the bluish flap of skin, and pulled it up. Diego gritted his teeth. Hi
s father covered the raw flesh with a milky powder, a blend of willow bark and zinc filings.
“You’ll be fine in three weeks. Now you need repose. There’s no need for a cast. You’ll also take a teaspoon of this medicine.”
He opened his medical case and took out a glass jar.
“This is a medicine used by the Indians of Peru. It calms pain and lowers fevers.”
Turning to his wife, who was staring in anguish, he added, “Every time I’ve used this, it’s been effective. Even more than mandrake.”
“What’s it called?”
“Quinine. They extract it from a plant called quina.” He sat back down beside his son’s bed, took the boy’s pulse, and intensely studied his face. Then he gestured for the others to leave the room. Did he want to remove Diego’s clothes and give him a complete exam?
Lucas took his leave. Aldonza and Francisquito accompanied him to the front door. But Francisquito wondered why his father would want to give Diego a full examination. It didn’t make sense. He’d only injured his ankle, and the remedy had already been applied. Might he want to give him intimate medical advice that only boys could hear? Well, wasn’t he, Francisco, himself a boy? A good opportunity to find out. He stealthily returned to the silent room, which was thick with the odor of unguents.
Don Diego stroked his son’s forehead as his son gazed back at him with gratitude.
“I’ve never had such a bad fall before. It hurts a lot.”
“I know. You’re wounded in a very sensitive area. The quinine powder will help. I’ll also prescribe herbal infusions that can act as sedatives. That’s all that can help from the outside, and—” He broke off. After a little while, he repeated the last words. “From the outside—”
Francisco crawled along the dim edge of the room and managed to hide a short distance from the bed. He knew this way of introducing a difficult topic: his father sweetened his voice, stroked his brown hair or the edge of a table, and repeated certain words.
“Do you understand, my son?”
The boy nodded to please his father, but he didn’t understand. Nor did Francisco.
Against the Inquisition Page 3