Against the Inquisition

by Marcos Aguinis

  Prayers rose in muttering voices around the mountainous body. Without divine powers he would soon die. But Santiago de La Cruz did not limit himself to prayer; he had to do something while they waited for Tomás Paredes. He thought it might help to raise his head with pillows.

  “What will the surgeon do?” Francisco asked.

  “A bloodletting, certainly—that’s the first thing that’s done in cases like this one.”

  “We can’t find Paredes,” a servant announced, still catching his breath.

  “What?”

  “He left for a ranch,” another explained, sweaty and also breathing hard.

  The clergymen glanced at each other, unsure. Francisco thought, “If only Papá were here.” The cat let out a meow, sensing catastrophe.

  Santiago saw his brothers’ helplessness, and exclaimed, “I will do the bloodletting. Bring me a sharp knife.”

  This decision broke off the litanies. One of the monks shouted at an enslaved man to bring a knife and a bowl. Another rolled up Bartolomé’s wide sleeve and placed the silver bowl below the elbow, to catch the blood. Santiago de La Cruz pulled up a chair and began to open the vein. Brother Bartolomé’s arm was elephantine. Filth streaked the damp folds of his elbow, and no vein could be found. The spiritual director gauged where the vein might be and cut into the skin. The sick man shuddered; he was still half-conscious after all, and this generated optimism. But the cut did not hit the mark; only a few drops of blood fell. Brother Santiago tried again. He was emboldened now, and he stabbed without subtlety. He searched for the elusive vein shrouded in flesh but failed again. He was sweating hard.

  He tried a third time. He displayed not only recklessness, but also anger; that blood-filled vessel was as fat as the rest of that monumental body, and yet it put up too much resistance. The knife slid in at least five centimeters, slashing left and right; he cut muscular tissue and reached the bone. But could not perforate any vein. The blood that spilled from the wounds was meager. Santiago de La Cruz muttered words that surely must have been a prayer, though they sounded like insults. Exhausted, he handed back the knife.

  “It’s impossible.”

  Francisco wished to intervene. He had watched his mother’s bloodlettings, but he feared that Santiago would be offended. The dirty elbow had an irregular cut edged with a scarlet stain. The bowl had barely received a few meager drops. The sick man inhaled deeply and let out an alarming, suffering sound.

  “Would you let me try?”

  Santiago de La Cruz stared at Francisco in surprise. Then he looked at Brother Bartolomé’s swollen face, and gestured for the boy to be handed the knife. Francisco asked for water and a short cord. He washed the ankle and tied the cord tightly a few inches above it. He had seen that the surgeon proceeded this way when performing bloodlettings on the weakened Aldonza. He felt around the flesh to assess his options, and chose the vein that felt the widest. He inserted the steel blade’s tip and gave it a twist. A thick stream of dark blood fell resonantly into the container. Sighs of relief erupted around Francisco like air bubbles. The Lord had worked a miracle through this orphan. The bad blood that was poisoning Brother Bartolomé flowed out in a continuous stream. His head would soon be less congested.

  “Tomás Paredes!”

  The surgeon hurried in. Francisco stepped back carefully, without letting go of the bleeding foot. Paredes approached.

  “You made this incision?” He examined the cut from one side and then from another. Then he looked at the bowl, shaking it slightly to study the blood’s density and color. “Who taught you? Your father?”

  “I’ve seen him do it.”

  “Very good!” He beamed. “Very good, indeed.”

  Brother Bartolomé blinked; his eyelashes fluttered. His cheeks seemed less red.

  “That’s sufficient,” the surgeon decreed.

  He rolled a piece of bandage into a ball and applied it to the wound on the fat ankle.

  “Hold it here, like this. I will return to check up on him and give him a proper bandage. Look, he’s already waking. Let’s see, Father! Open your eyes wide! Wide, I say!”

  He turned to Santiago de La Cruz and gave out additional instructions.

  “Prepare a vegetable broth with a boiled frog. Frog skin has many beneficial nutrients. He should drink ten spoonsful now and more later tonight.”

  An hour later, Francisco was once again glued to his bench, repeating the questions and answers that a believer must memorize when about to receive the sacrament of confirmation.

  33

  The spiritual director gave him a neatly wound knotted rope, his personal whip. He lent it to him as demonstration of his paternal affection. It was the color of excrement, with dark stains, traces of blood that testified to the energy of the scourge. He instructed Francisco to apply severe discipline on this night so he could enter the church in a pure state the following day. All of Córdoba was in a state of excitement over the imminent mass confirmations.

  Caravans were already arriving from nearby towns. At the gates of the city, as well as in the main plaza, there grew encampments of Indians, mestizos, mulattoes, and black people, both male and female, brought by overseers and priests. A festive atmosphere reigned. The banners of religious orders waved, recalling the fervor of processions. The catechists gathered their people to count them, watch over them, and reiterate their teachings. Despite their heterogeneity, they were a replica of the apostles before Pentecost: fearful, naïve, wretched.

  Francisco also waited on that eve of the great event. The doubts that often shuddered through his chest would be erased when the sacred chrism and the bishop’s words filled him with grace. He retreated into his cell and lit a wick. He pushed the table and chair aside and rolled up the mat. He needed space to remove the impurities. He bared his torso. He took up the whip and prayed an Our Father as he unrolled it. He thought of his sins, desires, and moments of imprudence or intemperance. He evoked his father’s face, the iron key, the lost library: there was Satan with his tempting disguises. He grasped the handle and lashed his back. He doubled over. “Take that, devil!” he exclaimed, smiling. For strength, he prayed another Our Father and hurled a challenge at Satan. “Show yourself again, with your tricks!” He saw the enigmatic engraving on the Spanish key. He lashed out again. His assaulted skin opened its pores. He had no air, no words. Those beloved images weakened his drive.

  He had to humiliate himself, deserve the punishment. “Sinner! Wretched one!” He whipped himself a third time, but more softly. He paced the rectangle of his cell, eyes and whip lowered. He understood that he was a coward, full of vice. He repeated, “sinner, sinner,” but it wasn’t enough to excite him. “Coward.” That didn’t work either. “Unworthy boy, son of a heretic, that’s it, son of a heretic, filthy Marrano, that’s it, filthy Marrano. Shitty Jew!” He lashed himself forcefully. “Shitty Jew! Apostate! Murderer of God!” Another lash. Another. And another. He succeeded in unleashing a kind of madness, an intimate ferocity. The whip whistled and his mouth spat out curses. His shoulders and back filled with cross-shaped marks.

  Suddenly, the door creaked open and Santiago de La Cruz entered. He found his disciple in a disheveled state, dripping sweat, whip hanging from his right hand. “This figure barging into his cell,” Francisco thought, “could be Christ or Satan.” His self-flagellation could invoke either one of them. In either case, he needed to continue; the greater one’s offering to the Lord, the greater one’s disobedience of the devil.

  “Shitty Jew!” He cringed under a formidable lashing. “Apostate Marrano!” Another lash.

  Santiago de La Cruz flexed his fists. His inhibitions melted. He opened his mouth, his eyes, his arms; he took off his robe and rushed toward the half-naked, profusely wet, hurting boy. He embraced him tightly.

  “Enough!” he said. “That’s enough.”

  Francisco did not resist. His lungs moaned, depleted, broken. He stared at the ceiling, stunned, as if birds were singing down to him.r />
  “My dearest angel—” the spiritual director whispered, caressing his arms and neck. He pressed his torso against the boy’s. His lips approached the agitated mouth and kissed it.

  Francisco shrank back. Was this Christ loving him, kissing him, rubbing his body? An ax split his head in two. He grabbed the spiritual director’s hair with both hands and pulled him back violently. Francisco’s eyes blazed. He gathered his last strength and hit him, howling. The monk’s back sank against the wall; he put his hands up to defend himself. He prayed with hoarse, incomprehensible words. Francisco raised his whip, prepared to break open the man’s face. But he hesitated a moment, just long enough to see the chaotic situation more clearly. There before him, shamed by lechery and impotence, was not the devil, but his spiritual director, who was also breathing hard, and also visibly horrified, fingernails digging into the adobe behind him. His judgment had been undone by the cruelest of temptations. The monk grabbed the whip from Francisco and gave himself a brutal lash. Another one followed immediately. On his head, his left shoulder, his right shoulder, his waist, frenetically, with hatred, murmuring insults against himself. It was a storm of rough blows that seemed more of a massacre than a form of discipline. He seemed to want to destroy himself, to shatter his body into pieces, to reduce himself to dust. Francisco watched, stupefied, because his own flagellation had been a caress compared to this one.

  The director’s knees buckled. He was mad, ricocheting from the walls. But he kept on doling out fatigued lashes and murmuring curses. He inhaled deeply, gathered himself, and delivered the final blow. Then he collapsed.

  His disciple stayed glued to a corner. Nausea rose in him. The body from which beautiful sermons flowed, and which belonged to his esteemed spiritual director, lay like a corpse gnawed by wild beasts. His wounds were holes through which the pestilence in his soul would escape.

  His breath was ragged and shallow, as his cracked thorax couldn’t properly expand. Between hoarse moans, he begged Francisco, “Go to my cell and bring me the brine and vinegar.”

  Francisco thought he must be delirious. The monk repeated his words and, seeing the boy’s hesitation, added grimly, “That is an order.”

  When he returned with a jar in each hand, he found the director back on his feet, supporting himself with great effort by holding the edge of the table. His torso was dripping with blood.

  “Put brine and vinegar on my wounds,” he said in an exhausted voice. “Do what I ask, even if I faint.”

  His student furrowed his brow.

  “I must be punished more.” A stitch of pain cut off his breathing; he raised a hand to his side. “Help me.”

  Francisco helped to hold him up.

  “No, help me to suffer more, to purify myself—first the brine, then the vinegar.” He bent to reveal the striped vermilion of his back.

  The brine triggered burning pain. He gritted his teeth to swallow back his howls. He shook. He pinched his arms.

  “More! More!” he implored.

  Francisco emptied the jars. Santiago de La Cruz shook his head, no longer in his body.

  34

  Columns of barefoot men and women, dressed in wool or colored blankets, entered the church, which was profusely lit. There were also children over the age of seven. Priests, Indian overseers, and dignitaries would act as godfathers. Banners were raised to coordinate the placing of each column in accordance with the people’s places of origin. Women gathered to the left of the nave, men to the right. All the lights had been ignited: the altar candles, the candelabra that hung from a woven rope, the torches in the choir area, the lanterns and innumerable oil lamps along the walls. The smell of melted tallow blended with the smoky clouds of incense.

  The space filled with people, smells, and heat, as if animals had been gathered rather than people. More than a congregation, the church resembled Noah’s Ark. The place reeked of grass and dung, pig and ox, mule and goat, urine and dog shit. Lice, bedbugs, and fleas swarmed. These were the true people: oppressed, disoriented, searching for salvation and solace. Some adolescents dripped snot and pus. It was the universe in a stable, which surely pleased the Lord.

  The bishop appeared. His presence impressed the faithful, as he wore all the pontifical vestments: the surplice, stole, and cope. His head was crowned with a mitre. In his right hand he held the tall crosier, symbol of his authority. Men and women pushed each other to better see this radiant figure, who resembled the saints in the alcoves. Trejo y Sanabria explained the rite they were about to celebrate. He synthesized the teachings that the priests had been delivering. He extended his hands and everyone knew this signified the invocation of the Holy Spirit, so that it might bring the seven gifts. Then he approached those who would be confirmed, in their uneven rows. In one hand, he held the silver container that bore the sacred chrism. He dipped his thumb in the liquid and drew a cross on each forehead, all the while pronouncing sacramental words.

  Francisco felt the thumb’s contact and the imposition of the mark. When the cope grazed him he shuddered, as if brushed by the sacred tunic of Christ. The material manifestation of the sacrament, oil and balm, had been placed on his head, and the bishop spoke the words that gave it form. Both elements joined to bring about their transformation; divine grace flowed to him, granting him the role of a soldier of the Holy Church. In his ears, the formula resounded that assured him of the presence of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The bishop, the godfather, and the confirmed person made a human trinity in the service of the sacred trinity that had created the world. The bishop then gave the boy a slap on the cheek; this was a symbol of the disposition that he must have to endure the affronts directed at the Lord. He looked into the boy’s eyes, smiled, and greeted him as Jesus had greeted His disciples: “Peace be with you.” The confirmed one lowered his head and focused on his desired emotions.

  After almost an hour, after having confirmed all those who were present, the prelate returned to the altar and prayed on behalf of the congregation. Finally, he addressed the multitude filling the church. He was pale, on the verge of falling.

  “The Lord blesses thee from Zion, so thou may see the good of Jerusalem for all the days of thy life, and that eternal life may be thine. Amen.”

  He invited the people to join him in praying the creed, an Our Father, and a Hail Mary. From the choir area surged the strains of a motet. The voices, accompanied by harp and guitar, emitted a melody that was soon accompanied by the same melody in another key, a torrential counterpoint. Heads turned to find the origins of the music that echoed through the vaults. Francisco clasped his hands and kneeled in the cramped, odorous forest of legs and sandals. He prayed that the gifts of the Holy Spirit might fill him with strength to prevent him from straying from the right path. That he might not be ashamed of his Catholicism, but rather of the heresies committed by his father and his brother. He recalled the words of Jesus in the Gospel of Luke: “For whoever is ashamed of me and of my words, of him shall I also be ashamed on Judgment Day.”

  35

  Lorenzo confessed that he wished to travel. He was sick of living surrounded by mountains and monotonous salt flats. He wanted to see the ocean, for example, with its gigantic foamy waves, and to take part in battles on the high seas. He wanted to fight against the scimitars of the Turks and the sabers of the Dutch. He had too much energy and strength to keep on chewing boredom among the brutish Indians of Córdoba. “They’re unbearable, obedient, and dumb; they’ve forgotten the art of war; they’re like mules after they’ve been broken, useless for anything except carrying loads.” He preferred the Calchaquí Indians or the terrible nomads of the Chaco; against them he could wield his blade and gun. He also wanted to experience the mule fair of Salta.

  “It’s the biggest assembly in the world. That’s what Papá told me. Half a million animals gather in that valley. Like ants.”

  Lorenzo overflowed with enthusiasm. Instead of filling himself with thoughts of books or monks, he collected information
from travelers. He knew that in the heights of the Andes, among the snowy peaks, there flowed an infernal canal of water that sprang from the center of the earth. Nearby there glowed the wondrous Potosí, built from solid silver. And then came the capital of the Viceroyalty: Lima, the City of Kings, where noblemen and their beautiful wives rode in carriages of gold. And there was Callao, its port. The ocean! At the port swayed galleons, frigates, caravels, and launches. “I’ll embark toward Panama and then on to Spain. And to the land of infidels! I’ll kill Moors with the techniques for killing Indians.”

  Lorenzo Valdés was exultant about his plans.

  “You have to come with me, Francisco.”

  36

  Isabel and Felipa still lived in Doña Leonor’s mansion. Soon it would officially become a convent bearing the sacred name of Catherine of Siena. Francisco had to tell them of his plan, as it meant leaving his sisters even more alone.

  Their activities followed the strict model of Spanish convents. They aligned themselves with an ancient Roman schedule, for its mystical resonance. Their day commenced at dawn with first prayers. Then they attended Mass. At eight, they had breakfast. Prayers followed, after which they began their tasks in the labor room. They sewed, embroidered, spun, and wove. Here it was also crucial to hold back words and voices, though winks and muffled giggles erupted over the smallest incidents. At twelve, there were more prayers, followed by lunch. As the spoons and knives clinked, ears dutifully absorbed readings from a sacred text. At three, it was time to pray again, then siesta, and then catechism for the rest of the afternoon. At seven, evening prayers. Then they had their frugal dinner, said their night prayers, and—to sleep! Fridays were different because they took time to examine the errors they’d committed, and penance was given out; the pupils had to humiliate themselves and publicly denounce their morbid desires. They also had to list their minor offenses, such as distraction during catechism or irritation with sewing.