by Laila Lalami
Then Guzmán nodded to his servants and the food was brought forth—vegetable mixes, roasted chicken, and bread that tasted almost exotic to us after so many years without wheat. He raised his glass in honor of us, the four survivors of the Narváez expedition, giving great thanks to God for our miraculous rescue, and welcoming us once again to the province of Nueva Galicia. Tell me, he said, is it true that the Indians follow you wherever you go?
Don Nuño, it is more complicated than that, Cabeza de Vaca said. We have lived with them for so long, dressing as they do, eating as they do, and speaking as they do, that they have come to trust us. We were able, thanks to the great favor of God our Lord, to be of some service to them in ordinary matters, but which the Indians came to think of as extraordinary. For this reason, each tribe escorted us along the way to the next tribe. We lived among them in peace. It is my belief, Don Nuño, that these people can join the empire through peaceful means.
Is that right? And what are these tribes called?
There are so many. We lived the longest with the Avavares—they are a tribe of great fishermen, who migrate during the seasons of nuts and prickly pear. Then we visited the Maliacones, the Susolas and the Coayos, and others that call themselves the Arbadaos and the Cultalchulches. These are nomadic tribes, but once we crossed the mountains, we began to see tribes like the Cuchendados and the Jumanos, who live in permanent settlements. All of the Indians, without exception, are skilled with their bows and arrows, though of course none of them could offer much resistance to even the smallest of our troops. Which is why I want to reiterate that it is possible to establish imperial settlements through peaceful means.
Castillo’s face was already flushed from the effect of the wine and, when he spoke, his voice was high. I agree, he said. The tribes we visited live in sophisticated towns and decide their affairs by consultation. I think Cabeza de Vaca makes a good point about the use of force.
My companions wanted to convince the governor that peaceful conquest was possible, but my experience suggested otherwise. Azemmur had already witnessed a bloodless conquest, and the outcome had been just as bleak as if the cannons had been fired. So I felt I had to speak. The Indians, I said, are like people everywhere else in the world. They are born and die, and in between they live lives according to their own laws and customs: they worship God in their own way, find joy in raising their children, and when the moment comes they mourn their dead. They do not seek war, but they will not retreat from it if it is brought to them. All they wish is to carry out their own lives in peace.
Yes, yes, Guzmán said, but do they have metals of any kind?
It was Dorantes who answered the governor. The Jumanos have copper bells, he said. Beautiful little things, etched to look just like a human face.
But those do not count, Castillo said quickly. They are likely from the south. The truth is that we did not see any metals. The Indians of the north have no mines, no gold, no silver that we could see. Most of the tribes we lived with were quite poor.
I see. And would you be able to draw me a map of the area?
Silence fell on the table.
The governor looked around him in astonishment. Have I spoken out of turn? he asked. Why is everyone quiet all of a sudden?
Cabeza de Vaca asked: Why do you need a map?
I am the governor of Nueva Galicia. It is my charge to be familiar with the lands I am administering for the empire.
Don Nuño, Cabeza de Vaca said. Nueva Galicia ends where the mountains begin. The tribes live on the other side of that range.
The governor smiled. All of this terra firma is part of the empire. I am the representative of the Crown here. My duty is to pacify any savages that could pose a threat to us.
But that is what I have been explaining all this time, Cabeza de Vaca said. The Indians are no threat at all. They can be convinced to join our faith without any intervention. They are a kind and peaceable people.
Cabeza de Vaca’s hands were gripping the arms of his chair and his knuckles had turned white. I remembered suddenly how, years earlier, he had chosen to bring his books of poetry on the long march to Apalache; he seemed to believe that it was always possible to appeal to the nobleness of men.
You will find, esteemed señor, Guzmán replied, that even those who are most biased in favor of the Indians will not deny that they kill their own infants, treat their women like beasts, practice sodomy, and worship stones. If you wish to defend them, for whatever mysterious reasons of your own, then by all means do, but I do not think that convincing us that they are a kind and peaceable people is a winning proposition. Then he stood up from the table and asked if we would join him in the parlor.
We had hoped to bring up the question of the Indians who had been left behind in Culiacán, rather than the subject of the Indian tribes in the north, but now it became painfully clear that there would be no point in doing that with someone like Guzmán. There was something coarse and obdurate about him, something that could never be moved by the power of words.
I was forced to report this conversation to Oyomasot later that night, when I went to visit her in the barracks pantry. We spoke to Guzmán about the people, I said. The words came out with difficulty, punctuated by false starts and long pauses. And as I spoke, the expectation on her face slowly turned into disappointment and shame.
The men and women who had put their faith in us, who had put their lives in our hands, would be left in Culiacán for good. The awe that once colored my wife’s eyes whenever she gazed at me began to disappear. Slowly, I was returning to what I had always been: a man. Not a shaman, but only a man.
OVER THE TWO WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED, Guzmán met with each of us in turn, in long sessions about which we later gossiped well into the night. Cabeza de Vaca, Dorantes, and Castillo were forthcoming about the strange mores they had witnessed while living with the Indians, but Guzmán was not the least bit interested in customs or habits; his sessions always ended with his request that they draw him a map. Having heard of Guzmán’s taste for lucre—and mindful, too, of the true value of such knowledge—each one of them gave a different reason for why he could not draw a map. Cabeza de Vaca said that, being the royal treasurer, he was bound by duty to report anything he knew to the highest authorities in New Spain, before he could share it with anyone. Dorantes said that he had spent much of his time as a captive, and that his thoughts had been focused on escaping these lands, rather than taking notes for any future reports or maps. Castillo took the stance that he was the third-ranked survivor of the expedition and could not go against the wishes of the other two. I was the last to be questioned.
Guzmán rose from his desk to shake my hand and offer me a seat, then poured me a cup of something dark and hot. Chocolatl, he said. It is popular down in México.
I had never tasted anything like it—it was strong and bitter—and for a moment I felt out of sorts.
They tell me you are a native of Barbary, Guzmán said.
That is true.
You know, I went there once. I was on a ship that docked in the port of Arzilah for two days. A beautiful town.
I would imagine so, I said, though I have never seen it.
Dorantes must be a good master. You look very healthy and well. He told me that you were quite the scout. That you spoke to all the caciques, that you translated for them, that you found food and shelter whenever they needed to be found.
Señor Dorantes flatters me, I said.
And modest, too! Dorantes is fortunate. I have never been so fortunate with slaves myself, for whatever reason. In any case, since you are by all accounts an exceptional member of your kind, I want to see if you can draw me a map.
On the desk between us, he unscrolled a fragile piece of paper, upon which was drawn in thin, trembling lines, the shape of a continent. The southern part of the territory was covered with names for cities, rivers, mountains, and plains; the northern part was an unmarked, narrow mass. With his forefinger, he tapped the blank area. Here,
he said.
I looked up from the map. Don Nuño, as you yourself said, I am merely a slave. Whoever heard of a slave who can read or write, much less draw maps?
Guzmán heaved a sigh. Come now. I know you cannot read or write, but I am sure you know more than you are letting on. Here is a map of the province. These are the mountains, see? Imagine that you are standing in front of these mountains. Can you point to the best place to cross them?
Don Nuño, I do not know how to read a map.
Let us try this another way, he said. His speech slowed down now, so that each word was spoken very carefully. How far past the mountains is the first Indian town? Five days? Seven? Fourteen?
I am not sure, I said. I did not pay attention to time.
Guzmán stared at me for a long time. Then he put down his cup. You are following your master’s lead, I see. Very well, he said. Return to your quarters. To the guard who stood by the door he said: Bring me the Indian.
The Indian Guzmán wanted to question was Satosol, Dorantes’s brother-in-law. How they managed to communicate with each other, I never knew. Guzmán did not ask me to translate for him, so I imagine he must have had his own interpreters. When Satosol finally emerged, he did not go back to the women’s quarters, where we were waiting for him, but to a different room, on the second floor of the barracks. Good for him, Dorantes said. At least he got the old man to give him separate accommodations.
WE WERE SITTING on a blue blanket, outside the women’s quarters, the next morning. Plates of bread, olive oil, and dried squash lay between us. The sun had not yet reached this part of the barracks courtyard and we buttoned up our doublets and cloaks. Then a young soldier with a patchy beard arrived with a message from Guzmán: we were to leave Compostela the next day because the viceroy was expecting us in México. Even after delivering his message, the recruit stood there, watching us with curiosity. Cabeza de Vaca grew irritated. What are you waiting for? he asked. The soldier clicked his heels and ran off without another word.
Satosol chose this moment to announce that he would not be going with us to México. I have gone far enough from home, he said.
Dorantes laughed. Since when did you care about straying away from the tribe?
I never wanted to come here, Satosol said. You were the ones who wanted to come to this city.
It is Guzmán, Cabeza de Vaca said. He convinced him to be a guide.
Can you not see that he is only using you? Dorantes asked. He wants you to show him the way to the Indian settlements in the Land of Corn.
Why do you care? Satosol said.
What did he give you? Dorantes asked. Turquoises, is that it?
What if he did?
He is going to make slaves of your people.
You left people behind in Culiacán. What did you think would happen to them?
That is not the same. The alcalde left us no choice.
You had a choice. You chose to leave.
All morning, we tried to get Satosol to change his mind, but neither plea nor reason worked, nor even threats. I had not brought up the subject of my legal bondage with Dorantes but I felt unsettled enough by Satosol’s cold observations that I needed some assurances. Dorantes, I said, as we left the barracks. When we get to the capital, we should speak to a notary.
What do you mean?
I will need a letter from you so that I can travel home unhindered.
Estebanico, Dorantes said, putting his arm around my shoulders, I do not even have the bill of sale any longer. It was on the ship. You are one of us, you know that. It is a long way to México, but once we make it there, I will find a notary to draft a document declaring you a free man.
WITH THIS PROMISE I left Compostela for México. Our first stop on the long march south was Guadalajara, a small town that was established by Nuño de Guzmán and that, like Compostela, he had named after a city in Spain. I could not understand this habit of naming settlements after Spanish cities even when, as in the case of Guadalajara, that city had received its name from those who had conquered it. In Arabic, the name Guadalajara evoked a valley of stones, a valley my ancestors had settled more than eight hundred years earlier. They had carried the disease of empire to Spain, the Spaniards had brought it to the new continent, and someday the people of the new continent would plant it elsewhere. That was the way of the world. Perhaps it was foolish to wish that it were different. But as for me, I could not continue to be involved with conquest. I would go to México and there I would get a contract that made legal the freedom that God had bestowed on me at birth.
20.
THE STORY OF MÉXICO-TENOCHTITLÁN
Tenochtitlán was a new beginning. This was the city where I could at last secure passage on a ship bound for the old world. In a few weeks, I would travel across the Ocean of Fog and Darkness, return to Azemmur, and begin to repair the thread of my life where it had been broken. Thoughts of this future filled me with delight, which became intertwined for me with the pleasures of the magnificent city of the Aztecs. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can recall the heat of the sun that first day in Tenochtitlán, the blue of Lake Tezcuco, the rise of the pyramids, and the promise of home.
On the morning after our arrival, my companions and I were brought to the back door of the cathedral, where a thin priest was waiting for us. He had stiff blond hair that was parted down the middle, and wet eyes that seemed to take great offense at everything they beheld. He led us into a small office, where he ordered us to take off the Spanish clothes we had received in Compostela and to put on the loincloths and deerskins he had brought for us. But why, we asked. Bishop’s orders, he replied. He leaned against a bookshelf and did not avert his eyes while we changed. Then he handed us necklaces, earrings, and amulets. Where he had procured them, I did not know. They were not from any of the tribes with whom we had lived.
Once he was satisfied with our costumes, the priest marched us down the long hallway of the cathedral. Cabeza de Vaca was to enter the great hall first, he said, followed by Dorantes and Castillo; this servant of God, Mustafa ibn Muhammad, was to enter last. From behind the doors at the end of the hallway, I could hear the low murmur of a large audience, occasionally interrupted by the sudden burst of a laugh, the wail of a child, or the tentative notes of an organ. The priest gave us a final, appraising look, readjusting a crooked feather on Dorantes and tightening the snakeskin belt on Castillo. At last, there came the sound of a ceremonial tune on the organ. This is our signal, the priest said. When the music stopped, he opened the doors for us and stepped aside.
We entered the cathedral under the curious eyes of four hundred men and women, some of them standing on their toes to catch a glimpse of the survivors they had heard so much about. But since reality can never compete with imagination, their murmurs were soon replaced by a surprised silence. Here and there, I noticed, a brown or black visage disrupted the firmament of white faces, though everyone, regardless of color, was dressed in formal Castilian clothes. The light in the hall came from high windows, only a few of which had been fitted with stained glass; the others were still covered with drapes. And the murals of the church were not completed yet, so that a few of the figures looked like the half-formed shapes of a dream.
The bishop stood at the end of the aisle, watching us with all the benevolence his title of Protector of the Indians required. Juan de Zumárraga had arrived in New Spain ten years earlier, a simple friar who had not even received consecration as bishop, but he had managed to outwit all his rivals and formally receive his title from the king. With his left hand, he pointed to where we should be seated: in the front row, next to the viceroy himself.
That day was the feast of Yaaqub ben-Zebdi, whom the Spaniards call Santiago de Apóstol, so the service was particularly long and elaborate. My thoughts wandered back to that old cathedral in Seville, where I had received the name the Castilians called me. Back then, the priest had made the sign of the cross upon me and swiftly dispatched me into a life of bondage. What did Obispo Z
umárraga intend to do? Much to my surprise, he began his sermon by telling the story of our journey across the continent.
My brothers and sisters, he said, the four men you see here today are the only survivors of the Narváez expedition. For eight years, they were deprived of all worldly comforts and material wealth. They were poor, hungry, and alone, but selflessly they served the Indians and tended to their ailments. I cannot help but think of Saint Francis. Consider: just as Saint Francis was taken away from his companions in Perugia, so, too, were these four Christians separated from their people in Florida. Just as he nursed the lepers in Assisi, so, too, did they attend to the Indians and pray for their souls. Like him, they walked barefoot in the wilderness, wearing only the animal skins you see on them today, preaching the word of God where it had never been heard before.
Zumárraga was a stout man with sparse brown hair, and close-set eyes that darted around the hall as he spoke to the congregation. He had the tone, half-weary and half-indignant, of a man who had long been in possession of a great truth, even if others were too blind to recognize it. There was no room, in his weariness, for four heroes who were guilty of thefts and, through their silence, accomplices to pillaging, beatings, and rapes. Nor was there room, in his indignation, for Indians who did not wish to be ruled by outsiders. Listening to him, I began to understand why he had dressed us in loincloths and why he was making us sound so pure. He, too, wanted to tell the story of our adventure in his own way.
Praise God, Zumárraga said. His voice grew louder now, reaching high above the altar and bouncing back down from it into the great hall. Praise God, for there is a lesson here for those who heed it. A few people in New Spain, though their hearts are devoted to the Lord, treat the Indians in ways too horrible to recount. This is painfully true of those at the outer reaches of the empire, who live so far away from the counsel of the Church. But these four Christians you see here today have been sent to remind us of the right path. We should preach the gospel of peace to the Indians. We should treat them with kindness. We should teach them the values of hard work and forbearance. And they will flock to us, just as the multitudes in Italy flocked to Saint Francis.