Against the Inquisition

by Marcos Aguinis

  In July of 1638, after almost twelve years of anguish, Isabel succeeds in approaching the nightmarish place where her Francisco is locked up. She has traversed the same land and the same stormy waters that he did. If he is still alive, she is only a few yards away from him.

  Will they let her see him? Speak to him? Embrace him? Her mind fills with the idyllic moments they enjoyed together from the first time their eyes met, full of surprise and tenderness. Now she would be happy just to hear his voice through a closed door, to read a sheet of paper written in his tidy hand, or to look for one second into his diamond pupils. At the start of their separation, Isabel was haunted by images of the brutal arrest. But later, bittersweet memories took hold, full of nostalgia; their bites were no less painful than the nightmares. Day and night, she wondered what she could do to help him. And the only response that beat in her chest was—nothing! This was confirmed by the few neighbors who didn’t turn their backs on her and by her friendly confessor. All she could do was appeal for that which may legally be within her rights and, praying to God, place her trust in miracles.

  It is already a miracle for her to be in Lima, so close to Francisco.

  At last, the letters of recommendation reach the inquisitor Juan de Mañozca. He takes time to reflect on them and, at the end of Mass, decides to receive her.

  The woman is brought in by armed guards. She no longer possesses the beauty of her youth, but, despite the gray streaks in her hair and her early wrinkles, one can clearly see that she is someone who once stirred the lust of men. Her bewildered mind is full of the words she’s practiced since leaving Valparaíso. She cannot believe what is happening; in recent years she’s been made to feel like a contemptible wife and mother, and now an imposing guard is steering her toward one of the most feared authorities in the Viceroyalty. He is guiding her, taking care of her. When she enters the sumptuous room she falls to her knees, not knowing what posture to take before this grand presence. A clerk invites her to sit and, at a cold gesture from the inquisitor, opens the parchment and, in a weak voice, reads the tremulous request written in her name by the commissioner in Concepción.

  The letter says that she is the legitimate wife of Doctor Francisco Maldonado da Silva, and, “in accordance with the law,” she begs to have returned to her the confiscated goods that did not belong to her husband, but to her own dowry, “namely the items listed in this text that I present with all the necessary oaths . . . I ask and beg Your Honor to please himself in doing as I request, because I am poor, and suffering due to many needs and having no other assets than the ones that belong to me from the aforementioned dowry.”

  With his fist, Mañozca stifles a burp that reminds him of the chocolate he just drank and, anxious to get this minor proceeding over and done with, instructs the secretary to name Manuel de Montealegre as “defender of those goods,” for his further investigation. Isabel, moved by the swift decision, cannot contain her cry of surprise and gratitude. The judge has listened! He wants to help her.

  In a few days, with unusual speed, Manuel de Montealegre gives his verdict: the request is denied. He emphasizes that there is no evidence that the dowry money entered the Holy Office, and, in addition, the main trial, that is to say, the trial of Francisco Maldonado da Silva, is not yet over. With what money are they to keep covering the costs that he still generates? Mañozca reads the verdict and puts it on the table, making a face; Montealegre is a good official who knows how to kill a foggy argument with an irrefutable reply. But in truth, the trial of Maldonado da Silva finished five years ago, with a death sentence, and the dowry money not only came in, but now belongs to the Holy Office. The Holy Office needs more money than ever for its immediate actions, and it’s no time to squander it on refunds to women of questionable faith.

  Gaitán finds out that Mañozca turned to Montealegre to satisfy a request from Francisco’s wife. In the tribunal’s next private meeting, he expresses his distaste. Mañozca stays calm and says he has fulfilled his duties of Christian piety. His adversary reminds him that piety should not confuse soldiers of Christ. Mañozca replies that he is not confused, and at that very moment he decides to grant Isabel Otáñez another hearing to resolve her request “in accordance with the law.”

  “There are laws that harm the church!” Gaitán yells.

  In this manner, then, thanks to Mañozca’s need to contradict the severe Gaitán, fragile Isabel is able to meet with him again. The inquisitor doesn’t tell her that her cause will end badly, but rather makes a date two months in the future. In the meantime, Mañozca persuades Castro del Castillo for a few meager goods, in his words, “to be sold by public auction in the city of Concepción de Chile, and that, from the proceeds, Doña Isabel Otáñez receive two hundred pesos with which to feed herself and her children, and in addition, that she be given back her house, that she may live in it.” Both inquisitors vow to see this decision through, no matter how much Gaitán shouts at them or calls them traitors of the faith.

  In the final hearing, Isabel stays on her knees, immobile, before the colossal platform. The result of her petition is incredibly poor. She will return with far less than what the commissioner in Concepción, going over the arithmetic several times, had calculated she would receive. But she’s also been unable to express the most important thing. Mañozca and Castro del Castillo retire before she dares to speak. The notary looks at her with contempt as he gathers his papers, and tells her icily to return to Chile, as there is nothing left for her here in Lima. Isabel looks him in the eyes, and her mind fills with the same words as years ago, stronger than ever. Here there is knowledge, here there is power, here destinies are decided. She bites her lips and weeps inconsolably, unable to say what she dreamed of saying, what is so very difficult to say in this place. She clasps her hands in prayer and finally implores, as one might implore God and the saints, to be given one word, just one, a single merciful word on the well-being of her husband.

  A dark wind sweeps across the notary’s face. Slowly, as if his neck were a toothed wheel, he turns to the clerk and makes a gesture. The clerk disappears, as if by magic. Isabel feels lost, not knowing whom to turn to, surrounded by emptiness. Suddenly a hook hoists her and carries her to the street, as if she were a bag of garbage. Her feet aren’t touching the ground, her hands flap like wounded wings. She glides over the evasive paving stones, which seem infinite. In her imagination, the good commissioner reappears, to remind her that she must not offend the tribunal by asking about the prisoner. She has made a mistake that could mean losing the little she has gained. The paving stones seem to flow backward and, suddenly, begin to speak to her. They convey something terrible and marvelous: Francisco walked over them, he raised his defiant voice across them, on them he proved himself to be a hero and a wise man. They tell her that, only a few paces from her, in a narrow underground dungeon, her husband—consumed and aged—is feverishly preparing his final onslaught. He is still alive, and more vigorous than ever.

  134

  The tribunal confirms the date for the Act of Faith. Never before has the City of Kings witnessed a ceremony of such grandeur. It aims to teach a lesson that will reach the farthest corners of the Viceroyalty. The proceedings are done; all that’s needed now are a few statements of repentance from people who will die anyway, an added gain for the true faith. But, in addition to these reasons, the inquisitors need the Act in order to rein in a terror gripping the Viceroyalty—namely, a financial mayhem that has been unleashed, an unexpected consequence.

  The same judges have already written to the king of Spain that “with the prisoners we took, there came a large number of claims,” and that many suits were filed by the captives’ creditors. The mass confiscations interrupted the economic flow of Lima and surrounding areas. “The land is hurt,” they acknowledge, “and now, with so much prison and confinement of goods belonging to men whose financial ties reached throughout the Viceroyalty, it seems that the world is ending,” because the creditors know that, with time, I
nquisitorial secrecy, and the death of witnesses, their rights might go up in smoke. “And although our business is faith,” they underscore, the amount of riches they’ve confiscated and the amount of claims piling up oblige them to alleviate the tension surrounding certain causes “from three in the afternoon to nighttime. . . . We have been paying and are paying many debts because otherwise commerce would be destroyed and irreparable harm would be done.” The Royal Court agrees with the Holy Office, but in even stronger terms.

  A harsh punishment of the prisoners will appease the creditors’ greed—or so the judges hope. They will be glad to see them suffer and quake with fear at the thought of themselves one day enduring such horrors.

  The preparations for the Act are manifold and confusing. The first procedure, according to protocol, is to notify the Count of Chinchón, Viceroy of Peru. This honored task is entrusted to the prosecutor of the Holy Office, who appears at the palace and, with grave ceremony, informs the viceroy that the Act of Faith will take place the following twenty-third of January, 1639, in the central Plaza de Armas, “for the exaltation of our sacred Catholic faith and the extirpation of heresies.” The viceroy sends a prompt reply to the tribunal thanking it for the announcement. The same message is given to the Royal Court, the city halls, the University of San Marcos, the other tribunals, and the consulate. Before publishing the call for the city’s residents to attend, the inquisitors lock up all the black men and women who serve the Holy Office so they won’t find out and tell the prisoners, which could cause turmoil.

  Nevertheless, the proclamation is delayed due to a stupid incident. It had been decided to adorn the doors of the inner chapel with bronze nails. The sound of the hammers, clubs, and rivets spreads through the labyrinth of cells as if announcing an exceptional construction. The correspondence through the walls associates it with the building of gallows. The prisoners become agitated, some revoke their confessions, and others desperately testify against Old Christians in hopes of provoking a general pardon in the face of a flood of accusations. The tribunal, however, decides to keep the date of the Act and carry out all the sentences. It works into the late hours of the night.

  135

  A monk, covering his nose with the thick sleeve of his habit, goes to Francisco’s stinking cell to insist that he break his obstinacy. Later he tells the judges that the prisoner had begged for another hearing with the examining fathers from the Society of Jesus. It seems that the imminence of the end has softened his heart.

  “Has he promised to abjure?” asks Castro del Castillo.

  The Dominican says that the prisoner is accosted by many doubts, and that he holds out hope that, if these doubts are resolved, he’ll return to the authentic faith.

  “A delay tactic,” Gaitán declares. “The same as always.”

  The request is not granted, but the monk returns with the prisoner’s insistence. Castro del Castillo reviews his records and points out that this would be his thirteenth argument, an exaggeration that proves how very patient the tribunal has been.

  “A good number for something else to be produced,” the tired monk says, forcing a smile.

  The tribunal takes a few days and, with two votes in favor and one against, decides to summon the learned men of the Society for the last time—Andrés Hernández above all. The session takes place in the austere room whose ceiling composed of thirty-three thousand pieces recently sheltered the distressed Isabel Otáñez. The prisoner is brought in; his thin ankles and wrists are duly shackled. He is Christ descending from the cross, almost blind, lips white, nose sharp, hair sad as rain. His pride seems entirely consumed.

  They make him sit, then stand. He already knows, as before, he will have to take an oath. Expectation and curiosity fill the room with an extraordinary atmosphere. He disillusions the judges, swearing in the same way as he did the first time, and the times that followed. Gaitán sweeps his gaze toward the other inquisitors, who consented to this predictable defiance. Mañozca, also irritated, invites the prisoner to express his doubts. The Jesuits lean in to hear him better.

  Francisco takes a deep breath. He has to make a great effort for his voice to emerge with enough strength. But his almost servile tone contradicts his biting message. He starts off with a terrifying question.

  “Isn’t it an arrogant and useless pretension to impose a single truth?”

  His physical weakness lends sweetness to his expression, but his words make the room tremble.

  “Might the great truth not be manifesting itself? Truth that exceeds the human brain, through partial truths that we can barely apprehend? Might the great truth be so rich and mysterious that we can only be permitted a miniscule approach? And that miniscule approach, isn’t it fulfilled through our diverse roots and beliefs? Couldn’t it be that diverse roots and beliefs exist exactly for this reason, that we might be more modest and recognize that we’ve only been given one part to see and feel? Couldn’t it be that our convictions, though opposed, can only be resolved in the infinity of the Supreme Being who transcends our own perception? What benefit do you offer the great truth, then, if you wish to convert the miniscule part you recognize and love into the whole that you can’t reach?”

  The judges and theologians vacillate between rejecting his words as new heresy and considering them the product of a severe disturbance of logic.

  “In the heart of each man,” Francisco adds in an amiable tone, “there beats the divine spark that no man, no one but God Himself, has the right to assail. If your faith has value, then so does mine.”

  The judges are scandalized and make great effort to hide their disgust. How can there be more than one truth? It’s a sophism, an insanity. These ideas are no inspiration from heaven, but from the devil.

  “Since you have urged me to be a Christian, I ask whether being a good Christian includes mutual punishment, the tearing apart of families, humiliation of one’s fellow man, and the denunciation of relatives and friends. These are things already suffered by Jesus, who was denounced and tormented. When you repeat his passion on others, aren’t you rendering Jesus’s own passion useless? If his sacrifice didn’t cancel out similar useless sacrifices, then what’s changed? What did he begin? To keep persecuting, offending, and killing men the way Jesus was persecuted, offended, and murdered—doesn’t that reduce him to one more case in the infinite chain of men who are victimized by men?”

  Gaitán drums on his armrest, longing to interrupt the session. This basilisk who will soon be turned to ash is staining the Inquisition headquarters with unacceptable vulgarities. Even Castro del Castillo thinks the same thing when the prisoner spits out, “Where is the Antichrist? Is it possible that you can’t see him?” His eyes flash with a light that pierces the men who are present, as his lips smile enigmatically. “Can’t you see him? These shackles!” He raises his blistered wrists. “Was it Jesus who put these on me?”

  Mañozca murmurs, “He’s gone absolutely crazy.”

  Francisco addresses Hernández, the Jesuit. “Is reason a natural right? Are thought and conscience a natural right? Is care for my body a natural right?”

  The theologian assents.

  “And yet—” He interrupts as if he’s lost the thread. “And yet,” he repeats, “the body, my body, is abused, and will be destroyed. Shouldn’t Christians respect the body, even more than Jews? For Christians, God was made flesh, in a human body, through the mystery of Incarnation. Christianity, in that regard, is the most ‘human’ of all religions. But—what a paradox!—its followers, instead of valuing and loving the body as they love their own God, hate it and assault it. I don’t believe in the Incarnation, but I do believe that the Only God is in our lives—” And, here, Francisco quotes his father: “To harm a body is to offend God.”

  “Restrain yourself to expressing your doubts!” exclaims Gaitán, livid and indignant.

  Francisco reaches into his clothes and inflicts a surprise on them.

  He pulls out two books. The three inquisitors, the Jes
uits, and the notary stare, wide-eyed. Where did he steal them from? Then they realize, stunned, that the books were not stolen, but written in his narrow dungeon. The notary takes them with trembling hands, as if touching objects created by Lucifer’s magic. The sheets of the two volumes are artistically fashioned out of pieces that are carefully glued together. Each page is full of words as small and tidy as those from a printing press. The notary hands the books up to the impatient inquisitors. Then he returns to his chair and writes, in his amazement, that the prisoner “took two handwritten books from his waist pouch, created with sheets composed of many scraps of paper that were gathered we know not how, and glued together with such subtlety and skill that they resemble whole sheets, and with words written upon them with ink he made from charcoal.” He wipes his forehead and adds, “One of the books had one hundred and three pages, and the other had more than one hundred.” He records the author’s extravagant signature: “Eli Nazareo, unworthy Jew devoted to the God of Israel, known by the name of Silva.”

  The alarming volumes pass from hand to hand.

  “There are my doubts,” Francisco says. “And my modest science. He who wrote that has a divine spark, no less than any of you.”

  “Oh, spark of Satan!” replies Castro del Castillo, disturbed by the audacity.

  The inquisitors invite the Jesuits to speak. But it’s hard for them to speak. After hesitation and stammering they unfurl unfocused sermons. This unbelievable hearing stretches on for three and a half hours. The theologians manage to unravel Francisco’s deceitful declarations, and, to the judges’ minds, they again succeed in revealing the path of light; only a capricious, evil mind could refuse to accept the truth, the only truth.

  Mañozca addresses Francisco, so he can answer whether he is ready to repent, but before that, he must take his oath again. Automatically, he gestures to the crucifix on the table.