The Moor's Account (42 page)

Good morning, Dorantes replied. Then he averted his eyes and switched to Spanish. This is Father Herminio, the teacher.

A pleasure to meet you, Father Herminio said with a nod. He was very tall, well built, and carried himself with confidence. Were it not for the dark red stain on his right cheek, he would have been handsome. Now he sat down on the sofa and, with a wave of the hand, he invited all the wives to sit around him.

Oyomasot can manage some Spanish, Dorantes informed him.

Very well, Father Herminio said. You can leave us now.

The friar's abrupt dismissal of us made Dorantes want to say something
sharp, but he seemed to think better of it. Together we stepped out, through the glass doors, into the courtyard. The long terrace lay before us, hot and white with sunlight. Lavender hedges grew along the right wall, their pale purple flowers humming with bees. Along the far wall was a shaded gallery, whose railings were covered with white bougainvillea. There is even an orange tree here, Dorantes said, pointing to the fruit tree by the left wall.

It looks just like a Sevillian home, I said.

We were quiet for a moment, both of us suddenly reminded of distant days in Castile, long before either of us had journeyed through the Land of the Indians. Dorantes had been a young nobleman in possession of a good fortune, which he had risked in order to find gold and return home covered in glory. Now he was a penniless man, freshly arrived in a strange city where he knew no one and where he was not sure whom to trust. As for me, I had been the slave of a fabric merchant, traded in payment for a gambling debt, and I had lost far more than a good fortune. But, I thought, all of that was in the past now.

How much will we need for the passage to Seville? I asked.

Fifteen thousand for each of us, I should think. The emerald arrowheads will not cover everything.

We have the turquoises.

True. But we also have to pay for our transport to the port of Veracruz.

Again, we fell into a long silence. We were both thinking of the treasures we had brought with us from the Land of the Indians—not just the emeralds and turquoises, but also the furs, pelts, parrot feathers, leather purses, seashell necklaces, bone ornaments, and even deer hearts. These treasures had seemed to us incomparable when we lived in the Land of Corn, but they paled next to the elaborate jewels all around us in Tenochtitlán. Still, in the public squares of the city, there were markets for every kind of merchandise and I told Dorantes that I would make inquiries about the value of our wares. I will go this afternoon, I said.

And I will see if I can get a better price for the emeralds, he said.

A turtledove landed on a branch in the orange tree and began to preen its tail. Two dragonflies chased each other along the hedges. The courtyard felt peaceful in the stifling heat.

There is something else I want to ask you, I said. I felt Dorantes tense beside me. But when he spoke again, his voice was light.

I know what you are going to ask, he said. I will give you your papers soon.

When?

We just got here three days ago, Estebanico. I have not had a chance to find a notary. But you will get your papers. I am a man of my word.

He spoke in a way that made me feel I had caused him great offense and that I ought never to have asked him. Of course, I said. It is just that—

Besides, he said, I have had other things on my mind. He chewed on his lower lip, drawing beads of blood. It was an old, nervous habit that had returned now that we were in the city. She is pregnant, he said.

Your wife? I asked.

We were never married in a church. She is not my wife.

The sun was so bright and so hot that we both turned away from the courtyard to face the living room. Inside, Oyomasot sat on a narrow brown chair, her eyes fastened upon the friar who had been personally sent by the viceroy to teach her about the Bible. Tekotsen and Kewaan were seated on either side of her, making up a half-circle around their young teacher.

Could you not marry her again, in a church? I asked.

It is not that simple, Dorantes replied.

I wanted to ask him why, but I did not wish to press him and thus turn him against me, so I kept silent. Years ago, silence had been my refuge, and now I sought its shelter again. I listened as Dorantes told me about the viceroy's banquet and all the distinguished guests who were eager to meet us. He said it would be appropriate to give some turquoises as gifts to the viceroy, by way of thanking him for his hospitality and for all the elegant clothes he had given us.

We will have to ask the others, I said. Everything we had brought back from the Land of the Indians was shared property and we would have to come to an agreement about what could be sold and what could be given away.

Of course, Dorantes said. But I think Castillo and Cabeza de Vaca will agree with me. Then he opened the glass door to ask if the friar was done with his lesson.

Yes, Capitán, Father Herminio said, standing up. His voice was calm, but it did not disguise his irritation. I am done for today, but there is much to be done. They must practice.

I will tell them, Dorantes said.

The women stood up as well. Tekotsen smiled at her husband and asked if he would like to eat something. But Oyomasot walked out behind the friar, her hands already reaching behind her to the small of her back, unfastening the girdle.

Much had happened in the old world during our absence and, in the week that followed our arrival in México, we finally heard some of it. The king of England had wrested himself from the authority of the Church and married a courtesan named Anne Boleyn. A new pope was installed in Rome, from where he issued a proclamation that Indians were beings endowed with reason. In Barbary, Sultan Muhammad al-Burtuqali died, leaving a throne and a squabbling country to his brother, Ahmad al-Wattasi. The Ottomans took Baghdad from the Persians. High up in the Andes Mountains, Pizarro tied the Inca emperor to a garrote and strangled him, in full view of his subjects.

And here, in the beautiful city of Tenochtitlán, Antonio de Mendoza became the viceroy of New Spain. This was a new title, designed by the king to make Mendoza the most powerful man in the territory. But it was not easy to wield this power while Hernán Cortés, the peerless and popular hero of the conquest, watched and waited. Though I had been in the city only a week, I had already heard about the rivalry between the two men, and of Mendoza's ambition to quickly make his mark.

Mendoza's mansion, as I discovered on my first visit, was a fitting tribute to his position. Built with the stones of Moctezuma's palace, it was an imposing white building that stretched the length of the square. Guards lined up along the path that led to the entrance, nodding their heads as my companions and I passed. When I walked into the main hall with Dorantes, light from a dozen chandeliers dazzled my eyes, so the first sensation that came to me was the sound of music, a cheerful tune played on the violin by musicians I could not see yet. Right away, a group of
colonial officers bore down on us, waiting to be introduced by the viceroy and to shake our hands. Then it was the turn of priests, city officials, and Aztec nobles. Along the walls, Castilian ladies dressed in fine taffeta stood watching us, periodically whispering to each other behind their lace fans. The air smelled of burning candles and brazen ambition.

When dinner was announced, Mendoza led us to a banquet table, indicating to each one of us where he should sit: Cabeza de Vaca across from Doña María, the viceroy's wife; Dorantes next to her; Castillo across from him; and I next to Dorantes, with colonial officers and Aztec noblemen filling out the remaining seats. The sheer number of forks and knives around my plate perplexed me, forcing me to watch my neighbors in order to know which ones should be used on which food. And the codpiece on my new breeches made me feel particularly uncomfortable. So I spoke little, but bits of conversation from other parts of the table reached me.

The wine is from Valladolid. Have you tried it?

Who can keep up with the price of horses these days?

The trait to look for in these people is loyalty. Loyalty is the thing.

My mother sends her regards, Don Antonio.

My dear, the noise of construction in this city is unrelenting.

After the third or fourth course had been served, the viceroy turned to the subject that, it was clear from his tone, had been exercising him since our arrival in México. He was a native of Granada and spoke with the sibilant sounds of an Andalusian. Señores, he said, we are honored to have such distinguished explorers among us. In fact, the city is wild with rumors about your remarkable journey. Perhaps you may even have heard some of them. I cannot overstate how important it is that you give us an official account of what happened. My deputies will collect your testimony into a joint report for His Majesty, that he may know what happened to the Narváez expedition. I trust that you will make every effort to give a precise account of the dates of your journey and the distances you crossed. Any details you can give about the nature and climate of the land you traversed, the kind and number of people who inhabit it, their languages and their ways of subsistence—all this will be of great help as we seek to pacify the northern territories.

This caught Cabeza de Vaca's attention. Have you a plan for a new mission? he asked.

Not at the moment, the viceroy replied. But the process of securing
the northern borders of the empire is ongoing. His tone suggested that pacifying the Indians was a heavy burden, but one to which he had long ago resigned himself to carrying with grace. He turned his goblet of wine between his fingers and, cocking his head to the side, he added, a little sadly: Unfortunately, we have had to contend with a particularly difficult obstacle.

I believe we may have met the obstacle, Cabeza de Vaca said.

Guzmán is a sight, is he not? the viceroy said with a smile. Do you know that his province has become almost completely barren of its Indians? He hands out slaving licenses like a drunk hands out flowers. Perhaps you could include this in your testimony to His Majesty? You could mention in passing, could you not, that Nuño de Guzmán has done a poor job of administering the land and the Indians that were entrusted to him?

Cabeza de Vaca was taken aback by the suggestion to alter his testimony, and unsure how to respond. He looked down at his porcelain plate, where a small game hen, adorned with fried almonds that gleamed like gold, sat untouched on its garnish of laurel leaves. A servant came to refill his glass of wine and still Cabeza de Vaca did not look up or respond.

The viceroy sat back in his chair, suddenly aware that he had pressed the treasurer a little too far. In an indulgent voice, he said: There will be time yet to discuss all of that. For the moment, you need to get plenty of rest. The process of collecting testimony may seem simple, but it is very long and it strains the mind to such an extent that it can be exhausting. Still, it is a crucial step, as I hope I have impressed upon you.

With his fork, Cabeza de Vaca pushed the almonds to the side of his plate. His silence had grown long enough to be awkward, so Dorantes had to intervene. And how long will the testimony take?

That all depends on you, the viceroy replied. Now he narrowed his eyes at Dorantes, studying him like a fisherman considering a lure. Why do you ask?

Don Antonio, Dorantes said pleadingly, we have been away from our families for so long that we are all eager to return to Castile as soon as possible.

I understand, the viceroy said. But the report will not take long. A couple of months, I should think. Until then, of course, you are my guests.

O
N THE QUESTION
of the official testimony, the viceroy turned out to be correct: it took two full months for his deputies to collect the captains'
depositions. The courthouse was being renovated, so the interviews were conducted in a simple office at the church, but in spite of all appearances my companions were not asked for a true confession; rather, they were required to provide a detailed history of the expedition. In telling this history, my companions began to modify its more damaging details. They credited Narváez with all the poor decisions, they omitted the torture and rapes they had witnessed, they justified the thefts of food and supplies, they left out the Indian wives they married, and they magnified their suffering at the hands of the Indians as much as their relief at being found. In this shortened and sanitized form, the chronicle of the Narváez expedition became suitable for the royal court, the cardinals and inquisitors, the governors and officials, and the families and friends they had left behind in Castile.

But no one asked me to testify. I should have been resentful of this, but I was not—not yet. The only thing at once more precious and more fragile than a true story is a free life. This was all I cared about in those days. So whenever my companions came to the guesthouse for visits with their wives, I listened to them recount the day's testimonials with only a mild interest and even some amusement.

That evening, I remember, we were congregated in the living room, drinking warm chocolatl by the fireplace. All of us had grown a taste for this frothy and bitter drink, and enjoyed especially the invigorating effect it had on our moods. On either side of the sofa were round tables with brass candelabras, whose light reflected against the glass panes of the windows. The doors to the courtyard were left ajar, letting in a breeze.

You told the court recorders that we arrived in Aute on the twentieth of July, Castillo said. I thought we were still in Apalache in July.

No, we were already in Aute, Cabeza de Vaca said. I am certain of it.

But that was eight years ago, I said with a laugh. How can you be so sure about the date?

Cabeza de Vaca's reply was as candid as it was serious. I have always had a good memory, he said. His hair had been cut in a way that disguised his large ears and his features had filled out, so that he looked like an older and more handsome version of the treasurer of the Narváez expedition. He had always loved to tell stories, but now his memories of the expedition were entered into the official record, invalidating all others. I realized with a start that I was once again living in a world where written
records were synonymous with power. This was true not just of things like dates and places, but also births, marriages, and deaths.