Thrown into Nature. Milen Ruskov
and now there he was, wide awake, with a cleansed stomach, trembling from weakness and the cold autumn wind. Yes, the young Felipe was sitting turned to one side amidst the rumpled silk sheets of his bed, next to which Dr. Monardes was squatting, staring at his backside, and if I did not shut the window the boy would certainly catch a chill in no time in such a state, but in any case he did not have worms anymore, as Dr. Monardes announced with a gleeful ring to his voice. Well, if he does catch cold, most likely someone else will treat him. We were here for the worms. Yet chills seized me so I quickly shut the window. That’s the last thing I needed right then, some cold. After that we ate rounds of beef and drank Madeira in the company of Don Felipe II himself, king of this failed empire—the only one in the world that has gone bankrupt, even as galleons loaded with gold from the New World and spices from the Indies arrive in its ports daily. Why is it bankrupt? Because of the armies of thugs defending Catholicism in the Netherlands, in Italy, against the Turks or in the Indies? They do matter, but not much. It’s all because of theft, what else? But how is it possible to steal so much?, someone might ask. Someone who is poorly acquainted with human nature. Oh, it’s possible, I would reply, and how! In principle, if something is bad, it’s possible. And there was one person here, in particular, who could explain exactly how it all happens, although he would surely take that secret with him to the grave. There he was, Señor Vazquez de Leca—a Corsican by birth, who grew up a slave of Algerian pirates, and later became a citizen of Sevilla and now first minister. Yes, fate is all-powerful! They say he has made some people richer than the Spanish treasury. Sandoval. Espinosa. Not himself directly, he’s not that stupid. They say the whole network starts right from the ports. He has an attentive and intelligent gaze, refined manners, deferential language. They also say that he has an iron fist, but that doesn’t show from his folded white fingers, upon which there is only one—but what a one it is!—ruby ring. Spain is bankrupt, because the money has passed into someone’s private possession. If the country needs money for something, they turn to Señor de Leca. He usually finds it. That’s why he is first minister.
Meanwhile, Don Felipe was saying something about God and the Catholic Church. Señor de Leca was nodding his head gravely. Dr. Monardes was eating a beef round. I was drinking Madeira. The boy was asleep in his chambers, healthy—or at least worm-free. Everything was fine.
Travelling back home in our carriage, I shared some of my thoughts regarding Señor de Leca with Dr. Monardes. “A strange fellow, that Señor de Leca,” I said. “If everything I’ve heard about him is true, he’s made some people very rich, but not himself.”
“What’s so strange about that?” Dr. Monardes replied. “Power is what tempts him, not riches. People are different. Those like him are the most refined examples of the human animal species. He wants to rule, to make decisions and to govern. Through wealth he has made many people dependent on him. He has bound them with a golden chain, which no one breaks, and now they are loyal to him, literally to the grave. In all cases and on every occasion. He can always count on them, as long as he diverts what they want their way. Everyone at court owes something or other to the merchant Espinosa. Espinosa fills his own pockets thanks to de Leca. If someone at court does what de Leca wants, he’ll keep his possessions. If he doesn’t, Espinosa will call in his debts. A fine system, works flawlessly.”
“But why does he bother with all that?” I asked, even though I understood very well. I simply wanted to hear the doctor’s opinion. “He could make himself very wealthy and sit back and enjoy the good life.”
“He doesn’t want to sit back and enjoy the good life, Guimarães,” the doctor replied. “Like I just said, people are different. He is not like you. One man wants wealth, the other wants power. There are even some who want yet a third thing, but let’s leave them aside. As far as our question is concerned, the difference is clear: Wealth makes you free, while power gives you the opportunity to rule everyone else. Sometimes the two are mutually exclusive and you must choose one at the expense of the other.”
“But why are they mutually exclusive?” I objected. “If I have a trading company, then I rule everyone in it.”
“Don’t be stupid, Guimarães,” the doctor replied, slightly irritated. “That’s not the same at all. I’m imagining what Señor de Leca must feel about all those who own trading companies and surely even about people like Cristobal de Sandoval and Espinosa as well. He feels a deep contempt for them. And I think he is precisely right. As long as he wields power, he will have everything he needs, in exactly the quantity he requires. Thus, he is de facto and in functio in the same situation as the rich, but with one serious advantage over them—he can destroy them at any moment. He can make it such that they lose their wealth and even their lives. But they cannot do the same to him.”
“Who knows?” I objected, now utterly serious. “If he starts persecuting some of these people, they could still say plenty of things about him.”
“But they can’t prove them,” the doctor replied. “If he has not diverted funds towards himself, then no tracks lead back to him. The worst that could happen to him is that he could lose his post due to suspicions. But the worst that could happen to them is that they could swing from the gallows. By the way, he has surely taken care of himself,” the doctor continued after a pause, “and if they really started digging things up, they would find evidence against him. But first, they would really have to start digging things up, and that wouldn’t be easy and usually doesn’t happen. Besides, who would do the digging? The one assigned the task may have dipped his paws in the honey as well, so guess whose side he’ll be on in such a case—Señor de Leca’s or the person accusing him? The more you think about, the more difficult the whole business looks.”
“Ye-s-s-s, indeed,” I drawled and fell silent.
We travelled in silence for some time. Then the doctor took out two cigarellas and gave me one. We kindled them.
“What’s going on, señores?” The coachman Jesús yelled from his box. “Did something break?”
“Don’t worry,” I replied. “It’s just the cigarellas crackling.”
The doctor blew a few smoke rings and said, “Many try to be like Señor de Leca, but very few succeed. As the Bible says: ‘Many are called, but few are chosen.’ Most come to ruin for want of sufficient intelligence, discipline, or simply luck.”
“Yet isn’t it strange,” I said, exhaling a stream of smoke towards the ceiling of the carriage, “that all these Spaniards are so loyal to a Corsican? Not that it matters. I’m simply pointing it out as a curiosity, as a bit of folk wisdom.”
“Well, whom should they be loyal to? To Don Felipe? What kind of Spaniard is Don Felipe? All of his relatives are in Vienna. No one here is a Spaniard, Guimarães. You are not a Spaniard, de Leca is not a Spaniard, Don Felipe is not a Spaniard, even I am not a Spaniard. Like I’ve told you, my father was Italian and my mother was a Jewess. In any case, there are no Spaniards in Spain. At one time the Moors lived here, but they’ve been chased out and no longer do. Now there are Castilians, Andalusians, Catalonians, and so forth who have come from Lord knows where, but there are no Spaniards in Spain. Perhaps only the stablemen are Spaniards.”
“The stablemen are usually Portuguese,” I said.
“So there’s not a single one,” Dr. Monardes replied.
“But if that’s the case,” I said after a short pause, “then there are no Portuguese in Portugal, either, according to the same principles.”
“Not surprising,” the doctor replied.
“Yes, but I’m Portuguese.”
“Or at least that’s what you think,” Dr. Monardes nodded. “People are constantly thinking all sorts of things, which in most cases make no difference whatsoever, and your case is just such a one.”
“Señor,” I said, changing the subject. “You are not patriotic in the least.”
“Oh, on the contrary! I am very patriotic!” Dr. Monardes exclaimed. “At least in every practical sense that does not contradict sound reason,”