"I saw something today, brother. Can you tell me what it means?"
"What sort of something?"
"May I borrow your quill for a moment?" He gave it to me, and I wrote with that black liquid on the back of my hand (not to spoil any of his paper) the figure G. "What is that, brother?"
He looked at it and said, "Hay."
"Hay?"
"That is the name of the character. Hay. It is a
ayya,
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, Tenamaxtli? 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 Nahuatl very well."
"Not the modern Nahuatl 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 Chichimeca lands far to the north—speak several different dialects of Nahuatl, 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 Mexica call the Chichimeca the Dog People... and the Teochichimeca the Wild Dog People... and the Zacachichimeca the Rabid Dog People. But they are wrong. Those names do not derive from chichine, the word for dog, but from chichiltic—red. Those people are of many different nations and tribes, but when they call themselves collectively the Chichimeca, 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
"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 meson friars a jar."
"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."
"You?!"
"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
Their
"Talk. Yes, talk. I have heard much of
"I assumed you understood. The Colegio is a
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.
"Well..."
"It will be a long while before you are sufficiently instructed and prepared for
Which he did, leading me into the building and to a room he said was "the office of the
"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
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 Ignacio 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, Tenamaxtli, you will be christened Juan Britanico."
Most of that speech was also incomprehensible to me. And when the priest Ignacio 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 Britanico 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 Britanico." 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 Nahuatl. 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—"
"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 Nahuatl, 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 Ignacio, 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
"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?