The Goldsmith's Daughter (5 page)

I did not mean to be cruel, but as I examined it I realized his work was ill done: he had marred the beauty of the stones in setting them, rather than enhancing them.

I was out of sorts, or I would have chosen my words more carefully. I did not bother with soothing tact, but merely said, “It is badly made,” and handed his work back to him.

Mitotiqui's brow furrowed, but only for a moment. He had become accustomed to my curtness and was not troubled. Besides, he had an open heart and a generous nature; if my criticism was just, he would accept it.

“You think so?” he asked. “How should it be done?”

I took the necklet once more and examined the stones. He had matched them with little thought to hue and shape, and I told him so. Several small flawed turquoises were embedded around a perfect jade of infinitely superior quality. The turquoises clashed with the jade, somehow draining it of colour. And as for the setting he had worked around them…

“Look at the jade,” I said. “Feel its weight; see its shape. It should be framed by the gold, not weighed down by it. You have made it look as though … as though…” I struggled to find an apt description, but Mitotiqui supplied one for me.

“As though a bird's dropping has landed on it!”

I smiled at him, laughing. But then our father's voice slid like a knife between us.

“Quite so.”

These words alarmed us as neither Mitotiqui nor I had heard his approach. We sprang apart guiltily, although why we did so was a puzzle, for we had done nothing wrong.

Our father studied our faces closely in the fading light. We had become so used to his indifference that such intensity was a frightening thing. Furtively I glanced at Mitotiqui, but his expression mirrored my own; neither of us knew what to say.

My father broke our silence. Crossing the room and taking my arm, he led me into the courtyard. Pointing at the ground he said, “There! Show me what you would have done with the jade.”

It was a test, a challenge: one I did not wish to fail. My heart pounded. I did not know what my father meant by it, but I felt the moment was heavy with significance. I would not be hurried. I held the necklet in my hand and considered the jade. It was a perfect circle of smooth, even colour. How best to enhance its beauty? It should stand alone, of that I was certain, not compete against other beads. Not a necklet, then… Perhaps a figurine?

While the sun's last rays streaked the sky blood red, I found a sharp stone and scratched the image of Tezcatlipoca, the god who brings fortune, on the terracotta tiles, the jade the mirror in which the god sees the future. It was hastily done, but not poorly. The shape I had drawn was elegant and apt.

My father expelled a long breath. Slowly he nodded his approval.

“You have the eye of a goldsmith!” he exclaimed, and his tone was one of wonder. He whispered, almost to himself, “My own seem to have been tight shut these many years.” Then, grasping my chin in his hand, he softly spoke my name. “Itacate.” A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he looked at me, seemingly for the first time. “Child, you have the face of your mother!”

His voice was so unexpectedly tender that my vision was briefly blurred with tears. Wiping them away, I glanced at my brother to see his reaction to this strange scene.

Mitotiqui stood framed in the doorway, lit red by the dying light. He was struggling to compose his features, but I could read the emotion upon them. He – the glorious child whom the gods favoured – had never had cause to feel envy before, not of me, not of anyone. But now it burst into his heart with all the heated energy and raw strength of a new-made sun.

Brilliant. Fierce. Searing.

He turned away, for he did not know how to control his anguish. My own heart contracted and I felt then that I was cursed. It seemed bitter indeed that at the very moment my father had looked at me and seen something more than an ill-favoured daughter, my brother's face had become stained by the dark cloud of jealousy.

I
t had taken my father fifteen years to recall that he had a daughter. It did not take him so long to make use of me.

The next market day, instead of going to the square with Mayatl as usual, I accompanied my father there, walking three steps behind him, head bowed, the very picture of a dutiful daughter. And this time I did not stop amongst the fresh fruit and vegetables. Instead I followed where he led, winding through stalls piled high with turkeys, deer, rabbits, fish. The smell of dead flesh jostled with the scents of heady oils and perfumes. My father led me past the sellers of pots and jars and bowls, and the vendors of fine cloaks and sandals. We did not pause to admire the bright displays of precious feathers laid out by Mayan traders, nor the skins of jaguar and panther spread on the ground by those of the Otomi tribe. My father walked, his eyes fixed on the far corner.

I knew where he led. As children, Mitotiqui and I had often evaded Mayatl's clutches and lost ourselves in this vast, crowded throng. Like moths to the moon we would always be drawn to the place where my father now took me. A canal ran along one side of the square. Heavily laden canoes banged against the stone quay, and each other, threatening to unbalance and capsize. At the furthest end merchants from the very edges of the world traded precious stones, silver and gold. Children are invisible to some adults' eyes, and we had spent many hours staring and giggling at the strange foreigners with their unfamiliar dialects and exotic dress.

Thinking about my brother now brought a stab of sorrow to my chest. Mitotiqui fought and struggled against his jealousy, but my father – all unknowing – poured salt in his wound with every word he spoke. At our evening meals, he had taken to bringing in pieces he had worked on during the day to show me how they had been made, and to ask my opinion of them. He did not ask for Mitotiqui's. Thrilled and flattered though I was to have our father's favour suddenly, I felt the pain it gave my brother. And so in the space of a few days our meals had become strained, uncomfortable affairs. I had never imagined that Mitotiqui's time in our father's workshop might have been as torturous to him as the loom was to me; he had never spoken of it. But then neither had I told him how much I hated my weaving. We were twins; we had shared the same womb. And yet now, how little we seemed to know of each other!

It was something of a relief to be in the marketplace with my father alone. Mitotiqui was in the calmecac that day. For now at least I did not have to juggle the bad feelings of one against the good opinion of the other.

As we approached the traders, they began to call out to my father.

“Oquitchli! See here! I have fine black obsidian – very rare.”

“I have pearls from the distant shores – only the highest quality for you, Oquitchli.”

“Oquitchli! I have an amber here that you would trade your mother for!”

My father gave a rueful laugh. We both knew he had not exchanged a word with his mother since his choice of bride had so offended her. “By all the gods, I believe I would trade her for a grain of salt!” he muttered to me. But he extended his hand for the amber and began to examine it.

It was a fine stone, and as my father turned it over my palms tingled with excitement. A piece of great splendour could be worked around such a jewel!

My father seemed pleased and began to talk over the price with Popotl the trader, first giving the stone to me. Popotl raised his eyebrows in surprise, but said nothing.

I weighed the gem, still warm from my father's touch, in my hand. It was beautiful, as large as a chicken's egg and suffused with a rich, honeyed glow. And yet a prickle stirred the hairs on my neck. Something was amiss. I held it to the light, examining it minutely. It seemed perfect, and yet some instinct told me to continue. I twisted it slowly in the sunlight, and – yes, I was right! A tiny fissure ran through the stone. If it was worked, the gem would crack in two.

My father was about to complete the transaction. I hesitated, not knowing how to speak in front of the trader, for I – a girl – should hold my tongue in the presence of men. I laid my hand upon my father's arm and gave a slight pull. He turned, frowning.

“Is something the matter, Itacate?” he said coldly.

“There is a flaw,” I answered quietly.

“Show me.”

My father studied the gem, holding it to the light as I had done, and then handed it back to the trader, saying, “Sadly, Popotl, your stone is blemished.”

I kept my eyes lowered while Popotl examined his amber. After a long pause he spoke. “You are right, Oquitchli. I had not seen it. My most sincere apologies. I did not intend to sell you inferior goods.” He bowed respectfully to my father, his glance flicking nervously towards the raised platform where the council was gathered. These men had the duty of overseeing the market, ensuring that all was sold in the correct place and at the correct price. Penalties for those caught cheating were high: a dishonest merchant would be shamed, perhaps even stoned, if his crime was great.

My father chose to believe Popotl's mistake was genuine. “No matter,” he said. “What else can you show me?”

More stones were produced, and these my father also gave to me for my inspection. At last we purchased what he needed: nothing so spectacular as the amber, but all gems of fine quality.

We made our way through the crowds without speaking. Along the canal, over the bridge that spanned it. As we journeyed homewards, my father stopped walking and turned to face me.

“I did not see the fault in the amber,” he said thoughtfully. “Indeed, I did not even know you were right until Popotl confirmed it.”

I said nothing, but was astonished at my father's sudden trust in me. I also wondered with some alarm what would have happened if Popotl had not admitted the flaw.

“It seems your eyes see more than mine these days, Itacate. I think I must make use of them for grading the stones I work with. I would like your help for a short time in the mornings. Will you mind being taken from the kitchen?”

It was but a small lessening of my domestic burden, yet much discipline, much self-control, it took to prevent myself crying out with joy. I kept my eyes lowered until I could compose my features into a suitable expression.

“No, Father,” I said humbly. “I shall be happy to aid you however you wish.”

He nodded, content, and walked onwards. Again I followed, but now my blood thrilled. Sad though I was that my father's sight had dimmed with age, I felt like a slave who had touched the palace walls and gained freedom. To be invited into my father's workshop – to have my assistance sought – was like having a new life spread out before me, and the sight of it was glorious.

My father did not go straight home, but wandered awhile through Tlaltelolco. He had stopped and turned to speak to me once more when I smelt smoke. I was not alone; suddenly everyone in the crowded street looked towards the temple.

With no warning and no apparent cause, it was violently ablaze. As we watched, wings of flame rushed from the doors of the sacred shrine that topped the pyramid and flared into the sky. For a moment, I was immobilized with shock, but screams of “Bring water!”, “Fill jars!”, “Put it out!” and “The temple must not burn!” brought me to my senses.

With so many people dousing the fire – it seemed everyone who heard the cries ran to help – surely the building would be saved? A woman came from her house, a jar under each arm. Taking one from her, I filled it from the canal and ran up the steps, throwing my water on the flames. They only seemed to leap higher in response.

I sped back to the canal. Two, three, four times I scaled those steep steps, and each time the blaze grew stronger. The frantic crowd continued to work, but it was in vain. Although the pyramid streamed with water – my clothes were drenched – the fire would not be put out. At last the throng of people was beaten back by the terrible heat. Stone crumbled like charcoal and with a great crash the temple fell.

Following that heated roar came a deathlike silence broken only by the sound of blood pounding in my ears. I stared at the smoking ruin, sick with fear at what it might mean.

For then the crowd began to whisper of what – or who – had caused the gods such offence that they would strike the shrine in this way. My heart chilled. The deity whose temple now lay in ruins was Tezcatlipoca, the very god whose image I had scratched upon the terracotta tiles of my home.