THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK FIVE:
THE BOOK of STONE
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
During his four days of convalescence,
Octaviano Solis persuaded one of the soldiers to cut him
two segments of vine, each a meter long and of about the thickness of a finger,
for the purpose... the Colonel alleged... of holding his trousers up. This
soldier, observing that the weight Solis had lost caused his clothing to hang
loosely from his flesh, such as the robes certain Arabs wear, found nothing
untoward in the request and, upon the afternoon of his release from the
hospital, Solis tied both vines around his waist.
The
church was opened at dusk, raising up an exalted cloud of fat, corpse-fed
flies, of spiders and mosquitoes and, also, a host of crawling, hopping,
slithering and flying things that fled into its depths from the waning sun, as
from the embrace of a skeletal lover. A miasma of incredible proportion; mud
and charred wood, animal and human excrement, dried vomit, tubercular phlegm
and the hot breath of rats and bats and garrapatas
issued forth as the newcomers waited under the protection of Corporal Boleaga and the Captain of the Guard, a thin, moustached fellow whose nervous eyes darted like a
rabbit's. There they waited, as perhaps six hundred men and fifty women
preceded them across the threshold of what had once been the Temple of the Holy
Cross. Curses and the sound of fires being started could be heard as the
shadows deepened and even... once... what seemed the strangled death-cry of
what all fervently prayed was a chicken.
"Yes,"
said the Corporal, who was still taking measure of the new contingent of about
fifteen men, "it is possible to eat well here. Quite well!"
He
pointed to a bent old man, one of the indios mancos, carrying a tin pail... who waved back at Boleaga before entering the church. "Tortillas,"
said the Corporal, "go at seven for the penny here. Even the least of
you," he sneered, "should make five cents a day. A man who cannot
keep his belly filled has only himself to blame."
From
the door, Solis regarded the high, sloping walls on which cobwebs were slung
like hammocks; the sewage pails, the madman beating his head against the wall.
Belem again, he reckoned, although a good part of the day was passed outside.
There would be even less to be fearful of except, of course, for disease and Matochino.
"It's
time," the Corporal said. motioning them to file
inside. Boleaga hailed a black-bearded man, in whom
the European blood could still be discerned beneath the ravages of drink.
"This is Alfonso Aguilar," he said, "our eagle... who cares only
for women, cigarettes and rum. Give him these and he will be your lifelong
friend. Deny him at your peril."
"Again,
no women?" Aguilar exclaimed. "What is the Republic coming to, Cabo?
Are they still allowing the whores to run loose while we make do with
journalists and indians. You
haven't brought us any journalists?" he asked hopefully. "Or at least
a musician... a flautist, I'd prefer. A lawyer?"
"Only
a Colonel and a bartender," admitted Boleaga.
"Fauggh!" Aguilar said, spitting a great glob of mucus
at the feet of Solis. "Colonels are as numerous, here, as fleas. A
General, now that would be a novelty, but Porfirio
Diaz shoots those before they can do any harm. And
what use is a saloon keeper without rum? You've failed us again."
"The
fault is not mine," said the Corporal. "It is the judges in Mexico
City or the President to whom you must appeal."
"Ah,"
said the eagle of the Santa Cruz prison, "but they are there and you are
here." He reached for Boleaga, half in jest, and
the Corporal backed through the filthy throng and out the door, giving a wave
to soldiers waiting outside. With a rusty squeal it began to close. An iron
thump followed as the bar was dropped across it."
"That
is the sound by which we measure out our days," Aguilar told the
initiates. "It is the sound that you will loathe more than anything you
have ever despised, or any person... but it is also the thing you shall come to
love, and begin the day in prayer that you will hear again, for it is the
measure of your survival. It is our National Anthem. I could weep for
hours."
He
removed his battered straw hat and placed it by his chest while his eyes measured
the sixteen men.
"There,"
he finally pointed, "is Matochino, and there is
his throne." The stained and torn divan was the only European furniture in
the church and stood upon a low, raised platform cast of limestone, which, Octaviano Solis realized, had once been the altar of a
Catholic church. Lo Matochino, himself, was invisible
for the moment, crouching over a fire, but, when he stood, Solis estimated his
height at just short of two meters. Even so, flesh dangled from his belly and
his arms like pulp from watermelons. Matochino wore
the jacket of an officer of the Rurales as a vest, its sleeves having been torn
away. He shook a pineapple-sized fist towards Aguilar. "A brilliant
fellow," the bearded man said, "and loyal too. He would have been a
General or Governor, no doubt, but for his temper and a few other bad
habits."
Matochino stepped over the backs of filthy people huddled
in the mud towards the new arrivals. Bravo's congregation parted at his
approach as the waters of the Red Sea had fled Moses' command and, as he
reached Aguilar, he bellowed "Who?"
"Nothing.
A saloonkeeper, a Colonel and some dead men."
Matochino grunted. "Who's the Colonel?" The heads
of the prisoners turned, as one, to Solis. "Reyistas
don't live long here. You won't either. Until that time you sleep there... by
the shit." He pointed towards a space next to the sewage bucket.
"That's reserved for officers disloyal to the army, our General and the
President."
Without
so much as a glance at the rest, he turned his back and pushed through the
hungry people and mud towards his fire as if afraid that someone might be so
desperate as to steal a moment of its warmth from him while his back was
turned.
"The
Koreans," said Aguilar, "he kills at once, the Reyistas
after a few days. Other officers he leaves for times when there is no one else.
This is your home now. Enjoy! Do any of you have money?" he asked with a
malicious smile, knowing the guards at Santa Cruz had certainly removed
anything of value that those in Mexico City or Baja California had overlooked.
"Mugre!" he called.
The
bent old indian who'd been
given the name of the mud through which he hobbled brought his pail to Aguilar
who gave him five centavos, enough to buy three tortillas for each of the men.
"Mugre is not permitted to lend money or to extend
credit," Aguilar explained. "That right is mine, and also belongs to
a few others such as that man over there with the straw hat, and a woman Matochino calls Scrape, after her old profession."
"Will
Matochino lend me money?" asked an indian prisoner.
"Matochino does not lend. He takes what he wishes. If you
find yourself with a few centavos in your pocket, he can get you cigarettes or
meat, and if you've saved a peso he can find a bottle. Rather his boys can, Rafael or Poison. That's Poison in the black
shirt, I don't see Rafael about. Matochino does not
like the feel of money. Which, speaking of, you each now owe me a penny. Don't
worry, I can have the Corporal take care of it."
"Where
do we sleep?" another asked.
"Where
you wish," Aguilar answered. "But if you have chosen somebody's
place, the stronger of the two prevails. Except, of course, for the Colonel,
who would do well to do what he is told. Matochino
never says a thing twice. Accidents simply occur."
The
fires that kept the church in a half-light and produced a smoke only partially
vented by the holes in the roof slowly were allowed to dim and the heavy sighs
of despair became rasps of hopeless sleep. Solis went to the place assigned to
him, away from the occasional scuffles, and discovered that the pail already
overflowed. He kicked a man aside, another officer in some distant, previous
existence, and lay down... the defeated air with which with the other had
yielded only confirming his determination to act on this very night, while he
was still strong from Dr. Rosario's medicine.
But for
one man, Solis was avoided the way one turns his head from someone already
doomed. This exception was a demented Captain from Oaxaca, Maximo Sanchez, who
kept those hunkered down beside the slops pail... most of whom were also
commissioned officers... from their sleep with an incoherent stream of gossip
and advice.
"You're
one of us, Colonel, you know how to read and write. Tomorrow you must visit our
library, the equal of any in Chiapas state. There have
been many men of learning here... doctors, writers,
professors... though the monte takes them all in the
end. Ha ha ha,"
he giggled. "All of their friends and relatives sent books, which have
been taken by Sergeant Gomez. For a centavo you may read them. But the man to
really know is the Italian who is of both Masonry and Rosicrucianism,
he has many secret councils both in Mexico and Europe. He's a black magician
too, an artist who drew a caricature of the President which caused Don Porfirio to have pain in his teeth."
Solis
yawned and turned his back but the Captain continued his chattering. Minds as
well as bodies, thought the Colonel, are broken in this place.
"Lo
Matochino is so fearful of black magic that he
granted this Italian the right to hold a Ball on Independence Day. The General
and all his officers attended, even the ones from the places out there."
He waved, vaguely, in the direction of Akbal, Vigia Chico and the coast. "And the Cruzob, too, with all their devils, to whom Bravo and his
followers pay homage to as gods. They sing and dance, and there is food and
drink for everyone who pays and women too... or boys if you prefer. Ha ha ha ha!"
"Ignore
him," a skinny major muttered. "Sanchez was a good man but he made
some bad enemies four years ago. He was in the prison in Tabasco when they beat
him with the penis of a bull, into which a steel rod had been placed... like
so." The Major did something with his finger which Solis, mercifully, could
not see for the dark. "Ever since then he has been crazy."
"Not
crazy!" Captain Sanchez retorted. "I was at the Ball because I had
the money, and because Matochino has taken a liking
to me. Those others, none of them were there. None of them know."
"Four
years is a long time to have survived here," Solis wondered aloud.
"Ah,
but it is not so hard if one has lost his mind and all sense of time," the
Major replied and promptly fell asleep, face down in the mire.
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– “THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ”
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