THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK NINE: BOOK of the JAGUAR PRIEST

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Silvestro remained by Carranza until the President pointed that he should go with Octaviano Solis. Nodding, he followed the Colonel and remained two hours in his room while a search was made for someone to attend him. At length a Yucatecan corporal was found - a Ladino, but one whose former occupation as a cloth-vendor in Merida's Calle de Bazar had afforded him some experience in the Maya tongue. "Cabo Lucio Almanzar, a su servicio," he introduced himself, turning to the Tatoob, then, "or perhaps bixcabala..."

"Malo," replied Silvestro without enthusiasm, recognizing that the Corporal's linguistic gifts were limited and probably devoted solely to affairs of trade. Further, the Tatoob recognized other attributes of the market, a coarseness and opportunism auguring misfortune for the unwary customer.

How fortunate, he thought, that I shall not be depending upon him.

"Take these, my tickets to the opera," said Solis. "Obviously my poor stomach is not up to the shriekings of mad Italians, however expert they be. Call on me tomorrow before ten. This illness shall certainly have left me by that time."

Almanzar snatched the tickets from the Colonel and departed with a wink. "I'll take splendid care of this fellow," he promised over his shoulder. "By the time I'm finished with him, you'll need ten strong horses to drag him back to the Yucatan and ten streetcars to haul him to that jungle of his."

Solis opened his mouth to object but another wave of nausea gripped him and he could but groan and sink back on the bed.

The little Corporal was one of the fastest walkers Silvestro ever had encountered. As he struggled to keep up with Almanzar, the Tatoob questioned his Mayan ancestry. According to Juan Kui, the tribes north of Mexico City had bred runners, a class of men whose sole occupation was to run in relays through the mountain passes, carrying messages from one tribe to another. Such had surely been the predecessors of this Corporal, for Almanzar seemed ever ready to break into a gallop; dodging through crowds, cursing at standing horse carts, ever waving over his shoulder for the General to move faster, faster.

"This is a useless thing," Almanzar finally gave up and stopped a taxi driver. The Tatoob caught up with him, his breath coming in short, hard gasps for the thin air still distressed him, though not as severely as when crossing the Sierra Oriental. Counting the money that the Colonel had provided him, Almanzar pushed Silvestro into the motorcar. "To the Ristorante Santa Anita," he told the driver and, in the mirror, the Tatoob saw the driver's face wrinkle into a scowl.

"I'll wager that you're hungry, no?" Almanzar decided. "That Carranza is no worse a President than all the others, but you could starve on the banquets he gives. Everything disappears down his own mouth and, when it comes your turn, you're fortunate if so much remains as a half tortilla and a little gravy. Besides, there is no pulque, only wine... which would not be so bad, except that Carranza must recite the history of every bottle before it is opened. Santa Anita is the workers' eating place. Those who dine there are cargadores, bricklayers, masons... not the sort of men who go in for delicacy. They have a hot goat stew that you will never find the equal of in Merida. I'm not saying that otherwise it's a very fine city, very clean. But a soldier must go where he is ordered and make the best of his situation, right General. Are you really a General?"

Silvestro only stared out of the window. They had turned off the Paseo and were winding through a maze of twisted streets, each a bit more shabby and bumpy than the last. Almanzar's words were as his steps, long and unceasing, and if it occurred to him in the midst of discourse that he did not know a key Mayan word with which to express himself, he used the Spanish or changed the subject completely.

"So it's true, the President recognized your rank after all. By the Holy Mother, you boys had the right idea... form an army of your own and take over all the top jobs. Some of those who did that in the north, they never went to military school. And the ones who came in with Carranza are Colonels and Generals now. That's all that there are here, Colonels and Generals. Not that all of them are bad, Alvarado's a genius. He's a Bolshevik, like me, but a hypocrite. What use is a Communist who doesn't support free love and cheap pulque. As long as he's in Yucatan, I'm happy where I am. If he comes here, I'll go back, or maybe to Russia. Can you believe what they are doing there? But I hear it's cold. Do you want to join the Party? I can take you to important men, Professors. They call us the Reds, and wait until you taste that goat stew. So much pepper that it's red as blood. A man's food, fit for a real man's stomach. Not for that poor Colonel, though I sympathize with his sufferings. Anyone who's been under Bravo's thumb and lived to tell of it has my respect... even if he has to dine on toast and warm milk like an old woman. That one was here, you know, he was the Chief of Police under Huerta. He got out before they could put a rope round his neck, old Bravo did. But some of his men weren't so quick, you know," and the corporal finally was rewarded with Silvestro's attention.

"I thought that might interest you," chuckled Almanzar. "Yes, the old man's gone and the rest of Huerta's gang have fallen on hard times. Most have friends in America or Germany, though, so the First Chief can't shoot them. More's the pity. A lot are in Belem but the worst... they've been stashed up in an old hotel, the Londres, and worst of all is the Jackal... why Carranza doesn't know whether to shoot him, trying to escape, or send him back north to plague America. Some say he's Villa's agent now, or else Zapata's. Either way, it's the end for that lot and the beginning for us, for les Bolcheviques! And here we are, a lot of Party members frequent this place. A moment, while I discuss a matter with the driver."

Silvestro barely paid attention as the Corporal haggled over the fare. The Jackal, in Mexico! The name that had raised his ears, the face haunting his dreams... could it be the same man? It was a message from the gods, whether the old gods or the Christian saints he could not yet determine. Only Juan de la Cruz, who knows all, could tell him the meaning of this.

"Out!" called the Corporal and the driver joined him. "He's getting dinner for the wait," said Almanzar, "and after we'll be taken straight to the opera. I'm saving the receipts... to each according to his need, after all, that's our motto... we are Communists, after all, not puny Socialists as Carranza!" And he punched the Tatoob on the shoulder lightly, smiled and, taking the taxi driver by the arm, marched him into the Santa Anita, explaining in staccato Spanish, the benefits that taxi drivers would achieve through Bolshevism.

The stew was every bit as red and hot as had been promised and Silvestro, who had missed his lunch, devoured two bowls of it with many tortillas and, after, felt so heavy that he despaired of rising. "I know the feeling," Almanzar said, "and the remedy. And he mumbled a coded message to the waiter who returned with a bottle and three glasses. The liquor indeed dissolved the heavy meal that lingered in the stomach of the sublevado General, with the dispatch of a tablespoon of water poured over a lump of sugar. Silvestro grunted, belched a cloud of peppery gas and smiled.

"Enjoy it while you can, I say," Almanzar advised. "That bourgeois Carranza, he's no prohibitionist, but he will tax all of the essence out of life, save his beloved vinegary French wines. We have taken upon ourselves another Maximilian. Drink up, while you can!"

Silvestro nodded and the Corporal filled his glass with cloudy, bitter liquor. He smiled and Almanzar poked the driver. "See, a human being like the rest of us, under those earrings and tattoos! You would have thought him one of those great stone carvings that they have in Yucatan, brought to life to walk here and there like some Golem, talking big business with don Venus. Those pendejos... they'll be the death of us all, General," said the Corporal, and poured another round.

The waiter returned as Silvestro put his glass down. "What do I do now?" he asked, and his puzzlement was not entirely feigned.

"Tip him," the Corporal replied. "Carranza gave you money, didn't he? Be generous!" he added as Silvestro fished out paper money from the pockets of his coat. "Today's peso is fifty cents tomorrow; Carrancista money's like the clap, the only thing to do is pass it on as quickly as you can. And now, the opera."

The return voyage was less steady but Silvestro did not mind the bumping nor the swaying of the taxi, for the world and Mexico City were agreeable to him now. But when the motorcar braked Silvestro stared with increasing dismay at the fine folk of the capital congregated around the entrance to the Teatro Colon in their British suits and hats and gleaming shoes; the ladies a fiesta of silk, furs and diamonds. From the taxi, it seemed that every patron knew the other and the Tatoob stared glumly down, past the dark trousers provided him, to his old indian sandals.

"Too rich a show?" Almanzar sneered and patted him once more in a familiar manner. "Don't be preoccupied. These are Mexico's parasites, the worms in the maguey, and the more dangerous... for they have convinced Carranza that they are his friends. A moment and we'll visit a man's place. First though, a matter of commerce," and, taking up the tickets between his fingers, he exited the taxi. Silvestro lowered his window and observed the Corporal approach one well-dressed couple, then another. Their rejections seemed not to disturb him in the slightest and, on the third try, a lady of society whose throat seemed burdened by a kilogram of pearls, and her escort... whose hair bore a like quantity of what seemed creamy butter.... lingered. After a moment's conversation with the dandies, Almanzar handed over the tickets and received a wad of banknotes, which he placed in his coat.

"To Mario's," he said, "before these lose more of their value." The driver grinned and sped back across the paseo to the winding streets and the barking, hungry dogs... to weaving shadows, singing as they stumbled through the night. To Mario's... its windows a veritable cathedral to the art of the electric light.

"Pay the driver!" Almanzar ordered. "We've gone a little farther than we planned and besides, it's only dinero muerte. You've paid for the dinner and the ride," he added, "I'll provide the entertainment." And he patted the pocket in which the diverted opera funds awaited. "Hey... remember what I said about the receipt." The driver handed the Corporal a folded paper and Mario's door was opened to them.

The cantina stank of liquor and cigars and seemed, also, a refuge for every trumpeter in one of Mexico's defeated armies. Other strummed guitars with broken strings while a line of señoritas... the youngest perhaps twelve, the oldest a hard forty... scrutinized the newcomers.

Almanzar conveyed a bottle and glasses to a table, whose occupants had fallen comatose next to the ashtrays in which their cigars smoldered, their heads rising and falling with snores. Tipping the chairs so that the drunkards slumped to the floor, he waved Silvestro to a seat and tested the longest of the cigars, finding it agreeable. "You won't see this in Merida since Alvi came," and he toasted the Tatoob. "They'll dance with you for two pesos, for five they will dance close. Very close," the Cabo repeated. In the light of Mario's, the teeth he showed seemed green. "Do as I do, General, follow your desire. Myself, I prefer the young ones."

Silvestro hesitated, casting a furtive eye upon the señoritas. "Ah... I should have known, a man of your position will not be satisfied but by the formalities of rank. "Drink this, you'll feel better. Let me introduce you to Caterina," and he waved. "Three times widowed... and a soldadera, first with Orozco, next a lieutenant under Pancho Villa and the last, unfortunately, a follower of Pablo Gonzalez. Well, she's been unlucky... but we are, after all, speaking only of a dance, not marriage." Caterina, for all her husbands, was still short of thirty, though the tints and ointments had begun to melt and beads of sweat glistened like little balloons on her cheeks. The Corporal embraced her in the fashion that men greet each other.

"Here is my honored guest," said Almanzar, "el General who, regrettably, does not speak Spanish."

"What a pity," Caterina answered, smiling at the Tatoob, though her words to the Corporal were anything but kind. "What sort of men are being made Generals these days? All the real soldiers are dead." Silvestro could not help but wince as though the words had issued from the tongue of Lady Viruela.

"Oh, he is a good sort, in his way," Almanzar added... a remark that, possibly, would save his life. "He was on the wrong side for a long time, but the past has been forgiven. Now, he's one of us." And he guided the widow's hand over Silvestro's shoulder and slipped away. The next time the Tatoob saw him, Almanzar was twirling a child of no more than thirteen years... an indian girl of one of the Western states, from the manner in which her hair was braided.

Silvestro danced only once with Caterina, but after that followed Norma, Concepción and some Marias... three or four Marias perhaps... and took as many glasses of potent cactus wine. Dzulob hands patted his shoulders and thighs, Mexican fingers stroked his back and stomach and, one time, one of the Marias, whose breath was also sour with the liquor, dropped the five peso note he had given her, and Silvestro gallantly returned it. "A tender chicken," was what she seemed to say, presenting him to one Ofelia, and these words caused him to wonder "What was that?" as they danced.

"Cuidado," she hissed as Silvestro excused himself for another taste of the cactus.

"There you are," said Corporal Almanzar. "Good for you, but it's time to leave this place; these girls are good for dancing but a General should find something, well, more conclusive." And Almanzar smiled, leading the Tatoob outside past whispers, "... another General, where do they come from?" Suddenly, night in the capital... after the music and the smoke, the taste of sour cactus, sweat and perfume... felled him as surely as a club across the neck, while Silvestro's stomach felt the discomfort that had been the province of the unfortunate Solis. Tumbling into a pyramid of debris, the General interrupted three cats at their dinners and they howled as they used his face as a springboard, pushing it deeper into the garbage, glass and empty boxes.

"It's the altitude," Almanzar said, offering a hand. The Corporal, kicked aside some of the boxes as Silvestro shook the stars from his head and watched them crawl back into the sky. "Come along," he beckoned, "it's time to meet our makers. Careful," he added, "the way is dangerous." And he pressed Silvestro to the wall, bent over, and peeked around the corner.

On the sidewalk a lantern stood and in its glow was seen a long thin object balanced between the same sidewalk and a wall, creating an almost perfect triangle. "Horses and policemen," whispered the Cabo, "they are God's only creatures that can sleep standing up." And they walked carefully past the officers into a maze of streets without either names or identifying signs, streets the Corporal knew as if they were those of the village of his birth.

"Here's an unhappy place," he whistled as they passed between two silent rows of old stone buildings whose shuttered garages opened on the sidewalk. "The Street of Death, it is called... before the Revolution, it was merely the Street of Coffin Makers." And he pointed to the garages, closed to within an inch of the sidewalk, through which aperture a warm, rank steam curled upwards. They turned a corner and another without seeing another living being but, from halfway down the block, there came the sound of a guitar and the verses of "Adelita", a woman's voice so pure with pain that tears flooded Silvestro's eyes.

"It's just altitude," the Corporal assured him, "that and drink. Not far is a very fine house... come, this is not the place to linger, no matter how sweet the spider's song." But Silvestro ignored him and began to venture down a short stairway to the basement entrance of the cantina.

"Mother of God, why me?" Almanzar beseeched, but followed the General down. The door was heavy oak, only slightly open, and groaned at Silvestro's touch. Pungent odors brushed their nostrils, but there was little light... this was one of those places that still held out against electricity. Dark shapes huddled behind candles as if praying, a lantern at either end of the bar allowed a drinker to see whether what was before him was dark or clear. A third rested on the floor beneath the singer, fascinating Silvestro as thoroughly as if he was an insect newly risen from his cocoon.

"Pretty, isn't she, if a little experienced," the Corporal said, "a lovely voice, too, full of tragedy. Okomolol..." The Mayan language was the code between them, all in their favor against that which lingered in El Pozo Afligado, the sorrowful well... which was the name such place was known by.

"Listen," Almanzar continued, "we cannot stay long in this place. One drink, one song and then... away. This is a place for foolish butterflies, the butterflies of night. And where careless insects are gathered, there are also bound to be hungry birds and even a few bats... zotz kik, comprende?"

"That has to be the queerest lingo that I've heard in a spell," interrupted a cowboy, a Yankee in a Texan hat who, however, spoke a precise but accented Spanish. "Hope you boys didn't come in to appreciate the music," and the end of his voice trailed off into a whining giggle, incongruous for such a tall man, rather like the sound of Latin issuing from a rooster's craw. "My Christian name is Jake Leclair, but folks down here just call me Lirio. C'mon, you look thirsty, I'll buy the drinks." He extended a hand in the American fashion but withdrew it at Almanzar's response, hooking a thumb towards the bartender.

Almanzar tugged at the coat of the Tatoob. "Out!" he said, but Silvestro had floated off into the singer's smile... at once inviting and as secret as that of the Mona Lisa, for the odd shadows the lantern cast.

"These here are my Mexican buddies," Lirio said, pointing out some tables almost wholly engulfed in shadow. "Cigar?" He seemed to snap his fingers and then, between them, were a number of Cortez cigars. His other hand held three copitas and Silvestro took the nearest of these... it held a good cognac and he gulped and grunted in approval.

"Lord God," said the Texan, "drinks like an American. Buddy, I ain't no Mister Guggenheim, you know. Now, as I provided the first, you can stand for the second."

The General poked through his pockets, marveling at how so many places that had had bills in them turned up empty. But, by the by, he found an unmolested wad and placed a paper banknote on the bar. "That's a hundred pesos," Almanzar protested and snatched it up, dropping a few coins in its place. "Salud!" he greeted the Texan. A muttering rose out of the corners of El Pozo Afligado. "Tancab!" he repeated in a hoarse whisper Almanzar, this time bodily guiding the Tatoob in the direction of the door. "Out!" But the singer began again and, once more, Silvestro pulled away and stared as one bewitched.

"Oi, indio," a voice rang out from the depths of the Well, "let's have a look at that money."

"You understand?" the Corporal began, but his suspicions went no further... for a fist flying out of the darkness cut their reality from his tongue, taking Almanzar's breath away. Down went a table with its glasses and candle and three forms pushed Silvestro to the wall. He struck out and one fell away but a bottle crashed down upon his brow and again. On the third blow it burst and a deluge of blood and cognac gushed forth. Two other men rode the Tatoob onto the floor; a foot crashed through his arms into his stomach, another struck at his temple. The music, sweet as the caress of don del Muerte, lingered.

"Here's a gold watch," somebody said and there was a murmuring at the bar. A chinless man, drooling with murderous pleasure, backed away, raising a bloody half a chair over the Corporal's body. Another of the patrons approached the bar, Silvestro's watch between his fingers. "A good one. Pure gold..."

The barkeeper spat and massaged the watch with a fingernail, wiping it on his trousers when he'd verified that it was what it seemed. He held it to the lantern and read the inscription, frowned and snarled "Forget it, lajartijas!" to the little lizards who'd circled Silvestro with their kicks.

"Why, Valentin? We'll make them disappear... just like the others!"

"Because he is a General," declared the keeper of the Well of Sorrows, and even the music stopped at this. "This bears the inscription of the President himself."

"All the more reason to kill them both," the Texan answered. Valentin's arm, quick as a cobra but of the greater thickness of a python darted across the bar and found the throat of Lirio. "When you are here, my stinking flower, you do as I say. Our existence is itself difficult, without complications as would result from the murder of one of Carranza's Generals."

"Impossible!" one of the lajartijas swore. "Can that be a Mexican General? At the most, he is one of those left over from Madero. Lirio is right." But the barkeeper's hand dropped the throat of the Texan and its other trained a pistol on the room. "On the other hand," the lizard quickly corrected himself, "such a disappearance might be bad for business. We would have to return to the San Gregorio which I, for one, would not prefer. Too much light."

"Dust them off," said the bartender, "and leave something in their pockets, so they won't remember whether they were robbed or spent their money on tequila and suffered a fall. Go steal a carriage," he pointed, and another of the lajartijas slithered away. "Maria!" He slid the gold watch across the bar and the singer caught it. "Return it to this General." And Maria Morelos lifted Silvestro's head and placed Carranza's watch in the inside pocket of his coat.

In pain from the drink and blows, the Tatoob heard her name and opened his eyes, which beheld Maria's face. "Truly I have died and been forgiven my sins," he thought as the face began to blur, and sickness approached him like a black cloud.

"Pobrecito," she whispered and kissed his bloody scalp. Her breath was the last thing Silvestro felt before his Paradise dissolved into a purgatory of pain and shadows. The carriage arrived, piled high with coffins and Lirio and the barkeeper dragged their guests outside.

RETURN to HOMEPAGE – “THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ”

RETURN to GENERISIS HOMEPAGE