by Markus Orths
Catalina did not give up. She argued with her uncle until finally he rubbed his chin, thought it over and suggested a compromise. “I won’t pay you anything,” he said, “but you can move in here if you like. You can live here for nothing, the house is big enough, and you can eat here, my cook isn’t bad.” Now it was Catalina’s turn to think it over, rubbing her own chin. On the one hand she felt affronted by the offer: board and lodging was a very poor wage for all that she did for her uncle; on the other hand there were arguments in favour of it. The smell in Juan’s house was growing more and more unbearable, and besides, if she lived with her uncle she would be able—the idea alarmed her, though it also sent a shiver of excitement through her—to discover where Rafael de Cerralta kept his money and, when the time was right, help herself to what was really due to her. “Very well,” said Catalina, nodding and holding out her hand to her uncle. He shook hands on the deal, not suspecting any ulterior motive.
Now that Catalina was living with her uncle, some streets away from Juan, she no longer saw him automatically every day. He was not there when she got up or when she went to bed. He was not there at mealtimes or in the evening when work was over. She keenly felt his absence from her life. If she wanted to see him she had to go to his house—and she did, every day. For she realized how very much she missed him, how she had grown used to his presence, how she liked listening to him. Besides, things had changed. It was Juan who needed her help now. So Catalina helped him. She ran errands, brought him food, and gave him support through the months when his mother was ill and needed nursing, the days when she was dying and after she was buried, and the arid months that followed, when Juan simply did nothing. He allowed very few friends to come and see him. His mind dwelt painfully on the fact that he had lost the decisive battle.
Francisco had been proved right, he told himself. Medicine and all science and experience had failed. What were diets and sweat baths compared to the face of the mole? If a patient recovered, was it really because the doctor had cured him? Or because the mole had chosen not to stick its head out? Had Francisco not said that when it came down to it doctors were simply play-acting? Pretending? How often had he assured his mother that she would make it, even after he knew it was too late?
Catalina’s life had fallen into something of a rut. She worked for her uncle, practised her fencing, riding and fighting and spent the rest of her time with Juan. One day in April 1603, Catalina made her monthly calculation: it would be another fifteen months, she told herself, before she would have earned the right to relieve her uncle of the sum she needed for the voyage to the West Indies. She had found out where Rafael de Cerralta kept his money hidden: it was in a small iron box in his study, and he wore the key around his neck day and night.
Utterly lacking in enthusiasm for the task in hand, she had just thrown down her pencil onto the translation she was scribbling when something happened that she had not reckoned with, although in truth it had been inevitable from the moment she had first entered her uncle’s house—something that changed the course of her life in an instant. There was a knock at the door. Mechanically she stood up and shuffled along the hall, bored and indifferent. One moment she was thinking of nothing in particular, and the next moment her world came crashing down like a picture falling out of its frame—for the face she saw before her was her father’s.
Catalina stood in the hallway, tall and erect. She had had a further growth spurt in the last two years, but mercifully her breasts had remained flat. Powerful sets of muscles now filled out her legs, arms and shoulders. Her back was broad, her stance firm, her gaze piercing, and her posture ramrod-straight. If her face had not been in shadow her father would have seen the beginnings of a moustache on her upper lip. This had been achieved with the help of some hair restorer she had bought from an apothecary. Catalina tended the down like freshly seeded grass. Now, as she suddenly came face to face with her father, seconds passed—and nothing happened. Nothing visible, at any rate; inwardly she collapsed as if she had been blown over, terrified that her father might recognize her, put his arms round her, call her Catalina and with that one word destroy all that she had built up. She was afraid of losing Francisco, that infinitely better substitute for the girl she had been, Francisco, who had given her the place in life that she needed in order to achieve her goal. But all her father said was, “I’ve come to see Dr de Cerralta. Is he in?”
It took Catalina some time to register this. She did not react. Her father repeated his question, and she realized that Francisco was safe, that the life she had invented for herself could continue, and her fear changed to relief. “Of course!” she said. “Come with me!” Her father followed her. Rafael came and greeted him. And Catalina, on the point of leaving them, paused in the doorway. Her sense of relief evaporated. Who was she? Suddenly she was horror-struck. Her own father did not recognize her. She had a fleeting impulse to go back into the middle of the room and put an end to it all—to pull off her clothes, stand naked before him and say ‘Do you recognize me now?“ But she did not do it. Leaving her uncle and her father to their own devices, she went to her own room, where she sat by the window and gazed out at the world. There was one person who would recognize her, who was sure to recognize her, she thought. Miguel. She was certain of it. He would see beneath the surface. His eyes would penetrate more deeply, he would look right inside her—he, and no one else. There was no doubt of it. And she must find him. Now, more than ever.
Chapter ten
A stone’s throw in Seville
That night found Catalina waiting. Her plans were made, her preparations in hand. She had the knife with her under the blanket. She was dressed and even had her shoes on. Five streets away the horse was ready, needing only to be paid for. Catalina looked upwards as though to draw down strength for what had to be done, then she swung herself off the bed. Stepping out of the room, she laid her sword on the floor, turned to the right and moved softly along the corridor. When she reached her uncle’s bedroom she pressed an ear to the door. She could hear a puffing sound. In between two breaths, in a single fluid movement, she entered the room. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, then cautiously approached the bed. Her uncle, in his sleep, had pushed back his thin covers; outside it was quiet, not a breath of wind to stir a hair on anyone’s head.
Suddenly, in a vivid mental image, Catalina saw blood flowing from her uncle’s chest, the knife that had struck the blow still in her own hand. A tempting voice urged her to do it. Instead she merely shut her eyes for a moment, silently drew a deep breath, took hold of the cord which her uncle wore like a chain around his neck, cut it through, took the key and left the room. She reached the study, which was some way away, pulled the iron box towards her, inserted the key and opened the lid. There was more money there than she had expected. She took the twenty ducados which she thought were her due, locked the box and was about to straighten up when she paused. Considered for a moment. Turned the key again. Opened the box a second time, and asked herself why only twenty, why not fifty? Hesitated. Knew that she was doing something she had never done before in her life, and doing it in the presence of her—albeit sleeping—father, whose proximity she could feel through the walls. But Catalina did it: she took thirty more coins, put all the money into a small bag and left the study. Returning to her own room, she trod on her sword-hilt: the blade rose from the floor and fell back, with far too loud a clatter. As she bent down to pick up the sword, she heard the sound of a door opening, and ran through the house and out into the night, to Juan.
“This needs to be quick!” Catalina panted. “I haven’t got much time. I’m going to Seville.”
“When?” asked Juan.
“Right now.”
“So you’ve come to say goodbye?” asked Juan.
“I’ve come to ask if you’ll come with me. To Seville. And from Seville to the West Indies. The fleet sails in four weeks. What is there to keep you here?”
“Slow down,” said Juan.
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Yes or no, Juan. I have to go now‘
“What’s the matter? Is someone after you?”
“Yes or no, Juan?”
“No, Francisco, I’m staying here.”
Catalina threw her arms round her friend, pressed him close, and turned away without looking him in the face again; left Juan, left the life that she had shared with him for almost two years, wiping away—before it could turn to tears—the moisture that running in the cool air had brought to her eyes. She hurried to the inn where the man was to have the horse ready for her, tossed the agreed sum on the table, followed him to the waiting animal, mounted it in the way she had learned, and without a word galloped through the streets of Vitoria, heading southwards.
Two weeks later she reached Seville—-and an hour after entering the city walls she was in jail. She had hardly set foot in the city when a pack of youngsters surrounded her, not really menacingly; it was just horseplay, not an attempt to rob her, more a sort of baiting by a bunch of young hooligans—they were throwing stones, just harmless pebbles, nothing that could cause real injury—but the boys had about them the reek of the mob. Catalina was exhausted from the Andalusian sun, the ride had been murderous, the air thick and dust-laden, the ground parched and cracked. And now she was assailed by memories of the Corpus Christi procession, Beatriz de Aliri, the punch in the face, her time in the convent, a life not of humility but of humiliation: it was as though, in Seville, Catalina opened the Pandora’s box of all her swallowed revulsion and released the whole accumulation of defiance, rage and fury she had kept inside. This unleashing of her trampled feelings created a cloud of dust which totally obliterated her. She lost her self-control, her self-mastery; the mastery and inner strength that imposed order, restraint and proportion. She no longer knew what she was doing or who she was.
She leaped down from her horse, and it was like a leap into the abyss. In the darkness of her mind she saw nothing. She reached for stones, did not pause to take aim but just threw, anything she could lay hands on, and one stone that was particularly big and easy to grip hit one of the boys on the head. Some local men caught hold of her arm and restrained her. She struggled, but they dragged her off to prison.
Ten days later she was released. She did not know why. As she stepped out of the deep shadow of the prison walls she was blinded by the sun. Then a face detached itself from the light, a tanned face with a pointed black beard: Juan Bautista de Arteaga. Before Catalina could say a word he pulled her into the street. “This needs to be quick!” he said. “We haven’t got much time!” Juan led her quickly down Calle Sierpes, eastwards, through the narrow streets, past the Giralda—the minaret of the former mosque, now converted into a bell-tower. There, near the cathedral, was the Court of the Elms, the notorious Corral de los Olmos, separated off by thick chains and thus as it were welded for all time to the walls of the cathedral, for the chains indicated that this was an area under the jurisdiction of the Church, which meant no court officials, no officers of the law, no action by the forces of the state against dubious elements. For this reason the Court of the Elms had, over the years, become the main place of sanctuary for all the criminals in Seville.
To the left Catalina saw the Alcazar, one wing of which housed the Casa de Contratacion. She was glad that Juan turned off to the right. Crosses abounded everywhere, painted on the low whitewashed houses or set up at street corners purely to discourage the Sevillians from throwing their rubbish onto the street—to no effect, for mounds of filth still towered up on all sides. Now Juan and Catalina could see the Torre del Oro, which had once housed the treasures of the Muslim rulers, and soon they had reached the Arenal beside the Rio Guadalquivir, the biggest and busiest trans-shipment port in Europe. The entire city was at work loading up the fleet, thirty-six enormous ships, merchantmen and galleons, lying at anchor in the river with their sails furled. They had all travelled the twenty nautical miles from Sanlücar, at the mouth of the Guadalquivir, to Seville, with shoal pilots on board to negotiate the difficult entrance, where there had been many cases of ships running aground. Small boats, feluccas and tartans, were used to load the ships with salt fish, dried meat, ship’s biscuit, tea, wine and ammunition for the cannons, as well as with the latest merchandise—olive oil and wine soap from Andalusia, coloured ceramic tiles from Triana, mercury from the mines of Almaden, linen from Laval, brocade from Italy and hemp from Lübeck.
Juan raised his arm and waved to someone. Aurrea!“ he said. ”Come on!“
Following him, Catalina ran towards a man who had returned Juan’s wave. The man leaped into a boat, Catalina and Juan jumped in after him, and they cast off and headed towards a small sailing vessel. Juan and the stranger rowed; Catalina sat in the stern. Floating in the river were pieces of wood, bits of orange peel and fish entrails. Catalina hoped she would at last get a chance to ask some questions, but the man would not let her get a word in; he said he was from Genoa, his name was Roberto Maldini, and then, in a score of garbled half-Spanish, half-Italian sentences he told them his life story, or so at least it seemed to Catalina, who could neither understand it all nor give it her full attention, for she was the only one who could see where they were going, and so every now and then she had to guide the two rowers past some obstacle.
They rapidly came alongside the ship and no sooner had they clambered aboard than the anchor was hauled in, as if the crew had only been waiting for their arrival. The ship started to move. The Triana pontoon bridge had just been opened and would certainly not be letting traffic through all day. For a while Catalina forgot all her questions as she saw the battlements of the castle that housed the Inquisition, and on the opposite bank a procession disappearing through the Triana Gate in the direction of the city. “An execution,” said Roberto, pointing to the condemned man, who was wearing a white tunic and a blue cap. He was riding on a donkey, his hands tied to a cross, the noose already around his neck; two monks were walking beside him, talking to him incessantly and with great urgency, and Catalina could just hear, fading into the distance, the voice of the town crier roaring out, again and again, the crime the man had committed: ‘Murder of his own brother!“
It now turned out that Miguel had been mistaken: they were not heading for the Cape Verde Islands, but only for the south-western tip of Spain. There they dropped anchor and waited for the fleet to come by. When it hove in sight, Roberto, Catalina and Juan got into the ship’s boat and rowed close alongside the galleon, the Santa Isabella, that was slowly gliding past. Juan and Catalina caught the rope that was thrown to them and climbed up it. From down in his boat Roberto Maldini waved to them and started to row back, his face wearing an odd, almost malicious grin.
Once on the Santa Isabella there was something that Catalina and Juan found puzzling: the sailors who had helped them climb the rope and pulled them on board did not utter a single word. One of them jerked his head towards the stern. Another led the way. The crew, as though mustered for a silent inspection, formed a double line through which Juan and Catalina walked. They went past the ship’s boat. Past the mainmast. Past the cannons on the upper deck, which stood behind closed gunports. Past the mute helmsman, who held the whipstaff tightly in his hands. All the way to the captain’s cabin at the end of the deck. The door squeaked as Juan opened it. It seemed to Catalina to be the first sound she had heard on the ship. In the cabin they met the captain, who put a finger to his lips as Juan was about to greet him. He held his other hand out to him, a curved, demanding hollow. Juan got out a purse of money and passed it across the table. Not a word had been spoken.
Part two
Chapter eleven
The aerosol mist
Massed together in the cramped, stifling interior of the pharynx, determined to pounce on whatever they might meet outside, round particles and oval ones, gossamer-thin and spherical ones all jostled together, rather like grains of pollen—about a million of them to each millilitre of pharyngeal secretion. Then
a powerful explosion catapulted them out into the air. The smoke produced by the shot could not be seen: it was an insidious, invisible aerosol mist. The viruses tried to keep together, because only by keeping together could they hope to board an enemy body. Attached to their surface were five hundred prickles pointing outwards in every direction and carrying battle-ready proteins of types N and H; in the fresh air of the Caribbean shore they stretched out their feelers for likely docking sites. Some fell to the ground along the way and attached themselves to glistening objects, grains of sand, small pieces of driftwood. These were beyond rescue. The others looked behind them, hoping for reinforcements, but no help was in sight. Then they entered the aura of a living creature. All their prickles perked up. Instinctively they moved to where a breath was being drawn: they must not miss the tide. They could already feel the faint suction; they were breathed in, and used the life-giving air as a Trojan horse that enabled them to gain access, unscathed, to the interior. The concentrated power of all the Ns, which were trembling with eagerness for the fight, instantly perforated the enemy’s shields and reduced the bastion of the mucus layer to a viscous fluid, and with each cell that was liquefied a new target was exposed for the Hs to hook onto with all their might. Once they had fastened onto the enemy like so many ticks, the core, the essence, the inner content burst forth: this was the decisive breakout of all the nucleocapsids, invading the host cells, which now lost their capacity to play host to anything or anyone but were carried off by the nuclear storm of the viral strands, which destroyed everything in their path, dividing and multiplying, dividing and multiplying at lightning speed, capturing territory and giving the other side no chance to develop a defence. All this was done with extraordinary swiftness, for experience had shown that it would not be long before the enemy antibodies arrived on the scene. But here, on the seashore, in the unsuspecting body of this indigenous inhabitant, there was a surprise: no enemy came. There was no resistance. This was unusual, but more than welcome, for the further one could drive back one’s opponent, the greater the triumph. Even if it was achieved at the cost of one’s life: the viruses soon realized that this foreign body, so totally overrun by foreign bodies, had not the slightest chance of survival. But in the few days before the victim gave up his mortal ghost, before he inwardly flickered and died, dragging the viruses proliferating within him to the same death, they fired salvos of coughs and sneezes with unparalleled rapidity at other bodies in the vicinity—a massive and sustained artillery barrage that enveloped the American continent in an invisible, deadly mist. And the influenza viruses received strategic support: smallpox, swine fever and measles overran indigenous bodies in a massive microbial shock attack, musket shot shattered indigenous organs, knife blades stabbed indigenous hearts, empty indigenous stomachs became distended and burst, lashes cut into indigenous skins, and the labour and light-deprivation of mining work drank indigenous blood, so that in barely fifty years seventy million native Americans met their deaths, or as a judge put it at the time, “If water is lacking to irrigate the land, then use the Indians’ blood.”