Malinche by Laura Esquivel

the Virgin to help him triumph in this undertaking.
    Cortés was a man of faith. Faith lifted him, gave him stature, transported him beyond time. And precisely at the moment that he most ardently prayed for help, his eyes met Malinalli’s, and a maternal spark connected them with the same longing. Malinalli felt that this man could protect her; Cortés, that the woman could help him as only a mother could: unconditionally.
    Neither of them knew whence this feeling surged, but as they felt it they accepted it. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of the moment, the incense, the candles, the chants, the prayers, but the fact was that both were transported to their time of greatest innocence, to their childhood.
    Malinalli felt as if her heart caught fire from the abundant heat emitted from the candles that the Spaniards had put in the place that had once been a temple dedicated to her ancient gods. She had never seen a candle. Many times she had lit torches and censers, but never a candle. She found it absolutely magical to see so many little fires, so much light reflected, so much illumination coming from such meager flames. She let the fire speak to her from all those minuscule voices and was dazzled by the reflection of the candlelight in Cortés’s eyes.
    Cortés turned away from her gaze. Faith lifted him, but Malinalli’s eyes returned him to reality, to the flesh, to desire, and he did not want the brilliance in her eyes to shatter his plans. He was in the midst of Mass—and an undertaking that he had to respect and to make others respect, including the orders forbidding them from taking for themselves a native woman.
    His own attraction to women was, however, uncontrollable and it took great effort to rein in his instincts. So, to avoid temptation he decided to assign that native woman to Alonso Hernández Portocarrero, a nobleman who had accompanied him from Cuba and whom he wanted in his good graces. The gift of an Indian woman would very much flatter him. Malinalli stood out from the other slaves in every way. She walked with assurance, was confident, and radiated elegance.
    On hearing of Cortés’s decision, Malinalli’s heart jumped. It was the sign that she had been waiting for. If Cortés, who was the commander of the foreigners, had ordered her to serve under that gentleman who looked like a respectable Tlatoani, it was because he had seen something in her. Of course, Malinalli would have loved to serve directly under Cortés, the main lord, but she didn’t complain. She had made a good impression and, from her experience as a slave, she knew that this was essential in order to lead as dignified an existence as possible.
    Portocarrero, for his part, was also pleased at Cortés’s decision. Malinalli, that child-woman, was intelligent and beautiful, accustomed to obeying and serving. Her first task was to light the fire to prepare his meal. Malinalli went about it immediately, looking for pieces of torch pine, a wood infused with a resin that was ideal for starting a fire. She made a cross of Quetzalcóatl with them, an essential step in the building of a fire. Then took a good-size dry stick and began to rub it over the torch pine.
    Malinalli knew how to bring forth the fire like no one else. She never had problems lighting it, but on this occasion the fire seemed to be annoyed with her. The cross of Quetzalcóatl refused to catch fire. Malinalli asked herself why. Could Lord Quetzalcóatl be upset with her? Why? She had not betrayed him, but rather, had participated in the ceremony of baptism with her mind filled with the memory of him—in fact, even before the ceremony! For she remembered that on entering the temple where the Mass was celebrated, her heart leapt with joy when she saw a cross in the middle of the altar, which for her belonged to the Lord Quetzalcóatl, but that the Spaniards considered as their own. She could not help but be moved. Not for a