THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK EIGHT:
THE SECOND of the BOOKS of CHANGE
CHAPTER
TWENTY EIGHT
The Jardin
de Recuerdos had had two new large plate glass windows
installed, as well as the best imported furniture, for the Kirmesse
of death that this year of 1915 had brought had enriched Baltazar
Martinez beyond his wildest expectations. There was scarcely an empty hour for
the principle mortician of Merida now that Alvarado had relented and begun
allowing the stiff, sun-dried corpses of the gente decente to be cut down and buried. Martinez had refinished
his altar in fine marble and a dozen tables draped in gay red linen formed an
agreeable place for the bereaved to gather to rest their elbows or to partake
of cups of strong Greek coffee that the undertaker's daughter provided to
mourners. Most of the funeral parties brought snacks... tortillas filled with
turkey, peppers, onions, and a few such plates lingered, half-empty, on the
table as the shadows fell and Saturday began to slip back into the sleep of
memory.
Don Antonio had expressed his
intention to remain with Rigoberto through the night,
and the poveda manager permitted this
indulgence for the patron of Idznacab had always
shown him respect, and Alvarado's men had been around, paying Martinez a
benefit in gold, not the General's own currency. The undertaker was not unduly
curious... there were many of the estanciónes upon
which the surviving montes still dwelt; their
property not confiscated, outright, but subject to all of the great variety of
arrangements as could be contrived by a Socialistic but very pragmatic
Governor. It was nothing of Martinez's business and... while
the mortician considered himself a counselor to the living, as well God's own
disposer of the dead... Don Antonio Macias clearly expressed unwillingness to
discuss his circumstances.
A number of visitors had passed by, a
few even entering to pay respects... to take a "Greca"
and offer condolences... but none had long remained. A great fear gripped the
city, fear that one of Alvarado's spies might report that their farewell to an
enemy of the state had been overlong.
Martinez knew fear and how it grows
when decent people do not stand in opposition to tyranny. He had heard the
whispers planted and the threats, the rumors, seen the last of Argumedo's minions shoveled into common trenches, doused
with gasoline and burned. Alvarado's soldiers had padlocked his door, the new
Governor's men had derided his concern. "The General's orders are to leave
the dead to rot as an example."
Finally he had gone to the Governor.
"Your institution sanctions the
sacraments of superstitions which, having exploited those who live, follow them
into death," the Governor had said. "In the wonderful Socialist
society which I shall make, there is no place for superstition."
A more prudent man than Baltazar Martinez would have thanked Alvarado and left,
perhaps inquiring if a passage to Cuba was still available; a fool would have
lost his temper and joined the overflow of corpses. However, a lifetime of
dealing with the aftermath of death had taught the operator of the poveda something of the psychology of rage and fear.
"Distinguished Governor,"
Martinez said, "it is my business to be of service to the dead, whether
they may be Christians, Evangelicals or other... Jews,
Mohammedans, heathens." His undertaker's eye searched out Alvarado.
"Even atheists, General, especially so. As a
believer in scientific Socialism, the Governor surely knows what terrible
things are the inequities of life in our imperfect society. In my Garden,
however, all of those who come under these hands achieve the equality and
fraternity Marx himself dreamed of. There is neither slave
nor master, officer nor conscript, rich nor poor. The humble and mighty
are the same before don del Muerte;
the Socialist and Cientifico, even the man without
ideologies... all are the same."
Alvarado, frowning, had removed his
glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief, his pharmacist's memory repeating
that the truly evil things of the world are not so different than dirt... a
little scrubbing and they will be gone! But when he replaced them, Baltazar was still in his office.
"Further," the undertaker
chided, "it is your duty to protect the public health. I know of your
intent to vaccinate the children of Yucatan, and the territory, too, even indians. You are an educated man,
sir... how does one responsible for the health of thousands countenance
so many corpses in his city? Is your intent to breed plague?" This
offended the Governor, but was a reasonable statement. His rubbed his glasses
again... certainly the despicable man would be gone when he put them on.
But he was not.
"Allow me to reopen my
Garden," persisted Martinez "and useful work will be created for
those who stand idle in the streets... those streets which are not befouled by
pestilential bodies. There shall be work for carpenters and stonemasons, and
for strong arms to dig graves… many, many graves. If we may come to terms,
there will be need of one more cemetery... perhaps one of those estates which
the State government possesses could be sold for such a use. Is it not the
responsibility of Socialists to make health and employment available to all?"
One last time... Alvarado merely
blinked and, of course, Martinez was still there. Since the conclusion of the
fighting, Alvarado had turned towards economic matters but, after the present
surplus was disposed at Alvarado's and Carranza's price, there would little
henequen for export, the peons... freed at last from the grip of their
oppressors... had planted corn instead. Outraged by what must clearly
have been a Zapatista plot, the Governor had ordered dozens of them fined, a
few ringleaders shot, but they still evidenced no interest in Yucatan's
"green gold". There would be factories... but only after there was a
government in Mexico City to send administrators to manage them. Alvarado also
held out hope for a tourist industry, a steamship line had contracted to bring
American sightseers to Progreso, but employment
remained one of Merida's more insoluble aggravations. His beloved working
classes were growing weary of speeches. They must have jobs; so Alvarado would
have the last word with this Martinez.
"Very well, I find your arguments
in favor of the public health convincing," said the Governor. "This
display of bourgeois fruit upon the people's trees is dearer to de los Santos
than myself, but I am authorized to end it. You
will recognize, at once, a Sindicato of
coffin-makers," Alvarado told Martinez. "More cemetery space shall be
allotted, but its use shall be reserved for those who pay a tax to this
office." Alvarado groped for something else. "Religious services
shall be permitted, but a fee of ten pesos shall be charged, payable to myself
as exclusive agent for don Venus in the capital, and your Garden shall, by law,
be open Sundays and its facilities made open to all. There is a dearth of credible eating places
at the moment – you will be provided with a manager whose duties will include
the provision of wholesome fare to the public and obedience in the collection
and forwarding of my levies. This other
business,” he made a circle of his left hand and waved it in the air, “that
shall remain your province." And so, he had dismissed the master of the Jardin de Recuerdas... because
anyone who dared speak back to him could not be wholly evil, and because even
the poor, on whose behalf he had marched all the way into Yucatan, were
beginning to complain about the presence of so many unburied corpses in Merida.
Now as the sweltering May streets grew
dim, Martinez stared out his fine new window, observing the black and orange
clouds that had gathered and, against them, a solitary perplexed bat, which had
wandered off its course from the Paseo. "I must
be going," he said and Don Antonio nodded. He was the last of the
mourners, and could be trusted to let himself out after dark. Sometimes a whole
family would remain through the night, but the hacendado's
wife was frail and Elena had already escorted her home. There were no other
relatives.
"There is a hard case,"
thought the mortician. "One of his sons is dead,
the other is missing somewhere, a feather in this whirlwind sweeping Mexico. I
wonder what is in that telegram he keeps reading and rereading?"
He had, but once, mentioned José's name and Don Antonio's eyes turned stony;
Martinez knew not to speak the name of the younger son again. Nothing in this
city was as he had remembered it, the gente decente were all dead, dying or flown, and none had emerged
to take their place save transients that had come with Alvarado, and the mob.
"A final cup?" he called to the old hacendado. Alvarado’s despicable steward had long-since
departed… he rarely remained on the premises after sundown… but he customarily
left his implements out for the proprietor and his family to clean, and the
liquid in the coffeepot might be bitter but, at least, would be warm.
"This is not my world,"
whispered Don Antonio. "I am he who should be resting, absolved of
all care for the future... no longer responsible for this terrible, wondrous
century. I... coffee? Yes, I'd appreciate that.”
Baltazar
Martinez nodded and went through the back door in search of his daughter,
leaving Don Antonio with his wandering memories.
Soon the door was pushed open and the hacendado looked up... but it was not one of his dead son's
clients, nor part of his wife's family but two pale
Americans, a man and wife, the latter crowned with an enormous purple hat whose
feathers nearly brushed the roof of the poveda. They
began to gesture and to shout at him in English, a language that he could read
but understood poorly, with... here and there... a Spanish
phrase of command.
The American husband pointed to his mouth
while his wife held a gold coin towards him as though it were a holy host.
"Menu!" the Yankee
cried and rubbed his stomach, looking past the tables and to the casket, which
was open but, from the American's perspective, might have seemed only a serving
table... a buffet of unnatural, Mexican design. "Hungry... hombre, ahh... carne!" he pointed. Don Antonio's eyebrows flew
upwards. The foreign woman plopped down at a table and pantomimed eating
motions. "Poveda," frowned the husband,
"izzat the name of this restaurant? Ristorante Poveda?"
Don Antonio now recognized the origins
of error. From the street, the window of this Jardin
de Recuerdos, through which could be seen the
brightly covered chairs and tables, could, indeed, be mistaken for a restaurant
and, in fact, was among those places occasionally recommended by a hotelier
with a sense of humour. He smiled, beckoning the
Yankee towards the coffin. Rigoberto's powdered face
showed no terror at the appearance of the hungry tourists above.
"Carne?"
Don Antonio said, but was immediately sorry for his jest. He grasped the lid
and closed the coffin carefully while the horrified tourists backed off; their
eager glances wholly wiped off by repulsion. "There is a fine restaurant
at the Gran Hotel dos cuadras... two blocks to the
right," he said in a precise but hesitant English.
"Con permiso,
me gusta informarlo somos Mexicanos, pero nada mas
son devorados de cuerpos...
(I am relieved to inform you that we in Mexico no longer eat our dead.)"
"Garcia!" exclaimed the
American, pushing his wife towards the door. She looked over her shoulder,
shuddered, gave Don Antonio a sickly wave and they hurried off.
The patron of Idznacab
waved stoically back at the foreign visitors still glancing hesitantly
backwards through Baltazar's fine window.
"Do enjoy our city, and
its ruins," he called after these benighted travelers.
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