The Lost Origin (9 page)

Neither was there any agreement in the general suppositions taken from the mythology and legends collected by the Spanish, but mostly it could be said that the final version was something along these lines: Around the year 1100, an insignificant and warlike group of Inca set out from the Southeast, from the highlands of the central range of the Andes, toward the valley of Cusco, in the North, where for the next 300 years, they fought endlessly with the tribes that inhabited the area, until they achieved absolute power. At the beginning of the fifteenth century, they began what was to be known as Tihuantinsuyu, which ended at the beginning of the sixteenth century, with Pizarro. Or in other words, not much gained by so much effort.

As far as religion went, as a supreme deity, the Inca worshiped Inti, the Sun, of whom they considered themselves to be children, although since the reign of the famous Inca Pachacuti, this role was transferred, more or less, to Viracocha, causing the two gods to be confused with each other. Viracocha was a somewhat strange god whom the people called “the old man of the sky,” but who had, nevertheless, emerged from the waters of Lake Titicaca, proceeding to create humanity twice over because he hadn’t liked the result of the first attempt: He sculpted a race of giants from a rock and gave them life, but they immediately began fighting amongst themselves, and Viracocha destroyed them. Some said that he did it with columns of fire that fell from the sky, and others that he drowned them in a terrible flood, but either way the world had remained in the dark after such a hecatomb. With the firstborn destroyed, while Viracocha went about illuminating the world again by taking the sun and the moon from Lake Titicaca, the second human race built and inhabited the nearby city of Tiwanaku (or Tiahuanaco), the oldest archaeological ruins in all of South America. There were dozens of different versions, but, setting aside whether or not the second race had had a place before or after the flood—a milestone that also seemed amply reflected in all the Andean legends—what stood out the most was the small detail that Viracocha had been a little man of medium height, white skin, and the owner of a beautiful beard. The part about the white skin didn’t have much explanation, of course, but the part about the beard completely disconcerted researchers, because, without question, all native Americans had always been completely beardless. For this reason, when Pizarro and his men, white-skinned despite the grime, and certainly bearded, made their appearance in Cajamarca, the Inca were so perplexed that they confused them with gods.

Finally, as the legends told, with infinite variations, Viracocha had sent his own sons,
Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo, northward to found the city of Cusco, capital of the Empire, and to give rise to the Inca civilization. The direct descendants of those children of Viracocha were the authentic Inca, the kings or members of the royal family, in whose veins ran a precious solar blood that had to be maintained at any cost, for which reason they often formed marriages between siblings. They called these sovereigns and aristocrats—men and women—
Orejones
, because tradition dictated that they pierce the earlobes of young people of this lineage in order to differentiate them from other social classes. When the holes were sufficiently stretched, they inserted into them large gold discs in the shape of the sun, a decoration that symbolized the origin and high status of the person.

As I got to know the history and defined a timeline of events in my mind, I could start to fill in that first general outline. It was as if I were painting a large picture. I was already able to sketch in charcoal the entire scene with its correct perspective on the white canvas; however, I was still lacking the colors, but I wasn’t going to be able to take the time to look for them: Reading without rest had taken me all afternoon, and at eight o’clock the computer reminded me that I had to eat dinner and get ready to go out.

Reality fell on me all at once. I blinked, stunned, lifting my gaze from the books, and it occurred to me in a flash that not only did I have to shower, dress, and eat something, but that Proxi and Jabba were in the “100,” and that Ona was waiting for me to arrive at her house in less than an hour. But, since I didn’t want to leave the reading until the next day, I grabbed another backpack from the hook by the door and shoved inside it those volumes that I still hadn’t examined, and that for obvious reasons were those that looked most tedious and soporific:
The New Chronicle and Good Government
by Guamán Poma de Ayala—the book that Ona had told me about the night before—;
Royal Commentaries of Peru
, by the Inca Garcilaso de la Vega;
The Chronicle of Peru
, by Pedro de Cieza de León; and
Narrative of the Incas
by Juan de Betanzos. The bag, generously fattened, weighed a ton.

While I was eating, my mother called me to ask how long we would be. Clifford was not well, it seemed, and they wanted to go home soon.

“Your brother hasn’t improved at all,” she explained in a voice that hinted at some worry. “Diego says that today was still too soon to see results and that we would have to wait a little more, but Clifford has gotten nervous and he has one of his migraines.”

No one in the family would dare to mention it out loud, but that didn’t keep it from being significant that those terrible migraines of Clifford’s started shortly after his marriage to my mother.

“Who’s Diego?” I asked, swallowing the strip of sole I’d just put in my mouth, without bothering to chew it.

“Daniel’s psychiatrist, Arnau! When it comes to what’s most important, you’re always in the clouds, darling,” she reproached me once again, and all because I was incapable of memorizing the names, surnames, and lineages that she liked so much and that she dominated like a virtuosa, despite her long absence. “Miquel has also been by, Dr. Llor, you remember? the neurologist. Oh, what a good man! Right, Clifford? Poor thing…he can’t even answer me because of his headache! You know, Miquel has asked after you a great deal and he told us that his wife’s nephew used to work in Ker-Central, and…. Well, Clifford is asking me to hang up. Don’t take too long, you and Ona, okay? We’re tired and we’d like to go to bed soon. By the way, Arnie, how do I tell that machine that governs your house not to turn out the light on your night table while I’m reading? Because, last night…. Yes, I’m hanging up, Clifford, I’m hanging up! You can explain it to me later darling. Don’t take too long.”

By the time the system cut communications, I had already finished my dinner and was getting into the shower. Puzzled by Proxi’s and Jabba’s silence, since they had shown no signs of life the entire afternoon, I made off with the goods and shot off toward the garage. At a quarter to nine, I arrived at my brother’s apartment, but this time I didn’t have to look for a parking space because Ona was waiting for me at the door with her arms crossed. She had put on a black sweater and a skirt with a wide leather belt. During the brief journey to La Custòdia she told me that she’d barely been able to sleep a couple of hours all day because of Daniel’s medical leave papers, since, first, she’d had to go to his doctor to get them, and then she’d had to head over to Bellaterra to give them to the secretaries’ office at the college.

Clifford really looked terrible when Ona and I went into Daniel’s room. His skin exhibited a worrying green tone, and two large dark bags were swelling beneath his eyes. My brother wasn’t looking his best that night either: He urgently needed someone to give him a shave, and it seemed to me he was somewhat emaciated, with his cheeks sunken and the bones on his forehead very pronounced. By contrast, my mother seemed to be just as healthy and stupendous as always, loaded with energy and vigor, and, according to what she said, that was taking into account the constant visits of the day (life-long friends, lesser friends, acquaintances, acquaintances of acquaintances…) and her intense private war with the nurses and orderlies of the floor which was in full swing. Miquel and Diego (Dr. Llor and Dr. Hernández) had also participated in the active social life of the room, and my grandmother, without anyone knowing how she had found out, had called from Vic to ask about her grandson and to announce that she would arrive first thing in the morning the next day.

“And of course, with all that din,” my mother concluded, looking pityingly at her husband, who languished silently on the plastic chair, “Clifford is feeling awful. And my little Dani, Ona? Do you think tomorrow I could see him for a little while? Of course your parents are just as tired as we are…! A child is very tiring. Surely, with him, there’s no time to rest all day! I’m thinking…,” She grabbed her chin with her hand to indicate that her reflection was really profound, “that, if my mother also stays at Arnau’s house, she could look after Dani, don’t you think, Clifford? It would be a fantastic solution.”

“Mom, Clifford isn’t well, he looks bad,” I told her. “You should go.”

“You’re right,” she said unconcernedly, getting up. “Let’s go, Clifford. By the way, Arnau, explain to me what I have to do for your house to obey me. These new technologies are hopeless! I can’t make them work. You couldn’t have a normal house, like everyone else? You know you’re an odd one, son. Who could have told me you’d end up dedicating yourself to all this childish nonsense with computers and video games…! You’ll never grow up, Arnie.” She reproached me; she didn’t have any idea what I really did in the company, nor was she interested in knowing. “Come on, tell me what I have to do, because otherwise I’ll end up having to go to a hotel: When I enter a room, that so-intelligent system doesn’t turn on the lights; if I want to shower, the water comes out cold; the closet doors won’t open, and the television channels keep changing. This morning, while I was dressing, a drum roll started that only stopped when Magdalena arrived and….”

“Mom,” I interrupted in a firm voice. “Take Clifford.”

“You’re right. You’re right. Let’s go, Clifford.”

How could she still feel like talking after having spent the whole day in conversation with all those people?

“But you’re not going to tell me what to do about the thing with your house?” she insisted, before going out.

“Yes,” I responded. “Try to keep your mouth shut. You’re driving the computer crazy.”

She stood in suspense for a few seconds, and, at last, burst into a happy laugh.

“Arnau, Arnau! You’re terrible, you know!” And, saying this, disappeared from sight while Clifford said goodbye with an affectionate nod and closed the door.

“Finally!” exclaimed Ona, who had stayed close to Daniel since we had arrived. “I’m sorry, Arnau, but your mother is exhausting.”

“You’re telling me!”

My sister-in-law leaned over my brother and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. It struck me to discover that she hadn’t dared to do it before in front of her in-laws. Daniel, nevertheless, turned his head brusquely toward the window, shying away from the contact.

“Know what?” I said, going to Ona, who was paralyzed from the disdain. “Let’s get him up and shave him.”

But Ona didn’t react, so I took her arm and gently shook her.

“Come on, Ona. Help me.”

When, after innumerable attempts and struggles, we managed to seat Daniel on the edge of the bed, some knocks sounded at the door. My sister-in-law and I looked in the direction of the sound, expecting to see the night nurse come in, but instead, the knocks sounded again.

“We’re not expecting anyone, right?” she murmured.

“No,” I agreed. “And I hope it’s not Miquel or Diego.”

“Come in,” she invited, raising her voice.

I was dumbfounded when I saw the figures of Proxi and Jabba appear in the door. The painful impression that it caused in them to see Daniel turned into a rag doll and stuffed into those horrible hospital pajamas was immediately clear on their faces.

“Come in,” I told them, gesturing with my hand for them to come inside.

“We don’t want to bother you,” mumbled Jabba, who carried a thick document case full of papers under his arm.

“You’re not bothering us,” my sister-in-law assured them, smiling. “Come in, don’t just stand in the door.”

“It seems we’ve caught you at a bad moment….” Proxi remarked, without taking a step.

“Well, we were going to….” I stopped cold because it suddenly occurred to me that Lola and Marc wouldn’t have made a surprise visit to the hospital at that hour without a good reason. “Is something going on?”

“We just wanted to show you a few things,” Jabba declared, embarrassed, giving the voluminous folder a few taps, “but we can leave it until tomorrow.”

Their expressions, however, indicated the opposite and that whatever it was they had come expressly to show me was very urgent.

“Is it about the TraxSG boycott?”

“No, that’s still going well.”

Or rather, it was about the Aymara language that was spoken in the Southeast of the Incan Empire.

“Do you mind if we lie Daniel back down?” I asked my sister-in-law. “I won’t be long.”

“Go ahead” she assured me, lying my brother back down carefully; it was easier to lie him down than to get him up. “Go with them. Don’t worry.”

But I was worried, and not exactly about Daniel.

“We’ll be in the cafeteria on the ground floor,” I told her. “Call my cell if you need me.”

Immediately upon exiting into the hall and slowly closing the door behind me, I glared at
those two.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Didn’t you want to know everything about Aymara?” Proxi asked abruptly, with a frown; once outside of the room they stopped beating around the bush.

“Yes.”

“Well, get ready!” declared Jabba, initiating the walk toward the floor’s exit. “You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“What is he talking about?” I asked Proxi.

“You’d better wait for us to sit down. Friendly advice.”

We didn’t speak another word until we got to the cafeteria, and we made the whole trio walking quickly behind Jabba who seemed to be driven forward by a fuel-injected engine.

Despite there not being a lot of people all the tables were occupied by solitary family members of sick people, who ate with their gazes fixed on the trays in front of them. The food, available in big aluminum serving trays fitted into the bar, looked unpleasant beneath the heat lamps, as if they had prepared it using leftover prison food. Nevertheless, the dining people—mostly women of a certain age, educated in the belief that illness and death were not things for men—ate it in silence, accepting the inconveniences of a family member’s hospitalization with resignation.