Against the Inquisition

by Aguinis, Marcos

Gaitán and Mañozca exchange a glance. Is this statement the first sign of good sense from this prisoner? Has he begun to change? Is he starting to bend to their will?

  They almost smile.

  119

  But the deep repentance the inquisitors demand is not yet emerging. Francisco’s resistance is exceptional. He knows that he is a particle that can barely be distinguished from nothingness; his mouth can be muzzled, his hands paralyzed, his body destroyed, his remains buried in that very cell, and his name forgotten forever. And yet, he retains a flame that cannot be extinguished. A force that sustains him, and nourishes him, like the energy that seethes in lunatics and saints. It is a mysterious flame, ungraspable. What does that flame dream? Does it dream, perhaps, of overcoming the inquisitors’ intransigence? Or of obtaining acceptance of his rights?

  Recently, the rats had been making familiar noises as they approached along the ceiling beams in his cell, as they had at the monastery in Lima. But in that stampede, he also heard blows of another kind, which had not caught his attention before. He wondered what those dry, rhythmic impacts might be. They resembled African music. Was someone amusing himself by scraping a jawbone’s teeth, as the good Luis used to do as Catalina undulated her hips and shoulders? One night, as the guards departed and the rodents whirled into motion, those rhythms began again. This time, he listened very closely, and realized that they weren’t rhythms but rather clusters of impacts, separated by a brief silence: tock-tock-tock. Fists and palms, or a piece of rubble against the wall. Were they the calls of other prisoners? Were they trying to communicate with him? He responded, once, twice, a third time. The other sounds ceased and even the rats seemed to prick their ears to listen. He waited for responses, and received a torrent of knocks separated by surprising pauses. What did the pauses mean? And the sequences?

  “They’re messages in code!” he said to himself.

  In remote Ibatín as a boy, he had played with his brother Diego, gently knocking on walls, imitating words and songs. What did these groupings in this labyrinthine jail symbolize? What did one blow mean, or two, or five?

  “For years I tried to decipher the alphabet in the stars and fireflies,” Francisco marvels. “I never would have imagined, then, that the Lord had allowed me a premonition of another system, not composed of the light in open spaces, but of vibrations sent through walls.”

  The knocks were an alphabet, then, and he had to learn to read and write in its code, as he had done with Latin and Spanish. Francisco surmised that one blow must mean the letter A, two the letter B, and so forth. He lit a wick and paid attention. He picked up a small chicken bone, sat down on the floor, and began to trace short lines at each series of knocks. Then he counted them and translated them into their corresponding letters to form words. It was difficult: some letters, like S, T, and U, required many knocks and he lost count. He had to practice. After all, he didn’t learn to read and write Spanish in a single day. He attempted to answer. He converted his name into the code and, slowly, transmitted his first message. The walls disseminated three words: Francisco—Maldonado—Silva. That night, dozens of men and women took note of his captivity.

  120

  Each prisoner was assigned a “defense attorney,” an employee of the Inquisition who pretends to take the victim’s side after some minor error in the legal proceedings is discovered. His real goal is to convince the prisoner to submit as soon as possible. Nevertheless, his presence brings a fistful of hope.

  Eight long sessions take place in Francisco’s cell. His defense attorney is a strapping monk, better suited to physical warfare than the intricacies of jurisprudence. He makes a good impression on victims, because he looks like a potent and affectionate ally. Francisco is not immune to these hopes; he gives the monk his story, shares his fears and desires. In reality, this is no different than what he’s done since he was arrested; he is always repeating his naked, bothersome truth. In addition, he speaks with emotion of his innocent, beloved wife Isabel, of his little daughter Alba Elena, and of the baby who must have been born by now, a baby who had not once been held in its father’s arms. The lawyer seems understanding and promises to improve the situation. He says that he could quickly lessen the sentence if he, Francisco, were to abjure his mistaken beliefs. Francisco, in turn, asks many questions that the lawyer prefers to leave aside, as they involve theological and moral issues. His mission, the lawyer insists, is confined to offering concrete help.

  “But it depends on you,” he concludes. “It depends on your agreeing to abjure.”

  On one occasion, Francisco confides that the idea of betraying his conscience for his own benefit seems like a bribe. In another session, he says, “If I abjure, I’ll stop being myself.”

  The lawyer informs the judges, loyally and punctually. Mañozca and Castro del Castillo think that Francisco is an insane yet erudite man who should be forced to debate learned people so his theories can be undone.

  “The prisoner has no wish to reform himself because he commits the sin of pride,” Gaitán replies.

  Mañozca allows a few seconds to pass, then says, “We must preach to the level of each person’s soul, and this man’s soul demands strong ideas, developed by learned men.”

  “Not even the most learned man,” Gaitán says, staring hard at him, “could break this man, much less in a debate. He’s a good polemicist, like Lucifer. It’ll only complicate things for us.”

  “Do you,” Castro del Castillo says, with unrestrained irony, “consider him as keen as Lucifer, so as to assign him victory in a debate that hasn’t even begun?”

  Gaitán glares at him, irritated. “It’s not a matter of keenness, but of talent and caprice.”

  “Demonic talent and caprice are broken by the light of the Lord,” Mañozca insists.

  “Don’t be naïve, for God’s sake. Don’t submit to the devil.” Gaitán’s words drip like molten lead. “Giving him concessions—”

  Mañozca and Castro del Castillo shift uncomfortably.

  “It is not a concession to let him swear on the God of Israel, or bring in learned men as examiners,” Mañozca says, justifying himself and his colleague.

  The discussion has nowhere to go and is finished in absolute secrecy. The tribunal must not allow any fractures to be seen.

  Days later, people renowned for their theological training are summoned to evaluate the prisoner’s doubts in the inquisitors’ presence. Four eminent figures are chosen: Luis de Bilbao, Alonso Briceño, Andrés Hernández, and Pedro Ortega, all of them considered jewels of the Viceroyalty.

  The session is prepared with painstaking care. It must end with an exemplary victory, one that will be hailed far and wide for many years.

  Francisco is brought into the hallowed room by the warden and two armed guards, as always. They place a stool behind his knees, and the notary repeats his ceremony of arranging his writing implements. The four learned men enter, wearing the habits of their respective orders, and they stand before the chairs that await them, two to the prisoner’s right, two to the left. After another minute’s wait, the side door creaks, and the air grows tense with the arrival of the inquisitors, who march with characteristic majesty toward the high platform, make the sign of the cross, and pray in a low voice. The learned men follow suit, and then the warden pulls on the prisoner’s arm to make him sit.

  Mañozca begins by explaining the generosity of the Holy Office: it has provided the opportunity to express doubts, so that these distinguished theologians may address them. As the prisoner has insisted that his errant conduct is based on the Bible, the tribunal is offering a copy of the sacred text so that he may cite passages without distortion.

  They invite him to speak.

  Francisco stares at the heavy copy of the Bible, which rests on a lectern, and he raises his shackled hands toward the pages. This reunion with the familiar text sparks his first words. He says that the love Jews have for books—and for this book in particular—is love of the word, the word of God. God bu
ilt the universe with His word, and in Sinai, He revealed Himself with words, too. Words are more valuable than weapons or gold. God cannot be seen, but can and should be listened to. This is why He forbade idols and ordered the fulfillment of His law, which He transmitted through words. Those who obey Him implicitly become part of the moral order. “Those who, on the other hand,” he went on provocatively, “only claim to adore Him and even shout their faith, but do not fulfill the commandments, repudiate God with their actions.”

  One of the learned men interrupts this daring lecture to remind Francisco that they’ve come to resolve his doubts, not to hear a dissertation. Then Francisco pages through the Bible and indicates the verses that express commands, reiterations of commands, and rebukes for the violation of those commands. He cites Genesis, Leviticus, Deuteronomy, Samuel, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos, and Psalms. He reads aloud in fluent Latin, and provides a brief commentary on each excerpt. He maintains that he has been arrested, not for wrongdoing, but for fulfilling the law of God.

  The theologians listen, tense as warriors on the battlefield, and plot their responses. The majority of the prisoner’s observations are part of the known repertoire of arguments held in Spain between rabbis and brilliant orators from the church. When Francisco stops, the theologians deliver their replies.

  The Jesuit Andrés Hernández stands and says, “My son, you cannot have any difficulty in recognizing the mercy of the church and the Holy Office. Now they are offering you the privilege of obtaining illumination from four figures who have put aside other obligations to come to your aid. Contrary to the lies hurled by heretics, you can prove that the Inquisition was not established to do harm, but to reconcile sinners with the true faith. Each of the theologians you see before you is anxious to see you abandon wrongdoing.”

  “The fourth council of Toledo, presided over by San Isidro,” Alonso Briceño recalls when his time comes to speak, “established that nobody should be made to believe by force. But what are we to do with those who have received the indelible sacrament of baptism, as is your case? A baptized person who practices Judaism is not a Jew, but, rather, a bad Christian—an apostate. You, therefore, though it may sound harsh, have committed an act of betrayal, and you are judged for this reason.”

  “The commandments that you claim to obey,” Pedro Ortega explains, in the best tone of voice his ferocious appearance can allow for, “are the repertory of a dead law, an anachronistic law. Instead of seeking out the path of virtue in the Old Testament, which is called ‘old’ for a reason, study the New, and the teachings of the fathers and doctors of the church.”

  Luis de Bilbao then takes his turn, and responds in minute detail to the verses Francisco cited as proof of his reason and innocence, to make him see that he was interpreting them in the outmoded manner of the sophists of Athens. “You see,” he concludes, “the majority of these do not support your right to keep being a Jew, but, rather, announce and prefigure the birth of Christ, the erection of the church, and the advent of the new law.”

  The inquisitor Juan de Mañozca thanks the examiners for their outstanding work and asks the prisoner whether his doubts have been resolved. The notary takes advantage of the brief pause to wipe sweat from his face. Francisco rises to his feet.

  A sepulchral silence reigns, and a light, expectant breeze passes through the room.

  “No,” he replies calmly.

  121

  Two days later, Francisco is summoned to another hearing. Castro del Castillo interrogates him in the sweetest tone his obese throat will allow.

  “What motives prevent you from accepting the errors of a dead law? Four extraordinary figures of the Viceroyalty have listened to your torrent of questions, and they have answered with the patience of angels. They answered your Biblical references with Biblical references of their own, and replied to your every query. Why is your obstinacy so great?”

  “I am sorry that the theologians did not understand me,” he responds. “Perhaps I was not able to express myself clearly enough due to the anxiety this room causes.”

  Hours after he was returned to his dungeon, the servants Simón and Pablo gave him a heavy Bible, four sealed pages of parchment, a quill, ink, and blotting paper.

  Then the warden enters to tell him that the tribunal, as additional proof of their mercy, has offered Francisco the opportunity to write down his difficulties, without the pressure of gazes on him or the stress of the courtroom. Francisco stares, dazzled, at the precious volume on his beat-up table, and recalls once again the scene of the donkey bitten by the puma. “I have to resist like that heroic animal.” It is the inquisitors who are now softening, because they can’t stand the firmness of his convictions and need him to repent because his firmness challenges their power. This hurts them more than the church itself.

  That night, when vaulted correspondence begins to run through the walls, Francisco strokes his copy of the Bible and communicates with his invisible companions, telling them that he is no longer alone, but accompanied by the word of God.

  He can’t sleep. The pages of the sacred text fill him with energy. He reads until his candles run out. Then he calls the guards, and a servant brings him a couple more.

  “That’s it?” he says, aghast. “They’ve asked me to write. I need light.”

  After a while, a box full of candles arrives. He reads until dawn, until his reddened eyes are a feast of words. He lies down to sleep a few hours while his mind spins with excerpts, ideas, commentaries, questions. The treasure trove of images and answers is infinite; it will be difficult to compress them into the four sealed pages, even writing in his smallest hand.

  In the days that follow, he surrenders to the pleasure of constant reading, and writes very little. When he decides to do it systematically, he closes the book and addresses the learned men in a new way. “Instead of posing dry questions,” he says, as if to a multitudinous audience, “that would be answered in one way or another, instead of staying in my place as a perplexed man begging for clarity, I’ll ask them questions that unsettle them, not for their ideas, but for their conduct. I will rub their noses in their own incoherence and immorality.”

  The closed door, the four walls around him, and the thick silence turn his dungeon into a marvelous bell. He sits still before the table and papers and enters the trance of creation. His stillness is a sheath around fermenting thoughts. His bright gaze falls on the blank pages, and his thin, delicate hand grasps the quill. His mouth tightens slightly, and he starts to form small letters. As the lines emerge, a vein protrudes between his eyebrows. He addresses the four learned men, but not only them, also the monster that is the Inquisition. Incredibly, God has given him the privilege of writing down His words, which can therefore penetrate more deeply, perhaps be reread, put away, then read again.

  His statement begins with a question to make a person’s hair stand on end: “Do you want to save my soul, or do you want to oppress it? Saving my soul would call for study, and affection. For oppressing it, you have prisons, the cutting off of communication, torture, contempt, and the threat of death.” Further on, he skewers them with another question: “Why do you claim to imitate Christ when, in reality, you’re imitating the ancient Romans? Just like the Romans, you privilege power, use weapons, and crush the rights of those who think differently from you. Jesus, on the other hand, was physically weak, never took up arms, never called for anyone to be tortured or murdered. Wouldn’t an imitation of Christ begin with the elimination of weapons, torture, and the hatred you are using against me?”

  Francisco reminds them that the one and only God is also referred to as Father by Jews. “Jesus prayed to the Father, only to the Father, and taught the Our Father.” But bad Christians pray the Our Father and simultaneously offend the Father, because they persecute those who worship Him exclusively. “If this is a matter of imitating Christ, I imitate him much more than you, because I pray to the same Father who was the recipient of Christ’s prayers,” he writes in thick lines.
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br />   Francisco’s entire head throbs now. He puts the quill beside the inkwell and rereads what he’s written. In his tone he recognizes the insolence of the prophets. He hasn’t weighed the serious consequences of certain words, because they were dictated to him from within. He has sworn to tell the truth, and they have demanded truth from him. Here it is, then.

  He adjusts the lights and resumes his work. Brow furrowed, lips slightly open, breath quickened. “The Holy Office, with its investiture as Exterminating Angel, likes to affirm that it represents God. I ask: Does it replace God? In that case: Does it consider itself God? A monstrous mistake; there is no room for two Almighty Ones.” His cheeks burn.

  He draws a comparison between the weakness of Jesus and the power of the Holy Office. The lie of imitating Christ appears once again, and Francisco dangerously adds, “Christ is portrayed as a suffering, mocked man, victim of the Jews. He is not portrayed this way so we may be meek like him, but, rather, to avenge him. Do the eminent theologians wonder why the Holy Office is trying to avenge and save the Savior? I offer my modest opinion: because, sacrilegiously, it places itself over him.”

  His breath is agitated, forcing him to lie down. The small David, in venting his thoughts, has just hurled his worst insult at the imposing Goliath.

  122

  On the fifteenth of November, 1627, Francisco hands over the four pages of parchment, which the tribunal has copied and read with indignation. They summon the theologians and order them to prepare a crushing response. The theologians request more time. The questions and reflections were inspired by the devil, and they won’t have their rebuttal ready until mid-January.

  “Fine,” the disappointed tribunal concedes.

  Francisco, meanwhile, is now without a Bible, paper, ink, or quill. Isolation, which was fecund as he wrote, reveals its horrors again, its lifeless hole. He struggles to maintain the order of his days through prayer and by recalling his beloved books, as he had in the first days after his arrest. At night, he communicates with his brothers in misfortune through their noisy code; he has mastered it now, and no longer needs to count to recognize five, eight, ten, or fifteen knocks in a row—the corresponding letters come to him immediately. They exchange names, crimes, and questions about each other’s families. Each message is painstakingly constructed, as if their correct emission could set them free.