[What Might Have Been 04] Alternate Americas

by Anthology

  We were immediately struck by the large number of beggars in our midst, men and women with dirty faces, torn clothing, hollow eyes, and vacant bellies. Poor as heretics’ children, they carried all their earthly belongings about in sacks (rather like the Jews I noted traveling down the Saltees), and we quickly identified them as the “homeless, typhoon-buffeted” creatures named on the idol’s plaque. An infinite remorse gripped me as I realized they were all destined to be skewered on the spikes of libertad and consumed by her flames.

  Torres tried several times to start a conversation with these wretches, asking why they did not flee from Battery Park to whatever monasteries, convents, and sanctuaries might grace the interior. Their responses were invariably a crude idiomatic expression to the effect that Torres should forthwith become a hermaphrodite and experience self-contained sexual congress.

  As if sensing our communication difficulties, a bold young Indian approached, offering his services as both interpreter and guide. Born Rodrigo Menendez, he said he was raised in the distant Spanish-speaking land of “Cuba-man.” Though formidable in appearance, with a tiny gold ring through his right nostril, a dark blue kerchief tied around his forehead, and a shirt inscribed BEAM ME UP, SCOTTY, THERE’S NO INTELLIGENT LIFE DOWN HERE, he assured us he was of the Holy Faith, attending Mass regularly as well as something called “Cardinal O’Connor High School-man,” situated on the Twenty-third Street. We offered to pay him in the various trinkets that appeal so profoundly to the African peoples with whom the Crown barters: red felt caps, glass necklaces, little brass bells. He was not interested. When we displayed the cask of vintage Marques de Cacares that Father Hojeda had so cleverly brought ashore, however, the youth’s eyes lit up like votive candles, and for this good consideration he entered our employ.

  A tour of “Lower Manhattan,” Rodrigo assured us, typically begins with “the New York Stock Exchange.” From his description, we surmised it was a principal meeting place of the libertad cult. Steeling ourselves, we followed the youth east along the “Wall” road, site of many grand citadels and lofty towers. The passing Indians fairly dripped of gold—gold bracelets, gold wedding bands, gold chains about their necks, gold pebbles in their teeth.

  We entered the temple in question. Believe me, Your Highness, rarely has a faith excited such zeal. Those who attend the New York Stock Exchange celebrate with a frenzy I have never seen before. They run around like lunatics and shout like the Apostles at Pentecost. It did not take Father Hojeda long to decide that these stock exchangers are nowise ready to hear about Jesus Christ, so tenacious are their present beliefs. I am inclined to concur.

  As we left the temple, the utter strangeness of the surrounding city prompted me to speculate we might have reached the fabled waterbound kingdom of which Marco Polo wrote. I asked Rodrigo if we could possibly be on one of the Cipango Islands.

  He said, “The which?”

  “Cipango Islands. You know—the Japans.”

  Whereupon the youth explained that Cipango indeed possessed many “holdings” on Manhattan, including treasuries, trading posts, and moneylending houses plus something called “Rockefeller Center-man.” However, while these assorted enterprises evidently make Manhattan a kind of colony of Cipango, Rodrigo reckoned the actual Kingdom of Japan to be some considerable distance away.

  “If we’re not in Cipango, have we perhaps found Cathay?” asked Father Hojeda.

  “Huh? Cathay?”

  “Do you call it Quinsay? China, perhaps?”

  “Ah—you want to see Chinatown!”

  The youth guided us to an enclave consisting primarily of places to eat. It took us but a moment to realize that “Chinatown” is no more contiguous with Cathay than the money-lending houses are contiguous with Cipango. We did, however, enjoy an excellent lunch of pork, rice, and bamboo shoots. Rodrigo paid for this repast using the local currency, a debt we agreed to cover with a second cask of Marques de Cacares.

  “Our fervent hope was to form an alliance with the Great Khan,” I explained to the youth, making no effort to hide my disappointment over the disparity between Chinatown and Cathay. “We bear a royal letter of recommendation from the King and Queen of Spain.”

  “The closest we got to a khan is the mayor,” the youth answered, “but I don’t think he worries a whole lot about where he stands with the King and Queen of Spain.”

  Through further questioning of Rodrigo, we learned that this “mayor” claims an African heritage, whereupon Father Hojeda and I decided it was probably most accurate to regard him as a local chieftain. Rodrigo offered to take us to the ruler’s headquarters, a “City Hall-man” lying perhaps a half mile south of Chinatown. We accepted. As we set out on our diplomatic mission, however, the youth casually mentioned that a previous such Chief of Manhattan had been of Jewish descent. Naturally I was not about to open negotiations with any realm whose throne has held the avaricious assassins of Christ—not without explicit orders from Your Highness.

  “We would like to see the sources of the gold,” I said to Rodrigo. The youth replied, “Gold? Yeah, sure, I can show you some gold.”

  “We would also like to see the gems,” added Harana.

  “And the spices,” added Torres.

  “And the precious fabrics,” added Father Hojeda.

  “We go uptown-man,” said the youth. “We take the subway, eh?”

  These “subways” proved to be machines most terrible and terrifying: self-propelled coaches linked in serpentine configurations, racing through underground passageways at demonic speeds. All during the trip Rodrigo engaged in a long, rambling, unsolicited speech to the effect that while he doesn’t question the sanctity of marriage, he is just as glad his parents got divorced, and while he admits the wrongfulness of thwarting semen on its journey, he would never leave home without a pocketful of penis sheaths, and while he understands that extracting fetuses from the womb is a sin, he doesn’t know how he’d react if his girlfriend, Martina, ever became pregnant by him. O my dear Isabella, it would seem that, before we attempt to convert this city’s Indians to Catholicism, we must first seek to convert its Catholics to Catholicism.

  Reaching the “Pennsylvania” station via the “Seventh Avenue Local,” we climbed back to the surface and followed our guide north to a place where he promised we would see the precious fabrics. He spoke the truth. All the way from the Thirty-fourth Street to the Fortieth, nimble Indian peasants transported silks, satins, cashmere, velvet, gossamer, chenille, damask, and a hundred other exotic cloths (including a wrinkleproof material known as polyester), shuttling them about in the form of both uncut bolts and finished suits. At the moment I cannot say exactly what trading opportunities this bazaar may offer Spain. We saw many Jews.

  “What about the gold?” asked Harana.

  “This way,” said Rodrigo, pointing north. “Gold, silver, gems.”

  He took us to “the Jewelry District,” on the Forty-seventh Street near “the Avenue of the Americas.” Again, the youth knew whereof he spoke. Treasure lay everywhere, nearly all of it under the jurisdiction of Jews wearing dreadlocks, grotesque hats, and long black coats. We must not take anything, Rodrigo cautioned us. If we tried to remove the gold, the policía would intervene, presumably cutting off our hands and feet in the manner, my Queen, of your Santa Hermandad.

  “Are the spices near?” asked Harana.

  “Bit of a hike,” said the youth. “You up for it?”

  Our party traveled west, then north on the “Broadway” road to “Columbus Circle,” locus of an idol bearing a singularly pleasing countenance, then higher still to the Eighty-first Street, where we found ourselves at the source of the spices. Even from the sidewalk we could smell them: cloves, nutmeg, anise, cinnamon, thyme, ginger, basil—a thousand and one Oriental delights, wafting into our nostrils like the expirations of angels.

  Then we saw the name.

  Zabar’s.

  “Jews?” I inquired.

  “Jews,” the youth confirm
ed.

  We did not go inside.

  Dearest Isabella, could it possibly be that your Second Exodus beat us across the Ocean Sea? Did your ministers by some strange quirk equip the exiled infidels with ships faster even than the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa María?

  I am back in my cabin now, scribbling by the light of a full moon, a perfect sphere that sails the sky like a burning pomegranate. The tide is rising in Upper New York Bay, lifting my flagship up and down on her hawser like a ball riding atop the snout of a Bronx Zoo seal. The harbor air scrapes my throat, burns my chest, and brings tears to my eyes.

  You must advise us, Sovereign Queen. These Spice Islands confound our minds and confuse our souls. Should we confiscate the gold? Lay claim to the silks and spices? Present our credences at City Hall-man? Attempt to convert the stock exchangers? What?

  Written aboard the caravel Santa María on this twenty-second day of September, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, THE ADMIRAL

  TO YOU, DON CRISTÓBAL COLÓN, our Admiral of the Ocean Sea, Viceroy and Governor of all the Islands to be found by you on your Great Voyage of Discovery, greetings and grace.

  Forgive my tardiness in answering, but we have recently uprooted our court, the food supplies in Sante Fe having become depleted and its latrines full, with the result that your communiqué of the twenty-second went momentarily astray.

  What twisted wind, what perverted current has brought you to the city of which you speak? How are we to account for such a mad and upside-down dominion, this Manhattan where Jews prosper, prevail, and place themselves upon thrones? You are not in Asia, Cristóbal.

  A consensus has emerged here. My King, my councillors, and my heart all agree. You must not linger another moment in that Satanic place. Leave, friend. We have no use for Manhattan’s filthy gold. We do not seek its tarnished silver, tainted gems, rancid spices, rotten silks.

  Predictably, Santángel offers a voice of dissent. He wants you to stay on Manhattan and learn how a city without limpieza de sangre has accomplished so many marvels. I believe it is the Jew in him talking. No matter. My wish, not his, is your command.

  Take the next tide, Admiral. Pull up your anchor, sail south, and don’t stop till you’ve found a world that makes some sense.

  Written in our City of Barcelona on this first day of October, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, THE QUEEN

  TO YOU, ISABELLA, by the Grace of God Queen of Castile, León, Aragón, etc., greetings and increase of good fortune.

  It is my supreme pleasure to report that your royal intuitions were correct. We quit New York within an hour of your letter’s arrival, returning to the Ocean Sea and heading due south as you so wisely instructed. Once again the waves became like mountains, and once again we followed them to our destiny. On October twelfth, after a journey of six days, an exhilarating cry of “Tierra!” issued from my lookout.

  The island we found that afternoon bore little resemblance to Manhattan. It had no citadels, subways, beggars, or Chinese inns. We came ashore on a pristine expanse of gleaming white coral, beyond which lay a jungle so lush and green we thought immediately of Eden before the Fall. When the natives appeared, at first peering out from among the trees, then walking down to the beach to greet us, we were further reminded of the Golden Age. They were gentle beyond telling, peaceful beyond belief, and naked as the day God made them. Unlike Rodrigo back on Manhattan, they eagerly accepted our gifts, placing the red felt caps on their heads, draping the glass necklaces atop their bare bosoms, and jangling the little brass bells like children. They call their world Guanahaní, but we forthwith named it San Salvador after Him whose infinite mercy brought us here.

  Have we at least reached Asia? I cannot say. There are many beautiful islands in this part of creation. We have given them all Spanish names—Hispaniola, Santa María la Antigua, Puerto Rico, Trinidad, Santa Cruz—so God will know from which nation this Holy Endeavor proceeds. In every case the natives have proved as docile and prelapsarian as those on San Salvador. They are ignorant of horse and ox, innocent of wheel, plow, and musket. Beyond the occasional juju clutched in a brown fist or amulet slung about a sunbaked neck, we find no evidence of religion here. Say the word, and Father Hojeda will begin the baptisms.

  At the moment I am on Hispaniola, watching a dozen maidens frolic in the clear blue waters of a bay called Acul. As the sun descends, it turns the girls’ bare skin the very color of the bronze swords with which we shall keep these people in check. Have I arrived in Paradise, my Queen?

  Written aboard the caravel Santa María on this seventeenth day of October, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, THE ADMIRAL

  TO YOU, DON CRISTÓBAL COLÓN our Admiral of the Ocean Sea, Viceroy and Governor of all the Islands to be found by you on your Great Voyage of Discovery, greetings and grace.

  Friar Deza says Spain is now “on the threshold of a grand and glorious age.” Father Torquemada thinks we stand “on the verge of a Thousand Year Empire such as the world has never known.”

  They may be right. Six days ago Emanuel I of Portugal asked for the Infanta Isabella’s hand in marriage, and she dutifully accepted. The day after that the Islamic King Boabdil surrendered the keys to the Alhambra, and our victory over the Moors became complete. Then, twenty-four hours later, your missive arrived from Hispaniola.

  O my Admiral, the belief here is that, if you are not in the Indies, you have come upon something no less valuable for Spain, a great pool of unclaimed souls both ripe for conversion and ready to relieve Castile of all strenuous and unseemly labor. When I read your letter to my councillors, a cheer resounded throughout the palace, and before long we were all drinking the same vintage of Marques de Cacares with which you bargained in Manhattan.

  Santángel did not join our celebration. He says Torquemada’s Thousand Year Empire will last no more than a few centuries. “In fleeing Manhattan, Spain has made a fatal mistake,” he insists. “By running away to Hispaniola, Don Cristóbal has merely bought the Crown some time.”

  Last night a violent and frightening vision afflicted my sleep. Like the Golem of Jewish folklore, the idol of libertad had by some miracle come to life and had by no less a miracle betaken herself to Europe. So heavy were her footfalls that the very mountains of Spain commenced to tremble, then to crack apart, then to collapse upon themselves like ancient Atlantis sinking into the waters beyond the Pillars of Hercules.

  What do you make of my dream, Cristóbal? Could it be that Santángel is right, and the best you can do for Spain is buy her some time? Very well. Amen. Empire is the art of the possible.

  So baptize those brown natives, dear sailor. Put them to work. Punish those who cling to their fetishes and rites. And buy Spain some time, O my Admiral. Buy her some time.

  Written in our City of Barcelona on this twenty-third day of October, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, THE QUEEN

  LET TIME SHAPE

  George Zebrowski

  “The ultimate aim of the historian is to resurrect all of history.”

  —HERODOTUS

  As Carthage burned on the southeastern horizon, three ships slipped toward the Pillars of Hercules. In the lead vessel, Aeneas Oceanus, far-seeing engineer, explorer, and seer, took no pleasure in having been right; all his life he had known that the petty, jealous Romans would not be able to tolerate any prosperity but their own. Named Oceanus by his people because of his experience as a navigator, he had brought a plan of survival to his city.

  At dawn the bonfire of the sun wiped away the glow of the dying city, and the refugees, a select group of shipbuilders, ironworkers, engineers, and young couples with children, turned their hopes westward. Oceanus looked backward with pity, still lamenting the loss that had been so long in coming. Hannibal had foretold it, warning that the decay of the city’s inner life would only help the Romans.

  In three days the ships escaped into the great
ocean and turned south to the port of Lixus on the west coast of Africa, where they were met by two thousand refugees who had fled from Carthage by land during the last year, and were finishing the building of vessels large enough to challenge the western ocean.

  In all, sixty ships fled the port of Lixus before the Roman legions seized it.

  “Where are we going?” the commanders asked Oceanus, looking fearfully at the rough seas before them.

  “Where are we going?” mothers cried from below, clutching their children in the dark holds.

  “What we are doing,” Oceanus said to calm his commanders, “will one day destroy Rome. But first we must survive.”

  His commanders pressed him for more of an answer, and he told them that he had sailed this course before, and had discovered new lands far to the west, on the other half of the world-sphere that circled the Sun with the other planets. There Carthage might live again.

  Midway across the water he presented his plan to found New Carthage, where a scroll of rights would ensure that every citizen would be justly privileged. Let time shape what it will, he said, while a constitutional form of public power restrained the citizenry and prevented the drift into despotism so well described by Greek philosophers.

  Although he grieved for the death of his city, Oceanus was confident that its passing was a chance for a new start. Hannibal’s dream of a greater Carthage that would repudiate Rome’s example and bring to fruition Athenian ideals would come to life. The new city would start with Hannibal’s model for a senate, the one he had tried to create after the defeat at Zama, when he had stripped the merchant princes and landowners of their power and still brought them prosperity, and for that they had delivered his unconscious body into the hands of the Romans.

  “But are not these lands in the west inhabited?” asked Hasdrubal, the son of Carthage’s last commander.