But nothing will ever make me believe that this was my destiny or that anything else will be, or that there was a reason for my birth.
21
Some time will have to pass before this voice or writing speaks more clearly and I can tell what it tells, I have to take a certain distance from recent events; I prefer to pause here and wait a while, everything is still changing. It isn’t only that I have yet to tell of all the short-cuts and twisted paths along which this fantasmal literary title came to attach itself to my name (and I don’t know whether it transposes me into what, for me, was fiction only fourteen or even nine years ago, or whether, instead, fiction is embedding itself in my life and making it even more unreal and chimerical, as well as absurd, indicisive and somewhat calamitous). It isn’t only the accession that remains to be told; the whole story is intricate and possibly picturesque and also comical, of course. And neither is it only the ludicrous characteristics and vicissitudes of this kingdom, which, though imaginary — and it is that, above all — is not free from what all kingdoms have known throughout history: usurpers, imposters, intrigues, lunatics, betrayals, “subjects,” patrons, rebellions, chroniclers, false favorites, “dynastic” disputes — in which I shall certainly not be participating, all I need right now is to engage in heated epistolary arguments over “legitimacy” or “lineages” that are no such thing, for kinship matters not at all here — and I believe there’s also been a bloody deed. And a modest legend, which I’m told I now incarnate. I’ll have to name my own peers, since I must play along with the game. Perhaps there will soon be a Duke of Svolta, a Duke of Norte, a Duke of Caronte, a Duke of Babel, or a Duke of Tigres, possibly. A Duke of Región is no longer possible.
When from time to time I’ve hinted at what was happening or revealed some isolated fact, making tentative probes among those of my friends who wouldn’t make fan of me or disapprove, I’ve seen them all react with an incredulity that’s never entirely left them; they, better than anyone, know of my inclination towards fabulation and levity, and they can’t be sure that I’m not making up stories. I doubt this skeptical reaction will ever disappear, even after they’ve read these pages and seen the images I’ve placed in them, though each one’s incredulity had its own character and stance: Eric Southworth’s combined mirth with ingenious ideas and glosses; Mercedes López-Ballesteros’ concern over the more somber aspects of the invading fiction was infused with a childlike enchantment, the sheer pleasure of an arbitrary tale; Daniella Pittarello’s fragile irony, overcoming her theoretical perplexities, let her youthful spirit embrace the coincidences; Anna Sala’s, or just “Anna’s,” apprehensive anticipation, as if she feared these adventures might change my life or do me harm, was also tinged with the bewildered contentment of being present at the unfolding of a fable; in Ruibérriz de Torres, whose surname I bear as I do Custardoy and Manera and Cao, the incredulity was mingled with a sarcasm that couldn’t quite banish his curiosity, at least not to the point of telling me to be quiet and stop bothering him with this foolishness; Manolo Rodríguez Rivero’s critical distance ultimately concealed a perfect understanding of this type of deliberately provoked, hilarious English extravagance and of the temptation writers sometimes feel to dilute themselves in their own pages; and Julia Altares’ incredulity was, how shall I put it, seasoned with revelry and fantastical plans and the maximum degree of encouragement, or rather, more precisely, with binges. All of them are good at playing along, and all are a little worried and don’t know whether to believe me, but at least they listen and ask for more information, which until now I’ve strictly rationed and parcelled out among them. My agent Mercedes Casanovas, to whom I was forced — red-faced and worried that she might take me for a madman — to spill the story several months ago, in order to find out if she would agree to handle the rights to Shiel and Gawsworth in my name, can’t, I believe, quite get used to the idea that she’s now part of what was for her, less than a year ago, only the vague memory of a novel, though she conducts herself with cheerful professionalism and has already negotiated our first Shiel contract, for an edition of the novel The Yellow Danger, from 1898, a century ago. Only my brother Miguel, after raising an eyebrow and taking his pipe from his mouth for a moment, immediately banished all doubt and listened to my news as if it were perfectly natural, he’s known me since I was a child, and not in vain, and he does have a memory now. It’s curious that I find myself enveloped in all of this without having sought it out or tried to attain it — or only with my writing — when at heart I’m a republican and islands make me nervous. But the same things exist in republics as in kingdoms: imposters and intrigues, lunatics and rebellions, and bloody deeds. And legends. Maybe I’m the lunatic.
I’ll hazard a guess that the reason for all the quarreling over something that is imaginary is not the dream or symbol of a literary realm made of paper and ink (no usurper or pretender to the throne has been a real writer, the primary, implicit requirement), but the geographical location and material existence of the territory that accompanies it, the Leeward Isle; for it seems that when Queen Victoria annexed Redonda in 1872, through the government of Gladstone, in order to thwart the United States which was trying to do the same in order to exploit the phosphate of alumina in its poor, rocky soil, the British Colonial Office, in response to the protests first of Shiel’s father and then, later, of Shiel himself, made no objection to the latter’s title (“King of Redonda”), assuring him he could use it as long as his kingdom were devoid of substance and he refrained from rebelling against the colonial power. Besides, it’s debatable whether Shiel’s sovereignty fell under the jurisdiction of British law, and even the Colonial Office harbored some doubts as to the validity of his claim and right to an uninhabited island.
Redonda was discovered by Columbus during his second voyage, on the 10th, 11th, 12th or 13th of November, depending on the source. His illegitimate son Hernando Colón has this to say about the discovery in his biography of his father, Vida del Almirante: “Sunday, November 10th the Admiral weighed anchor and took the fleet northwest along the coast of the island of Guadalupe in the direction of Hispaniola [Haiti]. He reached the island of Montserrat, to which he gave that name because of its height; and he learned from the Indians he was carrying with him that the Caribs had unpeopled it by eating all its inhabitants. From there he proceeded to Santa María la Redonda, so named because it is so round and smooth that it seemed impossible to climb its sides without a ladder; the Indians called this island Ocamaniro,” a name which, incidentally, is almost an anagram of Manera Cao, or at least has all the same consonants, which are the substance of words.
It was also mentioned by the famous historian and humanist Pietro Martire d’Anghiera or Peter Martyr of Angleria, an official chronicler of the Indies, in his De Orbe Novo or The Decades of the new world, written in Latin after the manner of Titus Livius, beginning in 1511. From what he says in his lengthy description of the neighboring island of Madanino, it can be surmised that Columbus did not disembark at Redonda, though, as with everything else he caught sight of, he made note of it, christened it and claimed it for the Crown of Spain: “The Prefect,” (this was the classical term Peter Martyr used to designate the Admiral) “for the desire he had to see his companions, which at his first voyage he left the year before in Hispaniola to search the country, let pass many islands both on his right hand and left hand and sailed directly thither. By the way there appeared from the North a great Island which the captives that were taken in Hispaniola called Madanino, affirming it to be inhabited only with women to whom the Cannibals have access at certain times of the year, as in old time the Thracians had to the Amazons in the Island of Lesbos. The men children they send to their fathers. But the women they keep with themselves. They have great and strong caves or dens in the ground, to the which they fly for safeguard if any men resort unto them at any other time than is appointed, and there defend themselves with bows and arrows against the violence of such as attempt to invade them. They could not at this time approach to this Island, by reason of the Northnortheast wind which blew so vehemently from the same, whereas they now followed the East southeast.” This island, which also appears as “Matinina” and “Matinino” is believed to be the eastern side of Guadalupe. And Peter Martyr goes on: “After they departed from Madanino and sailed the space of forty miles, they passed not far from another Island which the captives said to be very populous and replenished with all things necessary for the life of man. This they called Mons Serratus [Montserrat], because it was full of mountains. The captives further declared that the Cannibals are wont at some time to go from their own coasts above a thousand miles to hunt for men. The day following, they saw another Island the which, because it was round, they called Sancta Maria Rotunda.… They affirm all these islands to be marvelous fair and fruitful.” De Orbe Novo was first translated into English by Richard Eden, in 1555, and into German in 1582.