The following vignette is adapted from the translation by J. M. Cohen, who found a brief description of a non-military moment in Bernal’s life, which had been scratched out in the original manuscript, and restored it to his 1963 translation done for Penguin Books. Mister Cohen was born in 1903 and died in 1989, and left us the following glimpse of this retrospective warrior, who, in his 70s, was relating the adventures had in his late 20s.
Deaf and all but blind, but still keen of mind, the old soldier—last of his ancient breed—now Governor and majesty of Guatemala, was feeling on the wane as he returned once again to his long suffering book—a task that required a literary talent far beyond his own, if ever his comrades and captains were to be properly credited with their deeds.
The warm moist breeze caressed his aching hands as the candle threatened to gutter out and his darling slave girl peeled his evening orange, reminding him of the great good fortune God had willed him, to have been the companion of such remarkable men in such unique straights.
“Yes, My Captains, us poor soldiers made quite a cut of it. Look at us now, kings of a new world.”
Inspired, he set quill to parchment and busied himself with this awkwardly unwarlike art:
“I sowed some orange pips near one of these temples, and so goes the story. As there were so many mosquitoes near the river, ten of us soldiers slept in a temple on a hill. It was near this that I sowed these pips, which I had brought from Cuba, for the rumor was we would be returning to settle. The trees came up very well, for when the papas[1] saw that these were different plants from the ones they knew, they protected them, watered them and kept them free of weeds. All the oranges in the province are descendents of these trees. I know people will say that these old stories have nothing to do with my account, and I will tell no more.”
An angry tear wet his eyes as he scratched out the passage, looking up at the shadow that was his dear, uncomprehending darling, newly purchased by his niece to see him through his old age. The girl had stopped peeling the orange, the smell of which was so inviting, and stared at him as if something were terribly wrong.
He made sure to speak soothingly, “It is nothing, girl. We were soldiers, terrified, brave and true, and I’ll not be remembered as a lonely gardener missing the orange trees of his boyhood.”
Notes
1. Papas was the term that the Spanish used for the Indian priests.
