It is night in the hospital, and the ward has at last consented to sleep. The lamps are down to their blue hearts. Somewhere behind me a man with a stone in his bladder groans on the turn of a dream, and the fevered woman by the far wall tells her rosary and loses beads, and the drafts move down the long room the way they do in every great sick-house in Spain, as though the building itself were breathing through its teeth. I have washed the day off my hands — there is a basin of vinegar-water for that, and a boy whose office is to keep it filled, and a smell that I have long since stopped smelling and visitors never stop remarking. I sit now at the little table where the steward counts his loaves, and I have stolen some of his ink.

Stolen is too strong. Borrowed, against a debt this house will never settle. I am the only man in Toledo who pays for his lodging in sutures.

Today's ledger, since a surgeon's day explains a surgeon's night: a carter's boy with a scalded arm, dressed and sent off roaring; the stone man, whom I cannot cut — he is too weak and I am too watched — but whom I can ease, a little, with warmth and position and the small talk that is half of medicine; a seamstress's finger, opened by her own scissors, closed by mine; the fevered woman, who is dying slowly of something no lancet reaches and who has begun, these last nights, to call me by her son's name. I answer to it. I have answered to stranger things, as this account will presently establish, and a dying woman's mistake is the most honest name anyone has offered me in two years.

They gave me ten years of this, to be served without wage, and I have learned that a sentence, like a wound, looks worst on its first day. The labor is the same labor I once did for money, and did well; the sick do not ask what the Holy Office concluded about their surgeon, only whether his hand shakes. Mine does not. But of late the crowds at the door have become an embarrassment to the administrator, who did not expect his penitent to be sought after, and there is talk — more than talk now; there is a petition, and soon there will be a cart — of sending me to some remoter house where my notoriety may heal in quiet, like a bone properly splinted. Before they cart me off, I mean to set something down.

Everyone has written me. I want the full inventory on the table before I begin, because it is the reason there is a beginning at all. The priest at Alhama wrote me into his book within days of my birth, in a hand I never saw, under a name I did not choose. The scriveners of two marriages wrote me. The muster clerk of a company of soldiers wrote me. The examiners wrote me — several times, with rising confidence and opposite conclusions, which ought to have embarrassed somebody. The royal Protomedicato wrote me, handsomely, with a seal. And then the notaries of the Holy Office wrote me at a length I would not have believed had I not sat there watching the folios thicken — my childhood, my marriages, my body, my mother, every word of mine passed through their hands on its way to the page, every answer taken down by men paid to prove the answerer a lie. A man so much written by others may be forgiven for wanting one account in his own hand. This is that account. I do not expect it to outweigh theirs — paper obeys whoever keeps the archive. But a tailor knows the same cloth cuts two ways, and I have been cutting all my life.

Begin, then, where the books begin.

I was born near Alhama de Granada, in the kingdom of that name — hill country, hot in the mouth of summer, the town stacked above its gorge with the famous baths steaming away below it, the country around all olive and grain and the long roads that would later teach me so much. The year I cannot swear to, and I observe that no one else can either, though many have tried on my behalf. Under oath I gave my age as I believed it, and the arithmetic was done by men who were paid to do it; say the middle of the century and you will not be far wrong. It is a strange poverty, not to own one's own year. It was not the strangest I was born into.

The house was the house of Benito de Medina, a man of property in that country, and my mother belonged to it. I have chosen the verb with a tailor's care. Her name was Francisca de Medina — mark whose surname she wore, as in a moment you will mark whose I wore; in that country even our names were livery. She was an African, dark — morena, negra, the word shifted with the speaker's charity, and I have used both under oath and neither is the point. She had come, I always understood, out of the Málaga country, though of what lay behind that — the sea, a ship, a market, a first name that was not Francisca — she never spoke to me, not once, and I was a grown man with grey in my beard's ghost before I understood that the silence had not been emptiness. It had been a wall she built with her own hands and stood in front of, all her life, so that her child could play on the sheltered side of it. I know a little now about what such walls cost the mason. I have built one or two of my own, and I have put what I love behind them, and I will die — whenever and wherever that is arranged — still standing in front.

What I remember of her sits below language, where children keep their first knowledge. Smoke, and crushed esparto, and warm bread when there was any. The particular dark of the kitchen before the fire was woken, and her already in it. Hands that could find a fever in my neck with three fingers, more surely than some physicians I have since watched work with their whole learning; hands that scrubbed, wrung, kneaded, carried, and still had a gentleness left over at the end of the day, which is a thing I have since learned to price correctly, having seen what days do to hands. A low voice going through her back and into me, where I rode while she worked — no words kept, only the hum of them, the way you keep the warmth of a room you cannot remember. She was owned, my mother. I write it plainly because it is true, and because everything crooked in my history straightens a little once it is admitted, and because she cannot be shamed by it, being blameless, and I decline to be shamed by it on her behalf.

The lawyers have a rule for what follows, elegant as a fishhook: the child follows the condition of the mother. By that arithmetic certain men have said to my face that I was born a thing with a ledger entry — said it holding my own testimony in their hands, in a room built for saying such things. I answered then what I answer now, and I set it down here in fair round letters so that no future hand need improve it: I was never a slave. Believe what pleases you; I know how the rule runs, and I know what the whisperers make of my face, and I know that the household fed me as it fed its own and that no man ever produced a bill of sale with my name upon it. And here is the joke I have had forty years to season, and it still keeps its flavor: had there been such a bill, the name on it would not have been mine either.

For I was baptized Elena de Céspedes, and there was already an Elena de Céspedes in that house — the mistress herself, wife of Benito de Medina. It is common custom, and I want you to sit with the custom a moment rather than hurry past it, because customs are where a country confesses. The servant carries her owners' names the way a wall carries the master's escutcheon: an ornament that announces property. My mother wore the master's surname. I was given the mistress's name entire — given name and surname both, the whole garment — so that when the mistress was wanted and when the slave-woman's child was wanted, the same word did for both, and the corridor sorted us by tone. Consider what it is to answer, your whole childhood, to a name that is in daily use by someone grander in the same house — to come running when the voice meant someone else, to learn the difference in the calling before you have learned your letters, to be, in the very sound of yourself, a diminutive. I became a connoisseur of the ways a name can be said. It is a skill like any other. It has fed me information all my life, in shops, in camps, in courtrooms — you can hear a man's whole verdict in the two syllables of a greeting — and I learned it before I was six, answering to Elena-said-small in a house that also contained Elena-said-large.

Let me give you the house itself, while I have it in the light — for it was my first country, and a man's first country writes on him deeper than any iron could. It was a house of work, as all such houses are for those who work them: the yard with its well and its smell of dung and rosemary; the press-room's oil-dark beams; the kitchen, which was my mother's province and therefore mine, warm as the inside of a loaf in winter and in summer a purgatory the women bore with jokes I was too small to catch and have spent years reconstructing. There were other servants, other slaves — I knew the difference the way children know everything, by the grain of it rather than the name; who could be sent to market alone and who could not; whose feast days were their own and whose were on loan. A child of my station in such a house is furniture that eats, and furniture sees everything. I saw how the master was one man at his own table and another at the door with a factor; how the mistress ran the whole engine of the household with three fingers, the way my mother took a fever, touching only what told her things. I saw what deference cost and what it purchased, where the lines ran, who could be made to laugh and who must never be. I did not know I was learning a trade. But when, years later, men marveled that I could pass where I should have been found out, I never marveled with them. I had served an apprenticeship in the reading of rooms before I could reach the table I was reading them across, and the guild that trained me never knew it had taken an apprentice.

Of the mistress herself, my namesake, I have kept less than you would think, she being the sun of that house and I a thing at the edge of its yard: black skirts in a doorway; a voice that did not rise because it had never needed to; once — I hold this one apart — a hand on my head in passing, absent as a blessing given by habit, on some errand when I was very small. I do not build on it. Great folk touch servants' children the way they touch the doorpost. But I have noticed, at this table, that of all the house I remember, it is her I remember least and owe most, and that this is the shape of such houses in one sentence.

A name is a garment. Mine was cut for another body and handed down, and I wore it as servants wear a cast-off cloak: glad of it in winter, chafed by it the rest of the year. Years later, when the time came, I did not throw that garment away, whatever the fiscal implied. I took in the seams. One letter altered, Elena to Eleno — the cheapest alteration I ever made, and the one most dearly paid for. But I am ahead of my needle.

You will want to know about my face, because everyone does; it enters every account of me by the second paragraph, and I have decided, at this table, to let it enter mine there too, but on my own terms.

There are marks on it. They have been there since my childhood, and I will tell you how they came, and I will tell you what is said, and you may sort yourself into whichever crowd suits you. When I was small — six years, seven, the seasons of that age run together — a sickness came up in me, a carbunco, an evil inflammation of the kind that gathers and burns and kills children in those hill towns every year. I have treated them since; I know the thing now from the physician's side of the bed, the heat of it, the way the flesh goes proud and then gives, the fever that stands over the child like a creditor. I nearly died. I remember it the way one remembers early catastrophe — in pieces, without order: the rafters of a particular ceiling; a taste of scorched honey, some remedy of the women's; the weight of a hand on my chest that I believe was my mother's and will not be argued out of; and after — weeks after, a child's forever — being propped in the kitchen doorway in the sun, light as a husk, watching the yard as though it had been made new. The sickness left its signature on my face as such humors do, and the signature stayed. That is my account. It was my account under oath, and it enjoys one advantage over its rivals, which is that it is what happened.

There is another story. Nobody has ever told it to my face; I have heard it at my back my whole life — in the market at Vélez when I was a child and the other children had it from their mothers; in camps, over cards; in the pause before a witness answers; in the delicate throat-clearing of learned men. That story says iron. That story says some hand printed on my skin what the ledger could not hold, the way they mark the enslaved in the great ports, and that the carbuncle is a freedwoman's fable told to spare the child. I have never conceded it, and I will not concede it tonight to please the curious, and I want the reason on the page, because it is not stubbornness. A man's account of himself is the one property that cannot be seized, inventoried, or sold at auction — I have tested this, in a court expressly built for seizure, and it held. The whisperers may keep their version. It costs them nothing, which is a fair measure of its worth. Mine cost me a childhood fever and forty years of other people's eyes, and I will thank the world to let me keep what I have paid for.

The mistress died when I was a child still — ten years, twelve; the machinery of those seasons is dark to me now, and I will not pretend to a precision the record itself declines. I remember the house with its voice lowered, the mirrors and the mourning, my mother's face gone careful in a new way, the master's rooms full of men in black settling things — for death in a propertied house is above all a settling, and children hang about the edges of it like gulls behind a plough, catching what turns up. What turned up, for me, was freedom. It came, as the phrase went, in contemplation of her — the liberty given in memory and honor of the dead mistress whose name I wore — and I ask you to stop on that lawyer's formula as I have stopped on it many nights, because like much lawyers' Latin it is oddly tender if you stop to read it: as though freedom were a way of continuing to look at the dead; as though the great lady, going where escutcheons do not follow, had turned at the door and made the one gesture that would outlast her. I never knew her mind — a child in a kitchen does not converse with the mistress of the house, we shared a name and not ten sentences — and so I am free to believe what I choose, and I have chosen, on the whole, to believe the gesture kind. A man should be allowed one unexamined kindness in his history. I keep hers.

Whether there was a paper I cannot tell you. I never carried one; no one ever asked me for one until the year everyone asked me for everything. And you may amuse yourself, as I have, with the riddle the whole transaction leaves behind: how does one free a child who was never bound? I bequeath that riddle to the learned doctors who would later find me, under a single shirt, to be several different creatures in succession. They liked riddles of mine considerably less.

Freedom, whatever its paperwork, had a plain taste, and I remember it. Part of my childhood passed at Vélez-Málaga — how we came there, whether my mother came too or I was placed, the record does not say and I will not invent, for this account fabricates nothing it cannot stand behind; I was there, that much is mine. Vélez sits back from the sea behind its hill, but the sea is in everything there — in the light over the roofs, in the fish smell of the market, in the talk of weather and corsairs, in the masts you could see from the high ground standing off the beach like a fence around the world. I used to climb to look at them. I did not want to sail; ships have always struck me as jails that leak; I wanted only to stand somewhere high and confirm, regularly, the size of the world and how little of it was reserved for people like me — and both confirmations mattered, mark. The size gave hope its room. The reservation kept the hope honest.

It was at Vélez, too, that my hands declared themselves. Someone — a woman of the house where I was kept or worked, her face is gone — set me to plain mending because small fingers are wanted for small stitches, and discovered, and I discovered with her, that the stitches came back not merely small but true: lines a grown sempstress would own, seams that lay down and stayed. I was given more. It is the oldest story in every trade — the child who takes to it — and I would live it again twice over, in a Granada kitchen with hose and in a Madrid tavern with a torn scalp, before I understood it was one story all along and my life had a spine. At Vélez I understood nothing; I only noticed that while I sewed, the world let me alone — that a child bent over work is invisible in the good way, the way I was otherwise invisible in the bad one — and that people who mocked my face went silent when they saw my seam. Competence, I would learn, is the one argument nobody's whisper survives. I had no words for that either. But I sewed, reader, like a soul possessed, and I have been answering whispers with my hands ever since.

For freedom bought motion, and freedom bought nothing else. I want this entered carefully, because free men who have never been anything else use the word as though it were a meal and a roof and a name, and it is none of those. The name traveled with me, secondhand as ever. The marks traveled with me, and the whispers traveled faster than a child on foot ever could — they went ahead, like outriders, and had the town's opinion formed before I cleared the gate. I had no trade yet; I had only what the free poor have, which is the right to be hungry in the town of their choosing. I have been both, reader — owned-and-fed as a child, free-and-fasting after — and I will not stage a debate between them, because the debate is obscene; but I will say that the day I understood freedom to be the beginning of an account and not the settling of one, I stopped being a child, whatever my years said. Nothing was going to be given. Very well. Then everything wanted earning, and earning wants a trade, and a trade — though I could not have said this then — wants exactly what I had been issued in place of a patrimony: quick hands, a good eye, and a lifetime's practice at being unregarded in the corner of a room.

— The boy has just been through with his lamp; the fevered woman wanted turning early, and I have done it, and sat with her the few minutes such turning costs and such sitting repays. She held my hand in both of hers and called me by her son's name again, and told me — him — that he was good to come so far. I write this down not for pathos, which this account has forsworn, but for method, because it belongs to tonight's chapter more than she could know. All my life I have been a mirror in which people see whomever they require: mistress's namesake, miller's bastard, branded slave, honest tailor, proper husband, monster, surgeon, son. The Holy Office spent eighteen months trying to make the mirror confess which reflection was the fraud. The fevered woman does it nightly, without torture, and is nearer the truth than they ever came: she looks at what stands beside her bed, and what she sees is someone who came far, and is good to her. Let the doctors of both tribunals dispute the rest. And now, back along the road, for the ink is low and I have a father to enter.

Of my father, then, since a beginning owes its accounting, and I have kept him for last because he weighs least and that itself instructs.

His name was Pero Hernández — Pedro in his Sunday clothes — a miller of Alhama: a free man, a laboring Christian of the old stock, as they reckon such things there, with a lineage no inquisitor would trouble and flour to the elbows on working days. That is what I had from my mother, and a child has nothing from a better source, and I believed her, and I believe her still, for reasons that are not evidence but are mine: she was sparing with facts, my mother, and the sparing woman's few facts are load-bearing. I could have found his mill sooner than his face. I do not remember that he ever sought me out; I remember — or I have built the memory so long it has the weight of one, and at this table I will flag the difference and then keep the memory anyway — being walked past a mill on some errand, small, my hand in my mother's, and a white-armed man in the doorway who did not wave, and my mother not turning her head, and the meal-dust drifting in the light like the snow I had never seen. Whether that was he, whether that was even Alhama, I cannot swear. What a fatherless child knows is what his mother chooses to tell him, what the village chooses to repeat, and — soon enough — the difference between the two, which is the first education. I have paid for several educations since. None taught me more.

There were other stories, naturally. In Alhama as everywhere, the wind assigns fathers to the children of servants, and in that house the wind blew mostly indoors; you take my meaning, and I will not take it further. Such stories are told about every child of every Francisca in Spain, and the telling costs the tellers nothing, and I never once dignified it — not at six, not under oath, not now. Hernández the miller is the father I was given, and — for once in this history — what I was given, I kept. A miller. I have thought about it professionally, in the years since, the way I think about lineage when a patient's case wants a history: a man whose trade is to take the grain as it comes and turn the stone and make of rough stuff something that feeds people. As inheritances go, a child could construct worse omens. I never earned bread from grain. But I have spent my whole life at one wheel or another, turning what was brought to me — cloth, wounds, questions, verdicts — and if there is flour on my arms it is only of a darker kind, and I am the miller's child in the one register no parish keeps.

The candle is down to its knuckle, and the boy will come soon to turn the fevered woman, and I must go and be a surgeon again, which is the one name I hold that no tribunal issued and none has managed to revoke. Look at the page, though — look how much of it there suddenly is. I sat down tonight to enter a birth and a name, and the account has run on the way blood runs when you finally unbind a thing, and I count that a good omen for this book, whatever it augurs for the steward's ink.

Tomorrow, or whichever night they leave me the light, I must marry the girl Elena to a stonemason of Jaén. She is fifteen, sixteen; she stands at the church door of that chapter already, and she does not know what I know — not what is coming to her in a rented room in her seventeenth year, not what her own body is keeping folded against a night none of us could have imagined, not the plazas and the tribunals and the wards that are queued behind that little wedding like carts behind a broken axle. I will have to walk beside her at the pace she walked, which is harder than it sounds; hindsight is a horse that will not go slow. Let the folios say Elena. Let them say worse; they do. I have answered to Elena, and to Eleno, and to names shouted across plazas that I will not give lodging here, and I am still the one holding the pen tonight, in a ward full of sleeping debts, with a stolen inch of candle and the whole of my life queued up in the dark, waiting to be told at last by the only witness who was there for all of it.

The name I was given began as another woman's. What I made of it — thread by thread, seam by seam — is the whole of this book.