Against the Inquisition

by Marcos Aguinis

  Francisco grasped his father’s forearm to transmit his sorrow and, at the same time, encourage him to keep speaking; he had to rid himself of the shame that blocked him. Diego returned his energetic caress.

  “Light shimmered in the tormentors’ sweat,” he recalled, head down, “while the bodies of sinners twisted like lizards. But there was a diabolical order that assigned one notary, one torturer, and a few assistants to each captive. I heard screams among the shadows. And among the screams and panic, an imperious voice rose, demanding that the victims speak, that they speak, speak, speak. Otherwise, the intensity would increase. The word ‘intensity’ was spoken coldly. But it referred to the intensity of the ferocious pulling of bones from their sockets, the blows, the water torture, the ropes and spikes.

  “My eyes were blurred by terror and I could only catch fragments, just barely,” he said. “They weren’t applying any of it to me yet, though they were letting me see and hear, to break me in. Some men calmly destroying others.”

  He stopped to inhale a few gulps of air. Francisco stared at him like a startling marvel; the same face that in Ibatín had told edifying stories, now, here, unfurled a description of hell.

  “Suddenly, I perceived a sign. My blood ran cold. I fell to my knees and prayed. They eagerly took off my clothes. My nakedness and shame increased my paralysis. They lay me on a table. Someone took my pulse, touched my wet forehead. It was the doctor. The Inquisition uses doctors to monitor torture. I looked at him, trying to transmit a plea to my colleague, to the student of medicine who had read Hippocrates and taken on the mandate Primum non nocere. But this doctor fulfilled the task that had been assigned to him, and was unmoved by my chattering teeth. Indifferently, he said, ‘You may begin.’”

  Diego coughed.

  “They put me in the rack, tying my wrists and ankles to ropes connected to a turning wheel. The notary, a Dominican monk, dipped his quill in the inkwell and waited for the names I was to provide. The torturer grasped the turning wheel and began to tighten the rope. I felt the murderous pull. I howled; they were pulling out my arms and tearing at my hips. The traction slowed, but did not stop. My chest was blazing. They wanted names. But I could not speak. Another turn of the wheel and I fainted.

  “In my cell, I was attended to by a barber, who placed damp cloths on the torn joints and performed a bloodletting. Vast bruises formed. The Inquisition was patient and waited for me to recover before resuming with other torments.

  “I thought they would subject me to the pulley, because it’s worse than the rack. They tie your arms behind your back and hook your wrists to the pulley, and then hoist the whole body from the tied wrists. Men break, and their tendons snap quickly, one after another. If the body holds up, they weight your ankles. And if the captive still persists, they let him fall with a thud. I doubted I could survive that trial. But the torturer had a different torment in store for me.”

  Francisco asked whether he wanted to stop.

  “No, I’ll go on,” Diego said, pausing for a moment to look at the sea and gather his thoughts. “They returned me to that loathsome table, tied my limbs and neck with rough cords, and put a funnel and rags in my mouth, which made me retch. I retched more, couldn’t breathe. But that was just the beginning. The notary dipped his quill and waited. It was exceptional for a person not to confess under such circumstances. This method was affectionately known as ‘singing out of longing.’ The torturer began to pour a barrel of water into the funnel. I swallowed, drowned, coughed, swallowed again, felt that death was finally at hand. The doctor ordered a pause in the proceedings. He took the large cloth from my mouth, turned me around, and brutally slapped my back. The ensuing pulmonary congestion lasted for weeks. I tried to find a poison with which to kill myself—”

  Again, Francisco touched his father.

  “The day of opprobrium arrived, my son.” He lifted his head toward the bed of clouds as if asking God to listen to him, too. “I shivered all night. There was no mercy. I was a sheep in the slaughterhouse. At dawn the henchmen slid the bolts back and offered me a clean robe. Again, I’d urinated and vomited on myself. What awaited me now? Clamps? Blows? Ropes? The spiked belt? More of the rack, the pulley, water torture? They lay me down on another table. They tied my limbs in the shape of a cross: arms open, legs together. ‘This is how they killed Jesus Christ,’ I thought, ‘only He was placed vertically while I am lying down.’ My legs were raised into the air, though I didn’t yet know why. The Dominican dipped his quill and reiterated that he was waiting for names. My head spun with the people whom I could not turn in. I wanted to frighten them so they wouldn’t ring the bell that unhooked my tongue. To mention a name was to condemn that person forever. I thought of animals. I said to myself: ‘puma, snake, bird, blackbird, chicken, vicuna, lamb,’ so as not to leave any space for the name of a future victim. But I became terrified. There was a man in Potosí by the name of Cordero, or ‘lamb,’ who might not even be a New Christian. I might commit a crime. So I began, in my exasperation, to call the names of the great ones who were long deceased: ‘Celsus, Pythagoras, Herophilus, Ptolemy, Virgil, Demosthenes, Philo, Marcus Aurelius, Zeno, Vesalius, Euclid, Horace.’ As that torrent flowed, the Dominican leaned in to catch the valuable denunciation. They greased my feet with pig fat. Then, below them, almost touching my heels, they placed an overflowing brazier. The heat seared into my skin, sharpened by the grease. I tried to pull my legs back, but I couldn’t. This was the torment that would make me speak: a slow burning, penetrating, unbearable.

  “‘Names,’ the inquisitor demanded.

  “‘Homer, Suetonius, Lucanor, Euripides,’ I answered in despair. The torturer fanned the embers. The grease burned my feet and dripped noisily.

  “‘Names.’

  “‘David, Matthew, Solomon, Luke, John, Marcus, Saint Augustine, Saint Paul,’ and my unsettled mind filled with the animals I preferred to avoid: ‘ant, rat, frog, firefly, partridge, armadillo.’

  “‘Names—’

  “The pain pierced my bones. The searing was worse than the rack, pulley, clamps, or water. ‘You have walked the path of sin,’ a monk said. ‘If you do not speak, you won’t ever be able to walk in virtue.’ I fainted, and they gave me a few weeks to recover. The Inquisition has time; it is the esteemed child of the church and shares its immortality. But the healing was not satisfactory. The fire had produced irreversible lesions. You can see it; I walk like a duck.” He pointed at his boots. “As they applied salves, they kept on pressing me for names, day and night. I hoped that my wounds would become infected and put an end to the nightmare. I didn’t expect the cunning blow that would change the course of events.”

  Diego unrolled his sanbenito and spread it like a rug over the sand. He sat down with his legs pulled in, and Francisco followed suit. After a pause, he broached the most painful part of his memories.

  “I was visited by a defense attorney who worked for the Holy Office and whose job it was to convince prisoners that there was only one way to become free: submission. Until that moment I’d been able to keep my lips from betraying me. Despite the terror and helplessness, I hadn’t mentioned the names that passed through my restless sleep: Gaspar Chávez, José Ignacio Sevilla, Diego López de Lisboa, Juan José Brizuela. The lawyer told me that Brizuela had been arrested in Chile, and that he had behaved more virtuously—he revealed names. And one of those names belonged to Diego, your brother. I can assure you, Francisco, that I’ve never felt a more horrific blow. I was stunned.”

  His brow furrowed and his bent back shook. Francisco stood, took off his cloak, and draped it over his father’s wide shoulders. How he loved him! How it hurt him to learn of this suffering! His father thanked him with a few light pats on his hand, then rubbed his damp eyes.

  “In the next session, I was newly accosted by the fire torture,” he continued in a low voice, almost inaudibly. “The grease on my feet made me convulse. I thought I was going mad. This time, the inquisitor was precise.


  “‘Your son Diego has practiced Judaism, we know this. Testify to it,’ he whispered in my ear.

  “‘The poor boy is retarded!’ I lied. ‘He’s an innocent.’

  “‘Has he practiced as a Jew?’

  “‘He doesn’t even know how to, he’s an idiot,’ I said, lying again, as in that instant I couldn’t think of any other way to respond.

  “‘Has he practiced as a Jew? Testify to this with a yes.’ His mouth was burning my ear.

  “‘He knows nothing,’ I sobbed.

  “‘Has he practiced Judaism?’

  “‘It’s as if he hadn’t, because—he’s an idiot!’ I shouted. ‘He’s innocent! He’s a fool!’

  “‘Then he has practiced Judaism. Take the brazier away.’

  “The notary’s quill scratched the sentences of confirmation onto paper. The inquisitor knew that one crack was enough for the torrent to pour out. I had testified against my own son. I would try to save him, of course, but my clumsy speech included facts that transformed suspicion into certainty.

  “I could not have felt more destroyed. The brusque suspension of the torture did not induce relief, but rather terror. It was proof that they had gotten what they’d wanted, and that I had condemned poor Diego. That’s when I lost my last moorings and became a piece of trash floating in the abyss. There was nothing more to do, or to defend, or rescue. Nothing. The Holy Office, on the other hand, seized their infinite advantage; the trash that I was would gain the mercy of something real and powerful if I surrendered. I had to obliterate all resistance and discretion; I’d have to confess down to the dregs.”

  “Did you?” Francisco ventured.

  Diego was stiff for a few seconds and then nodded, full of shame.

  “I did it.” He inhaled deeply. “I was a corpse. My soul had come untethered, driven past madness, and who knew where it roamed. I confessed that I had taught Diego Judaism. I confessed the truth—that he had hurt his ankle and I took advantage of the intimacy of those moments to explain who we were. I told them that Diego was surprised, and afraid, as it was not easy to accept that one is descended from Jews.

  “‘What else?’ they asked me.

  “‘I promised to teach him our history, our traditions and celebrations. I did this in Ibatín, and kept on doing so in Córdoba.’

  “‘What else?’”

  Don Diego leaned forward and, with his hand, erased the drawings he’d made in the sand as he recounted his journey through hell.

  “What I can’t erase now”—his tone changed, and he shook his pale head—“is that distant moment when, in that dim room in Ibatín, I explained to Diego for the first time that we had Jewish blood. What a face he made! I think he may have been assaulted by a premonition of the coming tragedy. It was so many years ago—we were alone in his room—”

  Francisco’s gaze roved over the folds of that wrinkled face, full of pity.

  “No, Papá. You were not alone.”

  His father startled. “What are you saying?”

  “I was a witness.”

  “But,” he stammered, “you were so little!”

  “And so curious. I spied on you from the shadows.”

  “Francisquito!” His throat tightened as he remembered the small boy his son had been. “You used to bring me the bronze tray with figs and pomegranates. You’d beg me for tales and stories—” He removed the cloak Francisco had draped over his shoulders and returned it. “Here—you’re not warm enough.”

  “You keep it on—please, Papá.”

  They recalled the afternoon on which Diego had opened the velvet case and explained the wondrous significance of the Spanish key. They recalled the classes in the orange grove. The journey to Córdoba, and when the trunk of books was stolen in the middle of the salt flats. They recalled the brief period in which they’d lived together in Córdoba, in the house left to them by Juan José Brizuela and his family. And then, together, they recalled the brutal arrests.

  “I was too hopeful, Francisco. Despair makes us lie to ourselves,” his father lamented. “In the dungeon, after confessing, that is to say after surrendering into the ‘merciful’ arms of the Holy Office, I thought that poor Diego and I might regain our freedom. I behaved the way my so-called defense attorney told me to. I begged for mercy with abundant tears, just as the inquisitors like it. I expressed my repentance in every possible way. I abjured my filthy sin, over and over. I insisted that I wanted to live and die in the Catholic faith, for good. I begged to be granted reconciliation. And, every once in a while, I begged for my son, whom I had led down the wrong path, taking advantage of his young age. I wanted to live to reform him, to teach him to behave like a good Catholic and be worthy of divine grace. I said and did all these things, Francisco. Never had I been so broken.”

  He began to draw in the sand again.

  “Finally, they informed me that my son had also abjured. But both of us had to wait for the Act of Faith to regain our freedom. Maintaining us in jail was not a problem for them, as it was paid for with the possessions they had confiscated from us. I walked with crutches. They would not let me see Diego. Despite my docility, they often hurt my wrists and ankles again with iron shackles, to remind me that I was still a prisoner and that my offense had been very serious.”

  Francisco rose, walked to the edge of the water, and rolled up his trousers. He waded in to his knees. He splashed his face, then stood absorbed in the straightness of the horizon. Cold saline drops slid down his skin. He had not only heard his father, which he had so deeply longed for, he had suffered through it as if he had been torn by instruments of torture. He returned slowly to the aged doctor’s side, adjusted his cloak on his shoulders, and sat back down.

  “What was the Act of Faith like, Papá?”

  Diego threw a piece of seashell toward the foam and gathered his concentration. He had yet to dislodge that bone from his throat.

  “The day before the Act of Faith they come and read your sentence to you. I was visited in my dungeon by the inquisitor and an entourage of officers and clerics. The inquisitor was carrying large documents. The lawyer elbowed me to remind me to fall to my knees and thank the mercy of the just tribunal. The remaining hours before the Act were to be devoted to prayer, for which I was accompanied by a pious and vigilant Dominican. It resembled a wake. Before dawn the sounds of iron, shouts, steps, and swords echoed down the hall. They put me in this sanbenito.” He stroked it. “Look, such an ordinary garment that draws so much contempt! Nothing more than a wool scapular, as wide as the body, that reaches to the knees, its length no different from what monks wear. Its yellow color is supposed to invoke something ugly and dirty, as it evokes the Jewish condition. Luckily, it isn’t painted with flames, meaning that I had not been condemned to be burned. When the prisoners were gathered to be taken to the Act of Faith I saw your brother in a sanbenito just like mine. Can you imagine my inner tumult? I stared at him, longing to embrace him, kiss him, and ask his forgiveness. I had to beg his forgiveness! But Diego did not want my forgiveness. He looked away from me. Imprisonment and torture had distanced him from me forever. They put a green candle in his hand and did the same to me. They ordered us to advance along the macabre corridors. The Dominican monk walked right at my shoulder, praying insistently. I did not stop staring at Diego, who avoided me with rage, fear, and shame.”

  He broke off. The embers of memory were drying out his lungs, and he needed to inhale great gulps of air.

  “We walked out through the tall doors of the Holy Office, toward the plaza of the Inquisition. We were received in the street with brutal celebration. We were monsters, adding color to people’s routines. Around us marched gentlemen and religious orders, with great showiness. The armed militia of the viceroy was there. The gunmen shot into the air, the club-bearing soldiers of the crown were before the Royal Court, and pages walked among the high officials. They made us walk in front of the palace, like exotic animals, so that the vicereine might enjoy the sight of us from behi
nd her latticed windows. I don’t know why the Act took a long time. Some of the condemned fainted. It seemed that there had been a problem with regard to protocol. Finally, we were taken to the scaffold. We were pitiable creatures, atrociously comical. On our heads we wore painted cardboard cones, and in our hands we carried green candles. Standing, under the contemptuous stares of the crowd, we had to listen to long sermons. And after the sermons, the detailed sentences. Each prisoner was addressed separately. Some were relieved to the secular branch, where they would be given death by hanging and then fire, or death directly by fire. The rest of us were all publicly punished, some with whips, others with a range of sentences; we had saved our lives through repentance. I was sentenced to the confiscation of my possessions, the wearing of a sanbenito, spiritual punishments, and six years of prison. Your brother’s sentence was lesser: the confiscation of possessions, the sanbenito for one year, spiritual acts of penitence, and six months of absolute isolation in a monastery for reeducation. Then they told me that, at the request of Viceroy Montesclaros and the kindness of the most illustrious inquisitors, I should remain in Callao and work in the hospital. In this manner, my dearest Francisco”—he made an ironic face—“I recovered my freedom and they made me return to the religion of love.”

  72

  At the monastery in Lima, the sepulchral atmosphere grew. Prior Lucas Albarracín’s maladies had changed all routines and activities. Doctor Alfonso Cuevas, after another florid preamble, had spoken the terrible word “gangrene.” The moment was approaching for those heroic measures that he had referenced in earlier visits. The monks increased the honors, litanies, masses, and flagellations so that heaven might restore their leader’s health.