THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK NINE: BOOK of the JAGUAR PRIEST

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Mexican officer and the Tatoob feasted on shrimps and beer in an establishment which the First Chief, himself, allegedly favored during his own uncertain days in Veracruz. Upon hearing that Silvestro was a guest of the Republic, the proprietor... after passing an envelope to Solis... allowed them to admire his prize, a framed photograph of Carranza seated at their very table.

Silvestro examined the photograph closely, in the manner that one takes stock of an opponent.

"Finish your meal," Solis said, "for our plans have been changed. We leave tonight." He lowered his voice, glancing quickly about the restaurant, a movement which Silvestro did not fail to observe.

"Your eyes are those of a fighter in the monte," the Tatoob suggested. "A Mexican, a sublevado... even a bandit, all such men look the same."

"What makes you certain that this place, here, is not another form of monte?" And Solis peered up between his fingers, nodding towards the corner of the restaurant, where men in business suits, their weapons bulging openly, sipped endless cups of coffee, waiting for what they were waiting for. "Cities are no more than jungles of stone," he said. "Only the uniforms are different."

Silvestro poked a shrimp into a red sauce that was hot to the taste, but unfamiliar... as though there was something in this Mexico, this foreign place that counterfeited the fire of peppers but without their taste. "I thought that your fighting was over, or nearly so."

"Villa and Zapata are in retreat," said the Colonel, "but the President has still not pacified every black heart in the Republic. Woodrow Wilson showers his blessings, if nothing else, upon the First Chief, but old enemies like Felix Diaz refuse to lie down, new enemies rise and, sometimes, the worst are even fashioned out of old friends."

"Is that always so?" Silvestro asked.

The Colonel's gaze flickered past the waiting faces to the street beyond, where the passing denizens of Veracruz each seemed endowed with an individual, terrible secrecy. "I believe that it is," he said, and wiped some of the sauce that had the color and the thickness of blood from his lips. "No sooner does order gain its toehold into the ways of the world than disorder begins to creep across its path, once more, like a shadow towards the light."

"If so, what is my purpose in negotiating a settlement that may be temporary?"

Solis shook his head. "You and your people are safe... for the time being. The Revolution began as a test of ideals, but now it is the arena for a clash of personalities. And for a people who do not wish the imposition of order... whether in its benevolent or evil aspect... struggle is your greatest ally.

"There are some who would say," the Colonel added, "that the Devil is in Mexico today for, in these times, the only rules applicable are those of diablocracia... the demonic state. Your situation, for example." His eyes found Silvestro's, suddenly hardened. "I think that the last thing you desire is a Mexico at peace with itself."

"Everyone desires peace," replied the Tatoob, though with little conviction.

"Do they? Without all these troubles," Solis smiled, "with a peace such as that of Porfirismo ten years past, or twenty, Mexico had the leisure and resources to look for... adventures? Yes, do you understand this?"

Silvestro nodded and the Colonel looked thoughtfully at his plate, a battleground of shells and bloody sauce.

"Some times are favorable for war, others for negotiation... but in all eras, commerce will not be denied. Even under these scientific Socialists! In a time of change, the influence that one possesses rises or falls with events. I'm thinking," he said, tapping a half-empty glass with one finger, "that you are here at a fortunate time."

He smiled again but provoked no reply. "Perhaps you understand," he said, "perhaps you don't. But... a year ago, you could have come here to negotiate and there would have been nobody to bargain with. And one year hence, God willing, the President may well be in position to impose, rather than to negotiate. Now, however, the situation still hangs in balance. Does it surprise you that we are leaving tonight, that on Thursday morning the President will personally talk with you? It should. It surprises me, but again and only in the context of the circumstances, it does not.

"All over the Republic outsiders... the labor leaders, scholars, Protestants, indians from every state... all come to Mexico to receive the blessing of our First Chief. All will be propitiated although, later, some may realize that what they have gained is less than what they first believed. You, at least, are fortunate, for you already possess that for which your ask... your lands, and the right of their exploitation."

The Colonel called for another beer, for speaking had dried his throat. "If Villa and Zapata had done as you have, we would not be here today. But, instead, they leaped from battle to battle without thinking of holding the land they captured. Now they are defeated... you, perhaps, are more fortunate in that the land you desired was never occupied by some of those powerful men whom Zapata particularly threatened. And the Americans, who ridiculously sponsored Villa... they now must reconcile their interests, for here stands don Venus with the Constitution behind him, and his many followers. Later, he may not have need of so many. Or who knows... fortune may hold he finds himself in a position he cannot escape from or, rather, from which General Obregón… who is the true power behind the Cactus Throne… cannot or will not extricate him. Let's be going."

Solis paid the bill and they departed, with the blessings of the proprietor following them into the night. They took a taxi to the railroad station where a great locomotive wreathed in steam waited to carry them over Orizaba. The Colonel, looking over his shoulder from time to time, presented two first class tickets and the porter directed them to sleeping compartments. It had never occurred to Silvestro that a train could be for sleeping in but, as the engine groaned and the cars pulled from the station, the narrow hall began to fill with passengers, some already in nightgowns, and this corridor echoed with the clicking sounds of doors being closed and locked. The Colonel translated the porter's instructions as to use of the folding bed and retired to an adjoining compartment.

Silvestro tried to lie down, but the bed was even more uncomfortable than that of the Merida hotel. He opened his bag and tied his hammock to the walls and, though it sagged more than he would have wished, the Tatoob fell at once into a profound sleep... deep as death, but troubled by fantastic dreams in which every evil apparition known to the Cruzob made an appearance and taunted him and, even worse, things he had never seen in waking life (but which must surely be waiting in Mexico) hopped and poked at him; unfurling their vistas of an endless graveyard.

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