Santiago de La Cruz arranged the visit, which was not easy to obtain. Francisco thought his sisters seemed painfully mature and distant. Isabel looked more like their mother every day: short, timid, with bright, clear eyes. Felipa was a feminine version of her father; her nose had grown along with her stature and she exuded a certain hardness and exaggerated gravity. They both inspired respect. He gathered his strength and breathlessly told them of his plans to go to Lima to study medicine at the University of San Marcos. After a few seconds of silence he added that he might not see them again for many years. The young women stared at their brother with a neutral expression and invited him to sit on a bench among the colonnades.
The ensuing silence was interspersed with comments about life in the future convent, as a way of evading painful topics: loneliness, resentment, fears, humiliation. The young women worked their rosary beads and he ran his fingers through his hair. When they ran out of time, they stood. Francisco wanted to absorb the sight of them. He knew that very soon he would be longing for this moment. His sisters lowered their eyes with the modesty their new circumstances demanded. Felipa had lost almost all of her funny impertinence. Nevertheless, she did express one irritating thought.
“Be careful not to do the same thing as Papá,” she warned him.
They looked at each other with a mix of affection and suspicion. The curse that had befallen their family had cast a shadow on their faces. They said nothing more. The three of them blinked back tears. Francisco embraced them for a long time, and when he left he did not dare turn back to look at them. When he arrived back at his cell, he dipped his quill and wrote on parchment, “As soon as I get the money, I’ll bring you with me.”
He also bid farewell to Brother Bartolomé. The obese commissioner had recovered from his stroke. He was on a strict, disgusting diet meant to detoxify his colossal body. The monk was swallowing medicine, holding his nose. He asked Francisco to tell him of his plans, when he had devised them, who had made suggestions, how he would bring them to fruition. He spoke in a friendly tone, truly wanting to help, but he could not avoid his natural prosecutorial style. Francisco, for his part, managed to respond with certainty despite the foggy nature of his hopes. He said that he had artfully used a pointed blade to perform a bloodletting, and he liked to help the sickly. He supposed that those who preferred weapons had a soldier’s vocation, and those who preferred only to tend to the sick had the vocation of a priest. But he who had both tendencies had a doctor’s vocation. For this reason, he wanted to study in the City of Kings.
Brother Bartolomé’s thick lips pursed into a frown, unconvinced by this reasoning. “In any case,” he conceded, “you are inspired to a useful purpose. What matters,” he added with sudden solemnity, “is the health of your spirit. I don’t want any more heretics in your family.”
Francisco hung his head, humiliated.
“When you arrive in Lima, go to the Dominican monastery. Ask for Brother Manuel Montes. He will help you when you tell him who you are and who sent you. He will take you to the university.”
Francisco’s head was still down.
“Will you do it?” the commissioner asked.
“Yes, of course.”
A hand touched him. Though the monk was fat, his skin was cold. The cat let out a very sharp meow, which resounded like an echo. Then Brother Bartolomé raised his right hand and made a cross in the air.
“I bless you in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.”
The monk lay back on his armchair. He had proceeded adequately, with warmth and paternal firmness. The boy, however, would not leave. He stayed standing, in silence, his gaze fixed to an invisible point on the ground. Something was unfinished.
“What is it?” the priest asked.
“I need your authorization.”
“You already have it.”
“Not for my trip.”
Brother Bartolomé frowned, not understanding.
“To say goodbye to Brother Isidro.”
His expression clouded over. He drummed against his armrest and shook his head.
The boy had sensed this answer coming. Brother Isidro Miranda had been confined in the Monastery of La Merced since an evil spirit had invaded his brain. He engaged in long conversations with deceased bishops and accused almost all the clergy in the region of being Jewish. He had been locked up in his cell and was only visited by the order’s superior.
“No,” Brother Bartolomé said. “You cannot.”
Francisco turned and slowly moved away, still waiting for something.
“Francisco—”
His heart raced.
“Come,” the commissioner said.
He returned to the convalescent’s side and listened.
“You will find what you are seeking.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do understand. You will find your father.”
It was as if an open hand had struck his face.
The cat’s phosphorescent gaze stayed motionless. The serious gaze of the commissioner’s did, too. Francisco’s chest, on the other hand, was a wild drum.
“I—”
“He’s in the port of Callao. That’s where you’ll find him.”
“How do you know?”
“Now you may go.” He closed his eyes. “May the Lord bless you.”
37
On the eve of the journey, Francisco filled his leather suitcase with his belongings. To the left side of his belt he tied the sling that Luis had made him out of a bladder, and on the right side he tied a small bag containing the coins he had saved during those years of monastery labor. He used a coarse linen shirt to wrap the thick book Santiago de La Cruz had decided to give him at the last moment, after a period of arduous meditation, to Francisco’s amazement: a Bible. Less beautiful and almost devoid of artistic illuminations, but a complete Bible, beginning with Genesis and ending with Revelations, containing the Song of Songs and the Epistles of Saint Paul, all the prophets and all the gospels, the history of the patriarchs, and the Acts of the Apostles.
He lay down on his rush mat for a few hours of sleep. He wondered whether he’d make it to Lima safe and sound. He was familiar with the first part of the trajectory, as it retraced the path his family had taken nine years earlier. But a creak interrupted his thoughts: it was the rats, taking advantage of the night. The next creak was no longer usual. Francisco opened his eyes and saw a silhouette in the opening. He sat up quickly and felt for a match.
“Who is it?”
“Sshhhh!”
The silhouette approached slowly. Its clumsy lateral movements spoke volumes. Luis squatted. Noiselessly, he put down a heavy sack.
“How did you get in here?”
“There was no other way to see you,” he whispered. “I climbed over the garden wall. It’s dangerous, I know.”
“I’m happy that you came. Do you know that I’m leaving for Lima?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Francisco pressed his forearm. “Thank you!”
They stared at each other in the darkness. Luis smelled of earth.
“Do they treat you well, Luis?”
“I’m a slave, boy.”
“Did you miss me?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
“Thank you again.”
“And also because I have this, for the doctor.”
“My father?”
“Isn’t it true that you’re traveling to Lima?”
“Yes, but—will I find my father?”
“You’ll find him.”
“I hope so!” he moved over to give Luis more space. “How do you know?”
“I’m a witch doctor’s son.”
“You were very small when you were captured.”
“As small as you were when the doctor was captured.”
“They didn’t capture him. They arrested him.”
“Is there a difference?”
They exchanged a ki
nd of radiance. In that cell shrouded in silence, the two bodies heard each other’s heartbeats.
Francisco touched his shoulder. “What have you brought for my father?”
Luis glanced around him, an unnecessary precaution. In a low voice he whispered, “His tools of sorcery.”
“His tools? Didn’t he take them to Lima?”
“No. I hid them, so they wouldn’t be stolen. A sorcerer’s power should never be stolen.”
He brought the sack closer and made him feel through the jute cloth. Francisco recognized tongs, lancets, tubes, scissors, saws, cannulas. He untied the knot, inserted his hand, and stroked the silver instruments.
“Incredible, Luis!”
“Sshhhh! The monks might hear you.”
“They almost got the secret out of you,” Francisco said, smiling.
“When the captain beat me?”
“He almost made you confess.”
“But I didn’t confess.”
“You’re brave, a worthy son of a witch doctor. My father would be proud of you.”
“Thank you, my boy. But—touch the instruments, why don’t you. Touch.”
Francisco continued to move his hand through the bag.
“The case!”
“Aha!”
“The case with the Spanish key. You hid that, too! Luis, you are a marvel, an angel.”
Luis caressed the coarse sack and then murmured, “I want to travel with you.”
Francisco was moved down to the marrow. “I wish you could come with me, but I’m afraid it’s not possible. They won’t tolerate your escape. They’ll hunt you down and punish you. I can’t buy you or care for you. They’d make us both come back. And then they’d also get the instruments.”
Luis shifted position; he leaned his back against the wall and gathered his legs in, a reflex of suffering he had learned on the slave ship. He vigorously scratched his neck, sweating with rage. “I want to fly like a bird, but I can’t. I want to work as a witch, with the doctor.”
Francisco pressed his forearm again. The cry of an owl cut through the night; to the Indians, owls were a sign of blessing. Francisco thought of something.
“Listen, Luis. I went to say goodbye to my sisters. Do you know what I’ve decided?”
Luis strained his eyes in the darkness.
“I’ve decided that as soon as I get the money I’ll bring them to live with me.”
“In Lima?”
“Yes. I’m going to reunite the family.”
“Are they happy, your sisters?”
“They don’t know about my plan. I didn’t dare tell them it. But now you know it.”
Luis nodded, stretching out his legs.
“You should also know this.”
Luis raised his head.
“I’ll buy you. You and Catalina. And you’ll come with my sisters. We’ll all reunite.”
Luis lunged forward and clumsily embraced the son of his former owner. Francisco caressed his hair. At the end of a few minutes they stood up and pressed each other’s hands until they hurt. The boy opened his suitcase and inserted the jute bag containing the treasure he would return to his father.
38
Before dawn broke, Francisco left the monastery that had housed him for seven years. He passed through the rustic gate and walked the empty road, carrying his suitcase. The fresh, spicy air filled him with enthusiasm. He reached the area where a score of wagons were lining up little by little, while herds of mules were guided toward the path. Laborers had taken their places at the front of wagons, under lanterns that hung from cattle prods. Oxen moved slowly, obeying prods and shouts. Enslaved workers hauled loads onto the giant tubes through the back openings, while overseers, lanterns in hand, supervised the labyrinth of people and animals.
Francisco boarded a wagon and waited for the journey to begin. After half an hour, departure orders were shouted out. The tower on wheels received an energetic tug and began to sway. The caravan headed north. The guiding horsemen rode in front. On Francisco’s wagon there traveled a married couple from Buenos Aires with two young daughters; they were headed to the city of Cuzco. The man looked like he could be his wife’s father. There was no sign of his friend Lorenzo Valdés.
An officer remained in the area until the final herd had left. Then he went home, drank a cup of chocolate, and went to the captain of the Lancers’ house. He walked at a calm pace, enjoying the freshness of dawn, satisfied by his efforts. His tenacious presence had discouraged the disobedient young man. He struck the door with the iron knocker. A pearly brightness was rising over the horizon. The servant showed him into the living room. After a while, the captain of the Lancers entered, and the officer rose to his feet.
“No news, my captain.”
“Chá!”
Valdés gestured for him to sit back down. He ordered the servant to serve them both chocolate. The officer didn’t dare tell him that he had just finished drinking a cup in his own home.
“And so—all is in order!” Valdés repeated.
“Effectively so. I watched the departure of the weekly caravan. Your son was not there.”
“Aha!”
“He did not leave.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“You have been surveilling them for a month now.”
“Effectively so.”
“Help yourself to the chocolate.”
“Yes. Thank you, Captain.”
“You drink without gusto. Don’t you like it?”
“I like it, Captain.” He ingested a long, noisy sip; obedience had to be demonstrated.
“So he did not leave—”
“Effectively so.”
“Aha! But it is not so. My son left.”
“What do you say, Captain?”
“That he left. Right under your plugged-up nose.”
“I have supervised wagon after wagon. I felt through the bundles, watched the herds.”
“Aha!”
“Your son was not there, Captain.”
“Nor is he here.”
“He must have escaped on horseback. I’ll race to reach him, with my men!”
“Finish your chocolate. That won’t be necessary.”
“He’s made fools of us!”
“Of you.”
“Of—of—”
“He knew you were spying on him. He planned for you to be convinced that he would travel on this caravan. The departure of Francisco was good bait, wasn’t it? He tricked you in style. I want to tell you, officer, that Lorenzo has been gone for a while. I don’t know how, but he’s gone. He had the kindness to leave me a respectful note. He’s a skillful boy.”
“Yes, he is skillful.”
“And you are not.”
The officer coughed and a few drops of chocolate fell on the captain of the Lancer’s boots. Valdés looked at him scornfully. He was proud of his son, but worried about the inefficiency of his subordinates.
39
The young friends were reunited several leagues north of Córdoba. The overseer of the caravan accepted Lorenzo into the wagon where Francisco traveled, and allowed for his horse’s reins to be tied to the vehicle.
He introduced himself to his fellow passengers. The girls were called Juana and Mónica. Their mother, about twenty-five years old, was named María Elena Santillán. The mature father, José Ignacio Sevilla.
“Sevilla is not a Portuguese surname,” Lorenzo said after hearing him speak.
“My distant ancestors were Spanish,” the man admitted and then asked Francisco to pass him a basket of oranges, more interested in changing the subject than in eating them.
Mónica hugged her mother’s neck and whispered in her ear about why the young man had a wine-colored stain on his cheek and nose.
“Because my mother wanted to eat plums when I was in her belly!” Lorenzo responded, playfully tickling her navel.
“Where are you headed?” the woman asked.
“I to Cuzco, or t
o Guamanga,” Lorenzo answered. “A big indigenous rebellion has broken out, like an epidemic. It’s called ‘the singing sickness.’ It’s a return to idolatry; the Indians are breaking crosses, pulling corpses out of cemeteries, murdering priests, and changing their names. We have to stop them. I’m going to join the exterminating militias.”
“But that happened a long time ago!” Sevilla exclaimed.
“A long time ago?”
“Of course. Some Indian preachers announced the return of the huacas, the ancient gods of nature, and pressed the people to rise up against the authorities. But they were suppressed. Who gave you such outdated information?”
“Some magistrates.”
“You must have misunderstood. That’s over.”
“The Indians aren’t rebelling?”
“Yes, they’re rebelling. They’re also idolaters in many cases. But there’s no massive rebellion anymore. I’m sorry to disappoint you. There won’t be anyone for you to wage war against.”
“Then I’ll go to Portobello,” the captain’s son proclaimed, “and from there I’ll sail to Spain and follow the troops marching to Flanders, as my father did, or I’ll battle against the Turks in the Mediterranean, or against the Moors in Africa.”
“Do you have a way to pay for your travels?”
“Pay? They’ll pay me! And if not, I’ll beg for a while and steal from infidels. What else would a good warrior do?”
Sevilla’s expression was resigned. “And you, Francisco?”
“I’m going to Lima. I want to be a doctor.”
“Ah. You’ll study there. It’s another kind of adventure, then.”
“Yes.”
“Doctors are needed everywhere. The few to be found anywhere in the province come from Spain or Portugal.”
“His father was a doctor,” Lorenzo explained.
“Yes? What was his name?”
“His name is—” Francisco corrected, “it is Diego Núñez da Silva.”
“Diego Núñez da Silva?”
“You know him?”
Sevilla rubbed the right side of his nose, clearly holding back his response.
Against the Inquisition Page 17