Excerpt
Sweat broke out on my nape and forehead. The woman watched
me closely, giving me the annoying feeling that she could read my
thoughts. Perhaps she was a witch.
When a gourd filled with a milky beverage of uncertain origin
arrived under my nose, I began to miss my countrymen. Tamanoa
held it while the rest awaited my reaction. The children giggled and
I smiled, raising one eyebrow at them. I took the gourd out of
Tamanoa’s grasp, noticing the quizzical expression in his eyes.
“It’s chicha,” he informed me.
I sat down on the ground and crossed my legs, minding the
Seraphic Rosary so that it rested on the cloth of my cassock stretched
between my knees. I raised my eyes to heaven, as much to bless the
chicha as to ask for help. Well, Salvador, if you want the dog, you’ll
have to accept the fleas, I told myself, and took a gulp.
It wasn’t completely unpalatable. Had I known that its
fermentation was aided by the spittle of the women who concocted
it, I might have been less inclined to drink it. I passed it along,
fighting the urge to retch, eyes watering. Mater Dei, please tell me
that gourd never covered anyone’s genitals, I prayed.
The sight of another male with his foreskin neatly strangled with
a cord that went about his hips, his balls—wrinkled and
saggy—hanging like a cockerel’s wattles, made me regurgitate the
devil-sent chicha. I kept swallowing it back until, able to escape
unnoticed, I hid behind a tree and vomited my guts out.
We neared Nueva Segovia de Barquisimeto, a city founded in 1552,
along a murky river the Caquetíos Indians had called Variquesemeto
long before the Spaniards began renaming everything.
Diego de Losada led the way on his magnificent black
Andalusian horse, which seemed to share its master’s dreams of
greatness. All horses except my Babieca were proud, elegant beasts
with thick necks, strong chests and powerful, arched croups. Bred
from the first horses to arrive from La Española,
Manolis Aligizakis 