by Laila Lalami
With his fork, Cabeza de Vaca pushed the almonds to the side of his plate. His silence had grown long enough to be awkward, so Dorantes had to intervene. And how long will the testimony take?
That all depends on you, the viceroy replied. Now he narrowed his eyes at Dorantes, studying him like a fisherman considering a lure. Why do you ask?
Don Antonio, Dorantes said pleadingly, we have been away from our families for so long that we are all eager to return to Castile as soon as possible.
I understand, the viceroy said. But the report will not take long. A couple of months, I should think. Until then, of course, you are my guests.
ON THE QUESTION of the official testimony, the viceroy turned out to be correct: it took two full months for his deputies to collect the captains’ depositions. The courthouse was being renovated, so the interviews were conducted in a simple office at the church, but in spite of all appearances my companions were not asked for a true confession; rather, they were required to provide a detailed history of the expedition. In telling this history, my companions began to modify its more damaging details. They credited Narváez with all the poor decisions, they omitted the torture and rapes they had witnessed, they justified the thefts of food and supplies, they left out the Indian wives they married, and they magnified their suffering at the hands of the Indians as much as their relief at being found. In this shortened and sanitized form, the chronicle of the Narváez expedition became suitable for the royal court, the cardinals and inquisitors, the governors and officials, and the families and friends they had left behind in Castile.
But no one asked me to testify. I should have been resentful of this, but I was not—not yet. The only thing at once more precious and more fragile than a true story is a free life. This was all I cared about in those days. So whenever my companions came to the guesthouse for visits with their wives, I listened to them recount the day’s testimonials with only a mild interest and even some amusement.
That evening, I remember, we were congregated in the living room, drinking warm chocolatl by the fireplace. All of us had grown a taste for this frothy and bitter drink, and enjoyed especially the invigorating effect it had on our moods. On either side of the sofa were round tables with brass candelabras, whose light reflected against the glass panes of the windows. The doors to the courtyard were left ajar, letting in a breeze.
You told the court recorders that we arrived in Aute on the twentieth of July, Castillo said. I thought we were still in Apalache in July.
No, we were already in Aute, Cabeza de Vaca said. I am certain of it.
But that was eight years ago, I said with a laugh. How can you be so sure about the date?
Cabeza de Vaca’s reply was as candid as it was serious. I have always had a good memory, he said. His hair had been cut in a way that disguised his large ears and his features had filled out, so that he looked like an older and more handsome version of the treasurer of the Narváez expedition. He had always loved to tell stories, but now his memories of the expedition were entered into the official record, invalidating all others. I realized with a start that I was once again living in a world where written records were synonymous with power. This was true not just of things like dates and places, but also births, marriages, and deaths.
Well, Castillo said, it is impressive that you remember the date so precisely. That it was the twentieth and not, say, the twenty-first or the twenty-second.
Dates do not matter, Dorantes said with irritation. What they really want are clues for drawing a precise map. Dorantes knew that he was in possession of valuable knowledge, and his tone suggested that the court recorders were doing him a grave injustice by asking for it. He was sitting on the sofa, next to his wife, Tekotsen, who rested her hands on the mound of her belly.
Did you feel that? Tekotsen asked suddenly, her voice ringing with excitement. She brought her husband’s hand to her belly, so that he could feel the baby’s kicking over the voluminous folds of her dress. The priest had told the women that they were to wear Castilian clothes at all times, an order with which they complied, but which they liked to flout in different ways, however small. Oyomasot wore her bone necklaces and Kewaan still had her anklets and deerskin shoes. But Tekotsen followed the friar’s rules to the letter, including the one that dictated she should cover her hair with a cap. She had spoken to Dorantes in Avavare, but now she switched to Spanish. Here, she said, moving his hand to a different spot, so that he could feel the kick.
It is a boy, Oyomasot said.
How do you know? Tekotsen asked.
From your shape, Oyomasot replied. See how high you carry?
Dorantes still had his hand on his wife’s belly, but his face was turned toward his fellow Castilians. And why should we give away all of our knowledge for nothing? he asked. They will only use it for a new mission. After everything we have been through, we have more right to that territory than anyone else. And if not a territory, then at least proper compensation.
Since the court interviews had begun, Dorantes had been increasingly worried about money. The sale of the emerald arrowheads in Tenochtitlán, a city where such jewels were easily rivaled by an abundance of sapphires, rubies, and pearls, only brought us a few hundred pesos. But the rest of our treasures, which I had placed in consignment in different markets of Tenochtitlán, had found some buyers, and I was confident that I could raise the correct sum for our passage, or very nearly. Still, this did not relieve his worries about money.
Calm yourself, Cabeza de Vaca said. Even if the viceroy sends a mission to the north, no one can be declared governor of a province without an order from the king.
Dorantes replied: But are we just going to sit here and wait while others take the territory from us?
Oyomasot came to sit beside Tekotsen. Let me try, she said. Maybe I will feel the baby. She closed her eyes in concentration, her lips curved in a smile. My wife wanted a baby of her own, and I wished for one, too, especially because she was so good with children, but God had not yet willed it. Perhaps, I thought, once we left the turbulence of Tenochtitlán and settled into a quiet life in Azemmur, we would be more fortunate.
There, Tekotsen said. Did you feel that?
Yes, Oyomasot replied with a laugh. A good little kick.
Cabeza de Vaca put down his cup of chocolatl and stood up, stretching his arms over his head. There is not much we can do about this until the interviews are completed and we return to Seville, he said.
Speaking of Seville, I said to Dorantes, we still need to have those papers drawn.
Dorantes buttoned down his doublet and stood up. I will do it after we are done with the court testimony. Now let us go, Estebanico. It is time for dinner.
The four of us had been invited to the house of a prominent gentleman, a native of Cadiz who had been awarded a large estate and hundreds of Indians from the king, and who was known for his extravagant parties. There was intense curiosity about us among the nobility. The story of our shipwreck entertained the lords and ladies of New Spain, many of them residents of the capital who had never known the dangers and delights of exploration.
So for two long months, I watched everyone come and go. Father Herminio came to teach the women about the virtues of Christianity; the Aztec servants delivered gifts or invitations to dinner at noblemen’s houses; my Castilian companions gave their court testimony; and I waited.
22.
THE STORY OF THE HACIENDA
The viceroy was not the only newly titled man in Tenochtitlán. Hernán Cortés, whose fame in New Spain was unrivaled, had been made Marquis of the Valley of Oaxaca, and he, too, gave a banquet in our honor. It was held out-of-doors, in the garden of the fortress he had erected over an Aztec tribute house in Cuernavaca, twenty leagues south of the capital. Bronze chandeliers hung from the trees that lined the garden, illuminating the tables underneath with a soft, yellow glow. In the center of the garden was a water fountain, around which circled jugglers, acrobats, jesters, and dwarves, each one performing his
act before moving to the right, allowing the next performer to entertain the guests.
Cortés was the subject of constant gossip in the capital. Long before meeting him, I had heard about his conquest and destruction of Tenochtitlán, the emperor he had killed, the thousands he had enslaved and branded, the thousands more he had massacred at Cholula, and the soldiers who, weighed down by bars of gold, had drowned in the lake around the city. I was also intrigued by the story of his two sons, both of them named Martín. The first Martín was born to La Malinche, Cortés’s guide, interpreter, and concubine, the woman who had made it possible for him to claim the empire of the Aztecs. The second Martín was born nine years later to Doña Juana, Cortés’s Castilian wife. But rumor had it that the second Martín would be the one to inherit Cortés’s title.
Perhaps because he was such a famous man, I had expected Cortés to be tall, but he turned out to be of average height, a thin and well-built man with small, inquisitive eyes. There was no hint of pride or excessive propriety in his manner, a quality that, oddly enough, reminded me of Narváez. He seated the four of us around him at a small table, with no other guests to share our meal or conversation. One of his Aztec servants stood beside us, quietly directing the servers to bring dishes or clear them. These dishes were a mix of Castilian and Aztec: steamed meat of wild bird and lizard, leaf-wrapped ground corn, mushrooms in a savory sauce, two kinds of baked squash, and warm chocolatl served in cups tied with a gold thread. Cortés ate very little, but he asked us a lot of questions. How are you adjusting to the capital? he began.
Dorantes replied: We were gone for so many years that we thought no one would remember us. We certainly did not expect such a wonderful welcome in México or so many invitations. I must admit, it is all a bit overwhelming.
Dorantes had spoken quickly, so eager was he to say something that would interest or impress the famous Cortés, but now he paused to take a breath, and Cabeza de Vaca took this opportunity to speak. He said: But people are making up all sorts of vicious lies about us. They say we have bewitched the Indians.
Believe me, Cortés said, no one in New Spain understands your situation better than I. The rumors about me that are circulated both in the capital and at the king’s court would make a man of weaker disposition retire from public life altogether. But one must do one’s best in the service of our king, do you not agree? One must trudge on, even as the rumors swirl.
My companions nodded gravely, as if the marquis had said something highly perceptive or original. Such was Cortés’s fame that even the most banal observation was met with whispers of awe. Now he said, I hear that the viceroy has kept you busy.
For a few weeks, Cabeza de Vaca said.
He has collected your testimony? Cortés asked, though something about his tone suggested that he already knew the answer. He was known to have spies everywhere in the province, and in the few places that were outside the reach of spies he had made allies who kept him informed. After all, he had arrived in this city long before the viceroy and was familiar with many of its officials, whether in the governing council or in the commercial boards.
Nearly all of it, Cabeza de Vaca said.
The viceroy will be relieved to have this record, Cortés said. Now he leaned forward on the table and his tone grew even more familiar. Of course, men like you and me, who have embarked on expeditions into uncharted territories, know things that recorders never will. It is one thing to write about facing the unknown; doing it is quite another. We are doers, señores. Doers.
It was such a small word, but its effect on my companions was immediate. Cabeza de Vaca seemed particularly sensitive to the flattery; he told Cortés that the viceroy had charged him with taking the Joint Report to Santo Domingo, on the island of La Española, where it would be examined by the imperial court. From there, he would travel home to Castile.
I see, Cortés replied. And what about you two hidalgos?
I am still trying to secure passage to Seville, Dorantes said, but it is more expensive than I expected. Dorantes had found it hard to resist the Spanish taverns of Tenochtitlán, so he had returned to gambling, a habit he had last indulged in Seville, and had already spent his share of the proceeds from the sale of our treasures. As a result, he had been forced to write to his father to ask for money for his passage, but as the date of our travel approached, he seemed less eager to leave. Eight years ago he had dreamed of conquering La Florida and returning to Béjar del Castañar covered in gold and glory; now his homecoming would be without fame or fortune.
Perhaps I can help with your expenses, Cortés said.
How kind of you to offer, Dorantes replied. His voice betrayed his relief and, when he realized it, his cheeks flushed.
It would be my pleasure, Cortés said. A soft wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the tree above us and making the light from the chandelier flicker over our table. The entertainers stepped around the fountain once more, so that masked dancers could perform for us. After watching them for a moment, Cortés said: I hear that your slave is familiar with all the routes to the north, and fluent in the local languages. Is that true?
Merciful God, I thought. Not this again.
Dorantes cocked his head to the side, stunned by the proposition that Cortés’s question implied: if he wanted the marquis to help with his expenses, he would have to trade his slave in return. From his reaction, I could tell that the thought had not occurred to him before. But now that it had, he remained silent.
I glanced at Castillo and Cabeza de Vaca, but they both averted their eyes, whether in disbelief or indifference I could not tell, so I leaned forward in my seat. We journeyed for eight years together, I said. My voice came out as a croak and I hated the pleading note I heard in it, although I could not control it. Eight years, I said.
Cortés nodded slowly. Yes, he said, I know. He sounded neither angry nor offended by my interruption. In his eyes, I was a useful cog that had to be procured. Just as he had needed La Malinche for his conquest of México, he needed me as a guide and interpreter for whatever mission he was planning to the north.
The dancers had finished their round and now they moved to the right, to make room for the jugglers, who were dressed in cotton skirts and feather headdresses. Balls of different colors flew up from their hands and whirled in the air at such a pace that the colors blurred. One of them balanced a ball on his nose, while juggling seven metal rings at once. Another lay on his back and juggled a long, thick log with the soles of his feet.
Your Highness is very kind, Dorantes said. But I am expecting to receive some funds from my father soon.
Well, do give it some thought, Cortés said. Let us set aside all this talk of money for now. The native jugglers are about to perform. These two over here, the ones closest to Capitán Castillo, were part of Moctezuma’s court, and this one over there I found in a village about one hundred and fifty leagues from here. Watch, señores, watch.
A WEEK AFTER OUR DINNER with Cortés, the Joint Report was completed and Cabeza de Vaca left Tenochtitlán. Though he had been clear about his intent to leave immediately after the end of the testimonials, his departure still struck us as abrupt. We stood, shuffling on our feet, unsure what words to use to bid farewell to a man with whom we had shared our incredible adventure. But he did not seem so troubled; he hugged us amiably and then climbed on the horse he had purchased with his share of the proceeds. It was a magnificent horse, a tall, white mare with a curved profile and a thick mane, the kind of horse that testified to a man’s position.
With the reins in his hands, Cabeza de Vaca turned toward us. He looked like a proper Castilian gentleman now, with doublet and cape, breeches and buckled shoes. Dorantes looked on with undisguised envy. It would be awhile before he heard back from his father and, until then, he had to subsist on what remained of his money. What was more, the viceroy had hinted that Dorantes and Castillo should move to the guesthouse with me, because he was expecting guests from Cuba that week and needed the palace room
s for their accommodation.
I remember that it was a morning in fall, but the day was threatening to be hot and damp. The birds that ordinarily sang from the height of the trees around the palace courtyard were quiet. Two sentinels, weighed down by their helmets, breastplates, and weapons, leaned against the open doors of the gate. Between them, through the arched stone gateway, the city square and its passersby were visible.
Do you have the letters I gave you? Dorantes asked.
Cabeza de Vaca patted his saddlebags. Yes. I will deliver them to your father.
Send me word when you reach Veracruz.
I will. And I hope to see you in Castile soon.
God willing.
Cabeza de Vaca nudged his horse, and the next moment he was out of sight. Dorantes gazed wistfully in the distance before turning away. The three of us walked slowly around the palace to the guesthouse, where we were to have lunch with our wives. The departure of our companion, so swift and so sudden, weighed down on us, though we did not speak of it during the meal. Mostly we talked about what to do with the gifts that had been sent to us by various noblemen of the city, and which were kept in a locked closet in the dining room: chiseled silver vases, enameled plates, rolls of fine fabric. These were small gestures of appreciation for the stories we had told at dinners given in our honor. Dorantes wanted to sell the whole lot, although he would have to do so discreetly if he did not want word about his financial troubles to spread.
After lunch, the others retired for a nap, but I remained in the living room with Dorantes, so that I could speak to him about the notary. The sun streamed through the open windows, and, with the house now quiet, the flitting of the insects in the bushes could be heard. Dorantes reclined his head against the back of the sofa and stretched his legs before him. He looked for all the world like a man who had had a long day of labor and was finally getting some well-earned rest. I spoke as calmly as I could manage, even though I had waited for this moment for eight long weeks. Dorantes, I said. The report is done now. When will we go see the notary?