The words you now read were written by a dead man. I do not suppose that is of any comfort.
My name is Armando Calditchi, though by birth I am a Spaniard. Without a doubt, my name will be left out of the history books, though this does not matter. Most men’s lives are no grander than a word, or a mere letter, even a period, the punctuation of death. Yet I found a greater treasure than any of the other explorers. I discovered something in La Florida: a way to live forever.
The Timucan wise men say all men seek the fountain of eternal youth for the same reasons: Man is mortal; God is dubious; Life is short.
I entered this world in a shack outside Valladolid, in the province of the same name, nary a hundred miles from Palencia, where Juan Ponce deLeón plopped out of his mother’s ugly crevice. King Fernando and Queen Isabel were married in Valladolid. Cristobal Colon, a man I would travel to the end of the known world with, was buried there, in 1506. I was born in 1476– not that it matters. In my final days, I will set the record straight. If I hadn’t met De Leon, that pig-slapping betrayer, my life would surely have been a mere smudge on the scroll of history. But at a tender thirteen, my father took me to fight for Spain, along with that villain de León, who left me marooned in this godforsaken island. In the gardens of Baza, I took my first life. There, boys scarcely older than I dressed the black earth with blood to purge Spain of the Moslems.
Though I fled the war before its end, the Spaniards eventually thundered through Granada. In the treaty that followed, the Moors were told they could remain in the city so long as they declared loyalty to our esteemed King Fernando and Queen Isabella–the fools. My countrymen might have seen the Jews as a cancer, but the Moslems were the plague. Of course, if you are a student of history like me, you no doubt learned that soon those Moors who would not convert were deported to Africa or rounded up and sent to secret prisons. This should come as no surprise. Those who fight and die for the glory of God do not readily hand out consolation prizes to the conquered.
When I was younger, the outcome of this treaty did not displease me. I was a devout Catholic, a peaceful religion. Catholics spilled blood but mop up with a rosary. We prayed for the souls of those we have butchered. We loved all of God’s creatures. We asked only that those who are not God’s creatures be relegated to the dungeons and alleyways that befit stray dogs. Such is the black death of my gallows humor. Forgive me, my dear, but travel takes from a man more than time.
With the Moors slaughtered and the Jews expelled, Lady Spain become whole again. It was in the aftermath of this bloody peace that Cristobal Colon was sent to drape the rest of the undiscovered world in the flag of dual red crossed stripes lined with barb. Colon, too, was a fool, as is any man who believes he can fight a country that desires, above all else, wealth. It happened to Columbus, to de León, to me.
Under the employ of that stunted barbarian Juan Ponce de Leon, I would journey to La Florida in search of the fabled fountain of youth. Then he tossed me overboard, broke my dreams like a fat woman would a moldy board, left me marooned with nothing more than a dagger, some parchment, on which I now write, a quill, a vial of ink, and a crusty biscuit. So my fellow students of history, you might know him as Señor Juan Ponce de León, famed explorer, discoverer of La Florida, seeker of the Fountain of Youth, but I will always know him as La Puta Fortunada, and by God’s ankle he was a lucky whore. Off course, my life has only gone astray because of a woman. My sweet, I tried to bring it back for you. But this was a cup I alone could not carry.
Starving, delirious, and oddly aroused, I emerged from the frothy afternoon tide and climbed the dunes of a fair beach and stumbled, half-drunk, out into a dark forest of hunching elms. There I found the path, as the Timucan wise men had foretold. After urinating in the bushes nearby the pool, I jumped in, broke my leg, and have been waiting in the forest ever since. The Timuca believe I am a ghost. On occasion, they come, munching their burnt brown hard breads. Apparently, they do not believe that ghosts are in need of sustenance. At the crest of death, and all I desire is a Sevillian orange-marmalade cookie–that and to gut de León like a pig.
Where am I? Somewhere off the northeast coast of the island La Florida. Truly, I cannot say. All I know is that my leg is mossy and the infection is spreading to my groin. So even if I survive, it will be only for my words, for the completion of my history, the grand period. And de León, that evil, brave, arrogant, inspiring, miserable, cheating, beautiful-bearded, lying bastard, never came back for me.
Most men’s lives do not run on parallel tracks. If they did, we should always have peace. Sadly, one need only unfold a map of the world and spit at random to find a parcel of war-torn land, for man is always at war with himself. Even if the fountain of youth is discovered, man will persist to fight for and die, muddying its majestic waters. Perhaps there is some small hope of being rescued, but I am no longer a hopeful man. The last thing Colon ever said to me was, “I pity the dreamers. This fair land was meant to lie beyond war. Now we have led the Devil himself to the gates of Heaven.”
Dear students of history, if you discover my body, please take my left hand out of my trousers. There is a reason the crew of Cristobel Colon used to call me “El Zurdo.”
Historically yours, Armando Calditchi