The Discovery of Chocolate: A Novel. James Runcie
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did not understand me, saying again the strange word for the drink she had given me, although this time it sounded different – chocolatl.
I pointed to my breast.
‘Diego. Diego de Godoy.’
She repeated my words, as if I had two Christian names. ‘Diego – Diego de Godoy.’
‘Diego,’ I insisted, and then stretched out my arm to point to her.
She took my hand in hers and placed it on her breast. ‘Quiauhxochitl.’
‘It means Rain-Flower.’
The wife of Cortés had appeared by my side.
‘You will never be able to pronounce it,’ she said dryly. ‘Call her Ignacia.’
‘After Ignatius of Antioch,’ added the priest who accompanied Doña Marina, looking at the girl intently. ‘Ignis is Latin for fire, you know. You must burn with love of the Lord …’
‘And with love for his creation …’ Doña Marina added tartly, inspecting the girl’s body with wry, almost competitive amusement.
Our peace was broken.
‘Ignacia,’ I said.
‘Ignacia.’
She smiled and returned to her work, serving Ortiz, the musician, who began to ingratiate himself immediately. I was convinced that he received the same look that I had accepted myself when first arriving at her stall, and a second violent emotion overcame me, as I moved, in an instant, from incipient passion to total jealousy. I had never known such volatility of heart and felt in such torment that I could have killed Ortiz on the spot.
‘Come on,’ said Doña Marina, taking my arm. ‘We have work to do.’
Lost in thought, I walked through courtyards filled with citrus and jasmine until we arrived before an enormous temple. It was square, and made of stone, raised as high as the reach of an arrow shot from a crossbow. One hundred and fourteen steps stretched up towards two great altars and priests in white robes made their way up and down in ceaseless movement. From the top one could see over the entire city, the lake and the three giant causeways. Although it was one of the most incredible sights we had witnessed thus far, it meant nothing.
I had met Ignacia.
Attempting to write my dispatches that night, I found that no words fell from my pen. I was completely distracted. Whether this was infatuation, desire or love, I knew not; all I did know was that I could not live without seeing that woman again, for what else could account for the sickness in my stomach and the raging in my heart? My only hope lay in Doña Marina. I would have to swallow my pride and confess my love that very night.
‘I must see the lady who sells the chocolatl. I must discover where she lives,’ I declared in as bold a fashion as I could muster.
‘Of course we can bring her to you,’ she answered abstractedly.
I did not want anything to be done by force.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I would like to see where she lives.’
‘It would not be safe to go there. You would be surrounded by these people, and could be put in danger …’
‘But they surround us now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You have seen the walls that border our quarters, the causeways, the bridges, and the lake that circles this city. They are like the lattice of a spider’s web. We are already trapped and it makes no difference whether I am contained here or with my lady.’
‘My lady?’ Doña Marina smiled at me, but then stopped for a moment, as if she had not realised the true import of my observation. Lost in thought, she seemed to abandon her concentration.
‘I have to see her,’ I insisted. ‘Will you help me speak with her?’
‘Another time.’ Still Doña Marina seemed distracted. ‘I can summon her, but you cannot visit. My Lord would forbid such a thing. You are needed here. Talk to me again if you require my help, but do not ask me to disobey our General.’
Later that night I was brought before Cortés. I was fearful of both his company and his temper and was greatly relieved when he received me in all courtesy.
‘You have done me great service, Diego.’
‘I, my Lord?’
‘I too am aware that we are surrounded, cut off even from our Tlaxcalan allies. My chief advisor, Pedro de Alvarado, thinks we should mount a surprise attack and take our chances, but I believe that we should be more cautious. Doña Marina has come to me with good advice, for if you were to be kept with your lady, without fear of harm and in great leisure, how much better and safer it might be if Lord Montezuma were similarly entrapped with us. I have therefore invited him here this night, where he will remain as a voluntary prisoner.’
This seemed an act of unbelievable daring, and I could not imagine how we could explain this to the Mexican people. They would surely rebel. But Cortés continued: ‘In honour of our guest I should like you to guard him. I will give you three soldiers, and you must stay with him and occupy his time.’
‘What shall I say? I do not have the language.’
‘I will give you an interpreter.’
And so, amazingly, it came to pass that over the next few weeks I was instructed in the Nahuatl language by the great Lord Montezuma.
He was treated in all civility, for we gave the impression that he stayed within our quarters willingly, and that there would be no need for any Mexican to doubt that he was still their ruler. His wives and mistresses were allowed to visit, and he behaved with the utmost courtesy. In the evenings I would instruct him in games of dice, and he would tell of the history of his country so that I could write a full account of this great city.
One evening he even showed me the treasury full of riches gathered by his father. It contained the most extraordinary array of masks, jewellery, urns, bangles and gold. In one corner stood a large vase, which, when I removed the lid, seemed to be filled with the seeds used in the drink Ignacia had given me. I held them in my hand, letting them slip through my fingers.
‘Cacao,’ explained Montezuma.
I repeated the word.
In this room lay all the fortune any man could ever need. The great chieftain put his arm around me and escorted me from the chamber, as if I was the prisoner and he my gaoler. And, as we sat together and ate that evening, he asked how many wives I possessed.
I told him that I was unmarried, but that a fine and beautiful lady waited at home for my return.
He then asked, now that I had seen his city, if I truly wanted to return to Spain.
I admitted that there was surely no fairer place on earth than this, and that it must seem madness to want to go back home, but I had made a promise, and my word was my bond. I would return to Isabella within two years, having made my fortune, and with a gift no other man could give, a token perhaps even beyond wealth, something as elusive as the Holy Grail or wood from the foot of the Cross of our Saviour.
This intrigued Montezuma, and he told me that he would be glad to provide a brooch, bracelet, necklace or staff that no other man had seen; holy objects, perhaps, from his religion: sacrificial bowls, daggers, statues, or even the smallest and most delicate of objects, a salamander encrusted with lapis.
His generosity and kindness seemed to have no end, and I found it hard to believe that this was the man whose reputation for cruelty and sacrifice stretched out across all these lands and into the approaching seas. I was forced to explain that, although grateful for his kindness, there would surely be many soldiers here who would hope to bring such objects back to Spain.
He then suggested that he should provide me with a small dwelling and a canoe, and that I could return to Spain to