Sudden Death

by Álvaro Enrigue

  New Spain and Nueva Galicia were places, but places that were more like no-man’s-lands, because Hernán Cortés and Nuño de Guzmán had more experience kicking down what they found than putting the pieces back together. They were never statesmen, because they had come to Mexico to become millionaires. Most of the members of the conquistador generation started businesses; others, some of the best of them, built churches. Zumárraga built pyres and a library. Vasco de Quiroga judged it the natural thing to build a utopia.

  In the hospital-town of Santa Fe, built around a home for the elderly and sick, the highest authority, Vasco de Quiroga, decreed that no money would circulate. As closely as it could within the bounds of reality, the town followed the non-instructions set forth by the London humanist for the functioning of Utopia: it was divided along two axes that intersected at the hospital and the church, and in each quadrant there were multifamily houses belonging to four different clans. These clans were administered by a council of elders, and each had its own representatives; they all reported to the director of the hospital, which was the only post that was required to be occupied by a Spaniard. To support itself, Santa Fe was founded with artisan families specializing in different practices: potters, carpenters, and featherworkers in one quadrant; bricklayers, pipefitters, and cacao merchants in another; and so on. All were organized into a system of masters and apprentices from the same family. The inhabitants of the village spent part of their time working in their specialty and another part sowing and harvesting on the village’s communal land. Anything produced on the land or in the workshops that wasn’t consumed locally was collected at the rectory, to be sent for sale in the markets of the capital.

  Vasco de Quiroga must have thought that he was an economic genius and Thomas More a visionary, because Santa Fe was a dazzling success and soon became a production center supplying the capital not only with useful objects—tools, musical instruments, construction rods, and luxury goods such as polychrome statues of saints and virgins, or feather ornaments made according to the ancestral techniques of the Nahua featherworkers—but also with basic agricultural products: corn, squash, legumes, honey, flowers. It didn’t occur to Quiroga, of course, that the model worked because the society that More proposed and he had orchestrated was a production system similar to the one that the Indians in the Valley of Mexico already had in place before the arrival of the Spaniards; it was the same scheme that the Indians had periodically tried to revive, for which Zumárraga would burn them at the stake.

  In 1536, between burning indigenous books that today would be exceedingly valuable and printing treatises in Latin that are still available and that no one bothers to consult, Bishop Zumárraga pulled strings at the Spanish court to get the Vatican to recognize Mexico as a new region so that he could be promoted to Archbishop of New Spain. His maneuverings were successful—the king could deny him nothing—and in 1537 his conversation partner and lawyer friend, Vasco de Quiroga, was hurriedly ordained priest and became the first bishop of Mechuacán.

  There, in the old Purépecha capital of Tzintzuntzan, Quiroga founded a second Indian hospital-town; and while he was at it, the next year he founded a full Indian utopian republic on the shores of Lake Pátzcuaro, in which each town specialized in the manufacture of some useful product and all the land was communal.

  If there was a Wimbledon of dead humanists, Vasco de Quiroga would play in the final against Erasmus of Rotterdam and he would win by a landslide. Never was a man so comfortable in the role of designing a whole world to his own specifications. And if ever there was, no one did it so well. The utopian communities of Lake Pátzcuaro were the orchard of New Spain for three hundred years; the descendants of the Indians who founded them almost five hundred years ago still speak Purépecha, still govern themselves to a certain degree through councils of elders (I witnessed one in Santa Clara and another in Paracho), still live in enchantingly lovely towns protected by more or less untouched ecosystems, and still make the products that Tata Vasco thought would sell well enough to ensure the community’s survival. I am not exaggerating. Yesterday, at my corner deli in New York City, I bought a couple of perfect avocados grown in the orchards of Mechuacán by the descendants of Quiroga’s Indians. Two letters are all that have changed. Today we call the place Michoacán.

  The letter from Pope Paul III inviting the bishop of Mechuacán to the meetings of the Council of Trent arrived in Pátzcuaro, so it was an Indian who brought it to Tzintzuntzan, where Quiroga was handling hospital business and trying to resolve a dispute between the families of local Purépecha cloth producers and Mexica featherworkers. Tata Vasco was in a meeting with Diego de Alvarado Huanitzin when the letter from the pope arrived.

  On the Causes of Poverty Under the Reign of Henry VIII

  And what say you of the shameless luxury all about this abject poverty? Serving-folk, craftsmen, and even the farmers themselves show excessive vanity in diet and in apparel. What say you of the brothels, the infamous houses, and those other dens of vice, the taverns and alehouses? And what of all the nefarious games in which money runs fast away, condemning initiates to poverty or highway robbery? Cards, dice, foot-ball, quoits. And worst of all: tennis. Banish from the land these noxious plagues.

  THOMAS MORE, Utopia, 1516

  Third Set, Fourth Game

  In his expansive moments, the Italian ruled the court; he was stronger and much more seasoned and resourceful, but he was also a volatile player. He was easily distracted, hampered by an excess of pride, and the nine years that he had on his opponent made his hangover infinitely more destructive than the poet’s—the effect of hangovers is directly proportional to the age of the sufferer, and the increase in discomfort isn’t linear, it’s exponential.

  Cowed as he was, morally shattered at having been caught out the night before, the Spaniard had been focusing on the match not as an outlet for hubris but as a way to redeem himself in the duke’s eyes and recover his dignity. Victory would come off the court, but he had to win the match to gain it. He was confident that he could win, because it had been hard for the Lombard to beat him in the third game. He even swaggered a little, something he hadn’t done since the start of the match. Put some real money on me now, won’t you, he asked in a rather shrill voice, glancing toward the side of the gallery where his patron and the escorts were sitting.

  Fortunately for him, there had been no witnesses except the duke to the spectacle the night before. As soon as he had heard the duke’s cry, he’d pulled his hand out of the Lombard’s codpiece and pushed him off, escaping easily from his embrace. The capo, as drunk as or drunker than the Spaniards, hadn’t understood what was happening until he saw the poet standing over him, challenging him with his sword—of steel, not flesh—unsheathed. To me, Duke, to me, shouted the poet like a man possessed; I’m being robbed. The capo, trapped, raised his hands with a wolfish smile. He lifted his face toward the nobleman and said in Italian: The only thing I was robbing this man of is his virginity, sir; he’s the kind who likes to take it up the ass and it’s no trouble to me to give satisfaction. The poet lunged, brandishing his sword. The Italian rolled down two flights of steps and leaped up in a flash, sword and dagger out. He was still smiling. The duke understood at once that his friend’s well-bred flourishes would hardly be enough to beat someone who could extricate himself from an awkward situation with such grace and good humor. The poet feinted again and the capo shook him off without even raising his sword. Let it go, said the duke; this is a man of war, not some salon fencer. Without lowering the blade he was pointing at the Italian, the poet asked: And my honor? The capo looked up: Now it seems even sodomites have honor. The Spaniard made a third feint. He felt in his heels the shuddering blow with which it was parried. Drop your sword, ordered the nobleman.

  I’ll crush him, you’ll see, I’m going to crush him, said the poet with his eyes on the duke. He was spinning the racket in circles, trying to relax his wrist. I don’t doubt it,
the duke replied, but stay focused.

  The mathematician shed his idiot savant’s mutism for a moment and got up from his seat. He reminded the spectators that the only thing in play from now on was the match. And with a glance at the Spanish linesman: Are we in agreement that any further bets will be placed only on the final result? The nobleman, without entirely understanding the rule but stung all the same, said: Of course. The mathematician shouted at the top of his lungs that the last round of betting was now open.

  Barral hesitated slightly before putting the small fortune he had collected on the line: the coins his master had given him, the coins he had won, and the coins he had grudgingly volunteered. The poet turned to look at him, offended: It’s in the bag, Otero. Bet your next month’s salaries, cried the duke. What salaries? The duke gave them more money. What if we lose? I’ll pay you double. Double the bet? Double the salary, idiot. Barral collected it all and returned to the line to set a second stack of coins on the Spaniard’s side, coming face-to-face with Saint Matthew, who snarled at him.

  The night before, the capo had made exactly the same face when the Spaniard lowered his sword at last. A catlike gesture, shaking his head a little and showing his teeth with mocking ferocity. The poet had backed up the stairs, the point of his sword keeping watch over his enemy. The Lombard made no move.

  When the Spaniard reached street level, the grandee drew his own sword to wait at the ready for the Italian to come up. The capo rolled his eyes: What are you defending yourself for; you’re no faggot like us. He put away his sword and dagger. Move aside, he said, and let me pass. It’s all slander, the poet whispered to his patron. The capo offered his hand as he went by. When they ignored the gesture, he belched gloriously and paused to pull out his wineskin. His clumsy effort to uncork it told the Spaniards that he was still completely drunk. Now’s our chance, said the duke, and they both fell on him. He shook them off, rolling on the ground. When they went after him again he had dagger and sword in hand and was waiting for them, smiling. Shall we settle this or not, said the capo; I’d rather go home now than spend the rest of the night with the bailiff, and you gentlemen are wanted in Spain. They lowered their swords. The duke sheathed his. We can’t leave it like this, wailed the poet. You can’t defend yourself in this state, said the duke; you don’t know how to fight drunk. The Italian, his mind already elsewhere, was looking for his wineskin on the ground.

  Discipline on the Roman side of the court seemed to have lapsed with the announcement of the closing of bets, because the painter was now drinking from a flask of wine that Mary Magdalene tipped voluptuously into his mouth. If he starts to drink too much, you’ll have him where you want him once and for all, said the duke; keep playing as you have been. The Lombard had now turned and his tart was massaging his shoulders. The last spectators put down their bets. Don’t you find it a little worrisome that absolutely no one else has put money on our side? said Barral.

  The poet made a final attempt to redeem his honor at sword’s point. The Italian toppled him, planting the tip of his own sword on the Spaniard’s neck. Your friend will never learn, he said, with a glance at the duke. And addressing himself to the poet: Actually, why don’t you turn over and I’ll shove it up your ass? He grabbed his balls. Just then they heard the nearly monastic little footsteps of the mathematician. What are you doing? he called. Leave that boy alone and come home. The Italian put his sword away again. Can I go to bed now? he asked, fixing the poet with his gaze. He’s a killer, the duke put in, trying to make his friend see reason. The artist made a reverence: Thanks. The professor put an arm around him to lead him away. Why does everything always have to end like this, he said, and addressing the Spaniards: Please forgive him, gentlemen, he’s drunk; tomorrow he won’t remember a thing. Their backs were turned when the poet howled: I challenge him to a duel. They were all quiet for a second. The duke said: Shit, fuck, and piss.

  Let’s do it now, yelled the poet with all he had. The artist—his head resting on Mary Magdalene’s bosom, his eyes closed—tossed him the ball disdainfully, not even turning to look at him. The poet caught it firmly in the air. I wager you can’t guess whose hair the ball in your hand is stuffed with, cried the artist, still smiling. The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. He genuinely didn’t care. He bounced the ball on the ground and walked to the line of service. The scapular, said the duke; touch the scapular. The poet waited until the artist was settled on his side of the court to yell Tenez!

  The mathematician and the capo turned to stare at the poet. Do you have any idea what you’re saying, bugger boy, said the capo; I’ll kill you and then I’ll be beheaded for it. The duke put his hand to his forehead. Brother, he said; take back what you said this instant, I beseech you. Well? asked the capo. At noon, said the poet; in Piazza Navona; you choose the weapons. The mathematician and the artist shook their heads in disbelief; the duke ran both hands through his hair, puffed out his cheeks, exhaled. What weapons, then? he asked. The professor cut in before his friend could answer. Rackets, he said; the weapons will be rackets and the duel will be in three sets, with betting; whoever takes two is the winner. The capo was shaking with laughter when, to the fury of the poet, the duke confirmed: Piazza Navona, noon, pallacorda. How do we know you’ll be there? asked the poet, deflated. Everybody knows me, said the Italian; I’m Caravaggio. Francisco de Quevedo, replied the Spaniard, his eyes starting from his head. And who is this? he asked, jerking his nose at the professor. Galilei; I’m lodged at the Palazzo Madama. The nobleman introduced himself: Pedro Téllez Girón, Duke of Osuna.

  The poet put all the force he could into the serve. The ball hit the roof of the gallery. The artist waited for the rebound. He took it, hitting a hair-raising drive that went straight into the dedans. Cacce per il lombardo, cried the professor; due, equali.

  Encounter of Civilizations

  Hernán Cortés to one of his captains at a peaceful moment, serenaded by the clamor of insects in the altiplano night: When these savages play ball, it’s the winner who loses his head. The soldier scratches his beard. Spawn of the Devil, they are, he says; they’ll have to be taught that it’s the loser whose head rolls.

  The Emperor’s Mantle

  Don Diego de Alvarado Huanitzin, Nahua of noble birth and master featherworker, was at his shop in San José de los Naturales—once a farm of exotic birds under the Emperor Moctezuma—when he met Vasco de Quiroga. They were introduced by Fray Pedro de Gante, who managed what was left of the totocalli (as such farms were called) after the brutal years of the invasion.

  The lawyer and the featherworker were soon on a comfortable footing, since both were of noble birth, both had been part of imperial courts in their youth, both had remained—over the twelve most confusing years that their two vast and ancient cultures had known in who knows how many centuries—in the unusual situation of actually being free.

  Vasco de Quiroga had no reason to return to Spain and was greatly excited by the idea of building a society on rational principles. The Indian had nowhere to go back to, but he had managed to find a relatively secure and comfortable spot for himself after years of darkness, misery, and fear. His aristocratic rank was respected and his work was so admired that most of the pieces made in his shop were sent immediately to adorn palaces and cathedrals in Spain, Germany, Flanders, and the duchy of Milan.

  Unlike most Mexicans, Don Diego de Alvarado Huanitzin did know what this meant: he had been to Europe. He belonged to the select group of highborn artists who were received by the Holy Roman Emperor on Cortés’s first trip back to Spain, and he knew very well that the new lords of Mexico might be eaters of sausage made from the blood of pigs, but they were also capable of rising far above their barbaric ways when it came to building palaces, painting canvases, cooking animals, or—and this impressed him most of all—making shoes.

  From the moment that the ship he had been obliged to board (though not herded onto like cattle) sailed out of sight
of American lands, Huanitzin realized that in order to survive his new circumstances he would have to learn Spanish. By the time they arrived in Seville, after stops in Cuba and the Canary Islands, he was attempting polite phrases in the language of the conquistadors and was able to say that he and his son would be happy to make a heavy cloak of white feathers for His Majesty: the sailors had told him that Spain was known for being cold.

  Cortés loved the idea of the featherworker and his son making a small demonstration of their art in court—he himself had a spectacular feather mantle on his bed at his house in Coyoacán showing the birth of water in springs and its death as rain—and he immediately gave Huanitzin favored status among his entourage. Not only did the featherworker speak Spanish—terrible Spanish, but he could make himself understood—he was the only one who seemed to show any interest in taking stock of his new circumstances.

  Once in Toledo, the conquistador arranged for a workshop to be set up next to the palace stables and negotiated unrestricted access to the kitchen, where the preparation of ducks, geese, and hens afforded Huanitzin a sufficient supply of feathers to make a cape for an emperor who, the featherworker was beginning to understand, had defeated the Aztec emperor because he was infinitely more powerful, even though he lived in a dark, drab, and icy city.