After saying this, the woman fell into silence while sounds of bubbling water floated in the moist cloister air. Father Benito put down his quill, allowing Huitzitzilin to rest, but he was agitated by the pictures her words had conjured in his imagination. He was envisioning Captain Cortés, the medium-sized man who had become a giant in Spain. He was remembering the other captains who had become wealthy on the bounty carved out of this land. Some had remained rich until the end of their days; others had lost everything, dying impoverished and forgotten.
He was grateful for the lull in the narrative because it gave him time to sort out what Huitzitzilin had said about the terror and confusion that had taken hold of the Mexicas at the time of that crisis. He had never thought of what it must have been like for them. From childhood, Benito had seen her people as the enemy, devil worshipers incapable of fear and uncertainty.
“Do you want me to continue?”
Father Benito was startled by Huit-zitzilin’s words. He nodded, but he had lost the quill and, even though he fumbled in the folds of his habit, he couldn’t find it. She waited patiently until he located it.
“Our procession began at the main temple and wound its way toward Iztapalapa, whose king at the time was Moctezuma’s brother, Cuitlahuac.”
“Just a moment. How many kings were there?”
“Several. Cuauhtémoc was king of Tlaltelolco, the place where a Christian church has now been dedicated to Santiago of Compostela. There was another king for Texcoco—I can’t remember his name—I think it was Cacama, and the one for Iztapalapa. There were always four kings, but of them all, the one representing Tenochtitlan was the most influential.”
“I see. I hadn’t realized this, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the existence of four kings at the same time. Please, continue.”
“I’m still speaking of the procession that followed King Moctezuma. Besides those of us who belonged to his entourage, there were others who marched. There were those people who lived in the city, as well as countless others from outside who joined, knowing that the encounter with the strangers was about to happen.
“There were people on rooftops, lining the streets, crowding the squares, and overflowing the lake barges. Merchants came, as did artisans, teachers, venders, feather-makers, metal workers, lesser nobility, common soldiers, servants, slaves, women, children—all of them tightly packed, craning and stretching their necks to get at least a brief glimpse of the foreign gods.
“The women of Moctezuma’s household walked behind his litter, so that what I saw was from that view. I remember only the back of the king’s head and those of the rest of his companions.
“In the lead of the march went the lords of our kingdom, all dressed in the garb of their rank. Following the nobles were the eagle and jaguar warriors, and I can tell you that the number of lords and warriors was so great that I cannot now approximate a number. It must have been as impressive for the white eyes.”
The woman paused and looked at Father Benito. “Are you exhausted? Would you prefer for me to skip these details?”
The monk took advantage of the moment to rub his sore hand. “No. Give whatever descriptions you can remember. I’m trying to capture it all.”
“Following the nobles and warriors came King Moctezuma. He was seated in a litter which was carried by six of his peers, and escorting them were armed soldiers. The king’s litter was topped by a canopy supported by four golden posts. It was carried by those lords closest to the king through family. Only they were allowed to touch him, and only they had the privilege of assisting him as he stepped down from the litter to greet Don Hernán Cortés.
“I remember most of those nobles. They are now dead, of course, but their spirits are still with us. Yes, priest, look over there, just beyond the fountain. Can you see them? They’re as present today as they were upon that fateful day, and I often converse with them.”
Father Benito’s eyes squinted as he focused on the place pointed out by Huitzitzilin, but he saw nothing except geranium and begonia plants. When he looked back at her, he realized that her face looked strangely transfixed, and he wondered if he should end the session. But he saw her tongue moisten her lips, so he knew that she was about to speak again.
“My memory of what follows seems now like one of the paintings by your artists, the ones that hang on the walls of this convent. My meaning is that even though I can still see those people, what they wore, how they stood, and the sound of their words, it is a picture whose images are stiff and without spirit.
“When we neared the white men, the crowd opened, and I was able to see clearly. From where I stood I could see Moctezuma’s back as he stepped down and stretched out his arms and the accompanying lords held his arms up.”
“Stretched out his arms? Do you mean like this?” Father Benito lifted his arms simulating a bird in flight.
“Yes. It was a ritualistic practice that told everyone present that the king was like a mighty bird, its wings outstretched and ready for flight, but held down by human hands. Even though I saw only his back, I was sure that he was looking straight into the eyes of those strange pale creatures who stood gaping at us. No one spoke until the king finally uttered words that drifted back towards those of us who were closest to him.
“’Lord Feathered Serpent, I come to deliver your throne to you and to your representatives. Know that I and my ancestors have not usurped it, but rather have we guarded it for your sake. Know that we are your servants and that we are at your feet, ready to defend your honor. I know that this is not a dream; you have not come to us from the clouds and the mists of our volcanoes, but rather that you have arrived from across the reaches of the eastern ocean. Take your proper position in this land. Reign over it and its peoples as you did in the days of our ancestors.’”
The woman sat grasping her hands as she rocked back and forth in the chair. She shook her head from side to side in condemnation.
“When we heard Moctezuma say these words, we were shocked, and we looked at one another in disbelief. Our leader was handing over our kingdom to strangers when they had not even asked for it! I saw the nobles and warriors shuffle in frustration, and I wondered if they would have the courage to speak out against the king. They didn’t. Instead, they held their tongue and listened to the rest of what the king had to say.
“Lifting his mantle, he bared his chest and said, ‘Look, I am neither god nor monster. I am but a man who has awaited your arrival with joy and anticipation.’
“When he said this we all began to stir, momentarily confused but soon angry with Moctezuma for the ease with which he had abdicated his throne. I felt that the other kings and nobles were on the verge of dragging him away, but respect for his rank prevailed, and no one did anything while he talked even more.
“ ‘Come, refresh yourselves. Take food and drink, for you must be fatigued after your long journey.’
“Then we heard the voice of a woman translating the king’s words. I craned my neck to see who was speaking. It was she of whom we spoke, Malinche. Her slanted eyes were dark and piercing. Her mouth was wide, and her cheekbones high and broad. She had a small forehead and black, glossy hair which hung to her waist. She was dressed in white cotton, while her sandals were of iguana leather, and her jewelry, although simple, was finely wrought.”
Father Benito did not write this part of Huit-zitzilin’s account because it was not new. He had already made a note to try to ferret out new information on the woman.
“Let me now describe Captain Cortés as I saw him for the first time. His eyes looked cold, like obsidian. They were determined and hungry like those of a coyote. Because of this I observed him closely. He was standing erect, but I saw that his legs were bowed and clad in a white material that clung to his flesh. He didn’t wear sandals but coverings that concealed his feet—I wondered if they were shaped like ours.
“He was dressed in clothing made of dark material that ballooned around his hips and that reached all the way u
p to his neck, covering his arms down to his hands. He wore coverings on his hands, shaped to mold his fingers; this time I saw that they looked like ours. On his chest and back he wore a cage made of a material unknown to us, but it appeared to have the hardness of silver, and he had a weapon that hung upon a cincture. His headdress was round, puffy, and had a small feather stuck in it.
“His face was his most striking part, because it was colorless; it looked blanched. His eyebrows were arched and dark, and he had a bulging vein that divided his forehead. His nose was long and straight, and his mouth was round and small.
“I thought that he was ugly, but most repellent of all was the hair that covered the face of Captain Cortés as well as that of his companions. They had so much hair growing out of their faces that we gasped out loud at the sight of it, especially when we saw that the color was dif ferent on each of them. Cortés’ was dark; that of others was brown, and yet on others it was golden.
“After Malinche finished speaking, there was silence while your captains stood gawking at us, their mouths hanging open. Suddenly, they moved apart and there, in front of us, were the strangest creatures ever beheld by any eyes. They were enormous beasts, four-legged and hairier yet than your captains. They snorted, puffed and clawed at the earth. We couldn’t help it; we shrank back when we saw them so close.
“Suddenly, Captain Cortés approached Moctezuma, intending to embrace him, but nobles, warriors, guards, and even we women surged forward because we thought that he was going to attack the king. Cortés paled even more thinking that we were going to harm him, and he withdrew.
“After that, we all stood in silence, and that stillness has reigned in this land since then. It is the silence of our spirit, of our tongues that have dried up. It is the silence that sprang to the heavens, engulfing the winds and volcanoes, that has wrapped itself around our bodies and faces, stopping the air from entering our nostrils. It is a silence that smells of hollowness and nothingness. It is a silence of the living that are dead. It is a silence that is eternal.”
Father Benito was startled by the intensity of emotion of Huit-zitzilin’s words. She had digressed from her description of the first encounter between the Mexicas and Spaniards, and she was instead speaking of something he did not understand but that he sensed was an assault on the presence of his people.
“What silence are you speaking of, Señora? This land is now teeming with the sounds of progress. When I leave this convent, I encounter people talking and planning. I hear the sound of new buildings in construction, of fields being prepared for the harvest. I hear the clamor of children speaking in God’s language and singing His praises. What do you mean by silence?”
He halted abruptly, realizing that his voice was escalating in pitch and that he was defending a position of which he was unsure. He felt a pang of embarrassment for allowing himself to become irritated.
“You’re disturbed. I see that I cannot expect you to understand what we felt at the time of that encounter. How can anyone know that we realized that the signs that had prophesied evil for our people had come true, and that it would be our generation that would see the end of our civilization.
“At that moment I understood what was happening and I began to cry. When I turned to the others for consolation, I saw that they were weeping also. Moctezuma said nothing; he merely returned to his litter. He looked like a stranger who had lived beyond his age. We all knew that it was finished. We returned to Tenochtitlan in silence.”
Chapter
X
“When you returned to your city, what happened? Captain Cortés has explained that you became hostile, and that he was forced to punish your people.”
“That is not precise, because we did not fight him. At least not in the beginning. What happened is that we tried to live on as we had before that encounter. People went to the market place, they ate and dressed and complained and gossiped, trying to pretend nothing had happened. But it was all a lie, because we had reached our last day and we knew it. What was left of our society after that first meeting between Moctezuma and Captain Cortés was a dream, and we were the dream walkers.
“We deluded ourselves into believing that our lives would continue as before, that nothing had changed. Everyone hoped that all would be well, but we were foolish because we perished the moment our king surrendered his throne on the day I have just described. Now I know that the procession that went out to greet your captains in Iztapalapa was really a funeral cortege.”
Father Benito, anxious to fill in the details of what happened during the time after the encounter, pressed Huitzitzilin. “We have been told that our men came in peace but that the Mexicas responded in bad faith, that you instead attacked slyly and in treachery.”
“No! What a lie! That is not what happened!” The woman’s voice rose shrilly, her words slurred against toothless gums, and her hands clutched the armrests of the chair.
“It is true that we fought back almost as soon as they arrived, but it was a struggle that happened without arms. When the king opened the gates of the city to your soldiers, treating them as if they had indeed been gods, we tried to follow his example, but soon those men began to act as if our palaces, courtyards, and market places were their own to do with as they pleased. It became clear that they thought that all they had to do was to stretch out a hand and there would be food or drink. They also took an intense liking to our women.
“We discovered almost immediately that we could no longer walk from one chamber to another without hearing a vile sound or seeing a lustful look. Our king, nevertheless, urged us to endure that humiliation, and we obeyed even though we didn’t understand the reason. This went on for months before we attacked your forces, making them run and drown in the lake.
The priest stopped writing. “I thought that hostilities had begun immediately.”
“No. Months passed before the battle for Tenochtitlan took place. It was then that I first became aware of him, because I felt his eyes constantly on me. He was one of the captains closest to Captain Cortés. His name was Baltazar Ovando.”
Father Benito, eyebrows lifted in curiosity, cocked his head. “Captain Ovando? Who was he? I don’t recall reading or hearing about him.”
The woman did not avoid the monk’s inquisitive gaze, but instead returned it; her expression was frank. “He became my lover.”
The priest dropped the quill and reached for the stole, preparing himself for the confession he was sure to hear. He was becoming accustomed to Huit-zitzilin’s unpredictable turns. Suddenly, she blocked his hand in midair.
“No, priest. Not yet. I’ll tell you when the time comes for you to hear the rest of my sins. In the meantime, let me speak of him a little, and then I’ll continue with the details of those months previous to the death and bloodshed that led to where we are now.
“At that time I had no way of knowing whether he was handsome or not, because they all looked ugly to me. Later on, however, I grew to distinguish them and I began to see that his teeth were not rotted like those of the others, and that he did not smell as much. He was young, no more than five years older than I.
“At first, I avoided his persistent gaze, but his eyes began to entice me, luring and inviting me. I recall that he, unlike the rest of the white men, did not force himself upon me. He simply looked at me, and when finally I looked in return, I saw the gentle smile that I had seen only in Zintle’s gaze. The white man’s eyes were more amazing to me because they were the color of the lake’s water when the sky was blue. I noticed also that his skin was the color of a white feather, and that his hair was golden, like the color of maize.”
Father Benito’s imagination was captivated by what the woman was saying, and he wanted to hear more. He had not expected the events of those days to be intertwined with her life, but now that she had begun to take that direction, he decided to ask her to continue.
“What about your child? And Zintle? Did Captain Ovando know about them?”
Huitzi
tzilin sucked her lips; the sound expressed exasperation. “I’ll speak more of those matters later on. In the meantime, let me finish telling you what happened up until the fall of our city.”
Benito felt the sting of embarrassment, knowing that she had noticed that he was prying. He despondently returned to recording her words.
“Moctezuma did everything in his power to please the white men. He housed them in his late father’s palace, he continued to shower them with gifts, he visited them, and he even appeared to like Captain Cortés. When he had a small boat built on our lake, the king actually boarded it. They spent hours playing games of chance, or engaged in conversation. Malinche was always present because she was by that time Cortés’ concubine.
“However, a truce among gods is always a short one, and so the false peace that prevailed between the captain and our king those first months broke like a fragile mirror. The pretended courtesy that marked our first encounters began to fray. Our nobles and warriors resented the ways in which your captains placed their crosses anywhere possible. We hated how our shrines were being desecrated with the presence of the lady dressed in blue, the one whose face looked small and pinched. Your monks, who were no cleaner than ours, harassed and intimidated our own priests as they arrogantly strutted in their long brown robes, dragging and rattling their wooden beads.”
Father Benito stopped writing and pointed the quill at Huitzitzilin. His hand was shaking. “I shall not let you speak blasphemously about our Blessed Mother. Nor should you slander the brave missionaries who have sacrificed their lives to bring your people salvation. If you continue to do so, Señora, I will leave.”
Song of the Hummingbird Page 7