Song of the Hummingbird (18 page)

“I was speaking with them.”

“With whom, Señora?”

“With the spirits of my children.”

Father Benito stared at the woman, concluding that the twins had also died. He furrowed his forehead in sympathy.

“I'm sorry.”

“Why? They're still here. Look over there. They think you look foolish.”

Benito's head snapped in the direction in which Huitzitzilin was pointing, but he saw only the crystalline drops of water splashing over the sides of the fountain. But he could not help feeling the sting her words had caused him.

“Foolish? Why do they think that?” His eyebrows arched haughtily, betraying his offended feelings.

“I don't know. The spirits are difficult to discern.”

Huit-zitzilin's response only served to annoy Benito more, but he decided to move on to the closure of her story. He placed a stack of paper on his lap, dipped the quill in the ink pot and, without saying anything, prepared to set down whatever she had to say. He had decided during the previous night that he would record everything in his chronicle. And now, since he felt offended, he told himself that he would write down even her sins.

“Four years passed before Paloma, Baltazar and I returned to Tenochtitlan. On that day, I held them by the hand as we walked into what had once been the most beautiful city of our world. My children, who had never seen such a place, stared with eyes as large as suns and asked, ‘How can that be so big? Who built this? Why are there so many people here?'

“Everything was big, but not beautiful. Tenochtitlan was now a clutter of unsightly buildings, churches, and convents, all of which had massive doors and gates; all the windows had bars on them, as if in constant expectation of thieves or intruders. The streets were no longer straight, but curved in baffling mazes that often led nowhere. Our temples, shrines, and palaces were either modified beyond recognition or demolished, their stones used for residences and monasteries. The stink of the lake was overwhelming, unbearable, its waters blackened with squalid refuse and with animal as well as human excrement. Gone were the canoes filled with flowers and vegetables, gone the merchants, vendors, and fishermen.

“The streets of the city were congested. We were jostled and pressed against walls by rude people. There were carts and wagons as well as elegant coaches for ladies and gentlemen. The children wondered out loud when they saw not only horses, but other varieties of that beast: burros and mules. The air was filled with shouting, creaking, banging, and the new language could be heard everywhere. I was beginning to learn it myself and, although I didn't speak it as I do now, I could tell that what people screamed at one another was offensive and dirty. I discovered at that time that the city had been renamed Mexico. I was grateful for that much; at least the name of my people would not be forgotten along with everything else that was ours.

“During the years of our wandering, I had to find food and shelter on the road for us, and that had not been easy. I again worked as a servant for your people, who by then were arriving in this land in multitudes. When I worked at that, I found out that Spanish women are demanding, that they appreciate their finery, but that they dislike washing their own clothes or cleaning what they dirty.

“During those years I came to understand many things, one being that most of the men and women that came here from your country were poor in their land. When I made that discovery, I found it strange, because here they act disdainful and domineering.

“After we buried Cuauhtémoc, the children and I went away and stayed mostly in Michoacán, the land of lakes. We didn't find the hardships there that we had encountered elsewhere because the people of that region are kind, less angry. I think it's because there is more food and space in which to live. Because of this I decided to stay there and work, mostly in fish markets. I did several things, but mostly I fished and cooked my catch, making a life for my children and for myself that way.

“I don't know why I left that place. I can only say that my heart yearned for Tenochtitlan. I was, I am, a Mexica, and we can never be for long separated from our world. So I saved what money I could, and when I thought that I had what was sufficient, I made my way north.

“Also, I must admit that I returned in search of the children's father. I thought that he would want to see them, and in my foolish imagination I even hoped that he would want me to be by his side. At that time I still did not understand how much your people disdain us, those of us who are native to these lands. I as yet was mindless enough to think that Baltazar would consider me as a wife.”

Father Benito stopped writing and looked at Huitzitzilin. “Why would you want to be by his side? It's clear that neither of you had ever cared for one another.”

“I don't know. I was alone and saw how many women like me had married Spaniards, and they lived a regular life. But you're right, I had never loved Baltazar. At that time I convinced myself that if I had tolerated being with Tetla, why not Baltazar.”

“Did you find him?”

“Yes. It wasn't difficult to find him because by that time he had received large parcels of land and he was wealthy and well-known. I was told that his hacienda was located in Xochimilco. I also found out something else. Baltazar had sent to Spain for a wife, a girl who had been his love since childhood. She was known among my people for her fine taste, her beautiful dresses, her gilded coach and horses, her piety and, of course, her arrogance. I also was told that even though she and Baltazar had been married for several years, they were childless. It was said that she was dry.”

“Dry?”

“Yes. But I see, young priest, that you don't know what I mean. I think that it is best if I don't explain it.”

Father Benito decided not to pursue his question when he understood that she was talking about something that happened only to women. He told himself that it was better for him not to dwell on such matters; instead he concentrated on writing what he was hearing.

“I will not deny it: I felt jealous. I don't know why, because as I have already told you, I did not love Baltazar as I had Zintle. Still, there was something; it could have been the memories or even the pleasure that he had given me. Also, there were the children who were his, and I told myself that he should know them, especially since he did not have other babies.

“There was one thing that I feared, however, and that was the possibility of Baltazar denouncing me to Captain Cortés for having abandoned the expedition in the south. He could have done that, since we were as yet considered guilty of desertion, and the punishment for that was having one's feet cut off. I thought of this carefully, but I put my fear aside and decided to approach him with the intention of letting him know of our existence.

“Baltazar's home was beautiful. It was surrounded by gardens filled with flowers. The path leading to the entrance was shaded by trees, and inside the gate there were several fountains that were interconnected by canals of running water. I remember that there were birds of all colors and sizes in cages everywhere. The house was different from what we used to have in that it had bars on all the windows, but the corridors that surrounded its walls were filled with flowers and greenery, just like ours used to be.

“Once there, I became afraid to make myself known. My courage failed me. I think that I had been a servant for too long a time by then, and the Spanish masters intimidated me. So with the children I went to the rear of the house, hoping to find the kitchen. I discovered that it was not attached to the house but stood by itself. Later on I was told that the mistress of the house hated the smell of food, and she insisted that all the cooking be done outside.

“When I found one of the servants, I asked for Don Baltazar Ovando, but I was not immediately attended because everyone was rushing here and there with different tasks that had to be done. There were countless servants and even slaves: not only Mexica, but Otomí, Chichimeca, Huasteca, and even some of the northern people known as Yaqui. There were also the black ones that had been brought over in the floating houses.”

Benito put down the quill and took a deep breath. “Señora, forgive my interruption, but will these details lead to something important?”

“You find what I'm telling you unimportant?”

“Not exactly. I'm sure that to you everything that has happened in your life is important, but . . .”

“But what? Is what happened to me and to others like me not interesting to you?”

“Please! Don't be offended! It's not a matter of what is interesting or uninteresting, but rather what is historical. I'm here to gather as much material as I can to write a chronicle of the same magnitude as those written by Fathers Sahagún and De las Casas.”

“Who are they?”

“Priests who have written of what happened in this land when our captains arrived.”

“How do they know what happened? Were they present as I was when things took place?”

“In some cases yes, and in others no.”

“And you consider that historical?”

Father Benito was about to retort something, but decided against it because he knew that he was on the verge of losing his temper. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut, hearing the dull clank of his own teeth. He breathed deeply again and prepared to listen to Huit-zitzilin instead of writing. He told himself that if he judged something of historical value, he would put it on paper. He turned to her and nodded.

Huitzitzilin smiled smugly knowing that she had won the skirmish, and began where she had left off. “Breaking into the flurry of activity, I again asked for the master. This time someone went to tell him that someone was asking for him in the kitchen. Baltazar did not come to where I was, but sent word for me to be shown into a small room that was located at the far side of the house.

“I walked in and I saw that he too had aged. His hair was no longer light and plentiful; instead it was gray, and there were spots that were bald. He had grown heavy, and his face had filled out. His beard accentuated this because it had thickened, and he wore it longer than before.

“When he realized who it was that he was facing, his eyes filled with disdain and repugnance, but it didn't matter to me because I knew that my feelings towards him were also bad. I found him vulgar. Cruelty was stamped on his face, and his mouth was tight, showing deep lines. Above all, his eyes were fierce, angry, and extremely annoyed. How much did I regret having found him!”

Father Benito's irritation had subsided, and he began to take interest in what Huitzitzilin was saying. Her description of the Spanish captain was so vivid that he was visualizing Ovando, and he agreed that the man was indeed vulgar and cruel.

“How many years had passed since you last saw Ovando?”

“More than five, and much had happened to us both. We looked older than we were.” She paused and looked at him. Benito saw that her good eye was brighter than usual. “Do you want to hear more?”

The monk realized that Huitzitzilin was being playful and went along with her humor. “Yes. Please go on.”

“Baltazar neither greeted me nor asked for my welfare. It was as if he had seen me only that morning. With a cold glance he looked at me from my head to my feet and then up again. Only when he turned to the children did his eyes betray something. What I saw in that look was curiosity, especially since they were obviously a mixture of brown and white. But he didn't acknowledge them or say a word. When he had finished staring at us, he walked to the door and began to open it, but stopped short. He turned to look at me.

“'Are they baptized?'

“When I assented with a nod, he asked, ‘What are their names?'

“You won't believe me, but for a moment I could not remember what Father Motolinía had named them, but soon I responded, ‘Baltazar and Paloma.' Then he walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“After that I hardly saw him. I did receive word that I could stay on the premises, that I and the children were to be given shelter, clothing, and food in exchange for which I was to work in the laundry. Even though I felt the sting of humiliation, I stayed there because my children and I had nowhere else to go.

“It was a time of hardship, not only for me but for all who were servants in that household. We were forced to do work that was so difficult that our bodies ached almost always. Our day began at dawn when we were called by the bells to attend Mass. Although no one wanted to do this, we had no choice. So we shuffled into the chapel and waited. When the master and his wife appeared through a side door, the priest would begin his mutterings.”

“Señora, you mean prayers. A priest does not mutter; he prays.”

“Whatever you say. All I know is that we were obliged to learn, by heart, the responses to what he said.”

“That is common practice throughout this land, and it's good because now you are all united in one spirit, one church. You know that through those prayers God will understand you.”

“Well, priest, only God could understand, because we didn't. None of us knew what we were mumbling, but we parroted the words, because if we did not do so, a spy would tell on us, and that meant a lash with a whip, or even being deprived of food for the day. So we mouthed words that we didn't understand while we suppressed yawns.

“When Baltazar's wife walked into the chapel, our sleep-filled eyes opened in wonder because she was always surrounded by pages and a multitude of maids. She was not beautiful to us, but now I understand that in the eyes of a Spaniard she was considered extremely lovely. We, of course, saw her differently. Her skin was colorless, like polished white stone. She was very thin, and too tall to be a woman. Her nose was short and her mouth was too small; its lips were the color of a monkey's liver. Her eyes were blue and too round, like those of a large tapir. Her hair was the color of gold, and we were all certain that it was as stiff and cold as that metal.