Ines of My Soul (32 page)

Pedro and I were made for doing, not idling. The challenge of surviving another day, and keeping the morale of the colony high, filled us with energy. Only when we were alone did we allow ourselves to be discouraged; but it did not last long because soon we would be making fun of ourselves. “I would rather be eating mice here with you than dressing in brocade at court in Madrid,” I would tell him. “Let's put it this way,” he would reply. “You would rather be Señora Gobernadora here than be a seamstress in Plasencia.” And we would fall onto the bed in each other's arms, laughing like children. We were never more united; we had never made love as passionately and knowingly as we did during that time. When I think of Pedro, those are the moments I treasure. That is how I want to remember him, the way he was at forty, emaciated from hunger but with a strong, determined spirit, and filled with dreams. And I could add that I want to remember him in love with me, but that would be redundant because he always was, even after we separated. I know that he died thinking of me. The year of his death, 1553, I was in Santiago and he was fighting in Tucapel, many leagues away, but I knew so clearly that he was seriously wounded, and dying, that when they brought me the news several weeks later, I shed no tears. I had already cried myself out.

In mid December, two years after Captain Monroy had left on his dangerous mission, as we were preparing a modest Christmas celebration with songs and an improvised crèche, an exhausted man caked with dust appeared at the gates of Santiago. He was nearly refused entrance because at first the sentinels didn't recognize him. He was one of our Yanaconas; he had been running for two days and had managed to reach the town by slipping unseen through forests filled with enemy Indians. He was one of the small group Pedro had left on the coast in the hope that help would come from Peru. Bonfires laid on a high cliff were kept ready to be lighted the instant a ship was sighted. And at last, the lookouts who had been scanning the horizon for an eternity saw a sail and euphorically sent the arranged signals. The ship, captained by one of Pedro de Valdivia's old friends, held the long-awaited aid.

“That you must be bringing men and horses to be carrying the cargo, then,
tatay
. This is what the
viracocha
of the ship is sending to tell you,” panted the Indian, at the end of his strength.

Pedro and several captains galloped off in the direction of the beach. It is difficult to describe the jubilation that spread through the town. Our relief was so great that hardened soldiers wept, and our anticipation so consuming that no one paid any attention to the priest when he called for a mass of thanksgiving. The entire population of the town was up on the wall with their eyes on the road, even though we knew that it would take several days for the visitors to reach Santiago.

Horror was the overwhelming expression on the faces of the new arrivals when they first saw Valdivia and his men on the beach, and then later, when they reached Santiago and we went out to welcome them. That gave us an approximate measure of the magnitude of our misery. We had grown accustomed to looking like skeletons, to our rags and filth, but when we realized how they pitied us, we were profoundly shamed. Though we had done our best to spruce ourselves up, and to us Santiago looked splendid in the brilliant light of summer, we, and it, made a lamentable impression upon our guests. They wanted to give Valdivia and the other captains clothing, but there is no greater insult to a Spaniard than charity. What we could not pay was written down as a debt, and Valdivia signed for everyone since we had no gold. The merchants who had contracted the ship in Peru were well satisfied; they had tripled their investment and were sure that they would be repaid. Valdivia's word was more than enough guarantee. Among them was the same merchant who had lent Pedro money in Cuzco—at a usurer's interest—to finance the expedition. He had come to collect his money, multiplied many times over, but he had to agree to a fair settlement when he saw the state of our colony. Otherwise, he realized, he would not recoup anything. From the ship's cargo, Pedro bought me three linen blouses and one of fine batiste, everyday skirts and some of silk, work boots and dress shoes, soap, orange blossom cream for my face, and a bottle of perfume: luxuries I thought I would never see again in my lifetime.

The ship had been sent by Captain Monroy. While we were undergoing our trials and tribulations in Santiago, he and his five companions had gotten as far as Copiapó, where they had fallen into the hands of the Indians. Four soldiers were massacred on the spot, but Monroy, riding his gold-adorned steed, and one other man, had survived through an unexpected stroke of good fortune. They had been saved by a Spanish soldier who had fled from the law in Peru and had been living in Chile for several years. He had lost two ears for thievery and had run from all contact with people of his race and taken refuge among the Indians. The punishment for stealing is amputation of a hand, a custom that had prevailed in Spain since the time of the Moors, but when it was a soldier's hand, it was deemed preferable to cut off the nose or ears; in that way the accused could fight again.

This unexpected savior had intervened and convinced the Indians not to kill the captain, whom he supposed was very wealthy, judging from all the gold, or his companion. Monroy was a likable man and he had a silver tongue; he got along so well with the Indians that they treated him more as a friend than as a prisoner. After three months of agreeable captivity, the captain and the second Spaniard successfully escaped on horseback, but without the imperial trappings, naturally. The story goes that during those months Monroy had won the heart of the chief's daughter and had left her pregnant, but that may well be the captain's boast, or a popular myth—there are more than enough of those among us. The fact is that Monroy reached Peru and obtained reinforcements, gained the interest of several merchants, sent the ship to Chile, and himself started out overland with seventy soldiers and would arrive months later. This Alonso de Monroy, gallant, loyal, and of great courage, died in Peru a couple of years later under mysterious circumstances. Some say he was poisoned, others that he died of the plague or a spider bite, and there are those who believe he is still alive in Spain, to which he had returned without a word to anyone, weary of war.

The ship brought us soldiers, food, wine, weapons, munitions, clothing, household goods, and domestic animals—that is, all the treasures we had dreamed of. Most important of all was contact with the civilized world; we were no longer alone in the farthest corner of the planet. The five Spanish women who had come with them, wives or relatives of soldiers, added to the numbers of our colony. For the first time since leaving Cuzco, I could compare myself to women of my own race, and see how much I had changed. I decided to put aside my man's boots and clothing, to comb out my braids in favor of a more elegant hairdo, to indulge my face with the orange blossom cream Pedro had given me, and, not least, to cultivate the feminine graces I had discarded years before. Enthusiasm again swelled the hearts of our little community; we felt capable of confronting Michimalonko, or the Devil himself should he show up in Santiago. This must be what that unyielding cacique perceived from afar, because he did not attack the city again, though often we had to fight him if we went outside the walls, and chase him back to his
pukaras
. In each of those encounters, so many Indians were killed that one had to wonder where more came from.

Valdivia validated the encomiendas he had assigned to me and some of his captains. He sent emissaries to ask the peaceful Indians to come back to the valley, where they had always lived before we came, promising them safety, land, and food in exchange for helping us, for the haciendas were worth nothing without strong arms to work them. Many of those Indians, who had fled out of fear of the war and the raids of the bearded ones, returned. With that turn of events, we began to prosper. The gobernador also convinced the curaca Vitacura to send some Quechua Indians to us, for they were much more efficient workers than the Chileans, and with new Yanaconas he could reopen the mine at Marga-Marga, and others he had heard of. No work demanded as much sacrifice. I have seen hundreds of men, and an equal number of women, some pregnant, others with babies strapped to their backs, work from dawn to sunset in icy water up to their waists, washing sand to sieve out the gold, exposed to illness, the overseers' whips, and the soldiers' abuse.

Today, when I got out of bed, my strength failed me for the first time in my long life. It is strange to find that the body is quitting while the mind keeps inventing projects. With my servants' help, I got dressed for mass, as I do each day, since I like to say good morning to Nuestra Señora del Socorro, who now is mistress of her own church and wears a gold emerald-studded crown. We have been friends for a very long time. I try to go to the first mass of the morning, along with the poor and the soldiers, because at that hour the light in the church seems to come straight from heaven. The morning sun beams through the high windows, and its resplendent rays slice through the church like lances, illuminating the saints in their niches. It is a quiet hour, favorable to prayer. There is nothing as mysterious as the moment when the bread and the wine are transubstantiated into the body and blood of Christ. I have witnessed that miracle thousands of times during my life, but it surprises me and moves me as much as it did the day of my first communion. I can't help it, I always weep when I receive the host. I shall continue to go to church as long as I can get around, and I shall not abandon my obligations: the hospital, the poor, the convent of the Augustinians, the construction of chapels, the oversight of my encomiendas, and this chronicle, which may be growing longer than is advisable.

I am not yet defeated by age, though I admit that I've become clumsy and forgetful, and am not able to do well what I once did without thinking. It seems that time goes twice as fast as it once did. However, I have not given up my old discipline of bathing and dressing with care; I intend to be vain to the end, so that Rodrigo will find me clean and elegant when we meet on the other side. Seventy does not seem too old. . . . If my heart holds out, I could live ten more years, and in that case, I would marry again, because I need love to go on living. I am sure that Rodrigo would understand, just as I would if the situation were reversed. If he were with me, we would take our pleasure to the end of our days, slowly and calmly. Rodrigo dreaded the moment when we could no longer make love. I think that what he feared most was ridicule: men take such pride in performance. But there are many ways of making love, and I would have found one, so that even old as we were we could have loved as in our best days. I miss his hands, his scent, his broad shoulders, the soft hair at the nape of his neck, the whisper of his beard, his breath in my ears when we were lying together in the dark. My need is so great to hold him, to lie beside him, that at times I have to cry out. I can't hold it back. Where are you, Rodrigo? Oh, how I miss you!

But this morning I dressed and went out, despite the fatigue in my bones and my heart, because it is Tuesday, and I must go see Marina Ortiz de Gaete. Servants took me there in a sedan chair; she lives nearby and it is too much trouble to get out the coach. Ostentation is frowned upon in this kingdom, and I am afraid that the carriage Rodrigo gave me is sinfully conspicuous. Marina is a few years younger than I am, but I feel like a rosebud compared with her. She has become a fussy, ugly old woman who practically lives in the church—may God forgive my unkind tongue. “You need to button up your lips, Mamá,” you counsel me, Isabel, laughing, when you hear me talk that way, although I suspect that my outrageous talk amuses you. And besides, daughter, I have won the right to say what others do not dare. Marina's wrinkles and her silly affectations give me a certain satisfaction, but I struggle against being so mean-spirited because I do not want to spend more days than necessary in purgatory. I have never liked sickly, weak people like Marina. I feel sorry for her; even the relatives she brought with her from Spain, now prosperous citizens of Santiago, have forgotten her. I do not blame them too much because this good lady is extremely boring. At least she is not living in poverty. She is blessed with a dignified widowhood, although that is little compensation for her bad luck in having been abandoned as a wife. How lonely this unfortunate woman must be; she anxiously awaits my visits, and if I am late, I find her sobbing. We drink cups of chocolate while I hide my yawns, and we talk about the only thing we have in common: Pedro de Valdivia.

Marina has lived in Chile for twenty-five years. She came sometime in 1554, ready to assume her role as wife of the gobernador, with a court of family and friends and fawning individuals eager to profit from the wealth and power of Pedro de Valdivia, whom the king had gifted with the title of marqués, and the Order of Santiago. But when she reached Chile, Marina was greeted with the surprise of finding herself a widow. Her husband had died a few months before at the hands of the Mapuche, never knowing about his honors. And as the last straw, Valdivia's treasure, which had been the subject of so much talk, was nothing but smoke. He had been accused of accumulating too much wealth, of taking the major share of fertile lands, of exploiting a small army of Indians for his own private use, but when all was said and done, he turned out to be poorer than any of his captains; his widow had to sell his house in the Plaza de Armas to pay off his debts. The town council did not have the decency to grant a pension to Marina Ortiz de Gaete, legitimate wife of the conqueror of Chile—ingratitude being so common in this land that a phrase has been coined for it: “Chile payment.” I had to buy Marina a house and pay her expenses to prevent Pedro's ghost from pulling my ears. Never mind. I have my pleasures, such as founding institutions, having assured myself of a niche in the church for my burial, supporting a multitude of assorted dependents, leaving my daughter well placed, and holding out a hand to the wife of my former lover. What does it matter now if we were once rivals?