Читать книгу The Velvet Doublet - James Howell Street - Страница 3

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In the name of God, the clement, the merciful!

I, an Andalusian, born Juan Rodrigo Bermejo of Triana, now known as Mudarra the bastard Moor, was the first Christian to sight the New World, although my own captain, the niggardly Christopher Columbus, tried to cheat me of that honor and did cheat me of his promised rewards: the Queen’s pension and a velvet doublet.

Thus my vengeance was foretold, as no glib Genoese dreamer can trod Andalusian pride without payment for his transgression.

And now, if my vengeance is an abomination to any man, brother or stranger, I caution him that I alone must be held to account and that no censure will be passed to Mita, for I will avenge her against any mocking tongue or accusing finger, and may God witness this vow.

Mita’s temptation was the sin of Eden, which was sweet Paradise, and of Eve, who was Earth’s own mother; and Mita loved me as only a woman of stature can love a prodigal, as pure gold clings to vile dross.

Therefore, to share my story, these indivisible truths you will remember: that Mita bargained her heart for her soul, and that I saw it first—the sands of San Salvador, the moon waning behind the lonely isle and the night dying pale. That voice that called “Land! Land!” was my voice, and no man born of woman will rob my life of that rapturous moment, even though he be Grand Admiral of the Ocean Sea, heavy-laden with honors, who stooped to cheat one of his own sailors because I dared demand my crumb at the feast of the mighty.

He, Christopher Columbus (Colombo, Colomo, Colom, Colonna, Colon, or whatever his true name may be), Viceroy of all strange lands he found, to have and to hold in perpetuity, bargainer with Crowns, breaker of vows—he cost me my name, my country, and my faith, and yet his deceit brought Mita to me and bound us together with chains of oppression.

Oh, Mita, my beloved. Forget the years and remember the minutes. Forgive my vanity and pride, for these are the burdens of men. Forgive my lust, my faithlessness, and pray for me in Paradise.

In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful!

Say: He is God alone:

God the eternal,

He begetteth not, and He is not begotten,

And there is none like unto Him.

I was born in Triana in 1469, the year Isabel of Castile, the Catholic, was married to Ferdinand of Aragon, the perfidious trickster who was not worthy to tend the twelve white mules that Andalusia sent to them as a wedding gift.

This marriage ended seven hundred years of separation between Castile and Aragon and united most of Spain under the brotherhood banner of the holy Cross and the unholy Sword, as though Cross and Sword can be brothers.

Andalusia, naturally by choice, long had been loyal to Castile and thereby Isabel was our Queen and a fie for all the royal diddlings. Our lives and our sacred honor belonged to her, but Ferdinand was never our King, only her consort, the jack to stand for the filly and produce a line to rule from the Pillars of Hercules, in our own Andalusia, to the Pyrenees.

The struggle in Spain between Christendom and Islam was coming to a close after seven hundred years of bloodletting in the name of God and of Allah, who are one and the same in Fatherhood. Only Granada remained in the hands of the Moors and was the one kingdom in the west of Europe where the muezzins still called the Faithful to face Mecca five times each day and prayerfully submit to the will of God.

However, the scimitar of Islam was on guard in all of North Africa and around to Asia’s shores of the Mediterranean, Mare Nostrum, which was Our Sea because Andalusia stood sentry at Gibraltar, where the Pillars of Hercules held back the wrath and mystery of the Ocean Sea, stretching westward to the Unknown.

The Roman Empire had been dead sixteen years, rasping its last foul breath at the fall of Constantinople to the Turks. And now all of Asia was behind Islam’s curtain and there was no trade with Cathay or India, no silks for Europe’s noble backs, no spices for pickling onions, no gold except that in the usurers’ coffers, and no aloes^[1] to purge men’s bile and sweeten the humors that determine our temperaments.

Thus it was when I was born; Islam’s sword between Christendom and the riches of the East, the roadstead of Palos empty, and brave Andalusian sails furled and moulding. Europe’s belly wailed for bread while the Holy Orders harangued for souls and fought and schemed among themselves for power. Faggots lit manifold stakes for the trials by fire, and trumpets of hungry kings blared for armies to march again, and the soldiers died like maggots in the dung heap of a summer drought. The long, bleak night was upon us and Europe held out her bony arms to the East, waiting for the grace of God to open the treasure chest once more.

But a few men—only a few—turned their backs to the East and stared westward toward the Ocean Sea and the Unknown; and wondered. The sun came six hours out of the east and went six hours into the west. What lay where the sun sank? How big was the world? Round, to be sure. No man even of meager learning questioned the shape of the earth. It was round like a ball or a pear. Then if India were to the east, it also was to the west. But what lay between here and there? And how far?

The living lights in all Spain were not the holy fires of the zealots who burned flesh to purify souls into heaven, but the feeble candles of the despised visionaries who traced lines on their maps, rubbed them out, and traced again, resting their eyes by looking up at the stars, and always west. Impractical dreamers who had never sailed a ship and yet they dared counsel sailors. Scorned by the multitude that thought yesterday was better than today because they had lived through yesterday, these few watched the cold Polar Star due north and the sun going down warm in the west, and asked questions, and wondered.

Such a man was my father, Vicente Bermejo, a dealer in pottery and sundries and a confidant of sailors. He was a hidalgo, the son of a Goth, and that deserving title testified to his gentry. He had never been to sea, but his ears were longer than his tongue and his fancy was larger than his purse. He taught me early that a lie can grow on truth like a barren limb on a fruitful olive tree, and that dreams and reality come from the same mind. A great man was my father. Peace to his tortured soul.

My mother was Sereni Betancour, also gently born and very pious, a frail saint who died soon after my advent, thereby being spared, through the clemency of God, the travail of her loved ones.

Our home in Triana was in the poorer section, I confess, but my father’s shop was across the Guadalquivir River in Seville and, as is known to all except the most ignorant, Seville is the queen city of Andalusia, and Andalusia is the brightest gem in the Spanish crown.

With the passing of my mother, my care was given into the hands of my Aunt Ronda Bermejo, a woman of excellence and judgment, although a spinster whose betrothed was lost at sea while in Portuguese service on a voyage of exploration down the coast of Africa. Her home was in Lepe, down near the sea, where were bred the sailors who took Andalusia’s caravels out of the roadstead of Palos and hired their skill to any ship’s master who met their demands of 5000 maravedis^[2] a month, onions once daily, and salted flour for their bread.

A woman of mettle was my Aunt Ronda, but with a clapping tongue and an idolatry of orderliness that vexed my father, who was one to leave a candle burning while he napped, or a window open at night. She held to her grandmother’s ways, that a boy should be bathed all over four times a year, at the beginning of each season, and that a reddened bottom was evidence of discipline. I splashed almost every day in the river during the warm months, but that was not tallied in her ledger of ablutions. She scolded me often that I was spoiled and scolded my father that he was responsible.

She tyrannized the tutors my father hired to help him and her teach me my letters in Latin and Spanish, and the sums of figures, and went into a veritable tizzy on my Saint’s Day when my father gave me a blue doublet of Italian velvet. No stripling of my acquaintance had such a prize and it set me apart from the others and made me feel pleased with my lot, and of kindly disposition toward my fellow seedlings who were not as fortunate as I.

Of course, blinded by my own splendor, I did not notice that my father’s doublet, tight-fitting from his shoulders to his waist and with loose sleeves, was frayed at the collar and patched at the cuffs. Aunt Ronda complained that my beautiful doublet was a waste, and that waste is sinful. I pouted my dejection, and it was not that I felt sad but because I knew my behavior would arouse my father’s sympathy and thus protect my own interest.

“He will outgrow it in a year,” Aunt Ronda lectured. “It is vanity, and vanity in men brings more tears to our sweet Savior’s eyes than the lust in men.” She tossed her head in annoyance. “A velvet doublet for a boy not long from his wet straw; and this family with only goose grease for our chick-peas, like the Jews.”

I resented her forthrightness for I was in my fifteenth year and long past the habits of my childhood, and the doublet was a gift from my father and of no concern to her.

“We will discuss it later,” my father told her.

They sent me to bed immediately after we said our Pater Noster in unison and sang our nightly Salve Regina, and they adjourned themselves to the first room of our house, where a Crucifix hung on the wall by my father’s couch to ward off the Death Angel.

I tiptoed from my pallet, a childish transgression and unseeming curiosity for a youth of my years and dignity, and stood behind the Moorish drapes in the alcove and heard all they said. I hoped my father would box her ears, as she often did mine in witless offense to my personal esteem, or at least raise his voice in anger at her and in praise of me. But he was mild.

“Now, Ronda, sister of mine.” He put his hand tenderly on her shoulder. “My seed has sprouted and I will tend my sapling in my own way.”

She shook off his hand and pulled her shawl high on her shoulders. “You will send him to the galleys or the stake, and mind my words, Vicente Bermejo. That imp needs a strong hand. Every colt needs a halter.”

“Now, Ronda——”

“Did he not stare impudently into my face when I talked to him this morning, instead of lowering his eyes in shame as a boy should? Did he not? Answer me that.” She flounced across the room and sat on a bench.

“Now, now——” My father was scratching his head, a superior head of tar-black hair that he oiled once a week.

“And did he not say his prayers to the Blessed Virgin so rapidly last night that even She could not understand him, though She be the sweet Queen of Heaven?” Aunt Ronda made a quick sign of the Cross and bowed her head as though asking mercy for me. I itched to call out that she had fallen asleep the week before while saying the twenty-five Hail Marys that were her bedtime prayers.

“Do you want him to be a Friar Minor?” My father’s gentle patience was on trial. “A Franciscan zealot to prattle Latin he does not understand and cry for the blood of heretics?”

Aunt Ronda was shocked and her wits were stunned momentarily. To utter criticism of the Franciscans was sinful in her eyes because she held that order the most noble of all. “Blasphemy!” She hissed the accusation. “I shall pray for your soul.”

“Never fret yourself about my soul.” His words came harsh, as she had touched him where the quick was raw. “It is time for a decision about my son. I will send him to the Dominicans.”

She drew back as though a spider had lunged at her, as though an evil djinni had swirled out of the night. “Black Friars!” The words slipped out and she clamped her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide as she stared at her brother. Aunt Ronda held the Dominicans in dread, for they, even more than the Franciscans, were masters of the Inquisition. Also, her loyalty to the Gray Friars of St. Francis made her suspect of the rival order. “Ah-h-h, brother of mine——” She found her voice and began wheedling. “You are amusing yourself at cost to me. Your wit was ever sharp, with two edges.”

“I am serious.” He sat down on his couch and tugged at his short, billowing breeches, which were gathered high above his knees in the manner of the French. “The boy goes to the Dominicans.”

I was neither elated nor dejected. If I was to go to school, I would as leave the Black Friars pound my skull as the Gray Friars. Remember I had tasted of the cup of knowledge from the hands of tutors and my own family and if I was to drink deeply from the goblet, then so be it. Remember, too, that this is being recounted through the intelligence of my manhood, but as I saw it as a youth.

She crossed the room and sat by my father and, having sensed the futility of temper, she ventured upon persuasion. “The Friars Preachers——” She was dignifying the Dominicans by their lofty mission, and rested her hand on her brother’s arm as she talked. “They are more zealous than the Franciscans.”

“And better teachers,” he said.

“They are not as strong in the Faith and they mumble the devil’s words.”

“Careful, sister of mine. The windows are ears and the wind has tongue.”

“No one can hear us, Vicente. Do not send him to the Dominicans. I will meddle no more. He is a good boy. They will stuff his head.”

“With knowledge,” my father said.

“With wild ideas and heresy.” Her tone was tremulous and she was frightened, not for herself but for me. “They wrangle over the size of the world as though God had not already set the limits of His firmaments. They talk of new lands and new seas, and waste candles over maps instead of burning the holy wax to the sainted motherhood of the sweet Virgin.”

“Now—now, Ronda.” My father patted her hand. “He goes to the Dominicans.”

“No, Vicente. Not Rodrigo. I took him from his mother’s breast and held him here.” She put her hands on her own breast and looked up at the Crucifix. “School is not good for God’s creatures unless they take Holy Orders. But if he must study, then let him go back to Lepe with me. To the Franciscans. They are very learned.”

He would not be moved. “The Dominicans, Ronda. Benjamin Marino is coming here to lecture to them.”

That was the first time I heard his name. Benjamin Marino. It sounded strange and piqued my interest even then.

My aunt’s face paled and twisted as though she was to be seized or stricken. “He is a Jew.” She said it and crossed herself at the same moment.

“He is the best map maker in the world,” my father said.

“But he is a Jew, Vicente. My confessor has told me of him. He practices all the rites and sips Christian blood at Atonement.”

“Nonsense!” He smiled for the first time that evening and his strong face became gentle. “Benjamin Marino has been heard at the University of Salamanca and he is coming to Seville to impart his knowledge to the Dominicans. He often has lectured to the Franciscans. He is no ogre, sweet sister. Only a man of learning and I want my son to hear him.”

“But he is a Jew.” She clung to the indictment.

“So was our Savior,” my father said and got up, thereby giving notice that his part of the conversation was closed. He lit a candle and put it on the table and began reading his precious books, the fanciful tales of Sir John Mandeville and Pierre d’Ailly’s Imago Mundi.

Aunt Ronda watched him, the candlelight on his face, and then walked to him and rested her hands on his shoulders. “A father knows best for his son,” she said in grievous resignation. “I will return to Lepe.”

My father pushed aside his books and stroked her hands. “You are welcome here. This is your home.”

“Lepe is my home. From there sailed the love for whom I might have borne a son of my own. I will go back to Lepe.”

A sadness came over me, and I was lonely for the first time in my memory, and slipped back to my pallet. My beautiful doublet was on a bench near by and I felt it, the soft velvet sensuous and pleasing to my fingers. I did not hurry my prayers this time but whispered each word distinctly so the blessed Queen of Heaven could understand them, and I said them for Aunt Ronda—ten Hail Marys and five Our Fathers.

Down on the river that flowed behind our house and on to the Ocean Sea the bared masts of the caravels were naked to the moon, swaying like the tall salt grass in the marshes of the Guadalquivir; and the sailors, riotous in wine, bellowed the chantey that was my lullaby:

From the far region of Calcutta

With toil and strick attention to business

We have brought here many sorts of spices.

It was drunken mockery, for Calcutta was behind Islam’s barred gate.

I heard Aunt Ronda go to her couch, sighing her bulk into comfort, and soon the house was still and the water front too, save for the ships’ lookouts, who called the watch and the hour as the sandglasses were turned.

One glass is gone and another flows;

It all shall run down if God so wills.

I pulled my cherished doublet to my pillow and sank into troubled sleep, haunted by lean ghosts of Black Friars and sailless masts on the Unknown Sea, where the sun hissed down into the West, and nothing.

My father waked me by tugging at my ear and tousing my hair, and Aunt Ronda came in smiling the morning’s greetings, and I wondered if all the events of the night had been a dream. She sent my father out for honey and paced me through five Hail Marys, then waited for me to dress.

I was embarrassed by her presence, for my manliness was obliterating the last traces of my childhood and gave evidence of my puberty. I reached for my old jacket, intending not to flaunt my doublet, but she chuckled her disapproval.

“Put it on,” she commanded. “Your teeth grind your own food now and the seeds of your maturity gather in your loins.”

She laughed and slipped the doublet over my head and tugged it tight across my chest and middle, herself feeling the lovely velvet. Then she wet the tip of her forefinger and rubbed behind my ears. “You have our family’s ears, Rodrigo. Not quite as large as a mule’s.” Again she laughed and kissed my cheek. “But you have your mother’s hair. Thick and brown. And her bright blue eyes. Ah-h-h. They are not the black eyes of Andalusia. Your mother’s family came from Leon and there were wild Irish in Leon; blue eyes and strong backs and no brains. I have seen Irish sailors in Lepe. I am going back to Lepe.”

“Back to Lepe?” I pretended surprise. “You must not leave us.”

“A doublet and your last teeth.” She put her hand under my chin and looked at me. “You know your prayers and already a goat fuzz is springing from your chin. You do not need me longer. I will go back home.”

I am glad I cried. Women like tears, as I was to learn, and mine overflowed and she was pleased and hugged me, and we both cried. I wiped her tears on the soft cuff of my doublet.

We had honey cakes for breakfast, and she stayed close to me all that day and the next, and on the third she boarded a barge for the trip down-river to Cadiz, then up the coast and across the sand bar that made Palos a port, and to Lepe. The very names stirred me: Playa de Castilla, Rio Tinto, Huelva, Palos, and the Ocean Sea.

The pilot of her barge was Martin Alonso Pinzon, whose eyes were red-rimmed from the night’s wine and whose straight black hair hung close over his ears and almost to his shoulders. This Pinzon knew my father and called to him as we approached his berth. “Your saint’s blessing, Vicente. I will see to your sister’s well-being and deliver her in Lepe.”

My father hurried forward and embraced him. “Pinzon! You on barges! A caravel master on a floating pig? You are a deep-water man——”

“You take what you get these days,” Pinzon replied. “Palos is as quiet as my bridal chamber. The East is blocked and the West unknown, and no man dares sail full into the Ocean Sea. Our ships rot for need of salt in our guts.”

They talked casually of trade and voyages, and at mention of new routes Pinzon scowled and scratched himself, a most unseeming gesture in the presence of my aunt. “It takes money, Vicente. I have some, but not enough for an expedition. And the Queen is as stingy with ducats as she is liberal with prayers.”

“Mind you.” My father held up his long finger. “Portugal will steal Spanish wind. They will not wait forever, not the Portuguese——”

“Mind yourself, merchant!” Pinzon’s dark face clouded. “I know all you say, and more. Even today a mysterious pilot is at Portugal’s court, asking ships for a voyage westward to the Indies. He says he has God’s ear and good maps.”

“Who is he? Andalusian?”

“God knows.” Pinzon turned to his duties and two lines were cast off. “Some say an adventurer from Genoa. Others a stargazer from Galicia. God knows.” He leaped onto his barge and waved farewell, and Aunt Ronda was beside him.

We watched the barge float out into the river, the sailors at poles, and then the channel took it. The helmsman clung to the great tiller and Pinzon waved again.

My father and I were alone. The year was 1484 in the temporal reign of Isabel and Ferdinand, and the eternal reign of God.

In saecula saeculorum!

[1]	In the Middle Ages, the term “aloes” was applied to many of the succulent plants, including cacti, which were sources for cathartics, poisons, and emetics.

[2]	One copper maravedi roughly was equivalent to one seventh of a cent in pre-1934 American currency. Hence an ordinary seaman’s pay was about seven dollars a month in pre-1934 American money.