Against the Inquisition

by Marcos Aguinis

  They kept sneaking glances at each other. The father, dizzy with sensations, admired his son’s handsomeness: his trim copper-colored beard, his deep and intelligent eyes, his virile shoulders. He was a replica of his own youth. He wanted to ask him about Francisquito, the curious, mischievous, and daring little boy who had been captivated by his stories, and who had so infuriated his teacher Isidro Miranda.

  Through the refracting prism of his tears, Francisco took in the effects of his father’s suffering. What remained of that powerful, cultured man? No more than scars of torment and an abject degradation.

  61

  The viceroy moved his head, and his barber inflicted a scratch on his cheek. He begged his pardon, full of fear, and stopped the blood with a piece of cotton. Then he cropped the sideburns with his razor and painstakingly trimmed the refined beard that fell like a ribbon from the lower lip. He used scissors, a comb, and perfumed egg whites to shape his mustache, twisting the tips into an optimistic upward curve.

  The viceroy’s valet presented his clothes. His Excellence glanced at them, without moving, so that the barber would not reoffend. He approved the chamois gloves, the velveteen shoes, the velvet vest, and the silk shirt. He would also wear, as he always did on these excursions, his high hat, the taffeta collar, and a gleaming jet-black cape. Then he would return to the palace to add the symbols of his investiture, as he was to welcome Inquisitor Andrés Juan Gaitán, who seemed to be in a sour mood. That man was like a splinter under one’s fingernail. “I’ll act with prudence,” he thought.

  Marquis Montesclaros, Viceroy of Peru, came from the best nobility of New Castile. He had enough titles to demolish any adversary. But, in these savage lands, there were plenty of people who hampered his management of things and tried to question the privileges that he rightfully obtained from power. When he was thirty-two, Felipe III had named him Viceroy of Mexico, a nation that he governed for four years, after which he was named Viceroy of Peru. The sovereign often fondly called him “my relative.”

  “The Viceroyalty of Peru is enormous,” the viceroy thinks, “because it begins in the cauldrons of the equator and fades out at the southern pole, tired of mysteries.” I arrived in Lima on December 21, 1607, a date that is well recorded in my memory as, the following day, I took my oath and received a shock that placed the success of my entire enterprise at risk. I had to choose the common mayors, and the feasts of welcome they honored me with concealed their desire to impede the changes I planned to make. They were accustomed to swindling viceroys, and I soured their expectations. That was the first lesson. I gave them the second one when I examined the royal coffers and found them in overwhelming disarray. Those negligent scoundrels tried to confuse me with devious explanations, but I scared them by saying that this evil had a remedy called the court of accounts. Several dignitaries whispered, “Back, Satan!” Then I became involved in the affairs of the court of the consulate, which my predecessors had not managed to set in motion. The opposition to that came from the Indian overseers, who had been bribing government officials and judges to stave off the influence of traders.

  My efficiency has been attributed to my youth. A mistake. It’s not about age, but about taking charge. In Peru, I represent the king; I not only have the right but the obligation to act as though I were the sovereign, as if he were here in the flesh. But I am held back by palace intrigues. I defeat them with my axiom that nobody is more essential than the storekeeper, and as such, I have resolved to be a storekeeper for the king; I cover His Majesty with large sums, to the point where his dwindling incomes depend on my deliveries more each day. In eight armadas alone I remitted ten million pesos of gold.

  People also attribute my sins of the flesh to my youth. As if senile old men didn’t have such sins, when in fact they not only fall prey to vice, but leave the women unsatisfied. Attractive ladies abound in Lima, and they do whatever they can to slide into my bedroom. And that stirs envy. I’m also envied for my poetic gifts. My critics are the dregs of human misery. They forgive me nothing, the rascals. I’ve already heard that they’re working on a trial of residence for when my term is done. They hate me for my good deeds.

  A page helped him dress. Soldiers stood guard just outside the door, where several dignitaries were waiting. Everything was ready for another visit to the splendid stone bridge, one of his most expensive and beloved works.

  Meanwhile, near the palace, the inquisitor Gaitán was putting the finishing touches on the strategy he’d use when, in a couple of hours, he would speak with the viceroy.

  The official retinue, preceded by glistening guards, moved toward the bridge that spanned the Rímac, the torrent that divided Lima, the “singing river.” Connecting the core of the capital with the neighborhood of San Lázaro, its waters flowed over stones and uneven beds of sand, nourishing the dry surroundings. But the river also reached the difficult terrain of the northern valleys, where important parts of the city remained relatively isolated. Marquis Montesclaros had decided to build a construction that could withstand the test of time. “Let it be an immortal stanza.” He had heard of a master mason who lived in Quito and made admirable works. He was warned, however, that there were not sufficient resources to pay for a project of such magnitude. The marquis considered this and, before his interlocutors had finished enumerating the hurdles, he addressed the assistant to his right: “Have the councilmen summon the illustrious builder.” He turned to the assistant to his left. “We’ll obtain the resources through new taxes, and I won’t touch a single coin that belongs to the king.”

  The bridge extended in a triumphant arch, and from its solid height one could hear the Rímac’s song. The parapets on both sides were thick enough to stop the onrush of a careening carriage. On the end that let out into the neighborhood of San Lázaro, two turrets rose, bearing inscriptions that alluded to the bridge’s creation. The viceroy lingered to read them closely, as if to check that no wicked hand had distorted his name or forgotten any of his sonorous titles.

  His entourage believed the outing was ending, but the marquis preferred to walk on. He needed to unwind some more before his meeting with bitter Gaitán. So he continued on to the Alameda, the gorgeous promenade he had ordered to be built along with the bridge. No matter that the austere clergymen deplored the wasting of fortunes on beautifying landscapes in this part of the world. The Viceroyal court, the ministers, the officers and soldiers of the militia, and even the ladies of Lima now enjoyed the pleasures of strolling along this walkway. The rest and conversation facilitated the exchange of glances, which created subtle codes, and those codes, in turn, tended to end in unforgettable transgressions. The mean-spirited liked to say that the Alameda had been built to “count and catch” the women of Lima.

  Finally, he ordered their return to the palace. He once again greeted the slender turrets at the bridge, and turned toward the river. Water carriers and black washerwomen were descending down to the shore. A few riders also led their mounts down to drink. Among them, he spied two young men, arriving from the south, one on a blond steed, the other on a mule.

  62

  “It’s pathetic to argue with these crows,” the viceroy thinks as he settles into his armchair in preparation for the inevitable fight. Nothing is enough for them. If they could, they’d seize all the power of the kingdom and the church. From the beginning they’ve been filled with privileges. And now they can’t be stopped. What’s more, they make sure that their officials, slaves, and servants respond to no one but the Holy Office. Like barbers trying to be judged by barbers, and whores by whores.

  Several of my predecessors begged the king to rein in their arrogance, but it was in vain. With intrigues and terror, they got one royal document after another for their own exclusive benefit. Far from Lima, the familiars of the Inquisition are even more out of line. To the point that the archbishop asked the inquisitors for moderation in defense of its violent, imprudent officers. Useless. The Holy Office is a brotherhood where mere membership is enou
gh to be crowned an angel.

  Thence comes the need for agreements, a kind of judicial poultice to put limits on these beasts. They act superior in both civil and ecclesiastic matters, try to function like the royal court’s older brothers, try to crush the viceroy under the soles of their shoes.

  Through the agreement of 1610, black people under the power of the Holy Office can no longer bear arms, and the inquisitors, though they still have the right to monitor the mail that goes out, can no longer ban its release. And they can’t ban bishops from transferring priests without their consent. And they are also blocked from intervening in university affairs. It’s progress.

  The marquis saw the irritating figure of Inquisitor Andrés Juan Gaitán through the wrought iron door. His face resembled a skull barely wrapped in taut, pale skin, and it contrasted with the black tunic of his investiture. He approached slowly. Even his gait dripped with arrogance.

  As they faced one another they spoke customary greetings. They were clear adversaries, unable to express the extent of their distrust and dislike. Their venomous hostility had to be presented in sheaths of velvet.

  “You were very kind to announce the agreement with drums,” the inquisitor said.

  “All things concerned with the Holy Office are of first importance,” the viceroy retorted cynically.

  “In addition, you distributed copies to private homes—”

  “The public must be informed.”

  “Nevertheless, the agreement has many points that need correction, Your Excellence.”

  “Everything has room for improvement, of course.”

  “That is why I have come. I presume that you recognize the Holy Office’s need for the Viceroyalty’s health.”

  “You presume correctly.”

  “Idolatries are continuing to trouble the souls of Indians, and heresies are doing the same to the souls of whites.” Gaitán paused for a moment before continuing. “We have received word that Jews are continuing to arrive here; no Portuguese is exempt from suspicion. There is also bigamy, and unmarried cohabitation is on the rise. Books full of filth are circulating. We’ve even been infiltrated by Lutherans!”

  “What a catalogue! It’s atrocious. And precise, as well,” the viceroy conceded.

  “We must discuss this.”

  “You have my devoted attention.”

  “Your Excellency, let me get to the heart of the matter: it is dangerous to erode the authority of the Holy Office.”

  “Oh, who would dare!”

  “The most recent agreement, you know—”

  “Yes, it’s a tepid document.”

  “Do you mean to say it is less than harsh with regard to the Holy Office?”

  “I did not mean to imply that, the Lord knows! I was only saying that it does not modify the previous situation in any significant way, for the good of the Holy Office as well as for the good of the Viceroyalty, of course.”

  “Some royal officials believe that this agreement empowers them to arrest officers of the Inquisition. Already, aberrant situations have occurred, which show signs of resentment and cruelty.”

  “I was not aware of this,” the viceroy said.

  “They forget that threatening members of the Holy Office is like threatening the Holy See! It is a sacrilege!”

  “Naturally. I will punish those who have committed such an unpardonable outrage.”

  “I am glad to see such a strong reaction.”

  “It is my duty.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency.” Gaitán pulled at the folds of his tunic and adjusted the heavy cross on his chest. “I have another complaint, if I may.”

  “Go ahead, enlighten me.”

  “The agreement prohibits us from giving licenses for leaving Peru—it removes that privilege from us.”

  “Effectively so.”

  “It is a very grave error.”

  “If you say so—but, what can I do? It is the will of the king.”

  “The licenses we gave for travel allowed us to catch fugitive heretics. When someone requested a license from the Holy Office we could search for his name in the register of testimonies, and, if he had been denounced, that prisoner did not escape.”

  “You are right. And it is unfortunate that the Holy Office should be deprived of such an effective tool. I, however, cannot modify that point,” the viceroy said with swift finality.

  The inquisitor stared at him venomously for a long second. Then he lowered his eyes and, with forced amicability, replied, “To my judgment, you could—in any case, we will speak again. Now I would like to air another complaint: the agreement prohibits us from having armed blacks or mulattoes.”

  “Effectively so.”

  “This privilege should not be annulled. The Inquisition has been operating in Lima for forty years. What is this, a disarmament of the Holy Office?”

  “You surprise me.”

  Gaitán’s eyes were steely blades.

  “You surprise me,” the viceroy repeated. “And you sadden me. Who could be such a pig as to attempt to vex the Holy Office?”

  “This should be corrected, then.”

  “But armed black people sometimes commit violent acts. They are a real danger.”

  “Not when they are accompanied by officials,” the inquisitor replied.

  “I recognize that, in such conditions, the danger lessens, yes.”

  “I ask you, then, for a decree of exemption.”

  “A decree of exemption?”

  “That our blacks can bear arms when accompanying inquisitors, prosecutors, or the highest bailiffs of the Holy Office.”

  “I will reflect on it.”

  Gaitán caressed his cross. He was not satisfied by the response.

  “May I ask His Excellency for a time frame?”

  “I will not give you a time frame, but rather my promise to respond soon.”

  The inquisitor could tell that his audience was drawing to a close. “This cursed poet-turned-viceroy,” he thought, “wants to have the last word and get me out of here without making a commitment. Well, I won’t leave until I’ve thrown a reminder in his delinquent face.”

  The marquis of Montesclaros stood. It was the unmistakable signal. The inquisitor was to do the same and say his goodbyes, in accordance with custom and protocol. But the inquisitor seemed to have fallen prey to sudden blindness; he neither saw him, nor moved, remaining absorbed in the cross that hung against his chest. The power of Caesar and the power of God, competing. Andrés Juan Gaitán, representative of God, was almost God. With a voice that could have risen from the grave, he unleashed his speech. He spoke while seated, as if the floor were his, to a viceroy who was on his feet, tense and trapped.

  “Since the founding of the church,” he addressed his fingers, which were engaged in stroking the cross, “the punishment of heresy has been the domain of priests. To prevent any oversights, Pope Innocent IV created the Tribunal of the Inquisition. Great pope, great saint. And so the Inquisition might not suffer barriers in its sublime task, popes as well as kings have exempted it from civil laws, and even ordinary ecclesiastical ones. Prerogatives, privileges, and immunities, so that the task might help increase the faith. Since affairs pertaining to faith belong, at the end of the day, to the pope, the principal jurisdiction of the Holy Office is ecclesiastic. Civil jurisdiction, on the other hand—that of a viceroy, and that of a royal court, by extension—are below that. Below, well below, just as the earth is below the heavens.”

  He slowly lifted his gaze and feigned surprise. As if he had not realized that he was disrespecting the viceroy. He bowed, savoring his small victory. He turned and walked majestically toward the door.

  The viceroy found himself chewing the aggressive phrase, “All the prerogatives . . . all the prerogatives . . .”

  63

  Diego’s shack was around the corner from the port’s hospital. Francisco struggled to hide the pity he felt for this defeated man who, incomprehensively, walked with a grotesque, swaying ga
it. His perpetually apologetic smile pained Francisco. It was hurtful to see this imitation of the doctor who years ago had stepped so confidently in Ibatín. His muddy hands hung at his sides like rags. He gazed at the ground, unsure of his own sight. He hesitated at his door, which was made of strips of wood held together by a couple of crossbars.

  “Here it is,” he murmured, ashamed.

  He pushed. There was no key, no lock, no bolt, and one of the three hinges was broken. The son was embarrassed by the hole that served as his father’s home. Suddenly, the orange grove of Ibatín glowed before Francisco, its pastel colors brushed with gentle lines of blue. He was dizzied by the intense hallucination. He stepped into the dark rectangle and smelled the dampness. As the light of Ibatín diminished, he made out the partially whitewashed adobe walls, the earthen floor, and the thatch roof through which he spied the eternal clouds of Callao.

  “It never rains,” Diego said by way of justification.

  Francisco took in his father’s possessions, few and shabby: a table piled with papers, books, a tin jug, and a clay pot; a bookshelf with more books, a straw mattress, and two benches—one at the table, the other against the wall. At the far end, a chest sat beside a doorless cupboard. Several nails in the wall served as hangers. Diego removed his sanbenito and hung it on one of those nails.

  He opened his bony arms, as if to say, “Make yourself at home.” A gloomy home, testament to his fall. He drew the second bench toward the table. Then he opened the chest; he was searching for things that might improve their surroundings and express his joy at his son’s arrival. The son, for his part, found his father’s search for ways to welcome him intolerable. It underscored his decline.

  Francisco unloaded his baggage, which the mule, now tied to a post outside, thanked him for with a shudder. He placed his things at the center of the room. The muffled thud drew Diego’s attention. “What do you have in there?” Francisco took out his clothes, the thick Bible, and a sack. He invited his father to approach. He did not understand. Francisco told him to open the sack. “A present?” he wondered, moved. Yes, Francisco would have liked to explain, but his lips could not emit a sound. “Yes,” he thought, “a present from Córdoba, your faithful slave Luis gave it to me before I left and I’ve guarded it like a king’s treasure throughout my travels.”