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life.” My grandfather emphasized every word, the way he did when he wanted to teach me a lesson. “He was a true member of his nationless, Semitic race. Luis, it behooves us Christians not to get too close to people with the stain.” He rested a hand on my shoulder, and looked me directly in the eye. “Never forget this: even when a Jew swears to be a devout Christian—centuries after their so-called conversion—at heart he always remains a Jew.”
    I had nothing against the Jews who had converted. What’s more, the conversos’ secretive life held a fascination for me. Besides, from the very beginning, Miguel and I had shared so many joyous moments that I would have disobeyed my parents—whom I otherwise respected and heeded, as was my duty—if they had forbidden our friendship.
    Yet, in spite of his disapproval, there was not even a look of reproach from my grandfather. “Come with me,” he said.
    I followed Papá Carlos into his sleeping chamber, where he opened a wooden box inlaid with Moorish designs carved in ivory, the kind made by the artisans of Toledo. He removed a handful of coins, and counted out sixty gold escudos which he placed in a leather pouch. Not another word was said, then or later. I understood his extraordinary generosity was due to his unspoken wish that Miguel would use the money to travel far, far away from me and from Spain, so that I could escape his influence. It was certainly enough money to pay for Miguel’s passage to the New World, a place he dreamed of reaching one day.
     
    * * *
     
    I had met Miguel at the Estudio de la Villa, the municipal school in Madrid where students prepared for entrance to the university. For two years Miguel had been the brother I didn’t have. For two years, during that period of youth when we dream our purest dreams, and no dream seems too improbable to attain, we had shared the hope of becoming poets and soldiers, like many of the great warrior poets of Spain, like our beloved Garcilaso de la Vega. Those two years before I turned twenty, Miguel and I had enjoyed the communion of twin souls. Everyone referred to us as “the two friends.” Our friendship seemed to me the perfect embodiment of the ethical union of souls that Aristotle describes in his Nicomachean Ethics . That ancient ideal of friendship was one of the goals I pursued in life.
    Madrid was a small village during the reign of Philip II. Soon after Miguel’s family arrived from Sevilla, rumors spread that his father, Don Rodrigo Cervantes, had been jailed many times for his inability to honor his debts. Another rumor, even more shameful, preceded the family.
    At Estudio de la Villa, my teachers and classmates held me in the highest esteem. Studying came easily to me. Knowledge was prized in my family; it was expected that after I left la Villa I would attend the Universidad Cisneriana in Alcalá, where many of the sons of the best families in Castile studied theology, medicine, literature, and other appropriate professions for an hidalgo, before taking their place in the world.
    Miguel enrolled at la Villa during my last year there. His father must have used an important connection to get him accepted. Miguel hadn’t been brought up to be a caballero like the rest of my classmates. Among the finest youth of Castile, of the world, he stood out like a wild colt in a stable of thoroughbreds. I hadn’t met anyone like him before. His boisterousness, unrefined charm, and extroverted nature earned him the nickname of El Andaluz. Like an Andalusian, Miguel spoke Castilian as if he could not quite grasp the language: he chopped off the last syllable of every word, and his enunciation was harsh—the way Arabic sounded to my ears. Miguel had that swagger, brio, and spontaneity of the people from the south, who cannot be called true Iberians since they have a mixture of Spanish and Moorish blood. He behaved as if he didn’t know whether to act like a Gypsy or a nobleman. In both roles, he was