The Goldsmith's Daughter (16 page)

I
had felt the gods' presence when I had made the figures for our emperor. They had directed my fingers and filled my soul with the knowledge and skill to create that which did them due honour.

It was not so now. I had been abandoned.

I mixed charcoal with clay, and under the watchful eye of the youth started to craft the statue's core. The pressure of his stare made my fingers clumsy and talentless. As the long day wore on, my shoulders ached under the burden; my neck became stiff with tension; a throbbing pain drummed at my temples.

At noon a slave girl brought us food. I carried mine to the far corner of the courtyard and ate alone. I did not glance at him. Not once. I feared that if I took just one look at those lake-blue eyes I would be unable to pull my gaze away. And so I studied the tiles. The carved pillars. The Mixtec gold. The strangers' statues of their gods. My eyes roamed anywhere, everywhere, but never towards him. And yet I knew everything that he did; awareness of his movements seeped through my skin. I felt him sample each dish, and pick out morsels for the dog that sat beside him. Knew he smiled when he tasted the foaming chocolate. And when he stretched out in the shade and began to doze, my whole body seemed weakened by an intense, unfamiliar longing.

Only when his breath deepened and slowed did I turn to look at him. Hungrily I consumed every detail: how his hair glinted gold where the sun caught it; how the dark lashes curved against his cheek; how he alone amongst his countrymen kept his pale skin scrubbed clean.

He stirred. Swiftly, I snatched my gaze away and forced my attention back to my task.

At last I finished the core, but not to my satisfaction. Glancing from it to the wooden figurine, I saw I had misjudged the proportions. If I continued and set wax upon it, my finished statue would be a distortion of the original. The goddess would have elongated limbs, a bloated face. And as for the baby in her arms – it looked more like a demon than an infant!

In anger I pushed it to the ground, crushing the clay beneath my palms until it was flattened. A day's work was ruined in an instant.

The youth spoke. “You were not content?” he asked.

“I was not.” Rubbing my temples, I glared at the wooden woman. I had never before struggled with my art. To lose my skill now, at such a time! Tears threatened to spill from my eyes. “I have no understanding of this goddess!” I exclaimed. “My heart does not tell my fingers what to do.”

“Will you let me help you?”

“
You?
”

“I was a goldsmith in my own land.”

Astonishment made my mouth gape. He smiled at my expression. “Do not be surprised. The men of my race have their trades too.”

“Then why have I been called here? Can you not craft such a figure?”

“No. Not alone. I was an apprentice only.” He sighed. “Truly I thought my master was a craftsman until I came to this land. The work I have seen here makes my hands feel heavy as a baker's kneading dough. I have no knowledge of your methods. And yet I can help you, if you will permit me. I understand how the virgin should look.” He glanced at the mess of charcoal and clay that lay on the tiles.

“Not like that,” I said.

“No. You are right to try again. But the light is fading. At dawn you can begin once more. And – with your consent – I will assist you.”

I made no protest. The emperor's wrath hung on the horizon like a gathering storm. I did not wish to bring it closer. If I had to work alongside this youth, I would do so. But I would not talk to him. I could not. He was my enemy! How many of my race had he slaughtered at Cholula? I had to quell the turmoil within.

I had been provided with a warm cloak for bedding. Wrapping myself in it, I sat upright, jaw clenched shut, upon a mat. I had thought he would return to the other men now the work was done for the day, but he did not. Instead he lay, head resting on the broad flank of his dog, and began to speak.

“Are you not curious to know where I come from?” he asked.

“No,” I lied.

“Will you have no conversation with me?”

“The emperor does not commission me to talk.”

He laughed. “Very well,” he said. “I see you are determined. You need not reply. Cover your ears if you must, but I wish to speak. I am called Francisco. Do you have a name?”

My treacherous heart seized gladly upon this knowledge, but I gave no answer.

“I shall call you the silent goldsmith, then. I come from across the sea.”

I could not help exclaiming. “But how is that possible? At the horizon the sea falls into nothing.”

“It does not! There are other lands beyond the horizon. More than you can dream of. I come from a land we call Spain; it is another country. Hot, like this. With many towns and cities.”

I was snared, like a bird in a net. My curiosity could not be contained. “Like Tenochtitlán?” I asked.

“No!” he replied. “Dear god, no. I can truly say that there is no city in the world so large or so beautiful as Tenochtitlán. It humbles even Venice.”

“Venice?”

“A city famed for its beauty. Built on water, like this one. But nothing like so big, or so beautiful. Or so clean!”

“And your country … it has an emperor?”

“Yes. He is Charles, the fifth emperor of Spain. A mighty ruler who governs many people and many lands.”

I was perplexed. “How can it be that we had never heard of him?”

Francisco turned onto his side, propping his head on a hand as he answered, “No more had we Spaniards heard of you. We first found this land just a few years ago. We thought it to be a group of islands. It was not until later that we realized it was a great continent. We too are mightily surprised by what we find. You are as new to me as I to you.”

There was a pause while we studied each other. He looked at me with the frank openness of one boy talking to another. Yet I could not hold his gaze. I felt uncomfortably hot, yet in the next instant was so cold that my skin prickled with bumps.

To mask my sudden shivering, I asked, “How do you know my language?”

“The journey here took many long months. I listened well. I was considered a fair scholar in my own country; it was not so hard to learn.”

I could not resist the temptation to puncture the pride in his voice. “And yet your knowledge has many gaps, for you have learnt from men and warriors.”

“What gaps?”

“You know what to call the food that is set before you when you eat, but do you know the words for the corn it is ground from? The stone used to crush it?”

“But these are women's matters, are they not? From whom would I learn them?”

I changed the conversation's direction at once. “Why do you come here? Is it true that you are sick? That you have a disease of the heart for which you seek a remedy?”

Francisco laughed, but the sound was harsh and contained no trace of mirth. “The tale has travelled before us,” he replied, and his voice was suddenly sharp. “Yes… You could well say we are sick men.”

In the gathering darkness I watched for his reaction to my next words. “They say that gold gives you the cure. Can it really be so?”

Francisco rolled onto his back, a hand pressed to his chest as if to ease a pain there, and looked up at the stars. “If greed is a sickness, then yes, we are all afflicted by it. We are rotten to the core; riddled with disease. Our leader more than any. But believe me, my silent goldsmith, gold does not cure it. It is like drinking salt water: no man is satiated by it. The more he has, the more he needs; the more his mind runs mad with desire for it.” His voice then dropped so low, I strained to catch his words.

“It will be the death of us.”

O
ur work began at first light. I had lost an entire day's labour, and we were both aware of the urgency of the task. Mixing fresh clay and charcoal, I started to shape the new core.

Francisco said little. His mood had darkened overnight and he had no desire for idle chatter. When we spoke it was of the statue and nothing else. He did not touch it, but made many comments: “The head is too large; you must remove some for the chin” or “Her arm must curve more.” Each remark helped me see more clearly the shape of the figure I was striving for. By the time the slave girl brought our noonday meal the core was completed.

There was nothing more to be done until the clay had hardened sufficiently to take the wax. Working beside Francisco, as I had done all morning, had roused my desire to know more of his country. Of him. Try as I might, I could not douse it. This time it was I who began to talk.

Looking at the huge dog at his side, I recalled the tales of the creatures who ripped out warriors' throats in battle. Was this animal truly one of them? Would it soon be set upon the men of my own city?

“Your beast,” I said. “Has it killed many men?”

Francisco laughed loudly. “No!” He fondled the dog's ears with affection. “She is a hunting dog, not one of war. And she is a coward, though she looks so fearsome.”

“She is yours?”

“She has become mine. I found her in the forest when we first came to this land. We were sent ashore for fresh water. The expedition that was there the year before had left her behind.” He chuckled. “She scared me half to death! The sailors had been telling fearful tales of dog warriors who live in the jungle. When she leapt at me out of the bushes I thought my end had come! I fled back to the ship screaming like a simpleton.”

“The ship? What is that?”

“A vessel. Like your canoes but much larger. With sails – great cloaks – that catch the wind and drive it across the ocean.”

“Like a temple on the water?”

“A what? Oh – a pyramid. Yes, I suppose so.”

“I see.”

“I was running across the beach towards the ship when she caught up with me, knocked me to the ground and licked me. I thought the sailors would soil themselves with laughing. She was so glad to be found! She has been my companion ever since.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Indeed. The sailors named her Eve in mockery of me. I made the mistake of once saying the jungle looked like Eden—”

“Eden?”

“The garden of Eden. The world, when it was created, was called Eden. It was peopled with the first man and woman. He was called Adam, and she was Eve. It was a paradise on earth.”

“Was?” I asked. “Is it here no longer?”

A cloud seemed to pass across Francisco's face. His mouth was pinched as though he had tasted something foul. “No… It was spoilt.” He stood abruptly. “The core is hardened,” he said. “We must work once more.”

Without speaking, he assisted me with the task of sticking lumps of wax onto the solid core. When it was covered, I picked up my father's tools and began to sculpt.

I could not summon the same confidence with which I had shaped the figures of my own gods. I was nervous, hesitant, unsure of my subject. Each mark I made needed Francisco's nod of approval before I dared move on to the next. It was slow work. I had achieved little when the light started to fail.

“You struggle to make sense of this piece,” he observed.

“I do.”

“If you do not succeed…” Francisco said slowly. “Tell me … in your city what is the price of failure?”

I shuddered, but did not answer him. And yet he seemed to know what threat hung over me.

“We must find a way to give you understanding,” he said. “Perhaps you need to comprehend more about what you are striving to create. The madonna is all tenderness. She is the very essence of motherhood.” He handed me a spiced tamale, his fingertips brushing lightly against my palm, a careless touch that set my flesh tingling.

“Does your mother live?” he asked.

“No.”

“A pity,” he said softly. “But do you have no recollection of the love with which she tended you?”

“None.”

My brief answers did not alter his line of reasoning. He was not so easily deflected. Leaning against a pillar, he stared up at the fast-appearing stars.

“Every child longs for their mother's care, whether they have it or not. Let that lead you. Your eyes have sought to make a copy; perhaps your feelings will prove a truer guide to your fingers.” He turned his gaze from the stars to my face and said quietly, “The heart is a fragile organ, is it not? It must cleave to something.”

“Does yours?”

“Yes. Mine was given the day we entered this city. I lost it on the causeway.” He paused for a moment, and then said, sighing, “I am a man, the same as you. Do not all men crave a woman's love?”

He looked at me searchingly and waited for me to speak.

But though I opened my mouth, I could find no words. I turned away. In my agony of confusion I could neither meet his gaze nor give him an answer.