Brother Bartolomé abandoned the house in a majestic rage, followed by his court of familiars of the Holy Office. Aldonza fell into the chair the monk had left empty. Francisco glided to the back of the house, and, when he’d confirmed that no one was watching, he entered his hiding place. “He can hide here if he comes back.” He lay down on the cool earth. He imagined his brother galloping toward the slaughterhouse and, there, in the fray of animals, wagons, and slaves, he could change horses. He imagined his pursuers, who, on recognizing the horse without a rider, would think that he was trying to throw them off the scent by running barefoot, making them hunt through the whole fetid place. They would go through the pastures, beat the laborers, and slip in the blood and fat. Meanwhile, his brother would gain leagues of distance as he headed toward Buenos Aires.
Before dark, Catalina served a frugal dinner. Francisco stroked his mother’s hand, wanting to transmit that the misfortune was not so bad; Diego had managed to escape, galloping in the direction of the ocean. But he couldn’t sleep that night. When fatigue finally subsumed him, he was startled awake by a noise. A strange brightness approached, and iron clanged outside. He leapt out of bed and found his brother, dirty and shaking, between guards. They were tying him up beside the well. The light from their lanterns revealed bruises on his face and a bloody streak on his ruined shirt. They pushed him toward the living room, while one of the soldiers sent for Brother Bartolomé. Aldonza rushed toward her son, but they held her back before she could cross the threshold. She fell to her knees.
The wait became an eternity. Aldonza begged for her son to at least be allowed a drink of water. Francisco went to the well, filled a jug, and tried to put it to his brother’s lips without permission. An official snatched the jug from him and poured its contents at the prisoner’s feet.
A murmur arose, and the commissioner entered with his drowsy cat. An official who had just pulled Francisco’s ear for his insolence now followed the monk. Brother Bartolomé settled pompously into a chair in the bare room, adjusting the folds of his robe and straightening the cross on his chest. He ordered the soldiers to bring the captive closer. The notary prepared his inkwell, quill, and parchment.
“Identify yourself,” he said.
The young man stammered his name.
“Profession.”
In Diego’s dizzy vision the commissioner hovered in the air above him like an immense globe.
“Profession,” pressed the monk.
“I don’t know.”
“Possessions. State your goods.”
Diego hung his head. “Goods.” The word sounded strange. “Goods. Good. Good and evil. My goods.” He was weakened by exhaustion.
The commissioner counted on the fingers of his left hand. “Money.”
He shook his head.
“Land. Silver objects. Horses. Mules. Slaves. Gold objects.”
The notary’s quill moved sonorously. Diego stood, with ropes around his body, moving like an elm in the wind. Brother Bartolomé gripped his cross and leaned close to the prisoner, forcing him to raise his gaze.
“Have you practiced Judaism?”
Diego shook his head.
This was not enough for the commissioner. “Answer! Have you practiced Jewish rites?”
“No—no. I’m a devout Catholic.” His voice trembled. “You know that I’m a devout Catholic.”
Brother Bartolomé let his cross fall back against his chest.
“In any case,” he said, suppressing a yawn, “you will be put on trial by the Inquisition. You will be taken to Chile, and from there you will board a ship to Lima.”
Aldonza’s suffocated sobs were the only sound to fill the room. The hearing was over. The notary quickly finished the legal document while the henchmen untied Diego and gripped his arms. The officials formed two lines of honor around the corpulent commissioner and picked up their lanterns.
The few hours that remained in the night only sharpened the sorrow in the house. The following morning, the first son of Don Diego Núñez da Silva would go to be reunited with his father (or with his father’s corpse), and Brother Bartolomé would return with a scroll to once again take stock of the assets of this impertinent family. In the end, he would take every last tattered rag.
Francisco didn’t fall asleep until the break of dawn. His tangled thoughts had been shot through by a question that cut like a spear: “When will it be my turn?” He had just turned ten years old.
The familiar sequence: steps, lock, key, creak, a strip of light. Several soldiers enter.
“Get up!” they order.
His body is weak, riddled with pain.
They open his shackles. The rusted rings break off shreds of his skin and drops of pus. His wrists and ankles are startled by their sudden freedom. But a rope is tied around his waist. Long, thick, firm.
“Walk!”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Walk, I said!”
He staggers toward the door. Two soldiers tie his arms back; they hold and guide him. He enters the corridor. At last, something else will happen.
24
They went to church frequently. Aldonza, held up by one daughter on each side, walked with guilty steps. Francisco zigzagged restlessly, in front and behind, sometimes resembling the guide, sometimes the family dog. People did their best to avoid them. They exuded sadness and misfortune. This was how alone the three Marias must have felt when Christ was crucified, the boy thought again. “Christ was spurned like my father and my brother, and those who loved him were spurned as well. The ones who killed Christ and the ones who now refuse to greet us are the same in their malice.”
Francisco liked the sermons of Brother Santiago de La Cruz, the spiritual director of the Dominican monastery, because he did not emphasize threats. He neither stirred fear with talk of the punishments of hell, nor did he describe them in morbid detail, as did most priests. He preferred to expand on love. Francisco was captivated by his explanations of Christ’s kindness. The spiritual director pulled up the wide sleeves of his habit and leaned his fingers on the wooden rail. He offered moments of pleasure rather than a beating. “Although today is not Holy Thursday,” he would say, “on which the sermon of the Last Supper is given, I will refer to it because, truly, it should be present in all sermons. Remember the ceremony in which Christ kneeled and washed the feet of His disciples, including those of Judas Iscariot, and said, ‘I give you a new commandment: that you love each other, as I have loved you.’”
With simple examples, Brother Santiago de La Cruz demonstrated that love is more than a formula. “An upright Christian is he who loves others.” And: “At the end of His life, Christ offered us a synthesis of His mission, because, in loving each other, we love Him. All imitation of Christ should begin with the practice of love for our mothers and children, our brothers and sisters and fathers, our relatives, our neighbors, the poor, the saints, and the sinners. Each human is marked by Him as a recipient of our affection.” He raised his index finger for the first time. “To fail to do so is to mar the success of His divine mission.”
Jesus hung over the altar. Blood clung to the crown of thorns. Blood streaked his nailed hands and feet, and a ribbon of blood trickled from his wounded side; blood also dripped from his knees and other parts of his furiously whipped body. He had suffered for the happiness of mankind. “He suffered for us, for my father, and for my brother Diego,” Francisco thought. “If we’re meant to imitate Christ, we’re definitely imitating him now with our suffering.”
25
Every day, Francisco went to the Santo Domingo monastery to attend Mass, fulfill tasks of penance, and study the catechism. He returned home in the late afternoon. On the way he gathered the fruit that hung over garden walls. He kept his mother and sisters company as they embroidered in silence. To break the atmosphere of mourning he told them about his encounters, about the artwork of Agustín and Tobías, who’d come all the way from Cuzco to carve marvelous reliefs for a new altar, or abo
ut the benefits of this or that sacrament, according to what he’d learned in class.
Then he would go out for a ride on an old and skillful mule, the only one they had left. He headed toward the river, then took the path in the direction of the blue mountains. The sunset warmed the colors of the sky. Birds circled overhead, calling out messages. Fragrances rose into the growing quiet. Looking back, he saw the cluster of houses near the sandy shore of the river.
On this day he dismounted, as the mule seemed hurt. Its front right foot was bleeding. He parted its hairs; the animal flinched in fear. He stroked it, and, taking its reins, led it back home. They had gone a long distance. Far down the road, two men and a mule appeared. They seemed to be in a hurry. It was obvious that they wanted to reach Córdoba before nightfall. He recognized them as Franciscans from the color of their robes. One of them was slim and was in the lead. The second man followed, pulling the mule; he was hunchbacked, with a beard so thick his nose was barely visible. They caught up to Francisco and asked how far they were from the city.
“You are already in Córdoba. As soon as you pass that next bend in the road, you’ll see it.”
The tall monk was walking rapidly, moving his arms like oars; he had a mad look about him. His stained habit was covered in the dust of a long journey.
“Did you come from far?”
“From La Rioja.”
He tried to adjust his pace to that of the hurried monks. He told them that he’d never been to La Rioja, but that his father had been there. At this, the thin one smiled lightly, and asked who his father was. He answered that he was a doctor by the name of Diego Núñez da Silva.
“Diego Núñez da Silva?” The monk approached Francisco and put an arm around him, long as a tentacle. “I met your father—yes, I met him, and we spoke about medicine, among other things. We need doctors in these lands, do you know? I could not continue my studies because I was sent to Montilla monastery and then to Loreto monastery. Your father was struck by my stories about the bubonic plague in Spain. Do you know what the bubonic plague is?”
Francisco shook his head.
The monk explained as they kept walking. It was clear that he liked to chat; it had been a long time since he’d talked to anyone beyond his assistant. They followed the bend in the path, and there, in the diminishing light, a handful of towers stood beside the pearly ribbon of the river. The cicadas let out a great noise of welcome. The travelers paused for a moment to take in the landscape. The skeletal monk breathed through his mouth, smiling, allowing the breeze to ripple through his beard.
Francisco went in front to help guide them in the growing shadows. Soon he heard a clean, marvelous sound. It was the melody of an angel, something he’d never heard before. He looked back and saw the tall monk with an object that he held against his neck as he rubbed it with a stick. Francisco tripped against the mule, because he could not walk normally in the thrall of that music. It was like a giant butterfly scattering gold and sapphires. He felt the urge to leap. The thin stick rose and fell delicately as the fingers of the monk’s left hand pressed the different strings.
The assistant noticed the boy’s fascination and glided to his ear. “He is a saint. This is how he expresses his thanks to the Lord.”
When they arrived at the outskirts of the city, the monk stopped playing his mysterious lute and put it away in one of the bundles on the mule’s back.
“Could you tell us how to reach the Franciscan monastery?”
“Yes. It’s close to my house.”
“I am an inspector general of monasteries. Tell your father that I would like to see him tomorrow. Tell him my name is Francisco Solano.”
The boy swallowed. How could he tell him that his father had been arrested as a Jew?
“What’s the matter, my boy?”
Francisco hung his head.
The monk kneeled. He kneeled before a child! He placed his closed hand under Francisco’s chin, and gently raised his gaze. “What happened to your father?”
His throat ached and he just barely managed to tell him that his father was gone, that he’d been taken to Lima.
“I understand,” whispered the monk.
He rose pensively, scanned the starry sky, looked at his assistant, and asked to continue forward. They arrived at the royal road. Francisco felt the light, warm hand on his back. It was the sign of a miracle. He wanted to hug the man’s knees.
Before the door of the monastery, the tall monk bid farewell with the following words: “Tomorrow I will bless your home. Go with God.”
Francisco mounted his mule and, despite its wounded foot, forced it to gallop the short distance home. He burst into the room, found his mother, and threw himself at her feet. He leaned into her and said, “Tomorrow we will be visited by an angel.”
Aldonza had heard talk of a monk who played a three-stringed instrument, and who was credited with marvels, but she did not believe that he would deign to visit them. “Why would he give us his time and his blessing? Our house is cursed.”
The following day, at noon, Catalina came home from washing clothes in the river, full of excitement; the only gossip of the day was about the violin-playing saint who had come to town. The fantastic versions of the story coincided: he enchanted people with his music, understood the ways of animals, and performed miracles. The sleeves of his habit were wider than usual because, after dipping them in the river and taking them out full of fish, he had fed a hungry caravan; his sleeves remained wide as a testament to that marvel. All these wonders had Francisco spellbound.
At the end of the day, Brother Andrés, the violinist’s companion, appeared. The boy recognized him from his hunched back, though he’d now been neatly shaved by the monastery barber. Since his superior had not yet completed his work duties, he explained, he thought it best to come and let them know. Aldonza offered him pastries and a cup of chocolate. The monk accepted a pastry and asked whether the whole family was present.
“Yes, all of us,” the mother said.
“There are so few of us left,” Felipa added.
Brother Andrés nodded; he was aware. This kind of news was shared immediately. The portrait of a mother with three children, two slaves, an empty house, and the oppressive uncertainty of the fates of her husband and eldest son—it must have made for a catastrophic effect. He ate the pastry, leaning over the tray, emphasizing the deformity of his back. It was clear that he was not interested in the body, but in Francisco Solano. He began to speak of him and did not stop until night had fallen. Of course, he was captivating. It was like a beautiful story from a book. But it was not a fantastical story—Francisco Solano existed, and this deformed Andrés was living proof.
Aldonza offered him more pastries. But Felipa discreetly removed the tray—she did not want Francisco Solano to arrive to nothing but crumbs.
When he crossed the threshold, everybody rose to their feet. The man, a blurred figure in the twilight, quickly approached the mother. He blessed them and sat down. His hood fell onto his back and his long body glimmered with the radiance of the candles that Catalina respectfully placed at his side.
26
That night, Aldonza felt compelled to tell Francisco Solano about her husband’s arrest, contradicting the urgings of silence that she herself had given her son that morning.
Francisco Solano inspired trust, despite the withered state of his flesh. He told them that, once, as he walked through Indian territory, he had become exhausted, and the people there had built him a kind of chair and carried him on a frame.
“I traveled half asleep,” he laughed, “and occasionally I felt like a fraud imitating the pope. A terrible sin of arrogance, of course. But I let them do it because the help they were giving me, and which I truly needed, did them good. They were incredibly happy; they felt strong and generous. If I, to protect my virtue, had rejected this spontaneous offering, it would have been a selfish act. Paradoxical, no?”
At the end of the simple dinner, he surprised them.
“My brothers expect me to sleep in the monastery tonight. They have made splendid arrangements. But I won’t go. Their monastery should always be beautifully kept, not only during an inspection. Nor will I explain my reasons. I will allow you to deduce them yourselves.”
“Where, then, will we spend the night?” asked Andrés.
“You, in the monastery. And, if this family agrees to it, I prefer to sleep here.”
“Here?”
“Yes. In this house. I wish to keep you company and convey my affection.”
“It’s an honor we don’t deserve!” Aldonza exclaimed, bewildered. “We’ll prepare the best room for you.”
“No, no,” he said, shaking his long head. “Do you want to chase me away? I only need you to lend me a basket. I’ll sleep under a tree, under the open sky.”
“Father—”
He extended his arms in a cross, with an air of resignation. “Every once in a while I give myself the pleasure of sleeping uncomfortably.”
He said goodbye to Brother Andrés.
Catalina cleared the table and Aldonza went in search of a basket. She returned with three, so that the monk could choose. But Francisco Solano asked her to put them to the side, to replace the diminished candles with fresh ones, and to sit with him and her three children to converse. They formed a nervous circle. His peaceful courtesy did not erase his status as an extremely respected minister of the church. It was hard to understand his warmth for this disgraced family, unless he was looking at them through the lens of paradox, to which he seemed inclined.
The frogs began to croak and fireflies lit up the dark corners. The only dissonance—disruptive, unsettling—was Aldonza’s cough.
The monk told them about his encounter in La Rioja with Doctor Diego Núñez da Silva, whom he called by his full name. He talked about the famed trial of Antonio Trelles, which began because he had tried to practice medicine without formal certification, and ended in the not entirely proven crime of being a practicing Jew. Part of his dinnerware had been acquired by Don Diego at a high price, as a way of helping the defenseless wife. “This reveals,” he said, “that Don Diego has a noble heart.”
Against the Inquisition Page 12