The same happened with the Indians that he had just been given. He chose the commonest names for their baptism, not bothering himself much about the matter. However, this didn’t prevent him from listening to the Mass before the baptism with great fervor. He was moved by the zeal in the eyes of the natives, despite the fact that the Mass as such was completely new to them. What he didn’t realize was that, for the natives, changing the names or the forms of their gods did not pose a problem. Each of their gods was known by at least two different names and appeared to them in different shapes, so the fact that a Spanish Virgin had been placed in the pyramid where before they had worshipped their ancient gods, was something that could be overcome with faith.
Cortés, who had been an altar boy, had never felt a faith so united. And he thought that if these natives, instead of directing their faith toward a false god, would channel it with the same eagerness toward the true god, they were going to be able to produce great miracles. This thought led him to conclude that perhaps it was his true mission to save all the natives from darkness, to put them in touch with the true faith, to end idolatry and the nefarious practice of human sacrifice. In order to accomplish this, he needed to establish power, which could only be gained by challenging the mighty empire of Montezuma. With all the faith he could summon, he prayed to the Virgin to help him triumph in this undertaking.
Cortés was a man of faith. Faith lifted him, gave him stature, transported him beyond time. And precisely at the moment that he most ardently prayed for help, his eyes met Malinalli’s, and a maternal spark connected them with the same longing. Malinalli felt that this man could protect her; Cortés, that the woman could help him as only a mother could: unconditionally.
Neither of them knew whence this feeling surged, but as they felt it they accepted it. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of the moment, the incense, the candles, the chants, the prayers, but the fact was that both were transported to their time of greatest innocence, to their childhood.
Malinalli felt as if her heart caught fire from the abundant heat emitted from the candles that the Spaniards had put in the place that had once been a temple dedicated to her ancient gods. She had never seen a candle. Many times she had lit torches and censers, but never a candle. She found it absolutely magical to see so many little fires, so much light reflected, so much illumination coming from such meager flames. She let the fire speak to her from all those minuscule voices and was dazzled by the reflection of the candlelight in Cortés’s eyes.
Cortés turned away from her gaze. Faith lifted him, but Malinalli’s eyes returned him to reality, to the flesh, to desire, and he did not want the brilliance in her eyes to shatter his plans. He was in the midst of Mass—and an undertaking that he had to respect and to make others respect, including the orders forbidding them from taking for themselves a native woman.
His own attraction to women was, however, uncontrollable and it took great effort to rein in his instincts. So, to avoid temptation he decided to assign that native woman to Alonso Hernández Portocarrero, a nobleman who had accompanied him from Cuba and whom he wanted in his good graces. The gift of an Indian woman would very much flatter him. Malinalli stood out from the other slaves in every way. She walked with assurance, was confident, and radiated elegance.
On hearing of Cortés’s decision, Malinalli’s heart jumped. It was the sign that she had been waiting for. If Cortés, who was the commander of the foreigners, had ordered her to serve under that gentleman who looked like a respectable Tlatoani, it was because he had seen something in her. Of course, Malinalli would have loved to serve directly under Cortés, the main lord, but she didn’t complain. She had made a good impression and, from her experience as a slave, she knew that this was essential in order to lead as dignified an existence as possible.
Portocarrero, for his part, was also pleased at Cortés’s decision. Malinalli, that child-woman, was intelligent and beautiful, accustomed to obeying and serving. Her first task was to light the fire to prepare his meal. Malinalli went about it immediately, looking for pieces of torch pine, a wood infused with a resin that was ideal for starting a fire. She made a cross of Quetzalcóatl with them, an essential step in the building of a fire. Then took a good-size dry stick and began to rub it over the torch pine.
Malinalli knew how to bring forth the fire like no one else. She never had problems lighting it, but on this occasion the fire seemed to be annoyed with her. The cross of Quetzalcóatl refused to catch fire. Malinalli asked herself why. Could Lord Quetzalcóatl be upset with her? Why? She had not betrayed him, but rather, had participated in the ceremony of baptism with her mind filled with the memory of him—in fact, even before the ceremony! For she remembered that on entering the temple where the Mass was celebrated, her heart leapt with joy when she saw a cross in the middle of the altar, which for her belonged to the Lord Quetzalcóatl, but that the Spaniards considered as their own. She could not help but be moved. Not for a single moment had she betrayed her beliefs. But the torch pine refused to listen to her, and that was a bad omen.
Distressed, Malinalli began to sweat. To fix the problem, she decided to look for dry grass. To get to the place where it was she had to cross the field where the horses were grazing. Among them, she spotted the one that had been with her at the river during her baptism. Her silent friend, the horse, approached her and for a short while they observed each other. It was a magical moment of mutual admiration and acknowledgment.
Of all of the foreigners’ possessions, horses were what had most caught her attention. She had never seen such animals and immediately fell under their powers of seduction. So much so, that the second word that Malinalli learned to say after “God” was “horse.”
She loved the horses. They were like gigantic dogs, except that with horses one could manage to see oneself reflected in their eyes. She could perceive no such clarity in the eyes of dogs, much less the dogs that the Spaniards had brought with them. Unlike the itzcuintlis, the native dogs, they were aggressive, violent, and cruel looking. The eyes of the horses were kind. Malinalli felt as if the eyes of horses were mirrors where everything you felt was reflected; in other words, they were mirrors into the soul.
She had had her first experience with them on the day that she arrived at the camp. The effect was indescribable. She could not find the words to convey what she felt when she placed her hand on the horse’s mane, for the itzcuintlis did not have a mane nor were they anywhere near the size of these creatures. But she had learned to love horses even before touching them. She watched from afar, during the battle of Cintla, and became infatuated with them. That day, before the battle, they had ordered the women and children to evacuate the town and to remain a good distance away. But Malinalli’s curiosity was more powerful than her will to obey. Some people who had seen the Spaniards mounted on their horses had told her that the foreigners were half beasts, others that the animals were half men and half gods, and others yet, that they were one being. Malinalli decided to find out for herself, and she hid in a place that would allow her to watch the battle without risking her life. At a certain point, one of the Spaniards fell on the ground and she could see how the horse avoided stepping on him at all costs, even though they were in full flight. That same horse was forced by the stampede of other horses to move from its spot and so inevitably its master became entangled underneath. It had no other choice but to step on its master, but the horse did it gingerly, without letting all its weight fall on its hoof so as not to hurt the rider. From that point on, Malinalli felt great admiration for horses. She knew that those animals could cause no harm; their loyalty had been proved. She could trust them, which couldn’t be said about every human being.
For example, Cortés’s eyes unsettled her. On the one hand she was attracted to them, but on the other they filled her with suspicion. Sometimes his gaze was more like a dog’s than a horse’s. His very physical appearance was that of a strong, brutish, and savage animal. The thick hair on his arms, chest, and face m
ade this evident. Since the natives’ bodies were virtually hairless, she had never seen a man like that until now. She was dying to know what it would be like to caress it, to pass her hand over his chest, his arms, his legs, his crotch; but in her position as a slave, she had to keep her distance. And it was what she preferred. She had already felt Cortés’s gaze on her hips and on her chest, and she did not care for it. Cortés’s eyes were like the eyes engraved on the flint knives that were used to take out the hearts of sacrifices. They were eyes not to be trusted, for like the eyes in the knives they could plunge themselves into the chest and cut out the heart.
She liked the eyes of her new master Portocarrero better. They were eyes that looked on her indifferently; but since for her indifference was what she knew best, the familiar treatment with which she had always lived, she was happy to be with him. And in order to please him she had to carry out the first task that he had assigned to her. Hastily, she grabbed a handful of dry grass and with it had no problem starting the fire in order to make tortillas for her new master.
Her heart filled with relief. She was building a new fire, in a different way, with a new name and new masters that brought with them new ideas and customs. She was grateful and convinced that she was in good hands and that these new gods had come to end human sacrifices.
Malinalli, with her new name, recently baptized and purified, would now, at Cortés’s side, begin the most important phase of her life. The bonfire was powerful and to give it even more life, Malinalli took a fan to it. The lighting of the fire was an important ceremony. Malinalli remembered with surprising clarity the last time that she had lit a fire in the presence of her grandmother. She was a young girl, and it was early in the morning when her grandmother spoke to her.
“Today I will leave these lands. I will not see the destruction of this world of stone, the writings of stone, the flowers of stone, the cloths of stone that we built as mirrors for the gods. Today the songs of birds will carry my soul into the air, and my lifeless body will stay behind to return to the earth, the mud, and one day it will rise again in the sun that is hidden in the corn. Today, my eyes will open in bloom and I will leave these lands. But before I do, I will sow all my affection in you.”
Without warning, a sudden rain began to fall over the region. The grandmother laughed, and with her laughter filled the room with music. Malinalli did not know whether or not her grandmother had been in jest when she spoke of going away some place. The only thing she knew was that her grandmother and she were the same age, that there was no time or distance between them, that she could always play and share her longings, her uncertainties, and her fantasies with her beloved grandmother, who had become a child again. The grandmother asked Malinalli to go out and play in the rain. Thrilled, the girl obeyed. Soon, everything was mud outside the house. They both sat down on the ground and eagerly began to play with the wet earth. They made animal shapes and magical figurines. A kind of madness seemed to possess the grandmother and in a frenzy she shared it with her granddaughter. The grandmother asked the child to cover her eyes with mud, to refresh them with the mud. The child, amused, caressed her grandmother’s face trying to comply exactly with the old woman’s crazy wishes.
“Life always offers us two possibilities,” the grandmother said after she was completely caked in mud, “day and night, the eagle or the serpent, creation or destruction, punishment or mercy, but there is always a third possibility hidden that unites the other two. Find it.”
After saying these words, the grandmother raised her mud-covered eyes to the sky.
“Look, my child! The swimmers of the sky!”
Malinalli observed the amazing flight of eagles soaring above them.
“How did you know that they were there if you can’t see them?”
“Because it was raining and when it rains, the waters speak to me. The waters tell me the forms of the animals as it caresses them. They tell me how tall and how hard a tree is by the way it sounds on receiving the rain. And they tell me many other things, like the future of each person as it is sketched in the sky by the fish of the air. One has only to interpret it, and mine is very clear: the four winds have given me their signal.”
At that moment their surroundings turned orange and a burst of light surrounded the mind of those two females who looked enraptured, transformed, lifted from the severity of this life to float in the lightness of their dreams. The grandmother sang in different dialects and in unintelligible voices as she embraced her granddaughter with nostalgia and eternal affection. After a while, she asked her to go gather as much dry grass as she could find. When the child had fulfilled her command, they went inside the house and built a new fire with the previous day’s embers.
“All birds take their shape from fire,” the grandmother said as the dry branches burned. “Thought also has its origin in fire. The tongues of flame pronounce words as cold and exact as the fieriest truth that lips can utter. Remember that words can remake the universe. Any time that you feel confused, watch the fire and offer it your mind.”
Fascinated, Malinalli watched the thousand shapes hidden in the fire until it had consumed itself.
“Always remember,” the grandmother smiled, “that there is no defeat that the fire cannot consume.”
The girl looked at her grandmother again and noticed how tears were flowing through the dry earth that covered her eyes. Then the grandmother took a jade necklace and bracelet from the basket where she kept her belongings and, her voice serene as she put them on her granddaughter, she made a final blessing.
“May the earth become one with the soles of your feet and keep you firm, may it sustain your body when it loses its balance. May the wind cool your ears and offer you at any hour the answers that will heal all that your anguish might invent. May the fire nourish your gaze and purify the victuals that will feed your soul. May the rain be your ally, may it offer you its caresses, cleanse your body and mind of all that does not belong to you.”
The girl felt as if her grandmother was saying her good-bye.
“Don’t abandon me, Citli,” she said in a wounded voice. “Don’t leave.”
“I already told you that I would never leave you.”
And as she hugged her tightly and covered her in kisses, she offered her granddaughter to the sun. She blessed her in the name of the gods and without words said, “May Malinalli be the one who chases fear away. The one who triumphs over fear, makes it disappear, sets it on fire, banishes it, erases it, the one who is never afraid.”
Malinalli remained tangled in her grandmother’s arms until she felt completely at peace. When she finally separated herself, she noticed that her grandmother was still. She had ceased to belong to time. She had evaporated from her body, and her tongue had returned to silence.
The child understood that it was death and she wept.
Now, beginning her new life, lighting a new fire amongst her new owners, she felt happy. Until now, everything had been as she had expected. She wanted to believe that the time of tears was behind her. She felt renewed inside. The few days that had passed since she arrived in the Spanish camp had been unforgettable. She had never felt threatened or unsafe. Of course she had not arrived alone, and not just because she had come accompanied by nineteen other women slaves, but because she had come clothed in her past: the familiar, the personal, the cosmic. She wore a jade necklace that had belonged to her grandmother, tiny bells around her ankles, and covering her body a huipil that she herself had sewn and embroidered with precious bird feathers symbolizing a stairway to the sky that she would climb in order to be reunited with her grandmother.
FOUR
Malinalli was washing clothes in the river, on the outskirts of the town of Cholula. She was upset. There was too much noise. Far too much. Not just the noise made by her hands when she scrubbed and rinsed the clothes in the water, but the noise inside her head.
Everything around her spoke of this agitation. The river where she washed the clothes charged t
he place with music through the force of the waters crashing on the stones. Added to this sound was that of the birds, who were as agitated as ever, the frogs, the crickets, the dogs, and the Spaniards themselves, the new inhabitants of this land, who contributed with the clamorous sounds of their armor, their cannons, and their harquebuses. Malinalli needed silence, calm. In the Popol Vuh, the Sacred Book of their elders, it stated that when everything was at silence—in complete calm, in the darkness of night, in the darkness of the light—then would creation arise.
Malinalli needed that silence to create new and resonant words. The right words, the ones that were necessary. Recently she had stopped serving Portocarrero, her lord, because Cortés had named her “The Tongue,” the one who translated what he said into the Náhuatl language, and what Montezuma’s messengers said, from Náhuatl to Spanish. Although Malinalli had learned Spanish at an extraordinary speed, in no way could it be said that she was completely fluent. Often she had to turn to Aguilar to help her to translate it correctly, so that what she said made sense in the minds of both the Spaniards and the Mexicas.