The Moor's Account (40 page)

I opened my eyes. In the dimly lit bathhouse, with the steam from our tubs rising in the air, the faces of my Castilian companions were barely discernible. Next to me, Dorantes splashed water around like a child and cried out, My God, it feels so good. As I began to scrub myself with Castilian soap, I kept my eyes trained on him, the way I used to when we were on the ship that brought us across the Ocean of Fog and Darkness. I was trying to divine his intentions—a foolish exercise, but one for which I now had ample time. We had had to depend on one another so often during the last eight years that it seemed to me we could never go back to the way things had been. But would he make legal and official in New Spain what was tacit and obvious out there, in the Land of the Indians?

Wrapped in a towel, I drank the juice of oranges grown in a Spanish orchard here in Compostela, their tangy taste lingering on my tongue long after I had finished my cup. A barber was waiting, one hand holding short-bladed scissors and the other resting on the back of a high chair. As Dorantes sat in it, I watched him transform into a new man, his braids cut off, his beard trimmed, his hair perfumed with special oil. Except for the color of his skin, a light almond, he looked like all the other Spaniards in the city now.

Then it was my turn. Large tufts of hair fell to the ground under the barber's scissors, yet an unaccountable heaviness settled upon my heart. It is hard to describe it, but the nearest I can come is that it was like coming up for air and finding yourself in a fog. Dorantes held up a mirror for me. In it, I saw a stranger—an older version of me, without the reserve that I had worn like a garment for many years.

Our clothes were brought in: undershirts, breeches, doublets, capes, shoes, handkerchiefs. The servant said they came from Guzmán's personal wardrobe. The pilled fabric made my skin itch and my trousers were hopelessly constricting, so that I walked around the bathhouse with a strange, uneasy gait.

The shirt is too tight around the chest, Dorantes complained, before taking it off altogether.

But the servant cleared his throat. Señores, the governor's instructions were quite specific. You cannot be seen naked on the streets of Compostela.

T
HE GOVERNOR
'
S DINING ROOM
was musty and dark, lit only by a pair of candelabras that sat on either end of a long table, but he moved about the room with great ease, pointing to each of the pictures on the wall and telling a little anecdote about it.

This is a painting of the Nativity, he said, done in the Italian style. I so love the artist's contrast between light and dark. And here is a portrait of the king—I was once his bodyguard, you know, but this was years ago when I was a young lad. This tapestry here is from the México campaign; it once hung in Moctezuma's palace. But sit, señores, sit.

Then Guzmán nodded to his servants and the food was brought forth—vegetable mixes, roasted chicken, and bread that tasted almost exotic to us after so many years without wheat. He raised his glass in honor of us, the four survivors of the Narváez expedition, giving great thanks to God for our miraculous rescue, and welcoming us once again to the province of Nueva Galicia. Tell me, he said, is it true that the Indians follow you wherever you go?

Don Nuño, it is more complicated than that, Cabeza de Vaca said. We have lived with them for so long, dressing as they do, eating as they do, and speaking as they do, that they have come to trust us. We were able, thanks to the great favor of God our Lord, to be of some service to them in ordinary matters, but which the Indians came to think of as extraordinary. For this reason, each tribe escorted us along the way to the next tribe. We lived among them in peace. It is my belief, Don Nuño, that these people can join the empire through peaceful means.

Is that right? And what are these tribes called?

There are so many. We lived the longest with the Avavares—they are a tribe of great fishermen, who migrate during the seasons of nuts and prickly pear. Then we visited the Maliacones, the Susolas and the Coayos, and others that call themselves the Arbadaos and the Cultalchulches. These are nomadic tribes, but once we crossed the mountains, we began to see tribes like the Cuchendados and the Jumanos, who live in permanent settlements. All of the Indians, without exception, are skilled with their bows and arrows, though of course none of them could offer much resistance to even the smallest of our troops. Which is why I want
to reiterate that it is possible to establish imperial settlements through peaceful means.

Castillo's face was already flushed from the effect of the wine and, when he spoke, his voice was high. I agree, he said. The tribes we visited live in sophisticated towns and decide their affairs by consultation. I think Cabeza de Vaca makes a good point about the use of force.

My companions wanted to convince the governor that peaceful conquest was possible, but my experience suggested otherwise. Azemmur had already witnessed a bloodless conquest, and the outcome had been just as bleak as if the cannons had been fired. So I felt I had to speak. The Indians, I said, are like people everywhere else in the world. They are born and die, and in between they live lives according to their own laws and customs: they worship God in their own way, find joy in raising their children, and when the moment comes they mourn their dead. They do not seek war, but they will not retreat from it if it is brought to them. All they wish is to carry out their own lives in peace.

Yes, yes, Guzmán said, but do they have metals of any kind?

It was Dorantes who answered the governor. The Jumanos have copper bells, he said. Beautiful little things, etched to look just like a human face.

But those do not count, Castillo said quickly. They are likely from the south. The truth is that we did not see any metals. The Indians of the north have no mines, no gold, no silver that we could see. Most of the tribes we lived with were quite poor.

I see. And would you be able to draw me a map of the area?

Silence fell on the table.

The governor looked around him in astonishment. Have I spoken out of turn? he asked. Why is everyone quiet all of a sudden?

Cabeza de Vaca asked: Why do you need a map?

I am the governor of Nueva Galicia. It is my charge to be familiar with the lands I am administering for the empire.

Don Nuño, Cabeza de Vaca said. Nueva Galicia ends where the mountains begin. The tribes live on the other side of that range.

The governor smiled. All of this terra firma is part of the empire. I am the representative of the Crown here. My duty is to pacify any savages that could pose a threat to us.

But that is what I have been explaining all this time, Cabeza de Vaca
said. The Indians are no threat at all. They can be convinced to join our faith without any intervention. They are a kind and peaceable people.

Cabeza de Vaca's hands were gripping the arms of his chair and his knuckles had turned white. I remembered suddenly how, years earlier, he had chosen to bring his books of poetry on the long march to Apalache; he seemed to believe that it was always possible to appeal to the nobleness of men.

You will find, esteemed señor, Guzmán replied, that even those who are most biased in favor of the Indians will not deny that they kill their own infants, treat their women like beasts, practice sodomy, and worship stones. If you wish to defend them, for whatever mysterious reasons of your own, then by all means do, but I do not think that convincing us that they are a kind and peaceable people is a winning proposition. Then he stood up from the table and asked if we would join him in the parlor.

We had hoped to bring up the question of the Indians who had been left behind in Culiacán, rather than the subject of the Indian tribes in the north, but now it became painfully clear that there would be no point in doing that with someone like Guzmán. There was something coarse and obdurate about him, something that could never be moved by the power of words.

I was forced to report this conversation to Oyomasot later that night, when I went to visit her in the barracks pantry. We spoke to Guzmán about the people, I said. The words came out with difficulty, punctuated by false starts and long pauses. And as I spoke, the expectation on her face slowly turned into disappointment and shame.

The men and women who had put their faith in us, who had put their lives in our hands, would be left in Culiacán for good. The awe that once colored my wife's eyes whenever she gazed at me began to disappear. Slowly, I was returning to what I had always been: a man. Not a shaman, but only a man.

O
VER THE TWO WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED
, Guzmán met with each of us in turn, in long sessions about which we later gossiped well into the night. Cabeza de Vaca, Dorantes, and Castillo were forthcoming about the strange mores they had witnessed while living with the Indians, but Guzmán was not the least bit interested in customs or habits; his sessions always ended with his request that they draw him a map. Having heard
of Guzmán's taste for lucre—and mindful, too, of the true value of such knowledge—each one of them gave a different reason for why he could not draw a map. Cabeza de Vaca said that, being the royal treasurer, he was bound by duty to report anything he knew to the highest authorities in New Spain, before he could share it with anyone. Dorantes said that he had spent much of his time as a captive, and that his thoughts had been focused on escaping these lands, rather than taking notes for any future reports or maps. Castillo took the stance that he was the third-ranked survivor of the expedition and could not go against the wishes of the other two. I was the last to be questioned.

Guzmán rose from his desk to shake my hand and offer me a seat, then poured me a cup of something dark and hot. Chocolatl, he said. It is popular down in México.

I had never tasted anything like it—it was strong and bitter—and for a moment I felt out of sorts.

They tell me you are a native of Barbary, Guzmán said.

That is true.

You know, I went there once. I was on a ship that docked in the port of Arzilah for two days. A beautiful town.

I would imagine so, I said, though I have never seen it.

Dorantes must be a good master. You look very healthy and well. He told me that you were quite the scout. That you spoke to all the caciques, that you translated for them, that you found food and shelter whenever they needed to be found.

Señor Dorantes flatters me, I said.

And modest, too! Dorantes is fortunate. I have never been so fortunate with slaves myself, for whatever reason. In any case, since you are by all accounts an exceptional member of your kind, I want to see if you can draw me a map.

On the desk between us, he unscrolled a fragile piece of paper, upon which was drawn in thin, trembling lines, the shape of a continent. The southern part of the territory was covered with names for cities, rivers, mountains, and plains; the northern part was an unmarked, narrow mass. With his forefinger, he tapped the blank area. Here, he said.

I looked up from the map. Don Nuño, as you yourself said, I am merely a slave. Whoever heard of a slave who can read or write, much less draw maps?

Guzmán heaved a sigh. Come now. I know you cannot read or write, but I am sure you know more than you are letting on. Here is a map of the province. These are the mountains, see? Imagine that you are standing in front of these mountains. Can you point to the best place to cross them?

Don Nuño, I do not know how to read a map.

Let us try this another way, he said. His speech slowed down now, so that each word was spoken very carefully. How far past the mountains is the first Indian town? Five days? Seven? Fourteen?

I am not sure, I said. I did not pay attention to time.

Guzmán stared at me for a long time. Then he put down his cup. You are following your master's lead, I see. Very well, he said. Return to your quarters. To the guard who stood by the door he said: Bring me the Indian.

The Indian Guzmán wanted to question was Satosol, Dorantes's brother-in-law. How they managed to communicate with each other, I never knew. Guzmán did not ask me to translate for him, so I imagine he must have had his own interpreters. When Satosol finally emerged, he did not go back to the women's quarters, where we were waiting for him, but to a different room, on the second floor of the barracks. Good for him, Dorantes said. At least he got the old man to give him separate accommodations.

W
E WERE SITTING
on a blue blanket, outside the women's quarters, the next morning. Plates of bread, olive oil, and dried squash lay between us. The sun had not yet reached this part of the barracks courtyard and we buttoned up our doublets and cloaks. Then a young soldier with a patchy beard arrived with a message from Guzmán: we were to leave Compostela the next day because the viceroy was expecting us in México. Even after delivering his message, the recruit stood there, watching us with curiosity. Cabeza de Vaca grew irritated. What are you waiting for? he asked. The soldier clicked his heels and ran off without another word.

Satosol chose this moment to announce that he would not be going with us to México. I have gone far enough from home, he said.

Dorantes laughed. Since when did you care about straying away from the tribe?

I never wanted to come here, Satosol said. You were the ones who wanted to come to this city.

It is Guzmán, Cabeza de Vaca said. He convinced him to be a guide.

Can you not see that he is only using you? Dorantes asked. He wants you to show him the way to the Indian settlements in the Land of Corn.

Why do you care? Satosol said.

What did he give you? Dorantes asked. Turquoises, is that it?

What if he did?

He is going to make slaves of your people.

You left people behind in Culiacán. What did you think would happen to them?

That is not the same. The alcalde left us no choice.

You had a choice. You chose to leave.

All morning, we tried to get Satosol to change his mind, but neither plea nor reason worked, nor even threats. I had not brought up the subject of my legal bondage with Dorantes but I felt unsettled enough by Satosol's cold observations that I needed some assurances. Dorantes, I said, as we left the barracks. When we get to the capital, we should speak to a notary.