Think of a series you screen or stream "inspired by a true story." Season one fills the backstory of the hero. Lots of details, subplots, intrigues, betrayals, but a few desperate grabs at better fortune grip. The pace remains ruminating, characters meander, in a plot slow rather than rapid, but steady.
But you're not sure if you'll stick around for season two. The storyline feels cluttered, the historical context demands attention as it's unfamiliar, the setting keeps shifting from Old World to the New, a century after the conquistadors. Religion dominates, the Inquisition expands into Chile, down to the Argentine. There, Jewish "marranos" who've relapsed from being "New Christians" to reclaim their ancestral allegiance either die at the Act of Faith stakes, torture and imprisonment, or they'll again renounce under pressure and be sentenced to galleys, a release into shame and infamy, or if before their sentences of death are carried out by Church-Crown, garroting rather than immolation.
My advice? Stay the course. For who emerges but, at last, the grown-up Francisco Maldonado de Silva, a doctor who chooses to stand tall rather then capitulate, from a Sephardic family fleeing Portugal, whose other members have been beaten into submission, or baptized and assimilated. Francisco, about 60% of the way in, emerges from the chronicles adapted into brisk, episodic chapters, nearly cinematic, as as a flawed protagonist, whose struggle "based on real events" will move you. No cliché. This saga kept me awake, and sometimes agitated through Christmastime nights into my dreams, as Marcos Aguinis succeeds in summoning his imaginative skills to create a memorable testimony. It's astonishing how from the archives, this Argentinian assemble his craft.
A few minor points, such as a laywoman donning the "habit" (which would be a cassock or black "soutane") of the Jesuits, gave me pause. There's no distinction clarified between the "Edict of Faith," when the Inquisition thunders in unexpectedly to tell townspeople they have thirty days to confess as backsliders or else, and the "Act of Faith," when the same cabal makes true their threat.
Yet the cameos by real-life saints, the Franciscan friar (my translation by Carolina de Robertis threatens to label every religious order cleric the canonically incorrect "monk"--this as with "enslaved person/ black/ woman" etc. jars; the first "hábito" usage repeats the Spanish, as for Isabel "el jesuita" whereas "esclavos" for slaves was the source's case, reflecting sensibility shifts in our publishing industry, presumably, between the original 1991 and this rendition, 2018; as for "frailes y monjas." Aguinis' preferences shift, annoyingly albeit repeated in popular mis-identifications) Francisco Solano and the Dominican Martin de Porres, reveal in sensitively fleshed-out (in more than one "mortifying" scene), how fragile men sworn to vows before God try to attend to the beaten-down indigenous and African populations in selfless service.
Not that Aguinis apologizes for the abuses meted out. Yet the Church, abundant in its manifold as ever transgressions, nonetheless tried when no other institution did, to ease the sufferings and maladies of those trodden down by Capital. If run by weak, deluded, and confused idealists compromised as were their Jewish opponents by imperial machinations, clerical malfeasance, military rule, and economic burdens, the Church isn't distorted beyond belief or sense. Aguinis through Francisco tries to stay fair and honest. He's not perfect, anymore than those of his predecessors and relatives who try to evade the Church's long arm and blunt stake of an auto-de-fe.
It's worth the incremental build-up. My guess is that the mass of evidence drawn on from the records of Francisco de Montesinos' eyewitness and commissioned account obligated Aguinis to faithfully put pen to paper in the same style (allowing for technology since 1640) of elaboration.
And, to present to today's readers an intricate and in-depth panorama of the Catholic crackdown in South America, which like original judicial and ecclesiastical, Crown and Dominican-staffed, Spanish and Portuguese systems to punish, discipline, terrorize, extort, and, yes, purportedly save souls while still among the living heretics such as Lutherans, and their Jewish "reverts" judged equally untrustworthy as unfaithful sinners or spies desperately resistant to priest, pope, potentate, and the powers across Iberian empires...well, the author immerses us into a turbulent flow of eloquence, litigation, desperation, and deliverance if not from, than amidst, evil. Often caricatured, this Inquisition reveals not a cartoonish legal, penal, and theological apparatus, but a relentlessly pursued and executed in every sense by means of indoctrination, scholastic prevarications and casuistic logic, financial gain, and ideological propaganda. It's impressive, if in a dispiriting regime.
P.S. The cover image of the English ed. (2018, Amazon Crossing) reminds me of the threat attributed in midrash by God to the people at Sinai that if they didn't accept the Torah, He'd basically upend the mountain itself on them, since the previous "seventy nations" of the world had said to Him on its offering of the Law, "thanks but no thanks," leaving the Almighty to make the Jews an offer they couldn't refuse. The Talmud opines that carrying out commandments imposed upon one by the Law may be more and not less beneficial, again inverting the way we commonly reason out such "logical but not really deep down, but faith-based" practices, rather than "beliefs" in the Christian sense. All of which relates to the theme of the novel. But I don't think this "aggadah" is mentioned within.