Hunger's Brides (134 page)

Gutiérrez had promised me I would be brought to remember things, bear witness against others, as others would against me. Gutiérrez was a liar, Gutiérrez was a Judas, Gutiérrez was my friend—surely it was shame that had made him leave the Inquisition, book passage for Manila.

Magda did not leave the locutory for some time. And if I did not either, it was because there were things I needed so badly to know. She was right about this, right about me, and would not leave until I had heard them. She had made no move yet to hand me the letter. I added a condition, before giving her what she wanted, a single piece of information. Hearing it, she nodded in satisfaction, as though it had only confirmed something she had already known.

If I felt shame, then, I told myself it was because of the condition. I told Magda I wanted to know the
beata's
name if I co-operated. More childishness. They could give me any name they liked. Magda did not answer directly, though I could see she wanted me to believe she knew who the woman was. But I knew they would bend to my will. I would have a name, eventually, for the holy officers who had sent Magda knew it would be worse once I had one. It was only afterwards that it seemed like haggling over the
beata's
name to get what I wanted.

As the hours passed, my mind returned to what I had told Magda—because I could not bear to see that letter in her hand, and the seal broken. I told myself they had already known about Carlos, about his last visit, about the manuscripts, of course they had. I had suspected him for days, since he last came. No, I had suspected him for months—Gutiérrez had said there were testimonies and reports on me dating back thirty years, even before I moved from my uncle's house to the Palace. Why tell me this unless the identity of my betrayer would be a devastation?
Carlos
. Magda was dead. Even if I had thought of her, even if it were true my own cousin had informed against me, this would come as no great surprise, at best would make me furious yet not hurt me. I could not possibly think less of Magda. And Magda was dead. What would be the object?

After Carlos had left for Florida, of course I began to wonder why he had truly come. To say good-bye, or was it to test my defences, my readiness to express contrition? But I was forgetting: he had come to show me a way forward with the Archbishop. Yes His Grace and I had so much in common, much common ground. Our interest in the philosophies of Heraclitus, our regard for Antonio Vieyra—like a father to one who has never known one. And, of course, our friendship with Carlos. What did I know about friendship—who had my friends been? The seed of doubt sown by Bishop Santa Cruz had long since put forth its flowers. Carlos always knew when to leave, always managed to be away when unpleasant things befell his friends. Had he so much as tried to warn me the day of the chess game? He had merely left, excused himself. He was going to the archives to study the papers of Bishop Zumárraga.

Zumárraga
—why even mention him if not to make
reference
to stories I had heard from my grandfather the night he died? Stories I had told only Isabel after, because I could not help myself. Mentioning Zumárraga the day of the chess game only reminded me Carlos had gone behind my back to be her friend, who in turn had betrayed to him my confidences. Isabel I knew I could never count on, or turn to—but Carlos was only telling me that everyone here informs on everyone. A little earlier would have helped, dear friend, but I had it, now. Thank you, Carlos.

Carlos was exactly the one to have been sent to strip my cell—he was the Archbishop's almoner, after all—yet Carlos was always leaving, just as he had been away when Fray de Cuadros went to the burning ground.

And now the Holy Office knew without a doubt that I had his manuscripts. It was clear that Carlos had brought them to incriminate me and save himself.

Magda too had come to show me a way forward with the Archbishop. And surely here was the meaning in the message she had brought from Santa Cruz, that he had taken my mother's last confession, had taken from her my confidences and my secrets—everyone betrays everyone, everyone informs on everyone. This was a lesson Santa Cruz had been giving for some time, the same lesson someone had been preparing for me since 1663. It was not too late to believe it could have been Magda: it was too late to believe it could not have been Carlos.

They have turned me against a friend.

Who is the Enemy of Both Sides, if not I….

Emptiness. It is the sound of such a vastness.

It brings other sounds with it, other voices. Sometimes, hearing them, one would leave, go anywhere, distant times, places. The holy officers can arrange this, change verdicts and sentences, book passage to Manila, send fools into exile, spare the
beata
. They can bring Magda back from Purgatory, where mortal sins are purged not with the Light of Love but by dark fire. They can bring me to fail another friend, to fail the living or the dead. Magda came many times. I did not like her visits. I did not know why I always saw her. I was not to have visitors. The Enemy comes in many forms now, living and dead. They come as payment for too many questions and doubts, for the petitions for special knowledge, for this hunger so displeasing to God.

Does the vision bring peace, is it actively sought or passively received, does it lead toward God or the Enemy …

Sometimes they come in visions, but sometimes take no form at all. As when Antonia comes to sit in the dark with me. Remember our lessons, Antonia, remember irony? Close your eyes. A blade with three sides, in profile, diminishing to a point in an infinite regression of triangles—inserted, the wound it inflicts takes an eternity to heal.

Philothea, Bishop of Puebla. Theophilus, Bishop of Alexandria.

Philothea, Loving God. Theophilus, Beloved of God.

This is the knowledge the Enemy offers me.

Theophilus, Christian tyrant. Hypatia of Alexandria, pagan maiden.

Maximinus, pagan tyrant. Catherine of Alexandria, Christian maiden.

And note, Antonia, how a fine-drawn wire wound round the blade forms a spiral. With a wire fine enough, one may turn around the three-sided blade endlessly. Like this … the minions of Theophilus pull Hypatia down from a chariot, scrape the flesh from her bones with oyster shells. The henchmen of Maxentius behead Catherine spun upon a wheel. The followers of Hypatia turn upon themselves….

But I knew now why Magda came. She had given me the hint I needed. To desire vision, to hunger for knowledge excessively, this was to admit the Enemy. This was why Magda had been sent to me, with messages and reminders.
For the Enemy has no power over the soul except through the operations of its faculties, and especially through the medium of knowledge that lodges in the memory. If, then, the memory annihilates itself with respect to the faculties, the Enemy is powerless
.

They had sent Magda to keep me from annihilating my memory.

Turtle shells …

I did not want to remember. Not here, not now, not like this.

We had gone out through the tall corn behind the hacienda, a herd of deer going over the fence ahead of us…. She had a surprise for me, hanging from the branch of a cedar, something in a bucket leaking water. She wanted me to take the bucket down. Her eyes glowed with excitement. Wide, almond eyes. I also had a surprise. The night before, there had been an incident at dinner, an old story I had led Diego into telling, about a bridegroom impaled on a wedding tree, and something about a wolf…. In the telling, it had become clear that he had been using his dog to track us into the woods. After, my mother had said nothing to him in our defence but had spirited me out of the room instead. I would be going to live with my aunt.

Reaching up for the leaky bucket that morning I said we were going away to Mexico. Her face stiffened—she asked if she was to go as my maid. She ran away from me then, too fast for me to follow. In the bucket that morning were two turtles … we had had such turtles at a special place of ours, high on the mountain. I walked back alone to the hacienda, water trickling onto the dust beside me and across my feet. I came through the passageway leading from the portals and saw Diego in his dress uniform in the middle of the courtyard. Before him, he had lined up the
campesinos
as though for inspection. But it was my mother, rocking calmly, he looked
at as he drew his sword. Impassive, she watched him pacing up and down the file, screaming questions in pidgin Spanish at the bewildered men—
Who did who did it, point him point him, save you, not save him, I won't kill …
I could not tell what he was asking. They could not have understood. He questioned the next man, holding the sabre beneath his chin. Wild with frustration he turned to the man next in line and waved the sword-point back and forth close beneath the
campesino's
eyes. He twisted the flashing blade a hair's breadth above the bare chest of a third, as though to drill a hole. They were too terrified to answer. Wilder yet, he stepped to the next. As he raised his sword in both hands, something relaxed in him.

Isabel's voice was not loud, yet rang clearly over the ranting man's, rang through the run of blood in my ears.

“Diego,
enough.”

She had not moved, had not so much as sat forward, but the rocking had stopped. The baby let the nipple slip from between his lips to look up at the source of that voice.

“You do know innocence, don't you, Diego? You do
see …
”

Or perhaps she truly did mean innocents.

The tone, calm,
agreeable
, lent the words an edge of menace and contempt. Slowly Diego lowered the sword.

“Back to work,” she said, without taking her eyes from his. The workers vanished. Eventually he looked away, as I knew he must. Beaten, he turned and went out, the sword arm hanging loosely at his side. In a moment or two we heard his horse gallop by.

I set the bucket down and went, legs wooden, to Xochitl, to discover what had been happening. While we had been out, a man had rushed in from the fields to spread the news. Out in the maguey field a
campesino
had found Diego's mastiff at the killing floor, suspended by its hind legs from a cross-beam supporting the roof thatch. A heavy bludgeon lay by its head. It had been clubbed to death. Gutted. Skinned and dressed. The hide was staked out, to be made into saddle bags one day, a scabbard, a woman's boots.

I had been three months in the convent of San José when I sent for my uncle. It was mid-winter, then as now, 1669. At San José, visits were rarely permitted, except in cases of greatest urgency. I had written out a message, a letter I could trust no one else to deliver. And I knew without a doubt that it was that letter Madga now held in her lap. I had written it
to my mother, a call for help. Only Juan could deliver it, because he would have to read it to her, because above all Diego could not be the one for this. Would she please come for me, would she let me come home? I had nowhere left to go. San José was a house of anguish and agony, a place of blood and instruments of torment, a place without light, without books, or laughter or wonder. She had been right all along, she had been right about me.