Malinche (7 page)

During the Mass, Cortés remembered the moment that he had said good-bye to his mother before leaving for the New World. He remembered her tears, her grief, and the portrait of the Virgin of Guadalupe she had given him so that she would always be with him. Cortés was sure that it was the Virgin who had saved his life after the scorpion had bitten him and he asked at that time that she never abandon him, that she watch over him, that she become his ally and help him triumph. He wanted to prove to his mother that he could be more than a simple page in the service of the new king.

He was prepared to do anything. To disobey orders, to fight, to kill. It wasn't enough to have been mayor of Santiago de Cuba. He wasn't troubled over having ignored the instructions of Governor Diego Velázquez, according to which it was recommended not to take risks, to treat the Indians wisely, to gather information about the secrets of that mysterious land, and to find Grijalva, who had led the previous expedition. Cortés had come on a voyage of exploration, not of conquest; with the aim of discovering, not of populating. What Velázquez expected from him was to explore the coastal regions of the gulf and to return to Cuba with some gold as ransom, peacefully obtained; but Cortés was much more ambitious than that.

If his mother could have seen him now—conquering new lands, discovering new places, naming new things. The sense of power that he felt when he gave something or someone a new name must be comparable, he imagined, to that of giving birth. The things that he named were born in that moment and began a new life because of him. The bad part of this was that at times his imagination failed him. Cortés was good at strategizing, forming alliances, conquering, but not at inventing original names. Perhaps that was why he so admired the sonority and musicality of the Mayan and Náhuatl languages. He was incapable of coming up with names like Quiahuiztlan, Otalquiztlan, Tlapacoyan, Iztacamaxtitlan, or Pontonchan, so he searched the Spanish language to name each person and place them under his power in the most conventional way possible. For example, the Totonacan village of Chalchicueyecan he renamed Veracruz, since he had arrived there on the twenty-second day of April 1519, a Good Friday, the day of the True Cross,
la Verdadera Cruz:
hence, Vera Cruz.

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 made 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.