Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [36]
In the capital, Severo slept in dreary alleys in the shadow of the cathedral. He stole food when he couldn’t find work, fought other boys who, like him, had abandoned their homes or were abandoned by their families. Stronger, smarter, and braver than many of the forgotten children of the streets, he soon became their leader and organized a gang of thieves and pickpockets that terrorized the capital for almost two years.
He was caught, beaten, and thrown into a prison with men who’d committed far worse crimes. Murderers, traitors, and political prisoners were hanged, but drunks, thieves, adulterers, and debtors were locked up. Many of these desperate men longed to start their lives over. They filled Severo’s head with stories about the New World, territory settled over three centuries earlier by Spain. Those mysterious lands, including Peru, Mexico, and Argentina, were no longer colonies, but it was still possible to become a great señor in Spanish America. Severo spent four months in prison dreaming of boarding a swift ship with fluttering white sails that would take him to Spanish America. There he’d make his fortune in gold and silver, which his elders assured him would be revealed if he kicked the ground hard enough.
Severo was eleven years old, child enough to imagine his return to Boca de Gato dressed in splendid silk breeches and brocaded chalecos like the ones worn by the dandies who walked the streets of Madrid—the men he so adeptly pickpocketed and whose pretty ladies he admired. He’d build a house for his mother and retire his father from the cobbler’s bench, and he’d become a caballero, riding splendid Andalusian steeds on a silver-studded saddle.
One day Severo heard the voice inside telling him to confess, so he lined up during the weekly visit of the prison curate.
Padre Gregorio was impressed with Severo’s knowledge of Latin and the liturgy. “You’re an intelligent boy,” he scolded. He fluttered his scented fingers toward the grim, foul-smelling cell Severo shared with nine other men. “How did you allow this to happen to you, hijo mío?”
“I was hungry, Padre.”
“Thousands of people are hungry in this city, son, and they don’t become criminals.”
“But many do, Padre,” Severo said. The priest gazed at him, looking for contempt in Severo’s tone or movements. He saw nothing but regret. Severo’s face softened. “I’m not a bad boy.”
“No, son, I don’t believe you are.” Padre Gregorio placed his hand on Severo’s bristly head, murmured a prayer over him, and then asked, in Latin, “Do you repent fully and completely?”
“Yes, I do, Padre,” Severo responded in the same language, fully aware that the padre’s question could be answered in only one way.
“Do you promise to uphold the Ten Commandments, especially the ones you broke in your troubles?”
“Yes, Padre, I promise.” His voice thickened, and Padre Gregorio appreciated Severo’s restraint, how he pressed the fingers of his left hand around his right wrist as if to keep from slapping his own face. He looked up at the priest with such a pitiable, contrite expression that the old man was moved.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said in Spanish, squeezing Severo’s shoulder.
Padre Gregorio vouched for the boy after he’d served only half his sentence. He found Severo a job as a runner and floor sweeper for Marítima Argoso Marín. Padre Gregorio also convinced his brother and sister-in-law to allow Severo to sleep in a shack in their backyard. Severo repaid señor and señora Delgado’s kindness with his labor. He was good with his hands and soon fixed hinges on doors, replaced and raised the sagging clothesline in the courtyard, nailed down squeaky boards on the stairs, and straightened wayward balusters. The Delgados were delighted with his industry.
Their cook, Noela, was a tall, bony woman whose husband managed the Delgado farm near Allariz,