Against the Inquisition

by Marcos Aguinis

  Finally, the cavalry reached the colossal Plaza de Armas. It faced the viceroy’s palace, whose sober lines belied the luxury inside. The cathedral stood beside them, in the same place where the first primitive church had been built at the orders of Lima’s founder. On the other side, the town hall. The political, religious, and municipal powers touched, jostled, competed. The same display as in Ibatín, Santiago, Córdoba, and Salta.

  The plaza dazzled Lorenzo and Francisco. It not only served for processions and bullfights, as in other cities, but also for the Acts of Faith.

  “This is where my father was reconciled.”

  “I wish I could join the cavalry,” Lorenzo sighed, fingering his pilfered cards.

  “I don’t wish to arrive at Callao, where he is now,” Francisco thought.

  Behind them, the wheel of a buggy grazed the edge of the canal that ran down the center of the street and overturned. The next carriage tried to avoid it, but its bronze foot rail got caught and the vehicle became stuck. Immediately, an array of carriages piled up against each other. Two officers made their way through, weapons held high. Furious faces and a few fists poked through the windows. Several gentlemen ran up to watch the incident unfold. Their elegance was striking; they wore short trousers gathered at the knees, with epaulettes three fingers thick on their shoulders, double-soled shoes to better protect from the damp, and gold chains that hung from jacket buttonholes, bearing toothpicks also made of gold.

  Francisco asked for the whereabouts of the Santo Domingo monastery, where he was to find Brother Manuel Montes, just as he’d been instructed in Córdoba by Brother Bartolomé Delgado.

  Within a few minutes they arrived at the church, with the monastery attached. They entered with the solemnity demanded by a sacred place. The altar gleamed; at the opposite end was the choir’s balcony made of engraved cedar. Francisco made the sign of the cross and prayed. Then he walked toward a side door and slid back the bolt noiselessly. A forest of lights assaulted him; where he’d thought he’d find the courtyard he instead saw sapphires and rubies shining on panels of gold. He blinked, blinded. At the center of the cloister rose palm trees flanked with potted blue, yellow, and red flowers. He advanced, afraid of breaking a spell, approached the wall, and stroked the cool surface. The tiles had been made in Spain, and had only recently been installed.

  Lorenzo swayed at the sight of the treasure, and grazed it with his nails; perhaps he could pry out a gem or two that seemed concealed beneath the glaze. Disappointed, he urged his friend for them to return to the main plaza, where it was more fun.

  “You’ll find your monk soon enough.”

  No priest appeared so Francisco followed his friend to the noisy street.

  They crossed a fabulous stone bridge, arrived at the Alameda refreshed by the trees and fountains, and gazed on the majestic passing entourage of Viceroy Montesclaros and his court of nobles, pages, and gentlemen who competed for proximity in order to say a few words in his presence. Then they went down to the Rímac River and drank alongside their mounts. The viceroy, on his way back to his palace, lingered at a turret of the bridge to read his name and titles etched into the stone. Then his gaze roved down toward the water carriers, the black washerwomen, and the two friends beside the Rímac.

  Lorenzo saw him. In a low voice, he proclaimed, “He saw me! The viceroy laid his eyes on me!”

  He already felt that he belonged to the royal militia. His future was assured.

  58

  It anguished Francisco to reach Callao, even though the port had been the goal of his long journey: it was where his father was. He was anguished over finding Brother Manuel Montes, but he had promised to do so. He did not want to pass the fearsome palace of the Holy Office, even though curiosity devoured him. Finally, he decided to face all three challenges.

  Lorenzo wished him luck. He gave him a mule as a gift, as the two that remained and the beautiful horse were enough to present himself with dignity before the chief of the militia. Lorenzo understood that the gaze the viceroy had bestowed from the bridge was already his certificate of admission. He was going to eradicate idolaters, fight against pirate raids, and domesticate rebellious Indians. He would have a brilliant military career.

  They embraced, and then Francisco, tugging at his mule, headed toward the place he had tried to imagine in his nightmares—the Palace of the Inquisition.

  He walked along the street that his father and brother had surely traversed on their way to jail. It was an active road, with no traces of the captives. On the mule’s back he had securely tied the saddlebags containing the medical instruments, the case with the Spanish key, and the Bible. On turning a corner the mule stopped, and Francisco felt the same shock. The building was extraordinary. Below the elevated religious image glittered the maxim Exurge Domine et Judica Causam Tuam (Rise, Sir, and Defend Your Cause). A pair of spiral columns guarded the carved panels of the colossal door, through which dignitaries and their fearful powers came and went. A black-caped figure approached the door, which half opened to allow swift entry. The door closed. The air around Francisco turned chilled; he had seen no one less than the famous inquisitor Gaitán. Francisco was afraid and automatically raised his hand to the mule’s back—the medical instruments and the key were gone! He felt for them again, loosened a rope, inserted his hand. No. They were there. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his heart beat against his ribs.

  A long and sinister wall extended from the palace. “That must be where the torture chambers were,” Francisco thought, “and the infinite dungeons.”

  Oppressed, he returned to the monastery. He crossed the church and entered the luminous cloister. The tiles burned. This time, he found Brother Manuel Montes, who welcomed him with restrained courtesy. Had he been expecting him? His skin seemed like a mask of death. His eyes, hidden in the depths of their sockets, seemed covered by a whitish film. There was something mummy-like in his appearance. Why had Brother Bartolomé ordered him to present himself to such a cold, disagreeable priest?

  Brother Manuel, without asking questions, guided his young guest to a cell at the very back of the monastery, devoid of objects—no mattress, no mat, no bench, no table. It was a narrow hole in the wall with a single high window.

  The clergyman entered first, and stared at the packed dirt floor as if counting tiles that did not exist. Then, with a slowness that increased the oppressiveness, he examined each of the four walls, whose adobe seemed to shrink back in shame. What was he looking for? Finally, he studied the cane ceiling crossed by a few beams.

  “You’ll sleep here,” he said without emotion, his voice as funereal as his face. “After three days you’ll go to Callao.” He paused and looked him in the face for the first time. “And in half an hour you’ll dine in the refectory.”

  Francisco placed his bundles on the floor and went to wash up. Why did he have to wait three days longer to be reunited with his family? On the way to the fountain, he discovered a corridor that led to the monastery hospital. It had a good reputation, according to what he’d heard in Chuquisaca and Cuzco. His father had wanted to create one in Potosí, for the Indians, but he could not get enough support. This one, on the other hand, was for monks and, especially, for the prelates and important men of Lima. He moved timidly down the corridor, which let out on an inner courtyard lined with patients’ rooms. He saw the pharmacy—a room full of bottles, jars, urns, pots, and tubes. On a table stood a scale with a long handle and an hourglass. To the side, water tubes twisted and turned.

  He felt someone breathing at his side. A hallucination? It was a black man dressed in the habit of the order, looking at him with tranquil eyes. Could a Dominican monk be black? Were the norms so different in Lima? The hallucination spoke, amicably. He asked whether he could help with anything.

  “N-no. I was just exploring—I’ll be staying the night, at the invitation of Brother Manuel.”

  “It’s all right, my son.”

  He was not black, but rather mulatto.
And he wore the tertiary habit, the one worn by the lowest rung of the order, with a worn white tunic, black scapular, and black cape, but without the hood of a priest. His African roots surely prevented him from becoming a regular monk.

  “Do you need some kind of remedy?” he asked.

  “No. I just wanted to see the hospital. I’ve never seen one.”

  “Oh, it’s very simple. I believe all hospitals are the same. I am the barber of this one.”

  “Yes? I also want to become a barber, or surgeon, or doctor.”

  “Congratulations! We need pious doctors and surgeons. There are many charlatans, do you know? And they do great damage.” His eyes shone brightly. “Are you studying?”

  “I want to start.”

  “Congratulations, my son. Congratulations.”

  “Brother Manuel ordered me to go to the refectory. Forgive me, I’m going to get ready.”

  “Very well. You should do so.”

  Francisco returned to his cell and took out the clothes he had washed on the road. He changed and went to dinner.

  He looked for Manuel Montes and the mulatto. Another monk showed him where to sit, as if they had reserved his place. Did the whole order know of his presence? Dozens of eyes looked his way. Why were they staring so gravely? Was it possible that they were already accusing him of something?

  He was familiar with the rituals of refectories. He had partaken in them at the Dominican monastery in Córdoba. But this dining room was more sumptuous and brightly lit by large torches. Here the benches were made of carved wood and the floor was smoothly tiled. There were also more clergymen. The monks stayed standing beside the tables, faces hooded, hands hidden beneath their scapulars. A monk intoned the Benedicte. Another sang the Edent pauperes. They all sat down.

  As a priest read aloud in Latin from a pulpit, servants glided silently with their laden trays. They carried casserole pots full of steaming animal innards. The diners’ spoons began to move after the benediction and a special prayer for the recovery of the order’s prior, Father Lucas Albarracín.

  The word of God descended monotonously, interceded by the slurps of hungry mouths. Francisco glanced from side to side, confirming that the monks were still watching him.

  He found Brother Montes. Not the mulatto, who entered later with a tray. He was a member of the order, but he also worked as a servant. They called him Brother Martín.

  59

  After the service, Francisco returned to his desolate cell. He found a candle, moved his baggage to the side, and lay down by the wall. The damp roughness eased his feeling of helplessness. The adobe wall felt, to him, like a mule’s back: tough and trustworthy. Did a few steps’ distance separate him from another cell? Did some servant sleep there? He wondered what the reasons were for this mysterious isolation in which they preferred to keep him, and why they detained him in this city, as if it hadn’t already been enough years that he’d lived far from his father, or months that he’d spent traveling to get here.

  He thought he heard the snores of a servant on the other side of the wall. The darkness was slightly lifted by the narrow little window. Frogs croaked near the well. The snores increased, and they were not, it turned out, from one person, but from several. The thick wall had transformed into a sheet that transmitted and magnified sound. The snores no longer sounded rhythmic or placid, but torrential. They evoked the swelling of Río del Tejar in Ibatín.

  They were not snores, however, but rats. Rats running through the pipes, rafters, walls, and floor—and on Francisco’s legs and neck. They unleashed avalanches of noise. They wanted to explore the territory the young man had invaded.

  Francisco moved slowly. It would not serve him to declare war. He wanted to convince them to accept him as a neighbor. The rats alternated the caresses of their velvety bodies against the intruder’s chest with the fleeting pinches of their nails. Every once in a while they stopped, and, turning brusquely, struck him with their long tails. Gritting his teeth, he allowed them to run over him and accept him. After hours of insomnia and resistance, he was overcome by sleep.

  The following nights were more peaceful.

  Brother Manuel made him confess before leaving for the port. He wanted to know what he had touched with his hands. Francisco did not understand him, and answered, “Rats.”

  The cadaverous monk remained silent. His long pauses were painful. Then he made a request, his voice extraordinarily kind: “Pray for our prior’s health.”

  60

  Francisco traveled through the crowds at the port of Callao without stopping, looking around anxiously; any back could be his father’s. Carriages rattled by, bearing baskets overflowing with fish whose silver scales inflamed the greed of thrill seekers. Beside the docks, several galleons swayed, their sails rolled up. Squat warehouses lined the coast.

  He had never been so close to the ocean. The fresh, salty air elated him. That blue surface reaching out to the straight line of the horizon possessed a startling majesty. Not far away, an island arose. Between that island and the harbor, canoes and fishermen’s boats moved to and fro. He had reached the arrival and departure place for everyone and everything, from viceroys to Angolans, from tallow for candles to the precious metals from the mines. Here, riches and ambitions came and went. It was the great gate that connected the Viceroyalty of Peru to the rest of the world.

  He walked southward because he wanted to touch the water. The waves unfurled like rugs over the sand that appeared beyond the docks. Flocks of birds descended toward the undertow. He stepped onto the beach and his feet sank pleasurably into the soft surface. It was an unprecedented sensation. He faced the undulating foam and put a foot into the cold water. He was touching something that had possibly kissed the coasts of Spain, China, the Holy Land, Angola. He rolled up his cotton trousers, walked in further, and wet his face and neck. He licked the salty drops. A fisherman gestured to him from his unstable boat as if greeting him in the name of fabulous underwater beings.

  He turned, gaining sight of a different landscape. There was Callao, as seen from the water and the south; it was a cluster of polyhedrons attached to a vast dock at one end, and the main church on the other. This was where his father must be, because that was what the Inquisition had declared, and what Manuel Montes had confirmed. His desire to see him was so intense that he didn’t dare ask for him. He feared a terrible surprise; he had become reconciled by the Holy Office, and reconciliations, though considered pardons, still carried the stigma of a crime that nothing and no one could erase. He surely wore the sanbenito, that disgraceful scapular that hung to the knees and announced the wearer’s humiliated state. Those who were shamed with this piece of clothing had to wear it forever, so that the faithful might heap their contempt on them. And after the person’s death, the sanbenito was hung by the door of the church with the name of the former wearer written in giant letters, so his descendants would also suffer.

  He returned to the docks, walked through a kaleidoscope of cargo, and paused beside a pair of cannons. His eyes looked frenetically over the bustling crowd. Why was he looking for him on the street? His workplace was the hospital. Francisco realized that he was purposefully going in circles because he was afraid of discovering his father.

  In a corner of the port, a beggar fingered scraps of food under a crown of flies. The terrible sanbenito covered his clothes. His disheveled dirty white hair fell over cheeks pocked with scars and warts. Was this what remained of his father? He approached slowly. The man was isolated by an invisible barrier that only the flies would cross. Francisco stopped a couple of paces away. The beggar looked at him indifferently. This wasn’t his father—those weren’t the eyes, nose, lips, ears, or cheekbones. He turned away. “I need to prepare myself,” he thought. “They may have devastated him as they did this poor man.”

  He pulled on his mule. They turned into an alley. Excrement compelled him to cross the canals many times. He glimpsed a church and a monastery. There, behind the undulating garden
wall, stood the Callao hospital. His quickened pulse made him walk faster.

  He had to repeat his father’s name to the servant who inexplicably stood watch at the door. The servant addressed a hunched man who came to meet the visitor. He swayed back and forth as he walked, as if his feet were failing him. As the light from outside fell on his features, Francisco recognized him. The years seemed to have compressed him, making him less tall, graying his hair and beard, wrinkling his skin, sharpening his cheekbones. They stared at each other in amazement.

  The man’s lips trembled as he whispered, “Francisco?” To convince himself, he had to say the name again. Francisco basked in his father’s gaze but also took in the stained sanbenito that made a mockery of his dignity. They clasped each other’s hands. The young man noticed that they were the same hands as before, only bony, weak. The men stood like two trees at the center of a storm howling with memories, questions, jubilation, and dread. They each felt lashed by uncontainable emotion. They stoically held back the words and sobs roiling inside them, straining to spill out. Diego Núñez da Silva finally stepped forward and embraced his son. He broke the caution he’d been keeping to avoid staining him with his sanbenito. Then he invited him to sit down on a stone bench.