THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK EIGHT:
THE SECOND of the BOOKS of CHANGE
CHAPTER
TWENTY TWO
Halacho...
"What a toot," Roberto Urzaiz said, mopping his chin with a silk handkerchief,
"what a positive joust! Get me scotch Bert, no... rum
if you have, we all will be going to Cuba and, so, must become
accustomed to rum. No... bring the best wines I still
you have, the rarest vintages, don't leave them for Alvarado to destroy. The
things I've heard about that man..."
"That he allowed his half-Apache,
half-Yaqui troops to loot the Campecheños, break into
homes and drink their liquor?" Rigoberto had
heard such things about Zapata but he somehow had associated it with distance,
the misfortune of others.
"No... no!"
complained the wild-eyed Hermano Mayor, "he's a prohibitionist,
he takes the bottles out into the street and smashes them, and lets it all run
down into the gutters. Wine or blood, the man's a born despoiler."
"Has he burned Campeche
then?" asked Doña Elena, attempting, by her
manner, not to betray the fear she held for her family and birthplace.
"I don't know," Urzaiz gasped, "they moved out of there so fast.
Thousands of them!" he added, as if to an accusing presence. Flaco, following Rigoberto's nod,
had returned with a dusty bottle. "What year is this?" the Caballero
asked, holding the wine to the light. "1872. It shall do." Flaco removed the cork; Roberto jumping at the sound.
"I'm sorry..."
"Don't think anything of it. Take
your time, as much as you wish. Flaco... glasses for all, I think that the Señoras will
be joining us." The butler raised an eyebrow at this breach but only
slightly, as he was acquainted with Roberto and Doña Teodora and complied promptly with the request of the Licenciado.
"Now old friend... don't gulp,
such an elixir was meant to be savored..."
"Of course," Urzaiz said, wiping his chin. "My apologies... but
they were shooting at me. Me!
They shot at all of us... the Commercial Brigade, and a good many went down.
There was Eduardo and Garza Garcia, of course, Cervantes, who had the bell...
how we shall miss them all! We shall say masses for all of them, my Brasa, in Havana."
Throughout the years, Roberto's
affectionately scolding nickname of Brasileña,
bestowed upon Teodora Fermin,
had been shortened; that the present corruption also meant a live coal was but
one example of the bond between this unlikely couple.
"I'll tell you but first, Berto, I want you to admit that you were wrong. Oh you've
been a good father, a careful man, to have saved all of this up for Alvarado. I,
on the other hand, have squandered my own fortune and nearly all of that of my Brasa, so as to leave nothing for the Constitutionalists to
steal. We'll arrive in Cuba poor, but we will make our opportunities."
"You're right," said Rigoberto, "quite right. Nobody should have known all
this, this..." and he waved to indicate his father's and his father's
fathers' treasures, "... that time would have run out on us this way. And
now..."
"Halacho!"
shuddered the Hermano Mayor.
"Well, Argumedo lied to us and then Alvarado
starved us, or rather, prepared our end with thirst. The lies were simple...
Blanca Flor and Pochoc
weren't defeats, they were 'retreats'. What a criminal abuse of the language!
This is excellent wine, quite worth what... two hundred pesos, five hundred.
What is money worth anymore? Alvarado's
fireplace!"
Roberto said this as he emptied the
remainder of the wine into his glass and threw the bottle backwards over his
shoulder. Rigoberto winced, but gestured to Flaco to bring more.
"Halacho!" Roberto raised his copita, the word was half oath, half toast. "Those
damned officers rounded up some guns, but they forgot to bring water. I had two
quarts of whiskey, of course, all of us had something, and most of the peons
had aguardiente in their shirts. I wouldn't deny that
it probably saved more than a few lives, amongst all
of the shooting you could hear now and then a bullet striking glass, saving
some lucky bastard's life. Most of the slaughter took place in that watermelon
field, the Federals maneuvered us there, of course, and who is to blame the
devils for not following their orders? Most of them just threw their weapons
down and cracked open a melon, so they died with their noses buried in pulp.
What will the Devil make of that? We could have used a few real soldiers
at Halacho,
we could have used your brother."
"The Colonel has been delayed in
Havana," Rigoberto said icily. "Perhaps
you'll encounter him and Felix Diaz. Look... he's sent me a package."
"Be careful, it may contain more
cigars," Urzaiz taunted. "Don't throw it
around so."
"How did you ever manage to
escape?" Elena asked.
"Fortunately I found a wall to
stay behind and while the Federals reloaded I was able to jump a truck heading
back to Merida. Something awful had been in it... pigs, I suspect. But if I
hadn't, something even more terrible might have occurred... that vile de los
Santos lined hundreds of prisoners up and just set the Yaqui to shooting them
down like trussed ducks."
"Did you see Salazar? His
boy..."
Roberto Urzaiz
shook his head, closing his fist around the bottle Flaco
brought, a white vintage this time. "If you don't
mind, I'll just take this for the road. Brasa and I
have packing to do... decisions to make, what to bring, what to leave
behind."
"The railroad station is mobbed.
In Progreso, the Americans have put us under their
protection so the game is getting there. It's one trunk per man, whatever you
can carry..." and the sturdy Teodora made a
lifting motion. "Of course the lower orders are quite mad,
they won't take work for any price and sing derisive songs, worse than La
Cucaracha. You know," he said, "if we are wrong, and Alvarado
isn't so bad, or if the Americans do come, feel free to help yourself from my
collections. Maybe your father can take some of it to Idznacab
and bury it. That's what a lot of the montes with indians who they believe to be
still loyal are doing, burying their furniture and art. Well, we are off! We'll
set a lamp out for you in Havana... it's a fine old city, much the better, now,
since all the best in Mexico are flocking there, including Argumedo."
"The Governor has gone to
Valladolid to wage guerrilla war," Rigoberto
corrected.
Urzaiz gave
him a pitying look. "Yes, the Neoleonese is
going to risk the whole of the treasury he took into a war on Alvarado to
protect Yucatan. All of what... two million pesos was it? Three?
In gold, too! Our Governor will show up in time to watch the Americans fight,
that negro Johnson and the other. You'll see Argumedo driving his Packard on the Malecón,
perhaps he'll throw Brasa and I a coin or two. Or
perhaps we shall open a restaurant... Brasa's as much
an expert at eating as I am at drinking. But what is this..."
The couples raced to the door. Above
there came a whirring noise and the sky was full of gray snowflakes... papers
dropped over the city from an airplane.
The Hermano
Mayor shook his fist at the unseen pilot. "Uriel
shot one of those pendejos out of the sky, the
aircraft fell right into the midst of the field... squashing the melons and
some boys who came out from Tizimin, that way, I
think. He took a bullet in the knee, I hope that de
los Santos didn't find him. What does Alvarado have to say now?"
"He wants Merida to be calm. He
promises to bring order." Rigoberto coughed,
involuntarily. "He also promises that the only Yucatecos
he'll hang are looters."
"Then Brasa
and I shall be on our way and you and Elena should follow... this fellow
assuredly will make a graveyard of our state... for who of us, from the highest
officials and henequen kings to the lowest, chiseling indio,
is not guilty of exactly that which Alvarado loathes?"
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