THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK NINE: BOOK of the JAGUAR PRIEST

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"The Colon? Splendid. And it is time for lunch." Solis patted his ward on the shoulder. "Who would have thought you would turn out to be a gourmet? The President will be pleased." He leaned towards Silvestro's ear. "Carranza trusts a man who likes good food, and plenty of it. If you compliment him on the cuisines of the capital, he will admire you; if you make special mention of those of the northeast, he's apt to reward you."

Silvestro nodded without interest and stared through the glass that separated him from Mexico. They had arrived at the magnificent Paseo de Reforma, the largest street in Mexico. Every few blocks, the line of the street became a circle, at the center of which reposed a statue. "There is Columbus, himself," the Colonel pointed, "discoverer of all the Americas." But at the next circle, there was only a pile of rubble. Solis seemed philosophical at the loss of whomever had stood there.

"Every upheaval has its heroes, and the heroes of one faction are reviled by the next. In no less than six years, how many have held this city? Well... Porfirio Diaz to start with, then Madero, Huerta, Zapata and now the First chief... and I haven't even included many more whose names you would not know, some who only ruled for a few days or weeks." He sighed. "This is still a period of explosions, it takes a few years of peace before one gets about the business of erecting new statues."

The thought inspired him, as if the clouds had broken and the sunlight beamed down on the Colonel, though they remained gray as the color of melted bullets. "When you return to Santa Cruz," he said, "one of your more pleasant duties shall be to assign the names of streets and order construction of monuments and public edifices. And when you are dead, the Cruzob will surely honor you, and you shall also become a statue. Such is the reward of those who've grasped the reins of history… without, of course, making an enemy of the future…”

And this sent the Tatoob into an uncharacteristic flight of fancy; a grand boulevard in Santa Cruz and, upon it, the heroes of the Caste War and the chiefs of the Cruzob and, last of these, his own face carved in stone, or gold, as were carved the faces of the heroes before Cortes. These, too, had suffered at the whim of history and, as he thought of them, the driver announced their arrival at the Cafe Colon. Silvestro's waking dream congealed into the leer of the Jackal and exploded. With a face as gray and troubled as the sky, he watched Solis circle the taxi to the curb and open the door for him, standing, like a butler, at attention.

The Tatoob looked up to see the passers-by slow down or even stop because the Colonel, with his medals and his braid, was a person of importance and, so, the one whom he waited upon must be even more important. The weight of this new importance and the thinness of the air added such great weight to Silvestro's heels that he stepped from the cab as though he were a man of twice his years. The bystanders noticed this as well. Only the truly powerful do not have need of hurrying.

The Cafe Colon had suffered only slightly since the disappearance of its most notorious customer; the commercial agents of the world who visited it to seek favors from Huerta now did so because there were men who had the ear of all the revolutionary leaders, even a university intellectual who was said to be the conduit to Zapata. For one as attuned to the winds as the Tatoob, the Colon secreted an almost palpable energy; rank, infected, compressed with the spirit of the Jackal as though the very fog of the city pressed with the force that turns a lump of coal to diamonds. A smell and a feeling of precious, yet corrupted diamonds wafted from the females there... they had no look of ladies, however expensive their attire... evil imbued the male patrons down to every globule of oil smeared in their hair. Every centimeter of the Tatoob rose to attention at the overwhelming stench of danger and opportunity that permeated the Colon, down to its polished woods and silver and the crystal of its copitas.

Someone was speaking as through dreams... a waiter beseeching Solis. "Would you prefer to be seated? The roast beef is excellent, the finest of Zacatecas. Is he a Zapatista? We'll serve him if he's with you, but he'll have to pay silver, that's the custom. Are you..."

Silvestro turned and stalked abruptly from the Cafe Colon. He waited on the sidewalk and, after a minute Colonel Solis joined him with an angry expression.

"You have insulted them," he said. "What possessed you to do that... not even a day in Mexico City. You know a little Spanish, that's it! You heard that fool mention indios, and took offense. I assure you, an indian may receive service as fine as that afforded any Mexican. Perhaps better," he mumbled. "Since the Zapatistas came, these places have come to expect the poorest looking indians to pay with the best currency. One who disgraces himself disgraces his race also. So… what is the matter with you?"

"That is where he sat," said the Tatoob, pointing now to the taxi door and taking a grim satisfaction at the speed with which the Federal Colonel jumped.

Solis, realizing of whom Silvestro spoke, entered the taxi and directed the driver to continue on the Paseo towards the Alameda and, unless a countermanding order was given, all the way to Chapultepec. Gradually the iron left Silvestro's face and he blinked, as if arising from a lengthy sleep. He turned to the colonel as if he had no idea who or where he was or where they were going.

"No need to explain," the Colonel said. "Not only is Mexico full of such places, they exist all over the world. Your church in Santa Cruz... that's another! By seeing them for what they are, we exorcise their powers. So now... do you want to see the Plaza? Be forewarned... its ghosts antedate the Conquest..."

The reply was a grunt that Solis was wont to accept as positive and their journey was short, for the Plaza and its central square, the Zocalo, is not far from the Alameda. So crowded was it, despite the ferocity of the weather, that they moved barely at a crawl... which was not a hindrance for the Tatoob had regained an interest in Mexico. This was the vale of sorrows, the place from which so much misery had been sent forth into the territory. If the Cafe Colon was the icy heart of the dzulob monster, the Plaza was its conniving brain.

Octaviano Solis was pleased to see that his explanations had at last found a willing audience. He directed the Tatoob's attention to the north side of the Zocalo where was situated a cathedral, perhaps six times the size of that of Santa Cruz and, of course, greatly and lovingly ornamented.

"Here," the Colonel said, "Cortes built this great monument to Christianity atop the temple that the Aztecs used for their human sacrifices. Here the hearts of warriors were taken and devoured to bring the blessing of Aztec gods to those who enjoyed this cannibal banquet." Solis coughed and glanced out of the window of the taxi. "That Spain thought this demonic practice of the few intolerable can be understood, if its measures of repression were also reprehensible. They had no insight into the true values of the mazehualob..."

"Do not feel a need to defend the Aztecs," Silvestro said wearily. "This valley has always been the cradle of violence, even before Cortes. Mexicans have always invaded the Yucatan. They used the Spaniards for this purpose, Colonel, not the other way around."

"Well then," Solis responded hesitantly, "look... the Cathedral is open to all. Everyone from the President himself to the poorest seller of lottery tickets..." he fumbled for more words, and settled for pointing out each of those entering and leaving the cathedral. He knew, now, that he had been misinformed. This fellow certainly knew at least some Spanish. And the spies whom the President had sent into the territory had reported back to Carranza that the sublevado jefes were, like the indios mansos who cringed around Santa Cruz del Bravo, ignorant of times before Columbus. If this suggestion of theirs was useless, others would be too. Dismissing the matter from his thoughts, Solis directed Silvestro's attention to the government offices.

"That is where you shall meet the President," he said. "And do you see there," he pointed, "it is the bell of independence."

"Then it is a holy place," Silvestro said and, yet, he wondered at its emptiness. A ragged man approached their taxi, bearing a gilded birdcage on his back. Its floor was filled with pocket watches and he leaned into the window, assuring that their cases were of the purest gold. Solis waved him off and the Tatoob gripped his shoulder, pointing to another structure whose facade could not be seen for the coming and going of hundreds.

"Is that also a building of Government?"

"No," said the Colonel, "it is a pawn-shop," and Solis briefly explained the nature of its transactions to the Tatoob. "And now that we have seen the Plaza, let us continue to Chapultepec."

They returned down the Paseo and Solis dismissed his driver at the great park, and bought tacos from one of the vendors who had pushed their wagons to its entrance. These he carried to an open space which was rapidly filling and overlooked a stage on which musicians... a military orchestra and a series of male and female vocalists... entertained with slow, sad songs of tragedy and unrequited love, alternated with brassy odes to victory and to the Constitution until the tacos were quite gone and shadows began to creep out of their hiding places among the trees and bushes of the park.

Another taxi was found and commanded. "Tomorrow," promised Solis, "when you've been put in the clothes the President has promised, I shall take you to the opera. It's worth a visit, even if the programme is not a good one, if only to behold the other patrons. Tonight, I do not know... I could find a cockfight, or..." and the Colonel's eyes brightened, "... a moving picture exhibition. Have you seen one of these?"

Silvestro hesitated. "I do not know this thing you speak of."

"Very well," the Colonel answered and he mumbled directions in the driver's ear. "You have seen a photograph?" Silvestro nodded. "Well these are photographs that move. You might first even believe that they were living persons, but they are only images - tricks of light like shadow-animals which children make. Americans, who are much like children in some ways... as you've probably noticed... have invented a device to pull celluloid through a window in which light casts the appearance of objects."

"Shadows?" said Silvestro, comprehending what he knew of his own eyes.

"In some manner," Solis agreed, "but not like those which we cast of ourselves. If a shadow had a face, eyes and mouth that move as ours do and was, still, no more than an image on a wall or the ground, these things might well be shadows. See for yourself!"

The building contained a stage, as if vaudevillians had once made it their home, but the proscenium had been overlain with a large white cloth. After purchasing tickets, Solis and Silvestro found themselves in a room with chairs and a sighing, sweating crowd of men and women of the middle classes, many of the former seeming only to have just emerged from pulquerias. "Carranza is not so strict as Alvarado," the Colonel said, "a man may drink until six in the evening, so of course they must waste no time at their labors of relaxation." It was an angry crowd, perhaps the grayness of the day had barbed their spirits or, again, some who would otherwise have sat in a cantina until midnight had consumed a full night's ration of liquor in an hour and, now, took particular offense at the appearance of a woman with a large hat who seated herself in the front row. Angry cries broke out and her escort stood and volunteered to fight anyone who chose to accept his challenge. Many responding, a scuffle broke out, which was quickly put to rest by an armed policeman who suggested that the lady remove her hat. "Impossible," declared the escort, "you know well the way that they throw things here." And under the policeman's eye he stormed out, dragging behind him the lady and her hat... the lights began to dim and, presently, they sat in utter darkness.

Suddenly a beam of light could be seen emerging from a catwalk above the heads of the audience and in the back of the hall, it exploded on the cloth and spread out, revealing Americans who did things that shadows never could accomplish... leaping off and on their horses, lighting cigarettes and appearing to cut off their own heads which swelled or shrank, making ludicrous grimaces intended to express surprise, fear or laughter. One of the shadows shot another dead. And, from time to time, the screen went black save for white words which the Colonel told Silvestro was the manner in which these shadows spoke to one another. They were English like words the King's agents spoke in Belize had Silvestro been able to read but, having seen moving pictures of this sort in the past, Solis assured the Tatoob that some of the shadows were men who had robbed a bank or train, while the other ones, some of whom wore metal badges, were arrayed against them.

"Where is Klukulsklan," Silvestro wondered, although to himself for... surely... this was the great moving picture of the nations advertised in Merida. Where was Juan de la Cruz?

One of the principle shadows, an American cowboy, seemed to be well known to one of the patrons who rose to his feet and let fly with a stream of curses whenever his image appeared, whether twirling his lariat or riding a horse through the sinister American desert... all the more a thing of menace and mystery for being cast wholly in differing shades of gray. Once the shadow-cowboy drew his pistol and shot another; Solis said the slain shadow had been a bandit and Silvestro asked whether the cowboy would then be arrested.

"Never!" averred the Colonel, "for he is a hero and, besides, the man he shot was only an actor. There are magazines here, which have explained this science thoroughly. Every time an actor is shot, he will get up and be seen in another moving picture."

The Tatoob did not reply to this, and Solis presumed the matter settled, although Silvestro had not come to quite the conclusion that the Colonel thought he had. "These actors are all immortal," he decided. "They have walked with Juan de la Cruz and are under his protection."

The angry man continued cursing, although in a lower voice and keeping to his seat. The diminution of his passion was, however, only temporary for, when the cut-off face of the Yankee shadow could be plainly seen again, his enemy arose Lazarus-like, drew his pistol and fired three shots into the screen. "Cabron!" the pistolero bellowed, "that is the Judas dog of a Villista whom the despicable Fierro hired to do in his prisoners. Unarmed men in the north, many already wounded! I was there. I know him!" he beseeched as the policeman marched him off.

"One of our many maniacs," Solis shrugged. The gunshots had punctured the cloth, yet the actors still sneered and rolled their eyes around the holes. This incident had persuaded Solis to put an end to the Tatoob's night out in Carranza's capital. They returned to their hotel to await the morning and their President.

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