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#10
Cortes
He comes by sea from the morning sun. Pale, just once, before the vastness
of his undertaking, he lets them think him a white god returning. The
chutzpah of it: a handful of men, some bicycles, several dashes of luck,
deep cruelty, a beautiful translator, and he means to take Mexico.
Nothing daunts him, nothing stops him. Supplies run low; he lives on blue
butterflies and the occasional snake he beats to death with a hockey stick.
He rides his trusty ten-speed "Conquistador" all the way to Tenochtitlan in
record time, parks out front the Temple of the Sun. He’s a Scorpio, without
a whisper of what cannot be done.
*
Proud hidalgo. How courteous he is to Moctezuma, and not only for show, not
only for advantage like a cat, but also to be, especially as killer, a class
act. The city is so beautiful, floating upon water, floating upon
flowers—what he enacts must be worthy, his destruction must be worthy.
"Changes today," he tells Moctezuma, "involve more than one’s wardrobe."
With the priests too, relentless subtlety. They demonstrate their skill at
butchery, place hearts upon the lapis altars, intone and drone. Opaque,
discreet, his face shines nothing out. He plays a bit of Beatles on penny
whistle: it’s wonderful to be here it’s certainly a thrill.
*
He watches. He plans. Against thousands, against millions, he will win. He
has the energy, the competitive intelligence, the instinct for risk. It
pleases him that the sweetest drink must be cut from the sharpest plant. In
the land of the jaguar, he fits.
Tall, sleek, avid. He has always known that for him he alone exists. He puts
on his helmet. He adjusts his kneepads. Cortes, Hernan Cortes. Law school
dropout, summary judge, plucky thug. Rich, respected, he’ll die in his own
bed.
—Richard Baldasty
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