At that moment my thoughts and our tense conversation were interrupted by a weak cough. It came from the young Felipe.
“Cigarella!” Dr. Monardes cried.
At the next moment, both of us huffed and puffed with all our might like a stove in the Pyrenees in January. My lucky intuition again called and I stood close to the patient’s bed, so as to administer to him at closer range. Dr. Monardes instantly followed me. The young Felipe, in a half-stupefied state, opened his eyes slightly and, despite his weakened condition, raised himself up on his elbows and continued coughing painfully, as if coughing up his entrails.
“He’ll faint from the cigarella!” I said.
“Come on, come on,” Dr. Monardes replied. “Strike the iron while it’s hot!”
With these words he blew a thick, enormous stream of smoke, which looked impossible for the human mouth to contain, toward young Felipe’s face.
Did I say cough out his entrails before? No, I should have said that now. For a moment I thought that the boy would disintegrate before my very eyes.
“I can pulpate!” I suggested, led once again by my intuition.
“Under no circumstances!” Dr. Monardes restrained me with his hand. “His stomach is completely empty.”
Clearly, my lucky intuition had led me astray this time.
At that moment we heard panting and the sound of a heavy object being dragged down the hallway — it was our bundle, along with the padre.
“Bring the citronella,” the doctor said.
I readied myself, and when I opened the door I exhaled a thick stream of smoke right in the padre’s face. He stepped back as if hit by a pear or some such thing.
“Thank you!” I said, but then thought to add: “Drag it inside.”
The padre, bent double with coughing as well, pulled the bundle into the room. When I turned towards Felipe, he was already sitting up in bed and trying to look at us through his coughing fit. The doctor handed the padre the cigarellas and told him to carry them out, while he himself took the tincture of citronella, wetted a sponge with it, and held it under the boy’s nose. I opened the barred window. A cold autumn breeze wafted over me. What a wonder Nature is, nonetheless! The cigarellas had an effect, of course, but with their help alone I doubt we would have succeeded. No matter what the doctor might say, I think that Nature within this boy had awakened and, led by her indestructible instinct for survival, had urged him to come to. Something in her gears had rattled, some lever was pulled and the whole mechanism began turning, clattering, roaring, inaudible to us, since it was happening somewhere in the depths of his body, in that lower abyss, unlike the heavenly one, in that microcosm, 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.”