Cat's Pajamas (22 page)

After slipping beneath the largest bridge I have ever seen, a mile-long passageway stretching over our heads like a bronze rainbow, our fleet sailed up a dark and oily strait and anchored off what we took to be one of the lesser Moluccas. Dominating the island was an iron idol rising a hundred and fifty feet at least, surmounting a pedestal of almost equal height. I forthwith gathered together an exploration party consisting of Father Hojeda, Captain Pinzón, and myself, plus our translator Luis de Torres and our master-at-arms Diego de Harana. We came ashore in the dinghy of the
Santa María,
assembled in the shadow of the idol, and, thrusting the royal standard of Castile into the grassy soil, claimed the island for the Crown.

A most astonishing fact: there is no
limpieza de sangre
in Asia. Everywhere we turned, our eyes beheld a different fashion in flesh-dark, light, rough, coarse—and our ears rang with the greatest confusion of tongues since the Tower of Babel collapsed. We saw Moors. We saw Nubians. We saw Greeks and Slavs and Jews. From amid the general cacophony, Torres claimed he could discern not only Portuguese, Arabic, Yiddish, and Polish, but also the language of my native Genoa, though I caught no such syllables myself. Surprisingly, we soon encountered a sizable percentage of Indians for whom a peculiarly cadenced Castilian is the medium of choice. (I must confess, I was not aware that your Highness's overland mercantile endeavors had placed so many Spaniards in the Orient.) But the greatest shock, surely, was the omnipresence of English, not only in the mouths of the Indians but on the plethora of public signs, banners, mottos, and decrees.

“Give me your weary, your indigent, your huddled multitudes seeking to breathe without hinderance, the miserable garbage of your crowded beaches…” So began Torres's uncertain rendering of the incantation that accompanies the idol. (English is not his
forte.)
“Send these, the homeless, typhoon-buffeted to me,” he continued. “I lift my lantern beside the portal of gold.”

The idol's form is female, and she evidently embodies something called
libertad
—a difficult idea to explicate, but Torres has inferred it means “giving free rein to your worst instincts and basest impulses.” No doubt the “huddled multitudes” are sacrificial victims. Some are probably burned to death—hence the firebrand in the idol's right hand. Others are impaled alive—hence the seven dreadful spikes that decorate her crown.

With the setting of the sun I directed my party back to the caravels, dined alone on ham and beer, and began the present epistle. We are uncertain of our next move. From the Indians' chatter, Torres has surmised that other Moluccas lie in our vicinity—the Spice Island of Ellis to the north, the Spice Island of Governors to the east, the Spice Island of Manhattan to the northeast—and we are strongly inclined to explore them. But, O my Queen, this idol of
libertad
vexes us most sorely. The very sight of her looming over the fleet prickles our flesh and troubles our bowels. Might you perchance be willing to dispatch a regiment of soldiers to the Indies, so we can undertake to baptize this cult without fear of immolation? Eagerly I await your reply.

Written aboard the caravel
Santa María
on this 12th day of September, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

I, The Admiral

TO YOU, DON CRISTOBAL COLON,
our Admiral of the Ocean Sea, Viceroy and Governor of all the Islands to be found by you on your Great Voyage of Discovery, greetings and grace…

Frankly, my Admiral, we don't quite know what to make of your Spice Islands and their polyglot aborigines. As with the Jewish Question, the Court is of several minds. Santangel thinks you may have stumbled upon the Lost Tribes of Israel. The clergy believes you have sailed clear past the Indies and landed in one of these secret colonies set up by Europe's escaped convicts and fugitive mutineers.

In any event, we cannot send you infantry support. Now that Granada is ours, we have demobilized the army, leaving in uniform only our border troops, our palace guards, and our Santa Hermandad. But even if an extra regiment did lie at our disposal, we would not ship it across the Ocean Sea. Dearest Cristóbal, have you forgotten the sheer power of Scripture? Do you doubt the potency of Truth? Once Father Hojeda tells them the whole story, from the Virgin Birth to the Resurrection, this
libertad
cult will surely abandon its wicked, pagan, persecuting ways. So say Friars Deza and Perez.

This is not a happy time for the Queen of Castile. My daughter still grieves for her husband, the Crown Prince Alfonso, killed last month in a riding accident, and she evinces no romantic interest in his successor. Day in, day out, the Infanta skulks about the castle, dressing in black, singing bawdy ballads, and, worst of all, threatening to join the Holy Sisters in Toledo. Let her marry our Lord Jesus Christ in the next life—at the moment her duty is to marry Portugal!

Yet another lady-in-waiting has acquiesced to Ferdinand's advances. As soon as her transgression became apparent, I hurried the harlot and her nascent babe off to the nearest convent, though in truth I would have preferred to hurry the king off to the handiest monastery. (It is quite enough to make me regret that you and I behaved so honorably last April in my Segovian rose garden.) If there were chastity belts for men, I would this very night slip one over my husband's lecherous loins, lock it up, and hide the key where I alone can find it.

I am bored, sir. Nothing amuses me. Yesterday I attended a bullfight—an unrelievedly gory and grotesque spectacle. I have half a mind to outlaw the entire sport. This morning's
auto-da-fé
was equally jejune. Of the nineteen heretics paraded through the streets in
sanbenitos,
eleven repented, seven went to the stake, and one dropped dead from fright. I left before the burnings, the weather having turned rainy and cold.

Cristóbal, you and you alone can relieve my tedium. You must visit these other Moluccas, teaching the Indians about eternal life, searching out the golden portals, and having many beguiling adventures. And then, when you are finished, you must pick up your pen and excite me with your exploits.

Written in our City of Sante Fe on this 17th day of September, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

I, The Queen

TO YOU, ISABELLA,
by the Grace of God Queen of Castile, León, Aragón, Granada, Sicily, Sardinia, and the Balearics, greetings and increase of good fortune…

Following your directive of the 17th, we have spent the past fourteen hours in quest of souls and gold, and I must tell you at the outset that never did a man endure a more perplexing day.

The
Niña
has always been my favorite among the fleet, and certainly the ship best designed for exploring coasts, so with dawn's first light I transferred my flag to her, leaving Pinzón and his brothers in charge of the
Santa María
and the
Pinta.
Once Torres, Harana, and Father Hojeda were aboard we took off, eventually dropping our anchor perhaps sixty yards off Manhattan. Setting out in the dinghy, we disembarked at a place called “Battery Park,” unfurled our standard, and acquired the island for Spain.

We were immediately struck by the large number of beggars in our midst, men and women with dirty faces, torn clothing, hollow eyes, and vacant bellies. Poor as heretics' children, they carried all their earthly belongings about in sacks (rather like the Jews I noted traveling down the Saltés), and we quickly identified them as the “homeless, typhoon-buffeted” creatures mentioned on the idol's plaque. An infinite remorse gripped me as I realized they were all destined to be skewered on the spikes of
libertad
and consumed by her flames.

Torres tried several times to start a conversation with these wretches, asking why they did not flee from Battery Park to whatever monasteries, convents, and sanctuaries might grace the interior. Their responses were invariably a crude idiomatic expression to the effect that Torres should become a hermaphrodite and experience sexual congress with himself

As if sensing our communication difficulties, a bold young Indian approached, offering his services as both interpreter and guide. Born Rodrigo Menendez, he said he was raised in the distant Spanish-speaking land of “Cuba-man.” Though formidable in appearance, with a tiny gold ring through his right nostril, a dark blue kerchief tied around his forehead, and a shirt inscribed
BEAM ME UP, SCOΊTY, THERE'S NO INTELLIGENT LIFE DOWN HERE,
he assured us he was of the Holy Faith, attending Mass regularly as well as something called “Cardinal O'Connor High School-man,” situated on the Twenty-third Street. We offered to pay him in the various trinkets that appeal so profoundly to the African peoples with whom the Crown barters: red felt caps, glass necklaces, little brass bells. He was not interested. When we displayed the cask of vintage Marques de Cacares that Father Hojeda had so cleverly brought ashore, however, the youth's eyes lit up like votive candles, and for this good consideration he entered our employ.

A tour of “Lower Manhattan,” Rodrigo assured us, typically begins with “the New York Stock Exchange.” From his description, we surmised it was a principal meeting place of the
libertad
cult. Steeling ourselves, we followed the youth east along the “Wall” road, site of many grand citadels and lofty towers. The passing Indians fairly dripped of gold—gold bracelets, gold wedding bands, gold chains about their necks, gold pebbles in their teeth.

We entered the temple in question. Believe me, your Highness, rarely has a faith excited such zeal. Those who attend the New York Stock Exchange celebrate with a frenzy I have never seen before. They run around like lunatics and shout like the Apostles at Pentecost. It did not take Father Hojeda long to decide that these stock exchangers are nowise ready to hear about Jesus Christ, so tenacious are their present beliefs. I am inclined to concur.

As we left the temple, the utter strangeness of the surrounding city prompted me to speculate we might have reached the fabled waterbound kingdom of which Marco Polo wrote. I asked Rodrigo if we could possibly be on one of the Cipangu Islands.

He said, “The which?”

“Cipangu Islands. You know—the Japans.”

Whereupon the youth explained that Cipangu indeed possessed many “holdings” on Manhattan, including treasuries, trading posts, and money-lending houses plus something called “Rockefeller Center-man.” However, while these assorted enterprises evidently make Manhattan a kind of colony of Cipangu, Rodrigo reckoned the actual Kingdom of Japan to be some considerable distance away.

“If we're not in Cipangu, have we perhaps found Cathay?” asked Father Hojeda.

“Huh? Cathay?”

“Do you call it Quinsay? China, perhaps?”

“Ah-you want to see Chinatown!”

The youth guided us to an enclave consisting primarily of places to eat. It took us but a moment to realize that “Chinatown” is no more contiguous with Cathay than the money-lending houses are contiguous with Cipangu. We did, however, enjoy an excellent lunch of pork, rice, and bamboo shoots. Rodrigo paid for this food using the local currency, a debt we agreed to cover with a second cask of Marques de Cacares.

“Our fervent hope was to form an alliance with the Great Khan,” I explained to the youth, making no effort to hide my disappointment over the disparity between Chinatown and Cathay. “We bear a royal letter of recommendation from the king and queen of Spain.”

“The closest we've got to a khan is the mayor,” the youth answered, “but I don't think he worries a whole lot about where he stands with the king and queen of Spain.”

Through further questioning of Rodrigo, we learned that this “mayor” claims an African heritage, whereupon Father Hojeda and I decided it was probably most accurate to regard him as a local chieftain. Rodrigo offered to take us to the ruler's headquarters, a “City Hall-man” lying perhaps a half mile south of Chinatown. We accepted. As we set out on our diplomatic mission, however, the youth casually mentioned that a previous such Chief of Manhattan had been of Jewish descent. Naturally I was not about to open negotiations with any realm whose throne has held the avaricious assassins of Christ-not without explicit orders from your Highness.

“We would like to see the sources of the gold,” I said to Rodrigo.

The youth replied, “Gold? Yeah, sure, I can show you some gold.”

“We would also like to see the gems,” added Harana.

“And the spices,” added Torres.

“And the precious fabrics,” added Father Hojeda.

“We go uptown-man,” said the youth. “We take the subway, eh?”

So we did. These “subways” proved to be machines most terrible and terrifying: self-propelled coaches linked in serpentine configurations, racing through underground passageways at demonic speeds. All during the trip, Rodrigo engaged in a long, rambling, unsolicited speech to the effect that, while he doesn't question the sanctity of marriage, he is just as glad his parents got divorced, and while he admits the wrongfulness of thwarting semen on its journey, he would never leave home without a pocketful of manhood sheaths, and while he understands that extracting fetuses from the womb is a sin, he doesn't know how he'd react if his girlfriend Martina ever became pregnant by him. O my dearest Isabella, it would seem that, before we attempt to convert this city's Indians to Catholicism, we must first seek to convert its Catholics to Catholicism.

Reaching the “Pennsylvania” station via the “Seventh Avenue Local,” we climbed back to the surface and followed our guide north to a place where he promised we would see the precious fabrics. He spoke the truth. All the way from the Thirty-fourth Street to the Fortieth, nimble Indian peasants transported silks, satins, cashmere, velvet, gossamer, chenille, damask, and a hundred other exotic cloths (including a wrinkleproof material known as “polyester”), shuttling them about in the form of both uncut bolts and finished suits. At the moment, I cannot say exactly what trading opportunities this bazaar may offer Spain. We saw many Jews.