Cat's Pajamas

by James Morrow

  ISABELLA OF CASTILE ANSWERS HER MAIL

  TO YOU, DON CRISTóBAL COLóN, our Admiral of the Ocean Sea, Viceroy and Governor of all the Islands to be found by you on your Great Voyage of Discovery, greetings and grace …

  What a beautiful and welcome sight was your albatross messenger, swooping out of the skies like a new soul arriving in Heaven! How your letter raised my failing hopes and lifted my sagging spirits! O brave mariner, I am confident that the seagoing gardens of which you spoke, those vast floating mats of sargasso weed, signify that your fleet has at last drawn near the Indies. By the time these words appear before your eyes, you will have walked the bejeweled streets of Cathay and toured the golden temples of Cipangu.

  Dearest friend, I should like to know your opinion about a troublesome matter. Do you have any views on the Jewish Question? Predictably enough, my Edict of General Expulsion has proven controversial here at Court. Our Keeper of the Privy Purse—I speak now of Santángel, perhaps the loudest of all those voices championing your expedition—became distressed to the point of tears, though as a converso he is doubtless biased by his Hebrew heritage. The clergy was divided. Whereas Friar Deza called the measure vital to the future of the Church, Friar Perez began quoting the Sermon on the Mount. But it was my old confessor Father Torquemada who used the strongest words. As long as unbelievers live among us, the Inquisitor explained, there can be no blood purity, no limpieza de sangre, in Spain.

  And yet, three nights ago, a disquieting dream came to me. I no longer wore the Crown of Castile but the war helmet of Rameses II. Am I the new Pharaoh? In banishing Spain’s Jews, have I called divine disfavor upon my head? O Cristóbal, my heart feels like one of the great iron anchors you will soon drop into the waters off Asia.

  Written in the City of Sante Fe on this 27th day of August, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, The Queen

  TO YOU, ISABELLA, by the Grace of God Queen of Castile, León, Aragón, Granada, Sicily, Sardinia, and the Balearics, greetings and increase of good fortune…

  Alas, we passed through the Sargasso Sea without sighting the Indies, a situation that so dismayed my officers and men they begged me to turn back. I was comforting them as best I could, pointing out that we had not yet gone two thousand miles (though in truth we had gone twenty-eight hundred), when the Ocean Sea began suddenly to swell, its waves rising high as battlements—as watchtowers—as the Pyrenees themselves. We rode those rollers, my Queen, plummeting inexorably from crest to cavity and back again. Terror-struck at first, we soon realized that God Himself had sent this cataclysm to speed us toward the Moluccas. Such a miracle has not occurred since Egypt’s chariots gave chase to the Children of Israel!

  You spoke of Spain’s own Jews. By curious coincidence, the same tide that bore the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa María out of port also carried what I took to be a contingent of your General Expulsion. As we followed the Rio Saltés to the sea, our way was blocked by every sort of vessel imaginable, their holds jammed with refugees clutching kettles, crockery, toys, lanterns, and other meager possessions. Initially this scene aroused in your Admiral an unequivocal pity (the weeping, the wailing, the old ones jumping overboard and crawling onto the rocks to die, the rabbis beseeching Yahweh to part the waters of the Mediterranean and lead the people dry-shod to a new Promised Land), but then Father Hojeda invited me to see it in a different light. “By driving the infidels from its cities, towns, and fields,” Hojeda explained, “the Crown has made room for the pagan hordes we shall soon be ferrying to Spain from the Orient, thousands upon thousands of unbaptized souls yearning to embrace the Holy Faith.”

  So do not despair, Sovereign Queen. Your edict has served a divine plan.

  I must rest my pen. A cry of “Tierra!” has just gone up from the lookout stationed atop our mainmast. Gloria in excelsis Deo—the impossible is accomplished! We have sailed West and met the East!

  Written aboard the caravel Santa María on this 2nd day of September, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, The Admiral

  TO YOU, DON CRISTOBAL COLON, our Admiral of the Ocean Sea, Viceroy and Governor of all the Islands to be found by you on your Great Voyage of Discovery, greetings and grace…

  For five whole days I brooded upon the sobering news from North Africa—racking rumors of Jews cast naked into the sea by the captains we had hired to deport them, wrenching accounts of those very exiles starving on forgotten shores, grisly tales of these same refugees being eviscerated by Turkish mobs in quest of swallowed coins. Then came your letter of the 2nd.

  O noble navigator, you have surely delivered your Queen from madness! I now see that the true and final purpose of our expedition is not to plot a new route to the Indies, nor is it to forge an alliance with the Great Khan, nor is it to build a bastion from which we might attack the Turkish rear and win back Constantinople (though these are all worthy aims). I now see that its true and final purpose is to lead all Asia to the Holy Faith. Not since my correspondence with Sixtus IV—through which he so kindly allayed my fears that in reducing the children of heretics to beggary the Inquisition overstepped its mandate—has my conscience known such release. Is it blasphemous for a Queen to compare her Admiral with her Pope? Then may God forgive me.

  So, courageous conquistador, you have found the Moluccas at last. In your subsequent missives you may, if so inclined, make mention of the following matters: gold, silver, rubies, sapphires, diamonds, emeralds, precious silks, rare spices. But speak to me first and foremost of the spiritual condition of the Indian people. Do they seem well disposed to receive the Gospel? Does Father Hojeda wish to perform all the baptisms himself or shall I send a company of priests in your wake?

  Written in our City of Sante Fe on this 7th day of September, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, The Queen

  TO YOU, ISABELLA, by the Grace of God Queen of Castile, Leon, Aragón, Granada, Sicily, Sardinia, and the Balearics, greetings and increase of good fortune…

  How can mere words convey the miracle that is the Indies? How can I begin to describe the mysteries and marvels that have dazzled us in recent days? Vast glittering palaces! Mighty minarets belching smoke and fire! Ships that sail without benefit of wind! Coaches that move without a single horse in harness! Carriages that fly through the air on featherless wings!

  After slipping beneath the largest bridge I have ever seen, a mile-long passageway stretching over our heads like a bronze rainbow, our fleet sailed up a dark and oily strait and anchored off what we took to be one of the lesser Moluccas. Dominating the island was an iron idol rising a hundred and fifty feet at least, surmounting a pedestal of almost equal height. I forthwith gathered together an exploration party consisting of Father Hojeda, Captain Pinzón, and myself, plus our translator Luis de Torres and our master-at-arms Diego de Harana. We came ashore in the dinghy of the Santa María, assembled in the shadow of the idol, and, thrusting the royal standard of Castile into the grassy soil, claimed the island for the Crown.

  A most astonishing fact: there is no limpieza de sangre in Asia. Everywhere we turned, our eyes beheld a different fashion in flesh-dark, light, rough, coarse—and our ears rang with the greatest confusion of tongues since the Tower of Babel collapsed. We saw Moors. We saw Nubians. We saw Greeks and Slavs and Jews. From amid the general cacophony, Torres claimed he could discern not only Portuguese, Arabic, Yiddish, and Polish, but also the language of my native Genoa, though I caught no such syllables myself. Surprisingly, we soon encountered a sizable percentage of Indians for whom a peculiarly cadenced Castilian is the medium of choice. (I must confess, I was not aware that your Highness’s overland mercantile endeavors had placed so many Spaniards in the Orient.) But the greatest shock, surely, was the omnipresence of English, not only in the mouths of the Indians but on the plethora of public signs, banners, mottos, and decrees.

  “Give me your weary, your indigent, your huddled multitudes seeking to breathe without hinder
ance, the miserable garbage of your crowded beaches…” So began Torres’s uncertain rendering of the incantation that accompanies the idol. (English is not his forte.) “Send these, the homeless, typhoon-buffeted to me,” he continued. “I lift my lantern beside the portal of gold.”

  The idol’s form is female, and she evidently embodies something called libertad—a difficult idea to explicate, but Torres has inferred it means “giving free rein to your worst instincts and basest impulses.” No doubt the “huddled multitudes” are sacrificial victims. Some are probably burned to death—hence the firebrand in the idol’s right hand. Others are impaled alive—hence the seven dreadful spikes that decorate her crown.

  With the setting of the sun I directed my party back to the caravels, dined alone on ham and beer, and began the present epistle. We are uncertain of our next move. From the Indians’ chatter, Torres has surmised that other Moluccas lie in our vicinity—the Spice Island of Ellis to the north, the Spice Island of Governors to the east, the Spice Island of Manhattan to the northeast—and we are strongly inclined to explore them. But, O my Queen, this idol of libertad vexes us most sorely. The very sight of her looming over the fleet prickles our flesh and troubles our bowels. Might you perchance be willing to dispatch a regiment of soldiers to the Indies, so we can undertake to baptize this cult without fear of immolation? Eagerly I await your reply.

  Written aboard the caravel Santa María on this 12th day of September, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, The Admiral

  TO YOU, DON CRISTOBAL COLON, our Admiral of the Ocean Sea, Viceroy and Governor of all the Islands to be found by you on your Great Voyage of Discovery, greetings and grace…

  Frankly, my Admiral, we don’t quite know what to make of your Spice Islands and their polyglot aborigines. As with the Jewish Question, the Court is of several minds. Santangel thinks you may have stumbled upon the Lost Tribes of Israel. The clergy believes you have sailed clear past the Indies and landed in one of these secret colonies set up by Europe’s escaped convicts and fugitive mutineers.

  In any event, we cannot send you infantry support. Now that Granada is ours, we have demobilized the army, leaving in uniform only our border troops, our palace guards, and our Santa Hermandad. But even if an extra regiment did lie at our disposal, we would not ship it across the Ocean Sea. Dearest Cristóbal, have you forgotten the sheer power of Scripture? Do you doubt the potency of Truth? Once Father Hojeda tells them the whole story, from the Virgin Birth to the Resurrection, this libertad cult will surely abandon its wicked, pagan, persecuting ways. So say Friars Deza and Perez.

  This is not a happy time for the Queen of Castile. My daughter still grieves for her husband, the Crown Prince Alfonso, killed last month in a riding accident, and she evinces no romantic interest in his successor. Day in, day out, the Infanta skulks about the castle, dressing in black, singing bawdy ballads, and, worst of all, threatening to join the Holy Sisters in Toledo. Let her marry our Lord Jesus Christ in the next life—at the moment her duty is to marry Portugal!

  Yet another lady-in-waiting has acquiesced to Ferdinand’s advances. As soon as her transgression became apparent, I hurried the harlot and her nascent babe off to the nearest convent, though in truth I would have preferred to hurry the king off to the handiest monastery. (It is quite enough to make me regret that you and I behaved so honorably last April in my Segovian rose garden.) If there were chastity belts for men, I would this very night slip one over my husband’s lecherous loins, lock it up, and hide the key where I alone can find it.

  I am bored, sir. Nothing amuses me. Yesterday I attended a bullfight—an unrelievedly gory and grotesque spectacle. I have half a mind to outlaw the entire sport. This morning’s auto-da-fé was equally jejune. Of the nineteen heretics paraded through the streets in sanbenitos, eleven repented, seven went to the stake, and one dropped dead from fright. I left before the burnings, the weather having turned rainy and cold.

  Cristóbal, you and you alone can relieve my tedium. You must visit these other Moluccas, teaching the Indians about eternal life, searching out the golden portals, and having many beguiling adventures. And then, when you are finished, you must pick up your pen and excite me with your exploits.

  Written in our City of Sante Fe on this 17th day of September, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, The Queen

  TO YOU, ISABELLA, by the Grace of God Queen of Castile, León, Aragón, Granada, Sicily, Sardinia, and the Balearics, greetings and increase of good fortune…

  Following your directive of the 17th, we have spent the past fourteen hours in quest of souls and gold, and I must tell you at the outset that never did a man endure a more perplexing day.

  The Niña has always been my favorite among the fleet, and certainly the ship best designed for exploring coasts, so with dawn’s first light I transferred my flag to her, leaving Pinzón and his brothers in charge of the Santa María and the Pinta. Once Torres, Harana, and Father Hojeda were aboard we took off, eventually dropping our anchor perhaps sixty yards off Manhattan. Setting out in the dinghy, we disembarked at a place called “Battery Park,” unfurled our standard, and acquired the island for Spain.

  We were immediately struck by the large number of beggars in our midst, men and women with dirty faces, torn clothing, hollow eyes, and vacant bellies. Poor as heretics’ children, they carried all their earthly belongings about in sacks (rather like the Jews I noted traveling down the Saltés), and we quickly identified them as the “homeless, typhoon-buffeted” creatures mentioned on the idol’s plaque. An infinite remorse gripped me as I realized they were all destined to be skewered on the spikes of libertad and consumed by her flames.

  Torres tried several times to start a conversation with these wretches, asking why they did not flee from Battery Park to whatever monasteries, convents, and sanctuaries might grace the interior. Their responses were invariably a crude idiomatic expression to the effect that Torres should become a hermaphrodite and experience sexual congress with himself

  As if sensing our communication difficulties, a bold young Indian approached, offering his services as both interpreter and guide. Born Rodrigo Menendez, he said he was raised in the distant Spanish-speaking land of “Cuba-man.” Though formidable in appearance, with a tiny gold ring through his right nostril, a dark blue kerchief tied around his forehead, and a shirt inscribed BEAM ME UP, SCOΊTY, THERE’S NO INTELLIGENT LIFE DOWN HERE, he assured us he was of the Holy Faith, attending Mass regularly as well as something called “Cardinal O’Connor High School-man,” situated on the Twenty-third Street. We offered to pay him in the various trinkets that appeal so profoundly to the African peoples with whom the Crown barters: red felt caps, glass necklaces, little brass bells. He was not interested. When we displayed the cask of vintage Marques de Cacares that Father Hojeda had so cleverly brought ashore, however, the youth’s eyes lit up like votive candles, and for this good consideration he entered our employ.

  A tour of “Lower Manhattan,” Rodrigo assured us, typically begins with “the New York Stock Exchange.” From his description, we surmised it was a principal meeting place of the libertad cult. Steeling ourselves, we followed the youth east along the “Wall” road, site of many grand citadels and lofty towers. The passing Indians fairly dripped of gold—gold bracelets, gold wedding bands, gold chains about their necks, gold pebbles in their teeth.

  We entered the temple in question. Believe me, your Highness, rarely has a faith excited such zeal. Those who attend the New York Stock Exchange celebrate with a frenzy I have never seen before. They run around like lunatics and shout like the Apostles at Pentecost. It did not take Father Hojeda long to decide that these stock exchangers are nowise ready to hear about Jesus Christ, so tenacious are their present beliefs. I am inclined to concur.

  As we left the temple, the utter strangeness of the surrounding city prompted me to speculate we might have reached the fabled waterbound kingdom of which Marco Polo wrote. I asked Rodrig
o if we could possibly be on one of the Cipangu Islands.

  He said, “The which?”

  “Cipangu Islands. You know—the Japans.”

  Whereupon the youth explained that Cipangu indeed possessed many “holdings” on Manhattan, including treasuries, trading posts, and money-lending houses plus something called “Rockefeller Center-man.” However, while these assorted enterprises evidently make Manhattan a kind of colony of Cipangu, Rodrigo reckoned the actual Kingdom of Japan to be some considerable distance away.

  “If we’re not in Cipangu, have we perhaps found Cathay?” asked Father Hojeda.

  “Huh? Cathay?”

  “Do you call it Quinsay? China, perhaps?”

  “Ah-you want to see Chinatown!”

  The youth guided us to an enclave consisting primarily of places to eat. It took us but a moment to realize that “Chinatown” is no more contiguous with Cathay than the money-lending houses are contiguous with Cipangu. We did, however, enjoy an excellent lunch of pork, rice, and bamboo shoots. Rodrigo paid for this food using the local currency, a debt we agreed to cover with a second cask of Marques de Cacares.

  “Our fervent hope was to form an alliance with the Great Khan,” I explained to the youth, making no effort to hide my disappointment over the disparity between Chinatown and Cathay. “We bear a royal letter of recommendation from the king and queen of Spain.”

  “The closest we’ve got to a khan is the mayor,” the youth answered, “but I don’t think he worries a whole lot about where he stands with the king and queen of Spain.”

  Through further questioning of Rodrigo, we learned that this “mayor” claims an African heritage, whereupon Father Hojeda and I decided it was probably most accurate to regard him as a local chieftain. Rodrigo offered to take us to the ruler’s headquarters, a “City Hall-man” lying perhaps a half mile south of Chinatown. We accepted. As we set out on our diplomatic mission, however, the youth casually mentioned that a previous such Chief of Manhattan had been of Jewish descent. Naturally I was not about to open negotiations with any realm whose throne has held the avaricious assassins of Christ-not without explicit orders from your Highness.