Carlos Fuentes - Terra Nostra

Then the mouth of the severed head spoke again: “That is what you see, corrupt thing that you are … I painted something different … The sexual act so pure it is a prayer before the eyes of God … The act of the flesh with no remorse or fear of God … The external man cannot stain the man within … Who loves God more? A scorned and subjected people, a people of sinners, of publicans and Samaritans who love their fellow beings? See what I painted … On the left, the original Paradise, when a malevolent God separated man from woman, who previously had been one, the image of the good God, of the supreme androgynous divinity … In the center, Paradise restored by the free spirit of man, without need for God: there is no Original Sin, all flesh is innocent … And now, wretch, look to the right, see the true hell of your own creation…”

And so El Señor, motionless as the victims of the Medusa, looked at the last and third panel of the painting, Hell, conflagration, everything aflame, everything bathed in the color of fire, all of them united once again, Inés is a pig seducing an emaciated Don Juan, the other two youths are crucified, the Idiot upon a harp, the pilgrim upon a rebec, both being devoured by serpents, the Mad Lady, naked, is devoured by a salamander, Isabel stands with a die upon her head, Ludovico hides his face as a hooded demon crouches upon his shoulders, a large clothed and crested bird leads a naked Toribio by the hand, Guzmán, yes, Guzmán is pinned to an overturned gaming table, Barbarica is jigging about holding the great rosy phallus of a bagpipe in her hands, the nuns are noseless monsters with gaping mouths and lidless eyes singing notes they read from a staff imprinted on naked buttocks, the monks peer from beneath the psaltery, Toribio lies naked, torturing himself with the iron crank of a machine, he, he himself, El Señor, is an indescribable monster, a human hare wearing a copper caldron as a crown and seated upon a wooden privy stool devouring men one after the other, then expelling them through the seat of the throne of shit, eliminating them into an excremental well, and at the center of everything is the head, the same head he now held by the hair, the severed head, pale, attached to a broken eggshell, the torso and long legs pure-white bone disappearing into enormous blue boats of shoes, face, egg, leg, visage, ovum, bone the color of an atrocious birch tree petrified in spectral whiteness; and beyond, beyond, the conflagration of the world, a flaming edifice, his palace, his life work, the seat of his power, the fortress of his faith, a holocaust, a ruin, a cloaca …

Choking back a growl, El Señor forcibly closed the mouth of the severed head; the thin lips and ill-shaven cheeks were hard as stone and resisted closing; he covered the eyes of the head with his hand, closed the lids, the eyelids were flaccid and rough like those of a reptile; he hurled the head against the painting, it burst against the steel sphere in the center of the triptych, the icy fountain of eternal youth; it fell, leaving a star of blood upon the painting; and that line of blood, as it trickled down the painting, wrote upon the pigments in small Gothic characters a name El Señor could barely read:

He ran to close the wings of the triptych, to exorcise forever that monstrous vision of life, passion, the Fall, the happiness and death of everything ever conceived or created; intending only to close the wings of the Flemish painting, he found instead his hands were touching a new painting, and this ultimate image was of the entire world, a perfect sphere, transparent and empty, surrounded by water, the first landscape of the earth illuminated only by moonlight, and there God was but an inferior figure relegated to a position outside the world, as if the world had existed before, long before, God, and the Divinity had only recently arrived, rancorously, weakly, slowly, hurriedly, newly arrived; and toward the top of the painting was written in golden letters, Vides hic terram novam: ac caelum novum: novas insulas.

“Oh, my God, honor us, oh, honor us, God, oh, honorus, God, oh, onerous God!” El Señor cried out. “Is this the end of the world? is this the beginning of the world? is this the beginning of the world, or the end of my world?”

THE REBELLION

Most magnificent señores: The affairs of the kingdom become every day more inflammatory, and our enemies are perceiving it. In view of this situation it is our opinion that we must arm ourselves as quickly as possible. First, to castigate tyrants; second, so that we may be secure, where did you find that letter, Catilinón, who gave it to you? what novelty is this that it is not written by hand but in even and freshly inked letters that smear at the touch of my fingers? I intercepted it, Señor Don Guzmán, it came addressed to the Comendador of Calatrava, who is no more, having been run through by the blade of my master Don Juan; I passed myself off as the servant of the Comendador, for it was with great stealth that hurried messengers who arrived on horseback from Avila commended it to me, and so I said to myself, there’s mischief afoot here, and since I cannot enter the King’s presence, I deliver it to you, And above all it is necessary that we all join together to establish order in the badly ordered affairs of these kingdoms, because in the case of such numerous and such important affairs, it is just that they be determined by numerous and most mature counsels, they are just beginning their deliberations, Catilinón, I must act immediately, spread the word among the workmen, the Moorish captives and Jews liberated by the Idiot, hurry through the forges, tile sheds, workshops, and taverns, the hour has come, El Señor stands petrified before his altar holding a Gorgon’s head in his hand, the gates are open, the guards are nowhere to be seen, inside they believe the tempest has passed, outside, Cato, outside, my rascal, do your work, We know well, señores, that many will revile us with their tongues, and that later many will defame us with their quills in histories, accusing us of seditious insurrection. But between them and us we place God Our Lord as witness, and as judge, our intentions in this case. For our goal is not to supplant obedience to the King, our Señor, but to abolish the tyranny of his consorts, for they hold us as their slaves, not the King them as his subjects, I am one of you, I, Guzmán, chief huntsman, and you, overseers, architects and foremen, and which of you will be safe from the madness and caprice of El Señor? you have seen what happened only a few days ago to one of yours, he who left here with his tongue and hands amputated by order of El Señor so as to be unable to speak or write of one of the dark mysteries that occur inside there; yesterday it was he, today it will be someone else, tomorrow you or I; regard the courage of our estate companions, the burghers of Avila, Toledo, and Burgos, prepared to take up arms so that these kingdoms be governed by laws and not by caprice; the gates are open, I swear to that; it is the moment to act, Jerónimo, Martín, Nuño, injustice is added to injustice, resentment is mounting, yes, twenty years ago El Señor forced my young bride on the day of our wedding, he besmirched her, because of him she went mad, she was never mine, that is called his right, his right to rape virgins, I came here to this work, I bided my time, and my time has come, Martín, Nuño, right, justice, as a warning my brother was ordered to be killed by hunger, thirst, and cold, left naked and surrounded by troops in the wintertime on a hilltop in Navarre, after seven days my brother died there, by the order of a Lord inferior to this one who governs us, and if the lesser did so much, what will the greater not do? Nuño, in order to be half free and to leave our homeland, we had to deliver our inheritance to the noble Lord of the place where we were born, and here you find me, less injured than you, Jerónimo, Martín, Guzmán, but no less determined, Do not believe, señores, that we are alone in this tumult, for, speaking truthfully, many generous caballeros who are representative of all three estates have joined with us, how much did the burial of El Señor’s thirty ancestors cost, brought here by guards and halberdiers amid chants, canopies, and the prelates of all the orders? what would have been the cost of burial of the workman smothered beneath the earth slide and there mourned by his widow and left to rot? the oxen are more sure of food than we, for the beasts have up to two years’ provision of hay, straw, wheat, and rye, whereas there is no provision made for us once this job is completed and we have eaten up our wages, five ducats every three months, and thus in Segovia, as well as León, in Valladolid and Toledo, in Soria and Salamanca, in Avila and Guadalajara, in Cuenca and in Burgos, in Medina and Tordesillas, caballeros of the middle estate are speaking the same words as we, magistrates, jurors, mayors and recorders, canons, abbots, archdeacons, deans and precentors, learned scholars, captains and marshals, doctors, lawyers, and university bachelors, physicians and physickers, merchants and money-changers, notaries and apothecaries, you will be expelled, Jews, persecuted, Moors, there will be no place for you in this kingdom of purity-of-blood, pure Christians, clean of bloodline, who are you? how many are you? there was a time when the Mozarabic Christians lived in Mussulman territory and the Mohammedan mudejares in Christian lands, and each tolerated the other and also coexisted with the Jews, and they called themselves the Three Peoples of the Book, and San Fernando, King of Castile, proclaimed himself King of the three religions, and the Moors and Jews brought to Gothic barbarism architecture and music, industry and philosophy, medicine and poetry, and the Inquisition was held within bounds so as not to surpass the power of the monarchs, and thus the cities prospered, and institutions of local liberty were taking shape, but now, who will be safe from the new powers of the Inquisition? in what innocent act will they not see suspicion, read guilt, dictate extermination? how will you defend yourselves against torture, prison, death, and the loss of your lives, families, and possessions? to whom will you appeal? on what grounds will you appeal? read, all of you, this decree issued by El Señor: everyone is guilty unless he proves his innocence; will you prove yours on the rack, Moor? at the hour of the garrote, Hebrew? in the torture of the pillory, serf? and also all variety of offices of all and each of our cities, shopkeepers, masons, armorers, silversmiths, jewelers, jet vendors, cutlers, ironsmiths, foundrymen, bakers, oil sellers, butchers, spice sellers, salt sellers, waxchandlers, fellmongers, hat makers, shearers, linen drapers, rope sellers, hosiers, bonnet makers, harness makers, cobblers, tailors, barbers, chair makers, carpenters, stonecutters, napkin makers, it is not the hour to seek counsel, it is the hour to act, yes, Guzmán, to act, here we are in the very precinct of El Señor, the gates opened, the inhabitants of the palace sleeping or engaged in strange devotions, unaware of everything that is going on, without opposition we can attack the very heart of oppression, pierce it, cut off its head with one stroke, pikes, poles, chains, the steel forged in your forges, Jerónimo, the weapons of the poor, quickly, the gates are open, in such a manner, señores, that we are able to speak of the general will of this kingdom to undo the injustices that affect us all and thus, for what it is understood we do, it should be sufficient justification that we do not ask you, señores, for money to initiate war, but rather that we ask your good counsel in seeking peace, where is the rockrose where we used to shelter our flocks, eh? on this very spot there was a stream that never ran dry, and nearby a woods that was the sole refuge for the animals in winter and summer; today only roses of black crape grow in this devastated garden; and afterward, what? do you doubt, Jerónimo? it is merely that I remember, Martín, I remember, the gates open, so it was with the earlier slaughter, the gates open, be cautious, wait, that is no longer possible, Jerónimo, look at the mob, we are all going, down the stairway leading from the plain to El Señor’s chapel, that is the open gate that was never closed, the gate we all respected, imbeciles that we were, it was always open, do you realize the insult? have they feared us so little? thirty steps from the plain to the chapel, we have only to descend them to reach the sepulchers, everyone, armed, lances, javelins, pikes, chain, steel, hoes, hatchets, and torches, workers, Arabs, Jews, heretics, beggars, overseers, whores, eremites, Simón, Martín, Nuño, and Jerónimo, all drawn along by the mob and the whinnying of the horses and the bellowing of the bulls which break their fences and trample, terrified, nervous, and sweating, across the plain of Castile, whinnies, bellows, dust, the flight of the crows, everyone down the stairway, Many youths of these cities, rising up against the latest edicts of El Señor, seek immediate violence and it will take a great effort to persuade them that we must establish a democracy, omnia eo consulta tendebant ut democratia, and they answer that the conquest of liberty cannot be attained by following the paths of the law, de libertate nunc agitur quam qui procurant nullas adeunt leges, omni virtuti pietatique renunciant, law for those who stain all things? pity for those who offer none? Simón, all of you, join us, do not change your clothing, but dressed as monks and nuns join us, beggars, pilgrims, eremites, prostitutes, followers of Peter Waldo, against the excesses of Rome, the crowned serpent, the false pope, the power of the Inquisition, now, march, oh, perfect Cathari, herein dwells the god of evil, let us burn his dwelling place, this is the house of the Devil, Adamites, believers in the innocence of the body of our first father and of all his sons, to the palace, everyone, the gates are open, follow me, Simón, for I have seen the illness and sorrow and poverty of man, follow me, unsheathe your ancient knives, raise high your cudgels, light your torches, It will be difficult to contain them if we do not act swiftly, and for this reason we ask you, señores, by your leave, that you examine the present letter, then without further delay send your procurers to the Junta of Avila, and be assured that as the situation is inflammatory, the longer you delay in going, so much more you increase the damage to Spain, but previously, Guzmán, hurry, leave, Señor, leave this chapel, leave your bedchamber, seek refuge in the deepest dungeon until the storm passes, they are already descending the stairway, what are you saying, Guzmán? one only ascends those steps, no one has descended them, ever, I climbed them to know my own death and resurrection, are they descending in order to know their own life and resurrection? neither life nor resurrection, Señor, everything is prepared for this moment, as it was twenty years ago the guards are hidden, everything has the appearance of innocence, but everyone is prepared to act, as you acted twenty years ago, Guzmán, I gave you no orders, I still have not finished debating this problem within my own heart, I still am consulting with my own soul, it is too late, Señor, flee, hide, the hordes are descending that stairway, they are armed, I have but followed the example that you yourself provided two decades ago, I am faithful to your lessons, go, Señor, far down to the same dungeons where you will find the pilgrim of the new world and your companions of the past seven days, the blind flautist from Aragon and the girl dressed as a page, quickly, Señor, take this letter, I have always told you, other, worse rebellions lie ahead, crush today’s in order to prevent the morrow’s, quickly, away, Señor, allow me to act in your name, for as the dog Bocanegra is dead, no one is more faithful than I, Guzmán, and all the matters we treat in the Junta will be treated in the service of God: First, fidelity to our King, El Señor. Second, the peace of the kingdom. Third, the reparation of the royal patrimony. Fourth, injuries done the native inhabitants. Fifth, neglecting to call into session municipal councils. Sixth, tyrannies invented by some of our own. Seventh, the impositions and intolerable burdens suffered by these kingdoms, see the sepulchers? who will give us a burial like that? see the luxury of the false church, the false pope, and the monarch of the lewd visage, raise the slabs of the tombs, hack at the marble figures, throw those old bones outside their tombs, take up the ciboria, drink the wine, breakfast on the Hosts, there is more bread in this tabernacle than all that our fathers ate in their lifetimes, strike with your hoes against the pillars, turn over the chests, dalmatics, surplices, girdles, dress yourself in them, tumble in one day what it took five fruitless years to build, five years of hard labor to construct a royal cemetery, fuck them! run through the passageways, courtyards, corridors, kitchens, stables, dungeons, free the prisoners, stuff yourself with victuals, tear down the tapestries, set fire to the stables, to the cells, pray, my sisters, for El Señor, doors barred, padlocked, pray, God save you, Queen and Mother, Queen of Mercy, the prophecy has been fulfilled, the hordes of the Antichrist have arrived, Angustia, Clemencia, Dolores, where has Inesilla gone? where is she that we do not see her? who knows, Madre Milagros, she is so turbulent by nature, so curious, bar the door, lock it, Ave María Purísima, conceived without sin, to the bedchambers, they will go there, look for them, El Señor, La Señora, the Idiot, the dwarf, the Mad Lady, hidden, find them, and then, So that, in order to destroy these seven sins of Spain, we believe that seven remedies must be invented in the Holy Junta, and so it will seem to you, for you are sane men. So that, in treating all these matters, and in finding for them a most complete remedy, our enemies will not be able to say that we with the Junta are rebelling, but rather that we are new Brutuses of Rome, redeemers of the fatherland, Martín, holding high a torch, ran through the corridors of white leaded windows, opening doors, finding nothing, El Señor, we must take El Señor, that was the order, cut off with one blow the head of the tyrant, La Señora, take La Señora, he opened the door, the bedchamber of white sands and Arabic tiles and caliph’s tapestries, La Señora kneeling beside the bed, the cold body on the bed, a dead man, a mummy made of scraps and pieces, motionless, the woman he had seen and desired so many times, he wheeling the handbarrow filled with stone, she walking beneath the sun, the hawk upon her wrist, that vision of soft whiteness, of untouchable beauty, here, within reach of his hand, at last, he threw the burning torch to the floor of sand, conflagration of the desert, desire, take what he wants, do not wait, the hungry body, the incarnate vision, he seized the woman, pulled her from her kneeling position, she did not cry out, she did not speak, blue eyes, brilliant, defiant, moist lips, half opened, twisted, half-naked breasts, infernal, milky white, he embraced her waist, kissed her with fury, she pushed him away, she was pushing him away, finally she recognized him, the beast, she smelled the sweat, the garlic, the shit of the true man’s body, she clawed his hairy chest, the tanned arms, the rebellion, what was it? where was it happening? what were the reasons? here, now, take what he had so desired, nothing else mattered, Martín tore off La Señora’s clothing, revealing her breasts, he sucked the nipples, threw her to the sand, placed one hand beneath her buttocks, his penis strained against his loincloth, he freed it from between his thighs, like an arrow his sex was erect, pulsing, slavering now, with his other hand he covered the woman’s lips, spread open her legs, saw the treasure, the jungle, the bottom of the sea, he was going to enter, he was going to submerge himself in an ocean of silver fish, he was going to enter, the door, swift footsteps on the sand, he was going to enter, Guzmán’s blade, the dagger thrust between Martín’s shoulder blades, the workman fell heavily on La Señora’s wide skirts, she bit one finger, her gaze feverish, Guzmán standing, dagger in hand, Martín mouth down, dead, penis erect, Martín’s heavy body, Guzmán hoisted it up by moist armpits, threw it face down on the sand, the sand stained with blood, silence, finally, what do I owe you, Guzmán? what do I owe you? silence, Guzmán’s closed eyes, the bloody dagger resheathed, nothing, Señora, nothing, I have other things to do, La Señora’s loud laughter as Guzmán left the bedchamber, the insulting, godless pride of La Señora, lackey, swine, Don Nobody, how did you dare interrupt my delicious coupling with this male? We grow tired of obeying without being consulted, and joined together in a Junta born of the general will of the three estates, we shall reestablish the laws of the kingdom diminished by the recent decrees of El Señor our King, we will pay no extraordinary tributes that not be approved by the assemblies of all the people, and in the kitchens there are geese, young pigeons, eel pies, wine from Luque, from Toro, and Madrigal, here, have some, and you, and you, drink your fill, drink, forget your daily plate of chickpeas, you, beggar, you, whore, you, hermit, let the madmen mumble, the monk Simón and his Shrovetide of mystics, all crammed together in the chapel guarding a triptych they say was painted by one of their own, preventing the altarpiece from being profaned or destroyed, possessors of the temple, the new religion, restored Christianity, the beginning of the third age, purity, the destruction of false images, no, lack of purity, an exhausted body on earth so that the soul arrives in Heaven purified, arguments, flagellations, cries, naked disciples, men and women, ropes of bodies fornicating before the altar, the same as in the Flemish painting, Simón, his arms thrown above his head, shouting for order, order, order, Adamites, adepts of the free spirit, the illuminated, Cathari lying upon the tombs of princes, endura, await death, pass quickly through life without staining the body, perfection, the Insabbatist Waldensians, poverty, destroy luxury, let not a stone remain upon stone, argument, blows and insults between Waldensians and Adamites, destroy the painting, protect it, Arabs scurrying toward the high tower of the astronomer Toribio, do not fear, brother, we shall break nothing, we shall touch nothing, let us pray from on high, we have dragged ourselves like worms for so long, let us sing to Heaven here in the heavens, and the Jews sat down in a courtyard, to wait, and those converts will no longer be persecuted who with their labor enrich the coffers of Spain, nor mudejares already integrated into Christian communities, nor shall any prosecution continue because of blood, and Jerónimo, separate from the throngs invading El Señor’s palace, searched, descending by the narrow, dank spiral stairways into the deepest dungeons where black water dripped deep beneath the earth, water that never reached the calcined plain where drumming hoofs of horses and bulls resounded, and there in a cell, motionless, he found El Señor seated on a wooden bench, absorbed in his own thoughts, oblivious to everything that was happening, and the old man with the beard fiery as the fires in his forge said to him, do you remember me? and from his self-absorption El Señor looked at him and shook his head, no; Jerónimo, twenty years ago, the wedding in the grange, I have waited a long time, Señor Felipe, too long, but I am here now with my chains in my hands, chains I forged for you, to kill you in the way I wish, with the product of my labor, to beat you to death, and El Señor looked up, smiled, and said, I do not remember you, I do not know who you are, but I am grateful to you for what you offer me, I await death, I desire death, I have not taken my life because I am a most devout Christian, give me what I have most desired, you, a stranger, you, a man with no true reality for me, I shall be grateful to you in eternity, and Jerónimo hesitated, looked at El Señor, and said yes, you are right, your torture is life, I shall not give you what you want; he dropped the chains at El Señor’s feet, left the black dungeon, strangely elated, strangely sure of his action, the guards took him prisoner outside the dungeon, and Guzmán said, bind him with his own chains, you should have killed me, Jerónimo, and Jerónimo roared, struggled, was subdued, and then, still staring into Guzmán’s eyes, he spit in Guzmán’s face, Judas, Judas, nor shall the King have the right to grant posts in perpetuity, nor shall the intimates and courtiers of the crown be freed at his whim, but be prosecuted, as will the King himself, so that the right to resistance shall be established within a new constitutive order in the kingdom, of which the King is but one element, chapel, passageways, courtyards, stables, kitchens, bedchambers, cells, towers, the halberds of El Señor, the arrows of El Señor, the harquebuses of El Señor, the lances of El Señor, the swords of El Señor, the daggers of El Señor, the axes of El Señor, posted at every exit, beneath every window, beside every opening in this palace of interminable construction, blocked, all the holes through which the mice might escape, the burrows fumigated, explosion of powder in the chapel, arrows in the chests and backs of those running through the courtyards and kitchens, axes in the skulls of those eating in the kitchens, daggers in the hearts of those dozing away their love-making and gluttony in bedchambers, swords in the bellies of those praying in the tower, halberds in the necks of those waiting in the courtyard, not one alive, shouted Guzmán, running from place to place, even those who seem dead, stab them again, run through with your swords anyone that moves and the unmoving as well, two deaths to everyone, three deaths, a thousand, the example will spread, let the members of the Junta of Avila know what awaits them, tear out rebellion by the roots, tear out the eyes of the dead whose eyes remain open, the tongues of those whose mouths remain open, the hands of those with open hands, the heads of them all, ax them, heretics, Moors, beggars, pilgrims, Jews, whores cohabiting with blasphemy and sedition, quickly, the palace is a cup running over with blood, raise it before the altar of the Eucharist: this is my blood, this is my body, and no decision shall be taken if it does not conform with the will of all and the consent of all, and from her walled-up niche, through the narrow aperture at the level of her yellow eyes, the Mad Lady watched the slaughter in the chapel, so comfortable, her limbless body propped so easily on that invisible pedestal, nothing but torso and deluded brain, snuggled so closely in that eternal uterus of stone, she had returned to the womb, she watched the death of the enemy, the hordes, those who attempted to deny the very reasons for the life and death of the ancient Queen, dead and living, giving thanks, Felipe, my son, you have again demonstrated that you are worthy of my succession, my blood flows in your blood, Spain is one, great, strong, We do not doubt, señores, but rather you may marvel, and many in Spain will be scandalized to see a Junta joined, which is a new novelty. But then, señores, you are wise, you know how to judge the times, considering the bountiful fruit which is expected of this Holy Junta, you must disregard that evil men will think of us as traitors, for from that we shall draw renown as immortals in the centuries to come, Nuño understood only one thing, free the prisoners, he was lost in the honeycomb of subterranean passages of the palace, he approached a cell where a candle sputtered, with the pick he had brought as a weapon he broke the chain and lock and opened the door, here, you are free, the blind Aragonese flautist, the girl dressed as a page, and the youth who had accompanied her to Jerónimo’s forge one not so long ago night, he embraced them, you are free, we have taken the palace, the gates were open, El Señor offered no resistance, come with me, come away from here, take me to the chapel, Ludovico asked, there I shall see again, Felipe understood, I can open my eyes again, the three went out, guided by Nuño, the son of askaris on the Moorish border, Ludovico holding the hands of Celestina and the pilgrim from the new world, asking, and the other two, my sons, what do you know of them? who? the one they disguised as a prince and called the Idiot, the one they disguised as a seducer of women and called Don Juan, no, I have not seen them, what do they look like? exactly like this one, Nuño, the three of them exactly alike, no, I haven’t seen them, then this is the heir, my son, the free man arrived from the new world, the only one to enter the history of Spain and not be devoured by it, the survivor, my son, they climbed the spiral stairway behind the chapel, stopped an instant behind the altar, the silence in the chapel was more profound than that of the dungeons, I am going to see, son, Celestina, Nuño, I am going to open my eyes again, I lost the mirror that could reflect the entire world, at first I believed that without eyes there would be no memory and consequently there would be no imagination; then I found out that I had seen everything before I closed my eyes, and I could keep it forever; I would have seen no more than any other dead man my age and that would be the measure of my memory and my imagination; I could have slashed my eyes; I did not do it because, in spite of everything, I held the hope of one day again seeing something worthy to be seen, the millennium, the triumph of human grace, God’s death, the millennium of man, that day has arrived, I am going to open my eyes, tell me when we reach Felipe’s chapel, there I shall open my eyes again, Because it is a general rule that all good work is received by evil men under guise of something different. This being presupposed, it is beneficial to know that in everything to come, all affairs may succeed in the reverse of our plans, and they may endanger our persons, destroy our homes, and finally, we may lose our lives, and Lolilla, there’s more mischief afoot than we had thought, and tell me the truth, in all this festivity didn’t you hope to play a little tune on some heretic’s or Moor’s or Jew’s flute? well, don’t you complain, Catilinón, for you had designs on the fancy purse of the English whore or the blasphemous nun when you should have been content with my old cunt, and I with your mandrake, but don’t complain, we’ve reaped our harvest, my petticoats are filled with jewels and my doublet with ducats, Lolilla, and now we have the wherewithal to escape from this den of spooks and set up business in Valladolid, Avila, or Segovia, get along now, lady holier-than-thou, hup, you swaggering braggart, this way, bad-mouthed hussy, come on, blustering bastard, let’s fun awhile, here, in this cell, look, and they entered the chamber of mirrors where Don Juan was dallying with Doña Inés, rascal, the master shouted to the servant, where were you when I needed you most? did you not promise to protect me, to scout ahead of my adventures, protect my flights, take my place if it be necessary? oh, my lord Don Juan, I would gladly take your place in this instant and give you Lolilla in exchange for Inesilla, cackled Catilinón as he helped Don Juan separate himself from the nun, oh, if you must stick your nose in here, tell me why I desire that syphilis-wracked whore, moaned Don Juan, and Lolilla cried out when she saw him, the tip of your taper is all bloody, my lord Don Juan, oh, that holy whore has stripped the skin off it for you, and Don Juan swept his brocaded robe over his injured parts, Doña Inés arose, weeping, Catilinón and Lolilla marveled at seeing themselves reflected in walls of mirror, ceiling of mirror, floor of mirror, what do you have stuffed in your clothing, rascals? you look as if you’re about ready to give birth, sly puss, and you, Sir Cock, have you grown tits?; the servants’ faces flushed red as fire, and Don Juan ordered them to remove their clothing and lie down on the floor of mirrors, Inés covered Lolilla in Mother Celestina’s rags and Don Juan draped his brocade over Catilinón; Inés and Don Juan dressed themselves in their servants’ clothing, stick that fine poker in Lola’s pelt, Cato, enjoy yourselves in your prison of mirrors, my crafty bastards, flee with me, Inés, between your legs I recaptured my brother’s dream, he awaits us in a brigantine, take the chain and padlock this prison, I smell treachery in the palace, let us flee, I shall look after you, my lover, your presence maddens me, your delicious scepter will heal, your words hallucinate me, we shall live, together, far away from here, your breath poisons me, come, Don Juan, come, Inés, together let us call on Heaven, and if Heaven does not hear us or if its gates close against us, Heaven will be responsible for our passage on earth, not I, in such a case we shall say that disfavor is favor; danger, security; that robbery is riches; exile, glory; to lose is to win; persecution is the crown; and death is life. Because there is no death as glorious as that of a man who dies in defense of his republic, funeral drums resound across the plain, more muted than the drumming of oxen’s and horses’ hoofs again enclosed in fences, the smoke of the taverns and huts dies out, mourning women stare in silence, muffled, old before their time, barefoot children, bleary-eyed, burned by the sun, blond locks on dark heads, bleached by the sun, with round black eyes and torn fingernails, stand clutching the skirts and hands of the women, mangy dogs wander about, storks fly in search of their nests, three lines of El Señor’s soldiers, lances raised, black standards, harquebuses at the ready, halberds at rest, stand on three sides of a square of dust, and on the fourth, before the tall midday sun-lighted façade of the uncompleted and uncompletable palace, El Señor sits beneath a black canopy on a throne of carved wood rosettes, he too dressed in black, as prematurely aged as the women in the crowd who have borne thirteen children since they were thirteen years old, the Bishop stands beside him, crimson miter, dalmatic and tunicle, brocade waistband in his chasuble, pastoral staff, beside him the Inquisitor of Teruel, the monk with thin skin drawn taut across the bones, wearing the habit of St. Augustine, on each side of them deacons and subdeacons carrying the cross, acolytes with their tall, richly adorned candlesticks, all dressed in dalmatics and cords of silver cloth, damask and slubbed silk, and behind El Señor, bending to speak into his ear, Guzmán, in ceremonial attire, a short fur cape, velvet cap, black breeches, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade, drums, the first prisoner, Nuño, bound to one of the two stakes driven into the dusty plain, naked except for a loincloth, the guards beat him with rods, a hundred times, his entire body is an open, bleeding wound, then they cover his body with honey, a goat is led to him and begins to lick the honey with its rough tongue, stripping away shreds of skin, Nuño closes his eyes, grits his teeth, flesh and hide, blood and nerve, the goat’s rough tongue, the drums roll, the second prisoner, the ringleader, an old man with a beard as fiery as the fires of his forge, the rack, he reaches the stake, they tie him to it so that his feet do not touch the ground, to the large toe of each foot they tie weights of a hundred and forty pounds and wait half an hour, watching him suffer slowly while the Augustinian of Teruel exclaims in his hoarse voice, bulwark of the Church, pillar of truth, guardian of the Faith, treasure of religion, defense against heretics, light against the deceit of the enemy, touchstone of the pure doctrine, accursed scum! kill the rebels! I watch you die with pleasure, rebel dogs, we are the ministers of the Holy Inquisition! and then they coat the naked body with fat and set fire to the stake, and the Inquisitor of Teruel cries, light the flame! Jerónimo roars like a lion, they have lighted only his sides, so only his ribs are burned, they extinguish the fire, they place upon him a shirt dipped in nitric acid and light it; Jerónimo’s beard sizzles, he closes his eyes, his eyelashes and eyebrows are burned away, again they extinguish the fire, they remove the shirt, they seize his clenched fists, force them open, sink needles and nails deep beneath his fingernails, they wash stinking urine over his body, they press his right hand between burning planks, and press, and burn, they squeeze his wrist with iron pincers, they wait, Guzmán has asked to be the executioner, he removes his dagger from its sheath, approaches Jerónimo at the stake, cuts off his penis, stuffs it in the unfortunate man’s mouth, he stretches the testicles back until he can stuff them in Jerónimo’s anus, he slits open Jerónimo’s belly in the form of a cross, rips out the entrails and the heart, cuts the heart in four portions, throws one to each of the four cardinal points, laughs, to Pater Noster, to Ave Maria, to the Credo, and Salve Regina, he gives the final order, cut off his head, impale the head upon a lance at the entrance to the palace, cut the body in four parts and hang them from four poles at the four corners of the palace, such is the will of our King, our Señor, and you, Nuño, son of askaris on the Moorish frontier, know me as you die, I am the son of that impoverished lord of the Ta’if kingdoms who had no money to retain you when you and yours abandoned our lands to weeds and drought, condemned us to poverty, leaving us without hands for labor, believing you would gain a little freedom by becoming the King’s subjects and ceasing to be my father’s laborers; look at you now, Nuño, I am collecting at the hour of your death the debt of slavery you owe me, and may your body rot here as example and warning to rebels, We have wished, señores, to write you this letter so that you see what is our goal in calling this Junta, and those who fear to venture their persons, and those who suspect the loss of their properties, will not be cured by following us in this undertaking, or even less in coming to the Junta, because as these are heroic acts, only very exalted hearts may undertake them, between the two, La Señora and her mandrake, the homunculus with vaguely defined features, cherries for eyes, a radish for a mouth, crumbs for hair, a root for a body, his monstrous appearance hidden as much as possible beneath high boots, heavy breeches, a bejeweled doublet, a loose cap with an eyeshade and long ear flaps, gloves embroidered with precious stones, ruffles on his wrists and a high ruff beneath his chin, between them they lifted the mummy made of royal bits and pieces from the bed in the Arabic chamber, and the little dwarf said, Señora, a great silence reigns now, night has fallen, this is the time to do what I have recommended to you, help me carry your Prometheus, you take his arms and I his feet, he is well joined, his parts well adhered thanks to the storax gum and resinous cáncamo, quietly, Señora, we shall leave together, through the galleries, halls, and small courtyards they went, carrying the mummy, first the feet, carried by the homunculus who was leading, through severe cloisters of strong, square pillars, through forests of arches, beneath the carved ceilings of the storerooms, through a series of eleven doors, until they reached a vast gallery La Señora had never seen, two hundred feet long and thirty feet high, the fronts, sides, and domed ceiling covered by painting, columns embedded in the walls embellished with fascia, jambs, lintels, and railings in a row, in the manner of balconies, the ceiling and the dome with grotesque and elaborate plaster ornamentation, a thousand variations on real and fictional figures, plaster medallions and niches, pedestals, men, women, children, monsters, birds, horses, fruits and flowers, draperies and festoons, and a hundred other bizarre inventions, and at the rear of the room a Gothic throne of roughly worked stone, and behind the throne a semicircular wall with feigned painting of two draperies hanging from their spikes, with flounces and fringe, look, Señora, it seems so real, it deceives many until they come to draw them and touch them; La Señora and her dwarf carried the inert body of royal bits and pieces, fashioned from the worm-eaten nose of the Arian King, an ear from the Queen who stitched flags with the colors of her blood and tears, the very flag that El Señor had one day cast into the putrid moat of the conquered Flemish city, another from the astrologer King who complained that God had not consulted him about the creation of the earth, one black eye from the fratricidal King and a white eye from the rebellious Infanta, the livid tongue of the cruel King who had forced his courtiers to drink the bath water of his concubine, the mummified arms of the rebellious King who had risen in arms against the stepfather who murdered his mother, the blackened torso of the King who violated his own daughter and who died between flaming sheets, the skull of the Suffering and the shriveled sex of the Impotent King, a shinbone from the virgin Queen murdered by the King’s halberdier while she prayed, another shinbone from the Mad Lady, a relic of the sacrifice of the present Señor’s mother, the twisted lips of the Reprieved, the murderer of his brothers, found dead in his bed after the thirty-three and a half days of the justice of God had passed, the silky hair of the kidnapped Princes whose throats were slit by Hebrews by the light of the moon, the rotted teeth of the King who employed all the days of his reign in celebrating his own funerals, and the feet of the most chaste Queen who never changed her clothing and whose shoes had to be pried off with a spatula when she died, they seated this creature on the throne, the homunculus ran behind the throne, picked up a golden crown encrusted with sapphire, pearl, agate, and rock crystal, a mantle of opaque purple, a scepter and a sphere, and he said to La Señora, you have invoked all the arts of the Devil, you have called upon them all, my mistress, you have attempted everything, except the simplest and most apparent: do it yourself, as this your mummy is seated on the most ancient throne of Spain, crown him yourself, thus, wrap him in the royal mantle, that’s it, pry open his afflicted fingers and close them again upon this orb and scepter, La Señora did as he advised, and that very instant the royal mummy blinked, his eyes filled with turbid light, his arm creaked as he raised the scepter, the backs of his knees squeaked, the twisted lips opened, the livid tongue moved, the homunculus shrieked with joy, words tumbled from the crowned mummy’s lips, he spoke contradictory words, close, Santiago, after them, I live without living in myself, plus ultra, plus ultra, in my hunger I command, dominate, Castile, dominate, you, the dominant, scorn what you do not know, and since from Spain we come, let us resemble what we were, La Señora fell to her knees and murmured, thank you, thank you, she kissed the hand of the King of Kings, now Spain has an eternal King, a Holy, Caesarian, Catholic Majesty, We do not doubt, señores, that in our wills both here and there we are one; but the distances of lands forbid communication of persons; from which follows no little harm for the enterprise we have undertaken, to mend the kingdom, for very arduous affairs are long in their conclusion when there are long roads to travel, and let it not be said of us what Don Pedro of Toledo once said, that he hoped death would come to him from Spain, so that it might come to him very late. Only that to the messengers who carry these words you give your entire faith in these words, El Señor has been magnanimous, too benevolent, said Guzmán, for I have never tired of warning him that the innocent, once pardoned, will not tarry in making themselves his enemy and very quickly will assume the guilt of the accusation, and in my opinion all of you are guilty, faithful allies of the seditious rebels who yesterday fell into our trap, but I am still more faithful to the desires of my Señor, you are free, you, blind man, and you, girl, and you, monk from pestilent cities, the fever of rebellion spreads throughout the kingdom and I am sure that we soon will meet again, you, up to your elbows in intrigue, by the side of the insurgent townsmen of the cities of Castile, I by the side of my King, Guzmán is patient, we will settle our accounts then, and my son? pleaded Ludovico, he has done nothing, he is innocent, he can be accused of nothing, will he not be freed? yes, laughed Guzmán, but not now, not with you, I shall free him in my own way, El Señor has granted me that kindness, Celestina kissed the forehead of the pilgrim from the new world, clasped the youth’s hands in hers, spoke into his ear, we shall wait, one day we shall triumph, we shall await the new millennium, I give you this appointment, far from here in another city Ludovico has told me of, Paris, the fountain of all wisdom, the fourteenth of July, when this millennium is dying, the fourteenth of July of 1999, I shall look for you, I shall find you, all waters communicate with each other, we shall find one another over the waters, we shall arrive by water, water passes from the Cantabrian to the Seine, from the Tiber to the Dead Sea, from the Nile to the gulfs of the new world, I shall look for you, I shall find you, upon a bridge, I shall pass my memory and my life to another woman, kissing her upon the lips, my lips are my memory, try to remember me, I shall look for you, Guzmán ordered the halberdiers to take Celestina, Ludovico, and Simón from the donjon, lead them to the plain, and abandon them with a week’s provisions, he did not understand why El Señor was pardoning them, Guzmán would have subjected them to the rack, the same as the ringleader, Jerónimo, when the two of them remained alone in the cell, Guzmán stared with derision and amusement at the youth, We wish to make known to Your Mercies that yesterday, Tuesday, which we counted the eleventh, Guzmán came to this town with two hundred musketeers and eight hundred lances, all prepared for war. And certain it is that Don Rodrigo rose no earlier against the Moors of Granada than Don Guzmán against the Christians of Medina. Once at the gates of the town, he told us that he was a captain general and that he had come for artillery. And, as we had not been told that he was captain general, we set ourselves to defend it. So that being unable to reach an agreement by words, we had to determine the matter by arms. Guzmán and his men, as soon as they perceived that we were superior to them in strength of arms, resolved to set fire to our homes and property, because they believed that what we had won by our efforts, we would lose by our greed. Certainly, señores, all the weapons of our enemies, aimed against one point, wounded our flesh, and in addition, the fire destroyed our properties. And above all else, we saw before our eyes that the soldiers were despoiling our women and our sons. But we give thanks to God that, thanks to the good effort of this town of Medina, we sent Guzmán away vanquished, twenty-four years ago I was brought still a child to your house, Felipe, Isabel said to him that night, a young Princess with starched petticoats and corkscrew curls, do you remember?; I arrived on the eve of a terrible slaughter; we celebrated on the same day our wedding and your crime; today I ask you that our separation coincide with this new slaughter that closes so perfectly the circle of your life, my poor Felipe, I believe that I now know all it is possible to know about you, and I about you, Isabel, everything, my poor dear? everything, Isabel, all your secrets, and the worst of them, too, the secret that is a greater crime than all of mine, for now you have seen, my crimes are repeatable but yours are not: the dead would have to be revived before you could again commit your unique crime, I shared Celestina with my father, with Ludovico, and perhaps with Beelzebub himself, I shared Inés with Don Juan; on the other hand, Isabel, I could not share you with your first lover, that is why I never touched you, that is why in my love you will always be that most perfect ideal, untouchable, incorruptible, soiled by no one, for only my mind sustains it and nourishes it and only with me will it die: I will share you only with my life and my death; and knowing this, do you believe, Isabel, that your love affair with the one called Mihail-ben-Sama could matter to me — with what relish I sent him to the stake, never invoking his true crime, only a secondary one — or your love-making with the one they called Don Juan, who is now living forever the hell he so feared and the death he so long postponed with a single female in a prison of mirrors; did you always know the truth, Felipe?; always, Isabel; and even so, you loved me, Felipe, in spite of my first love?; I shall always love you, Isabel; only I, among all living beings, shall have known and loved what you could have been; my love, beloved Isabel, has been the votive temple for that precious child who entertained herself in playing with her dolls, waking drowsy duennas, and hiding peach stones in the gardens: you, my child Isabel, you, my eternal lover, you, what you could have been; what I myself could have been; what we could have been together: the withered sheaf of our possibilities, the shattered shell of our realities; Felipe, my poor dear Felipe, I have harmed you greatly, I shall harm you greatly still, I shall leave in your land deep seeds of rancor, I shall live despising Spain until I purge myself completely of Spain, you will know my evil though I journey far from here; and in spite of everything, Felipe, given what we have been, being what we are, knowing our shared miseries and weaknesses, tell me, Felipe, did we learn at last to love one another?; I have always loved you, Isabel, you answer, have you at last learned to love me?; yes, Felipe, a thousand times yes, my child, my sweet muck-working mole, my little saint, my pitiful chained puppy, my wounded bird, my poor scarred man, conquered equally by humility and pride, my tender, impossible lover, sequestered in the stone of the sacred prison you have constructed, my innocent victim of the power you inherited, how am I not to love you to the very enormity of my hatred, he who hates so intensely, at times without realizing, gives all the intensity of his love to the one he thinks to despise; yes, that is why I love you, for the same reasons you love me: I love what could have been; thank you, Isabel, thank you for coming this night for the first time to my bedchamber, without my asking you, of your own will, thank you, look at it, what a poor naked funereal chamber, thank you for coming to me for the first time and — we know, for the last time, is that not so? no more talk, Felipe, take my hand, take me to your bed, we shall spend this last and first night together, clothed, not touching one another, like a dead brother and sister, like two additional statues lying in the crypt where you have united your ancestors, sleep, sleep, sleep … Do not marvel, señores, at what we have said; marvel at what we have not yet said. Our bodies are fatigued by combat, our houses all burned, our properties all stolen, our children and women with no place of shelter, the temples of God turned into dust; and especially, our hearts so disquieted we fear we shall become mad. We cannot believe that Guzmán and his men sought only artillery; for if this were so, it was not possible that eight hundred lances and five hundred soldiers would cease, as they ceased, to do battle in the plazas and turn to robbing our homes. The damage in sad Medina done by fire, you will want to know, all the gold, silver, brocades, silks, jewels, pearls, tapestries, and riches that were burned, is beyond the power of tongue to tell, there is not a quill that can record it, nor is there heart that can think on it, or mind that can consider it, there are no eyes that can see it without tears; in burning our unfortunate Medina the tyrants did no less harm than the Greeks in burning powerful Troy. We have such justice in our demands, señores, that we must never desist in our undertaking. And if it is necessary, we shall send more men into the country, and aid them with more money and artillery, for it would be no small affront to Medina if this so just war were not carried to a conclusion. We seek first a compromise: Guzmán provoked the encounter of arms. What he did in Medina he will repeat, if we permit it, in Cuenca, Burgos, Avila, and Toledo. To the bearer of the present notice give your entire faith in what he tells you in our behalves and belief, damp walls of Galicia tapestried with ivy, dead leaves, the ground icy cold; as the brigantine put out to sea from the port of La Coruña, La Señora looked at the Spanish coasts for the last time; El Señor lacked the will to oppose the annulment, he acquiesced in the fact that he had never touched Isabel, and it did not matter to him now that this truth be known in all the circles in St. Peter’s; some dim-witted cardinal spoke of canonizing him, believing that chastity was a requisite of sanctity; El Señor commissioned Julián, the friar, to go to Rome to initiate the process before the Sacred Roman Rota; no one wanted to accompany La Señora in her English exile, which for her was only a return to the land of her father; the maid Azucena wept and explained and made excuses, you are returning to England, my mistress? and what language do they speak there? how could a muddlehead like me get around there without either understanding or being understood? I, La Azucena, speak English? Jehosaphat, not even if it were God’s will, and remember, mistress, I know that little men like yours are born beneath gallows, gibbets, pillories, and racks, are engendered by the tears of the tortured, ay, poor Jerónimo, cut to pieces like a hunted stag, ay, poor Nuño, left to bleed to death and rot, his flesh stripped away by a goat’s tongue! at the feet of both, my Señora, there must be two other little men like yours, two mandrakes, mistress, waiting for me to go by the light of the moon, cut off a strand of my hair, tie it to a black dog’s tail, the other end to the mandrake root, and pull, cover my ears, and amid cries so terrible they cannot be heard, our little men will be yanked from their dank cradles of mud and tears; I shall put in cherries for their eyes, and they will see, radishes for their mouths, and they will speak, wheat on their little heads, and their hair will grow, and a great carrot between their legs, my mistress, tee-hee-hee, and I shall have a great dingalingdong to entertain myself with while I grow old, for I am nothing but an argumentative old whore, and may God keep me so, although without La Lolilla, my mistress, who do I have to argue with or play ruff and honors with? for that scrawny old Lola has disappeared on us, I don’t know where she’s got to, and I scare myself to death thinking that in all the slaughter they may have confused her with the English whore, begging your pardon, mistress, Your Mercy, and chopped the bawd in two with an ax, and besides, if the Devil is to carry us off, it will be the same either here or there, but better a known Devil than a Devil still to know, and the scrubbing maid wept and made her goodbyes, and the little dwarf said no, he wouldn’t go either, for who would be left to look after the true monarch, the mummy seated on the Gothic throne in the gallery of paintings, columns, and plaster ornaments, who would listen to what he said, applaud the strange movements of his arms, his harsh and trembling gestures, celebrate his witticisms, so clumsy and difficult with that ancient, livid tongue, look after his tidiness, attend to dressing him, change his clothing according to the time, the mode, changing fashions, for that King, the true King, would in truth remain on the throne for centuries and centuries to come, and the little dwarf would be his only page, his buffoon, his confidant, counselor, and executor, and only Julián agreed to accompany Isabel, but he only to an English port, and from there he would continue on to Rome to carry out El Señor’s charge, and then, Friar, and then? Brother Julián leaned on the port railing, watching the deep inlets of the sheer coasts of Galicia fade into the distance, and said to her, Señora, as soon as the kingdom is again at peace, the rebellion of the city communities put down, all the riches confiscated from the insurgents, the Jews expelled and the Moors conquered, everyone will be employed in navigation and discoveries; the new world must exist, because the vanquished desire it so they can flee to it, and the conquerors as well, in order to channel into virgin lands all the energies and discontent that have flowered since the middle of the summer, all done in the name of the unity of Spain, proof of its unique power and evangelizing mission; a thousand ambitions palpitate beneath these reasons, those who can be Nothing here, can be Somebody there; you will see that in leaving their land all the Spanish will become Princes and luminaries, and in the new world the swineherd and smith and laborer will be able to achieve the lineage that being Spanish in Spain he could never achieve; the treasures of the new world will attract both conquerors and vanquished in the Spanish fratricide, and those conquerors, having subdued Spain, will have energy to spare for subduing idolaters; I shall go with them; I have something to do there; together they gazed at the green and golden coast of Galician autumn, La Señora recalled the smoke and flames of pyres consuming cadavers of the two slaughters, one in today’s palace, one in yesterday’s castle, on reaching Spain, on leaving Spain; then she turned her back to the land and looked at the tossing, slate-gray sea opening in stony waves before the brigantine’s advance; England, her country, she had left so late, she told Julián, the friar, she was returning so late, no, it was not too late, it would not be too late, there would still be time, a virgin Queen, humiliated, burdened with vengeance and anguish, thus she would return, thus she would present herself, the home of her uncles, the Boleyns, awaited her, from those forgotten fields of Wiltshire she could plot her revenge, no one knew the Spanish land and its men as well as she, no one would know as well as she how to counsel her own race, reveal the secrets and weaknesses of terrible Spain, Isabel, virgin Queen, returning to her fatherland, filling the seas separating La Coruña from Portsmouth with powerful squadrons of vengeance, English fleets, English pennons, English cannons, and then toward the west, toward the new world, sons of Albion, so the new world would belong not only to Spain, she, Elizabeth again, as she was baptized, would take charge of instigating, pressing, intriguing, harassing, enlightening England so that its men also would set foot on the new lands and there forever confront the sons of Spain, challenging them, as cruel as they, and more, as covetous as they, and more, as criminal as they, and more, but without holy justification, without dreams of becoming gentlemen, without the temptations of the flesh, considering the new world a challenge, not a prize, like the Spanish, exterminators of natives, but without joining their bodies, or living the torments of that divided blood, seekers of treasures they would never find, they would have to wrest the fruits from the hostile land with their sweat and calluses, leisure for the Spaniard, industry for the Englishman, enervation of feelings for the Spaniard, the discipline of strength for the Englishman, illusion of luxury for the former, frugal reality for the latter, oh, yes, orders would be inverted, for the Spaniard — abandoning penitence, scarcity, sadness, and doors closed to ascent in his own land — would find too much leisure, too much opulence, and too great ease for personal grandeur in the new world, and he would sink into a swamp of golden softness, confusing reality with his person, and the Englishman abandoning the same problems in his world, oppression, war, and hunger, would find in the new world no leisure, no opulence, no ease, only the challenge of a new and virgin land that would give him nothing in compensation for his flight but what he conquered with his bare hands, working from nothing; Spain: conquer cities of gold; England: conquer virgin forests, untouched land, solitary rivers, plow furrows where Spain digs mines, build wood cabins where Spain raises palaces of quarried stone, paint white what Spain covers with silver, decide to be, where Spain contents itself with appearing, demand results, where Spain proclaims desires, commit yourself to actions where Spain dreams illusions, sacrifice to work what Spain sacrifices to honor, live the consensus of the hour where Spain lives the expectation of destiny, live forever disabused while Spain passes from illusion to disillusion and from disillusion to new illusion, let England prosper in the hard calculation of efficiency while Spain exhausts herself maintaining dignity, heroic appearances, and the self-gratification of commendation by others, yes, England asked everything that negated her, the dream of pleasure and luxury would not be for her, she sacrificed those dreams gladly so that Spain could swell to bursting, poisoned first from the excess the new world offered her famished austerity, and then from the disenchantments that sense of satiety produced; Spain: on the docks at La Coruña, Julián, I offered a gold ducat to a mendicant; it was my parting gift; and do you know what he said to me: “Look for some other poor man, Señora”; I shall give that same ducat to a beggar in London, and I shall tell him how to multiply it, invest it, reinvest it, lend it on interest and with conditions, attract partners, money-changers, contractors, the Jewish intelligentsia expelled from Spain, fleets of pirates, provocations against Hispanic dignity, all the measures, all of them, Julián: the gold of the new world will pass like water through Spain’s hands into England’s coffers: I swear it; and for yourself, Isabel, what do you want for yourself, Señora? this autumn morning, sailing back to my English fatherland, Julián? Elizabeth wants nothing but the image of a little girl, a Princess with corkscrew curls and starched white cotton petticoats, and she will ask that child, did your dolls arrive safely? none was broken on the voyage? where did you bury your peach stones? oh, the hawk, how it soars, how it spreads its jet-black wings! have you ever heard of a bedchamber with white sand floors, Arabic tiles, soft tapestries? will you come with me to the Court of Love where a company of knights dressed in white will compete for your hand against a company of knights dressed in black? do you hear the little bronze pellets dropping into a basin, marking the hours? let’s play, ring-a-ring o’ roses, a pocket full of posies, a-tishoo, a-tishoo, we all fall down, Yesterday, Thursday, we came to know what we had never wanted to know and heard what we had never wanted to hear: it is fitting to know that Guzmán has burned down the very loyal town of Medina. As God the Lord is our witness, if he burned the houses in that town, he will roast our entrails. But hold, señores, as true that as Medina was lost for Segovia, either no memory shall remain of Segovia, or Segovia will avenge the injury to Medina. We have been informed that you battled against Guzmán, not like merchants, but like captains; not as if unprepared, but defiantly, not like weak men, but like strong lions. And as you are sane men, give thanks to God for the burning, that it afforded you opportunity to achieve such glory. For beyond comparison you must hold greater the fame you earned than the properties you lost. The disasters of war stir us to move the General Junta from Avila to Valladolid, and from there to continue the struggle for the general remedying of the kingdom, occasioned by bad governing and the counsel our Señor the King has received, conquered in Medina, conquered in Segovia, conqueror in Torresillas and in Torrelobatón, my defeats and victories are all victories, for I provoked and goaded the townsmen to war with tears in their eyes and affronted dignity, bad judges of cold military calculation, but what do such victories and calamities mean to me if I still have not vanquished you? Guzmán had said to the young pilgrim of the new world brought once again by Guzmán to the site of the first hunt on the spurs of the Cantabrian range, and in view of the coast, you see that I am loyal, youth, you came from here, I bring you again to this very spot, on a clear day from this height one can see the beach and the Cabo de los Desastres, El Señor told me, set him free, one of his brothers sleeps forever, fast in bed in Verdín, and the other purges his pleasure and heresy in a prison of mirrors, the prophecy has been defeated, there are not three now, or two, but only one, let him go free, there is no way he can harm us, and all our efforts must be directed against the rebellious townsmen, who in truth are threatening us, not against a poor wretch who dreamed a new world, he says you were three, that is what the blind flautist and the girl with the tattooed lips led us to believe, but Guzmán is not so easily deceived, I know the truth, there was only one, I never saw the three together, and what the eyes do not behold, the mind does not understand, I saw the same one every time, in different places, in different attires, and with different persons, they are all you, you are all three, I asked El Señor, Sire, let me set him free in my own manner, with as much justice and as much chance as the hart is given in the hunt, and he agreed, and that is why, now, you, the last youth, blond, pursued, you, trembling with cold, in ragged clothing, you, who knew the dangers of the high seas, the beach of pearls, the town beside the river, the virgin jungle, the sacred wells, the smoking pyramids, the snowy volcano, the entrails of the white hell, the city of the lake, the palaces of gold of the new world, that is why you have been running, walking, falling, struggling to your feet, since yesterday, Guzmán said he would give you one day’s start, then would follow to hunt you, it has snowed all day, first that fact frightened you, all the footsteps of your route through the mountains, toward the sea, would leave a trail, he had warned you of that, you will have one day’s start, but it is snowing, snow erases old trails, one easily finds the fresh track, the wind blows snow from the branches, a good time to run new game, the dogs will be well baited, but by dusk the wind began to blow strong from the knife-edge ridges of the mountain and looking back you saw that it was hidden beneath a cape of white snow and with it the track of your feet; you had won or lost a day’s advantage: you can see the signal tied to a lance by the lookouts on the highest point of the mountain, placed so that everyone sees it, even you: it is the call to flush the stag; you stop for a moment in the midst of the storm that as it muffles the sound of horns and trumpets seems to impose an illusory silence over the snowy clearing through which you have fled from the mountain; but suddenly the storm died down, Guzmán loosed one pack of dogs, and then another, and then a third; you count each wave of barking behind you, Guzmán told you, freedom, freedom, you came here to speak of freedom, freedom for the new world beyond the sea, freedom for the new world here, you will see how long your freedom lasts, here or there, you will hear the cry of Spain every time they offer you your freedom: Long live chains! you hear the steadily approaching horns, Guzmán had instructed the crossbowmen, these are dogs that will not follow a trail if they do not smell blood, kill that boar to excite them, you are a stag, pilgrim, Guzmán had told you, the easy way to kill an animal is from a distance, aiming at its side, the longest part of its body, but more audacious and fatal is to wound it face-on, to drive in your lance to the hilt, turn it, and then allow the hart to be subdued by the dogs, run, youth, run, pilgrim, run, founder, run, first man, run, Plumed Serpent, you do not know the wiles of the wild boars that as they come down from the mountain to graze in wheat fields send two or three little ones ahead, and as they enter the wheat they give them two or three quick thrusts of their tusks, making them squeal, then return to high ground where they can survey the field; they do this three times, until they are assured there is no hunter about, and the fourth time they descend without caution, and are easily hunted; you, no instinct, no wile, you run toward the sea, packs of dogs close behind you, Guzmán mounted, his favorite hawk upon his forearm, wrapped in dark-brown cape, hooded and heavily booted, I told you, hawk, beautiful hawk, fierce hawk, your hour would come, that hour is now, I prepared you for the great hunt, remember Guzmán, brave hawk, you are my weapon, my devotion, my child and my luxury, the mirror of my desires and the face of my hatred, and you see the sea before you through cobwebs of fog, the Cabo de los Desastres, the beach of Celestina’s and Pedro’s, Simón’s and Ludovico’s former dreams, the beach of Felipe’s deceit, the beach that received you and your two brothers in order to hasten history, destinies, the millennium, in the land of eternal vespers, Spain, Vespers, Hesperia, land of Venus, its own twin, in anguished and interminable search of its other countenance, Spain, you are running, again returning to that beneficent sea, your heart tells you that the sea will save you, in spite of everything, how near the terrible horns, barking, hoof beats, panting, you run like the hart, the fringe of desert between the mountains and the sea narrows, besieging greyhounds block any exit to the right, whippets to the left, the whippets must contain the greyhounds so they will not capture you too soon, you are trapped between two lines of menacing dogs, Guzmán knows his office well, the passage to the sandy beach narrows, you scramble down between icy-crusted dunes, you fall face down upon the beach, your arms flung in a cross, you rise, barking, horns, Guzmán on the height of the sand dunes, laughing, before you the misty sea, behind you, Guzmán and the huntsmen, Guzmán frees the hawk, go, hawk, beautiful hawk, I promised you, I did not deceive you, I swore to you, I will offer you the freshest flesh, that is your prey, soar into the skies with the swiftness of a prayer and swoop down with the speed of a curse, the hawk soars, the dogs run, you have not reached the sea, a greyhound’s jaws close about your arm, his fangs sink deep, tear your flesh, a whippet chases away the greyhound, you are free for a moment, you fall, you rise, your feet sink in the slime of the shore, turbulent waves break and die around your knees, the hawk soars, speeding like an arrow, it swoops swift as a curse, fastens onto your arm, digs its steely talons into your flesh, fixes upon your arm with its long tarsi, sinks its beak into the wounds opened by the dog’s fangs, you run into the sea, the bird still clinging to you, you struggle, you roll over, you beat at the bird, the falcon is devouring your arm, you try to swim, you cannot with a single arm, you try to drown this ferocious falconet, Guzmán, on horseback, is laughing from the dunes, you plunge the arm in the iron grip of the hawk into the sea, you sink, in the obscured heavens you seek the light of your star, Venus, the sailor’s guide, and in the depths of the sea, St. Elmo’s fire, flame of inseparable brothers, Marquis, kinsman: I write to apprise you that Tuesday last, the day of St. George, near the village of Villalar, our army joined battle — in which participated all the viceroys and governors of our kingdoms — against the army of rebels and traitors, in which it pleased Our Lord and His Blessed Mother to give us the victory without any harm to the men of our army, and from the enemy we recaptured the artillery they had taken from us and usurped, and all the ringleaders of the General Junta were taken prisoner and killed. Captain Don Guzmán was outstanding in this action, galloping on horseback, face flushed red, sweat streaming from a brow blackened by the agitation of his soul, hoarse from shouting to our men: Kill the accursed rebels; destroy the impious and dissolute upstarts; pardon no man; you shall enjoy eternal rest among the just if you eradicate from the earth this accursed people; do not forbear in wounding either in the front or in the back these disturbers of tranquillity. Before night fell, one could see the townsmen fleeing for a distance of two and a half leagues; one hundred men were dead on the field, four hundred were wounded, a thousand captured. Not one of our soldiers lost his life. Of the townsmen the most nimble saved themselves, and some who had the foresight to exchange our white crosses for the red crosses fastened to their breasts and backs that distinguished them from us. There reigns in Villalar, the tomb of the townsmen’s rebellion, more silence than in a village of only three men. Your most abject servitor and servant, who kisses your hands, kinsman Marquis, your most fervent, faithful and humble adept, etc., etc., etc., Guzmán asked a single favor from his King Don Felipe in reward for his actions, and that was to lead an expedition that would cross the great ocean in search of the new world and thereby ascertain its existence or non-existence; El Señor heartily acceded, giving proof of grace and munificence, and urging Guzmán to take with him many of the troublemakers of his kingdoms, men of excessive energy capable of disturbing his calm, so that the prayers and peace of his necropolis would not again be perturbed by heretics, rebels, madmen, and lovers: “For your hand is harsh, Guzmán, you will know how to discipline these upstarts, and how to use them to best advantage in the undertakings of great risk that only those who have nothing to lose will attempt”; Guzmán supervised in Cádiz the construction of a fleet of three-masted caravels with triangular sails rigged on masts distributed along the longitudinal plan of the ships; these caravels were a great novelty, for formerly the varinel had been used on such expeditions, a ship with both oars and sail, and the barque, whose conformation and round sail greatly reduced its maneuverability and speed. As he directed the construction of these new ships, and smiling to himself, Guzmán recalled the labors of the aged Pedro on the beach of the Cabo de los Desastres, for these new ships were as long as the varinel but with decks high as the barque’s, combining the advantages of both hulls, eliminating their defects, for the Latin-style triangular sail permitted lying closer to the wind, thereby receiving better advantage of it, and its lighter design resulted in greater agility in speed and maneuverability. El Señor provided for the expenses of the expedition a fund of two million maravedis expropriated from three families of exiled Jews, the Santángel, the Santa Fe, and the Bélez, and as warranty ordered the authorities of towns and villages along the Andalusian coast to provide Guzmán whatever goods he asked for his flotilla, allowing them to collect excise taxes. As additional warranty, El Señor promised that all who signed on board the caravels would be given security, and his promise that no one could harm their persons or their goods because of any crime they had committed. Thus three hundred men signed on, and as he watched them board the caravels with their sparse belongings, Guzmán smiled, guessing that here was the conquered townsman and there the common criminal, in this one he saw an impoverished nobleman, and in that one the pretended convert, in one a laborer of the land, and in another a rancorous smith. If only they had waited a little: Jerónimo, Nuño, Martín, Catilinón … He had not again seen that servile rascal given to speaking in proverbs. Had he been killed by mistake in the palace slaughter? Distracted, Guzmán did not notice the strange couple who arm in arm boarded one of the caravels. A hooded man, walking slowly, bent over with pain, one hand protecting his sex and the other resting upon the shoulder of a Mozarab of short stature and effeminate gait dressed in rags, his head shaved and features obscured by grime. It was almost the hour to set sail. Through the narrow windows of Cádiz, from behind the green shutters of their houses, peered pale, suspicious faces. Guzmán knew what they were thinking: they are headed for disaster, they are mad, and we will never see them again. He hoisted the pennants of the caravels. A message arrived from El Señor: wait two more days. Brother Julián, the palace iconographer, will join your expedition. Guzmán’s mouth tasted of gall.