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Are Torn: selections
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Even
the Quetzal Plumes Are Torn -- a novel in verse
bane: 1521-1523
We -- a word used too lightly. It was not long
before I realized my position
as his woman was no more secure than
the city from which we'd fled -- Tenochtitlan --,
dismantled block by block within a short
year from La Noche Triste. Infidelity
is as exact in its end as Spanish
cannon, pickax, crowbar. The litany . . .
no! seraglio of his deceits‑‑
I'd become facile with the Castilian
tongue by now‑‑went by the names of Leonor,
Antonia, and a battalion
of Doñas beside myself, to wit:
Doña Isabel, Doña Francisca,
Doña Ines, and, oh, yes, when his wife
came to claim her rights -- La Marcaida,
also known as Catalina Xuarez‑‑
my prospects collapsed. I should've been able
to sense it coming when he wrested
our son from me, so I'd be available
full‑time for interpreting‑‑Don Martin,
whom I called Tepi, "little one," still unweaned.
Now this rubble: the palaces, temples,
warehouses of my being, to be sifted
through, like the debris of the once grand city.
It has been written: "Even jade is shattered,
even gold is crushed, even the quetzal plumes
are torn."
* * *
A few months after his wife surprised
us with her unexpected appearance,
she was dead. A tall sleek señora,
tapping one moment the Whore Goddess' rage,
the next, sweet sentiment and Cuba.
Mexico was for her a hellhole,
backwater, to which, her unbecoming pout,
a facial protest. One day, from a crouch
behind a huehuetl tree, she leapt out,
spat at me, then in a hiss, "the devil
sets a snare through you," her eyes brandishing spears.
Before I could unfreeze my tongue with
"whey‑faced bitch," an affront to suit, she was
gone, swallowed by dusk, preternatural
almost, while furious, I wiped my face.
Two weeks later, upon discovery
of her body (without cut or bruise
to leave a clue), Cortes began to scream
and beat his head against the wall. In horror,
or so it seemed. Incredulous, her mother
reviled him as a "murderer"
in the public square to his face and
behind the back also.
* * *
A phantom
trailing bloody flesh‑rags, nightly visitant,
tremulously afloat on air, she'd come
accusing, forgiving, perhaps to sleep
with her husband in death as she hadn't
in life. He lay, arms coiled around
me, motionless, eyes unfocussed, couldn't
see his bodiless wife, light turning
into an even brighter light. It shimmered,
gathering energy, or at least seemed to . . .
I whispered "Catalina"; he started,
stared at me, mouth in a rictus. Later,
when what seemed nothing to him, was, in fact,
nothing, he said, "asthma, she died from;
I didn't do what they say. . . ." And his voice dropped
to a moan. "She'd wheeze," he said. My cheek still felt
wet. The three of us, made for each other:
we'd wished her dead.
A small sampling of sections Summary |  Aztec Calendar --click to enlarge |
Summary
The narrator Malinche, aka Malinka, Doña Marina, Cortes'mistress and interpreter, tells the story of the Spanish conquest of the Aztecs, and the period of New Spain thereafter. The action begins 23 years after the conquest, with much of the story told in flashbacks. Through Malinche's transforming consciousnss, we are witness to two of the great men of her period, Montezuma and Cortes, as well as to incredible historic scenes -- from the horrific Spanish flight from the Aztec capital city of Tenochtitlan on La Noche Triste (with Malinche, at that time, pregnant with Cortes' child, and the battle of Otumba where a haggard band of retreating soldiers faced a fearsome army of 100,000 Aztecs and miraculously survived, to the ultimate, and in retrospect, perhaps inevitable destruction of Aztec civilization.
The sections below have been selected because they tell in roughly chronological sequence a portion of the story in the novel. It begins with Malinche (who had been sold by her mother into slavery, so her half-brother could inherit the tribal throne) dreaming of Cortes's coming. Ultimately, she meets him, and is chosen to be his interpreter and mistress, suffers through his infidelities, endures the return of his wife, as well as the accusations that Cortes murders her. Then in the meso-American counterpart to the Biblical story of Joseph, there will be a final confrontation between Malinche and her mother. There is much more to the story after that, and in the interstices between the parts presented.
This
novel takes
its title from a
poem by Nezahualcoyotl
(Lord Fasting
Coyote) Fifteenth
Century Texcocan
poet king:
"Even
jade will
shatter.
Even gold will crush.
Even quetzal plumes will tear.
One does not live forever on this earth.
Only for an instant do we endure."
Even gold will crush.
Even quetzal plumes will tear.
One does not live forever on this earth.
Only for an instant do we endure."
The narrator Malinche, aka Malinka, Doña Marina, Cortes'mistress and interpreter, tells the story of the Spanish conquest of the Aztecs, and the period of New Spain thereafter. The action begins 23 years after the conquest, with much of the story told in flashbacks. Through Malinche's transforming consciousnss, we are witness to two of the great men of her period, Montezuma and Cortes, as well as to incredible historic scenes -- from the horrific Spanish flight from the Aztec capital city of Tenochtitlan on La Noche Triste (with Malinche, at that time, pregnant with Cortes' child, and the battle of Otumba where a haggard band of retreating soldiers faced a fearsome army of 100,000 Aztecs and miraculously survived, to the ultimate, and in retrospect, perhaps inevitable destruction of Aztec civilization.
The sections below have been selected because they tell in roughly chronological sequence a portion of the story in the novel. It begins with Malinche (who had been sold by her mother into slavery, so her half-brother could inherit the tribal throne) dreaming of Cortes's coming. Ultimately, she meets him, and is chosen to be his interpreter and mistress, suffers through his infidelities, endures the return of his wife, as well as the accusations that Cortes murders her. Then in the meso-American counterpart to the Biblical story of Joseph, there will be a final confrontation between Malinche and her mother. There is much more to the story after that, and in the interstices between the parts presented.
delusions
A legend: how the Aztecs, who'd come
from the "Place of the Herons" on the sea
in the far northwest, wandered in search
of a home for more than a century
to the words of Huitzilopochtli, war god,
Hummingbird Wizard, that the promised great
city, to take its place with Teotihuacan
and Tula of old, must be built on the spot
of a natural wonder: an eagle
perched on a nopal cactus with a snake
in its beak. So, thus, upon an island
was founded Tenochtitlan, in a lake,
so blue and at peace this day, my heart seemed
to float as the gardens in the canals did
on wickerwork rafts -- chinampas -- or
in the air, at one with the men who would
feet tied to ropes that uncoiled‑‑descend
from a pole in widening circles, head‑
first, in the dance of the volador.
At the top, the notes of a flutist soared
with thrush, quetzal, eagle over the streets
and canals, over jade palaces,
pyramids, the serpent wall, the market
at Tlaltelolco -- extravagances
of color and smell there that left me as drunk
on this city (or was it from Cortes,
or spring?) as I had ever been. I thought
in a spiraling of joy and madness
how some day I might rule over all here
(quite a leap from my role as interpreter
and mistress) in a harvest of love, unplanned:
to be able to order conch or lobster
(let the runners bring it from a far‑off sea
with ices from the mountain top
for me to suck on when sweetened); to be
carried on a palanquin by a bedrock
of attendants catering to every
want; and live in a palace permanently
as‑‑Hernan had hinted, I'd thought‑‑his consort,
who could, finger flicked imperiously,
compel former tormenters to appear.
How intriguing for this ex‑slave to undo
them! Mostly, though, I felt driven by a song
more than this lesser me, one which flew,
like an egret, white as this city
of limestone and gesso, over the plateau,
gracefully banking, then dream‑wheeling higher
and higher into the thin air above Mexico.
A legend: how the Aztecs, who'd come
from the "Place of the Herons" on the sea
in the far northwest, wandered in search
of a home for more than a century
to the words of Huitzilopochtli, war god,
Hummingbird Wizard, that the promised great
city, to take its place with Teotihuacan
and Tula of old, must be built on the spot
of a natural wonder: an eagle
perched on a nopal cactus with a snake
in its beak. So, thus, upon an island
was founded Tenochtitlan, in a lake,
so blue and at peace this day, my heart seemed
to float as the gardens in the canals did
on wickerwork rafts -- chinampas -- or
in the air, at one with the men who would
feet tied to ropes that uncoiled‑‑descend
from a pole in widening circles, head‑
first, in the dance of the volador.
At the top, the notes of a flutist soared
with thrush, quetzal, eagle over the streets
and canals, over jade palaces,
pyramids, the serpent wall, the market
at Tlaltelolco -- extravagances
of color and smell there that left me as drunk
on this city (or was it from Cortes,
or spring?) as I had ever been. I thought
in a spiraling of joy and madness
how some day I might rule over all here
(quite a leap from my role as interpreter
and mistress) in a harvest of love, unplanned:
to be able to order conch or lobster
(let the runners bring it from a far‑off sea
with ices from the mountain top
for me to suck on when sweetened); to be
carried on a palanquin by a bedrock
of attendants catering to every
want; and live in a palace permanently
as‑‑Hernan had hinted, I'd thought‑‑his consort,
who could, finger flicked imperiously,
compel former tormenters to appear.
How intriguing for this ex‑slave to undo
them! Mostly, though, I felt driven by a song
more than this lesser me, one which flew,
like an egret, white as this city
of limestone and gesso, over the plateau,
gracefully banking, then dream‑wheeling higher
and higher into the thin air above Mexico.
Malinche,
Cortes' Mistress
And
Interpreter, On La Noche Triste
As in a dream, images distorted
to heart‑pounding absurdities, I ran
madly, seemed to get nowhere, Cortes'
child in the belly heavier to me than
the gold his soldiers had crammed into every
pocket of their being. The Azteca
in canoes on the lake had raced ahead,
beside us on this causeway to Tacuba,
behind, too, for those who turned back ‑‑ slaughtering.
This night, henceforth to be called La Noche Triste.
A thought: if this baby were to be
like my mother, if that disease of heart
could be caught through maternal blood, passed on.
I shuddered, ready here in the drizzle
to lay down alongside a pile
of corpses. Overhead, a dazzle
of flaming arrows lit the position,
followed by a hail of rocks, barbed lances
that sent us scrabbling forward. No!
In the child of the womb were chances,
at least! ‑‑ at which point of conjecture
a horse, its neck pierced by an arrow, reared
and kicked; and a foreboding came to me
that on this horrific night I'd be killed,
clear as when you can eye at river's
bottom, pebble and plant. Before fever
finished him, Father had carried me in dress
finer than other children's in Painala ‑‑
embroidered and with plumes ‑‑ to play skip‑stone
by the Coatzalcoalcos, where we could see
beneath the surface, flora with long floating
arms. I'd squeal in breezy innocence, free
to chase frog or whim wherever it led.
Then, an abyss opened before me,
dark as this Canal of the Toltecs,
to which our tattered remnants of an army
were now drawn. Panicking,‑‑ no bridge over ‑‑
the foe in pursuit, we plunged into its chill
waters. I struggled, sank with the rest, held dear
that brief passion ‑‑ this last year's ‑‑ an act of will
to ease the final moments of dying.
Drifting toward me: a woman, two‑headed,
hair white as mother‑of‑pearl, fresh from
Tenochtitlan's menagerie of caged
freaks I'd heard about, never visited.
Her eyes were fishes, two smiles
of coral greeting, to touch the grotesque
in my own core, when as if from miles
away, a hand yanked me up. Roderigo,
Hidalgo, Juan . . . I don't know. What matter?
Dripping and alive, I felt glazed by the stroke
of God, not man, followed the executor
of His will to Cortes, slumped over, weeping
near a cypress tree. Into hungry arms
I scooped him, whispered "Hernan," eyes widening
heart too, to draw him in as if with balms.
-published in Edge City Review
Interpreter, On La Noche Triste
As in a dream, images distorted
to heart‑pounding absurdities, I ran
madly, seemed to get nowhere, Cortes'
child in the belly heavier to me than
the gold his soldiers had crammed into every
pocket of their being. The Azteca
in canoes on the lake had raced ahead,
beside us on this causeway to Tacuba,
behind, too, for those who turned back ‑‑ slaughtering.
This night, henceforth to be called La Noche Triste.
A thought: if this baby were to be
like my mother, if that disease of heart
could be caught through maternal blood, passed on.
I shuddered, ready here in the drizzle
to lay down alongside a pile
of corpses. Overhead, a dazzle
of flaming arrows lit the position,
followed by a hail of rocks, barbed lances
that sent us scrabbling forward. No!
In the child of the womb were chances,
at least! ‑‑ at which point of conjecture
a horse, its neck pierced by an arrow, reared
and kicked; and a foreboding came to me
that on this horrific night I'd be killed,
clear as when you can eye at river's
bottom, pebble and plant. Before fever
finished him, Father had carried me in dress
finer than other children's in Painala ‑‑
embroidered and with plumes ‑‑ to play skip‑stone
by the Coatzalcoalcos, where we could see
beneath the surface, flora with long floating
arms. I'd squeal in breezy innocence, free
to chase frog or whim wherever it led.
Then, an abyss opened before me,
dark as this Canal of the Toltecs,
to which our tattered remnants of an army
were now drawn. Panicking,‑‑ no bridge over ‑‑
the foe in pursuit, we plunged into its chill
waters. I struggled, sank with the rest, held dear
that brief passion ‑‑ this last year's ‑‑ an act of will
to ease the final moments of dying.
Drifting toward me: a woman, two‑headed,
hair white as mother‑of‑pearl, fresh from
Tenochtitlan's menagerie of caged
freaks I'd heard about, never visited.
Her eyes were fishes, two smiles
of coral greeting, to touch the grotesque
in my own core, when as if from miles
away, a hand yanked me up. Roderigo,
Hidalgo, Juan . . . I don't know. What matter?
Dripping and alive, I felt glazed by the stroke
of God, not man, followed the executor
of His will to Cortes, slumped over, weeping
near a cypress tree. Into hungry arms
I scooped him, whispered "Hernan," eyes widening
heart too, to draw him in as if with balms.
-published in Edge City Review
tlascala:
1520
The world inside and the world out: the pains
had grown more insistent, and I became
drawn, the baby kicking. I stayed with
the journey, breathing deeply. What a shame
to have lost the way. Tlascala, mountain
redoubt: within its sheltering embrace
the burden of tomorrow (for better or
worse) so much the heavier. In the palace
of the chief Maxixca, our good fortune
wantonly soured. First Hernan lay sick,
groaning with fever. He lamented
his left hand -- two fingers -- crushed by a rock
the night of our flight; a tribal healer
consoled, but said he'd never use them
again. When he was up and out of bed,
it was as if he he were still taken
by the fever. Eyes bloodshot, distracted,
he'd sketch in the earth maps of the campaign
to come -- at the strangest hours -- shunning
his aides. His bad hand, by this time without pain,
hung limply. At night, more often than not,
he was gone. He'd say in an afterthought,
"wanderlust," slipping through my fingers
when I would try to hold him, and be out
the door. I puzzled, never having seen
him like this: was he still sick? Maxixca
(affectionately called by Hernan "Max")
whispered of his friend "he's going through a
phase like the moon" with an accomplice's
wink, and such good humor, who could conceive
the chief's catching a pox, and how in a few
short days (the waning of the year) he'd leave
us grieving his death? -- all in a stretch
that seemed a perpetual twilight.
I scolded: "he was your friend; don't you feel
anything. Hernan looked as if he'd lost
his wit, flushed unnaturally, muttering:
"sometimes all the women in my life come
to me as one . . ." (what he'd said in Tenochtitlan
some months ago awakening from
an unsettling dream). The world inside
and the world out. The pains had grown worse,
and three of the midwives came to fortify
me with blankets and herbs. I started to curse.
Later, they said "push," gave me a potion
of ciuapatli, feeling for
the position of the baby with their hands.
I'd seen Cortes slip through the back door
of the chambers of Cocatli, a few
weeks ago. This daughter of the chief, still
in mourning: beautiful as the mountain
flower she was named for with its single
delicate blossom. And then I'd seen him
again visit. Or was that from the dream,
first those women with reed baskets gathering
newts and fish eggs; then, a burden no tumpline
across the forehead could help me to carry:
when the door opened, she stood within, wore
her hair in long black braids, came up to him . . .
("Push!" the midwives urged). I thought her a whore!
Metzli, the moon‑warrior, had finished
his monthly feast of stars, glowered, fully
satisfied, through the window. I was given
water from a gourd, some was sprinkled lightly
on my forehead. Minutes had became hours.
I threw off the blankets. No one to save
me! I was in a sweat from the vision,
wondering if they made love while I gave
birth. These past days -- a time more for dying --
our spies reported on the enemy.
A virulent pox, they informed us, was
spreading indiscriminately. Metzli
had gorged on the stars, even as Death had
on the Azteca! Alvarado laughed
slyly, said "Ah, my little Malinka,
that is our terrible secret," then quaffed
to the dregs a cup of octli, crooned,
"we brought it; we spread it," and capered out
of the room. A midwife soothed "the baby
fights like a male‑child" when, in discomfort,
I twisted as with the vision, wanted
to scream: Alvarado and Olid,
faces distorted -- a grotesque parody --
dancing, all the while those bodies, Max's and
the pox of horrors from Tenochtitlan.
I could feel that dance, the soft flesh of it,
like overripe, sickly‑sweet fruit, and then
going back (Cocatli, arms reaching out . . . )
and the time of our flight, la noche triste --
there were the dead crying: Blas Botello,
Lares (the fine horseman), Doña Ana,
Cacama, Francisco de Salcedo,
Velazquez de Leon (so many names). I could
feel . . . (Cocatli with Cortes now!) the dance:
we're all part‑‑the bump and the curse of it‑‑
sickly‑sweet, fallen, as it were, by the chance,
dead with the living, on the dream wayside.
I hurt so much. "It's coming," the woman
beside me announced curtly, and then a soft
"let go!"; and when I tensed, she said it again
urging me; and I saw the tiny body.
Was this the monster I'd feared, like an eagle
with an ocelot, a curious hybrid,
slippery with blood, legs kicking to straddle
two worlds? She proclaimed it a boy, grasped
the infant with one hand, and wielding a long
flint knife, cut the umbilical cord.
He bawled out (from a birth slap) that first song
of the earth; unforgiving still, he was
wiped with a washcloth. I stretched both hand
and heart to touch (no more than that moment
to seal my fate ) . . . loved him. Cortes did
too, or, at least, it seemed when he visited,
his face streaming in the morning light.
He peered almost jauntily, swaggered toward
me and what he called "such a welcome sight,
the little mother and child, that is," plucked
at his lip with a nervous finger,
started to dance‑‑a wild skip and spin‑‑
caught himself in front of us to linger
with a bow: "Señorita!" And I laughed.
He urged, "he looks like his mama," made faces --
puckered his lips, twisted his eyes -- all
to no avail. His son oblivious
belched on my lap. "I know I've been a stranger,"
he added, suddenly grown serious.
"I've . . .", and then hesitant, broke off,looked
the other way, more mysterious
than not. I could read him like a glyph.
Uncertaintly in his tone, a change
in the face: no more daunting to understand
than the scribe's work in the painting language
of pictures. I thought now, "here comes that shift . . ."
(he couldn't easily apologize;
if he'd try, something within stirred; he was
a man without that healing word, and those lies --
so much "spittle and phlegm" -- I'd find a way
not to notice. And when he began
to explain. "You know the Aztecs . . . . " -- I felt
a strange pleasure, the anger that had been
(sometimes I wondered what was real; between
present and vision-state, the faintest
borders for me) . . . melting away. The world
inside -- the sense of betrayal (my fate?) --
and the world out. Was it only waiting,
this fortune, like a dark seedling that must (would),
however fatal, bloom? "We could take
Tenochtitlan," he was saying, the blood
rushing to his face. I strained to follow,
had missed the transition, hearing, instead,
his words "all the women in my life come
to me as one" from the other times. It had stayed
with me‑‑I am not sure why‑‑a kind
of overarching‑She. And wasn't there more
he hadn't gleaned? The woman beyond
his women‑‑eternal to the core,
deep as the great Waters, primordial force
that drove me too. To what dire end? His speech
was at a flood‑tide: "The lake was the key.
If we controlled the lake, we could teach
the Azteca such a lesson." Hand shaking,
he said we'd win the campaign, starve them
out. (He'd do this for us. I mustn't doubt.)
Let them scurry away like wet, beaten
rats! I started to speak . . . but he cut
me off with a "hush" and a kiss. "We were
meant to have such a time," (he and I,
that is) and from this, if I chose to infer
more (his eyes lit teasingly) . . . I could,
no, better should. He started to go,
turned back, and with a gesture to keep me
supine, cautioned: "best now to take things slow."
The world inside and the world out: the pains
had grown more insistent, and I became
drawn, the baby kicking. I stayed with
the journey, breathing deeply. What a shame
to have lost the way. Tlascala, mountain
redoubt: within its sheltering embrace
the burden of tomorrow (for better or
worse) so much the heavier. In the palace
of the chief Maxixca, our good fortune
wantonly soured. First Hernan lay sick,
groaning with fever. He lamented
his left hand -- two fingers -- crushed by a rock
the night of our flight; a tribal healer
consoled, but said he'd never use them
again. When he was up and out of bed,
it was as if he he were still taken
by the fever. Eyes bloodshot, distracted,
he'd sketch in the earth maps of the campaign
to come -- at the strangest hours -- shunning
his aides. His bad hand, by this time without pain,
hung limply. At night, more often than not,
he was gone. He'd say in an afterthought,
"wanderlust," slipping through my fingers
when I would try to hold him, and be out
the door. I puzzled, never having seen
him like this: was he still sick? Maxixca
(affectionately called by Hernan "Max")
whispered of his friend "he's going through a
phase like the moon" with an accomplice's
wink, and such good humor, who could conceive
the chief's catching a pox, and how in a few
short days (the waning of the year) he'd leave
us grieving his death? -- all in a stretch
that seemed a perpetual twilight.
I scolded: "he was your friend; don't you feel
anything. Hernan looked as if he'd lost
his wit, flushed unnaturally, muttering:
"sometimes all the women in my life come
to me as one . . ." (what he'd said in Tenochtitlan
some months ago awakening from
an unsettling dream). The world inside
and the world out. The pains had grown worse,
and three of the midwives came to fortify
me with blankets and herbs. I started to curse.
Later, they said "push," gave me a potion
of ciuapatli, feeling for
the position of the baby with their hands.
I'd seen Cortes slip through the back door
of the chambers of Cocatli, a few
weeks ago. This daughter of the chief, still
in mourning: beautiful as the mountain
flower she was named for with its single
delicate blossom. And then I'd seen him
again visit. Or was that from the dream,
first those women with reed baskets gathering
newts and fish eggs; then, a burden no tumpline
across the forehead could help me to carry:
when the door opened, she stood within, wore
her hair in long black braids, came up to him . . .
("Push!" the midwives urged). I thought her a whore!
Metzli, the moon‑warrior, had finished
his monthly feast of stars, glowered, fully
satisfied, through the window. I was given
water from a gourd, some was sprinkled lightly
on my forehead. Minutes had became hours.
I threw off the blankets. No one to save
me! I was in a sweat from the vision,
wondering if they made love while I gave
birth. These past days -- a time more for dying --
our spies reported on the enemy.
A virulent pox, they informed us, was
spreading indiscriminately. Metzli
had gorged on the stars, even as Death had
on the Azteca! Alvarado laughed
slyly, said "Ah, my little Malinka,
that is our terrible secret," then quaffed
to the dregs a cup of octli, crooned,
"we brought it; we spread it," and capered out
of the room. A midwife soothed "the baby
fights like a male‑child" when, in discomfort,
I twisted as with the vision, wanted
to scream: Alvarado and Olid,
faces distorted -- a grotesque parody --
dancing, all the while those bodies, Max's and
the pox of horrors from Tenochtitlan.
I could feel that dance, the soft flesh of it,
like overripe, sickly‑sweet fruit, and then
going back (Cocatli, arms reaching out . . . )
and the time of our flight, la noche triste --
there were the dead crying: Blas Botello,
Lares (the fine horseman), Doña Ana,
Cacama, Francisco de Salcedo,
Velazquez de Leon (so many names). I could
feel . . . (Cocatli with Cortes now!) the dance:
we're all part‑‑the bump and the curse of it‑‑
sickly‑sweet, fallen, as it were, by the chance,
dead with the living, on the dream wayside.
I hurt so much. "It's coming," the woman
beside me announced curtly, and then a soft
"let go!"; and when I tensed, she said it again
urging me; and I saw the tiny body.
Was this the monster I'd feared, like an eagle
with an ocelot, a curious hybrid,
slippery with blood, legs kicking to straddle
two worlds? She proclaimed it a boy, grasped
the infant with one hand, and wielding a long
flint knife, cut the umbilical cord.
He bawled out (from a birth slap) that first song
of the earth; unforgiving still, he was
wiped with a washcloth. I stretched both hand
and heart to touch (no more than that moment
to seal my fate ) . . . loved him. Cortes did
too, or, at least, it seemed when he visited,
his face streaming in the morning light.
He peered almost jauntily, swaggered toward
me and what he called "such a welcome sight,
the little mother and child, that is," plucked
at his lip with a nervous finger,
started to dance‑‑a wild skip and spin‑‑
caught himself in front of us to linger
with a bow: "Señorita!" And I laughed.
He urged, "he looks like his mama," made faces --
puckered his lips, twisted his eyes -- all
to no avail. His son oblivious
belched on my lap. "I know I've been a stranger,"
he added, suddenly grown serious.
"I've . . .", and then hesitant, broke off,looked
the other way, more mysterious
than not. I could read him like a glyph.
Uncertaintly in his tone, a change
in the face: no more daunting to understand
than the scribe's work in the painting language
of pictures. I thought now, "here comes that shift . . ."
(he couldn't easily apologize;
if he'd try, something within stirred; he was
a man without that healing word, and those lies --
so much "spittle and phlegm" -- I'd find a way
not to notice. And when he began
to explain. "You know the Aztecs . . . . " -- I felt
a strange pleasure, the anger that had been
(sometimes I wondered what was real; between
present and vision-state, the faintest
borders for me) . . . melting away. The world
inside -- the sense of betrayal (my fate?) --
and the world out. Was it only waiting,
this fortune, like a dark seedling that must (would),
however fatal, bloom? "We could take
Tenochtitlan," he was saying, the blood
rushing to his face. I strained to follow,
had missed the transition, hearing, instead,
his words "all the women in my life come
to me as one" from the other times. It had stayed
with me‑‑I am not sure why‑‑a kind
of overarching‑She. And wasn't there more
he hadn't gleaned? The woman beyond
his women‑‑eternal to the core,
deep as the great Waters, primordial force
that drove me too. To what dire end? His speech
was at a flood‑tide: "The lake was the key.
If we controlled the lake, we could teach
the Azteca such a lesson." Hand shaking,
he said we'd win the campaign, starve them
out. (He'd do this for us. I mustn't doubt.)
Let them scurry away like wet, beaten
rats! I started to speak . . . but he cut
me off with a "hush" and a kiss. "We were
meant to have such a time," (he and I,
that is) and from this, if I chose to infer
more (his eyes lit teasingly) . . . I could,
no, better should. He started to go,
turned back, and with a gesture to keep me
supine, cautioned: "best now to take things slow."
bane: 1521-1523
We -- a word used too lightly. It was not long
before I realized my position
as his woman was no more secure than
the city from which we'd fled -- Tenochtitlan --,
dismantled block by block within a short
year from La Noche Triste. Infidelity
is as exact in its end as Spanish
cannon, pickax, crowbar. The litany . . .
no! seraglio of his deceits‑‑
I'd become facile with the Castilian
tongue by now‑‑went by the names of Leonor,
Antonia, and a battalion
of Doñas beside myself, to wit:
Doña Isabel, Doña Francisca,
Doña Ines, and, oh, yes, when his wife
came to claim her rights -- La Marcaida,
also known as Catalina Xuarez‑‑
my prospects collapsed. I should've been able
to sense it coming when he wrested
our son from me, so I'd be available
full‑time for interpreting‑‑Don Martin,
whom I called Tepi, "little one," still unweaned.
Now this rubble: the palaces, temples,
warehouses of my being, to be sifted
through, like the debris of the once grand city.
It has been written: "Even jade is shattered,
even gold is crushed, even the quetzal plumes
are torn."
* * *
A few months after his wife surprised
us with her unexpected appearance,
she was dead. A tall sleek señora,
tapping one moment the Whore Goddess' rage,
the next, sweet sentiment and Cuba.
Mexico was for her a hellhole,
backwater, to which, her unbecoming pout,
a facial protest. One day, from a crouch
behind a huehuetl tree, she leapt out,
spat at me, then in a hiss, "the devil
sets a snare through you," her eyes brandishing spears.
Before I could unfreeze my tongue with
"whey‑faced bitch," an affront to suit, she was
gone, swallowed by dusk, preternatural
almost, while furious, I wiped my face.
Two weeks later, upon discovery
of her body (without cut or bruise
to leave a clue), Cortes began to scream
and beat his head against the wall. In horror,
or so it seemed. Incredulous, her mother
reviled him as a "murderer"
in the public square to his face and
behind the back also.
* * *
A phantom
trailing bloody flesh‑rags, nightly visitant,
tremulously afloat on air, she'd come
accusing, forgiving, perhaps to sleep
with her husband in death as she hadn't
in life. He lay, arms coiled around
me, motionless, eyes unfocussed, couldn't
see his bodiless wife, light turning
into an even brighter light. It shimmered,
gathering energy, or at least seemed to . . .
I whispered "Catalina"; he started,
stared at me, mouth in a rictus. Later,
when what seemed nothing to him, was, in fact,
nothing, he said, "asthma, she died from;
I didn't do what they say. . . ." And his voice dropped
to a moan. "She'd wheeze," he said. My cheek still felt
wet. The three of us, made for each other:
we'd wished her dead.
returning
1524-1526
We journeyed back through towering mountain
and rain forest the way we'd come until
this place of mot‑mots, blue‑throated, and noisy
crows not far from home; and though Cortes still
was with me, much had changed. For so was Juan
to whom I'd become pledged. Between embraces,
sneaking sips of pulque, a poison for him
like rat's bane or nightshade, only slower. His lips
transported me to that time as Tabascan
slave I'd had to dream for escape; and did,
now. The circle completed itself;
or so I thought. But when Cortes said:
And what shall we do with your mother?
I started to flush, stammered in a wail
of confusion, "I don't know, understand . . ."
I'd been blind! We'd passed the main trail
south and gone to the east instead. His look,
unclouded, piercing, as if Olid (no way
to reconcile them) were put out of mind
in this moment's diversion to repay
an old friend. That long night outside Painala,
an immensity of sky and hard ground!
I waited for a sun that never seemed
to come. Sleepless. Twisting. Nursed a wound:
indignity, not of flesh, but memory.
I should've said no, I thought. What point, trying
to help Cortes? I remembered Otumba,
owed Olid, Realized I'd been crying,
and it had nothing to do with Olid.
If I'd said, "no" to the expedition,
as with a knife's cut, sharp, decisive (I wiped
my eyes), I'd have been free of the pain.
Visionless. No place to look but into
myself: blood pumped wildly there and the head
spun. And what shall we do with your mother?
The earth was a harsh bed; I needed
to walk. Staggered upright. Pushed through the branches
of some trees that hung low, to the croaking
of bullfrogs: no holding back here; they say
what they feel; I was close to the pond-song
near cattail and reed (the lonely darkness
of it!), close to this land, as to my heart,
even yet unfathomable. More than
ever, I sensed a presence: no choice but
to face it. How many watches of this night
had I greeted, unable to rest till this,
the ninth and last, while the star Aldebaran
crept almost imperceptibly across
the heavens? Always she was there dark,
phantasmal; her Voice, transmuted beyond
me to a scream. No wonder the sigh
I heaved when dawn's eye, a savage red, flicked
open.
* * *
We journeyed back through towering mountain
and rain forest the way we'd come until
this place of mot‑mots, blue‑throated, and noisy
crows not far from home; and though Cortes still
was with me, much had changed. For so was Juan
to whom I'd become pledged. Between embraces,
sneaking sips of pulque, a poison for him
like rat's bane or nightshade, only slower. His lips
transported me to that time as Tabascan
slave I'd had to dream for escape; and did,
now. The circle completed itself;
or so I thought. But when Cortes said:
And what shall we do with your mother?
I started to flush, stammered in a wail
of confusion, "I don't know, understand . . ."
I'd been blind! We'd passed the main trail
south and gone to the east instead. His look,
unclouded, piercing, as if Olid (no way
to reconcile them) were put out of mind
in this moment's diversion to repay
an old friend. That long night outside Painala,
an immensity of sky and hard ground!
I waited for a sun that never seemed
to come. Sleepless. Twisting. Nursed a wound:
indignity, not of flesh, but memory.
I should've said no, I thought. What point, trying
to help Cortes? I remembered Otumba,
owed Olid, Realized I'd been crying,
and it had nothing to do with Olid.
If I'd said, "no" to the expedition,
as with a knife's cut, sharp, decisive (I wiped
my eyes), I'd have been free of the pain.
Visionless. No place to look but into
myself: blood pumped wildly there and the head
spun. And what shall we do with your mother?
The earth was a harsh bed; I needed
to walk. Staggered upright. Pushed through the branches
of some trees that hung low, to the croaking
of bullfrogs: no holding back here; they say
what they feel; I was close to the pond-song
near cattail and reed (the lonely darkness
of it!), close to this land, as to my heart,
even yet unfathomable. More than
ever, I sensed a presence: no choice but
to face it. How many watches of this night
had I greeted, unable to rest till this,
the ninth and last, while the star Aldebaran
crept almost imperceptibly across
the heavens? Always she was there dark,
phantasmal; her Voice, transmuted beyond
me to a scream. No wonder the sigh
I heaved when dawn's eye, a savage red, flicked
open.
* * *
The
above are excerpts from an original novel in verse.
Copyright © 1993 by Mel Belin, All Rights Reserved
The image of the Aztec Calendar, at the beginning of this section, the map of Tenochtitlan, and the image of Cortes with Malinche at Xaltelolco (which is a portion of a larger image), as well as the image of Quetzalcoatl are all in the public domain because copyright has expired.
"beginnings: 1514 to 1519"
Copyright © 1993 by Mel Belin, All Rights Reserved
The image of the Aztec Calendar, at the beginning of this section, the map of Tenochtitlan, and the image of Cortes with Malinche at Xaltelolco (which is a portion of a larger image), as well as the image of Quetzalcoatl are all in the public domain because copyright has expired.
"beginnings: 1514 to 1519"
Cortes calls his
mistress/interpreter a number of names. Sometimes it's
Malinche, or La Malinche, while at other times it's Malinka, or a more
Christian Doña Marina. Alvarado, Aguilar and Olid are aides
to Cortes.
The Aztecs (also called Azteca and Mexica), while acknowledging the sway in their own lives of dark gods, like Huitzilopochtli (their hummingbird war god), had an almost Messianic longing for the return of Quetzalcoatl, the Toltec god, also known as the Plumed Serpent. Prior to the Spanish arrival, Montezuma, the Second's mother, who had been born in Tula and immersed in the Toltec heritage, may have played a role in inculcating in him the lore this gentler god, and helped developed his interest in the many prophecies regarding the god's return. Quetzalcoatl was considered by the Aztecs to have been both man and god. In his human form, he was supposed to be bearded and pale-faced, looking remarkably like Cortes. The Aztec tracing of their royal line to the blood of Quetzalcoatl was an effort to give the Aztecs legitimacy as the true successors of the Toltecs.
The Aztecs (also called Azteca and Mexica), while acknowledging the sway in their own lives of dark gods, like Huitzilopochtli (their hummingbird war god), had an almost Messianic longing for the return of Quetzalcoatl, the Toltec god, also known as the Plumed Serpent. Prior to the Spanish arrival, Montezuma, the Second's mother, who had been born in Tula and immersed in the Toltec heritage, may have played a role in inculcating in him the lore this gentler god, and helped developed his interest in the many prophecies regarding the god's return. Quetzalcoatl was considered by the Aztecs to have been both man and god. In his human form, he was supposed to be bearded and pale-faced, looking remarkably like Cortes. The Aztec tracing of their royal line to the blood of Quetzalcoatl was an effort to give the Aztecs legitimacy as the true successors of the Toltecs.
Jeronimo de Aguilar had been shipwrecked
in the Yucatan in 1511, and lived with the Maya for eight
years. He spoke
Mayan fluently. Since
Mayan was one of the many languages
Malinche/Malinka spoke, she could, on first meeting Cortes, communicate
with him
through
Aguilar.
"fulfillment"
The
"Four Hundred Rabbits" are associated with drunkenness in Aztec lore."
"Malinche, Cortes' Mistress And & Interpreter, On La Noche Triste"
The Spanish flight from Tenochtitlan takes place after months of residence there, and following Alvarado's unprovoked killing of Aztec nobles in the main temple, and the killing of Montezuma. See this "Wilkepedia summary.
"tlascala: 1520"
The place where the Spaniards stayed, nursed their wounds, readying for a return engagement with the Aztecs. Also, Malinche gives birth to Cortes' child here.
"bane: 1520-1523"
See at Hispanos Famosos: "He [Cortes] was accused of the murder of his first wife. Prescott makes light of the accusation, but his opinion has little weight because as above stated evidence has since been discovered which was beyond his reach. This evidence leaves no doubt that Catalina Xuarez was strangled by her husband. The proceedings of the investigation were kept secret."
"returning: 1524 - 1526"
I set forth here on my web site half of the section -- the laying of the scene -- leaving out (to build a little anticipation), the actual confrontation between Malinche and her mother.