Aztec Autumn Read online

  “Those are names? The men’s own names are branded onto them?”

  “No, no. The names of their owners. When a slave is not a prisoner taken during the conquest of ten years ago, but is simply bought and paid for, then the owner may brand him—like a horse—as a permanent claim on him, you see.”

  “I see,” I said. “And female slaves? They are branded, too?”

  “Not always.” He looked uncomfortable yet again. “If she is a young woman, and comely, her owner may not wish to disfigure her beauty.”

  “I can understand that,” I said, and gave his quill back to him. “Thank you, Cuatl Alonso. You have taught me some things of the Spanish nature already. I can hardly wait to learn the language.”

  VI

  I HAD INTENDED to ask the notarius Alonso for another favor—his suggestion of some work I might do that would pay me a living wage. But as soon as he mentioned the Colegio de San José, I decided on the instant not to ask that question. I would go on living at the mesón for as long as the friars would let me. It was right next to the school, and not having to work for my food and lodging would enable me to take advantage of all the kinds of education the Colegio could teach me.

  I would not be living luxuriously, of course. Two meals a day, and not very substantial meals, were hardly enough to sustain one of my age and vigor and appetite. Also, I would have to contrive some way to keep myself clean. In my traveling pack, I had brought only two changes of apparel besides what I was wearing; those clothes would have to take turns being laundered. Just as important, I would have to make some arrangement for washing my body. Well, if I could find that Tépiz couple, perhaps they would accommodate me in the matter of hot water and amóli soap, even if they had no steam hut. Meanwhile, I had a fair number of cacao beans in my purse. For a time, at least, I could buy from the native markets the amenities that were indispensable, and an occasional morsel to supplement the friars’ charity fare.

  “You can reside here forever, if you wish,” said the scrawny man, Pochotl, whom I found at the mesón when I returned there, both of us getting into the line for the evening meal. “The friars will not mind, or probably even notice. The white men like to say that they ‘cannot tell one of the filthy indios from another.’ I myself have been sleeping here for months, and gleaning my two skimpy meals a day, ever since I sold the last few granules of my stock of gold and silver.” He added wistfiilly, “You may not believe it, but I once was admirably fat.”

  I asked, “What do you do with yourself during the rest of the day?”

  “Sometimes, feeling guilty about being a parasite, I stay here to help the friars clean out the cooking vessels and the men’s sleeping chamber. The women’s quarters are cleaned by some nuns—those are female friars—who come over from what they call the Refugio de Santa Brfgida. But most days, I merely amble about the city, remembering what used to be where in the bygone days, or just gazing at things in the market stalls that I wish I could buy. Idling, nothing but idling.”

  We had shuffled our way to the vats and a friar was ladling our bowls full—again with duck soup—handing us each a bolillo when, as on the previous afternoon, there came that distant thunder rumble from the eastward.

  “There they go,” said Pochotl. “Collecting ducks again. The fowlers are as punctual as those misbegotten church bells that mark divisions of the day by beating us on the ears. But, ayya, we must not complain. We get our share of the ducks.”

  I carried my bowl and bread into the building, thinking that I must sometime soon go to the eastern side of the island at twilight and see what was the method the Spanish fowlers employed to harvest the ducks.

  Pochotl joined me again and said, “I have confessed to being a mendicant and an idler. But what about you, Tenamáxtli? You are still young and strong and not work shy, I think. Why are you planning to stay on here among us pauper wretches?”

  I pointed toward the Colegio next door. “I shall be going to classes yonder. Learning to speak Spanish.”

  “Whatever for?” he asked, in mild surprise. “You do not even speak Náhuatl very well.”

  “Not the modern Náhuatl of this city, that is true. My uncle told me that we of Aztlan speak the language as it was spoken long ago. But everyone I have met here understands me, and I, them. You, for instance. Also, you may have noticed that many of our fellow lodgers—those who come from the Chichiméca lands far to the north—speak several different dialects of Néhuatl, but all of them understand each other without great difficulty.”

  “Arrgh! Who cares what the Dog People speak?”

  “Now there you are mistaken, Cuatl Pochotl. I have heard many Mexíca call the Chichiméca the Dog People… and the Téochichiméca the Wild Dog People… and the Zécachichiméca the Rabid Dog People. But they are wrong. Those names do not derive from chichíne, the word for dog, but from chichíltic—red. Those people are of many different nations and tribes, but when they call themselves collectively the Chichiméca, they mean only red-skinned, which is to say akin to all of us of The One World.”

  Pochotl snorted. “Not akin to me, thank you. They are an ignorant and dirty and cruel people.”

  “Because they live all their lives in the cruel desert lands up north.”

  He shrugged. “If you say so. Still, why would you wish to learn the Spaniards’ language?”

  “So I can learn about the Spaniards themselves. Their nature, their Christian superstitions. Everything.”

  Pochotl used the last of his bolillo to sop up the last of his soup, then said, “You saw the man burned to death yesterday, yes? Then you know all that anyone could possibly want to know about Spaniards and Christians.”

  “Well, I know one thing. My jar disappeared from right outside the Cathedral. It must have been a Christian who stole it. I had only borrowed it. Now I owe these mesón friars ajar.”

  “What in the name of all the gods are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.” I looked long at this self-described mendicant, parasite, idler. But Pochotl did possess a lifetime’s knowledge of this city. I decided to trust him. I said, “I wish to know everything about the Spaniards because I want to overthrow them.”

  He laughed harshly. “Who does not? But who can?”

  “Perhaps you and I.”

  “I?!” Now he laughed uproariously. “You?!”

  I said defensively, “I have had the same military training as did those warriors who made the Mexíca the pride and terror and overlords of The One World.”

  “Much good their training did those warriors,” he growled. “Where are they now? The few who are left are walking around with brands etched into their faces. And you expect to prevail where they could not?”

  “I believe a determined and dedicated man can do anything.”

  “But no man can do everything.” Then he laughed again. “Not even you and I can.”

  “And others, of course. Many others. Those Chichiméca, for instance, whom you so despise. Their lands have not been conquered, nor have they. And theirs is not the only northern nation still defying the white men. If all of those were to rise up and charge southward… Well, we will talk more, Pochotl, when I have begun my studies.”

  “Talk. Yes, talk. I have heard much of talk.”

  I was waiting at the Colegio entrance for only a short while before the notarius Alonso arrived and greeted me warmly, adding:

  “I was a little concerned, Tenamáxtli, that you might have changed your mind.”

  “About learning your language? Why, I am sincerely determined—”

  “About becoming a Christian,” he said.

  “What?” Taken aback, I protested, “We never discussed any such thing.”

  “I assumed you understood. The Colegio is aparroquial school.”

  “The word tells me nothing, Cuatl Alonso.”

  “A Christian school. Supported by the Church. You must be a Christian to attend.”

  “Well, now …” I muttered.


  He laughed and said, “It is no painful thing to do. Bautismo involves only a touch of water and salt But it cleanses you of all sin, and qualifies you to partake of the Church’s other sacraments, and assures the salvation of your soul.”

  “Well…”

  “It will be a long while before you are sufficiently instructed and prepared for Catecismo and Confirmatión and first Comunión.”

  All those words were also meaningless to me. But I gathered that I would be merely a sort of apprentice Christian during that “long while.” If in the meantime I could learn Spanish, no doubt I could escape from here before I was totally committed to the foreign religion. I shrugged and said, “As you will. Lead on.”

  Which he did, leading me into the building and to a room he said was “the office of the registrador” That personage was a Spanish priest, bald on top like all the others I had seen, but very much fatter below, who eyed me with no great show of enthusiasm. He and Alonso exchanged a fairly lengthy conversation in Spanish, and then the notarius spoke to me again:

  “At bautismo a new convert is given a Christian name, and the custom is to bestow the name of the saint on whose feast day the bautismo is administered. Today being the feast day of Saint Hilarion the Hermit, you will therefore be styled Hilario Ermitano.”

  “I had rather not.”

  “What?”

  I said tentatively, “I believe there is a Christian name called Juan…?”

  “Why, yes,” said Alonso, looking puzzled. I had mentioned that name because—if I had to have one—that had been the Christian name inflicted on my late father Mixtli. Apparently Alonso made no connection with the man who had been executed, because he said with approval, “Then you do know something about our faith. Juan was that discipulo whom Jesus loved best.” I made no reply, for that was just more gibberish to me, so he said, “Then Juan is the name you would prefer?”

  “If there is not some rule forbidding it.”

  “No, no rule … but let me inquire …” He turned again to the fat priest and, after they had conferred, said to me, “Father Ignacío tells me that this is also the feast day of a rather more obscure saint called John of York, once the prior of a priory somewhere in Inglaterra. Very well, Tenamáxtli, you will be christened Juan Britónico.”

  Most of that speech was also incomprehensible to me. And when the priest Ignacío sprinkled water on my head and had me lick a taste of salt from his palm, I regarded the whole ritual as so much nonsense. But I tolerated it, because it clearly meant much to Alonso, and I would not disappoint a friend. So I became Juan Británico and—while I could not know it at the time—I was again being a dupe of those gods who prankishly arrange what seem to be coincidences. Though I very seldom in my life called myself by that new name, it would eventually be heard by some foreigners even more alien than the Spaniards, and that would cause some occurrences most odd.

  “Now then,” said Alonso, “besides Spanish, let us decide what other classes you will avail yourself of, Juan Británico.” He picked up a paper from the priest’s table and scanned it. “Instruction in Christian doctrine, of course. And, should you later be blessed with a calling to holy orders, there is also a class in Latin. Reading, writing—well, those must wait. Several other classes are taught only in Spanish, so those must wait, too. But the teachers of handicrafts are native speakers of Náhuatl. Do any of these appeal to you?” And he read from the list, “Carpentry, blacksmithing, tanning, shoemaking, saddlery, glassworking, beer-brewing, spinning, weaving, tailoring, embroidery, lacemaking, begging of alms—”

  “Begging?!” I exclaimed.

  “In case you should become a friar of a mendicant order.”

  I said dryly, “I have no ambition to become a friar, but I think I could already be called a mendicant, living at the mesón as I do.”

  He looked up from the list. “Tell me, are you competent at reading the Aztec and Maya books of word-pictures, Juan Británico?”

  “I was well taught,” I said. “It would be immodest of me to say how well I learned.”

  “Perhaps you could be of help to me. I am attempting to translate into Spanish what few native books are left in this land. Almost all of them were purged—burned—as being iniquitous and demonic and inimical to the true faith. I manage fairly well with those books whose word-pictures were drawn by speakers of Náhuatl, but some were done by scribes who spoke other languages. Do you think you might be able to help me fathom those?”

  “I could try.”

  “Good. Then I shall ask His Excellency for permission to pay you a stipend. It will not be lavish, but you will be spared the feeling that you are a disgraceful drone, living on charity.” After another exchange with the fat priest Ignacío, he said to me, “I have registered you for only two classes, for now. The one I teach in basic Spanish and the one in Christian instruction taught by Father Diego. Any other classes can wait. In the meantime, you will spend your free hours at the Cathedral, helping me with those native books—what we call the codices.”

  “I shall be pleased,” I said. “And I am greatly obliged to you, Cuatl Alonso.”

  “Let us go upstairs now. Your other classmates should already be seated on their benches and waiting for me.”

  They were, and I was abashed to find that I was the only grown man among some twenty boys and four or five girls. I felt as my cousin Yeyac must have felt, years ago, back in Aztlan’s lower schools, when he had to commence his education with so many classmates who were mere infants. I do not believe there was a single male in the room old enough to wear the maxtlatl under his mantle, and the few girls appeared even younger. Another thing immediately noticeable was the range of skin coloration among us. None of the children was Spanish-white, of course. Most of them were of the same complexion as myself, but a good number were much paler of hue, and two or three were much darker. I realized that the lighter-skinned ones must be the offspring of couplings between Spaniards and us “indios.” But whence came those very dark ones? Obviously one of the parents of each had been of my people … but the other parent?

  I asked no questions right then. I dutifully sat down on one of the benches set in rows and—while those youngsters craned and leaned around to gawk at this hulking adult in their midst—waited for the first lesson to begin. Alonso stood behind a table at the front of the room, and I must say that I admired his clever approach to the teaching of us.

  “We will start,” he said in Náhuatl, “by practicing the open sounds of the Spanish language—ah, ay, ee, oh, oo. They are the same sounds as in these words of your tongue. Listen. Acáli… tene … ibctlil… pochou … calpwli.”

  The words he had uttered were recognizable by even the youngest in the class, since they meant “canoe,” “mother,” “black,” “ceibatree” and “family.”

  He continued, “You will hear the very same sounds again in these Spanish words. Listen. Acáli… banca. Tene … dente. Ixtlil… piso. Pochotl… polvo. Calpúli … muro.”

  He led us in repeating those ten words again and again, stressing the sameness of the “open sounds.” Only then—not to confuse us—did he demonstrate what the Spanish words stood for.

  “Banca,” he said, and reached down to pat one of the front-row benches. “Dente,” and he pointed to one of his own teeth. “Piso,” and he pointed to and stamped his foot on the floor. “Polvo,” and he swept his hand across the table, raising a puff of dust. “Muro,” and he pointed to the wall behind him.

  Then he made us repeat those Spanish words again and again, and join him in pointing to the things meant. Banca, “bench.” Dente, “tooth.” Piso, “floor.” Polvo, “dust.” Muro, “wall.” Now he returned to our own tongue, saying:

  “Very good, class. Now—which of you bright students can tell me five other Náhuatl words that contain those sounds of ah, ay, ee, oh, oo?”

  When nobody, including myself, volunteered to do so, Alonso motioned for a small girl on a front bench to stand up. She did, and began timidly, �
��Acáli… tene …”

  “No, no, no,” said our teacher, wagging his finger. “Those are the same words I gave you. There are many, many others. Who can speak five of them for us?”

  The students, including myself, all sat silent and glanced shyly sideways at each other. So Alonso pointed at me.

  “Juan Británico, you are older and I know you have a good store of words in your head. Tell us five of them that contain those various open sounds.”

  I had already been meditating on this and—I do not know why—a certain five had come into my mind. So now, as mischievously as a schoolboy half my age, I grinned and spoke them:

  “Maátitl… ahuilnéma … tipíli … chitóli… tepúli.”

  A few of the younger children looked blank, but most of the older ones recognized at least some of the words, and gasped with horror or giggled behind their hands, because those were words that any teacher—especially a Christian one teaching in a church school—would not often hear or care to hear.

  Glowering at me, Alonso snapped, “Very comical, you impudent babalicón. Go and stand in that corner with your face to the wall. Stay there, and be ashamed of yourself, until class is dismissed.”

  I did not know what a babalicón was, but I could hazard a guess. So I stood in the corner, feeling that I had been rightfully chastised, and regretting having spoken so to a man who had been kind to me. Anyway, the whole of that day’s lesson was given over to repeating, again and again, innocuous words containing those open sounds. I had already mastered the sounds, and memorized those five Spanish words, so I did not miss much by being ostracized and ignored. Also, after the class, Alonso said to me:

  “It was a rude and unseemly and infantile thing you did, Juan. And I had to be strict with you as a caution to the others. But I must confide that your wicked caprice did relax the stiffness of those children. Most of them were tense and nervous at this commencement of a new experience. They and I will get along more easily and familiarly from now on. So I forgive your deviltry. This time.”