Against the Inquisition

by Aguinis, Marcos

  He slept.

  At dawn, milky vapor rose from the land. The caravan coiled up near a river for the breakfast rest, after having traveled for almost ten hours without pause. The animals needed a break. There was just enough time to heat the chocolate and fry up a meal. Again, the wagons circled up and the oxen were unyoked. The ground was damp. The men ran to hide behind some bushes. The women went in the opposite direction. The animals watched the humans’ prudery with bemusement as they went about relieving themselves without concern.

  The tributary of the Dulce River that they had to cross this morning had swelled. While breakfast was prepared, the guides surveyed the terrain. They investigated animal tracks, gorges, and the sporadic rocky clearings that offered the safest route. Several passengers who had made this journey before affirmed that though the river ran fast, it wasn’t very deep.

  One of the bosses selected three guides and ordered them to attempt a crossing. Their horses protested: they bucked, turned, whinnied. Finally, shaking, heads raised high, they entered the turbid waters. A few meters in, their bellies were already wet. The riders spurred them onward. The horses sank deeper. A little farther and they’d reach the shore. Only half of each horse was visible over the choppy surface of the water. They pushed on. The ground seemed firm. The current pressed one horseman to the side; he would take longer to reach his goal. The others started climbing upward. Immediately, the third rider also succeeded. Now they knew the depth of the river. They could cross. Eah! Everyone to their place! Onward!

  In the Monastery of Santo Domingo, a hooded monk guides Francisco and his captors down a narrow corridor. The lieutenant walks in front with his lantern, two of the officials grasp the prisoner’s arms, and the third one keeps watch from behind, hand on his knife’s hilt. Their steps echo gloomily in the darkness, as though they came from a multitude. The monk opens an arthritic cell door. Lieutenant Minaya gestures with his chin and his subordinates push the captive into the tiny black room.

  Francisco puts up his hands to keep from slamming into the invisible wall. Immediately, shackles encircle his wrists and ankles. The shackles are soldered to long chains attached to the wall.

  The door closes. A key turns and the lock slides into place. The footsteps recede. Francisco touches the damp plaster around him. There is no window, no bench, no table, no mattress. He sits down on the bare, uneven dirt floor. He waits. He will have to wait many hours, perhaps days. He will have to wait in a crouch, blind and defenseless, as the fierce puma leaps onto his tenacious back.

  10

  During nocturnal travel, candles were forbidden, as they could set the wagon’s wood or rush weaving aflame. However, the lantern stayed lit beside the driver as he yawned up on his old suitcase. The vehicle’s motion allowed for sleep when a stable rhythm was established, but there were often strong, sudden shudders; the route was full of stones and animal tracks. At times the wagon became stuck, and the driver descended, called for help, wielded logs or dry branches, had the vehicle pushed, and pressed the oxen into motion to free the wheels. Nobody slept through the night.

  Meanwhile, the voices of the night offered partial news of its mysteries. The whistle of cicadas was sliced by the screech of an owl, the creak of wagon wheels barely hid the clamor of beasts, and dark wild boars prowled in search of prey. Snakes slithered, viscacha rodents ran, otters congregated, and hares darted around. The long-suffering oxen hauled their yokes at a steady pace while, all around them, the invisible fauna attacked, fled, devoured. There was another risk as well: the cruel Indians of the Chaco.

  At dawn, Francisco would glimpse the rosy awakening of the horizon and the moon still hovering high above. Soon the breakfast wagon circle would begin. The morning routine would repeat itself, after which the caravan would resume for a few more hours, until ten o’clock, when the implacable sun attacked the countryside, permitting lunch and siesta. Then they would all do the same things they had done yesterday and would do tomorrow. Later, they would resume the march until the horizon turned purple. Wagon circle, campfire, dinner. They would keep on if the night was clear and the guides could see their way. The caravan was more tired with every passing day. But their destination was close.

  One day, at noon, they stopped in a small forest of quebracho trees, the last such forest on their journey. It was said that the wood of quebracho trees never decayed. It was so hard that it exhausted all axes. It was the most vigorous wood in the world.

  Rain began to fall and the laborers built a tent so they could keep on cooking. In the late afternoon it rained again. The oxen pressed on, stepping firmly through the mire, not frightened. The river crossing had been worse. After a while, the rain was nothing more than a memory. It would not return for the rest of the journey.

  The arid landscape prevailed in the end. The heat and dust increased dramatically. In the afternoons the wind picked up, its whistle often torturous. Wild animals ran through the bare expanse, searching for brush to hide in. The scarce greenery that had accompanied them at the start of their journey had withered into amber and zinc. The lethal salt flats were close. Judging by the birds of prey that glided above them, the caravan seemed to have stalled. The oxen were mere ceramic figurines in the infinite wasteland. They breathed in sandstone. Francisco asked whether they could get lost and end up circling forever in this hostile plain. The answer was no, but his question clearly unsettled the people around him.

  Now water had to be rationed. A bony whiteness stretched out before them. Just looking at it made one’s eyes hurt. The oxen entered a flatland of endless salt. The evening sun lit the spiny edges of shrubs. The night grew cold, faster than before. The wind scraped, carried voices. Francisco covered his head. Something slid into his nightmare. When he woke he heard his father running after the horses, accompanied by several men. He made to step down to the salt ground, but his mother grabbed him by the arm.

  “Don’t go!”

  That’s when he saw a couple of slaves lying prone. Their motionless bodies were dark against the milky ground. A red pool expanded beside them.

  “They were killed last night,” said Aldonza.

  “Why?”

  She shook her head. “By thieves, I suppose. They were right beside the wagon with our things.”

  Francisco broke free and approached the corpses. They were facedown, with wounds on their backs. They had been killed while they slept, or while they kept watch. Brother Isidro stood beside them, worrying his rosary. The laborers murmured among themselves, rowdy, bewildered. One of them told Francisco that his father had been one of the men who went out in search of the criminals.

  “Murderous sons of bitches! We’ll hang them!” swore a few traders.

  “My father will get the thieves and they’ll be brought to justice right here,” Francisco said.

  “If there are no trees a wagon roof can be the gallows,” a trader said as he handed a mulatto some rope to try it out. The mulatto smiled slightly and climbed up to the cattle prod, where he secured the rope with skill and pleasure.

  “Papá will get those thieves,” Francisco said again to his mother.

  She rubbed her eyes, as if to wipe away salty sandstone, or tears, or fury.

  “Papá was in front. He’s brave.”

  “He’s impulsive,” she said. “He shouldn’t have put himself at risk. It’s dangerous.” She looked at Francisco and added, “They’re criminals. Didn’t you see what they did to those poor men?”

  Francisco glanced at the inert bodies.

  “Your father is a doctor, not a soldier.”

  Catalina offered them cups of chocolate.

  “I know what got him riled up.” Aldonza stroked her cup with both hands. “He was called on to tend to the wounded. He couldn’t do anything because they were dead, but he saw that they fell beside the wagon that held our things. He realized that a chest was missing.” She took a long sip. “Not just any chest—for him.”

  The chief of the caravan called for the burial o
f the corpses. He chose the place, and two enslaved men began to dig the hole. No earth came up, only salt. White salt with dark marks slowly piled up. A scrawny vein of water appeared, resembling dirty milk. One shovelful threw a dead weasel into the air; it fell heavily onto the heap. Who knew how long it had been buried in the place that would now be occupied by these two men. It was still whole, revoltingly intact under the sheath of salt that had crusted its worn pelt. They lifted the dead and placed them on cowhides, then, pulling the edges of the hides, slid the bodies into the grave. Other hides served as covers. The soft coffin was quickly covered by the shovelful, while Brother Isidro led the muttering of litanies. Two crosses were nailed over the mound.

  The sun burned. Its incandescent breath was reinforced by a sporadic, stifling breeze. The travelers lay in a paralyzed siesta. Their dry lips had to bear the strict rationing of water. That afternoon they would have to go on no matter what, they said, because otherwise the grave for two would become everybody’s tomb. “The riders will reach us,” one of the foremen said reassuringly, as he ordered the laborers to harvest the fleshy leaves of a cactus. The fat, spiny leaves offered a slight reprieve from thirst.

  At three o’clock they began to prepare for their departure. A few specks danced on the horizon. Aldonza gestured to them with excitement. They were not a mirage, promising water and vegetation. They were the riders. They seemed to fly just above the briny plain. Their helmets shone like blue spheres. Where were the thieves? Had the riders killed them and left them for the vultures? The improvised noose awaited a neck around which to close, and did not want to be disappointed.

  Don Diego and his companions entered the wagon circle, covered in salt. They were so hoarse that, at first, they could barely speak. They were each offered half a jug of water, and then they unspooled their report in faltering voices. They had not caught up to the murderers. No. The thieves had had too much of an advantage. They’d fled the camp at least an hour before the crime had been discovered. The tracks they’d left at first seemed dependable, and then they didn’t. They had separated, to throw off their pursuers. There had been three of them, at least. They had abandoned the trunk during their flight, disappointed in its contents. Here, Don Diego smiled. The thieves had thrown books from the trunk as they’d rummaged through it. They’d disregarded the first layer of volumes with the hope of finding, beneath them, valuables or jewels, and then they sloughed off the second layer. And so on. “These salt flats have never read so much as they did today . . .”

  The mulatto untied the noose and, shrugging, returned it to the angry trader.

  A few books broke when thrown, while others lost pages, Don Diego told them. He gathered them up, devotedly, as if they were wounded children, while his companions grew impatient because they longed to catch the thieves. They argued, threatening to leave him alone with his ridiculous task. And they did so, but after a while they retraced their steps, as it was not possible to catch up to the criminals. Then they helped him finish collecting his things. That way, they at least wouldn’t return empty-handed.

  At last, a key penetrates the lock. How long has he been locked up here? He sits up, dizzy. He leans his palms against the cold wall. His shackled wrists and ankles hurt. The door creaks and a shaft of light penetrates the cell. The lamplight undulates, advancing stealthily. The uneven plaster is stained with rust and soot.

  He hears another set of steps. As they approach, a black man brings in two chairs and opens a folding table. Then he stands still beside the door, next to a servant holding a lamp. Two monks enter. Their habits are black and white. One is the local commissioner, Martín de Salvatierra. He is accompanied by Marcos Antonio Aguilar, a notary of the Holy Office. They sit. Brother Aguilar readies his inkwell, quill, and paper. Brother Martín de Salvatierra takes out a rolled parchment, opens it, and says, “Doctor Francisco Maldonado da Silva?”

  “Yes, Brother Martín.”

  The commissioner ignores the fact that they know each other, bothered by the prisoner’s inappropriate familiar manner.

  “Do you swear by the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and by this sacred cross, to tell the truth?”

  Francisco continues to hold his gaze. This same scene has already scorched his nightmares: the functionaries of the Holy Office order and he answers; they demand and he concedes. He makes fists. His wrists have blistered under the iron shackles. He feels as though he’s being watched from a great height.

  “Forgive me,” he coughs.

  The monk blinks.

  “What is this?”

  “I will swear to tell the truth—”

  “Then do so.”

  Francisco continues to hold his gaze. “But not like this.”

  The notary knocks over his inkwell. One of his servants rushes to his aid.

  “What are you saying?” the commissioner growls.

  “I will only swear by God.”

  Thunder shakes the cell.

  11

  The increasing greenery surrounding the caravan marked the end of their trek. Soon they would arrive in Córdoba, where a new home awaited them, along with new friends and, according to Don Diego’s predictions, a more peaceful life. Espinillo trees covered the friendlier, undulating landscape. Blue mountains emerged in the distance. Among the bushes, modest snakewood shrubs showed off their juicy rubies. The first copse of carob trees made for a tempting natural rest stop: the trees extended long branches like the ceiling of a church. Hours later, acacia trees blooming golden flowers appeared. The sudden inclines made it necessary to yoke more oxen in front when going up and then in the back when going down. The air cleared itself of salt and dust. Valleys multiplied between hills and ramparts.

  A solitary ranch beckoned them for their midday rest. The travelers hurtled toward the earthen pitchers and the corrals. The ranch dwellers sold lambs, chickens, eggs, and squash. From the well arose one bucket after another of clear, cool water. Prickly pears poked between the stone garden walls, and the travelers collected the flavorful fruit in pots.

  The next day they camped beside a river. They were already in the valley that let out onto the city of Córdoba. Hills rose gently on either side of them, thin streams visible between their undergrowth. The narrow road snaked between colored rocks, quartz stones, and green groves. They passed the posts of Quilino, Totoral, and Colonia Caroya. They were one step from their destination.

  12

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Don Diego exclaimed. “They say it resembles the city of our ancestors. This river is identical to the Guadalquivir. And, close by, the mountains ripple gracefully. Look at how varied and lovely they are!”

  Córdoba—the New World one—was far from Lima, the capital of the Viceroyalty. Because of this, it offered the hope of being a good refuge, far from spies and denunciations. But the arm of the Inquisition did not lose strength through distance, and could lengthen like elastic to pursue heretics across mountains; it could cross deserts and leap over the widest canyon.

  Don Diego Núñez da Silva had arranged for his family to move into the home of the Brizuelas, thanks to the fact that Juan José Brizuela would be moving to Chile with his wife and two children. With the money he’d receive from his house in Ibatín, Don Diego could pay for the new one in Córdoba. José and Don Diego had known each other for years, and they knew of each other’s fears. As a result, the arrangements had been easy to make. They were received warmly and invited to rest under the grapevine while the servants packed up one household to make room for another. The two families lived together for ten intense days.

  The house was more modest than the one the Núñez da Silva family had left behind in Ibatín. The young Francisco suffered a disappointment over this, as well as over the lack of orange trees. Instead of an intimate grove, there stretched an awning covered in sumptuous grapevines. The front door was made of two planks linked by strong iron hinges and a rusty knocker someone had brought from Toledo. A hall with an oval ceiling led to the rectangular pati
o, which was overhung by grapevines; in its center stood a well, decorated with ornamental tiles. The living room opened to the right; it was dark, but the floor was graced with a flowered rug. Several chests and an armchair stood against the walls. Beside the only window, there gleamed a desk. It was upholstered in blue cloth, a sign of luxury. Chairs and colorful cushions invited relaxation. The furnishings were complemented by a religious image on each wall and a couple of framed mirrors. The living room led to the dining room, with its long walnut table, two benches, and four chairs. Further on, the almost bare bedrooms. Behind the patio of the grapes stood the kitchen, the servants’ quarters, a small garden, and the animal pen.

  Marcos, the Brizuela family’s youngest son, was taller and hardier than Francisco. They became fast friends. Francisco told him about Ibatín, the enchanted jungle, the river full of fish, the ferocious Calchaquí Indians, the white chapel of the vice-patrons, the largest wagon factory in the world, the fight between the donkey and the puma on their journey, and the original academy in the orange grove that his father had invented. Marcos listened with undisguised astonishment and, in a gesture of reciprocity, tried to surprise him as well: he described the docility of Cordoban Indians, and recounted a scandal that had recently surrounded the beautiful mulatto Elisa. In addition, in Córdoba, there was something without equal in the world: the wintering of thousands of mules brought up from the pampa and later sold in the north at spectacular gains. Francisco wanted to see this marvel, but his friend offered him something even more compelling: a perfect hiding place. It was a cave behind the animal pen. He took him through the wooden fence, parted a blackberry bush, moved a triangular stone, and, squatting, invited him to slither a few meters under the interwoven branches. They entered a damp chamber. The thick growth around them muffled outside sounds. In the hiding place, a sacred silence reigned. Marcos made him swear that he wouldn’t show it to anyone. Not even to Lorenzo, the son of Toribio Valdés, captain of the Lancers, who lived nearby.