Cervantes Street (8 page)
Though now I hated Miguel, my most fervent wish was not that he would get caught, but that he would manage to escape to the Indies, that he would settle in a foreign land, far away from Castile, and from Mercedes. It would be even better if he died on the other side of the world.
As Toledo appeared in the distance, I held back the reins and sat still atop my horse. The pale morning light spilling upon the hills and fields of La Mancha painted them terra-cotta. It was a sight that only a painter could capture. It wouldn’t be until many years later, when El Greco settled among us, that an artist existed who could do justice to those skies.
The windmills in the distance, crowning the hills of reddish soil and limestone, resembled giants awakening, rotating their arms to shake off the morning stiffness, preparing to guard La Mancha for the rest of the day, ready to hold back any invading hordes from the wild, unchristian world that lay to the south—where Miguel was heading, and where he truly belonged, because in Castile he would always be an interloper, never one of us.
By providing Miguel with ample funds for his escape, I had done the honorable thing—even though he didn’t deserve it. Fray Luis de León’s verses, which I had read in a copy of a manuscript that circulated in Madrid among poetry lovers, echoed in my mind:
I want to live by myself
to enjoy alone, without witnesses,
the blessings heaven bestows on me
free from false love, from jealousy
from hatred, suspicion, and illusive hopes . . .
Realizing my happiness with Mercedes would forever be in jeopardy as long as Miguel was around, I made a promise to myself:
If Miguel de Cervantes ever again returns to Castile, I swear to destroy him.
Lepanto
1571
Once we had crossed the Pyrenees, where they taper off at the shoreline of the Mediterranean, I felt optimistic that I could make it to Italy. I put all my hopes on an invitation Cardinal Giulio Acquaviva had extended to me to visit him in Rome. Perhaps he would help me out of respect for his friendship with my professor. It had been a defining stroke of luck to become the protégé of Professor López de Hoyos, a man of personal integrity who seemed to have read all the great books. His belief in my talent gave wings to my ambition. “Reach for the highest stars in the literary firmament, Miguel. Aim for no less!” he had said to me on a number of occasions.
At the recommendation of my professor, Cardinal Acquaviva had asked to see some of my poems. He was only a few years older than me, but his tall, aristocratic presence; his aura of power; his worldly manners; the precision and elegance of his speech; his white, soft hands and elongated musician’s fingers garnished with impressive blood-red stones that matched the hue of the princely vestments he wore—it all made me feel like a mere boy in his presence. I memorized his compliments about my poetry: “Professor López de Hoyos speaks of you as one of the future glories of Spanish letters,” he said to me one evening at dinner. “He raves about the elegance of your verses, the originality of your conceits, and your persuasive flourishes. I dabble a little in poetry myself. Will you show me some of your verses?”
At the professor’s house I left for the cardinal a selection of my poems rolled up and tied with a ribbon. When I saw him next, Acquaviva said, “Cervantes, you must come to Rome to learn the language and study Italian poetry. You will always have a job waiting for you in my household.” I took his invitation to mean that he liked my poems. I clung to that casual offer as the only bright spot in my dire circumstances, the one beacon of light on my shadowy horizon.
That autumn, as I traveled with the Gypsies through the leafy valleys of southern France, the weather was mild, the foliage afire, and the languid afternoons were filled with buzzing, inebriated golden-gloved bees. We camped in idyllic chestnut and cork tree forests that reminded me of the settings in pastoral novels. The French countryside teemed with rabbits, hedgehogs, deer, pigeons, partridges, pheasants, quail, and wild boars. By day the women and children rummaged in the wooded areas for berries, pine nuts, eggs, snails, mushrooms, wild herbs, and truffles. The older women stayed in the camp minding the smallest children and tatting lace, looping multicolored threads of cotton and linen to make the tablecloths that were highly esteemed as decorations for the dining rooms of the prosperous homes in Spain.
We camped on the banks of cold, burbling streams or narrow but fast-flowing rivers, thick with fat trout that we caught from the mossy banks with our bare hands. At night we bivouacked around a bonfire. New mothers squatted on the ground breast-feeding their babies; they displayed their bursting teats in front of the men without any shame. This custom added to the reputation the Roma had of being immoral. As the night wore on, the clapping of hands and the ringing notes of the tambourines charged the air of the camp; caskets of red wine were uncorked; pipes with aromatic hash were smoked. The dancing and singing went on until everyone—the very young and the old included—collapsed on the ground exhausted and intoxicated.
I never let out of my sight the few gold escudos I had left after I paid El Cuchillo. Before I went to sleep, I hid the leather pouch between my scrotum and my undergarment. Perhaps I need not have been so vigilant. Maese Pedro had introduced me to the Gypsies as a criminal poet wanted for numerous murders. Once my murderous identity was established, I was always called “Brother Miguel” or “Poet.” The children could not hide the awe my reputation inspired in them.
My lifelong fascination with Gypsies was cemented by that trip. Their love of drinking, dancing, making love, and fighting, and their ferocious attachment to their customs and their people, were qualities I held dearly. They spoke Castilian—and a little bit of many European languages—but they communicated among themselves in Calo. I passed many of my waking hours talking to the children, trying to learn the rudiments of their language. I was speaking from direct experience when I wrote in
The Gypsy Girl,
“It seems that Gypsies, both male and female, are born into the world to be thieves: their parents are thieves, they grow up among thieves, study to become thieves, and graduate with honors in the arts of thievery. The desire to steal and the act of stealing are inseparable traits that only death can part.”
* * *
I said goodbye to my Roma friends in Italy, as they continued on their way to their ancestral land in the Carpathians. I rode to Rome as fast as my horse would take me, afraid to run out of money before I reached my destination. Six days later, my exhausted horse rode under the arch of the Porta del Popolo. I dismounted and, with tears clouding my vision, I kissed one of the columns that marked the entrance to the city of the Caesars.
Without delay, I headed for the residence of Cardinal Acquaviva, near Vatican City. I didn’t care that I was dirty and close to collapsing when I came knocking on the door of the cardinal’s grand residence and was brought into his presence. Acquaviva received me with an open smile that dissipated my worst fears.
“I was afraid Your Excellency would have forgotten me,” I mumbled, as a way of apologizing for my unannounced visit.
“Of course I remember you, Cervantes,” he said. “I don’t ever forget a promising young poet. How good of you to remember me. Welcome to Rome and to my, and your, house.”
I kissed the white-gloved hand he offered me. No questions about my precipitous arrival in the city were asked, to my great relief. I was wondering if he had heard anything about the incident in Madrid, when he put me at ease, saying, “I have a pressing need of a secretary who can answer my correspondence in Spanish. How is your calligraphy?”
“I speak the truth when I say to Your Excellency that my handwriting, though small, is clear, and has been praised by my teachers.” I was flabbergasted by his offer. “And I hope not to embarrass you with my spelling.”
He motioned to his aide de chamber. “Take Signor Miguel’s bags to the visitor’s apartment on this floor.” Addressing me, Cardinal Acquaviva added, “Cervantes, I can put you to work immediately. In the meantime you’ll have your meals here. How does five florins a month sound to you?”
* * *
Besides his love of poetry, the cardinal was interested in painting, music, philosophy, history, and both local and world politics. He liked stimulating conversation, especially when accompanied by good food and the finest red wines. Talk of religion seemed to bore him, making him distracted and impatient. Even though at that point I had written little and published less, he treated me with the respect due a serious poet.
Those first months in Rome, I took every free moment I had from my duties to explore the magnificent, immortal city. As a new pilgrim, I vowed to love Rome with tender affection, humble devotion, and an open heart, and soon surrendered to her bewitchment. The streets and sun-filled piazzas on which I walked, bedazzled, had been soaked with the blood of Christian martyrs and were sacrosanct ground to me. The footsteps of Michelangelo still echoed in the parks, avenues, and narrow streets. His frescoes on the ceiling and altar of the Sistine Chapel seemed more the work of a deity than a single artist. Admiring their vastness, their beauty, and their perfection for hours, I began to comprehend what it meant to create a work of art that, like Dante’s
Comedy
, was a summa of all that could be said about the human spirit.
There was no part of Rome—no gigantic marble column or broken arch, no ancient tomb, no mysterious alley, no ancient wall, no venerable cemetery, no crumbling church, no fading fresco, no vandalized palace, no penumbrous forest of cypresses, no romantic piazza where lovers met at night—that was not an example of the endless bounty of marvels that God had bequeathed men.
Memories of my troubled past in Spain receded, as well as nostalgia for the life I had left behind. Visiting Rome’s churches, chapels, shrines, and basilicas, studying the statues and the paintings adorning their walls, the frescoes gracing their ceilings, the intricate gold-work of their altars and domes, I felt a perpetual intoxication.
Determined to succeed at something at least once in my life, I worked assiduously for the cardinal. My parents had sacrificed themselves to send me to the Estudio de la Villa, and I had failed them. In my letters home, I talked at length about the duties I performed in the house of the great man (magnifying their importance) as well as the important people who visited the cardinal’s palazzo. I wrote to my parents that Pope Pius V had blessed me. I did not mention he had blessed—at the same time—thousands of other believers from his balcony. I hoped this would lighten the burden of shame I had caused my parents and make them proud.
Yet, I was restless. Rome was the political capital of the world. The fat-assed prelates, who seemed to love their young acolytes as much as they loved the luxurious life they led, talked more about political intrigue in the ranks of the church than about God. I realized I did not fit in that society of spies and intrigue; I did not have the subservient spirit required to reside in the palaces of people who hungered for power, even if they were so-called men of God. The world of the Vatican was not where I wanted to make a career. There was grave danger of becoming a lying and pompous poet if I let that sybaritic life seduce me.
Pope Pius V wielded more power and commanded more fear than many mighty kings and emperors. Concerned that Selim II, son and murderer of Sultan Suleyman the Magnificent, emboldened by recent Ottoman conquests in the Mediterranean, was gathering massive forces in nearby Greece, the pope created a Holy League to embark on a new crusade against the Turks. The talk in Rome was that the invincible Turkish navy was preparing an assault on Italy, to extirpate Christianity and enslave Christians. Once the Ottomans had conquered Italy, it was believed they intended to retake Andalusia, if not the whole of Spain, in the name of Islam.
Selim II was the son of Suleyman the Magnificent with the ex-slave Roxelana, his favorite wife. He was called The Sot because he lived in a permanent state of debauched drunkenness. He cared nothing about the affairs of state and demanded enormous revenues from his navy so that he could live in grand splendor and unrestricted decadence. To this end, he had given license to Algerian corsairs to terrorize and plunder the peoples of the Mediterranean. But his grand vizier, the Serbian renegade Mehmed Sokollu, was obsessed with expanding the frontiers of the Ottoman Empire. He sought to gain control of all the Mediterranean nations and, afterward, all of Europe. Sokollu had become emboldened by the Turks’ conquest of Yemen, Hejaz, and—the jewel of all—Cyprus.
The thought of Selim II and his grand vizier subjugating the Christian nations, stocking the Ottoman harems with our women and selling our children to the Turkish sodomites, was unbearable to me. I was ready to give my life to defeat such a monster. And the decision of Philip II to name Don John of Austria as commander of the Spanish armada was all the encouragement I needed. The young prince and I had been born the same year, and I was not alone in revering him. Though he was an illegitimate son of Charles V, the Spanish people preferred him to King Philip, who was more comfortable in court, with his mistresses, than on the battlefield. Don John’s campaign in Andalusia squashing the Moorish revolt had made him famous as a soldier and leader. He gained further renown as a naval tactician by attacking and capturing the Algerian ships that sailed our waters and raided our coastal villages in search of slaves. His bravery made him a hero in the eyes of Spain’s youth. I dreamed of becoming a soldier in his army. Don John was the prince Spain was in desperate need of, if we were going to recapture our leadership among the nations of the world. For me, it was a clear-cut choice: the noble prince—a true knight and righter of the world’s injustices, and a warrior against evil—versus the cruel, degenerate, and despotic Selim II. Depending on which side emerged victorious, the Mediterranean nations would be either Christian or Muslim.
