Diego leaned forward, felt the coarse sack, and immediately his eyes shone with the intensity of the past. His fingers untied the knot and took out a scalpel; he rubbed it on his sleeve and raised it to the light. A smile that was not apologetic finally spread across his face. He placed it on the table as if it were made of glass. He found a cannula, also rubbed it, and made it sparkle in the light. He picked up, caressed, and greeted each piece, as if they were beings worthy of tenderness. He swallowed saliva mixed with silent tears. The brocade case appeared. Wearing an expression of gratitude, he shook it to hear the rattle of the Spanish key.
Then Francisco told him about Luis. It was only right to recount the miracle: how he had hidden the instruments, how he had borne the punishment of Captain Toribio Valdés and the interrogation of the commissioner. But he stopped short of describing his escapades to the slaughterhouse to soothe the family’s hunger through theft. He could not yet descend into the hole of their family’s tragedy; it was unbearable.
“Do you know what? I saw the viceroy. He was crossing the stone bridge. Lorenzo insisted that His Excellency saw him from above, and that his gaze was a clear invitation to join his brigade of officers.”
Francisco said nothing of his fleeting sight of the Palace of the Inquisition, and he dared not mention the apparition of the inquisitor Gaitán. “Lorenzo was a good friend.” He spoke of him again to differentiate him from his father, captain of the Lancers. “I think he’ll have a great career. We’ll hear of his exploits.”
Then he recounted other adventures from the journey. He mentioned the people his father knew: Gaspar Chávez, José Ignacio Sevilla, and Diego López de Lisboa. At their names, Diego’s chin trembled and he lowered his eyes. He said nothing. He said nothing about anything at all. He only listened with interest. He frequently twisted his fingers. For hours, in his damp shack, Francisco’s monologue reverberated. It seemed best, seemed the tolerable thing. The son found himself talking about the Dominican monastery in Córdoba.
“I said goodbye to Brother Bartolomé,” he said, “on whom I performed a bloodletting. Yes, a bloodletting—”
And he became absorbed in retelling the feat, because it was difficult to tell of other things, like the sad end of Isidro Miranda, shut up in his cell as a lunatic. He jumped around, describing his readings, his confirmation, and the appreciation he’d received from the formidable bishop Trejo y Sanabria. Then he couldn’t resist, and spoke of his sisters in the shelter of a convent. “They were well,” he said, repeating his mother’s phrase.
Diego’s eyelids began to rise more frequently. But his gaze conveyed sorrow. Intense, mysterious pain paralyzed his tongue. He could not tell. He could not ask. But he was grateful for this story, which came circuitously and in drops, like water from a bitter fountain. He wanted news of Aldonza, his eyes spoke of it. He wanted to know, because he’d already learned of her death in an abstract way, just as his family had learned of his torments and reconciliation. Francisco could not yet speak of his mother. Instead, he reconstructed the magical visit of Brother Francisco Solano.
“It was an apparition!” he exclaimed. “He was accompanied by his humpbacked assistant, he slept in a basket, and—he criticized the use of the term ‘New Christian,’ Papá!”
He strained to recall the brilliant argument the monk had made against that discriminatory term. Francisco declared that Solano was a saint, that he had worked miracles witnessed by thousands of people. And, in addition to the miracles, he had challenged the rabble by accompanying the family to church through a street teeming with curious onlookers. He told of the picturesque vicar in La Rioja who was accused of being Jewish.
“And the appreciation he had for your gesture, Papá, when you bought the dinnerware of the accused man, Antonio Trelles.”
Again his father raised his eyes, trembling. But could not speak.
Finally, Francisco managed to tell him of the atrocities they had suffered after his arrest, and after Diego’s. Then he dared to go to the core, to the painful depths. He told of the horrors. He wept, cursed, blasphemed, coughed. Until his convulsions began to calm. He dried his cheeks with his sleeve and asked the unspoken question.
“Papá, do you know anything about Diego?”
His father hung his head between his shoulders and placed a hand on his chest. This question had been stabbing at his heart. He covered his contorted face. And he began to weep, at first in isolated sobs, shamed sobs, then with moans, and finally with the roar of a flayed animal.
It was the first time Francisco had ever seen him like this, so broken, and he didn’t know what to do with his words, his fingers, his legs. What could have happened to Diego? Had he died? Had he lost his reason? Had he been locked up again? The collapse of mountains could not have anguished him more than the sight of his father so shattered. Timidly, he placed his hand on his father’s damp back. He was a sack filled with suffering. He calmed slightly, returning the caress.
“He left,” Diego said in a coarse voice, between hiccups. “After finishing his penance in a monastery he asked for authorization to leave Peru . . . they . . . they granted it. He embarked for Panama. He avoided saying goodbye . . . who knows where he is now . . . who knows . . . what’s become of his punished life? I don’t know anything else . . . he never wrote . . . either that or I’m not given what he writes to me.”
He leaned his fists on his knees and stood with great difficulty. He swayed toward the stove, where water was about to boil. Without looking at his son, out of shame, he asked Francisco to hand him dried meat, cabbage, and garlic.
As he cooked, he said that there were candles in the cupboard, a blanket in the chest, and some of that morning’s bread in a basket by the bookshelf. Francisco did not realize, at that moment, that they had begun their dialogue. Elemental and exhausted, but a dialogue nonetheless.
64
Hypocrites! The inquisitor Gaitán devoted his sermon to condemning vanity and arrogance, staring at me. He cited Chapter 6 of Saint Matthew: “When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward.” Who are the ones who like to show off in front of men and receive their honors, if not the inquisitors themselves?
Soon after my arrival, I had to put up with their pretensions. On the first Sunday of Lent, the Edict of Faith was to be read in the main church, as is the custom. The mayors, in a gesture of deference, went to the headquarters of the Holy Office to escort the inquisitors rather than meet them at their respective homes. What stupidity! Why did they try to innovate? The inquisitors were offended by the unexpected change in protocol, and when the entourage was arranged they did not allow the mayors to stand beside them; they ordered them to go in front like inferior officers who open the way and announce their superiors. The mayors were surprised by this harsh treatment, and, with respectful words, said they should keep the places due their station. The inquisitors answered hatefully, insulting and threatening them. The mayors were afraid, but they believed it was still possible to reach an agreement. The inquisitors revealed themselves to be even more offended, and called for them to be chained and imprisoned. In their alarm, the mayors abandoned the procession before they could be arrested, and ran to my palace. I gave them protection, of course, but, to be certain, the matter did not end there.
I wrote to the Holy Office, with flattery and courtesy in my introduction, if we’re going to talk about hypocrites, telling them that, to my judgment, the mayors, in defending their jurisdiction and preeminence, had committed no act of contempt. On the other hand, I told them that they had in fact gone too far in calling for their arrest, as one of the mayors was a gentleman of Calatrava. As a solution, I proposed that the case be forgotten.
The inquisitor Verdugo, yes, as in “executioner”—a fitting surname for such a pious man—responded the next day, flashing with anger, but with a fine sense of irony, since we remain among h
ypocrites. He praised my efforts to strengthen the authority of the Holy Office, a task to which I was obliged as an individual, as the viceroy, and in fulfilling the will of His Majesty, reminding me in passing of my subordinate status. Verdugo deemed the fact that the mayors had not gone to meet them at their respective homes to be extremely serious, and scandalous. From his perspective, such an attitude revealed subversion against the authority of the Holy Office, the desire to obstruct their sacred work, and a poorly concealed hatred. Their behavior had had the aggravating effect of humiliating them publicly by abandoning the procession without permission. In consequence—so his letter concluded—I was to restrain myself and allow the Holy Office to jail them.
The inquisitor’s insolence made my hair stand on end, and, without calculating the risk to my role or to my life, I responded without the customary, polite lies. I said that I could not consent to his meddling in my jurisdiction, because, here in Lima, the representative of His Majesty was none other than myself. I also told him, explicitly, that in this case it was difficult to separate what was essential from what was motivated by self-love. I expressed that it was possible to love and respect the Holy Office without accompanying the most illustrious inquisitors from the doors of their homes for such an ordinary act as the reading of an Edict of Faith. And that it seemed an exaggeration to call the mayors’ behavior an act of contempt, a public scandal, or an opposition or gesture of hatred toward the Holy Office. I proposed to bring the subject to His Majesty’s attention.
This time, the inquisitor was delayed in responding, and he evaluated every word. He wrote that the case of the mayors belonged to the Holy Office and that if I had permitted their arrest, everything would be resolved by now. That he would be glad to put the matter in my hands, except that he was impeded from doing so by duty.
I consulted with the Royal Court, naturally, and a few listeners opined that there was no reason to give in. That was when I received news of the charges those dogs were planning to bring against me, fabricating calumnies that would obliquely reach the Supreme of Seville. I decided to soften my stance, against my convictions and feelings, so that a foolish breach of protocol might not become my unstoppable ruin. I felt such disgust that I wrote to the king, making great effort to maintain norms. I said that those venerable fathers were very jealous of his jurisdiction; behind the criticisms of protocol lay embers of a zeal for halls of power. They were not only competing with me, but also with the church. I was relieved to learn, soon after this, that the Archbishop of Lima felt the same way. He wrote—the archbishop, not I!—that the inquisitors were trying to enjoy the same preeminence as the viceroy.
Lucky for me that the archbishop lives up to the name Lobo Guerrero! He is a wolf warrior, not a cowardly man. But, of course, one of the inquisitors is called Francisco Verdugo. What was God trying to do to me, placing me between a Lobo Guerrero and a Verdugo? It can’t be a mere coincidence.
65
Francisco returned to the empty cell in the Dominican monastery of Lima. As before, Brother Manuel Montes accompanied him, entered first, and confirmed the absence of objects. He ignored the rats.
“You’ll sleep here,” he said coldly, as though it were the first time.
Later, the rats greeted him in a rushing torrent.
At dawn, Brother Martín passed by. The contours of the trees were just beginning to show. He did not greet Francisco, which seemed strange; something serious was happening. Francisco headed toward the hospital. He saw the pharmacy open and inhaled its piquant scent. Brother Martín came running back and collided with Brother Manuel, who was advancing with stiff steps. Martín fell to his knees and kissed his hand. The monk pulled it back brusquely. Martín kissed his feet and the monk reared back.
“Don’t touch me!”
“I’m a mulatto sinner,” Martín said, on the brink of tears.
“What have you done?”
“Prior Lucas is angry because I brought an Indian to the hospital.”
Brother Manuel remained silent, his gaze lost in the distance. Then he leaned away so that the man’s imploring fingers would not reach him, and scurried off to the chapel. Francisco approached Martín, who lay facedown.
“May I help you?”
“Thank you, my son.”
He offered his hand.
“Thank you. I’m an unrepentant sinner,” he scolded. “A foul sinner.”
“What happened?”
“I disobeyed, that’s what happened.”
“The prior?”
“Yes. To save an Indian.”
“I don’t understand.”
“An Indian covered in open wounds fainted at our door last night. I ran to him. He was alive, but exhausted. He only moaned. I went to ask permission of the prior, who was also ill. He denied it, and reminded me that this hospital is not for Indians.” Martín lifted a fold of his tunic and dried his face. “I couldn’t sleep, and it seemed to me that the Lord, through my dreams, was ordering me to help this poor soul. I went to the door. It was the middle of the night, and there he was, lying on the ground, covered with insects. The shadows confused me. I saw Our Lord Jesus Christ after the crucifixion.” He suppressed a sob. “I carried him on my shoulder. He was so light . . . I took him to my cell, attended to him. I sinned miserably.”
“What will you do now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are in sin.”
“Yes. I went to tell the prior, as is my duty. I just went to tell him. He became very angry. And he is very ill. The anger will damage his health. Brother Manuel does not forgive me, either.”
66
The prior’s illness had become a problem for the entire order. Although he took both food and drink—the servants devoted themselves to preparing nutritious stews and bringing him fresh dawn water—he grew worse with each passing day. His rapid decline was accompanied by an accelerated loss of vision.
Francisco felt uncomfortable. Specters seemed to move through the halls. Everyone was in a bad mood, and in the refectory, mealtimes were tense. Additional religious services were held and each person was to feel guilty for the illness. Francisco, too. To drive the point home, Brother Manuel told Francisco that he should perform acts of contrition and liberate himself from the ugliness that lived in his abject blood and that had surely begun to grow since he’d reunited with his father in Callao. Francisco twisted his fingers and prayed a great deal.
The monks flogged themselves to eliminate the sins that were spreading the illness through the prior’s ravaged body. Nocturnal processions took place around the cloister, in tremulous candlelight. They flogged themselves in groups. The dark whips whirred over their heads and struck their shoulders and backs until they bled. Prayers rose in volume until they moved the very heavens. Some fell to the brick floor and licked up the drops of blood, symbols of what Christ had shed, until their tongues became additional sources of purifying hemorrhage.
Francisco attended one of the solemn visits of Doctor Alfonso Cuevas, physician to the viceroy and vicereine. It was his first contact with a high-ranking medical official. After the failure of treatments prescribed by several physicians, surgeons, herbalists, spice sellers, and bonesetters, the Dominican Order had decided to solicit Doctor Cuevas, with the permission of His Excellence. Viceroy Montesclaros had agreed, of course, and the physician began to attend to Prior Lucas. He would announce the hour of his arrival beforehand to give them time to prepare good lighting and a urine sample in a glass container. The monks would become excited, quibbling over which candlesticks, which containers, who would meet the doctor at the front door, who in the courtyard, who at Prior Lucas’s sickbed, and who could hear the doctor’s words after the fact.
When Doctor Cuevas arrived in his carriage, one servant would open the door and another would help him descend. He wore black knee-length trousers and shoes with thick bronze buckles. On his velvet vest there shone a silver chain ornamented with gold. He removed his cape and hat, which a monk would ta
ke from him with a bow. He would cross the cloister like an angel of victory. Francisco would run behind the monks, and, through the shoulders and heads, caught snippets of his intoxicating tasks.
After examining the patient’s appearance and smell, the doctor studied the urine and began to formulate his impressions. This time—he conveyed with a clouded brow—he recognized that Prior Lucas’s state was decidedly grave.
Alarm spread through the priests. Martín bit his lips and pressed Francisco’s arm.
According to Galen’s Articella, Avicenna’s Canon, and the opinions of Pablo de Egina, the physician added, Prior Lucas’s various symptoms called for more prayers than bloodlettings; this was an indirect allusion to a poor prognosis. He said that five disorders had accumulated, all of them beginning with the letter P; he had a “Penta-P.” The doctor listed and translated them for his audience: prurito, itching; polyuria pálida, frequent and discolored urine; polidipsia, thirst; pérdida de peso, weight loss; and polifagia, outsize hunger. In addition, the pulse in his heel had disappeared. The doctor paused again, then cited Hippocrates, Albertus Magnus, and Duns Scotus, concluding that heat should be provided to his leg. If the pulse did not return soon, heroic measures would have to be taken. Then he explained, again quoting the classics, that heroic measures often resulted in a complete cure. He did not yet say what the heroic measure would be. He took out a fragrant handkerchief, elegantly wiped his mouth and nose, and made dietary recommendations: herbal infusions, vegetables, and chicken broth.
Against the Inquisition Page 25