THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK FOUR: THE BOOK of SCIENCE

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

The Paseo had slowed to a crawl, congested with vehicles; motorcars into which eight or nine people squeezed themselves, oxcarts trudging towards the rear entrances to funciónes with provisions... ice, liquor, even a grand piano... and the omnipresent pulpitos. Every vehicle in the state and every minimally healthy beast of burden was upon the streets of Merida that evening, for the celebrants were proud people who would not so much as walk, even, from one house to its neighbor. They had spent good money, some of them giving up all they had and even borrowing in order to be seen, and seen they were by the dozens and hundreds; getting into vehicles and stepping out again, preening and smoking, poking their heads out of windows to shout their presence, and always with the expectation and the question voiced in thirty ways or, more often, passed between celebrants by an uplifted eyebrow or a frown... "Is President Diaz here? There? Is he coming this way?"

Raul Montez-Betancourt, whose branch of the family had come into ascendance over that of his cousin with the accession of Molina to the Governor's seat, resided in a great stone house on the Paseo. It was not constructed of Yucatecan limestone but granite, hard and gray, and carried over great distance (and at even greater expense) from a Tabascan quarry. From the outside it appeared more like an official building than a home, and the decor was consequently muted, functional, although calculated to subtly impress in a fashion that brought the word "Presidential!" to José's lips. Two great torches soaked in pitch and set afire blazed at either side of the door, and thousands of electric lights had been strung through the shrubbery in merry shapes... hearts and animals, even a bell. No "Roman" waiters wandered outside, however, no cheap plaster statuary intruded upon the dignity of the estate. Don Raul who, in his younger days, had had a passion for notorious acts that would have awed the Caballeros of this modern, more timid time, had not only grown respectable with age, he had sought and, in the eyes of the forgiving or the unobservant, and achieved the status of a man of property and respect.

His eyes glittered, whether fomented by the triumph of the moment or by the drugs he took, a high collar hid his skin disfiguration. Fidel, bearded heavily to hide his scars and the ravages of his own leprosy, greeted the elder Macias with an embrace and, then, hesitantly offered José a white-gloved hand. A tiny man in great spectacles and a gleaming white uniform festooned with so many ribbons and medals that their weight all but bore him to the floor preened impatiently behind, and Fidel proudly introduced his catch in the manner of a waiter describing a rare, succulent dish. "Here is Admiral Tokuda, hero of the Russian war," and he muttered a few syllables of a language that seemed, to the Captain, a distant cousin to Maya. The Admiral smiled and bowed. "I've introduced you as a famous indian-fighter, a Colonel."

"I was only a Captain," José corrected him, reciprocating the bow.

"My apologies. You really should have worn your uniform, though. It's too bad the Admiral does not know more than half a dozen Spanish words, otherwise you'd find each other great company. You could discuss... oh, killing people?" And José understood that the President had not visited Don Raul either. But Fidel was already walking them from the door, allowing the function to envelop them.

The greater portion of the guests were traders, speculators and a fair sprinkling of foreign agents of more substance than the perspiring underwear peddler at the Fermins. A member of the Peon family was speaking to an old gentleman in rapid, fluent Italian. The orchestra was playing a waltz, Viennese or perhaps Hungarian. "Señorita Escobar is here, do you remember? She has always had a soft spot for a soldier, anything in uniform. Even in your civilian dress you might be rewarded were you to ask her to dance."

"I'll remember," José promised. Fidel released his arm and turned back to greet a sugar planter and his wife. There being no unoccupied chairs in the salon, Don Antonio found a comfortable space to lean against the wall.

Many of the guests, José realized as he glanced through the rooms, were friends and clients of his brother. It would not have surprised him in the least to see Rigoberto but, when asked about the Licenciado for the third time, he understood that his brother was among those who fluttered in the wake of the President's entourage, one of those many social butterflies or moths of commerce. Now, although he had vowed to take only wine, José called for whiskey and gulped it faster than the brand deserved. Since his return... or a few weeks afterwards, after his novelty had run its course... the montes had shown him respect, out of his father's reputation (and, of late, his brother's) but few accounted him any relevance in his own right. As a soldier, he'd had at least an identity, an image to fulfill; people had recognized his uniform, if not the man within.

"José! We must dance."

He turned at the sound, expecting Señorita Escobar, but the speaker was Doña Concepción, wife of another of those Caballeros who had put down the cup and bell upon marriage and employment and hid himself within his father's clothes. He'd moved to one of the northern colonias, or suburbs, smiled wanly if recognized... he did something or other for a steamship company, and was often away in Progreso, leaving his wife to her garden, her romantic novels and a series of campañas of her own.

"Everyone in the colonia asks what has ever become of that handsome Captain Macias," flattered Concepción.

"You tease me," José warned.

"It's something I can't help. Hold me closer, officer. I want to make my Bobo jealous. That's the way he is, he's only interesting when something makes him angry or jealous. Have pity upon an old crone."

"Don't talk nonsense," said José, drawing her closer, still. "You're the same age as I."

"But I'm a married woman and we have two children, the girl is three and our son is two. Why don't you get around anymore here, you'd love to see them. Or maybe you wouldn't. But, God bless the President, it is the first excuse I've had to leave our house in months. Whisper something in my ear, Major."

"I was only a Captain," José whispered.

"There," Concepción said, "we've made him jealous. Poor Bobo! I think he wishes to kill you but he wouldn't dare because, well, you know..."

The music stopped and Doña Concepción returned, winking to her jealous husband in his stiff collar and his frozen smile, looking ten years older than his age. "Caballeros!" José thought. Now he spied Susana Escobar across the room and the old cry seemed to rise up as if from its grave... floating by, rapping at the window. "To the campaign!"

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