“Yes.”
“Then it’s been about thirty years since I met Gaspar Chávez. A good chunk of time, right?”
“Here, in Cuzco?”
“Near here, on the mountain. Your father was there when we met.”
“Tell me.”
Sevilla smiled. “You want more stories?” He winked conspiratorially. “Look”—he put his hands on his shoulders—“the surname Chávez has a particular origin. Its sound and spelling hide it, but not too much. It comes from the word ‘Shabbat.’”
“He’s Jewish?”
“Shhh! To everybody else he’s a good Christian. Didn’t he just praise the Feast of God?”
Francisco glanced at him sidelong.
“He goes to Mass,” Sevilla said, “he confesses, he participates in the processions, he gives significant donations to the church. What more can you ask of him?”
Chávez’s manufacturing had spread to the neighboring houses. They were hives full of bustling courtyards and covered corridors, arranged so that the rain would not disturb the work of the Indian and mestizo employees, or ruin the hundreds of looms in a constant state of activity. Between the looms, fires crackled to keep the space warm through the winter.
But the work was not only by contract or compulsion; it was also to fulfill sentences. Francisco learned that the authorities worked with the manufacturers in the area to put thieves and other criminals to work. In this way, they earned their keep and reduced the cost of being watched over. They wore iron shackles on their ankles and if they were seen to have good behavior, they received better rations and could be promoted to the status of voluntary workers.
The strong smells of wool and urine were eased by the slaves who circulated between the looms with brooms, ashes, and buckets of water. But neither water nor ashes nor the brooms could eliminate the strongest odor: that of deaf rage at the carriages, at the needles, at the inks and the cloth, rage that would spread through the Viceroyalty.
The Feast of God, meanwhile, had been in preparation for weeks, with processions and functions at the church. The Indians were receiving more catechism, bells rang anxiously, and priests took the faithful to the cemeteries. In the artisans’ neighborhood, workers hurried to make new crosses, flags, and banners, while in the outlying neighborhoods, chicha was fermented and masks were painted.
Impatience grew in José’s chest. He had been instructed to find Chief Mateo Poma. Unfortunately, the chief had left for Guamanga, but would return for the Feast of God. It was worrisome; it sounded like a bad omen.
The multitudes began to gather in Cuzco’s central plaza. The rows of the faithful stood under flags that curled like snakes. The bells rang out again and many people fell to their knees. The parade of religious orders began: first the Dominicans, then the Mercedarians, Franciscans, Jesuits, and Augustinians, and then the nuns, each with their own banners. A short distance from them were the commissioners and familiars of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, their candles aflame. Behind the ecclesiastics came the secular government officials and the nobility in their splendid clothes. The gentlemen walked behind them, arrogant, closing the procession. The feast began.
A cacophony of bells tore the clouds open and a cascade of sunlight bathed the great door of the cathedral. In that miraculous instant, the bishop, enlarged by his mitre and chasuble, appeared with the sacred monstrance in his arms, covered by a mantle held by clergymen and the city’s most prestigious secular residents. Among them walked Gaspar Chávez, his face solemn, bald head shining. (It was not true that he never removed his hat.) The altar boys swung incense in time with each other between the rows, while from balconies, flowers were thrown and aromatic waters sprinkled. The bishop paused intermittently so that the people could kneel before the sacred monstrance. Litanies floated up from the waves of devotees.
This first part of the festivities contrasted starkly with the next. Proceedings called for several hours of containment before unleashing the beast. The bishop returned to the cathedral with slow majesty. The monstrance was put away, the mantle rolled up, and the crosses well covered.
José was exhausting his longing eyes in search of Chief Mateo Poma. His huaca spoke to him again; a catastrophe would occur if it was not immediately transferred to the Indian chief’s body. It even caused pain in José’s legs, warning his bones that they might break.
Sevilla had attended this feast on other visits to Cuzco. He told Francisco to prepare for a pagan spectacle. “Tolerated by the church,” he whispered in irritation. “There are incomprehensible concessions made to ‘save the souls’ of the indigenous people. They give the name Feast of God to a local rite, which is the heart of it. The procession we saw and other superficial details are just the wrapping, and barely so. You’ll see.”
The ululations of new rows flowing to the main plaza announced the beginning of abandon. Among the gentlemen, nobility, and clergy, Indian dancers appeared, covered in adornments, such as brightly colored linen, gleaming plates of metal, and trinkets. The people opened the way for this irrepressible delight.
“What’s making them so happy?”
“Not God, exactly,” Sevilla said, scratching his ear, “but gods. Their gods.”
“Idolatry?”
“They’re going to perform the struggle of good against evil. They’ve been doing this since before Christopher Columbus was born. But now they have no choice but to portray good as the archangel Gabriel and evil as the devil. This feast is so indigenous that it includes a wife of the devil because in their primitive religion there is no supernatural power without a feminine counterpart. They call her China Supay.”
A whirlwind of monsters rolled toward the center of the plaza. Shouts broke out when, among the costumes, an enormous mask appeared with undulating horns, bulging eyes, and a half-open mouth with outsize teeth, all wrapped in a luxurious embroidered cape. Two-headed snakes and lizards erupted from its head. It was the devil, and the people cheered for him, especially when he threatened to catch whoever was nearby. China Supay skipped and leapt at his side, dressed as an Indian woman, a trident in her hand.
The shouting became even louder the instant that a thick snake of raucous, costumed dancers reached the center. With synchronized turns, they cleared the space before the raised seating area that now contained the civil and religious authorities of Cuzco. The multitude ceded an ample semicircle to them, and the actors did a circle dance as a form of greeting. Accompanied by local instruments including cajas, erkes, quenas, and sikus, they performed rhythmic steps until they formed a spiral, at whose center vibrated hell. The devil, China Supay, and the gods of pleasure romped, surrounded by that spiral. Their contortions were passionate and sensual. The Indians who inundated the plaza joined in from their places in the crushing crowd, with an elation verging on trance.
All of a sudden, from the raised seating area, the slender figure of the archangel Gabriel appeared in flowing white robes. He hurled himself down to the plaza and charged against the fence that protected the demons. The dancers closed ranks against his daring steps and the archangel, brusquely stopped, became a victim of temptations. One after another, the boisterous mortal sins tried to seduce him. They did so with gestures, contortions, shouts, expectation. But the archangel defeated them one after another, in successive struggles acted out in dance. Finally, he broke through the wall and scared off the devil and his followers. The dancers raised the archangel to their shoulders and formed a five-pointed star. Instruments and voices joined in to accompany the dance of triumph. Ponchos undulated like a condor’s wings. But the devil, irredeemable, returned to attack him from behind. The archangel turned and struck him a decisive blow with his sword. The devil rolled acrobatically and, near the raised seating, took off his mythological mask, accepting defeat to deafening applause.
The devil was Chief Mateo Poma.
José recognized him by the white scar along his neck. He made his way through the multitude and embraced him.
That ni
ght, as the traditional drunken festivities unfolded around campfires, the Indian chief welcomed José at the door of his hut. Beside him lay two rabbits that his faithful had brought him as a tribute, condiments made from corn paste and llama fat, just as the old sorcerers prescribed, and jugs of chicha. José took out the white bundle and opened it. The stone was transferred solemnly to Mateo Poma’s hands; he rubbed flour on it and poured chicha over it.
“What did it tell you?” he asked José.
“That I should find you immediately and tell you that the huacas are coming in great numbers to break the Christians’ bones.”
The flames of the fire made brushstrokes of light over their intensely focused faces. Mateo Poma stroked the scar at his neck; he, too, sensed the imminence of an earthquake.
That night, the ecclesiastic inspectors and their armed helpers carried out their raid. Those captured would be subjected to interrogation, torture, and sentencing for the practice of idolatry. Some would be subjected to the rack and have their bones broken. Among those rounded up in the raid were Chief Mateo Poma and José Yaru.
It was the end of the rebellion.
Meanwhile, the fireworks spilled out snaking colors and lit up the ecstatic eyes of the faithful. It was the end of the feast.
55
“Seven days from now, you’ll arrive in Lima,” assured Sevilla, who would be staying in Cuzco.
“I want to be there already,” Francisco sighed. “This journey has been too long.”
“I understand. But now the route poses no serious difficulties. From here to Guamanga, the hustle and bustle of cattle will continue. You’ll find slopes, gorges, and a few muddy reed beds but, as I said, they aren’t significant obstacles. You’ll cross the beautiful bridge at Abancay, made of a single arch, built by the first conquistadors to facilitate transit from this part of the Viceroyalty. Ah, and then you’ll see something fun.”
“What?”
“Something fun and crazy. An isolated hill where a church is being built to the Virgin. Can you imagine? A solitary church in the middle of the desert. No faithful around. Usually, the population comes first, and then the temple is raised. Or both at once, but not the reverse order. The reason for this extravagance? They say that a pilgrim went there with a sacred image and its weight suddenly increased. He thought it must be a miracle—that the image wanted to stay there. And so they began to build a church in the middle of a wasteland.”
Francisco shook his head.
“Well then. From Guamanga to Lima, you won’t have any more curious stops. You’ll become impatient.”
“I’m already impatient.”
Francisco pressed Sevilla’s rough hands and gazed at his wise old face for a long time. For an instant, he thought he saw the ocean in his pupils. Then he went to say goodbye to María Elena and their daughters.
The girls were exchanging jokes about the adventures of their journey. Mónica recalled the salt flats near Córdoba, and Juana wanted to talk about the incredible concentration of mules in Salta. Mónica mocked her sister for confusing turkeys with crows. And Juana got even by reminding her sister of her fear of getting burned in the baths of Chuquisaca. Mónica said that she was no longer bothered by the mark on Lorenzo’s face, and Juana dared to touch Francisco’s arm and confess that she would miss him. The sudden tenderness was like a lightning bolt. Francisco kissed them, as if he were kissing Felipa’s and Isabel’s cheeks.
Sevilla’s wife took him aside.
“José Ignacio told me that you’re impatient to get to Lima. I want to offer you hope.” She smiled, as Aldonza had done so many years ago. “You’ll find your father. And together you’ll be able to pray to the Lord.”
“Thank you so much. Truly.”
“When you’re reunited with him, remember us.”
“I will. I know that I will.”
“We’re brother and sister, you know.”
Francisco responded with a conspiratorial wink.
“Brother and sister in history, in sacrifice, and in faith.” She stared at him intently. “Hear, O Israel”—she added, in a prayerful tone—“the Lord, our God, the Lord is one.”
“My father said that a long time ago, tending a wound on my brother.”
“Those words are emblems of our strength. They sustain us, Francisco. They sustain us like the gigantic elephants that mythically sustain the world.”
56
On the final leg of the journey, Lorenzo and Francisco recalled José Yaru. Lorenzo rode on his blond steed, Francisco on a mule, while the remaining mules carried the baggage. They were crossing plains fenced by lilac hills.
“They’ll quarter him,” Lorenzo predicted, unperturbed. “Unless he has the good sense to repent and beg forgiveness on his knees, with sincere tears.”
“It’s possible. They’ve arrested many people, though they won’t kill all of them.”
“José is an obstinate Indian, and idolatry is entrenched in him. He’ll be punished harshly.”
“How do you know that?” Francisco asked, bothered.
“Did he get up at night to look at the moon?”
“That’s idolatry?”
“What else! He talked to it; I saw him.”
“He talked to a stone.”
“Really? That’s even worse!”
“Worse, how?”
“The moon, at least, is enchanting, mysterious. A stone—” Lorenzo’s mouth twisted in disgust.
“Or a piece of wood, or a lake. The universe.”
“Yes, they see gods everywhere. They believe in anything. They’re brutes, ignorant. They don’t want to learn.”
“Or they’re poorly taught.”
“Could be,” Lorenzo acknowledged. “The priests round up the Indians and make them repeat the doctrine. Bah! They repeat it without understanding. Imagine. Even I don’t understand the whole doctrine. What can they expect from those half-wits? When one of the foul-mouthed among them explains things, who knows what they say! The clergymen are reassured, hearing them repeat words or seeing them cross themselves. They want to believe that they’re converted. They need to believe, it’s easier that way. Because they can’t be such idiots as to really swallow the story.”
“What story?”
“That they’re already converted. The Indians were idolaters and they’re still idolaters. The only things that can stamp out their idolatry, the only things, listen well, are the rack, the noose, and the whip.”
“It’s been years since the eradication of idolatry started with all those methods.” Francisco had a visceral revulsion for them.
“That’s right.”
“And they haven’t stamped it out.”
“Not completely. But there’s less of it than before.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Francisco.
Lorenzo loosened his hold on the front of his saddle. “No?”
“I believe, Lorenzo, that this stubborn idolatry and the famous plague of Taki Onqoy have a deeper cause than the ignorance of Indians.”
“The devil.”
“It’s not just about evil.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t know, or I can’t explain it.”
“There’s nothing deep about idolatry, Francisco. It makes people believe in superficial things, in what the eyes or ears can sense. It’s the devil’s trick.”
“You know what? Even though I’m disgusted by idolatry, this idolatry of the Indians doesn’t revolt me. I’d say that . . . it moves me.”
“Are you crazy? What makes the Indians’ idolatry a better kind?”
“It’s not that it’s better. It expresses something.”
“That they’re all brutes.”
“Listen. They abandoned it for the sun god that was imposed on them by the Incas. Then they abandoned the sun for Our Lord Jesus Christ, who was imposed on them by the Christians. Now they’re abandoning the god of the Christians to return to the beginning.” He was reasoning with great effort, selecting each w
ord, uncertain.
“What are you getting at?”
“I don’t know,” Francisco said, shrugging. “Maybe that those gods affirm their identity, their roots. Those are their own gods, not the ones imposed on them by others.”
“A stone affirms identity?” Lorenzo laughed.
“Many stones, and mountains, and trees. All the earth that they know, and their ancestors and their suffering. They need to be expressed through a religion of their own. Belief in those absurd gods fills them with something, something like . . . importance. They are gods who protect and respect them. Our Lord Jesus Christ, on the other hand, respects and benefits only Christians. So why should they love Him?”
“Your ideas are ridiculous. They confuse and disturb.”
“I haven’t worked them all out quite yet.”
“Better to forget them.” Lorenzo drew his riding crop and whipped it against Francisco’s ribs. “Eh, monk’s little pet! You’d better forget all that, seriously. Think about something else. Think about women. Now that we’ve almost reached Lima don’t even think about defending those heresies out loud!”
From a hillock they could see the straight blue sash of the Pacific Ocean. They both knew that their greatest adventure was about to begin.
BOOK THREE
LEVITICUS
THE CITY OF KINGS
57
Lorenzo Valdés and Francisco Maldonado da Silva entered Lima from the south and came across a cavalry brigade mounted on tall steeds with golden metal gleaming on their harnesses. The procession raised clouds of earth as it advanced toward the Plaza de Armas. The colorful parade, with its vertical pikes and standards raised high, made people on the street stand at attention, whether or not they admired the luxury and elegance. Two-wheeled, mule-drawn buggies moved away down adjacent streets or backed into doorways when they saw the troops were near. They were told that the cavalry brigade was searching for Marquis Montesclaros, Viceroy of Peru, to escort him in his travels, and nobody could obstruct them. Francisco and Lorenzo watched them go down the thunderous street of swordsmiths and decided to follow them, as a way of getting to know the city. Forges and hammers straightened sheets of steel and molded artistic handles on an array of swords and shields. Gentlemen and low-ranking nobility, examining the merchandise, grudgingly made way for the viceroy’s officers. The harnessed steeds turned into the alley of the luggage makers. Here, there stood pyramids of chests, trunks, wardrobes, and suitcases. The cavalry then took the spacious street of the merchants, crammed with shops selling cloth, spices, wine, shoes, cordovan leather boots, dyes, jewelry, dinnerware, oil, candles, saddles, and hats. Slaves hurried to push the tables of wares aside to prevent them from being overturned by a soldier’s spur. Lorenzo took advantage of the chaos to pocket a deck of playing cards.
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