The Goldsmith's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page A

my father’s workshop. When he was absent I was sent there by Mayatl to dust and sweep, but I spent more time examining his designs and handling polished gems than I ever did in cleaning. Secretly, alone, I learnt the weight of fine stones and observed the flaws that marred those of lesser value. I studied the settings he worked, seeing how they displayed the gems to their best advantage.
    But the goldsmith’s art was not for me. Girls could not be craftsmen. At seven, I had to learn the art of cooking tortillas.
    My first attempt had been a disaster. I had rushed the grinding of the maize, being too hasty with the heavy stone to produce a smooth flour. Likewise, I had hurried the shaping and rolling of the dough, so desperate had I been to finish the chore and get back to Mitotiqui. I recall my father chewing bravely on the hard, lumpen tortilla, saying nothing but smiling vaguely with encouragement until he gave a sudden cry and clutched his jaw.
    It seemed I had done my task so poorly that a piece of grit had become mingled with the grain and chipped his tooth. My heart had beaten fast with shame for many days as his mouth swelled in wordless accusation. He had finally had his tooth pulled, and, although he never once reproached me, I made a solemn vow then to cause him no further injury. I would be careful. But the dreariness of grinding corn was an endless source of irritation to me. And I burned with jealousy that while I knelt rolling the stone back and forth, Mitotiqui was allowed to follow my father and assist him when he worked gold into fine ornaments.
    Mitotiqui was destined for glory on the field of battle, but a warrior is not always at war. Only in the appropriate season did our army set forth to fight the ancient enemy, Tlaxcala. Therefore my father reasoned that Mitotiqui also needed to learn the goldsmith’s art.
    Envy of my brother soured my temper. I had not forgotten my stolen glimpse of the emperor’s adornments. Indeed, each time I set foot in the city streets I could not help but glance at nobles to assess the craftsmanship of the jewels they wore. Tortilla-making seemed such dull, repetitious labour in comparison. To relieve the tedium I often moulded shapes in the dough – the gods, the tiny hairless dogs that were the pets of noblemen, the flowers that tumbled from the roof of every house – before I had to squash them and roll the dough flat. Such usage did not improve the flavour of my tortillas, nor soften their texture. I was a pitifully poor cook, for I saw no reward in the task. Hour after hour I pummelled and flattened and baked, only to see my work disappear in the course of a single meal!
    I complained of it crossly to Mitotiqui. “What our father crafts – what you craft – will last for ever. Anything I make vanishes down your throat in the blink of an eye!”
    â€œYou think so?” Mitotiqui’s voice was deadly serious, but his eyes gleamed teasingly. “I assure you, Itacate, you are mistaken.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œYour tortillas are so heavy that they take months to pass through my insides.” He rubbed his stomach. “In fact, I think there is one lodged just here that you baked last year.”
    I cried with indignation, and cuffed Mitotiqui as he mimed chewing, and gave a perfect imitation of my father smashing his tooth.
    â€œYour tortillas are good, solid creations. They are immortal, Itacate, like the gods.” He nudged me. “Perhaps our emperor should use them to pave his palace. They would last longer than terracotta.”
    I fell upon him in play, beating him around the head with the palm of my hand. And so, with laughter, my brother lightened the weight of my domestic burden. But even he could not ease my horror of weaving, for by then he was attending school.
    I was ten. In five or six years my father would approach Nemaneoanoliztli, the matchmaker, and she would begin the search to find me a suitable