Against the Inquisition

by Marcos Aguinis

  The notary of the Holy Office scrapes his quill across the paper and verifies Francisco’s possessions. In this first phase, it is required to compare his declarations with the actual inventory. The Holy Office is strict in its adherence to the law. It leaves nothing to the caprice of men; the defense of faith is at stake.

  When Martín de Salvatierra deems this phase complete, Francisco asks, with false naïveté: “May I know of what I am accused?”

  The commissioner glances at him briefly, with a mix of irony and surprise. The notary rolls up his documents. They both leave without answering. The official oversees the black men as they remove the table and chairs. Then he closes the door behind him and turns the key. Finally, he shifts the unbreakable bolt into place.

  The startling darkness, the silence, and the cold return.

  13

  When the Brizuela family left, Francisco grew closer to the Valdés boy, Lorenzo. The two became companions for dramatic adventures. He was the captain’s only legitimate child, though he had some alleged siblings and suspected that some of the mestizos and mulattoes bore a likeness to him. A wine-red stain covered the left half of his nose and reached to his lower eyelid. It was believed that the mark could be traced to a craving his mother had indulged when she was pregnant. Lorenzo was clever and aggressive. He jumped rope facing this way and that, with side steps, on one foot, in a squat, and moving backward. He climbed trees like a cat and could shimmy his way onto the thinnest, highest branches. When they groaned and threatened to break, he would fly through the air and end up hanging from another one. He lent his rope to Francisco so he could learn the difficult jumps. Together they roamed the streets, leaping through the spinning ring their rope formed in the air. He also taught Francisco to quickly scale the enormous carob tree near the main plaza. Their aerial pirouettes frightened some monks, who ordered them down immediately. But the boys fled through the knotted branches, pretending to be invisible. The monks did not tolerate such disobedience and they marched with outsize anger to the home of Captain Valdés, who listened to them and, to calm them, promised to reprimand his son. Lorenzo listened to the lecture but later told Francisco that, as his father told him to stop climbing that tree, he also laughed about the looks on those monks’ faces.

  Captain of the Lancers Toribio Valdés was admired, hated, and feared. He was unpredictable. In his youth, in his native Spain, he had knifed the village blacksmith to death for sullying his honor. He liked to proudly recount the story, how forcefully he’d sunk his blade into the burly man’s belly until blood formed a thick pool into which the dying man collapsed, crying out for a priest. When the priest arrived, the blacksmith could no longer speak, and he left for the next world without confession. Toribio Valdés had the opportunity to keep the smithy, but he wasn’t about to commit the blunder of starting to work. That degradation was reserved for those who lacked noble blood.

  Toribio left his village when he learned that the troop marching up and down the main road was about to join a military regiment. It was comprised of vagabonds, prostitutes, and fools who hoped to improve their luck through the Eighty Years’ War. He entered the army’s ranks, doled out wounds, penetrated enemy territory, and discovered his military vocation. Soon he was wearing a uniform and bearing powerful arms. Later he embarked to fight against the Moors. He learned to hoist sails, load cannonballs, and storm a boat on the high seas. He visited Venice and almost reached Istanbul. He lost three fingers on his left hand and one on his right in an African prison. He managed to escape, first by land and then by sea. He ate snake meat and drank water from infested puddles. He returned to Spain bearing proud scars and sacks full of hate. He volunteered to travel to Peru: he wanted the riches that the Orient had denied him. But Valdés had to wait a year. Meanwhile, he killed two men over new offenses to his honor; he no longer recalled these offenses, but that didn’t matter since he’d cleared his name. Finally, he received his orders and ran to the port. The ship rocked intensely in the stormy Atlantic. Near Portobello, the worst fears of ocean travelers were met: they were shipwrecked, and half the crew died.

  Toribio Valdés finally succeeded in reaching Lima. He searched for the gold that his empty purse demanded, but, to his shock, he discovered that gold could not in fact be gathered on the streets. So he asked to be sent on surveying expeditions, or punitive expeditions, or any kind at all that involved monetary gain. He was placed on a list of volunteers and had the opportunity to direct his attacks at Calchaquí bodies and traitorous Calchaquí arrows; for this, the governor decided to reward him, naming him captain of the Lancers of Córdoba, a title that came with a house, deputies, servants, a salary, and additional privileges both spoken and unspoken.

  When Don Diego Núñez da Silva went to greet the captain, he offered his medical services to him, his family, his military subordinates, and his slaves. The captain of the Lancers, who had put on boots, short silk trousers, a brilliant vest, and a sword sheathed at his waist to receive him, thanked Don Diego for the deference. Francisco and Lorenzo, spying from behind the door, smiled with satisfaction.

  14

  Córdoba had seven churches. In the main plaza stood the cathedral, and to the side—as if their powers didn’t face off in reality—stood the town hall. The many blocks around this plaza included solid, well-built homes, some of them with second stories.

  The Cordobans made up for their isolation with vainglory. They bragged about their supposed lineage: Ladies and gentlemen of dubious origins competed to describe their noble genealogies. They claimed to be human jewels in the middle of this country peppered with brutish indigenous people. Their assertions went unquestioned because no one was imprudent enough to challenge his or her neighbor. An understanding reigned that proof was not to be requested, and the registries that could have provided evidence did not exist. Plus, it wasn’t difficult to forge a false document. Feverish ambitions aimed to affirm a noble court as incandescent as the one in Madrid.

  While the laypeople accumulated titles, the monks brought vigor to their own mandates. They did not want to fall behind. The three established monasteries, with space for meditation and extensive land for agricultural exploitation, were called Santo Domingo, San Francisco, and La Merced. Brother Isidro Miranda locked himself up in the Monastery of La Merced. He conveyed his long ecclesiastical experience and was accepted. It was good for an old man who had preached, performed conversions, and taught in these lands to bring his wisdom to the order that did so much to rescue the faithful among the bloodthirsty Moors and who, now, in America, suffered a kind of disorientation because there were no Moors, only Indians.

  The Franciscan monastery was the largest, and it was preparing for the visit of an exacting supervisor whose saintly reputation had spread to the outer reaches of the colony. This just man was known to visit the untamed tribes with a crucifix in one hand and an out-of-tune violin in the other. It was said that he’d worked miracles. He was so thin that he sometimes seemed invisible, but his voice was powerful. His name was Francisco Solano. Don Diego had met him in the city of La Rioja a few years before.

  Finally, there stood the sturdy Monastery of Santo Domingo, home of Brother Bartolomé Delgado, who had been given the distinguished title of commissioner for the Holy Inquisition. Brother Bartolomé was bald, obese, and of an indeterminate age. His black-and-white Dominican habit floated around his rotund body; to make it, more cloth was used than that required for half a dozen other monks. He treated the neighbors kindly and appeared at their homes without warning. Sometimes he arrived for lunch, sometimes for dinner; he also stopped by to say good morning at the early breakfast hour, or good night when it was almost time for bed. He greeted people with a smile and went directly to the table where a dish was being served, or dessert, or simple fruit. But his goals were not limited to appeasing his constant appetite; he also liked to talk. He was a master of the art of conversation, of witty, amiable, interminable chats.

  Brother Bartolomé was aware of his abi
lities, and in no way felt indebted for the wine and food he consumed. In addition, he believed that these tireless visits did not spring from idleness or gluttony but formed part of a daring mission. He was a member of the valiant Dominican order that had, since the beginning, been a privileged instrument of the Holy Office. Nothing was more correct than to enter into people’s privacy, their courtyards, dining rooms, haciendas, and even their bedrooms in order to detect subtle signs of heresy. The conversations about adventures, gossip, business, and fantastical stories allowed him to glimpse tastes, inclinations, or even secret guiding rituals.

  When Francisco met him unexpectedly, he suppressed a scream of shock at that mass of flesh, which resembled a mountain more than a human. He had been playing hide-and-seek with Lorenzo and, while his friend counted to ten against the wall of the corridor, he ran off to disappear in the carpeted living room. Francisco arrived there, agitated, and froze when he saw people. His father was in one chair, and in the other, a black-and-white giant. Both turned at this unexpected intrusion. Francisco raised his hands to defend himself from the cat that bristled on the clergyman’s lap. It was a large animal, snowy white. His father called him over, introduced him to Brother Bartolomé, and asked, “What should you do before a dignitary of the church?” The boy bent to one knee, took the man’s huge, flabby hand as it extended toward his face, and kissed it, keeping half an eye on the cat’s threatening jaws.

  “You may return to your play,” the commissioner declared.

  Francisco lingered a moment before leaving so as not to be spied by his friend. The two men were talking about food. The priest wanted to know what ingredients were used in Lisbon, and what spices in Potosí. He reciprocated with a brief recipe he’d learned in Córdoba, from neighbors and travelers, involving grilled quail and duck a la marinera flavored with pepper, garlic, and saffron. Then they both attempted to re-create the formula known as “white food” invented by one of Felipe II’s cooks. They knew it included minced poultry cooked over a slow fire, but there was nothing exotic inside the special sauce, only milk, sugar, and rice flour. Brother Bartolomé praised Don Diego’s ample cultural knowledge, which pleased little Francisco, because it was true.

  Later, he saw his father accompanying the clergyman and his cat to the door, promising to invite him for dinner along with his powerful neighbor, the captain of the Lancers.

  “Medicine needs the support of religion as much as it needs the military,” Don Diego laughed before saying goodbye.

  Brother Bartolomé walked away pensively. His eyes were on the ground, and his white cat moved beside him as if glued to his robe. His mind sifted through every word of his encounter with the Portuguese doctor, from the style of his greeting to the last goodbye. During their conversation about delicacies, Brother Bartolomé had thrown out a few incompatible or unpleasant combinations as a kind of trap, but no indication appeared of rejecting pork, fish without scales, or the mixing of milk and meat. He also weighed the courtesy with which he was received, and the fluid command the man had of Catholic doctrine. The commissioner had also not missed his chance to glance at the books lined up near the desk. He was impressed by the wife, an Old Christian, and clearly devoted. It did not escape him that Diego Núñez da Silva, since his arrival in Córdoba, had attended religious events and participated in processions with his entire family, including the two slaves. He went to confession, listened to Mass, and received communion. An excellent dissimulator.

  When he arrived at his monastery, he crossed the cloister and went to his room. He dipped his quill and recorded his impressions. Every once in a while, going over them, he found clues that he himself had written down without realizing their meaning.

  Imprisoned in the black, damp cell of the Dominican monastery in Southern Chile, Francisco awaits the next phase while blowing on the burning wounds opened by the shackles.

  He hears steps. The commotion returns: iron, keys, the lock, the door creaking open, the shaft of light. Two soldiers enter and stand on either side of him, as if they fear his escape. A black man approaches and offers him a pot of warm milk. Francisco can barely move his stiff, cold arms. He tries to take the pot without trembling. His chains jangle. He drinks. The warm liquid caresses his throat and spreads through his muscles like a benediction.

  This time, there are no words. The black man retreats, then the soldiers, and they leave him in the dark, alone again.

  15

  Don Diego believed he’d earned the commissioner’s trust. He was not so naïve as to consider himself safe, but he did feel calmer.

  He asked his wife to make her best dishes and prepare a painstaking service. The meal with Brother Bartolomé and the captain of the Lancers, Toribio Valdés, could mean the beginning of a lasting bond. His prestige in Córdoba depended on this relationship, as did his success, and, above all, his freedom.

  Don Diego suggested to Aldonza that she make pork chops, an array of vegetables, and milk puddings, and that she also buy some wine. For this occasion, it was worth drawing on one’s savings. Aldonza worked hard to create the most pleasing possible menu.

  The walnut table was covered with a cloth that Aldonza had embroidered as a maiden. Catalina cleaned the ceramic dishware and made their few pieces of silver shine. She put out platters, saltshakers, jugs, spoons, and knives. Each place setting had an embroidered linen napkin. She arranged fruit in a wicker basket and filled an earthen pitcher with blackberry water. The humble dining room shone, fit for a palace.

  Toribio Valdés arrived wearing his suit reserved for special occasions. Was he honoring his splendid medical neighbor? Was he honoring the commissioner? He never missed a chance to dress with pomp. He took off his pointed hat and bowed as if greeting a royal court. While they waited for the priest, he told Don Diego a few details of his battles on the high seas against the Turks.

  Brother Bartolomé entered without knocking, as was his habit. He was a man of the church who could only bring good fortune; it wasn’t necessary to ask permission. The colossal cat accompanied him, tangled in the folds of his robes. The feline’s corpulence matched the priest’s; it could have been mistaken for a sheep.

  Don Diego went to meet him. The priest lingered to gaze at the grapevine, whose juicy branches were already weighed down.

  “I’ve harvested the best ones,” the host said, smiling.

  The three men sat down at the table. The captain began sampling delicacies, while the monk studied everything carefully. The man of the house felt content: he had brought two powerful men together in his home. In Ibatín he had been cautious, but now he felt more capable. Nevertheless, none of this opulent meal would remain in his memory except one brief, painful fragment.

  “Did you buy this silverware from the wife of Antonio Trelles?” Brother Bartolomé asked as he studied an engraved knife.

  “Part of it,” he answered, surprised. “Only a small part.”

  “Aha!” The monk closely inspected the blade and the handle.

  Don Diego’s forehead started to shine with sweat.

  “How did you guess?” he asked, attempting to make his smile look innocent.

  “I didn’t guess,” he responded. “I knew.”

  “You knew?”

  “Of course. Don’t you recall that I am the commissioner of the Holy Office?”

  “But of course!” he said, laughing loudly.

  A few years earlier, Antonio Trelles had been detained in La Rioja for suspicions of practicing Judaism, and he’d been subjected to a famous trial. Don Diego had met him in Potosí, and when he visited La Rioja as a doctor, he tried to help him. A serious mistake: the crime of Judaism deserved no mercy, only repentance and harsh sentences. Helping a Jew was also a crime. As was showing sympathy when the atrocious sin had not been recognized. A tall Franciscan with a vague gaze, who occasionally played a small violin, took him aside and advised him that if he wanted to escape the same fate, he should leave immediately without saying a word. The Holy Office proceeded to
confiscate all the prisoner’s possessions, and the Trelles family sank into destitution. Don Diego had been reckless enough to approach the wife and buy part of her silverware, using almost all the money he was carrying. It was the only thing he could do to help alleviate her sorrows.

  Brother Bartolomé changed the subject and began enjoying his lunch. The host, meanwhile, was swallowing stones.

  Is it day or night? Once again, the steps in the corridor, the irons, key, lock, creaking door, shaft of light, soldiers bursting in full of hate.

  Between the soldiers, the black-and-white presence of a monk.

  Francisco unglues his rheumy eyelids. He recognizes Brother Urueña, the kind clergyman who had so warmly received him in this Chilean town of Concepción.

  He tries to sit up, but finds it difficult. His body is a bundle of pain.

  The soldiers part. A servant brings in two chairs and leaves. The soldiers follow him out. They leave a lamp on the ground and close the door. Only the monk remains. Now there is enough light.

  “Good morning.”

  Is the Dominican smiling? Is this possible? Can miracles happen in the depths of a dungeon?

  16

  Catalina ran through the streets, gripping her skirt in fistfuls to keep it from slowing her down. Francisco recognized her from where he sat up in the carob tree and conveyed his surprise to Lorenzo. What was the matter with Catalina? Despite her agitation, she was able to say that Doña Aldonza had ordered her to fetch Francisco, and she didn’t know why. Her face brimmed with fear.

  “What’s the matter?” Francisco pressed.

  She couldn’t understand it: there were people.

  “People? What people?”