Against the Inquisition Page 15

  The spiritual director made no more demands; the boy had gained his confidence and seemed well “tamed.” “Like the mules in the corral,” the boy might have added.

  The next day, with a conspiratorial look, the monk offered a new book, a summary of the life and works of Saint Thomas of Aquinas. He referred to the man as a colossus. Francisco burned with excitement. He was at a loss to convey his gratitude. Santiago de La Cruz did not act arbitrarily; he regulated the boy’s education wisely. When Francisco returned the volume on Saint Thomas quoting some of his maxims, the spiritual director opened his hands.

  “I have nothing more to offer you.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I have no more books,” he apologized.

  Francisco thought of telling him something, but didn’t yet dare. It could be taken the wrong way. For months, he had longed to read it. It was a prize that he perhaps did not deserve. The book was in the monastery chapel. But no, better to stay quiet. It was too much.

  “In the monastery chapel,” he whispered, his own voice unrecognizable.

  “What about it?”

  “In the chapel—” he began to sweat.

  “Speak.”

  “There is a Bible.”

  “Yes. That is true. So?”

  “I wish to read it. I wish—”

  “It is too much for you.” He gave the boy a sidelong glance.

  “Just a little each day,” Francisco implored. “The parts you choose for me.”

  “Only the parts I choose!” he exclaimed, quickly regretting his words.

  “I promise.”

  “No spying in the Song of Songs, or in Ruth, or in the part about Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  “The parts you choose,” Francisco said.

  “Well then, to make things easier you’ll read only the New Testament.”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes. But not one page of the Old.”

  Hours later, a love affair began. The boy took possession of the enormous tome that was kept in the chapel. He opened the robust cover and went into ecstasy over the pages bejeweled with illustrations. He entered a familiar garden. He read and contemplated. The letters formed a landscape full of streams and hills. He savored the four Gospels, the Acts of the Apostles, the Epistles, and Revelations. His longing to learn gathered power with an irrepressible need to believe.

  In his prayers he addressed Our Lord Jesus Christ, his Immaculate Mother, and the saints whose lives he had studied and admired—Dominic, Augustine, Thomas—asking them to help him become imbued with the true faith. But, above all, he prayed for them to help dissolve the drops of poison mentioned by the familiars of the Inquisition, in case it was true that his father had injected them into his soul.

  When the spiritual director grew used to finding Francisco immersed in the verses of the New Testament and had seen sufficient evidence of his obedience, he lowered his guard. The young reader did not break his promise. He memorized the genealogy of Jesus according to Matthew and Luke, as well as many of the words spoken by Our Lord in his years of sermons. He could recite the facts to be found in one Gospel that went unmentioned in another, as well as a dozen of the terrifying images described in Revelations. In the Epistles of Saint Paul, he was particularly pleased and impressed by the one addressed to the Romans. He read it several times, but only fifteen years later would he understand the reasons for his enthusiasm.

  He did not break his promise for fear of reprisal. It would have been intolerable for these secret pages to be taken from him. As he memorized the New Testament, and as his rereading increasingly became a test of his memory, his urge to dive into the voluminous Old Testament grew, but he would not do it without permission. He said as much to Santiago de La Cruz.

  “Only to reinforce my faith in the fulfillment of the divine promise,” he begged.

  “The Old Testament contains the Dead Law of Moses,” the spiritual director said with a penetrating gaze.

  “But it also holds the promise of the Messiah,” Francisco remarked.

  “Whom the infidels do not recognize.”

  “They must not know how to read.”

  De La Cruz smiled. “They read with other eyes.”

  “Yes—infidel eyes.”

  He smiled again, patted Francisco’s back, and raised his index finger authoritatively. “I accept, but on one condition.”

  “Please tell me.”

  “Any doubts that appear, you’ll discuss with me.”

  “It would be a privilege,” Francisco said, flushing with happiness.

  “It is a duty.”

  The boy kissed the spiritual director’s hand and ran to the chapel. The peaceful space was more beautiful than ever. The altar candles raised their still flames toward the polychromatic images. Francisco kissed the thick volume’s embossed spine. He stroked the first page and read in fascination: “In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void . . .”

  31

  Santiago de La Cruz confirmed that reading the Old Testament was not undoing Francisco’s beliefs. The questions he posed demonstrated his sharp intelligence, but no weakening of faith; the harshness of Moses, for example, or Samson’s eroticism, the sins of David, Solomon’s transgressions, or the ineffectiveness of prophetic sermons were all announcements of the errors the Jews would commit against Christ. He rapidly absorbed the drier chapters, including the boring genealogies and the interminable prescriptions of Leviticus and Deuteronomy, but he said nothing about verses that contradicted Christian dogma. On the contrary: he was excited to recognize moments that foreshadowed Christ, or concrete prophesies that His kingdom would arrive. The boy’s unique talent prompted the man to take an unusual step—to introduce him to the bishop of the province, who was paying Córdoba a visit.

  Bishop Fernando Trejo y Sanabria was a Franciscan obsessed with education. He was trying to create a college for higher education with a faculty comprised of Jesuit priests. He wanted to offer a range of degrees, from baccalaureates all the way to doctorates. He was Creole, loved the Indians, and dreamed preposterously of founding a university in these lands.

  Francisco was enthralled by His Illustriousness. He had imagined a gigantic being with a thundering voice and menacing gestures. The man who received him, however, was of medium height, with a gaunt face, small hands, and a threadbare gray habit. He was a warm candle whose flame burned brightly but was rapidly consumed. His sickly appearance suggested that he had little time left among the living, which was why he burned with such an urgent call to offer mass sacraments of confirmation to the residents of Córdoba.

  Francisco returned to the monastery full of wonder, hungry to partake in such an occasion. His spiritual director would help.

  Santiago de La Cruz accepted the challenge and made arrangements for the boy to sleep from then on in a cell beside his own. There was just enough space for a rush mat, the leather suitcase that held his meager possessions, a table, and a chair. The director wanted him close day and night. He was trying to convert him into a doctrinero, a parish priest for the Indians, because his love of reading should translate into some kind of useful work.

  Sitting beside Francisco, near the well, he began to emphasize the value of sensory signs.

  “A sign is that which reminds us of something,” he explained. “For example, the olive branch is a sign of peace, the robe I am wearing is a sign of priesthood, and a footprint is a sign that someone has stepped in that place. Sensory means that one registers the sign through the senses: sight, smell, hearing, touch, or taste.”

  He raised his right hand and approached Francisco, trembling slightly. He brushed the boy’s cheek with the tips of his fingers.

  “Touch,” he murmured. “You feel that I am touching you.”

  Francisco was struck by an unfamiliar shudder and pulled his face away.

  Santiago betrayed the hint of a smile. “You don’t only feel,” he added. “This contact transmits something, sa
ys something. It is a signal, a sign. It speaks to our bond.”

  The director’s voice went hoarse. He stared at his disciple with intensity and then stood. Francisco rose as well.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  The boy watched him walk away, toward his cell. He closed the door behind him. After a brief while he heard the whistle of a whip. Francisco counted the lashes: four, six, seven. The whistle of discipline was accompanied by a muffled cry. Why did he go to punish himself right in that moment? Did he deserve those blows for having made an error in the description of signs? But had he actually made an error? Francisco felt a vague fear. Should he keep waiting where he was?

  The monk returned. He was pale but relaxed. He gestured for the boy to sit on the ground, while he himself sat on the bench in order to face him. Or to be less close to him than before.

  “When a bad thought invades the mind,” he explained, “we are sinning. This is what happened to me.”

  Francisco was moved by his sincerity and humility.

  “You too should flagellate yourself before your confirmation,” he advised.

  The boy wondered what bad thought the director may have had. Something prickled in the monk’s heart. Perhaps he was concerned that he might be offering too much attention to a heretic’s son; perhaps—this would be the worst thing—perhaps he went to punish himself because of my sins, because of the bad thoughts I have that only he can sense.

  “I will prepare myself properly for confirmation,” Francisco promised. “I will fast, and flagellate myself.”

  “These are good regulations for the body. Correct. But do not forget the regulations of the spirit: prayer, seclusion, and affirmation of the doctrines.”

  “I will do all of that.”

  “You should prepare yourself to receive confirmation the way the apostles prepared to receive the Holy Spirit. For fear of the Jews who killed the Lord and also wanted to kill all of His disciples”—Santiago de La Cruz intentionally emphasized the point—“the apostles shut themselves away in Jerusalem. They prayed and fasted. They knew how much Jesus had taught them, but they were not yet valiant soldiers. On Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descended on them, they were transformed into an invincible army. They proudly proclaimed their identities as Christians, and went forth to preach.”

  Francisco smiled at these resonant words, but his head echoed with “the Jews who killed the Lord and also wanted to kill all of His disciples.” He would have liked to ask, with the turns of phrase his father had used with Diego, whether he, Francisco, had really killed the Lord and wanted to kill all Christians; or whether it wasn’t true, after all, that the first disciples were all Jews. But he maintained his smile and kept listening to the lesson.

  This disconcerting sequence of events reoccurred on other occasions. The spiritual director would approach the boy in an affectionate manner, gaze at him tenderly, take his hand, press his shoulder, run his fingers through his copper-colored hair. He taught him the truths of the faith in a warm voice. He was the captivating preacher who penetrated his chest as if with a spear. But then he’d suddenly be shaken by an invisible bolt, and would step away to breathe deeply, or would go into his cell to whip himself. He’d return changed, cleaned of the bad thoughts that had invaded his mind.

  Francisco prayed, ate little, and almost never left the monastery. He also helped out in the orchard, cleaned the sacristy, rested in the shade of the central fig tree, or lay on the mat in his cell. He went over what he’d learned in his mind using a question-and-answer format; he wanted to absorb the entire catechism. If he could achieve this before confirmation, God would reward him.

  “What are the sacraments?” he asked himself in the privacy of his cell.

  “They are effective sensory signs of the grace established by Our Lord Jesus Christ to sanctify our souls,” he’d answer.

  “How many sacraments are there?” he continued.

  “Seven, like the seven days of the week.”

  “Name them,” he would order himself. “Each one is extremely important.”

  “Baptism, confirmation, the Eucharist, confession, last rites, the priesthood, and matrimony.”

  “How many elements constitute each sacrament?”

  “Two.”

  “What are they?”

  “Matter and form. Matter is the physical thing that is utilized: oil, wine, water. Form is the words that are used to apply the material.”

  “What are the materials of each sacrament?”

  “For baptism, natural waters.” He counted on his fingers. “For confirmation, the holy chrism. For the Eucharist, bread and wine. For confession, sins and penitence. For last rites, oil.

  “What is the principal effect of the sacraments?” he asked himself, raising his voice.

  “Divine grace that flows toward the believer,” he responded with aplomb.

  Santiago de La Cruz entered and tried to confound him with another question. “Do you know what sanctifying grace is?”

  Francisco raised his eyebrows.

  Before he could respond, the clergyman said, “It is the supernatural gift that makes us friends of God.”

  He gathered his robe around his knees and sat beside the boy. He continued sweetly.

  “We commonly say that we are in friendship or in a state of grace with someone when there is a bond of love, when we give and receive help, when there is trust. Between you and me, now, there is friendship. On the other hand, if there were hatred, insults, quarrels, we would say there is enmity, or that one has fallen into misfortune with regard to the other. Well, the same occurs with the Lord. When mortals fulfill His mandates, we are in friendship and grace with Him; if we sin, we enter misfortune and enmity. Remember that Jesus says in the Gospel of Saint Matthew, ‘Not all who say “Lord, Lord” shall enter the realm of heaven, but only those who do my Father’s will.’”

  Francisco longed to ask him why Jesus constantly referred to the Father while Christians disregarded His example, referring only to Jesus, except in the prayer Our Father. Sometimes, Francisco wanted to think about the Father, but fear arose that this might be a sin because it might mean brushing against the Dead Law of Moses, as Brother Bartolomé and Santiago himself had both pointed out before.

  An hour later, his face severe from having inflicted the usual whipping on himself, Santiago added, “Do not confuse sanctifying grace with actual grace.” His voice was metallic, and his eyes were hard. “Sanctifying grace is permanent, a supernatural aid that illumines our spirit and implies friendship with God. Actual grace, on the other hand, is transitory; it is help to practice a particular virtue or to resist temptation. I just received actual grace with a few lashes to break off the sinful thoughts in my mind. But at no time did I lose the sanctifying grace I received at baptism.”

  “Yes.” The boy blinked.

  Santiago stared at him, eyes glittering with fury. “Now go over everything I’ve taught you about confirmation. The date is almost here. I don’t want you to disappoint our bishop.”

  “Very well.”

  “Don’t you ‘very well’ me,” he pressed. “Tell me right now: What is the sacrament of confirmation?”

  Francisco tried not to be disturbed by the baseless hostility. “It is a sacrament that imprints on our souls the role of a soldier of Christ.”

  “What is its material?”

  “The sacred chrism, a blend of oil and balm.”

  “Why the oil?”

  “It spreads gently and penetrates the body, leaving a lasting mark. It invigorates the limbs. The ancient fighters would anoint themselves for strength,” he added, hoping to pacify the man.

  “Why the balm?”

  “It is a fragrant liquid that preserves against decay. The people of ancient times used to ‘embalm’ the dead.”

  “What is the form of this sacrament?”

  “The words uttered by the bishop: ‘I mark you with the sign of the cross and confirm you with the chrism of health.’”

>   Francisco fell to his knees and raised his eyes to the ceiling. He prayed to Our Lord Jesus Christ to help him receive this sacrament with devotion and reverence so as to become His valiant soldier. And for Him to bestow strength, so as never to be tempted by cursed heresies.

  Santiago de La Cruz nodded. He said “Amen,” and left.

  32

  “Brother Bartolomé Delgado is dying! He is dying!” A black man rushed across the courtyard in search of help. The servants sprang up like frogs after the rain. They were black people and mulattoes, and they went back and forth chaotically, without direction. The priests didn’t know what to do either. They found Brother Bartolomé at the threshold of his cell, lying faceup and struggling for breath. His face was red and more swollen than usual.

  Santiago de La Cruz patted his fat, sagging cheeks. “Brother Bartolomé!”

  The only sound in response was a death rattle. He raised the edge of his robe and dried the foam from his mouth. He moved his head to the side to help him breathe easier.

  “Summon the surgeon Paredes.”

  Several servants bolted off.

  Francisco crouched beside the immense commissioner. The cat was sorrowfully licking its owner’s temples. Francisco appreciated the feline’s loyalty, but he felt no pity for the man.