Against the Inquisition

by Aguinis, Marcos

  I returned to the hospital half an hour later, tired and nauseated. Juan Flamenco was waiting for me. We checked the twenty-five patients filling the only room, twelve of them in beds, the rest of them on mats on the floor. When we finished, he invited me to his home for dinner. I accepted, reluctantly.

  93

  We sat at the table as his wife put their second child, who was two years old, to bed. A servant brought us cheese, bread, radishes, olives, wine, and raisins.

  “So the governor invited you to a gathering?” Juan Flamenco tested the blade of his knife with a fingernail. “He’s a grateful patient, but be careful.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s ambitious. He won’t hesitate to use any resource he can to elevate him higher.”

  “He’s already high up.”

  “He’s only interim governor. He wants to be governor. And then something more: viceroy, for example.”

  “He’s a cultured man who likes to gather with illustrious people. He hasn’t been sparing.” I picked up a slice of cheese. “I’d say that his excessive frankness exempts him from your disqualification.”

  “Frankness? About what?” He poured wine into both our cups.

  “He spoke of his ordinance on the servitude of indigenous people, and predicted that it would fail. He seemed sincere to me.”

  “He didn’t say anything different from what’s already known. I assure you that, on the other hand, he’d never let a word escape him about matters that yield him benefits.”

  “He’s that avaricious?”

  “Oh! You can’t imagine. He is only lavish with public funds. He has an enormous levee built, and buildings, but not a peso leaves his pocket. The bishop can’t get him to tithe what he considers an appropriate amount. He’s even insinuated threats from the pulpit against ‘the sinners who govern us.’”

  “How did Don Cristóbal react?”

  “He didn’t acknowledge the reference. But he started arriving late to functions. A governor can always find excuses, especially when annoyed. The bishop, for his part, was not so much bothered by the stinginess as, I think, by Don Cristóbal’s ability to garner gifts, which, to add insult, are never channeled to the church.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “It’s all an art. Ever since his time as a judge for the Royal Court he’s been deploying methods that, in exchange for his favors, draw off-the-record gifts to his coin purse.”

  “But he enforced steep penalties on people who attempted to bribe authorities.”

  “That’s exactly it. He’s a genius. He enforces the exact opposite of what he does himself. Opposed to all kinds of favors, he’s succeeded in getting residents to buy him favors of all kinds.”

  “What else have you heard?”

  “Don Cristóbal never ‘finds out’ about the bribe; he doesn’t see it, smell it, or hear it. It takes place purely between the weeping petitioner and Don Cristóbal’s deep purse. Not a word, not a gesture. If the gift was sufficiently generous, the donor will learn of it through the result of his request.”

  “What a shame,” I said.

  “You’re disappointed?” he asked, pouring more wine.

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Francisco. Isn’t it worse in Lima?”

  “Perhaps. But I never had access to power there.”

  “Well, here it’s the governor who stands out, there it’s the viceroy. They do whatever they like. The man who doesn’t take advantage of these privileges isn’t seen as honest, but as an idiot. In a society riddled with vice, the honest man isn’t seen as a guardian of virtue, but as bothersome, like that story of the annoying garden dog who neither eats nor lets others eat.”

  “Beautiful world we find ourselves in.”

  “Let’s turn to more interesting matters. Have you seen the governor’s daughter again?” Juan Flamenco rubbed his hands together in a conspiratorial gesture.

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of? You should get married. Marriage will make you smile more often.”

  “You’re a gossip, and hear all kinds of information.” I leaned toward him. “Tell me whether she’d accept me as her husband.”

  “Of course she’d accept you!” He covered a burp with his fist. “Well, I don’t know whether she—but her father would.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s see.” He pulled the candelabra closer. “First of all, Isabel Otáñez isn’t Don Cristóbal’s daughter, but his goddaughter. This has points both for and against. For: she doesn’t inherit his greed. Against: she doesn’t inherit his fortune. You’d be marrying a poor woman.”

  “That doesn’t factor into my decision.”

  “How selfless of you! But Don Cristóbal would accept you. Why? He’s your patient, and he values your culture. A good doctor in his family would bring benefits.”

  “I can’t think of them.”

  “I, for example, would have been an ideal son-in-law.” His lips stretched. “I would have supplied him with all the city gossip, all the underground news. Through me he could have channeled advice to people as to what to give in return for his favor. I also would have served to persuade royal officials and clergymen to grant him more power.”

  “That isn’t even false, but grotesque.”

  “I’ll add a prophecy: he’ll skimp on his goddaughter’s dowry and make you give more than you have.”

  “First I have to gain permission for her hand.”

  “You can take that for granted.”

  Alonso de Almeida stares at the prisoner for several minutes. It’s difficult for him to recognize, in this dirty man with long disheveled hair, the doctor who was honored by the nation’s authorities. He received praise for his fine manners and knowledge of matters both sacred and profane. But, surely, the excess of profane reading, including heretical texts, has distorted his reason. It is necessary—and possible—to pull him out of his sophisms and make him see the obvious.

  This examiner of the Holy Office has plenty of experience; when he faces a sinner, nothing is more effective than an extremely severe rebuke. And so, he prepares to unleash a deafening discourse. He orders the cell door closed, looks Francisco in the eyes, and lets out the first reproach.

  94

  After the first time I examined Don Cristóbal, a routine clinical exam for his chest pains, he invited me to his study to sample the wine he’d recently received as a gift from an Indian overseer. We sat on low chairs, facing each other. An enslaved woman placed two thick wineglasses and a ceramic bottle on the small walnut table.

  “I’ve been betrayed, Doctor,” he said out of the blue.

  I stared at him in surprise.

  “Would you do me the favor of filling the glasses?” he added. “This blow is the reason for my relapse, I just know it.”

  I uncorked the slender bottle, releasing the wine’s pleasant aroma.

  “The viceroy, spurred on by the Jesuits, has appointed a ridiculous old octogenarian to be governor.”

  “But there was strong support here in Chile for you to continue in the role.”

  “Yes.” He took the glass, gazed at the glimmering wine, and inhaled its scent. “Everyone supports me: the municipalities of Santiago, Concepción, and Chillán; the army generals; the priors of the Franciscan, Mercedarian, Dominican, and Augustinian orders; even our own angry bishop. But it was all useless.”

  “I don’t understand it, then.”

  “It’s easy, my friend—Luis de Valdivia and his Society of Jesus are stronger than the honorable authorities, and stronger than reason.”

  We sipped for a while. It was a noble product from an excellent vine.

  “This Indian overseer, he gave me a very good gift,” Don Cristóbal said, smiling. “He’s a rascal. Now he’ll come asking for favors in exchange.”

  I held his gaze, and he returned to his earlier subject.

  “Do you know what matters to the viceroy?” Don Cristóbal rubbed his nose. “That the defensive war wit
h the Indians continue. Why, when that war is so disastrous? Because it’s cheap. I’ve transmitted the truth, and that was my error. The truth doesn’t matter, only people’s interests. My failing was one of political perceptiveness. The viceroy doesn’t want to put funds into an offensive strike that could control the Arauco Indians once and for all. What’s more, the viceroy knows that the Jesuit Luis de Valdivia has ardent protectors in Madrid.”

  “And they’ll replace you with an octogenarian?”

  “That’s right. He’s an old curmudgeon who’s been sleeping in Lima for half a century and whom the marquis of Montesclaros often discredited. But since he agrees with the defensive war, the new, irresponsible viceroy has entrusted him with nothing less than the oversight of this godforsaken kingdom.”

  “What will happen to you, Don Cristóbal?”

  “I’ll continue in my role in the Royal Court. And I’ll laugh at the new governor. We’ll see how long his enthusiasm for the defensive war can last. I’ll advise him to pop down to the south, to see the devastated forts and chat with the residents of Concepción, La Imperial, Villarrica. He’ll piss on himself with fright. The Arauco Indians will only bow before the sword. The Jesuits preach to them in their tongue, but they won’t convince them to be subdued or to retreat to reservations. They’re not like the Guaraní of Paraguay.”

  “The focus of the Jesuits, nevertheless, seems praiseworthy,” I opined.

  The governor raised his eyebrows.

  I added, “Indigenous people have been subjected to innumerable abuses, and anyone can understand that they’re bitter and furious. A conversion that doesn’t rob them of their land or reduce them to servility could change the way they perceive Spaniards.”

  “I’m surprised that you would think this way.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re an erudite man, not a naïve one. The Indians are savages, and they don’t want us around, not even in their memories. They don’t want us. We’re intruders. They disdain our order and prefer to keep turning in their own shit.”

  “They don’t see their own reality as shit, Don Cristóbal. That is our opinion.”

  “Yours as well?”

  “In any case, it isn’t theirs. There are different points of view.”

  “But there is only one truth, no?”

  “There might be more than one—” As soon as the words had left my mouth, I regretted saying them and wanted to fix my dangerous statement. “They don’t recognize our point of view as the true one.”

  “Ah!” He scratched his double chin. “Then they must learn.”

  “That’s why I was saying that the Jesuits, by preaching in their language, suppressing forced servitude, and blocking military offensives might be able to create a change of heart. If they can show that the king of Spain wants peace, they will end up accepting it. It would be better for them. But until now, the Indians have only received hatred and exploitation.”

  “You speak like Father Valdivia. It sounds persuasive, but it’s false. It’s been a decade since this infantile strategy began. There have been parliaments, the release of prisoners, pacts, the dismantling of our advancing positions. And what’s happened? They burst into our cities and set fire to several forts. They’re cunning! They don’t want peace. They want to expel us from Chile. They want to make us disappear.”

  That was exactly what the Inquisition wanted of Jews. I asked, “Isn’t there some point of encounter, of harmony?”

  “Either we triumph, or we keep enduring this conflict.”

  “But they can’t make us disappear,” I said.

  “Of course. And so they choose to bleed us. They trust that, in the long run, they will triumph. That’s why they must be subdued, like wild animals being broken in.”

  “Isn’t it possible to convert without humiliating?”

  “Look, Francisco, sensible men like you tend toward confusion. The sooner the Indians are crushed the better it will be for everyone.” He raised his glass so I could pour him wine. “Do you know what some Indian overseers do to keep their Araucos from escaping? They hold them down, put a clamp on their ankles, and cut off all their toes with an ax.”

  “That’s horrific!”

  “The bleeding is stopped with a red-hot iron, you know, an excellent coup de grâce. These actions wouldn’t be necessary if the Arauco people were simply defeated as a whole.”

  I lowered my eyes. Don Cristóbal patted my knee.

  “Keep practicing medicine. Never try to be governor.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Not even in my dreams!”

  He stood. I followed suit.

  “One more thing,” he said, smiling indulgently. “I have the vague impression that you’ve sometimes wished to strike up conversation with my goddaughter, Isabel.”

  I was disturbed by the abruptness of the suggestion. His head-on approach left no room for an evasive response.

  “Yes, Your Excellency.” I took a deep breath. “She is a person with whom I’d be pleased to converse.”

  “Very well. I wanted to tell you that you may count on my permission. At the end of the day you are my doctor, no?”

  Francisco listens, mouth agape. The Inquisitorial examiner Alonso de Almeida is vehement. His words punish like whips attacking a disobedient child. He rebukes him for exchanging gold for dross, for producing disappointment and mourning. God, the Virgin, the saints, and the sacred church poured blessings upon him, but instead of thanking them, he disdained them. He urges the prisoner to bow down and repent, urges him to hang his arrogant head, to weep, to tremble.

  95

  I strolled with Isabel Otáñez in the broad light of afternoon, as befitted the goddaughter of a decent family. Two servants followed us, as a guarantee of modesty. We passed, at a prudent distance, part of Santa Lucía Hill. Along paths dotted with grazing goats were detours to hidden forest alcoves, which were not discussed in honorable conversations as they shrouded the adulterous embraces of harsh Santiago de Chile. The green labyrinth of those slopes brilliantly hid those ardent bodies. The pulpits denounced those sins, so frequent in the mazes of the hill.

  She had been born in Seville. She became an orphan at the age of seven, and was adopted by Don Cristóbal and Doña Sebastiana. She told me that they were generous and deserved her unconditional gratitude. Then a shadow passed over her as she told me of the brutal assault to which they fell victim in the Caribbean, attacked by English pirates. The retelling made her shiver, but her emotion only made her more fascinating.

  I told her about my childhood in Ibatín, my adolescence in Córdoba, and my younger years in Lima. Our journeys seemed like rivers flowing in search of each other. Hers had begun in Spain, and mine in the Americas. Mine, in reality, had also begun in Spain, generations before, and then made its way to Portugal and, later, Brazil. Our rivers had wound through rough terrain and traversed many miles to come together in this city.

  More strolls followed this one, and they gradually became more frequent. Her soft cheeks made me think of porcelain, and her eyes were always tender, lighting up like stars when she became enthused. I could not let twenty-four hours pass without seeing her, and had to make great efforts to avoid becoming a tiring presence. I’d make excuses to appear at her residence and invite her out for another stroll.

  Sometimes we arrived at the shore of the Mapocho River; its waters came from the snow that whitened the nearby mountain range. The wooden barriers built during the thaw had not always been effective, hence the costly levee Don Cristóbal had constructed. From its banks, canals slid out to irrigate the nearby farmhouses. Sometimes we walked all the way to the placid meadow where the Franciscans had built their large monastery. We passed orchards full of fruit trees and cypress. In the adjacent countryside, lilies and Madonna lilies spread out in blankets. Strawberries also abounded. If it wasn’t yet too late, Isabel would invite me in to drink chocolate in the parlor, accompanied by her godmother and, sometimes, Don Cristóbal. My encounters with that
beautiful woman became an unwavering routine. I started to feel happy in an unprecedented way.

  96

  A servant ran into the hospital and handed me the note. It was written in a hurried hand, and signed by Marcos Brizuela. He was asking me to come quickly to his home, as his mother had suffered a stroke.

  I was welcomed in by two servants who seemed to be keeping watch, and who showed me the way. A frightened woman appeared, with a child in her arms, perhaps his wife. She greeted me with a timid wave and left for a nearby room. I made out a bed in the shadows. The man sitting beside it rose to meet me.

  “Mamá just got worse,” Marcos said in a low voice. “Maybe you can do something.”

  I took up a candle and brought it near the bed. In the light I saw the cadaverous body of an old woman. Her eyelids were darkened, her skin was waxy, and her breathing was ragged. I took her pulse and examined her pupils. The symptoms seemed terminal. Her right arm was contracted from a long-ago stroke. Very gently, I tried to extend it, but it was no use. The air leaving her mouth raised her right cheek. This woman’s current episode was taking place on an already fragile foundation.

  I began to inquire about medical history. Marcos stood behind me. His demure wife stood near us.

  “A long time ago she became paralyzed and nearly mute,” he said with great effort.

  “How many years has it been?”

  I heard him take a deep breath. He began to pace the bedroom.

  “Eighteen,” his wife responded.

  I calculated that it had been just before they settled in Chile. I said this aloud.

  Marcos paused, blurred by shadows. His chest swelled again. “It was a while after that.”

  I tried to open the deformed hand. Then I kept on with more medical gestures and thought. I rubbed her temples, felt her carotid arteries, gently moved her head, gauged her temperature.