There in Hispaniola, the path his life would take depended on himself and himself alone. Almost as soon as he arrived he introduced himself to the Spanish rulers of the island, foremost among them, Governor Nicolás de Ovando and several of his close associates. In conversing with them he learned of the way of life in this new world and what it had to offer them. He didn’t hesitate to suggest solutions to problems of governing, designing projects and then persuading them that he was the one who could carry them out.
Soon enough he had gained the trust and regard of the rulers, for not only had he succeeded in battles against the natives and helped to quell rebellions, but he had also designed routes and roads to cover distances in less time and in a much more secure fashion, as a result of which he was awarded a royal land grant of considerable value in a region where they planted sugarcane. For Cortés, this was not enough. His ambitious spirit wasn’t satisfied. He wanted gold. All the gold he could get his hands on. He wanted to dazzle the world.
One morning, shedding the fear of always having to appear perfect, he decided to take off his boots—which added a little height to his short stature—and unfasten and cast off his clothes, so that he could feel his body just as nature had made it. He needed to rest his cracked feet, which during his voyage from Spain had become infected with various fungi that were difficult to treat.
The joyous prospect of walking barefoot in the sand motivated his spirit. The peace he felt that morning was so vast that he thanked God for his life and for the chance to live in such a historic period. Approaching the sea, he allowed the water to wash his feet and he felt immediate relief knowing that the water would purify his wounds the same way it purified the clothes of sailors on the high seas. During long seafaring trips, the only way to wash clothes was to bind them tightly inside a net that was cast overboard as the ship sailed on; the sea penetrated the fibers of the cloth, washed off all impurities, and left them completely clean. He remained there on the shore a long while, letting the waves wash his wounds. Staring off toward the horizon, he recalled the long days of his voyage when, overwhelmed on the ship’s deck, he observed the sky and the stars until his mind opened and he understood for the first time the roundness of the earth and the infinity of the cosmos.
Later, when he emerged from the sea, he lay down in the grass so that his feet would benefit from the purifying rays of the sun. With one arm he covered his eyes to protect them from the midday light and let his mind relax. The distant sound of the waves lulled him to sleep for a moment. And that one careless moment was all it took for a venomous scorpion to sting him and release all its poison into his body.
For three days, Cortés struggled between life and death. They were days of rain and prayers. A powerful storm lashed into the island and it rained ceaselessly. Cortés did not even notice the thunder, and the Spanish companions who had helped him, listened to him, frightened by the things he said in his delirium. He spoke in Latin and other strange tongues. He told them that there was an enormous sun that continued to grow and grow, a sun that would explode and spread bloodshed everywhere. He said that human beings would fly through the sky without needing to rest on the earth, that tears and the unbearable stench of death would conquer all of his body. He pronounced the names of Moorish kings, spoke of the historic defeats of Spain, mourned the Crucifixion, entrusted himself to the Virgin of Guadalupe, shouted out curses and stated that it had been a serpent, a great serpent that had bitten him, a serpent that lifted itself up in the air and flew in front of his eyes. On and on he raved until he fell completely asleep. Some had left him for dead, and he seemed so peaceful that they made plans to bury him the morning after, but when they arrived there to proceed with the holy burial they found that Cortés had opened his eyes and miraculously recovered. Observing a transformation in him, they realized that his face radiated a new strength, a new power. They all congratulated him and told him that he had been reborn.
TWO
Malinalli had risen earlier than usual. All night long she had not been able to sleep. She was afraid. In the coming days, for the third time in her life, she would experience a complete change. After sunrise, they were going to give her away once again. She couldn’t imagine what was so wrong with her deep inside that they would treat her like such a burdensome object, for such was the ease with which they dispensed of her. She made an effort to do her best, not to cause any problems, to work hard; and yet for whatever strange reasons they would not allow her to take root anywhere. She ground corn almost in the dark, lit only by the reflection of the moon.
Since the day before, when the songs of the birds had migrated, her heart had begun to shrink. In complete silence she had watched as the birds in their flight took away with them through the air a part of the weather, of light, and of time. Her time. She would never again see the dusk from that place. Night was approaching, accompanied by uncertainty. What would her life be like under her new masters? What would become of her cornfield? Who would plant the corn anew and harvest it for her? Would the field die without her care?
A few tears escaped from her eyes. Suddenly she thought of Cihuacóatl, the snake woman, the goddess also known as Quilaztli, mother of the human race, who at nights wandered through the canals of the great Tenochtitlán weeping for her children. They said that those who heard her could not go back to sleep, so terrifying were her mournful, anxious wails for the future of her children. She shouted out all the dangers and devastations that lay in wait for them. Malinalli, like Cihuacóatl, wept at not being able to protect her harvest. For Malinalli, each ear of corn was a hymn to life, to fertility, to the gods. Without her care what would become of her cornfield? She wouldn’t know. From this day forward, she would begin to journey through a path that she had traveled before: being separated from the earth she had grown attached to.
Once again she would arrive at a foreign place. Once again be the newcomer, an outsider, the one who did not belong. She knew from experience that she would quickly have to ingratiate herself with her new masters to avoid being rejected or, in more dire cases, punished. Then, there would be the phase when she would have to sharpen her senses in order to see and hear as acutely as possible so that she could assimilate quickly all the new customs and the words most frequently used by the group she was to become a part of—so that, finally, she would be judged on her own merits.
Whenever she tried to close her eyes and rest, a twinge in her stomach would prevent her from sleeping. With her eyes wide open, she remembered her grandmother and her thoughts were filled with dear and painful images at once. Her grandmother’s death had set in motion her first change.
The warmest and most protective affection that Malinalli had experienced in her infancy was from her grandmother, who for years had awaited her birth. It was said that many times she had been at the brink of death, but would always recover proclaiming that she could not go until she knew to whom she would bequeath her heart and her wisdom. Without her, Malinalli’s childhood would have been devoid of any joy. Thanks to her grandmother, now she could count on being resourceful enough to deal with the dramatic changes that she was facing and yet … still she was afraid.
To keep fear at bay she looked up at the sky for the Morning Star, for her dear Quetzalcóatl, always present. Her great protector. From the first time they had given her away as a very young girl, Malinalli had learned to conquer the fear of the unknown by relying on the familiar, on the brilliant star that would appear at her window and that she would watch as it slowly danced from one side of the sky to the other, depending on the season. Sometimes it appeared above the tree in the courtyard. Sometimes she saw it shining above the mountains, sometimes beside them, but always flickering, joyous, alive. The star was the only thing that had never abandoned her. It had been present at her birth and she was sure it would be present at her death, there, from its spot in the firmament.
Malinalli associated the idea of eternity with the Morning Star. She had heard the grown-ups say that the spir
it of human beings, of all living things and of the gods, lives forever, not dying, but changing form. This idea filled her with hope, for it meant that in the infinite cosmos that surrounded her, her father and grandmother were as present as any star, and that their return was possible. Just as it was for Lord Quetzalcóatl. The sole difference was that the return of her father and grandmother would benefit only her, while the return of Quetzalcóatl, on the other hand, would alter completely the course of all the cities that the Mexicas had conquered.
Malinalli was completely opposed to the way in which they governed, could not agree with a system that determined what a woman was worth, what the gods wanted, and the amount of blood that they demanded for their survival. She was convinced that a political, social, and spiritual change was urgently needed. She knew that the most glorious era of her ancestors had occurred during the time of Lord Quetzalcóatl, and because of this she longed for his return.
Countless times she had thought about how if Lord Quetzalcóatl had never left, her people would not have been left at the mercy of the Mexicas. Her father would not have died and she never would have been given away. Human sacrifices would not exist. The idea that human sacrifices were necessary seemed perverse, unjust, and useless. So much did Malinalli long for the return of Lord Quetzalcóatl—the greatest opponent of human sacrifices—that she was willing to believe that her tutelary god had chosen the bodies of the newly arrived men in her region to give shape to his spirit, to house himself within them. Malinalli was convinced that the bodies of men and women were vehicles for the gods. That was one of the great lessons her grandmother had transmitted to her as, through games, she taught her how to work with clay.
The first thing Malinalli learned how to make was a drinking vessel. She was only four years old, but with great wisdom she asked her grandmother, “Who thought of having jars for water?”
“Water herself thought it up.”
“Why?”
“So that she could rest upon its surface and tell us about the secrets of the universe. She communicates with us through each puddle, each lake, each river. She has many ways of dressing up and appearing before us, each time in a new fashion. The mercy of the god who resides in the water invented the vessels from which, as the water quenches our thirst, it speaks to us. All the vessels filled with water remind us that god is water and is eternal.”
“Oh,” the girl replied, surprised. “Then water is god?”
“Yes, and so is the fire and the wind and the earth. The earth is our mother, who feeds us, who reminds us where we came from whenever we rest upon her. In our dreams she tells us that our bodies are earth, that our eyes are earth, and that our thoughts will be earth in the wind.”
“And what does the fire say?”
“Everything and nothing. Fire creates luminous thoughts when it allows for the heart and the mind to fuse into one. Fire transforms, purifies, and lights everything we think.”
“What about the wind?”
“The wind is also eternal. It never ends. When the wind enters our bodies, we are born, and when it leaves us is when we die. So we must be friends with the wind.”
“And, uh …”
“You don’t even know what else to ask. Maybe you should be quiet and not waste your saliva. Saliva is sacred water created by the heart. It should not be spent on useless words because then you are wasting the water of the gods. And listen, I am going to tell you something that you should always remember. If words are not used to water the memory of others, so that thoughts of god might flower, then they are useless.”
Malinalli smiled as she recalled her grandmother. Perhaps she too would agree with her that the strangers had come on behalf of the gods. It had to be so. The rumors spreading from houses, towns, and villages confirmed that those bearded white men had arrived pushed by the wind. Everyone knew that Lord Quetzalcóatl could only be seen when the wind blew. What greater sign could be wished for as proof that they had arrived on his behalf, other than that they came pushed by the wind? Not only that. Some of the bearded men were crowned with golden hair, like ears of corn. How many times during their own celebration ceremonies had they dyed their hair yellow to become a perfect likeness of corn? If the color of the strangers’ hair resembled corn silk, it was because they symbolized corn itself, the gift that Quetzalcóatl had bestowed on mankind for sustenance. Thus the golden hair covering their heads could be interpreted as a very propitious sign.
Malinalli considered corn to be the embodiment of goodness. It was the purest food you could eat, the strength of the spirit. She thought that as long as men were friends of the corn, food would never be lacking on their tables, that as long as they recognized they were sons of the corn that the winds had transformed into flesh, they would be fully aware they were all essentially the same and nourished themselves in the same way. There could be no doubt that those strangers and they, the natives, were alike.
She did not want to give thought to any other possibility. If there was another explanation for the arrival of the men who crossed the sea, she did not want to know about it. Only if they had come to reestablish the age of glory of her ancestors would Malinalli be saved. If not, she would continue to be a simple slave at the whims of her lords and owners. The end of the horror must be near. She had to believe that.
To confirm her theory, she had gone to a tlaciuhque, a fortune-teller, who read grains of corn. The man scooped up some grains of corn with his right hand. Then, with his mouth half open, he blew on them from the back of his throat and quickly cast them on a mat. Observing at length the manner in which the grains had landed, he was able to answer the three questions that Malinalli had put to him. How long will I live? Will I one day be free? How many children will I have?
“Malinalli, the corn is telling you that your time will not be able to be measured, that you will not know its furthest reaches, that you will be ageless, for in each period that you live you will find new meaning and you will name it and this word will be the path to undo time. Your words will name the yet unseen and your tongue will turn silently to stone and from stone, to divinity. Soon now, you will have no home and you will no longer devote yourself to making cloth and food. You will have to walk and watch, and watching you will learn from every type of face, from all skin colors, all differences, all tongues, of the things that we are, how we will cease to be, and what we will become. This is the voice of the corn.”
“Is that all? It doesn’t say anything about my freedom?”
“I have told you what the corn has spoken. I don’t see anything more.”
That night, Malinalli could not sleep. She didn’t know how to interpret the fortune-teller’s words. It was almost dawn before she fell into a sleep in which she saw herself as a great lady, as a free and luminous woman who flew through the air supported by the wind. That joyous dream suddenly became a nightmare, when Malinalli saw how beside her the Moon was pierced with daggers of light that injured her and set her completely on fire. The Moon then ceased being the Moon and became a shower of tears that nourished the dry earth from which unknown flowers bloomed. Malinalli, to her astonishment, named them for the first time, but she completely forgot about them on awakening.
Malinalli took out a coarse cotton sack that she had tied under her blanket skirt in which were held the grains of corn that had been used to read her fate. It was a living memory that she would always keep with her. She had threaded the grains together with a cotton string to secure her fate. Each morning she would finger them one by one as she prayed, and this day was no exception. With great zeal she asked her dear grandmother to protect her, to watch over her, but more than anything she asked her to rid her of fear, to let her see with new eyes what was to come. She shut her eyes and tightly squeezed on the grains of corn before continuing her task. Drops of sweat dripped from her face, partly from the labor of working the grinding stone, but also from the great humidity that was palpable even at this early hour. The humidity didn’t bother her at all; on
the contrary, it reminded her of the god of water who was ever present in the air. She liked to feel it, touch it, but on this morning the wet air bothered her. It seemed to be charged with an unbearable fear, a dread that hid under rocks, under clothes, underneath the skin.
It was a dread that emanated from Montezuma’s palace, which loomed like a shadow from the Valley of Anáhuac to the place where she was. It was a liquid fear that penetrated the skin, the bones, the heart, a fear caused by several terrible omens that had come to pass one after the other, years before the Spaniards had reached these lands.