F0147 · The Maroon Kingdom / The Three Oaths
The Three Oaths
Farid walked through the streets of Seville, thinking. That morning he had awakened with a very strange feeling of fulfillment. He had looked out of the window and seen the garden and the city. Down below were Garci and his mother, the Moorish woman whom the Lord of the Saltworks was trying to protect. They were talking to a Venetian, and the light was so beautiful and the air so clean that he felt something he thought he had forgotten. He went out into the garden, wandered among the honeysuckle and lay down beneath a tree. There was something he had not told Alberto. He had not felt he could confide in him, among other things because he realized that the monk had lost all faith. Absorbed in philosophical theories, in love of man rather than love of God, he would have been incapable of understanding that, when they were about to castrate him, Farid had sworn an oath. He was bound, with a stick thrust into his mouth so that his cries could not be heard. He was naked and utterly defenseless. He felt like an animal, a pig worth nothing. Then for the first time he swore an oath: “most high Jesus Christ,” he told himself, “I have never believed in you, but I will give you my life if you get me out of this place.” Nothing happened. The woman opened his testicles and cut the seminal ducts. Outwardly, naked, he would look like a completely normal boy, but puberty would never come to him. His voice would never change, and he would be perfect for work in a seraglio or in one of those brothels frequented by lovers of innocence because they want to defile it.
Now Farid walked through the streets of Seville, and when he crossed the bridge and turned to look at the cathedral, he remembered the city of Rome. That oath had led him along many roads. For although that God, so different from Hákim, the one his mother had taught him about, seemed to have done nothing, Farid survived. He watched Rashid bleeding to death on the next table, watched the old woman who had castrated them closing his eyes with a mother’s tenderness, and thought he heard her murmur in the language of the desert: better this way. God has willed it so, that you should die a martyr. The slave trader, warned of the danger of the operation, did not seem too upset. After all, there was Farid, filled from head to foot with a pain that sprang from the center of his body, from his manhood. Who can hope to be loved by God for being beautiful or intelligent? he asked himself. Suffering is the only path of communication with the one who has had to strip himself of divinity to clothe himself in time.
He awoke because a movement caused him pain. He was in a cart and knew, perhaps because he had heard it or because he felt his absence, that Rashid had died. As soon as he opened his eyes, he saw beside him a Venetian boy who stroked his hair and very tenderly asked him not to move, so as not to hurt himself. He had been castrated. He remembered dreaming that he wandered with that boy, dressed as a page, through a feast full of pagans who drank and laughed and ate pork. He also remembered that Rashid had looked up at the sky and was looking at Hákim the prophet. He descended wrapped in angels and light, but the pagans laid him on a table and fell upon him like jackals, like ghouls, to devour him. So great was that child’s suffering that Farid murmured for the second time.
—Most High Jesus Christ, I have never believed in you, but I give you my life if you get me out of this place.
It was then that he awoke, but he remembered the oath. The cart moved along a road, and he discovered that he was in a completely unknown place, high on a cliff from which the sea could be seen. Farid had never seen it, and he was surprised that he felt so ill that all that blue blending with the sky left him utterly indifferent. He was in Cyprus, as he would learn a few weeks later, and was climbing toward the highest of the Troodos mountains, where he saw a half-ruined castle.
—Do not move —the man told him in the language of the desert—. You now belong to Duke Isaac.
He fell asleep again.
F0147 · The Maroon Kingdom / The Three Oaths
The Three Oaths
Farid walked through the streets of Seville, thinking. That morning he had awakened with a very strange feeling of fulfillment. He had looked out of the window and seen the garden and the city. Down below were Garci and his mother, the Moorish woman whom the Lord of the Saltworks was trying to protect. They were talking to a Venetian, and the light was so beautiful and the air so clean that he felt something he thought he had forgotten. He went out into the garden, wandered among the honeysuckle and lay down beneath a tree. There was something he had not told Alberto. He had not felt he could confide in him, among other things because he realized that the monk had lost all faith. Absorbed in philosophical theories, in love of man rather than love of God, he would have been incapable of understanding that, when they were about to castrate him, Farid had sworn an oath. He was bound, with a stick thrust into his mouth so that his cries could not be heard. He was naked and utterly defenseless. He felt like an animal, a pig worth nothing. Then for the first time he swore an oath: “most high Jesus Christ,” he told himself, “I have never believed in you, but I will give you my life if you get me out of this place.” Nothing happened. The woman opened his testicles and cut the seminal ducts. Outwardly, naked, he would look like a completely normal boy, but puberty would never come to him. His voice would never change, and he would be perfect for work in a seraglio or in one of those brothels frequented by lovers of innocence because they want to defile it.
Now Farid walked through the streets of Seville, and when he crossed the bridge and turned to look at the cathedral, he remembered the city of Rome. That oath had led him along many roads. For although that God, so different from Hákim, the one his mother had taught him about, seemed to have done nothing, Farid survived. He watched Rashid bleeding to death on the next table, watched the old woman who had castrated them closing his eyes with a mother’s tenderness, and thought he heard her murmur in the language of the desert: better this way. God has willed it so, that you should die a martyr. The slave trader, warned of the danger of the operation, did not seem too upset. After all, there was Farid, filled from head to foot with a pain that sprang from the center of his body, from his manhood. Who can hope to be loved by God for being beautiful or intelligent? he asked himself. Suffering is the only path of communication with the one who has had to strip himself of divinity to clothe himself in time.
He awoke because a movement caused him pain. He was in a cart and knew, perhaps because he had heard it or because he felt his absence, that Rashid had died. As soon as he opened his eyes, he saw beside him a Venetian boy who stroked his hair and very tenderly asked him not to move, so as not to hurt himself. He had been castrated. He remembered dreaming that he wandered with that boy, dressed as a page, through a feast full of pagans who drank and laughed and ate pork. He also remembered that Rashid had looked up at the sky and was looking at Hákim the prophet. He descended wrapped in angels and light, but the pagans laid him on a table and fell upon him like jackals, like ghouls, to devour him. So great was that child’s suffering that Farid murmured for the second time.
—Most High Jesus Christ, I have never believed in you, but I give you my life if you get me out of this place.
It was then that he awoke, but he remembered the oath. The cart moved along a road, and he discovered that he was in a completely unknown place, high on a cliff from which the sea could be seen. Farid had never seen it, and he was surprised that he felt so ill that all that blue blending with the sky left him utterly indifferent. He was in Cyprus, as he would learn a few weeks later, and was climbing toward the highest of the Troodos mountains, where he saw a half-ruined castle.
—Do not move —the man told him in the language of the desert—. You now belong to Duke Isaac.
He fell asleep again.
F0147 · El Reino Cimarrón / Los tres juramentos
Los tres juramentos
Farid caminaba por las calles de Sevilla pensando. Aquella mañana había despertado con una sensación de plenitud muy extraña. Había mirado fuera de la ventana y había visto el jardín y la ciudad. Allá abajo estaba Garci y su madre, la mora a quien el Señor de las Salinas estaba tratando de proteger. Conversaban con un veneciano y la luz era tan hermosa y el aire tan limpio que sintió algo que creyó haber olvidado. Salió al jardín y estuvo paseando entre las madreselvas y se echó bajo un árbol. Había algo que no había contado a Alberto. No había sentido confianza, entre otras cosas porque se daba cuenta de que el monje había perdido toda la fe. Ensimismado en teorías filosóficas en amor al hombre y no en amor a Dios habría sido incapaz de entender que, cuando estaban a punto de castrarlo, Farid pronunció un juramento. Estaba atado, con una vara metida en la boca para que sus gritos no pudieran escucharse. Estaba desnudo y completamente indefenso. Se sentía un animal, un cerdo que no vale nada. Entonces pronunció por primera vez un juramento: “altísimo Jesucristo”, se dijo “nunca he creído en ti, pero te regalaré mi vida si me sacas de este lugar.” No sucedió nada. La mujer le abrió los testículos y cortó los conductos seminales. Exteriormente, desnudo, parecería un muchacho completamente normal, pero no llegaría a él nunca la pubertad. Nunca cambiaría su voz y sería perfecto para trabajar en un serallo o en uno de esos burdeles a los que asisten los amantes de la inocencia porque quieren mancharla.
Ahora Farid caminaba por las calles de Sevilla y cuando cruzó el puente y se giró para mirar la catedral recordó la ciudad de Roma. Por muchos caminos lo había llevado aquel juramento. Porque a pesar de que aquel Dios tan diferente a Hákim, el que le había enseñado su madre, no parecía haber hecho nada, Farid sobrevivió. Miró a Rashid desangrándose en la mesa de junto, miró a la vieja que los había castrado cerrándole los ojos con un cariño de madre y creyó escucharla murmurar en el idioma del desierto: mejor así. Así lo ha querido Dios, que mueras como un mártir. El vendedor de esclavos, advertido de lo peligroso de la operación, no mostró demasiada molestia. Después de todo ahí estaba Farid lleno desde los pies hasta la cabeza de un dolor que nacía del centro de su cuerpo, de su virilidad. ¿Quién puede aspirar a ser amado por Dios por hermoso o inteligente?, se dijo. El sufrimiento es el único camino de comunicación con aquel que ha tenido que desvestirse de divinidad para vestirse de tiempo.
Despertó porque un movimiento le producía dolor. Estaba en una carreta y supo, tal vez porque lo había escuchado o porque sintió su ausencia, que Rashid había muerto. En cuanto abrió a los ojos miró junto de él a un muchacho veneciano que le acarició el cabello y con mucha ternura le pidió que no se moviera para no lastimarse. Había sido castrado. Recordó haber soñado que vagaba con aquel muchacho vestido de paje por una fiesta llena de paganos que bebían y reían y comían cerdo. Recordaba también que Rashid había visto al cielo y miraba a Hákim el profeta. Bajaba arropado de ángeles y luz, pero los paganos lo tendían sobre una mesa y se lanzaban sobre de él como los chacales como los guls para devorarlo. Era tanto el sufrimiento de aquel niño que Farid murmuraba por segunda vez.
—Altísimo Jesucristo, nunca he creído en ti, pero te doy mi vida si me sacas de este lugar.
Fue entonces que despertó, pero recordaba el juramento. La carreta se movió por una carretera y él descubrió que estaba en un lugar completamente desconocido, en lo alto de un farallón desde el que podía verse el mar. Farid no lo había visto nunca y le sorprendió que se sintiera tan mal que todo aquel azul que se confundía con el cielo le resultara completamente indiferente. Estaba en Chipre, lo sabría algunas semanas después y que subía hasta el más alto de los montes de los Troodos donde miró un castillo a medio derruir.
—No te muevas —le dijo el hombre en el lenguaje del desierto—. Ahora perteneces al duque Isaac.
Volvió a dormirse.