Against the Inquisition

by Marcos Aguinis

  “Do you know why they are the castigated ones?” asked Joaquín.

  “Bishop Trejo y Sanabria explained to me, a long time ago, that Noah cursed the descendants of his insolent son, Ham.”

  “Ham the black man,” Joaquín mused. “‘May his seed serve the seed of Shem and Japheth.’ From there comes the rationale for justifying slavery, of course. I’ve heard that in several sermons.”

  “That’s the explanation that eases the conscience of slave traders.”

  “You don’t consider it valid, then?”

  “The Bible is full of curses and blessings,” I stammered. “Sometimes they contradict each other.”

  “Sometimes they’re used to support whatever is convenient. But wasn’t slavery enough of a plague, to then impose leprosy on top of that? I’m asking you this without ulterior motives. I don’t have the answer.”

  “I don’t either, Joaquín. God is omnipotent and our small brains barely register the experiences of a brief life.”

  “Do you smell the stink?” He inhaled deeply. “It’s like hell. Are you willing to keep going?”

  “I am willing,” I said, indifferently. “We might even be infected.”

  “It’s been half a century since lepers appeared and were piled into this pigsty. It’s strange that in all that time not a single white person has contracted the disease.”

  “It could still happen.”

  The crowding of huts barely left room for narrow alleys through which dirty drainage ditches ran. A few healthy-seeming children rushed toward us. We were a rare visit. From peripheral corners, men and women poked their heads out, wearing once-white tunics that announced their status as lepers, as law required. A woman ran after a boy who was trying to grab my doublet. She reached out her hand and seized him by the neck; she was missing two fingers and had calcareous stains on her skin. She caught my look of surprise and immediately disappeared. Then we were passed by a man without a nose.

  Spectral figures rose out of the walls. A few columns of smoke conveyed the nearby presence of cooking fires and ovens for bread.

  We continued toward the chapel. My depression began to mix with consternation. There were limbs reduced to stumps, wounds infected with lice, rotted flesh that left bones exposed to the air. I pushed Joaquín to prevent him from colliding with a legless dwarf approaching quickly on a wheeled plank. From this side and that, people emerged, barely disguising their loss of eyes, fingers, ears, or chin. Their forearms had been subject to spontaneous amputations that belied the body’s supposed unity.

  Those bodies, like dolls that could be dismantled, also formed families and had children who were healthy, for a while. Their souls needed sustenance, just as all souls did. Priests, however, found no way of offering them the necessary attention. Every once in a while the bravest ones, protected by crosses and rosaries, dared venture to the chapel while a few altar boys, wielding sticks, beat back the scoundrels who tried to touch their habits.

  “Brother Martín de Porres has also come,” Joaquín remarked.

  “He’s been reprimanded for it every time. They told him that he could infect the hospital.”

  “He’s kept coming anyway. Wherever there is suffering, he appears.”

  “He is an exceptional soul,” I said.

  Joaquín found the man who had brought joy to his childhood. He was seated on a rock beside his shack. He seemed anchored in putrefaction. He had neither hands nor feet. His face had a terrible hole where his nose should have been. He raised his eyes at the sound of his name, and smiled a bright, toothless smile. He reached his stumps out toward Joaquín. My classmate clasped the left one, which had a greenish wound.

  “It’s infected you again,” he lamented.

  Around the wound, the skin was hard and cracked, like wood. Joaquín opened his case of instruments to begin the medical treatment.

  Shouting arose at the far end of the alley. Suddenly, a torrent of lepers, waving their dirty tunics, lunged toward us, pursued by officers on horseback. Cripples and blind men and women toppled onto us like split trees. The dust cloud barely hid the officers’ arms as they ruthlessly beat the lepers they were trampling.

  We pressed against the uneven wall of the shack. Two black men without tunics leapt on the terrified lepers. The police were clearly trying to capture them. The agile fugitives saw us and exchanged a glance. Suddenly, I felt the breath of one of them on my cheek and his blade at my throat. We became hostages. The riders stopped, intensely irritated. They were all yelling. The officers’ curses blended with the threats of our captors. The blade was hurting me.

  “Drop the knives, murderers,” a soldier commanded.

  “Go away! Go away!” the black men replied, gasping.

  One of the officials was Lorenzo Valdés. I later learned that they’d been pursuing the two men all the way from the bridge, where they had stabbed a gentleman. They had tried to disappear among the lepers. Both were strong. In his panic, my captor did not notice that the tip of his blade was cutting my skin. Everything was happening at vertiginous speed, something nicked my ear, and an instant later I felt a dull blow. My captor loosened his grip. I turned, and my ear knocked against the spear that had penetrated his skull. He collapsed, slowly. From his curly hair blood flowed, along with cerebral matter. Joaquín’s captor, paralyzed with terror, surrendered.

  Lorenzo dismounted.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, running a finger over the drops of blood on my neck.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The uniform gave him an impressive bearing. Even the wine-colored stain on his face seemed to have faded.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a doctor now, don’t forget that,” I explained, making a face.

  He clapped my back affectionately. “These murderers were trying to hide among the lepers.” He gestured toward the soldiers to remove the corpse.

  “It wasn’t such a bad idea.”

  “They thought we wouldn’t dare enter—”

  “They didn’t know you.”

  He clapped my back again. “Francisco”—he leaned in close to my ear—“I know you’re leaving for Santiago de Chile.”

  “No lack of spies, not for you, eh?”

  “Thank God—and my own scruples.”

  “You think it’s a good place for me?”

  He smiled. “As long as you don’t venture among the Arauco Indians. The Calchaquí Indians who terrorized Ibatín are angels in comparison.”

  “I’m talking about the city of Santiago.”

  “They say it’s beautiful. And that its women are beautiful.”

  “Thanks for the information.”

  “But seriously, now, Francisco.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing in leaving. The new viceroy, who demands to be called ‘Prince,’ gets along famously with the Holy Office. That wonderful relationship will mean—well, you know.”

  He mounted. His svelte horse pirouetted down the dirty alley and almost knocked down the wall of a shack.

  “Be careful!” he exclaimed, trotting into the distance.

  They take him to the Monastery of San Agustín. They’ve already reserved a cell equipped with shackles. Francisco offers no resistance. He gives the impression of being in some kind of hurry. He tells the monk who shackles his hands and feet that he is ready to address the authorities.

  Jerónimo Espinosa is received in the room by Brother Alonso de Almeida, examiner of the Holy Office, tasked to judge a prisoner’s condition and evaluate the theological implications of the circumstances. The notary, who was dragged from his bed, can’t stop yawning. The examiner orders the sergeant to turn over the confiscated possessions. The notary scratches his quill against the long parchment; the inventory raises no objections whatsoever. There are two hundred pesos, two shirts, two short trousers, a pillow, a mattress, two sheets, a pincushion, a blanket, quilting, and the monkish robe with no buttons or buttonholes that Francisco will wear in priso
n.

  Jerónimo Espinosa obtains a receipt bearing an official seal, and can return to Concepción. He feels relieved. He has not, of course, imagined that he is on the verge of losing his captive.

  89

  The day after my arrival in Santiago de Chile, I went to visit its only hospital. It had twelve beds, a few sheets, and no more than five chamber pots for the patients to share among them. The supply of surgical instruments was reduced to three syringes and two thin, sharp knives. I spoke to the barber Juan Flamenco Rodríguez, who encouraged me to present myself for the open position of senior surgeon. He said that there was a great deal of work and a need for a trained professional with university credentials. Juan Flamenco guided me through the dirty nooks and crannies of the building, lamenting as we passed the empty pharmacy, “We don’t even have a decent supply of herbs.”

  I interviewed with the authorities, showed them my diploma from the University of San Marcos, told them of my experiences in the hospitals of Callao and Lima, and even offered to use my own instrument case. They received me with relief and never tired of repeating how fortuitous my arrival had been. Since the governor had founded this hospital, and another to the south in Concepción, they’d never been able to secure a university-trained professional. I would be the first legitimate doctor in Chile. This warm reception gave me strength to bear the discouragements of bureaucracy, which were part and parcel of life throughout the Viceroyalty.

  In mid-1618, a special session of the local municipal council took place, during which it was officially stated in writing that the Santiago hospital needed a doctor. An attorney was tasked with gathering the funds for my salary. But I had to wait eight months before the “urgent matter” was discussed again and the plan finally approved for me to serve alongside the barber Juan Flamenco Rodríguez. And even then, the bureaucratic proceedings weren’t over; the governor’s signature was still needed. The governor spent most of his time combating the Arauco Indians in the south.

  Juan Flamenco shrugged. “All we can do is wait.” Then he winked at me. “You can’t attend to patients in the hospital until the decree is signed, but you can give me advice on difficult cases.”

  I began to offer my services to the city’s residents, backed by a dazzling diploma, replete with seals and signatures. The good women of the city spread word of my merits.

  I had the prudence to silence my criticism of any witch doctors, quacks, or enema providers who prospered by promising miraculous cures. My circumstance as a Marrano taught me silence as an essential tactic.

  In August of 1619—more than a year had passed!—Governor Lope de Ulloa signed the decree of my appointment. Could I now take charge of the hospital? The unbelievable answer: no. It was necessary for the document to arrive in Santiago, as it had been signed in Concepción. Once received, the bureaucracy then had to create an act of appointment. For this to be completed, the file circulated to several desks over the course of five additional months. I thought it best to forget the decree, the hospital, and my early enthusiasm.

  In mid-December, I received, at last, word that the act of my swearing-in was being organized. A special act? Yes, special. A flamboyant affair. A show, as Joaquín del Pilar would have put it. The town council, judiciary branch, and a military regiment were all summoned to appear in full regalia. Officials sat in high-backed chairs beneath the standards of the king. A haughty official read the decree, which ordered, on my behalf, “all the honors, graces, favors, preeminence, liberties, prerogatives, and immunities that should by reason of this office be enjoyed, with no lack of anything whatsoever.”

  Juan Flamenco smoothed his mustache, smiled mischievously, and said that he’d already reserved a few difficult cases for me.

  90

  The loud, insistent knocks threatened to beat down the door. I sprang from the bed and approached it, hands extended. The thick night disoriented my steps. I opened, a barely visible hooded figure filled the frame.

  “The bishop is in grave condition,” he said, gasping.

  “I’m coming,” I answered.

  I dressed rapidly and collected my instrument case. I followed him with long strides. The streets of Santiago were deserted, weakly silvered by the moon. Before we caught sight of the bishop’s residence, two more men came out to meet us.

  “Faster!” they urged.

  We broke into a run. A small group holding lanterns stood guard at the door. They guided me quickly to the prelate’s bedroom. Every ten yards there was a monk bearing a lit candle.

  “Give him a bloodletting, Doctor! It’s urgent. He’s dying,” his bedside assistant begged.

  I sat by the bed and asked for more light. I was before the feared blind bishop of Santiago de Chile, the former inquisitor of Cartagena. His skin was as white as his pillowcase. His sparse ash-colored hair stuck to his sweaty face. I took his pulse, which was weak. I touched his wet forehead. His eyes were half open; in place of pupils, I saw a limestone-colored stain. This helpless man had been a whirl of fury two days earlier, Sunday, hurling lightning bolts at a congregation crouched in fear. During that tempest nobody would have imagined him in bed, anemic, almost felled by his own threats.

  “He’s already bled a great deal,” I said, gesturing with my chin toward the chamber pot on the floor.

  “That’s not blood from his veins,” the assistant ventured. “It’s shit.”

  “Yes, but it’s shit with blood in it. Black blood. He’s shitting blood, you understand? His pulse is weak and this bodes poorly for another extraction.”

  “What will you do, then?”

  “We’ll give him milk to calm his stomach. And we’ll place cold cloths on his abdomen.”

  The assistant did not understand, so I added, “At the same time, we’ll warm his chest, arms, and legs.”

  “It’s too cautious a remedy for such serious symptoms,” he grumbled.

  “That’s true,” I answered, “but my orders shall be carried out.”

  The man bowed at the firmness in my voice and left to relay the order. The old prelate began to search for my hand between the folds of the sheet.

  “Well done, my son,” he whispered. “They do not yet know how to obey.”

  “They are very worried about your health, Your Eminence.”

  “As am I . . . I am sick of bloodlettings.” He could barely speak.

  “You’ve had a severe intestinal hemorrhage. It’s not possible to justify removing more of your blood now.”

  “What is a . . . severe . . . intestinal hemorrhage like?” he asked, with great effort.

  “Black, very black.”

  “I eliminated black blood, very black? Then I have been purified. Black blood . . . bad blood.” He sighed.

  “I advise you not to tire yourself, Your Eminence.”

  “They tire me more, those imbeciles.”

  His face was that of a man subjected to perpetual tests. His warped forehead was creased at the center, his hirsute eyebrows furrowed. I had heard him preach, red with rage. He had demanded humility and alms at the top of his lungs. He threatened the congregation with illness, drought, and catastrophes. He declared that he’d called for a list to be drawn up of those who had not tithed, to curse them in his prayers. He was a pestle, turning the paralyzed multitude into something worse than powder.

  A bedbug bit my wrist. I pulled it off and crushed it against the floor. The prelate interpreted the sounds.

  “You just killed a friend,” he said.

  “A bedbug.”

  “A saintly friend.”

  “If Your Eminence will not take offense,” I stammered, “I will tell you something.”

  “Speak.”

  “I see too many bedbugs in these sheets. They do not help your convalescence. You need repose, relaxation.”

  His opalescent eyes blinked. His thin lips moved without making a sound as they searched for an adequate response.

  “I won’t allow them to be removed,” he said at last, voice gravelly. “
They bite my flesh to clean my soul—and, also—they are God’s creatures.”

  “They do not let you rest.”

  “They break . . . my dreams. You understand?” he added angrily.

  I did not understand. I helped him drink the milk and showed his assistant how to apply the cold cloths on his abdomen as I warmed the rest of his body.

  His progress was good. The hemorrhaging ceased. In my subsequent visits, I observed that the austere bishop appreciated my professional authority. One afternoon, out of the blue, he asked whether I would consider getting married. I gave a start; this man saw everything. After my surprise over his untimely curiosity, I confessed that something agitated me: I felt very attracted to the governor’s daughter. He studied me for a long time.

  “I appreciate your sincerity, Doctor. But I already knew that.”

  “You were testing me, then?” I smiled uncomfortably.

  “We are always being tested before the Lord.”

  “I still have not had any response from her father, however,” I remarked, not measuring my words.

  “The governor is her adoptive father.”

  “But he acts as though he were her real father.”

  “Yes. I infer that there will be no objections. Even more, he would like for you to join his family—once, of course, you can agree on the dowry.”

  “I don’t have much to offer.”

  “Don’t be stingy! You are a good professional and will earn a great deal. From this, I say your donations to the church will be steady, as for everyone else! I want your hand to be as generous with money as it is skilled with disease.”

  “I will try, Your Eminence, I will try.” Another bedbug bit me and I crushed it with a loud slap.

  “Do not murder a saint!” he protested angrily.

  “They are virulent.”

  “Marvelous! They break my dreams.”

  “I am sorry, but I do not understand, Your Eminence.”

  His mouth twisted. “They break my dreams. Dreams are like a shell inside of which we are Lucifer’s victims. We roll within that deceitful concavity, with nowhere to land. Our voice has nobody to hear it and our strength is less than a gust of air. Inside that shell the devil does whatever he wants to us, according to his whim.”