Against the Inquisition

by Marcos Aguinis

  “I should confess.” He tidied his shirt and fastened his belt. “Yes, I should confess.”

  He made for the door and Lorenzo squinted one eye open.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  He washed himself in the bowl placed outside to catch rain and went out to the streets that, from the earliest hours, had been overflowing with urgency and lust. Potosí was Sodom, Gomorrah, and Nineveh all rolled into one. The black servants had already begun their labors. A few carriages traveled in search of officials or Indian overseers. The dawn stripped soot from the elegant buildings and pebbles rolled in the harsh cold wind.

  He entered the first church he found. The atmosphere of protection and the scent of incense comforted him. The warm house of God produced an instant sense of harmony. He kneeled and made the sign of the cross at the end of the corridor. At the front stood the main altar, with its resplendent custody of the sacred sacrament. An altarpiece gilded in gold and silver was flanked by a set of mahogany chairs that culminated in voluminous pulpits. The building was more imposing and luxurious than it seemed from the outside. Its ceiling was decorated with colored panels joined without a single nail, like the wagons made in Ibatín.

  He prayed an Our Father. Then he sought the confessional. A woman sobbed on her knees, while the priest, hidden in the discreet chamber, absorbed her human errors and forgave her in the name of the Holy Trinity. Francisco waited for her to finish. When he saw her make the sign of the cross, he took his place. He was lost in thought. He needed the priest’s voice, his absolution. He approached with his head down and fell to his knees.

  “Francisco Maldonado da Silva!”

  It was a cold, emphatic voice that called his name from behind him. It hit him like a puma on his back. The voice did not come from the confessional. In the half light he recognized the small, energetic priest.

  “Brother Antonio Luque!”

  The superior of the Mercedarians of Ibatín, and feared familiar of the Inquisition, looked at him with glacial eyes.

  “You recognized me,” Francisco said after a few seconds, with a forced smile, after stammering a few other sounds that refused to coalesce into words.

  “You look just like your father.”

  “With less of a beard.” He touched it, grimacing.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to confess.”

  “I realize that. I’m asking what you’re doing in Potosí.”

  “I’m passing through.”

  “You’re traveling to Lima, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re looking for your father?”

  “Yes.”

  The severe priest hid his hands in the wide sleeves of his habit. His face was not kind. He looked Francisco over many times, from his copper-colored hair to his worn boots. He used that roving gaze to intimidate his interlocutors, especially when they were taller than him. He did not speak, or welcome words to be spoken. After some time, in a voice so low the young man had to lean in to hear it, he spilled his bile.

  “I know about your trip. In Lima, you’ll find your father—and the Tribunal of the Inquisition.”

  Despite the cold that reigned in Potosí, sweat dripped from Francisco’s head.

  “You should have stayed in the monastery in Córdoba.”

  “I want to study medicine.”

  Brother Antonio Luque furrowed his brow. “Like your father.”

  “He’s not the only doctor.”

  “A doctor like your father.” Luque frowned. “And you’ll probably be other things like him, too—are you already a practicing Jew?”

  The unexpected accusation hit Francisco in the gut. He moved his head. He didn’t know how to answer a priest who was allowed to attack him so unjustly.

  “I—I’ve come here to confess. I’m a good Christian. Why are you insulting me?”

  “You cannot confess.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You cannot confess. You are impure.”

  Francisco thought that the bitter monk might have seen him enter the brothel.

  “I’ve come here to purify myself. That’s why I want the absolution of the sacrament,” he implored.

  “You are impure; your blood is impure!”

  The young man felt another blow to his stomach.

  “Do you understand what I say?” Luque said, unmoved. “You are the son of a New Christian. You are filthy with Judaism.”

  “My mother is an Old Christian!”

  “Was—she is dead,” he continued in a low tone, monotonous, humiliating. “You didn’t stay near her tomb; you travel toward your father, toward the prisoner of the Inquisition.”

  “I’m a Christian. I’m baptized. I also received confirmation. I believe in Our Lord Jesus Christ and His Holy Mother and in all the saints of the church. I want to save my soul! Don’t close the path of salvation to me. I’m a Christian and I want to keep being a Christian,” he said without stopping for breath, his lips dry.

  “Those who have impure blood, like you, your father, and your brother, must do more penitence and acts of virtue than those of pure blood. Also, in leaving the monastery you have shown your paltry disposition toward sacrifice for the faith. I have reasons, therefore, to distrust you and to demand that before you benefit from the sacrament of confession, you tell me the whole truth of your purpose. I want what is best for you.”

  Francisco twisted his fingers, unable to find the best way to react to a man who was exceeding the authority of his role. It was obvious that he had no right to refuse him divine absolution, but he had plenty of power. He had the power to change Francisco’s plans, retain him here in Potosí, defame him, and send him back to Ibatín or Córdoba. There was no other choice but to bow down.

  51

  Francisco was finally able to kneel in the confessional and unload his sin of fornication. He was absolved in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. The penitence of prayers the priest gave him was not burdensome, but rather gratifying. His ears echoed with the phrase, “Go, and sin no more.”

  But the accusatory image of Brother Antonio Luque stayed in his soul. The priest’s steely eyes had seared with an unshakable contempt for his father, his brother, and, surely, all their descendants. Francisco wondered what he could do for God and His ministers to love Him. With what sacrifices could he stop them from constantly reminding him of his origins? Would Antonio Luque pursue him all over the earth, reminding him of his abominable condition? Just as he had appeared here in this church in Potosí, could he also find him later in Lima? Would he once again look at him with disdain and demand more degradations from him than from any other mortal?

  He described his difficulties to Sevilla, who calmly explained that he should not feel weighed down by the contempt of Luque and the many who were like him; they were fanatics who behaved like beasts, with pure aggression and irrationality. His wife María Elena—her name as beautiful as she was herself—knew about these convictions. That was when Francisco discovered that this woman, too, observed Judaism. She was a New Christian and had married Sevilla to preserve her faith. Their two daughters were not yet old enough to learn of this dangerous duality.

  On departing from Potosí, Lorenzo rode between Sevilla’s mules and his friend Francisco, resembling a gentleman flanked by squires. He had no problems of identity or purity; for him, everything was simple. He had toughened up in preparation for future adventures, and now he looked forward to some grand fun at the hot springs of Chuquisaca.

  The Indians walked barefoot beside the mules and ran at a good pace when the animals were able to trot. In silence they invoked their gods when the Christian god grudgingly gave them air. They kept their ears open for orders, because obedience was what guaranteed their precarious well-being. Among them walked José Yaru, who did not talk to them, as words almost never flowed from his mouth, and, also, because it outraged him that they were so opp
ressed. Under his shabby tunic he carried the huaca that he was to give to the Indian chief Mateo Poma in Cuzco. The stone, wrapped in wool, firmly pressed to his skin, filled him with a supernatural power. José could prove how real this resurrection of the old beloved deities truly was; he was sleeping better, he was less tired, he had a healthy appetite, and he had plenty of energy for carrying bundles, pushing mules, and running for miles between these hills as towering as castles that would one day belong to him again.

  52

  Ciudad de la Plata de la Nueva Toledo was true to its name and received the travelers festooned with flags, as there was always an excuse for celebration. Its large homes were magnificent. The house of the president of the Royal Court was completely covered in tiles and silver plating. Almost all the buildings were large and sumptuous, as befitted powerful people.

  The climate was milder here. Beautiful women moved through the streets, escorted by black servants. The esteemed members of the Royal Court could be recognized by their luxurious capes and the greetings they received as they went about their days. There were also many learned men.

  “Diego López de Lisboa,” Sevilla said, “wants to come here to study theology.”

  “He said that?”

  “Don’t you remember? He wants to deepen his Christian faith to erase his roots. But he won’t be able to do it. It’s an indelible mark.”

  “A curse?”

  “Well—neither Job nor Jeremiah called the tests of the Highest One a curse.”

  The inside of the cathedral abounded with mirrors. Large silver pieces surrounded the main altar. Extremely tall candleholders lit the spacious nave by day. Francisco prayed to the Lord that He might shorten their trip; he was dreaming of Lima and of being reunited with his father.

  They continued on to Oruro, where bars of silver were melted. Lorenzo tried to seduce several coquettish women. He was unsuccessful, though he’d been assured that they were quick to hide with a man and quicker still to lure him into matrimony.

  They ascended to La Paz. On the path, some Indian women wrapped in colored ponchos sold them very cold eggs. Francisco learned that before the Spanish conquest these indigenous people had not known that eggs were edible, and they still refused to ingest them. They also saw groups of women examining sieves in the streams, searching for nuggets of gold that they would later turn over to their masters. The yield was negligible. La Paz, nevertheless, glowed like a rich place, its houses laden with decorations. Velvet and jewels were everywhere.

  The caravan moved onward. The travelers took lodging in the pampas of Pacajes, where the columns of forced laborers were gathered before being taken to the mines of Potosí. It was a sad and varied multitude. Each Indian took his wife and children with him. The condemned formed groups identified by a flag; that was the sign they were to follow, the emblem of their tragic destiny. They carried bundles on their backs and dragged a few rams and vicunas with them.

  Sevilla ordered a halt. José had lagged behind, transformed into a statue. Watching that imprisoned, resigned crowd filled him with profound pain. He could neither approach them nor flee, and the mere sight was a torment. Sevilla went in search of him while Francisco thought of him with pity and an ineffable solidarity.

  53

  At Lake Titicaca they were on the roof of the world. Dense caravans lined the edge of the water. The lake was as vast as the sea. Along its glassy surface glided small cane rafts that Indians had been making since time immemorial. The shores were pocked with garlands of mud, like wet cotton.

  José continued acting strangely. One night, he rose quietly, went to a clearing, and kneeled to watch the moon; the cold penetrated his scalp. With one hand he stroked the bundle tied to his chest. Lorenzo remarked on this eccentricity to Francisco.

  “Does he do that every night? Is he worshipping the moon?”

  José dawdled in obeying orders and kept his distance from everyone, including the other Indians. One day, Francisco watched him move away toward the reeds surrounding the lake. The Indian was glancing around him, acting anxious. Had he stolen something? Francisco followed him and bore witness to an alarming scene. José squatted, reached under his stained tunic, and took out a white bundle. He untied it, opened a dark ball of fleece, and delicately took out a stone. Then he rubbed it with corn flour and poured chicha over it. Murmuring something, he placed the white shawl on the damp grass, undid the fleece, and placed the stone on top of it. He gazed at it for a long time, so still that it was as if he himself were also a stone. Then words resounded in falsetto, in Quechua, which made him shake as though operated by springs. His head, shoulders, and legs trembled. Then calm returned. After a while, José returned the stone to the fleece and wrapped the fleece in the shawl. He tied the bundle to his chest and hid it under his tunic.

  This act of sorcery shook Francisco. He had seen something abominable and damning. It would be best to leave and pretend the episode had never happened. But it was too late. José had noticed Francisco and pounced like a feline, knocking him down. José had turned ferocious, like a Calchaquí Indian, shoulders immense, head swollen.

  “It’s idolatry—” Francisco stammered as he tried to break the man’s bestial grip. “It’s dangerous—they’ll burn you alive.”

  José pressed Francisco’s throat with both hands, trying to strangle him. His calloused fingers sank in to the bone. He wanted to kill. Suddenly José released him and stepped back a few paces. His face was awash with fear. Fear that his crime would be discovered and the bundle at his chest wrested away from him.

  “Are—are you going to report me?”

  “It’s idolatry, José,” Francisco insisted as he massaged his neck. “But I won’t report you.”

  The Indian could not overcome his suspicion.

  “I won’t report you, calm down,” he repeated. “But don’t sin again.”

  54

  One of the last stages of the journey passed through the Cordillera de Vilcanota mountains. Sevilla warned that crossing them would be difficult. And, in fact, as soon as they entered the treacherous rocky terrain, rain and hail began to fall. One night, snow covered the entire landscape. The shapes of the mountains guided them. The streams dragged chunks of ice; the wind hurt their skin. They took refuge in a cabin where the proprietors knew the value of a pot full of boiling beans, cabbage, and mutton. The fire and hot soup comforted them. María Elena and her daughters wore so many layers that they looked like swaddled babies.

  The ascents and descents finally delivered them to a gentler climate. They stopped at a couple of posts before arriving at the town of Combapete, which was famous for the longevity of its residents. Many of the people there were over a hundred years old. They laughed with all of their teeth and walked without canes. This marvel announced what followed: Cuzco, the capital of the formerly splendid Incan Empire.

  The sun broke its rays against the towers of the ancient imperial capital. The landscape was magical. The streams had been transformed into canals. The fields stretched out in geometric terraces connected by long stone walls. Short lines of Indians converged there from surrounding areas, bringing food on the backs of llamas.

  They advanced on the zigzagging path until they entered the alleys that in previous times had shuddered with the traffic of Incans and their majestic courts. They crossed several small plazas lined by houses with limestone façades and roofs with rosy tiles. Between the houses stood stables with lambs, llamas, pigs, and chickens. In the main plaza stood the magnificent cathedral. Dozens of mestizos were building a stage in front of the great door, for the great Feast of God.

  Sevilla had proposed that Francisco and Lorenzo stay with him in the spacious residence of his friend Gaspar Chávez, who owned a business that manufactured cloth for many of the region’s merchants. It would be no trouble for Chávez to host them for a few days. José and the rest of the Indians would also find enough space to sleep and eat in the sheds. José was more tense than ever; he had to deliver the huaca.


  Chávez wore a blue felt hat that he never removed, not even to eat or sleep. He’d clamped it on when he went bald, he said, laughing at himself; he’d even learned to bathe with it on. He was missing two lower incisors and, when he spoke, his tongue would escape through the gap. He compensated for this unpleasant feature with his boisterous warmth. He received the Sevilla family with exclamations that could be heard far and wide. He kissed the girls and said that, of course, the two young men could live in his house for as long as they wished to stay in Cuzco.

  “I suppose you’re interested in the Feast of God.” His tongue poked out between his teeth.

  “Yes,” Lorenzo answered.

  “It’s magnificent! A feast of God from the church and the good Christians,” Chávez said emphatically, moving his tongue in a manner that seemed obscene.

  “Have you known him for a long time?” Francisco asked Sevilla later, out of their host’s earshot.

  “Gaspar? Let’s see,” Sevilla said, thinking for a moment. “How old is your brother Diego? Almost twenty-eight?”