Archivo 126: A Five Hundred Year-Old Document Reveals the Challenges Facing a Modern Engineer as He Struggles to Survive in Fifteenth Century Spain

Contents

ARCHIVO 126

VOLUMEN I

VOLUMEN II

ARCHIVO 126

Annette waited in her room as long as she could. At nine thirty she went down to the lobby. I’m in Spain, she told herself, and I’m sure nobody here arrives exactly on time. As it is, I’ve still got thirty minutes to kill. She settled into a chair in the lobby. People were coming in from the street. Any one of them could be Señor Trejos. She would just have to depend on his identifying her. The one thing they’d failed to do in their last phone conversation was to establish identity—that business you always see in the movies: I’ll be wearing a carnation or whatever.

She opened her purse and took out the letter. She smoothed it out in her lap and read it for the fiftieth time, the one-hundredth time.

Armando Trejos R.

Archivo General de Indias

Plaza Virgen de los Reyes

Sevilla, España

4 noviembre 1.998

Annette H. Zabrinski

4503 Karnes St.

Phoenix AZ 85038 U.S.A.

Dear Mrs. Zabrinski:

I hope this letter finds you in good health and prosperous condition. In the manner to confirm our telephone conversation of last week, I wish to notify the following.

In 1.927 my mentor and professor, Dr. Enrique Castañeda Huerta, uncovered a file in the Archives of the Indies. The file contains a manuscript that could be of great personal interest to you. The document is in two volumes with a closing date of AD 1.501.

As we discussed, the manuscript is written partly in the English and partly the Spanish. It is the composition of two writers: one claiming to be John Barnett Hughes and the other a Franciscan father Ramón Lersundi, each contributing from his personal journal.

Doctor Castañeda was able to verify the existence of one Fray Lersundi in the Articles of the Friary in Palos, Spain for the year in question. No information is available concerning John Barnett Hughes.

In 1.974, near the end of his life, Dr. Castañeda revealed the manuscript to me and we spent many sessions discussing the apparent mystery it presents. Doctor Castañeda urged me to search for any twentieth century evidence of the existence of the Señor Hughes. I made several inquiry letters to Ohio and Kansas but was unsuccessful.

It is perhaps fortunate that you were married in your home town and thus through the services of the county records was I finally able to find you.

If you are the daughter indeed of John Barnett Hughes, born in Cleveland Ohio in 1.910, the manuscript will provide much benefit.

I am not able to vouch for the authenticity of the manuscript beyond to note that it was filed and sealed in the packet representing the testimony of those involved in the particular voyage and the particular year. I cannot add any confirmation of the manuscript except to say that certain details there contained do carry persuasive argument.

You may wish to make a visit to Sevilla to inspect the document itself. If I can be of other assistance, please let me know.

attentively,

Armando Trejos R.

There is something sweetly naive in the way Señor Trejos expresses himself in English, Annette thought. She folded the letter and reviewed the circumstances of the last few months. First, there was the phone call from Señor Trejos, his strong accent making things all the more confusing. Something about documents in Spain, documents that could be viewed only in Seville and then only under supervision. Trejos had captured her attention by listing certain details of her early childhood that he seemingly would have no way of knowing—for example the photograph taken at the zoo in San Antonio. Next, she had received the letter, with its cryptic reference to a manuscript that could be of great personal interest to you. I suppose that was the phrase that did it, she thought. Within days she had made up her mind; she had to go to Seville.

It took the second and third telephone conversations with Trejos to convince Harry that she should make the trip. Harry had had misgivings. It was all too suspicious sounding. Why, for instance, was Trejos unable, or unwilling to be more specific about the mysterious document? But, as Harry had to admit, Señor Trejos was not asking for money. The only thing he appeared to want was for Annette to meet him in Spain. Harry had got on the line and Trejos was able to assuage his fears. Harry became, in his words, too curious not to go along with the plan.

Persuading the two children had taken another month. Jack, who lived in Phoenix, was in on many of the discussions at the kitchen table. And Susie had driven in from Los Angeles to go over all the details in person. As Susie said, I knew we were hooked when we got out the atlas and started looking for Seville. The financial constraints being what they were, Annette and Harry had agreed that she would make the trip by herself. Harry didn’t like the idea of a sixty-year old woman alone in a foreign country, but, well if she would call home from the hotel every night he could handle it. They calculated the time difference; Harry would wait by the telephone from ten until noon every day. They took $2,000 out of the savings account and here she was.

Señor Trejos identified her the moment he walked into the lobby. His clues, Annette realized, were that he knew her approximate age and, well, she probably was dressed like an American.

He smiled at her and strode across the lobby, hand extended. He was in his late forties, she guessed, and impeccably dressed. He exemplified European courtliness. She almost wanted to embrace him.

I’ve got a taxi waiting outside. Shall we go? I will explain things along the way.

It was a short ride to the Archives. Trejos compressed his story to fit the time allotted. "As a member of the staff, I receive certain advantages. I requested that the manuscript be made available today. Members of the general public are not allowed to walk in and examine a document just by naming it. There is a protocol, I think you call it.

In this case I was able to gain permission for you to actually handle the manuscript. Under the supervision of an attendant, of course. And you will be given gloves to wear.

Within minutes they pulled up in front of the building. As they got out of the taxi Annette thought it might be proper for her to pay the fare, but Trejos artfully handled the transaction before she could open her bag. She stood for a moment looking at the building instead of following Trejos up the steps. She felt a need to absorb things slowly, to regain some balance before plunging in. The building presented a two-story marble front to the street. The façade seemed somehow welcoming, Annette thought. It was not the institutional look she had expected. Trejos noticed her pause and returned to join her on the sidewalk. He said, The building was built beginning in 1583. It served several purposes until it was remodeled in 1785 to serve as the general archive allowing all the documents to be consolidated in one place. Before that the documents were kept in various, how do you say, strongholds around Aragon and Castile. The particular document of your interest was brought over with a collection from Valladolid.

Annette decided she was ready. She headed up the front steps, Trejos stepped quickly to hold the door for her. They entered the lobby. Ahead was a view of an interior courtyard. To her left was a grand marble staircase. A bronze plaque on the wall announced: Archivo General de Indias. Trejos motioned toward the staircase and continued with his tour-guide speech, We have here over 80 million pages of documents. There are eight kilometers of shelves to hold them. People come from all over the world—I will bring you a brochure this afternoon.

On the second floor Trejos led her down a corridor, their steps ringing on the tile floor. To the left and right Annette caught glimpses of reading rooms as they passed. If you were a scholar, Annette thought, this is the place to be. There were individual desks each with a sloped top like a drafting table and each with its own lamp. Except for the windows all wall space was dedicated to glass fronted shelves reaching to the molding at the vaulted ceiling. After two or three turns Trejos guided her elbow into a small private reading room. Eight leather-covered, straight back chairs surrounded a long wooden table. Trejos pulled out a chair for her. He explained that Volume I would be out shortly. Annette could read it at her leisure and he would leave her in privacy. An attendant would look in from time to time, he said. If there were questions the attendant would try to help. Most of the attendants speak English. The door must remain open at all times. The lavatory facilities were just down the corridor. There was a café down at street level. Across the plaza was a restaurant specializing in sea food. Did she feel comfortable ordering lunch in Spanish?

A gloved attendant approached the table and laid a large folder gently before them. Trejos leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of the folder, in case Annette had thoughts of reaching for it prematurely. He meticulously recited additional rules. Annette was to avoid dust or ink or anything that could soil the pages. She was to wash her hands after eating. Surely Mrs. Zabrinski could appreciate that the manuscripts in the archive were very old and their condition —His voice trailed off as he decided against further litany.

He softened his tone and said, I will be available in the building if you need me. Then, finally, he left the room.

Annette refrained from reaching until Trejos had turned the corner. She gathered in the folder, her heartbeat in her ears.

The folder consisted of, perhaps, a hundred irregular pages bound between two ragged, cloth-covered boards. The sleeve on the front contained a typed reference:

Archivo 126

Ind. Gen. estante 19

cajón 1, legajo ½

The document inside was held together by metal brads. In addition to the brads, Annette could see the remnants of ancient string that had originally held the pages in place. Her hands were steady, her heart wasn’t. She opened the cover with the tips of her fingers.

VOLUMEN I

July 15, 1493

I am in Toledo; Toledo in central Spain. It took me a long time after my arrival just to figure that out. People would tell me I was in Castilla but it meant nothing; my knowledge of history is not very good and, at first, I knew no Spanish. I am sitting on stone steps at the edge of the town plaza. Just across the way from me is a sign announcing Zapatería along with a picture of a shoe. It’s one of the few stores that have signs; most just hang out sample merchandise to advertise their wares. Next to the zapatería is a bakery. The baker has painted a crude picture of a loaf of bread on his storefront to attract customers. On the corner an old woman is frying pig parts in a vat before an audience of dogs. There are pigeons in the plaza. And vultures. And people. People moving about, poking through the few remaining items in the market bins. The evening is soft and would be altogether pleasant except for the smells. I still wince at the odors. But they are not as overwhelming as they were when I first got here.

My reason for describing my surroundings in such tiresome detail is this: only by listing everything I experience will I be able to overcome the resistance my story is bound to encounter. Exact details are the only resources I can marshal in support of the things I’m going to tell. And they must be told. I must chronicle what has happened. My hope is that someone somewhere, with all this information in hand, could check the records and confirm my extravagant claims. Surely some of the details can be verified. For the present, I ask for indulgence. I am writing this on a July evening in Spain and the year is 1493. I realize that I’ve already said that but I will let it stand. It’s important.

On the table in front of me I have a sheaf of clean paper that I bought from a notary on Palma Street. The paper is made of some sort of cloth; linen I suppose. It took me three months to save the money to buy the paper. The paper is, most importantly, uniform in size so that it can easily be bound in book form. I have a quill pen and a vial of ink that the notary also sold to me. I have been offered the use