Aztec Autumn - Jennings Gary - Страница 46
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There were again villages scattered around the lake's rim, replacing those that had been leveled by Guzman's men, but these were in no way distinctive, all their houses having been built in the Spanish style, low and flat, of that dried adobe brick. In the nearest village, directly below the height where I stood, I could see people moving about. All were clad in Mexica fashion and were of my own skin color; I saw no Spaniards anywhere among them. So I descended thither, and greeted the first man I came upon. He was seated on a bench before the doorway of his house, painstakingly whittling and shaping a piece of wood.
I spoke the customary Nahuatl salute, "Mixpantzinco," meaning "In your august presence..."
And he replied, not in Pore, but also in Nahuatl, with the customary polite "Ximopanolti," meaning "At your convenience..." then added, cordially enough, "we do not have many of our fellow Mexica coming to visit Utopia."
I did not want to confuse him by saying that I was actually an Aztecatl, nor did I ask the meaning of that strange word he had just spoken. I said only, "I am a stranger in these parts, and I only recently learned that there were Mexica in this vicinity. It is good to hear my native tongue spoken again. My name is Tenamaxtli."
"Mixpantzinco, Cuatl Tenamaxtli," he said courteously. "I am called Erasmo Martir."
"Ah, after that Christian saint. I too have a Christian name. Juan Britanico."
"If you are a Christian, and if you are looking for employment, our good Padre Vasco may make room for you here. Have you a wife and children somewhere?"
"No, Cuatl Erasmo. I am a solitary wayfarer."
"Too bad." He shook his head sympathetically. "Padre Vasco accepts only settlers with families. However, if you care to stay for a time, he will most hospitably afford you guest lodging. You will find him in Santa Cruz Patzcuaro, the next village west along the lake."
"I will go there, then, and not keep you from your work."
"Ayyo, you are no hindrance. The padre does not make us labor unceasingly, like slaves, and it is pleasant to converse with a newcome Mexicatl."
"What is it that you are making, anyway?"
"This will be a mecahuehuetl," he said, indicating some nearly finished parts behind the bench. They were pieces of wood about the size and gracefully curvaceous shape of a woman's torso.
I nodded, recognizing what the parts would be when assembled. "What the Spaniards call a guitarra."
Of the musical instruments that the Spanish introduced to New Spain, most were at least basically similar to those already known in our One World. That is to say, they made music by being blown through or shaken or struck with sticks or rasped with a notched rod. But the Spaniards had also brought instruments totally different from ours, such as this guitarra and the vihuela, the arpa, the mandolina. All of our people were much amazed—and admiring—that such instruments could make sweet music from mere strings, tightly strung, being plucked with the fingers or rasped with an arco.
"But why," I asked Erasmo, "are you copying a foreign novelty? Surely the white men have their own guitarra makers."
"Not so expert as we are," he said proudly. "The padre and his assistants taught us how to make these, and now he says we make these mecahuehuetin superior even to those brought from Old Spain."
"We?" I echoed. "You are not the only maker of guitarras?"
"No, indeed. Every man here in San Marcos Churitzio concentrates on this one craft. It is the particular enterprise assigned to this village, as other villages of Utopia each produce lacquerwork or copperware or whatever."
"Why?" was all I could think to say, for I had never before known of any community devoted to doing just one thing and nothing else.
"Go and talk to Padre Vasco," said Erasmo. "He will be happy to tell you all about his engendering of our Utopia."
"I will do that. Thank you, Cuatl Erasmo, and mixpantzinco."
Instead of saying "ximopanolti" in farewell, he said, "Vaya con Dios," and added cheerfully, "Come again, Cuatl Juan. Someday I intend to learn to play music from one of these things."
I trudged on westward, but halted in an uninhabited area and went among some bushes to change from my mantle and loincloth into the shirt and trousers and boots I carried in my pack. So I was Spanishly attired when I arrived at Santa Cruz Patzcuaro. On inquiry, I was directed to the small adobe church and its attached casa de cura. The padre himself answered the door there; he was in no wise so aloof and inaccessible as most Christian priests are. Also, he was dressed in sturdy, heavy, work-stained shirt and breeches, not a black gown.
I made bold to introduce myself, in Spanish, as Juan Britanico, lay assistant to Fray Alonso de Molina, notarius of Bishop Zumarraga's Cathedral and said I was presently engaged, at my master Alonso's behest, in visiting Church missions in these hinterlands, to evaluate and report on their progress.
"Ah, I think you will give good report of ours, my son," said the padre. "And I am pleased to hear that Alonso is still toiling so assiduously in the vineyards of Mother Church. I remember the lad most fondly."
So I and my prevarication were instantly accepted, without question, by the good priest. And good I found him truly to be. Padre Vasco de Quiroga was a tall, thin, austere-looking but really merry-humored man. He was old enough to be bald enough that he required no tonsure, but he was still vigorous, as was attested by his work clothes, for which he humbly apologized.
"I should be properly cassocked to welcome an emissary of the bishop, but I am today helping my friars build a pigsty behind this house."
"Do not let me interrupt—"
"No, no, no. Por cielo, I am glad to take a respite. Sit down, son Juan. I can see that you are dusty from the road." He called to someone in some other room to bring us wine. "Sit, sit, my boy. And tell me. Have you yet seen much of what the Lord has helped us to accomplish hereabouts?"
"Only a little. I talked for a while to an Erasmo Martir."
"Ah, yes. Of all our skillful guitarra makers, perhaps the most skillful. And a devout Christian convert. Then tell me also, Juan Britanico. Since you are named for an English saint, are you perhaps acquainted with the late saintly Don Tomas Moro, also of England?"
"No, padre. But—excuse me—I was given to understand that the men of England are white men."
"So they are. Moro was this man's name, not his race or color. He was but lately and unjustly and vilely slain—his Christian piety his only crime—executed by the king of that England, who is an odious and despicable heretic. Anyway, if you do not know of Don Tomas, I suppose you do not know of his far-famed book, De optima Reipublicae statu..."
"No, padre."
"Or of the Utopia he prefigured in that book?"
"No, padre, except that I heard the artisan Erasmo speak the word."
"Well, Utopia is what we are trying to create here, around the shores of this paradisal lake. I only wish I could have undertaken it years ago. But I have not been that long a priest."
A young friar came in, bringing two exquisitely carved and lacquered wooden cups, clearly Purempe products. He handed one to each of us and silently withdrew, and I drank gratefully of the cool wine.
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