THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK FOUR: THE BOOK of SCIENCE

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

At ten on the following evening. Esteban Chan scratched his back to the rhythm of the grandfather clock by the Macias door and sucked at an olive, savoring its unfamiliar taste. His coat was unbuttoned, his tray rested upon the floor. A thin film of dust coated four copitas of dead champagne.

The only remaining guest... a candle-maker, whose shop off the plaza existed through the silent partnership of the bishop who returned to him the stubs of offertory candles for remelting, was making his farewells to Don Antonio, pumping his hand effusively while glancing nervously side to side. The great empty room held an orchestra which had not bothered to play for half an hour but occasionally tuned their instruments or practiced, out of sequence, short phrases of popular cantina-melodies. Indian waiters with dead eyes lounged against the wall or squatted on the floor, the table spread with its delicacies had suffered its final invasion by Don Antonio's dogs forty minutes previously. All suggested a lobby of Hell and the pious candlemaker, like the Italian sisal agent, half an hour earlier, and the three spinster sisters who shared Doña Julia's mediumistic incidences half an hour before that, was eager to be on his way... to find a place where music still played, the wine flowed and the voices of happy celebrants dazzled in the night.

The door closed behind him and Don Antonio wiped his brow with a dirty handkerchief, limping past Esteban as if the indian and a half dozen others like him did not exist. Even his wife's unwanted relatives had made an early disappearance, mentioning something or other about an all-night séance being conducted near the downtown plaza. A few well wishers had occasionally drifted in and been announced but, taking note of the empty hall and hungry demeanor of the Macias family, quickly expressed greetings and condolences with one breath, their fleeting visit no more than the quick kiss afforded an elderly aunt. Some even looked at José pityingly, as if deliberating whether to say something, then thinking the better of it and departing, hastily.

José and Roberto Urzaiz were now seated, face to face, in chairs that seemed to have swallowed them whole while Rigoberto… who had not spoken half a dozen words since his arrival an hour before… paced the floor. José fingered one of the decorations on his tunic; the Hermano Mayor held a joint of beef in his lap, breaking portions of it off with his fingers and tossing them across the room to the dogs. José glanced towards his father. "Gone?"

"Gone," said Don Antonio, taking a seat upon the edge of a sturdy sofa that could have held four or five, were there such in the empty house. The patron held his chin in his hands for some moments, while the younger men waited to hear him speak.

"It seems the city has other occasions on its mind," he finally admitted. "Doña Catarina, the other night, told me the difference between an ordinary family, these days, and one in which all of the nuances of society are observed, is the presence of an all-Chinese house staff. Perhaps she was right. I have no other sensible explanation for this evening."

"Merida is a fickle lover," Roberto said, opening his cigarette box. "If you are laid up for a few months... out of sight owing to an act of God... they forget you. After all that you have done for the city!" he sighed. "A fact of human nature, here more evident than usual."

"Well," Don Antonio said, "although that may or may not be so; what is inescapable is the end of this affair. For my part, I am ready to have this disaster ended and join my wife upstairs. One needs to rest when he has reached age, and the parade, tomorrow, commences at half past two. You may yet wish to go out; as we know, the function at Don Virgilio's has been blest by the appearance of the President and he may still be there. It could be your only opportunity to meet the great man in the flesh.

Roberto took the meat off his lap, considered for a moment rising to place it upon a table, then rolled it across the floor to the delighted dogs. "You understand, I mean no offense. All of us, from time to time, experience some difficulties in this world. But sympathy and sorrow will not effect change. Now, however, I must greet my colleagues... my younger brothers of the campaña. If they are... say... at Don Virgilio's, I have an obligation to attend. They may have need of me," he added helplessly. A sharp squeal and menacing growl were voiced at almost the same time; Don Antonio's hunting mastiff, guarding the joint, had let the meat fall from his mouth in order to sink his teeth into the haunch of a challenger and one of the tiny terriers, kept about the barn to discourage rats, tugged the beef under a chair where the great hound could not reach him.

"Go," José declared, "you've done all any fellow could and I can close this place up. Tomorrow, as you say, will be a busy day. And I still expect General Bravo. He sent his word."

"Through Colonel Huerta?" smiled the patrón. "I had Salazar's word, and Lorenzo's. Even Don Andre has deserted me, all of my old friends. Thus, as Shakespeare wrote, died Caesar." Don Antonio rose, wincing at the pain in his leg. "I'll be in the bath before retiring."

And then the doorbell sounded, a sudden and solemn stroke that snapped all eyes... both those of the Macias family and the hired help... to the hall. The Chinese butler Flaco greeted their unseen guest.

"One of my Caballeros, probably," Urzaiz frowned, "who will think less of me for having been involved in this ridiculous affair."

"Barzon," reasoned Don Antonio, "or maybe Brutus, come with his knife."

"Surely the General," thought José, "or even Elena with or, better still, without her father." And the one thought common to all, raising commingled hope and horror... President Diaz!

But it was only Arturo Alvarez, a bank cashier and notorious religious fanatic. He had come, without an invitation, in order to distribute pamphlets issued by the Catholic and Ecumenical Congress, protesting the visit of Don Porfirio. It had been a hard night for Alvarez. He had been shown to the door at sixteen functions over two days and, upon arriving at the home of the young President of the Concilio Sagrade del Espino... a rival fraternity to the Caballeros... he had been bodily held down, had his face painted and was then marched to the door and kicked down the stairs, his pamphlets fluttering in the air about him, the jeers of the young Concilores following him all the way to the gate around which swarmed, it seemed, two thirds of Merida's street urchins who amused the montes by fighting over coins tossed from their carriages or fotingos. But even that incident, humiliating as it was, unnerved him less than this great, empty house... the indifferent orchestra, the criminal-looking indian waiters slouching against the walls, and... dogs. It would be far from the first time that his missionary appeal had been thwarted, falling into ruin upon the teeth of a dog. He thrust some pamphlets into the butler's hand and fled.

"Here, Flaco," Don Antonio summoned, accepting one of the cheap little polemics. "Throw the rest in the fire. I think," he reasoned, "that this is the sign from God, himself, bidding us to bring this farce to its conclusion. The musicians may leave, be sure that they have been paid the sum agreed upon. And have Ruben prepare boxes for the food for any who wish to take something home to their families. The waiters too. There is no sense in letting such fine... and costly... provisions go to waste. Tomorrow, Ruben can take what's left to the Insane Asylum, and perhaps the Governor's man may take some of this champagne off our hands before I am tempted to drink myself to death. If the President appears, I will consent to receive him in my bath. Otherwise, I have gone to sleep." He bade good evening to the orchestra and to his sons and started up the steps, refusing aid, refusing even the cane, laying his arm heavily upon the rail.

Rigoberto watched moodily while Flaco marshaled the waiters to begin removing the ribbons and flowers and lamps from the ballroom. The musicians packed their instruments and departed. A dog leaped upon the buffet table and nosed a plate of sliced ham over the edge for its comrades, then set its jaws around the carcass of a roasted pheasant, still whole, jumped down and trotted into an antechamber.

"Are you sure that you won't join me?" the Hermano Mayor finally suggested gathering up several bottles and a slice of chocolate cake. José shook his head. Roberto stood up with a shrug and went to the mirror. A few minutes of primping and then he was gone – Rigoberto following with an apologetic shrug. As indians, like mice, began to creep through the ballroom, carrying off food and glasses and bottles, José glanced down at the pamphlet, with its smeared black and red calls to alarm. "Protest Positivism's President!" He turned a page and warnings leaped up: "Diaz, Font of Immorality, Drunkenness, Protestantism, Capitalism, Suicide, Labor Strikes, Masonry, Anarchism, Socialism! Join the struggle for Insurance, Banking, Temperance, Vaccination!" The rest of the text was small, poorly printed, and it waved in and out of José's eyes until he turned the whole thing over to the back, where writhed a dragon with the face of President Diaz, its coils covered with Masonic symbols, rising from a nest of women's shoes and broken liquor bottles.

Alvarez had often stopped the retired Captain to assert he would one day go to Santa Cruz to bring light to the territory. The thought was as ludicrous as the ignoble function. The doorbell tolled and he rose... another witness to failure!

The caller was Corporal Boleaga, one of Bravo's shifty murderers who suffered the General's command as an alternative to returning to civilization to stand trial for his crimes. He was bearing a short letter of the General's regrets at being unable to attend the Macias function and a small request. Behind Boleaga waited sixteen indians; sublevados, it seemed, in white... with rags and earrings, bits of sticks and bones and shells tangled in their hair. José started at the sight of their leader, the old sacristan from the prison colony who bared wolfish teeth in a smile that curdled the very marrow of his spine. Yet, as José told himself and Dr. Rosario had sworn, this old wizard had probably saved his life.

"These are the players of tomorrow's ball court game. The General assures that they are harmless, patriotic citizens, but the Armory is full and they have no place to pass the night. It would seem," the Corporal added, "that our militia prefers indians not be quartered in its own proximity. You understand, of course?"

"Certainly," José agreed.

"The General was hoping that you could find room in your stables. They'll be up and gone by sunrise and he would be grateful."

"Fine!" José said, and felt his shoulder jump as the eagle took dominion with a force and suddenness never experienced before, not even on the occasion of the unfortunate incident with the runaway at Idznacab. It was almost as if the imp was perched atop the place the Cruzob bullet had entered, whispering into his ear the words he was speaking to the Corporal. "Do not bother to go round to the stables, there is room enough here for their mats, and food and drink for all. The General's guests are my own." And, to Boleaga's astonishment, he opened wide the doors to the Macias home.

The indians filed in, eyes downcast. Something about these men troubled even the eagle and José opened his mouth as if to speak, to retract the foolish offer... but the imp had flown as quickly as it had descended, leaving the memory of his invitation etched perfectly in his memory as if by a cutter of the old stones. Well, Bravo had given his word... they were only indians, unarmed and whispering to one another and glancing at José as if expecting execution. Chankik's doing, that! Certainly they'd be safe, with so many soldiers about...

He went to the kitchen, leaving instructions with Flaco and Ruben for the night, and went upstairs to his room. Below the balcony, Silvestro Kaak glanced up. He'd seen the Captain reflected in the glass to the door and, though the ribbons and decorations upon the uniform had changed, he knew this was the same man. The house was familiar too, even the tables being cleared and carried off and the shrill, hectoring tones of the cook. He stood in the past, peering out at the future through the eyes of a ghost until the sight of one of the scurrying waiters reconciled his flesh and spirit.

"You will not have recognized me," Silvestro said, placing one arm on the shoulder of Esteban Chan. "We never played ball together as boys, I never worked at Idznacab. I am a stranger."

"I understand," said Esteban. "The mayordomo is in the kitchen."

"Great as his pleasure would be to find me here, I must deny this to him. As I must refrain from the pleasure of slitting his throat... for the greater good of Juan de la Cruz. When he has gone, we may speak of our village."

Silvestro turned away and quickly spread his mat out in a corner already cleared, stretching out and placing his hat over his eyes. He heard footsteps pass and then the mayordomo's voice.

"What a raggedy, thieving bunch of rascals this crowd is," Armando Feliz told the Corporal. "The Captain must have gone insane."

"Be calm, old man," Boleaga assured him. "General Bravo has given his pledge that they'll cause no harm and if anything is missing, just give me a word. He has his ways with indians."

"That I have heard," the mayordomo answered, respectfully.

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