Free Malinche by Laura Esquivel

space, as cavity, was the best place for words to be engendered. And the tongue, as masculine principle, sharp, pointed, phallic, was the one to introduce the created word, that universe of information, into other minds in order to be fertilized.
    But what would fertilize it? That was the great unknown. Malinalli was convinced that there were only two possibilities: union or separation, creation or destruction, love or hatred, and that the outcome would be influenced by “The Tongue,” that is, by herself. For she had the power with her words to include others in a common purpose, to clothe them, to shelter them. Or she could exclude them, making them into foes, separate beings with irreconcilable ideas; or into solitary beings who were isolated and destitute as she had been in her status as slave, feeling for so many years what it was like to live without a voice, without being taken into account and forbidden to make any decisions on her own.
    But that past now seemed very far away. She, the slave who listened to orders in silence, who couldn’t look directly into the eyes of men, now had a voice, and the men, staring into her eyes, would wait attentively to hear what her mouth uttered. She, who had so often been given away, who so many times had been gotten rid of, now was needed, valued, as much as if not more than cacao.
    Unfortunately, this privileged position was unstable and could change at any moment. Even her life was in danger. Only a victory by the Spaniards would guarantee her freedom, for reasons that she had not been afraid to state on various occasions in veiled language, that the Spaniards truly had been sent by the Lord Quetzalcóatl, and not only that, but that Cortés himself was the incarnation of the revered god.
    Now it was she who could decide what was said and what went unsaid, what to confirm and what to deny, what would be made known and what kept secret. It was a grave dilemma, for it wasn’t simply a matter of saying or not saying, or substituting one name for another, but that in doing so she ran the risk of changing the meaning of things. When translating, she could change what things meant and impose her own vision on events, and by doing so enter into direct competition with the gods, which horrified her. Because of her insolence, the gods could very well become annoyed with her and mete out their punishment, and this absolutely frightened her. She could avoid this fate by translating everything as closely to the meaning of the words as possible. But if the Mexicas were to question for a moment—as she herself had—whether or not the Spaniards had been sent by Quetzalcóatl, she would be destroyed along with them in the blink of an eye. So she found herself in a delicate position. Either she remained faithful to the gods and to the meaning that they had given to the world, or she followed her instincts, her most earthly and primary instincts, and made sure that each word and each action acquired the meaning that most suited her. The second choice was clearly a rebellion against the gods, and their eventual reaction filled her with fear and guilt, but she saw no other alternative.

    Malinalli’s feelings of fear and guilt were at the least as powerful as those of Montezuma. Weeping, trembling, filled with dread, he awaited the punishment of the gods for how the Mexicas had destroyed Tula long before and in that sacred place dedicated to Quetzalcóatl, had engaged in human sacrifice. Before, in the Toltecan Tula, there had been no need for such practices. It was enough that Quetzalcóatl lit the new fire and accompanied the sun on its path through the celestial dome to maintain balance in the cosmos. Before the Mexicas, the Sun did not feed on human blood; it did not ask for it, did not demand it.
    The great guilt that Montezuma bore on his shoulders made him certain that not only was it time to pay old debts but that the arrival of the Spaniards signaled the