THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK EIGHT:
THE SECOND of the BOOKS of CHANGE
CHAPTER
TWENTY SEVEN
Now, as the days of
Alvarado's rule lolled into weeks, and the bodies swinging from the trees and lampposts
swelled and burst in April's heat, General Alvarado's interest turned slowly
from the remnants of the Argumedista conspiracy to
other suspects... immoralists, Zapatistas, suspected Guatemalans. The tenure of
these in the Penitenceria Juarez, seldom long, grew
shorter.
The warden of penitentiary was Captain
Efraim Alonso, who had been a sergeant there since
the governorship of Olegario Molina. Upon his
arrival, Alvarado emptied the penitentiary of its occupants and arrested Argumedo's warden, making him the first of its new
inhabitants. Sergeant Alonso quickly swore his loyalty to Alvarado, describing
in chilling and punctilious detail such atrocities as the warden had committed
until the Governor, only two days in Merida, gave the order for the warden to
be hanged, and appointed Efraim in his stead.
Alonso was a democrat of the spleen,
he had despised Argumedo, Zapata too, as well as Venustiano Carranza... but, of course, he did not mention
this last to Salvador Alvarado. His hatred waxed for the humble and powerful
alike... the former for enduring their abuse and trusting to unstable men (such
as most of the leaders of the Revolution seemed), the rich he hated for their
arrogance and had envied for their ease of life. One of the few things which pleased
him, during the tumult of the past three years, was how quickly a man atop the
world could plummet overnight, dropping into the Penitenceria
like a chestnut. Into the common cells he threw a few of each class and his
Corporal removed the dead when morning came... some Guatemalan plotters and
some so-called Zapatistas, maybe a few henequeros
whose protests against the Reguladora tired the
Governor, some thieves and, to season the stew, a religious fanatic. Alvarado,
in his eagerness for reform, had mistaken Merida's insane asylum for another
prison, releasing its inhabitants... who expressed gratitude by shrieking oaths
against their liberator and disrupting what they could of the city's already
ruptured peace.
Rigoberto
Macias waited in a small dark room with two suspected Zapatistas and a gambler,
turned in by his jealous mistress, who worried day and night over the fate of
the rare birds he had collected. With his political opponents and the common
criminals of Merida behind bars, Alvarado had begun to seize those long used to
maintaining their vices by occasional tips to accommodating policemen.
Suddenly, their ease of life had been interrupted and... here
came Efraim Alonso strutting vainly down the corridor
of the Penitenceria, a gold watch in his left hand
with its chain knotted like a noose around one finger. "For whom has time
arrived?" he liked to call, sometimes stopping before a cell whose
occupants were shortly to be removed, and this part of the prison went as
silent as a grave.
It was on the morning following Don
Antonio's visit that Alonso stopped and dangled his watch before Rigoberto's cell. "Licenciado?" he finally called
and the three others gasped in relief as Rigoberto
was brought out and marched to the warden's office.
"A proposal,
Captain?" Rigoberto ventured when they
reached the quiet of Alonso's office and the warden told him of his orders to
turn the prisoner over to one of Alvarado's surliest lieutenants... a Sonoran renowned for his cruelty. There was an hour yet
before the time for this had come; Efraim Alonso had
called for Rigoberto because he was one of the
Caballeros, men the new warden had admired since his youth.
Efraim
Alonso had also supported the cause of Yucatecan
independence, sympathies Alvarado had not discovered.
"Like yourself,
Captain, I have lived all my life in this state," Rigoberto
said. "You know well I am no Zapatista, rather a Yucatecan
patriot; one who sought to set the peninsula apart from the madness of Mexico.
If that means that the Governor believes me treacherous, that is his opinion as
a Mexican.
"A man may die as a patriot or
traitor, and I must confess I fear branding as one of the latter. Life cannot
help but be short, that which follows in doubt, but reputation is eternal,
no?" The warden nodded with a pained expression.
"How unfortunate that I have
received orders," said Alonso, setting the ticking watch on his desk. "There is no longer anything that I can do."
"What you can do," said Rigoberto, "is to extend, to me, the right which all men
have, an honorable death and burial. Come now, Captain, must I go into details?
What was good enough for President Madero and our own misguided Pino Suarez will be sufficient for me."
Alonso picked his watched up and
frowned, twisting the gold chain three times around his middle finger. The ley de fuga was not unknown to
him, although Alvarado frowned on the practice. It was his response to the
hated Argumedo, whose fondness for summary executions
was such that the previous warden had had to discontinue the practice of
inscribing notches on his pistol, for the lack of room thereon.
"Brave words," the Captain
said, "for a Licenciado."
"I am more than that," said Rigoberto, "as you know. I am a Caballero, perhaps the
last."
Alonso nodded. "Certainly
the last who would admit it. They were crazy," he said softly, but
with furtive admiration. The last generation of the Caballeros, fortified with
the clapper and with dreams of nationhood, had disappeared into the watermelon
patch of Halacho. Most of those who had not perished
had joined Roberto Urzaiz in sailing away... the
remaining senior members cursed Alvarado's taxes in whispers and denied the
existence of all secret societies as relics of the previous, barbaric century.
"Very well," Alonso said,
"what do I gain from this? I am ordered to bring a living prisoner to
Ricardo Parral at three o'clock." He held up his
watch. "To present the Lieutenant with a dead man would be understandable,
but to bring him news of an escape would cost my position, at the least.
Rigoberto
nodded and slipped from his finger the ring of the Caballeros. "This will
be yours," he said, placing it upon the desk. "Do you know what it
is?"
The warden nodded. "I prefer that
it be taken by an officer, even the commander of a prison, than by Alvarado's
hangman."
Efraim
Alonso stared at this ring, which seemed to swell before his eyes to become all
that he had seen and dreamed of, but could never possess. The veins of his neck
stood out and there was enough white blood running through them to feel shame
over the brown and, while his Governor plotted the reconstitution of Yucatan
according to Marxist principles of justice and equality, the Captain reached
out and closed his fingers around this emblem of the past.
"You will have your honorable
death," he said, calling for one of his Sergeants, a famous pistolero who had found, in Sonora, that there could be
just as much pleasure in the service of Salvador Alvarado as there was outside
the law.
"A test of your
eye and hand, Sergeant. Take this prisoner outside and bring him within
sight of the motorcar, which shall be waiting, fully operable and running. Give
him fifty meters to the motorcar and a head start of thirty. It is now twenty
to three. You shall enter the yard at ten to three, not one
minute earlier nor later."
"You have my word, Captain."
Alonso picked up his telephone and
called the gatekeeper as soon as they'd gone. "At ten minutes to
three," he said, "open the gate. Leave it open, no matter what you see.
The yard shall be cleared of all prisoners."
"At your orders," came the gatekeeper's answer. Alonso placed the telephone down, lifted it once more and ordered all prisoners taken
and locked in their cells until four in the afternoon. The feel of the instrument
against his ear, the voices compressed to the thickness of wire... such things
were magic, magic of a future which already seemed to be wringing the
bitterness and envy from Alonso's soul as if this were a grape or olive,
beneath the press. An unfamiliar benevolence for all the
world permeated the jailer.
"Perhaps," thought the
Captain, "I am wrong in maintaining affection for the old ways. Alvarado
is a decent man, a fair one, and his socialist state is the wave of the
future." He let his watch dangle and picked up the ring; it seemed warm to
the touch. Alonso glanced about, there were no prying eyes, and he slipped the
ring with its bell and inscriptions over his middle finger. He raised the watch
to his ear and heard the seconds ticking by.
"Caballeros," he sighed. The
ticking of the watch converged upon the throbbing of his finger as the blood
adjusted to the pressure of the ring. The larger hand crept forward towards ten
minutes to the hour.
The ringing of the telephone startled
him out of his fascination. It must be the gatekeeper, he thought, the man was
an obvious imbecile who could not remember the simplest instructions. But it
was Alvarado's interrogator... yes, the prisoner was
on his way, don Efraim assured him, he was in the
hands of a trustworthy man. Ricardo Parral swore,
Alvarado had changed his mind, the prisoner was to be brought directly to the
railroad station. But, the warden, insisted, wasn't Parral
to take Alvarado's vengeance? No... there had been a
deal with this one...
Alonso's rear widow faced the yard. He
stood, hung the telephone up abruptly on the Governor's man and turned,
thinking to drop the telephone and run but he could already see Rigoberto Macias breaking towards the waiting motorcar. The
window was stuck.
Rigoberto's
legs pumped, the blood flushed his throat and the clapper of the campaña began to sound for the last time in his fevered
brain. Once, twice... it would toll its last, forever, after. There would come
no rich pealing of bells; rather, only the tolling of the new century's
Bakelite sentinels, the thin trillings of telephones
and then, above this, a single shot.
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