Against the Inquisition

by Marcos Aguinis

  They ran toward the house.

  At their front door a soldier stood watch with a steel spear and a heart-shaped shield. He tried to block their entrance, then assessed their insignificance and looked away. There were about ten people in the courtyard, three or four of them clergymen. At the living room door stood another armed soldier. Aldonza, flanked by Isabel and Felipa, was pacing with her chin sunk down to her chest and a white handkerchief twisted in her hands. Francisco received her long, trembling embrace. That was when he learned that Brother Bartolomé Delgado and Captain Toribio Valdés had entered solemnly to “arrest the physician Diego Núñez da Silva, in the name of the Inquisition.” They were accompanied by a retinue of the king’s soldiers and familiars of the Holy Office. As was the custom, the procedure had to take place in the presence of a notary. They had locked themselves up in the living room.

  “They’re going to take him,” Aldonza sobbed. “They’re going to take him.”

  Francisco tried to approach his father, to be with him, to hear what they were asking him. The soldier blocking the door refused to let him pass. Nobody could enter—no exceptions. The Holy Office preferred secrecy.

  He returned to the three women, who were circling the well in despair, clutching the beads of their rosaries. Lorenzo, who had followed Francisco home, shook his hair from his face and tried to get a more detailed explanation. Francisco, with a knot in his throat, stared at the severe men as they spoke in sullen tones, the kind one might imagine people of high purpose and proven pure blood would use. He made out a few strong words in the muffled conversation: Marrano, the lapsed Law of Moses, epidemic, witchcraft, dishonesty, murderers of Christ, Sabbath, cursed race, purification by fire, swindlers, New Christians.

  He went to the second courtyard, where he found Catalina sitting on a heap of dirty clothes. She was weeping. The slave’s sobs intensified Francisco’s fear for his father. He went farther off and entered the hiding place that Marcos Brizuela had shown him. It was the perfect cavern, a place where he could lie still and think. Maybe, after a few days, Brother Bartolomé would change his mind and then his father could go free. Or perhaps he should escape on horseback in the middle of the night. Captain Valdés had the fastest horses in the city; Lorenzo could help him get them. He returned to where Catalina sat. He wrapped her plump face in his hands and turned her to look at him. Her eyes were red.

  “We’re going to save him!” said the young Francisco.

  He whispered to her to prepare clothing and food for a journey. He returned to the hiding place and cleaned it out. When he went to rejoin his mother, the interrogation was still going on.

  “Where is Diego?”

  “He went to get Brother Isidro,” answered Felipa.

  “What is Papá accused of?” Isabel asked again.

  Aldonza broke into sobs again. She squeezed her handkerchief against her eye sockets. What she knew or suspected could not be spoken.

  “How many times are you going to ask the same thing?” Felipa scolded, so upset she barely finished her sentence.

  The soldier at the living room door moved aside. The retinue approached, anxious for an update; they would have the privilege of being the first to hear the news, and would spread it across the city. But it wasn’t time yet; the soldier held his lance up and they returned to their places.

  Diego arrived, tense and frustrated. His eyes blazed.

  “He won’t come,” he told his mother.

  “He won’t . . . ?”

  “He’s insisting that it’s useless. That it would make things worse.”

  “Brother Isidro won’t come?” Isabel repeated, as incredulous as the rest of them.

  “He’s not a member of the Holy Office, or even Dominican. His intervention would only complicate things.”

  “He’s abandoning us,” Isabel said with a shudder.

  “It’s prudent,” Aldonza said. “He sees more than we can.”

  “Yes! He sees better with his devil eyes! What can the eyes of devils see, eh?” exclaimed Diego.

  “My son!”

  “He’s a coward! A traitor!”

  The soldier in front of the door adjusted his position. The retinue approached him again. So did young Francisco. The white cat appeared and, close beside it, the giant figure of Brother Bartolomé. His face had become severe. Then, Don Diego emerged, looking infinitely exhausted. The captain of the Lancers followed him, along with the monk who fulfilled the role of notary.

  Francisco ran toward his father. A lance detained him coldly. A murmur arose. Brother Bartolomé asked the soldier to lower the lance and allow the boy to embrace his father. Then, with exaggerated slowness, he announced that Doctor Núñez da Silva stood accused of Judaism, and that the Holy Office had ordered him, Brother Bartolomé, to investigate his possessions during the interrogation in the presence of the good notary, who had created the legal document. The result of these proceedings now allowed him, Brother Bartolomé Delgado, commissioner of the Inquisition, to turn over the prisoner to the secular branch of power, captain of the Lancers Toribio Valdés, in order to arrange his immediate removal to Lima. In the capital of the Viceroyalty, Don Diego would be judged by the High Tribunal of the Holy Office.

  Aldonza exploded into sobs that were impossible to silence, not even by stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth. Her daughters tried to comfort her, but they were crying, too. The familiars of the Holy Office mumbled a prayer. Francisco stared at them; they seemed like specters of the nightmare that the world had become. The young Diego, on the other hand, stayed rigid, fists tight.

  Aldonza dragged her fear and despair toward her husband. But instead of reaching him, she fell on her knees before the commissioner of the Holy Office. Brother Bartolomé rested his wide hand on the woman’s head, as though giving her a blessing. He mumbled a few words in Latin and told her in a low voice that her husband would be in Lima for a few months, that they should accept divine justice, that if Don Diego expressed sincere remorse and the judges determined it to be real, he would be absolved and return home. This was definitive, the will of God.

  Captain Valdés ordered the soldier not to leave the prisoner unattended for any reason.

  Francisco ached to tell his father that he had a safe hiding place and that, with Catalina’s help, he had prepared provisions. He could rest a few hours, eat, and then, during the night, flee on the best horse in town. It wasn’t a fantasy; everything was almost ready. But the soldier wouldn’t leave his side, and the quiet familiars of the Holy Office weren’t leaving.

  Brother Bartolomé was brought paper and quill. An assistant carried his inkwell as he went through the house, followed by the prisoner. His duties included a thorough inventory. He told Don Diego to turn over all his cash, as well as any jewels in the house. The commissioner explored the dining room and the bedrooms. Don Diego didn’t say a word; Aldonza cried continuously. Francisco would not unclasp from his father; he had to explain the escape plan. It was critical.

  In the bedroom, Brother Bartolomé ordered the chests to be opened and their contents to be spilled onto the rug. Blankets, bedcovers, pillowcases. And a case covered in brocade.

  “What is that?”

  “A family keepsake.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  The doctor undid the knot, opened the case, and took out the iron key. Brother Bartolomé fingered it, seemed to measure its heft, held it up to the light, and returned it.

  “Fine.”

  Francisco, propelled by a fiery current coursing through him, reached out his hand and took the relic from his father. He was part of a heroic chain. He took charge of putting it away, lovingly, sliding it into the case and wrapping the hemp string around it. He tied a solid knot. Meanwhile, his father gazed at him with infinite gratitude. Francisco took advantage of the commissioner’s distraction to whisper his plan. Brother Bartolomé saw him and called over Captain Valdés. The boy feared that he’d been overheard.

  The captain’s steps rang
out with authority.

  “I’ve completed the first part of the inventory,” he said. “You can take the captive.”

  “Papá,” whispered Francisco, “let’s escape now!”

  “There is no escape,” he answered into his ear, squeezing his shoulders with affection.

  “Yes there is!”

  “It would be worse.”

  He was irritated by this sudden resignation; it was unknown, unacceptable. His father was too valiant to give up.

  They went out to the courtyard. More soldiers arrived, and they pushed Don Diego into the street. Francisco, with his throat tighter than ever and his nerves driven to frenzy, forced his way through and tried to protect his father, but an official pushed him aside roughly and he fell to the ground.

  Endless curious onlookers had gathered; it was the great show of the neighborhood, just like the men hung from the Spanish cherry tree in Ibatín. Dozens of horses and mules stood by.

  It was clear that the operation had been planned in advance, without actually waiting for the interrogation’s results. The persecution of Don Diego, they would later learn, had been ordered when they still lived in Ibatín.

  They told Don Diego to mount his mule. Before doing so he looked back at the inside of his home through the open door: Aldonza and their daughters stood frozen by the well, like statues in a cemetery. He asked to say goodbye to them. The soldiers did not listen; they did not want to listen. Fury rose into Francisco’s head. Two soldiers drew their blades.

  Brother Bartolomé called for calm. “Wait.”

  He went inside and spoke to the women. He explained that they could say goodbye to the heretic, because they were linked by blood. They listened with astonishment, hung their heads, and walked behind him, full of shame. At that moment, Francisco had an absurd thought: that painful trio of women dressed in black, pale and helpless, were the three Marias of the Passion. They moved with intense suffering toward Christ the captive, Christ the ridiculed, surrounded by soldiers. Christ was his father, whom these women loved and yet could not help. The soldiers did not understand this, and, in mocking tones, allowed the prisoner to embrace all the members of his family. Don Diego clasped Diego, his mature oldest son. He looked at Francisco, picked him up, and hugged him fiercely.

  They parted—the doctor in the center, an official on each side. The march had an exhibitionist quality to it. They took the main road, as a form of punishment, and as a warning to others. The news had already spread like fire to every corner of the city. All of Córdoba came out to the street, to their doorways, their front halls. It was important to demonstrate the strength of the Holy Office, and to remind the people that its long arm could reach the most distant lands.

  The figures grew small in the distance. They turned a corner. Their disappearance unhinged Francisco, who leapt onto one of the horses tied up by his house and bolted off. He was too fast to be stopped. He galloped through the streets and caught up in a few minutes. His father, stunned, stopped his mule. The officials reached for their weapons.

  “Papá, Papá!”

  Francisco’s horse disturbed the tidy formation.

  “Get out!” they shouted.

  He reached out his arms and tried to embrace his father again, but the soldiers struck his knees, grabbed his reins, and pulled on his stirrups. They almost threw him off his horse. Finally, he managed to reach his father’s side. They pressed each other’s wrists, and stared at each other with intense despair.

  An angry, cruel blow from a shield pushed them apart.

  “Get out of here!”

  The officials surrounded the doctor, as they had before.

  “I’ll go with you . . . I’ll go with you,” the boy begged.

  The formation moved back into place. His father turned to stare at him with a broken heart as his captors forced him to keep moving. Francisco would not give up, and followed them at a close distance.

  They arrived at the edge of the city. The soldier in charge turned and faced the boy, frowning. “It’s over, idiot. Now go home.”

  His answer was to lower his eyes and stay silent. But without any sign of obedience.

  His father intervened. “Go back, Francisquito. Go back. Take care of your mother and your siblings.”

  He shuddered. His father was serious. This was the irrefutable voice; he was whole again, as before. Francisco lifted his gaze and saw his father. He saw him moving calmly. He saw him raise his right hand, gently, to wave at him for the last time. He saw how then his father spurred on his mule, to end the goodbye, and moved away more swiftly. The soldiers pressed their horses on behind him. His father looked like the man in charge, not like a prisoner.

  He remained in that spot for a long time. Then he looked out at the blue mountains that his father loved so much, and retraced his steps, sad and helpless. What would they do to him? What would they do in Lima? What would they do before arriving in Lima? He had heard rumors that the prisoners were abused on the journey so that upon arrival they would put up no resistance.

  He dismounted in the middle of the rowdy crowd that still blocked the door of his house. He was scolded for having galloped off. The horse’s owner tried to twist his ear, but he freed himself. Insults were hurled his way. Then he turned toward Lorenzo’s home. His friend seemed strange. What was the matter with him? He approached, and his friend backed away.

  “Lorenzo!”

  He didn’t answer. Was he ashamed of his own father, the captain? Did he feel guilty about the terrible fate his father had forced on Don Diego?

  “Lorenzo!”

  Lorenzo waited.

  “Your father—” Francisco began.

  Lorenzo gave him a look that he’d never seen before. It was terrible, full of contempt. The stain on his face glowed like a lit coal. Lorenzo stepped forward defiantly and spat at him. “Jew!”

  Francisco was paralyzed, and then shattered into pieces. He could not grasp this new monstrous, shattered reality: Lorenzo’s father had just arrested his own, and now Lorenzo was insulting him. The tongues of fire that had been rising and falling in him for hours now devoured him completely. With the force of a hungry tiger, he threw himself on his former friend, toppling him, punching, kicking. Lorenzo fought back with his head and teeth. They rolled, grabbed, pushed. Between gasps they hurled insults. They saw the blood on each other’s lips and started to loosen their grips. They stared at each other in shock, both battered, short of breath. They rose slowly, their guards up. Another attack was possible. But they ended up moving away from each other, growling, eyes full of hatred.

  As he dried his wounded face with his arm, Francisco went around his house, to the back. He parted the bushes and crawled into his hiding place. “This is where Papá should have hidden.” He lay down in the cool shadows. The smell of dirt was pleasant. But he still felt oppressed. The horrific scenes of the day would not stop running through his head. He tossed and turned, as if he were in bed and unable to sleep.

  He finally sat up and decided to leave. No place, not even this one, could offer him solace. From the corral, two mules observed him with large almond eyes. That’s when he realized that he couldn’t walk because of the intense pain in his knee.

  Diego looked him up and down. “Francisquito!”

  His torn clothes, the bruises on his forehead, and the blood on his cheeks made for an astonishing effect. His brother approached to help him. Francisco had a mad urge to cry at the top of his lungs, but he was asphyxiated by shame. He couldn’t explain this. A claw slashed at his throat. Diego slid his hands into his brother’s armpits, lifted him, and leaned him against his chest.

  Brother Urueña sits in a chair and offers Francisco the other one. Francisco can’t believe it; this man’s appearance is angelic.

  The monk caresses the cross that hangs on his chest. He seems pained by the damaged state of the friendly, cultured doctor.

  “I have come to console you,” he murmurs sweetly. Brother Urueña used to visit him in his home.
Sometimes he stayed to dine. He told anecdotes about doctors, surgeons, and (in a low voice) certain priests. Francisco corrected his Latin, and the monk pretended to be angered, then promised to improve, only to make the same error the next time. Together they had strolled the beautiful shores of the majestic Bío-Bío River.

  “How is my wife? And my daughter?” He cannot hide his anxiety.

  The priest keeps his eyes lowered. “They are well.”

  “Have they—have they frightened them? Have they—”

  “They are well.”

  “What will they do with me?”

  Their eyes meet for the first time. Brother Urueña seems sincere.

  “Please believe me. I am not permitted to provide information.”

  They are silent. From the corridor, he hears the muted sounds of the officials who keep watch, alert to the probable aggression of the hungry, shackled prisoner.

  17

  An atmosphere of mourning spread through the house. Even though Aldonza came from an Old Christian lineage and had ample evidence thereof, she had married a New Christian who would now be put on trial by the Holy Office. Her four children had wretched blood in their veins.

  The home was rapidly dismantled. Brother Bartolomé oversaw the plunder. All prisoners of the Inquisition ran up costs, he explained: there was the travel, the food, the clothing, and, once in Lima, the fees for the prisoner’s maintenance in jail, as well as the creation and repair of instruments of torture, the torturers’ salaries, and the price of candles. Where would all those resources come from? From the prisoners themselves—it was only logical. They were the sources of evil, forcing the Holy Office to work so tirelessly. This was why their possessions were confiscated. Any remaining funds would be returned at the end of the trial. “The Holy Office was not established to accumulate wealth, but, rather, to protect the purity of faith.”

  On the first day, the commissioner took what was left of their money. On the second day, he chose silver and ceramic pieces from among their dinnerware (including those that had belonged to the ill-fated Trelles) and only left the jugs, platters, and plates made of tin or clay. On the third day, he went through the religious images, pillowcases, cushions, and chairs with armrests. Then he left the family in peace for a week, because he couldn’t find any buyers for what he’d taken so far. He reappeared to look at the books; curiously, however, he hadn’t come to take them but to order Aldonza to lock them in a chest.