Against the Inquisition

by Marcos Aguinis

  Aldonza and Francisco walked home with heavy steps. She murmured Hail Marys. Francisco only thought of the greatest son of a bitch in the world and his revolting cat; that man had shattered his family into pieces. Back home, he felt the house to be more empty than ever. He lay down on a mat. He gazed at the sky through the window of his bare room. He attempted to read the stars. He longed to recapture its mysterious alphabet. Perhaps the celestial bodies that didn’t twinkle were the vowels. Venus could be the A, and Jupiter the E, for example. The stars themselves were the consonants. There were too many consonants. “No, I don’t think I can resolve the enigma that way.” The wise men of ancient times studied the illumined heavens as a living body. “The constellations assemble and gather themselves into shapes,” he thought. At the same time, parts of those shapes were part of other shapes; they were superimposed. Like peeling back skin to find muscles, and bones under that, and inside those bones the marrow. The brilliance rose from the simultaneous display of all those planes; a living body that allows its innards to be seen along with its surface skin. He wondered whether he should read it like Treatise on Anatomy, his father’s book.

  In his rage, he searched intensely for an encouraging sign, but could not find one. His interrogation of the stars continued on the nights that followed, and into the years that followed.

  29

  One winter morning, Hernando Toro y Navarra, the strong and brutish Indian overseer who had acquired Juan José Brizuela’s property and donated Isabel’s and Felipa’s dowry, arrived to claim the property. His boots were dirty, but he wore a silk shirt, a blue velvet vest, and a wide-brimmed hat. The contrast reflected his farmer origins and recent wealth. He could not read but could make any mathematical calculation in an instant. He took delight in punishing his Indians and commiserated with the sick.

  He went through the house and ordered that personal items be cleared out. A squadron removed the last trunks, furniture, and objects in a flash, piling them in the muddy servants’ quarters. Toro y Navarra looked back out through the bedroom, now stripped bare, and saw the woman and her son seated on a log under the naked grapevine. Soon the furniture from his previous home had filled the house; it seemed new compared to the junk swept to the back.

  Brother Bartolomé influenced the Indian overseer to let the mother and son remain in the house for a few more months, at least until the end of winter. The newly rich man relegated them to the servants’ quarters. Luis and Catalina, meanwhile, could not stay and were added to the legion that labored in the Dominicans’ giant orchard.

  The cold and the rain forced them to keep the braziers lit and dry their clothes inside the house. Francisco went to the monastery every day to fulfill his tasks of penance; before returning to his mother’s side he managed to hide fruit, cheese, bread, and cured meats under his clothes. Not that he was any good at stealing; rather, some of the monks looked up at the sky as he gathered his provisions.

  Aldonza’s piercing cough rang out like a bad omen. At night, Francisco covered his ears so he wouldn’t hear it. He imagined her sitting in the dark, the veins in her neck swollen, her face discolored. One morning she woke with a sharp pain in her chest, as if she’d been stabbed by a knife. Francisco helped her search the straw mattress, but there was nothing there except the stench of death.

  She said, “It’s not a knife; it’s the call of death.”

  The boy ran for help. Toro y Navarra’s wife came in, responding with unusual mercy to what she saw. Frightened, she called for a doctor. Cold cloths were placed on Aldonza’s head. The doctor sat on a stool and calmly took her pulse, looked into her pupils, touched her cheeks, and asked for the urine in the chamber pot to be poured into a glass jar so he could examine it in the light. He recommended daily suction treatments, vegetable broth, and the application of leeches to remove the bad blood. Francisco offered to search for all that was needed: vegetables for the soup, leeches, and someone to skillfully apply the suction. He flew to the convent and returned with good news.

  On a table at Aldonza’s side there appeared a dozen cups made of thick glass and a candle. She was told to lie facedown, and her back was undressed. An expert neighbor was to perform the treatment. With her left hand the neighbor held the glass cup, and with her right hand she inserted the candle’s blue fire. Before the flickering flame could go out, she placed the glass facedown against the skin. Aldonza let out a cry of surprise and burning pain. The neighbor covered her entire back with those objects that sucked at her flesh. Through the glass, she checked that the skin was being pulled forcefully; pores were opening and the skin turned red and gleamed with sweat. She was covered with a clean blanket. The glass cups had to work for at least ten minutes. The void inside them would “suck out” the illness. When ten minutes had passed, the able neighbor began to move each cup back and forth in order to lift an edge from the skin; air rushed in and the glass detached. She removed the twelve cups in the blink of an eye, and Aldonza was left with twelve bulging red circles ringed with black. She rolled to her side, laboriously.

  “In a while, she’ll feel better,” the neighbor predicted.

  The procedure was repeated every day. As was the bloodletting through leeches. The wife of Toro y Navarra visited her in the afternoons. Two of her slaves prepared the patient’s food.

  Francisco, on returning from the monastery, found Aldonza up, wearing a long serge nightgown. She took advantage of her fledgling recovery to make some arrangements. But when Francisco learned the finality of those arrangements, he was pierced with anguish; his mother had finished sewing her shroud. She placed it at the head of her bed, neatly folded. Over the shroud she draped the silk sash she had worn at her wedding. On top, like a paperweight, she put the crucifix that her mother, now dead, had given her years ago. She stared at the lugubrious pile with satisfaction, almost with hope. She asked Francisco to help her lie back down. She had grown thin and old. Every motion magnified her pain. She moaned involuntarily.

  “My son, I wish to confess.”

  He set out in search of a priest. Keeping out of puddles, he went to find Brother Bartolomé. He couldn’t have explained why his steps led him there. He could have found the Dominican monastery with his eyes closed. He entered through the gray gate, crossed the disharmonious cloister, and stood before the enormous commissioner, whom he found reading a report, the cat on his knees.

  “Father—”

  Bothered by the interruption, the clergyman looked at him, brow furrowed, and made no move until the boy explained the urgency of the matter. It took him a few moments to respond, as if he hadn’t understood.

  Then he put his papers down and stood up heavily.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  He had never walked so fast. His belly bounced madly and his double chin puffed with heavy breathing. The cat ran a few yards by the monk’s right foot, then a few by his left. Their rush to reach the dying woman eased Francisco’s hostility toward them both. He glanced at the cat’s neck and decided that he wouldn’t cut it after all, and he wouldn’t slice through Brother Bartolomé’s double chin. The duo exuded a certain inexplicable kindness. But when they reached the sick woman’s side, something incredible happened.

  “Thank you for coming, Father,” Aldonza murmured weakly. “I don’t wish to anger you, but I will confess to Brother Isidro.”

  “I am ready to receive your confession, my child,” the commissioner insisted, his bulky face awash with surprise.

  She shook her head with a sad smile.

  Brother Bartolomé turned pale. His double chin trembled. The knife that had cut into Aldonza’s chest a few days before now sliced into the monk’s heart.

  “Well done, Mamá,” Francisco cheered without speaking, “that’s exactly the answer I’ve wanted to hear from a saint like you.” And he ran again, this time in search of the monk with the bulging eyes and cowardly spirit.

  Isidro was not startled; he was resigned to the arrival of calamities, like links in a chain. Wi
thout a word he gathered up his vestment and his sacred oil. He sensed that Aldonza would need something more than a confession. His walk contrasted starkly with Brother Bartolomé’s. It was almost solemn. Brother Isidro assumed the power of his sacred role, while Brother Bartolomé had lost touch with it in his arrogance. Isidro felt clean and peaceful, while Bartolomé felt guilty and murky. Isidro behaved, on this terrible occasion, the way Don Diego would have wished him to.

  He entered the room, which was warmed by the smoky brazier and the vapors of herbs. He made the sign of the cross and was left alone with the sick woman. Brother Bartolomé was invited into the living room by the man of the house, as it was too cold to be outside. The room was now decorated with new, luxurious furnishings.

  Francisco went into another room, beside his mother’s, where an enslaved woman was ironing clothes. He curled up on the floor. The black woman removed the ashes from the iron and filled it with coal, then closed it and shook the thing vigorously to heat the base. She sprinkled water on the clothing and began ironing. With her left hand she pulled the cloth taut, and with her right she erased the wrinkles, glancing intermittently at the grief-stricken boy. Outside, the naked trees received a light, freezing rain.

  Brother Isidro appeared, eyes red with tears. He walked slowly under the needles of rain, hunched over, arms limp at his sides. Francisco wrapped himself in a sackcloth and went to him. They clasped hands and embraced each other in the icy cold.

  He went into the room and approached his mother. Her body was covered in a blanket, and she emanated calm. Her thin cheeks seemed made of quartz. Her forehead, now free of the furrows of suffering, shone with a cross of sacred oil. She would no longer respond, and she would not cough again. She had become a piece of eternity. Francisco advanced cautiously, scared of committing a desecration. He kneeled beside her. He stared at her in sorrow. His fingers shook as they reached for her still, beloved hand. He touched it, pressed it. Then he began to cry in a blend of animal sounds and suffocation. He cupped her face, still warm from fever, and kissed her forehead, her flaccid cheeks, her nose, lips, chin. It was horrific to confirm that she was dead.

  BOOK TWO

  EXODUS

  THE JOURNEY OF BEWILDERMENT

  30

  Lorenzo Valdés attended Aldonza’s funeral and walked behind Francisco in the drizzling rain all the way to the cemetery. They embraced and teared up together. They were friends again.

  The following week, Lorenzo went to see him at the Santo Domingo monastery, where Francisco had been sent to live. Lorenzo invited Francisco to go with him to a corral. On the way, Lorenzo credited his own great skill in mounting horses, climbing trees, and walking on ropes to early training.

  “You have to start by subduing mules in order to know how to subdue Indians,” he said, repeating his father’s declaration.

  He had grown accustomed to visiting the thunderous corral to handle two or three animals and impress the laborers. He invited Francisco to come see him. The corrals blended viciousness with valor. They were a good school for men who would have to face the adversities of this savage continent. The captain of the Lancers celebrated his son’s cruelties. “Mount, beat, and domesticate! That’s how a good soldier does it.”

  Lorenzo knew mestizos and a few impoverished Spanish gentlemen whose job it was to tame wild beasts for little pay. He asked for a lasso and boldly entered the corral. The animals, in their keen sensitivity, registered the intrusion and began to buck. A seismic undulation rippled through the gray mass. A few began to run, while others whipped around in circles, pushing at their neighbors. Their hoofs stirred clouds of dust and manure. Lorenzo ran after the most spirited ones. Cries arose, along with the whir of the spinning lasso. Finally, he cast the rope and a damp mule fell forward. The creature tugged convulsively, dragging Lorenzo behind him. Several laborers came to his aid and managed to take her down. The beast kicked and tried to bite. They tied her legs, while others held her head down with a prod and blindfolded her eyes. She rammed her head against the ground, wounding her own eyes and teeth. They placed a second harness on her feet and left her to think she was free. She rose with a furious howl. Blood dripped from her head. She seemed determined to exact revenge, but because she was held by two harnesses, movement only tangled her. Her despair increased; she turned, arching her back, and let out blaring sounds.

  The captain’s son leapt onto her. The outraged beast flexed her spine wildly. The rider leaned toward the nape of the creature’s neck and gripped her ears as if they were handles. His legs grasped the sweaty abdomen and would not let up the intensity of their grasp for any reason. The offended mule thundered, spun, and hurled herself against her slippery enemies. As her struggle was fruitless, she decided to bolt. This always happened. Lorenzo was ready, legs tight around her belly, hands on the verge of pulling off the creature’s ears. The animal attempted to run, but the laborers who held the harness had seen it coming and stopped the attempt. She strained her neck angrily against the sudden tension of the reins. She was dazed. Then she charged at the laborers like a bull. Lorenzo dug in his spurs. One, two, six, ten times in a row, with as much rage as he could, until he drew blood. The mule lost her sense of direction and turned in abrupt circles in an effort to buck the machine wounding her mercilessly. Lorenzo did not detach; he savored this war.

  Francisco watched uneasily. Standing at the log fence, he jolted in time with his friend. Lorenzo was flung into the air and mounted the mule again, though she kept on bucking. He twisted her ears and shouted obscenities. The mule, now sheathed in dust and sweat, was about to fall in exhaustion, but first she received yet more blows.

  When she seemed at the edge of collapse, they took the blindfold from her eyes. The skillful rider let go of her ears, which were, miraculously, still attached to her head. The mule foamed at the mouth and turned as if drunk. Finally, Lorenzo led her to the foreman so he could confirm that she had been subdued.

  “Well handled,” he acknowledged, caressing her damp mane. It was the first caress this animal had ever received.

  The rider made a gesture of triumph and dismounted. He deserved to rest for a while before domesticating another beast. He walked to the fence, slipped between its logs, and sat next to Francisco. He was agitated, still breathing through his mouth like a male dog right after dismounting a female. He hugged his knees. Francisco admired him with some inner conflict, as he felt no desire to subdue animals.

  “Come on! Don’t you dare to?” Lorenzo laughed. “You’ll do it one day. It’s easy.”

  Meanwhile, the task continued. It was a virile pleasure that did not seem like work. That was why there were no Indians involved. They were not permitted to participate, as they were considered slow and clumsy. Whenever one of them obtained an untamed beast at a low price—thin, sick, or possessing weak veins—he would take it to his hut and tame it with a method that differed greatly from the Spaniards’ way. Instead of giving the creature a bloody beating, an Indian would tie it to a tree trunk surrounded by bare land. And there he would leave the beast for twenty-four hours without food or drink. Then he would touch its back to see whether it was tame. If the animal still possessed some spirit, he left it for another twenty-four hours in the same conditions. When asked the reason for this method, the Indian would answer, “It wants to rest.”

  Francisco was not drawn to Lorenzo’s passions, but he celebrated his bravery. Talking with him, and seeing him, produced an inexplicable sense of well-being. His own increasing passion, on the other hand, was for something more reprehensible: books. It bothered him that they were only grudgingly allowed at the monastery. The local representatives of the Inquisition were still wary as to the purity of faith that reigned in his heart.

  After insistent begging, Francisco gained permission to read the prayer book. And instead of savoring it slowly at a pace of a few pages a day, he devoured it in half a month. His reunion with the written word gave him hours of forgotten joy. He found reprieve from his o
wn helplessness. A few sentences made him smile, while others made him cry. When he finished, he went to request another book, but he was refused. He began reading the prayer book again from the first page, and had read it five times through when finally Brother Santiago de La Cruz, somewhat more confident after these good seeds had been sown, gave him an apologist’s biography of Santo Domingo, or Saint Dominic, the founder of the order to which the monastery belonged. Domingo Guzmán had been born in Spain—“like my ancestors,” Francisco thought—and the members of the Dominican order had, since the beginning, been pursuers and suppressors of those dirty heretics the Albigenses, and for this reason they became the strong arm of the Inquisition. Domingo Guzmán traveled to many countries and even went as far as Denmark; he gave captivating sermons and practiced what he preached. Barefoot, sheathed in a worn robe, and eating little more than crusts, he opened hearts with entreaties and a certain amount of humility. He died at the age of fifty-one, consumed by the demands of his ministry.

  Francisco transmitted a few enthusiastic comments about the saint to his spiritual director. De La Cruz did not allow himself to be impressed (education was also a kind of taming, though a subtle one).

  “Read it again.”

  The boy stroked the book’s covers and immersed himself again in the exemplary story. Every one of Saint Dominic’s journeys and sermons had a concrete goal: to convert, to sanctify. He did it for the people of his time, but he also did it for those who were still to come. He did it so that he, Francisco Maldonado da Silva, would learn and reflect and adhere more closely to Our Lord Jesus Christ. “So that I, Francisco, should not be lost.”

  The spiritual director thought it opportune to offer him another work: the life of Saint Augustine. This legendary doctor of the church was born in Africa, in the year 354. Christianity was just emerging from the pagan multitudes. His mother was no less than Saint Monica, and his father was a pagan. It must be said, then, that this eminent father of the church was a New Christian, Francisco thought. In his youth, Augustine had avidly traversed the whole sewer of sinful acts. “I tried to satisfy the ardor I felt through the most vulgar voluptuousness,” he would acknowledge in his Confessions. Later, after a great deal of reading and seeking, he converted. He was already an expert in philosophy. He was named bishop of Hippo and soon astonished people with his startling virtue. But he astonished people even more with his writing, which soon became a torrent. He produced books about religion, philosophical treatises, works of criticism, law, and history. He wrote to kings, pontiffs, and bishops. He refuted heresies with unparalleled brilliance. Finally, he completed Confessions, a jewel Francisco would have liked to have read in its entirety, not just in the fragments doled out in the biography. He longed to emulate the man, to write treatises and epistles.