Heavens on Earth

by Carmen Boullosa

  The presentation we rehearsed alluded to the number nine—in the sense of the meaning that nine had among their ancestors and among the Náhuas and the appearance of nine in the nomenclature of the year that might herald the coming together of the two sides of thought from the two sides of the ocean. We would recite our speech in Latin and one of us would translate into Spanish if necessary. We would sing the presentation to a tune that Fray Juan Foscher had composed especially for the occasion, and that he would later prepare and adapt slightly to transform into music for prayer.

  The verses for a single voice would feature Juan Berardo, a great singer, and in time a very good Latinist who had his own style, though it was plain. Juan Berardo died scarcely two years ago, in the year fifteen hundred and ninety-four. He had an extraordinary sounding voice even as a child, an exceptional voice. They said that his entire family had been famous for their voices, but I always suspected that they had invented (for some foolishness I do not understand) a tradition that had not existed in reality.

  We arrived at the gathering after the attendees had already eaten. Fray Arnaldo, Fray Foscher, and Fray Bernardino greeted the Lady Constable with “Peace be to this house,” as the Franciscans always do upon arrival, to which the person in question responded:

  —But why so late? We invited you to dinner; it was the little Indian friars who were to arrive at this hour.

  —Where our children eat, we eat. As for the rest, the rule of the Order, you must know my dear lady, is strict. There is no place in our bodies for the primuras with which you surely flattered your distinguished guests.

  The Lady Constable laughed to hide the fact that she did not understand; the poor woman was so stupid it was embarrassing.

  —And what do you bring before us?—she said, referring to us but not looking at us. She did not have the courtesy to greet us, to glance at us, or to say: “You are welcome here,” or any other semblance of courtesy.

  We Tezcocans must have something in common with Carlos because I could not stop myself from saying in Latin:

  —First of all, according to wise customs, we have what you do not have for us: a greeting.

  My companions laughed, Fray Foscher and Fray Arnaldo looked at me severely and I closed my mouth.

  I was embarrassed, it is true, but I could not repress it. Lord help me, although I was not the son of a nobleman, like those who were with me, but instead a false one, a fake, my blood boiled from the so-called Lady Constable’s lack of basic courtesy; if I had been equally rude, it was because of her own bad manners.

  The lady grew uncomfortable in light of my comments, though she did not understand a single syllable of what I said. Her husband, Don Joan de Sámano, asked the friars what I had said because he did not follow the letter of the Latin language either.

  —He quoted—Sahagún said—Horace, the ancient sage, who said: “The supreme pleasure is not in expensive foods, but rather in you yourself.” And he added a phrase from Seneca: “Of what external thing does he need, he who has gathered all his things unto himself?” And I add to his words these of Horace: “Mentior al siquid, merdis caput inquiner albis corvorum atque in me veniat mictum atque cactum Iulius et fragilis Pediatia furque Voranus.”35

  —And what did you say?—asked the uneducated lady.

  I hastened to translate this myself into Castilian:

  —Fray Bernardino added a quotation from Horace: “And if I am a liar, may the ravens foul my head with their white droppings and let Julio, slender Pediacio, and the thief Vorano come to relieve themselves on me.”

  The words were not at all well received, neither because I said them, nor for their meaning. She looked at me as if she did not see me, completely denying my existence with her eyes.

  A general discomfort seized the entire gathering, set off by the friars’ tardiness, sharpened by their justification for it, and made so much worse by my two clumsy interferences and the false translation unfortunately first given by the beautiful Fray Bernardino (whom the ladies loved so, even though he was no longer as lovely as he had been in his earliest youth).

  In attendance, invited by the Lady Constable, were City Magistrate Don Gerónimo Ruiz de la Mota, Royal Tax Collector Hernando de Salazar, Gonzalo Ruis, Don Luis de Castro, Harbor Master Bernardino de Albornoz, and Gonzalo de Salazar, as well as judges, councilmen, and other members of the municipal council. It was for this audience—who had turned cold as stone—that we did our sweet performance, which was received with enormous disgust. While we were speaking the parts that the friars wrote for each of us individually, they were talking among themselves, I will not say that they were watching us with contempt because that would say too much. They were actually watching us without seeing us, as if we, the students of the Colegio, had studied to make ourselves invisible and our words were simply the sound of the wind. Upon finishing the piece, the tax collector exclaimed:

  —They are like magpies or crows; they have memorized a speech written by the friars!

  That was all, they did not need to utter any other commentary. Plainly ignoring us, they proceeded to speak of other things, in the face of which Fray Bernardino and Fray Arnaldo proceeded to say their goodbyes. Even though we had not received any semblance of a greeting, we did the same. As I gave my hand to the Lady Constable—who had the face of a crawfish and a hand like the claw of a bird of prey—I said to her:

  “Of what external thing does he need, he who has gathered all his things unto himself?” I am translating the words of Seneca for your Excellency. The Lord be with you, madam. Thank you for having received us into your house, we are undeserving of such a great honor.

  She opened her bulging eyes as wide as possible in response to my impudence of having addressed her. She did not respond. But there was no need, because I could read quite well in her look:

  —Why are you speaking to me? You are not even of the same species as I; you are a much lower one.

  How she tried to humiliate me with her gaze! I bore it unblinkingly and in my own way I too spoke to her with my eyes, replying:

  —It is true what you think, madam—I did not say it in the guise of a Latinist, but rather in pure Castilian—we are not equals. You are not even a magpie and your soul does not even resemble a crow’s.

  Then she responded. Without concealing her unhappiness with my double impudence (having addressed her and having born up under her gaze), she hastily removed herself from my presence—with an abrupt movement she emptied her nearly scarlet cup of alcohol all over my habit and haughtily said in a loud voice:

  —The friars do not even teach them where to put their feet so that we will not trip over them!

  No apology, of course. Not even a gesture that might express “Oh no! The contents of my glass spilled on this boy.” She compensated me for her accident, if indeed it was an accident, with silence; and it was her silence, counseled by envy, and not, as it seemed to me, the eloquence of desiring to pour, not just her glass, but her very own urine on me. (“Never get upset, counseled Saint Bernard, by the good that comes to others; so their health may not be the disease of your soul and may not their words be your infernal hell.”)

  Fray Bernardino, Fray Foscher, and Fray Arnaldo did not say a word. They lowered their gaze to the floor. Imitating them, I did the same, as if my foot had, in effect, made the obstinate monster trip. If by her we judge the rest of her sex, the Franciscans would be short in their disdain of women. The only thing clean about the nasty Lady Constable was her blood.

  We were barely away from that bad situation when Fray Arnaldo turned to me harshly:

  —Hernando: you must learn to be more prudent. These people are looking for ways to do harm: to you, to us, and to the school. We came here to soften their positions, and you—he wanted to go on, but in truth he just looked at me severely and his lips tight with anger, quoted the following words from the wise Francis:

  “The true servant of God is not troubled or angry about anything; he lives justly and seeks no
t himself.” We must remember the words of Saint Francis at all times and keep ourselves under his illumination in order to not commit acts of arrogance and anger. Hernando remember: “Those truly are peacemakers, who in all the sufferings of this life keep their body and soul in peace for the love of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  —Please calm yourself, Fray Arnaldo—said Fray Bernardino. —These people were going to be upset in any event. We should not have accepted their invitation…They had us come out here with the simple objective of finding a way to attack our boys.

  And because at that time I did not know how to hold my peace, I in turn quoted Saint Francis to them (“Therefore whoever envies his Brother for the good that God says or does in him, commits a sin like unto blasphemy, for he envies the Most High Himself, Who is the Author of all good words and works),”ix but these words did not fall on anyone’s ears because from then until the time we arrived at Tlatelolco, Fray Arnaldo Basacio and Fray Bernardino de Sahagún did not stop talking, which was quite unusual and exceptional, as it was not their habit to engage in conversation about the things of the world in front of others. “Indeed, I counsel, warn and exhort my friars in the Lord Jesus Christ, that when they go through the world, they not quarrel nor contend in words, nor judge others, but be mild, peaceable and modest, meek and humble, speaking uprightly to all, as is fitting.”x We students followed two steps behind them and Fray Juan Foscher, walking with notable lethargy and muttering something to himself with a sad expression, was two steps behind us.

  At that gathering, the Christians arrived at a definitive ruling regarding the Colegio de la Santa Cruz, and their pronouncement spread like wildfire. It did not take us long to realize this. The next morning, when I arrived to carry out an errand that Fray Juan Basacio had entrusted me with (I think to remove me from his sight completely for having angered him), I observed an acrid discussion in the vestibule of the church of Tlatelolco among a group of people who were talking so harshly to each other that before I heard their voices I was able to recognize their persons. One of the two dressed as a Franciscan was that very same Fray Juan Basacio. It seemed that he had found others on whom to discharge his unusually bad mood. Another Franciscan and two priests were embroiled in an argument with him, all speaking extremely loudly. It caught my attention to see Fray Basacio, with his unusually bad mood exploding (he was always so calm) in the middle of that angry discussion, and perhaps that was why I approached to see if I could serve him in some way.

  The other Franciscan, Fray Mateo by name, was the one who had come to inspect the construction of the convent of Tlatelolco; he had been with us more than a week examining as many of the walls of the convent under construction as he could, because his job was to go from one part of New Spain to another discussing the workmanship of the friars, suggesting and criticizing; this is why they had sent him, it was not to teach grammar, of which he had no knowledge. He was an expert master-builder and an intuitive engineer who had seen the work done by so many others on the convents and the churches of New Spain. The previous afternoon I had heard him in the refectory talking about how the Indians who had raised the first vaulted structure in New Spain, that of San Francisco, had run away upon removing the wooden falsework, fearing that it would come down because they were convinced that there was no way to support it. When he recounted this anecdote, he emphasized the stupidity that he attributed to the innocent Indian builders, mocking them in a way that he would not do to the Franciscan builders.

  I moved closer, my curiosity piqued; I was interested to know what it was that they were discussing. I was dressed in a poor, rough sackcloth robe that one of the Franciscans had put on me while they were drying my wine-stained clothes, since it would not be proper for a little Indian friar to be wearing clothes that smelled of a drunkard.

  The other one who was there was Diego López de Agurto. He was a native of Mexico City and was the son of Sancho López, a public scribe, and many years later he was a prebendary and then a canon and a chaplain of the Real Audiencia. And though he had served in the church of San Francisco since childhood and prided himself on being a master of ceremony and ecclesiastics, he was still an unlettered man. He scarcely knew how to read and, in addition to demonstrating little knowledge and poor judgment, he is restless and vain, and distracted by affairs with women. But because he was a Hispanic of pure blood, he became a canon and a chaplain. Diego López de Agurto argued heatedly, while Fray Mateo, the wall-looker, supported him with a thousand words for his every claim and Fray Basacio argued back whenever he could chop a word in against their mounting anger.

  —It is not possible that they can speak or understand Latin, they are only Indians—the wall-looker said.

  —But Fray Mateo, what we are saying here is not just conjecture. We have seen that the Indians are capable of learning grammar perfectly and even some basics of theology—my friar was saying, trying to reason with idiots.

  —Theology! Theology you said! How can you possibly believe that? Let us leave that out of the discussion. There is no Indian good enough even to learn grammar well and Latin requires a refinement of the mind and a sound judgment that the natives do not have a place to pull from—Diego López hastened to respond, practically jumping up and down with anger.

  —Diego, I am telling you…

  —With my own eyes—interrupted Fray Mateo—I have seen them suffer under the simplest problems of construction, and there is an abyss between building and understanding and speaking the Latin language. Look, Basacio, to say the very least, if you do not treat these poor wretches with the rod and the whip, they are not even capable of putting a couple of stones in the right place. So do not try to convince me that they can learn Latin, that is nonsense…

  —Let us try. Ask some of these boys yourself…

  —Let us see, you—Fray Mateo said to me—you, chico, do you know your prayers in Latin?

  As I have said, I was not wearing a habit or a cassock, and he might have chosen me to ask his stupid questions because he thought I was not a student of the Colegio de Santa Cruz, much less one of those chosen by the friars to lead a religious life. He had simply missed the opportunity to avoid this error because, though he might have seen me in the refectory, he had never laid eyes on us, the Indian students. For him we were lost souls wandering across the earth, just as we were for those at the gathering the night before.

  —Me?

  —You: do you know the Christian prayers in Latin?—Wall-looker then asked me.

  —Yes, I do know them, the Franciscans taught me.

  —And which ones do you know?

  —Which one would your graces like me to recite for you?

  —The Pater Noster.

  I said the Pater Noster, oh, and with such fervor, as if My Lord might appear with its recitation.

  —Well done, muchacho. I do not doubt—he said to Fray Basacio—that these natives have a memory. I do not question that, why should I? Any child in Castile can repeat the Pater Noster. All right now, chico, the Ave María…

  I recited the Ave María for them, again carefully pronouncing my words.

  —Good, as I have already said: memory is a faculty of crows.

  —Would you like the Regina Coeli?

  —Well, go on then! I think that would be more interesting, the Regina and the Coeli together…ha ha (the idiot laughed in my face), or do you know that it is one prayer, even though it is always said with two words?

  I decided not to bother reciting the Regina to the fool, I did not have faith that my celestial Mother would reappear before my eyes with this prayer, nor am I confident that in her infinite piety she would have the will to come expressly to tolerate the company of this big an idiot. It would be easier for my father to appear from the depths of the ocean or for my poor mother to be granted permission to visit me even though she lives as close as Tezcoco! But I decided not to hold my tongue and I began to recite for him some of the Justinian Institutions:

  —Lustitia es constans et
perpetua voluntas tus suum cuique tribuendi.

  —Don’t give me this nonsense, you foolish and braggartry boy; you are smug about something I don’t understand. Is that really part of the Regina, go ahead, tell me—but Fray Mateo interrupted me as soon as I began.

  —All right now, Indian, leave aside your Regina Coeli, as that is too easy, and better yet recite the Creed.

  And I set myself to doing so. Arriving at the phrase Natus ex Maria Virgine, he interrupted me, correcting me erroneously:

  —Nato ex Maria Virgine.

  —Natus ex Maria Virgine—I repeated, quite sure of being correct.

  —Repeat “nato,” do not be foolish, you have made a mistake—he claimed, convinced of the inconvincible.

  —Natus ex…—I repeated, as I did not have any reason to make his stupid errors.

  —“Nato,” I said it is “nato”—he interrupted, now very annoyed.

  —Reverende Pater, nato, cujus casus est?

  Insulted and confused, not knowing how to respond, and getting angrier, he glared at us without saying a word. Fray Mateo knew a lot about stones and vaults, but nothing of Latin grammar. “It is logical that each one works to know his job, and being ignorant, does not want others to be as well.”

  Needless to say that for the uneducated Diego López de Agurto the natus and the nato were the same thing, that is why it was not him I looked in the eyes when I said: “Dubitatis quin vidicetis? Cave ignoscas?” (“Do you doubt vengeance?” “Do not pardon”), phrases that infuriated Fray Mateo to the point of exasperation, not because their meaning was so contrary to the Franciscan sense, but because he did not understand them, and without even saying goodbye, he turned his back on us and left, muttering who knows what to the ignorant Diego López. Birds of a feather will flock together.

  Fray Mateo might have understood his gypsum and his stones and his arches and his vaults and his chisel, but he had no understanding of grammar. The first time I realized this was days earlier when he corrected what an Indian had carved into a wall while showing the man how he should hold the chisel to use it more effectively, and the second I saw at that moment—in the color of his skin, his anger, and his confusion. But while I could appreciate the goodness of his person and that he was knowledgeable about stones and mortars, he was incapable of appreciating what was good in me, or admit that I understood Latin grammar even though I might not know how to carry stones or how to use a chisel.