by Laila Lalami
So the bishop wanted us to be instruments of a greater mission: converting the Indians to Christianity without the threat of soldiers’ muskets. But I was struck by the irony of his using me as a model for such a mission. What would he think of what I had really done? I had taken the Indians’ medicine and made it my own. I had adopted their ways of dress, spoken their languages, and married one of their women. I was as far removed from the bishop’s idea of a proper Christian as any Indian was. Standing in that half-finished church, surrounded by statues of prophets and saints, I wondered why God created so many varieties of faiths in the world if He intended all of us to worship Him in the same fashion. This thought had never occurred to me when I was a young boy memorizing the Holy Qur’an, but as I spent time with the Indians I came to see how limiting the notion of one true faith really was. Was the diversity in our beliefs, not their unity, the lesson God wanted to impart? Surely it would have been in His power to make us of one faith if that had been His wish. Now the idea that there was only one set of stories for all of mankind seemed strange to me.
Let us pray, Zumárraga ordered. For a moment, the cathedral was plunged into silence. The air had steadily grown hotter and now the smell of burning candles made it stifling. I tried to resist the temptation, but I could not: I sneezed. Again. And again. Three times. My eyes filled with tears from the force of the emissions. Cabeza de Vaca leaned forward in his seat and frowned in my direction, but I was powerless to stop myself. My head fell back of its own volition and the sneeze came out with even greater force. A few people around me coughed. In different parts of the hall, pews and kneelers creaked, but the sneezing continued. I felt as if the entire congregation’s eyes were on me.
Finally, the Amen came and the doors were opened. People filed outside, although many of them huddled at the entrance, waiting to get a closer look at the four survivors of the Narváez expedition. I was desperate for fresh air. I tried to make my way to an opening on the right, but my foot hit something—no, it was someone: an old Indian man with a branded face and a missing arm, who was shaking coins in a bowl, waiting for alms. I almost fell over him, but was pulled back just in time by Castillo.
Then a trumpet was sounded and the entrance slowly cleared of all the devout and the curious. My companions and I advanced toward the front steps. No city square I had ever seen was quite as large as the one in Tenochtitlán, no streets leading to it were so wide and so perfectly aligned, no buildings surrounding it so majestic. That day, it was filled with crowds of people waiting for the festival of Santiago de Apóstol to start. Stages had been set at the four corners, each presenting a different play, and in the center of the square two teams of men, some dressed as Moors and others as Christians, held on to their lances as they prepared to joust. The viceroy raised his arm to signal the start of the festivities, and the city erupted with joyful noise.
Beyond the square lay the famous pyramids, their brown peaks grazing against the blue sky. I thought of the Egyptians, the Sumerians, the Babylonians, of all those who had built empires and left behind an imposing trace of their passage in the world. To be present in a place where one empire was ending and another was rising made of me a privileged witness. Yet I did not try to keep a record of the moment. All I wanted was to return to the city I called home.
BEHIND HIS PALACE, the viceroy had built a guesthouse, a small edifice hidden from the street by a row of leafy trees. It was in that little house that Oyomasot and I stayed while we were in the capital of México. Our bedroom had whitewashed walls, blue-curtained windows, and a four-post bed that remained untouched because neither of us felt comfortable sleeping so high above the floor. That morning, our third in the capital, Oyomasot tried on the Spanish dress that had been left for her inside the walnut chest at the foot of the bed. The dress was made of green cotton, with puffed upper sleeves and a tasseled girdle. Smoothing the skirt down with her hands, she asked: How does it look?
You have to close the back, I said. I had been watching her from the armchair; now I stood up to tie the girdle around her small waist and button up the dress. I had never seen her wear green, but the color suited her well. Still, when I drew her close to me, she resisted. I glanced over her shoulder at her reflection in the windowpane and was met by a look of sheer panic.
I cannot breathe, she said.
I loosened the tassel over the girdle. Better? I asked.
No, it hurts, she said. It hurts.
That is how the dress is worn.
But how do their women breathe?
It was not a question I had ever asked myself. I was a thirty-eight-year-old man, so I had had plenty of time to consider the world through the eyes of someone else; yet that someone had rarely been a woman. What was it like to wear a girdle for the first time? To feel your chest crushed under metal boning? To walk with your feet tangled in the hems of your dress? I felt keenly aware of the sacrifices my wife was making for my sake, and keenly grateful. I checked the girdle, but I could not loosen it any further. It is only for a short time, I said by way of apology. You will not have to wear these clothes for very long.
There was a knock on the door, and an Aztec servant came in to inform us that Señor Dorantes and the friar had arrived. Oyomasot took small, careful steps toward the door, as if she were not sure she could trust herself, and together we walked down the corridor. The living room was large, with a peaked ceiling and tall windows, but the spaciousness they conveyed was counteracted by dark brown walls and damask-covered armchairs.
Dorantes and the friar were standing together in the middle of the room, admiring the oil portrait that hung above the fireplace. The painting was a likeness of King Carlos, the son of Felipe el Hermoso and Juana la Loca, a long-faced man with small eyes and a receding hairline. He was the emperor of parts of the old world and most of the new, and a defender of the Catholic faith besides. His subjects, one charged with conquering and the other with converting, looked on him with appropriate awe. I cleared my throat. Ah, Estebanico, Dorantes said. There you are. The viceroy invited us to dinner.
Today?
No, next week. A formal celebration of our return.
Where are the others?
Cabeza de Vaca is still in his quarters at the palace, writing letters. Castillo was coming with me, but one of his neighbors from Salamanca called in on him—here, at the other end of the world! Can you believe it?
The door opened again, and Dorantes’s and Castillo’s wives walked in, both of them wearing ill-fitting gray dresses. Their glossy hair was pinned low on their necks and covered with black lace. Kewaan had a surly look about her, but Tekotsen smiled brightly at her husband. Good morning, she said in the Avavare tongue.
Good morning, Dorantes replied. Then he averted his eyes and switched to Spanish. This is Father Herminio, the teacher.
A pleasure to meet you, Father Herminio said with a nod. He was very tall, well built, and carried himself with confidence. Were it not for the dark red stain on his right cheek, he would have been handsome. Now he sat down on the sofa and, with a wave of the hand, he invited all the wives to sit around him.
Oyomasot can manage some Spanish, Dorantes informed him.
Very well, Father Herminio said. You can leave us now.
The friar’s abrupt dismissal of us made Dorantes want to say something sharp, but he seemed to think better of it. Together we stepped out, through the glass doors, into the courtyard. The long terrace lay before us, hot and white with sunlight. Lavender hedges grew along the right wall, their pale purple flowers humming with bees. Along the far wall was a shaded gallery, whose railings were covered with white bougainvillea. There is even an orange tree here, Dorantes said, pointing to the fruit tree by the left wall.
It looks just like a Sevillian home, I said.
We were quiet for a moment, both of us suddenly reminded of distant days in Castile, long before either of us had journeyed through the Land of the Indians. Dorantes had been a young nobleman in possession of a good f
ortune, which he had risked in order to find gold and return home covered in glory. Now he was a penniless man, freshly arrived in a strange city where he knew no one and where he was not sure whom to trust. As for me, I had been the slave of a fabric merchant, traded in payment for a gambling debt, and I had lost far more than a good fortune. But, I thought, all of that was in the past now.
How much will we need for the passage to Seville? I asked.
Fifteen thousand for each of us, I should think. The emerald arrowheads will not cover everything.
We have the turquoises.
True. But we also have to pay for our transport to the port of Veracruz.
Again, we fell into a long silence. We were both thinking of the treasures we had brought with us from the Land of the Indians—not just the emeralds and turquoises, but also the furs, pelts, parrot feathers, leather purses, seashell necklaces, bone ornaments, and even deer hearts. These treasures had seemed to us incomparable when we lived in the Land of Corn, but they paled next to the elaborate jewels all around us in Tenochtitlán. Still, in the public squares of the city, there were markets for every kind of merchandise and I told Dorantes that I would make inquiries about the value of our wares. I will go this afternoon, I said.
And I will see if I can get a better price for the emeralds, he said.
A turtledove landed on a branch in the orange tree and began to preen its tail. Two dragonflies chased each other along the hedges. The courtyard felt peaceful in the stifling heat.
There is something else I want to ask you, I said. I felt Dorantes tense beside me. But when he spoke again, his voice was light.
I know what you are going to ask, he said. I will give you your papers soon.
When?
We just got here three days ago, Estebanico. I have not had a chance to find a notary. But you will get your papers. I am a man of my word.
He spoke in a way that made me feel I had caused him great offense and that I ought never to have asked him. Of course, I said. It is just that—
Besides, he said, I have had other things on my mind. He chewed on his lower lip, drawing beads of blood. It was an old, nervous habit that had returned now that we were in the city. She is pregnant, he said.
Your wife? I asked.
We were never married in a church. She is not my wife.
The sun was so bright and so hot that we both turned away from the courtyard to face the living room. Inside, Oyomasot sat on a narrow brown chair, her eyes fastened upon the friar who had been personally sent by the viceroy to teach her about the Bible. Tekotsen and Kewaan were seated on either side of her, making up a half-circle around their young teacher.
Could you not marry her again, in a church? I asked.
It is not that simple, Dorantes replied.
I wanted to ask him why, but I did not wish to press him and thus turn him against me, so I kept silent. Years ago, silence had been my refuge, and now I sought its shelter again. I listened as Dorantes told me about the viceroy’s banquet and all the distinguished guests who were eager to meet us. He said it would be appropriate to give some turquoises as gifts to the viceroy, by way of thanking him for his hospitality and for all the elegant clothes he had given us.
We will have to ask the others, I said. Everything we had brought back from the Land of the Indians was shared property and we would have to come to an agreement about what could be sold and what could be given away.
Of course, Dorantes said. But I think Castillo and Cabeza de Vaca will agree with me. Then he opened the glass door to ask if the friar was done with his lesson.
Yes, Capitán, Father Herminio said, standing up. His voice was calm, but it did not disguise his irritation. I am done for today, but there is much to be done. They must practice.
I will tell them, Dorantes said.
The women stood up as well. Tekotsen smiled at her husband and asked if he would like to eat something. But Oyomasot walked out behind the friar, her hands already reaching behind her to the small of her back, unfastening the girdle.
21.
THE STORY OF THE PALACE
Much had happened in the old world during our absence and, in the week that followed our arrival in México, we finally heard some of it. The king of England had wrested himself from the authority of the Church and married a courtesan named Anne Boleyn. A new pope was installed in Rome, from where he issued a proclamation that Indians were beings endowed with reason. In Barbary, Sultan Muhammad al-Burtuqali died, leaving a throne and a squabbling country to his brother, Ahmad al-Wattasi. The Ottomans took Baghdad from the Persians. High up in the Andes Mountains, Pizarro tied the Inca emperor to a garrote and strangled him, in full view of his subjects.
And here, in the beautiful city of Tenochtitlán, Antonio de Mendoza became the viceroy of New Spain. This was a new title, designed by the king to make Mendoza the most powerful man in the territory. But it was not easy to wield this power while Hernán Cortés, the peerless and popular hero of the conquest, watched and waited. Though I had been in the city only a week, I had already heard about the rivalry between the two men, and of Mendoza’s ambition to quickly make his mark.
Mendoza’s mansion, as I discovered on my first visit, was a fitting tribute to his position. Built with the stones of Moctezuma’s palace, it was an imposing white building that stretched the length of the square. Guards lined up along the path that led to the entrance, nodding their heads as my companions and I passed. When I walked into the main hall with Dorantes, light from a dozen chandeliers dazzled my eyes, so the first sensation that came to me was the sound of music, a cheerful tune played on the violin by musicians I could not see yet. Right away, a group of colonial officers bore down on us, waiting to be introduced by the viceroy and to shake our hands. Then it was the turn of priests, city officials, and Aztec nobles. Along the walls, Castilian ladies dressed in fine taffeta stood watching us, periodically whispering to each other behind their lace fans. The air smelled of burning candles and brazen ambition.
When dinner was announced, Mendoza led us to a banquet table, indicating to each one of us where he should sit: Cabeza de Vaca across from Doña María, the viceroy’s wife; Dorantes next to her; Castillo across from him; and I next to Dorantes, with colonial officers and Aztec noblemen filling out the remaining seats. The sheer number of forks and knives around my plate perplexed me, forcing me to watch my neighbors in order to know which ones should be used on which food. And the codpiece on my new breeches made me feel particularly uncomfortable. So I spoke little, but bits of conversation from other parts of the table reached me.
The wine is from Valladolid. Have you tried it?
Who can keep up with the price of horses these days?
The trait to look for in these people is loyalty. Loyalty is the thing.
My mother sends her regards, Don Antonio.
My dear, the noise of construction in this city is unrelenting.
After the third or fourth course had been served, the viceroy turned to the subject that, it was clear from his tone, had been exercising him since our arrival in México. He was a native of Granada and spoke with the sibilant sounds of an Andalusian. Señores, he said, we are honored to have such distinguished explorers among us. In fact, the city is wild with rumors about your remarkable journey. Perhaps you may even have heard some of them. I cannot overstate how important it is that you give us an official account of what happened. My deputies will collect your testimony into a joint report for His Majesty, that he may know what happened to the Narváez expedition. I trust that you will make every effort to give a precise account of the dates of your journey and the distances you crossed. Any details you can give about the nature and climate of the land you traversed, the kind and number of people who inhabit it, their languages and their ways of subsistence—all this will be of great help as we seek to pacify the northern territories.
This caught Cabeza de Vaca’s attention. Have you a plan for a new mission? he asked.
Not at th
e moment, the viceroy replied. But the process of securing the northern borders of the empire is ongoing. His tone suggested that pacifying the Indians was a heavy burden, but one to which he had long ago resigned himself to carrying with grace. He turned his goblet of wine between his fingers and, cocking his head to the side, he added, a little sadly: Unfortunately, we have had to contend with a particularly difficult obstacle.
I believe we may have met the obstacle, Cabeza de Vaca said.
Guzmán is a sight, is he not? the viceroy said with a smile. Do you know that his province has become almost completely barren of its Indians? He hands out slaving licenses like a drunk hands out flowers. Perhaps you could include this in your testimony to His Majesty? You could mention in passing, could you not, that Nuño de Guzmán has done a poor job of administering the land and the Indians that were entrusted to him?
Cabeza de Vaca was taken aback by the suggestion to alter his testimony, and unsure how to respond. He looked down at his porcelain plate, where a small game hen, adorned with fried almonds that gleamed like gold, sat untouched on its garnish of laurel leaves. A servant came to refill his glass of wine and still Cabeza de Vaca did not look up or respond.
The viceroy sat back in his chair, suddenly aware that he had pressed the treasurer a little too far. In an indulgent voice, he said: There will be time yet to discuss all of that. For the moment, you need to get plenty of rest. The process of collecting testimony may seem simple, but it is very long and it strains the mind to such an extent that it can be exhausting. Still, it is a crucial step, as I hope I have impressed upon you.