Catalina

by Markus Orths

  Two days later Catalina looked through the registers herself, searching for the right name. The lists were not in alphabetical order, but were arranged according to the date of the entry and the location of the mine. When, on the first run-through, Catalina did not find a Miguel de Erauso she thought little of it, told herself to concentrate harder, and started again. But when the second search also proved fruitless, even though she kept a finger on the page to avoid accidentally skipping a line, she began to feel uneasy. At the third unsuccessful attempt she broke out in a sweat, and after the fourth, when she just rushed through the lists in a breathless panic, she closed the register, her eyes blank. He was not here. If he was not here he could be anywhere. This country was so vast that it made her giddy even to think of it. And perhaps he was not even in this country any more. Then she would never find him. She had to discover some trace of him, some clue, something to set her on the right track.

  Over the next few days Catalina looked through the registers for the preceding years and found an entry recording that the mine registered in Miguel de Erauso’s name had been closed down three years earlier, with the brief annotation, “Yield too low to justify further digging, mine to be filled in. She shut the book, her hopes dashed. Three years. Miguel could be anywhere by now.

  She did not give up, however. Her search now entered its most desperate phase. She climbed up to the mine entrances and questioned the overseers. There was the odd one here and there who vaguely recalled a man named Erauso, but no one could tell her where he was now. She questioned the mitayos, but many of them knew no Spanish, or could not stop to talk. They were lugging the ore out of the mountain in sacks as heavy as though they were full of earth, sacks which they carried not with their hands but on their backs, held by a thick leather strap that cut into their wet foreheads. Panting and sweating, their cheeks stuffed with coca leaf, they came crawling out of the damp, oxygen-deficient bowels of the mountain into the ice-cold air, tipped the ore into carts and disappeared into the mountain again.

  The first time Catalina set eyes on the ore she was disappointed. She had expected to see shiny pieces of silver, but there were only lumps of mineral of an indeterminate, strangely blackish colour. Catalina also questioned the mitayos womenfolk, who, bent double, picked over the ground outside the mouths of the mines for discarded lumps of ore, from which, they hoped, some remaining trace of silver might yet be extracted. To protect them from the cold they seemed to have put on every garment they possessed; skirts, stockings, ponchos, even blankets, one on top of another. Their faces were the colour of brown leather and were framed by multicoloured headscarves, but the dust of the mountain had made their hands as white as those of the overseers.

  Catalina went down into the city to ask about Miguel at the grinding mills and at the refineries, where the ore that had been ground was piled up in heaps and mixed with potash and quicksilver from Huancavelica. She questioned the dealers who bought and sold the silver, but from them she heard nothing but words like ‘ounce’, “value‘, ”profit’, “demand‘, ”costs’; everything revolved around silver, money, making a fortune, every successful deal, however small, was a cause for celebration, while the word ‘loss’ spelled disaster. Catalina questioned the crippled mitayos who were to be found clustered in odd corners of the city, men whose arms or legs had been severed when some gallery had caved in. She questioned workers who were spitting blood, made ill by breathing in mercury vapour or particles of rock. She questioned the many other Quechua who had stayed, whether from choice or necessity, and had found other work in the town. For instance there were dealers in excrement: they had a yard where all Potosi's mitayos did their business, so that the dealers could dry it, bundle it up and sell it as fuel, a rare commodity at this altitude. Catalina searched in the thirty-six monasteries, did the rounds of the traders’ stalls, went to the brothels and visited all the gambling dens, where the city’s eight hundred professional gamblers seemed to be at it day and night. Only the mine owners proved inaccessible. Once she saw a leaseholder and his wife going to church and counted their retinue of servants: there were eighty men and twenty women; Catalina could not even pick out the leaseholder in such a crowd of people. After a month of fruitless searching it was clear that there were no clues to be found here. She could be sure of only one thing: her brother Miguel de Erauso was no longer in Potosi.

  it-It is a measure of her despair that she now grasped at something she had previously dismissed with a smile of contempt. The mitayos who were able to speak Spanish had told her about it. Every one of them, without exception. Questioned about a man called Miguel de Erauso, they had thought for a moment, shrugged their shoulders and then said no, never heard of him, but if anyone knew it would be the Nameless One. Catalina had been told horrific tales about this man. She had not believed a word. But now she had nothing to lose. Perhaps, she thought, there might be a grain of truth in those stories. Perhaps there really was still someone who could help her. And that meant venturing, for the first time, into the darkness of the mines.

  One of the mitayos led her past the main seams—Onate, Mendieta, Veta del Estano and Veta Rica—to the northernmost seam, Centeno. Here the galleries had been cut deeper into the rock than anywhere else. When Catalina entered the mine she at once felt her chest tighten. She began to perspire without having exerted herself at all. It was as if a thousand tiny taps had been turned on under her skin. Following the mitayos example, Catalina had roughened her gums with ashes and put a mushy substance into her mouth—coca leaf worked into a paste with plantain and flavoured with aniseed. She noticed that it helped her to breathe more easily and dulled the pain in her lungs. “If you don’t chew,” the mitayo had said, “Pachamama will suck your blood, you’ll feel heavy and you won’t be able to move.” Catalina walked on, torch in hand. A wave of sweat hit her in the face long before she saw the mitayos approaching; the weight of the loads dragging on their foreheads was etched into their faces. The gallery had only a slight downward slope, but the floor was becoming more and more slippery and the small, man-made steps were worn, so that she was afraid of missing her footing.

  They were still in the main gallery, which followed the richest part of the seam. But now the mitayo turned into a side passage which had been cut into the stone with little regard for such a thing as safety. Here there was almost no air. The workers’ sweat and the carbon dioxide combined to form a kind of hot soup which you might possibly drink but could not breathe. Catalina retched. There were more branches leading off now: here a shaft, there a corridor or a deep well. Catalina could hear the sounds of spades, hammers and pickaxes, as well as grunts of effort, groans, commands. They came to a tio, and the mitayo halted. It was a statue of a devil with two great horns. Coiled around the left horn was a snake, a Quechua symbol of good fortune. The devil was clearly a white man, for he had a pointed beard like the conquistadors. His mouth was open, between the clay lips a lighted cigarette was almost finished, and from down below a huge erect penis reared up. The mitayo lit a new cigarette for the tio, laid a coca leaf in his lap, swore at him and told Catalina that the tio liked to be insulted, and that unless you insulted him you had no chance of surviving inside the mountain. Shrugging, Catalina muttered a few oaths, and the mitayo nodded.

  They trudged on in the darkness, which was broken only by the light of their torch. The mitayo made frequent stops to get his own breath back or to give Catalina a short break. Glistening, viscous smears of purple, or greenish trickles, showed up here and there on the walls. More water was collecting underfoot. There was even less air than before. Catalina put a new wad of coca into her cheek. Eventually they reached a final turning where another mitayo was standing, doing nothing: he seemed to be keeping watch. The two forced labourers greeted each other, and the watchman poured a drink into three small bowls. Catalina took one, and the two mitayos each poured a drop onto the ground, murmuring ‘Pachamama’, and then downed the drink at a gulp. Although Catalina did not let it show, sh
e felt as if the brandy were digging a tunnel through her own body. Only now did the watchman address her.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I want to…to visit the Nameless One,” said Catalina.

  “What do you want of him?”

  “I’ve a question to ask.”

  “What sort of a question?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “He’ll certainly be able to help.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Just go down this passage.”

  Catalina was about to set off at once, but the mitayo stopped her. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m going to him.”

  “You have to leave the light here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He lives on darkness. The light would kill him.”

  “But how do I find the way?”

  “The passage is narrow. You’ll get a few bruises, but you can’t go astray, because there’s only one way you can go.”

  Then the watchman took the torch from her hand. Catalina set off into the darkness. At first the torch she had left behind still lighted her path, but after the first bend she could no longer see where she was going. She put out her hands and groped her way forward. This immediately brought back memories; there was no way she could shut them out. A feeling of confusion made her stop. Something told her that it would be better to turn back. But still she went on, her hands acting as a substitute for light.

  As she continued on she called to mind everything she had been told about the Nameless One. He was one of them, the mitayos had all agreed, a Quechua, a man who had long since ceased to be a man. He had been forced into the mine like all the rest, but unlike them he had never come out again. How long ago this was, no one knew. Some said twenty, some thirty years. Since then the Nameless One had spent every day and every night here, in an abandoned gallery, alone, without light, without food, without water; he ate and drank the darkness around him, so they said, and he had vowed not to come out until they stopped forcing the Quechua to work here. And anyone with a question that nobody else could answer would go to the gallery where the Nameless One lived, and would emerge with a definite answer and with knowledge that he had not had before. All in all, thought Catalina, just idle superstition.

  She walked on for so long that she began to think she would come out on the other side of the mountain. So far she had remained in control of herself. Cool. Unafraid. But now she stopped. Suppose they’re right, she asked herself. This was a sudden, unexpected thought. Suppose it was true? What the devil was she doing here? If what they said was true, then the creature she was on her way to see was no longer human at all. She was about to come face to face with a being from another world. “Where are you?” she asked, and was startled by her voice: it took on a shape of its own, and its sound floated towards her in the darkness. Then all was silent again, but now the silence, punctured and broken by her question, was an ugly silence, almost unbearable. And to escape that silence, Catalina finally asked her question. Listened intently in the darkness, waiting for an answer. Asked again. And again. In different words each time. The one question she had.

  Nothing happened. But before her inner eye something suddenly appeared, and even as she spoke she saw, in her mind, a man stepping out of the shadows. He stood there, close enough for her to touch him. The Nameless One was no more than an outer layer of skin stretched over a skeleton, which was clearly visible beneath. His face was bloodless, lifeless. He said nothing, simply looked at her. This is not really happening, thought Catalina. You’ve got your eyes shut, she told herself aloud; nothing can penetrate the darkness. There’s no possibility of seeing anything here. And suppose she were to reach out her hand? She could grab hold of him and force him to answer, pierce his skin, poke her fingertip into his heart, kill him. Perhaps that was what he wanted. Perhaps that was what she was here for. She raised her hand and made a stabbing movement. The image vanished. Her hand met the cold stone of the mountain, and she opened her eyes, but that made no difference. Her fingers explored what was in front of her: it was the end of the gallery. And there was nobody there. Catalina turned round. As she took her first step back the way she had come she felt—just momentarily—that something terrible had happened. The feeling was the opposite of what we call deja vu: it was informed by what was still in store for Catalina, what would happen many years later, on a day when darkness like this would envelop her again, for a third and last time.

  “Did you ask your question?” were the watchman’s first words to her. During her absence he and the other mitayo had downed several more brandies.

  “Yes, said Catalina.

  And did he answer?“

  “No.”

  “Then he’s dead.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “The man you asked about.”

  “Or the man I asked.”

  The watchman drank another glass.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I went right to the end of the tunnel,” said Catalina. “I put out my hands and touched the wall of rock where the tunnel stops. He wasn’t there. I don’t know if your Nameless One ever existed. But one thing I do know: he doesn’t exist now.”

  The two forced labourers looked at each other. It took them a few seconds to grasp what Catalina had said. And then they laughed.

  Chapter eighteen

  The embrace

  Three weeks later Catalina did, after all, discover where Miguel was. During the night she ran into a troop of over a hundred men led by the corregidor, Rafael Ortiz.

  “Who goes there?” called Ortiz.

  “Miguel de Erauso,” replied Catalina.

  “That’s a lie!” said Ortiz. “I know Miguel!“

  Catalina had given up all hope of hearing anyone say that, and was lost for words.

  “So who are you?” Ortiz repeated his question.

  “I’m his brother,” said Catalina.

  “Are you for us or against us?”

  “I’m for you.”

  “Then come along!”

  “Where to?”

  “You’ll see.”

  That was the night the Alonso Ibariez uprising was put down. Catalina knew nothing about the revolt, she knew only that here was someone who could help her, and she followed Rafael Ortiz and crept through the dark city with his men until the rebels charged them, with cries of Liberty!“ Catalina killed three of them. More than thirty were captured, and hanged two days later. From Rafael Ortiz Catalina learned that Miguel de Erauso had joined the army and had risen to become captain of a Chilean company, that he was regarded as Governor Ribera’s right-hand man and was stationed in Concepcion. Juan and Catalina left at once and retraced their steps to Arica. There they had to wait for a ship, for the land route passed through areas that were still unsafe. After three weeks a galleon bound for Concepcion entered port. Besides the crew there were two hundred men on board who wanted to join the Chilean army. These mercenaries were eagerly awaited in Chile, where soldiers still faced a real risk of dying and the army suffered from a chronic shortage of troops.

  Catalina went on board burning with impatience, and was under unspeakable nervous strain throughout the voyage. She knew that the day she had awaited for so long was now close at hand. Her expectations flew, like agitated wasps, in all directions, ranging from the greatest joy to the most bitter disappointment. She sank into a deep silence. She wanted solitude in which to commune with herself, to pursue her own thoughts. Juan noticed that his friend was strangely withdrawn, even cold in his manner. Despite repeated attempts, it was impossible to get so much as a word out of him. Catalina even lost her temper, speaking to Juan angrily and, for the first time ever, offensively, telling him to stop his tiresome chatter and leave her alone. Juan retreated and stayed out of her way for a while, and Catalina was glad of the peace and quiet. It was some days before she listened to the stirrings of her conscience. She managed to make her peace with
Juan, apologizing for what she had said. And then she made an important pronouncement. Facing Juan and looking him in the eye, she put her hands on his shoulders and declared, “I want us to stay together, Juan. Whatever happens in Concepcion. And something will happen there, I know.” But even as she heard her own words, she was conscious of a shadow falling across them. It was as though she needed to make herself believe what she was saying. As though her words betrayed a fear that the opposite might happen. The phrase ‘stay together’ hinted for the first time at the possibility of a separation.

  At last they arrived, and Catalina saw the port of Concepcion, the city whose byname was ‘the Noble’ or ‘the Just’. Miguel de Erauso, they had told her, would be waiting on the shore to receive the new fighting men. She stood at the ship’s prow gazing at the big square facing the harbour and at the soldiers and local people gathered there. As soon as the ship was close enough she began to scan the faces of the waiting men, and it struck her that this was how Miguel must have stood, all those years ago, on board the San Marco, scanning the quayside of San Sebastian for one familiar face, for the sister who had not come to see him off.