THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK NINE: BOOK of the JAGUAR PRIEST

CHAPTER TWENTY.

The door opened by the width of a hand and a Federal officer glared out. "We don't want peddlers up here. How did you get by the desk?"

Silvestro held his watch up to the door. "Not interested," the officer replied, calling out "It's a pickpocket!" to someone within. "No, wait," he corrected himself as the watch spun and he read the inscription on its back, "... it's one of Carranza's generals."

"All the same," replied the unmistakable voice of the Jackal. "Let him in!"

"He has a pistol," warned the Lieutenant. But, when there was no reply, he unlocked the door and Silvestro entered. The aging Caballero of Idznacab who had become a Federal officer, who had then become a Colonel was seated stiffly in a horsehide chair with a long back that topped even the head of José Macias. On a table in front of him reposed a pistol.

"So he does," the Colonel said, "and so do you, and I. Bring this General some cognac, I know his face but the name..."

"Silvestro Kaak, Colonel, Jefe Militar of the most holy city of Chan Santa Cruz," came the reply.

"My old post," sighed José. "Well, at least it's of some use to somebody. I heard it was turned over to old Poot and, after his men finished with it, I thought Santa Cruz del Bravo would be of little use as Uxmal. Is the old rascal there still?"

"His bones are," Silvestro answered. The Teniente brought their drinks and a chair for the Tatoob. "There was sickness."

"So I understand," said the Colonel. "I know only a little, for I have been a busy man these many years and now, as you may see, my opportunities for getting out into the world are limited. Teniente Sanchez is my keeper and Lucia manages to keep the place clean. How do you like this as a cell? Better than the ones in the Territory, isn't it?"

"I never saw the inside of your prison. I know it only by reputation. Chicle is kept there now."

"Pray that the American señoritas who so love their gum never learn the secrets reposing in that which they chew with such innocence, such enthusiasm," José replied. "Now, for what reason are you here? To kill me?"

"There is a man in Mexico, also a Colonel now, who did see your prison... from the inside. I do not think he knows that you are here."

"A survivor?" José frowned. "Must have been quite a fellow. And so are you. I recognize you now... we faced each other in the monte. Yes, and you were among those at Vigia Chico. So we have made both war and business, each in their turn. At the beginning of the campaign, you understand, it was said that both our sides fought as much for honor as for any territory. You for your country, as I suppose it could be called... your tribe, call it... and I for mine. A very British concept - the same could be said of this revolution. But the heroes are dead, and the Republic, now, is left to those who see matters in terms of business. Men like you and I."

José shook his head and, with an expression of sorrow, reached for the glass. "Carranza's a man for this new century, his unclean duties are all done by his paid assassins. He'll go far if he controls his greed. Villa and Zapata, unfortunately, have nothing waiting but don del Muerte. They've been fortunate, but neither will kiss the Yankee boot. When Pancho Villa was chased over into Texas, he came to a grand hotel there in El Paso with a sign 'No Dogs or Mexicans Allowed' and he ripped up the sign and laid it before the manager with his pistol on top. Such a man would never succeed as President. Poor Victoriano was the same way." And the Colonel raised his glass. "Copita!"

"I have heard," the Tatoob ventured, "that you frustrated Huerta's return and personally led his associate, Orozco, into ambush."

The Colonel chuckled. "They would have brought the Porfiriata back from the dead... but there was no strength nor quantity of carbolic to wash away the reek of the grave. Now that you have many taxing duties as Governor,” he smirked, “you ought to learn to read tales of mystery... for diversion and, also, as a means of understanding the duplicity of men. Here, for example, is this Englishman who has brought all his old characters back from the dead, like spokes turning round in the wheel of a bicycle... his man, Holmes, remarks: 'Everything comes in circles - even Professor Moriarty...' a sort of villain, a Huerta if you will... although the fellow reminds me, some, of old Limantour.

"Well," the Jackal shook his head, "the bicycle served Mexico well through the nineteenth century, but we are in the age of the motorcar, now. To say nothing of the submarine boat and aeroplane... eh? Bold fellows like Huerta and Orozco are going out of fashion for a while... there is one nature of man who finds his roots in physical devastation... quite another who thrives in a climate of national humiliation. But that time is distant. You might say that I did my President and General Bravo a favor by saving them from the consequences of their folly, so that they might die surrounded by family and in the presence of an emissary to Juan de la Cruz."

"I am thinking of that doctor who attended Huerta, and that you wish to be considered one of the humanitarians, now," chided Silvestro Kaak.

"That would be a mistake. There will be a few years of meanness of the spirit, of decadence, the full belly and sound sleep... and then Mr. Doyle's wheel will turn again, and the men of will shall be remembered," the Jackal predicted.

"Huerta is still remembered among the mazehualob."

"Of course he is," José replied. "And he will be remembered when Carranza is forgotten. Which of the Caesars do we think of when Rome is mentioned... Augustus, who presided over its Golden Age? No, it Julius... the warrior, the martyr who drenched that civilization in blood, but sealed the bargain with his own. Purified by the blood, Rome stood and ruled for centuries. Those who would make empires do well to strike vigorously," José's eyes sparkled, "and, if they do not perish in combat, to remove themselves from the battlefield before old age and declining capacities cause the ruin of their reputation. But you, now, you've been bitten by the zinaan, by los escorpiones del Caesarismo. No? You're here to seek advantage from the fat man."

Silvestro nodded.

"And of course you have rivals. Many, probably, but only three or four who matter. I could name them, if I know whom the blood vomit took and whom it spared. You're here to ask the blessing of the President, as in the fable of Esau and Jacob." José smiled again but, feeling no inhabitation on his back, grew hard. "Be certain that you do not sell your people and your soul for pottage. Venustiano Carranza is a famous buyer, and seller, of souls who will bless any who promises his tribute. Quintana Roo may have ten Governors, so long as each is useful to this man.

"A jefe of decision, he would not wait, nor would he be merciful, the way Madero was. He would kill these rivals... now, as soon as he returned with even provisional license from Diaz... I mean President Carranza... and while his young soul is strong and free of sentiment. One's necessary evils accumulate, General, and eventually spill over like boiled corn much into the fire. One becomes sentimental, as Porfirio Diaz, or Bravo... who at least had made a friend of Huerta. A man of vision will hold his position even after sentiment has corroded his ruthlessness. And he should come to terms with mortality, and prepare his successor. Another failing of Diaz."

"Where is your successor?" asked Silvestro.

José grimaced and swallowed more of the cognac. "Bravo and I made Santa Cruz a garden, a paradise of the nineteenth century. For our labors we were reviled, and those who could have followed after chose retreat. Perhaps we erred. Or, perhaps, our mistake was fundamental; there are places on the earth that are not made for progress or for education, whatever the idiotic propaganda of don Venus. There was only one man in that territory who knew this, the curandero. Chankik. Our Miguel... you've heard of him?"

Silvestro nodded.

"All of the mazehualob, even the Mexicans, knew Miguel Chankik and he knew them. Is he still alive?"

"When last I heard," the Tatoob said. "He is not often seen, except at the hours of his choosing."

"I know," José agreed. And Silvestro imagined a trembling to come into the Colonel's voice and, for his part, José Macias glanced quickly to the window, his ears alert to a sound the Tatoob could not hear. "And we know what an Oriental being he is. Chankik is a creature of mystery and reproach over whom shines a light that we mistake for faith. But like moonlight it is reflected from a pale fire, unknown, hostile to science, evolution. He gives us powers to outreach our origins, but it is backward reaching. And when his use for us is done, he leaves his victims dried up, drained of vitality."

"But are you sure of that?" Silvestro asked. "Is there not something you still fear, yet seek? I watch you by the window, and I wonder."

"There is no magic remaining in Mexico, save gold or an honorable currency. That will suffice for you," he said sharply. "When you have returned to Santa Cruz, do not fail to observe the British, the Americans. They have a talent for shielding one from the unpleasant things of the world with wealth. And, by the way, did you intend to kill me?"

"I will leave that to the ones who have personal reasons for doing so," said the Tatoob. "I will deprive no man of his vengeance."

"Very good," the Colonel smiled, "very well spoken. And who is to deny that he may not yet have his opportunity. This Carranza's feet have the appearance of clay, and it may be that Mexico has not seen the last of war, nor of me.

"And you," he added, "must now show recognition of how important I've been to you. No man willingly accepts imposition of a government and powers of taxation, murder and imprisonment are granted to the few, ourselves, who know when to promote change and when to offer protection from it. Such is the origin of the state.

"Under the direction of Ignacio Bravo," José recalled, "millions of pesos flowed into the territory, both from the National Treasury and, later, from chicle sales. We did what few ever achieved, we caused a city to come into being, literally, from the ground up. Ponder the enormity of this! It is no great feat to destroy cities... mediocre conquerors have often pulled down, in one day, that which had taken centuries to accomplish. So little genius is in the world that men build, repeatedly, obsessively, upon the ruins of their betters... think of ancient Troy, rebuilt at least seven times, or Chichen Itza, abandoned three centuries and then reoccupied. Or this place, a successor to the Aztec capital.

"The founding of a city is an event of rarity and valor, and who is to blame its progenitors if they sometimes take on the aspect of myth. Rome's founders, it is said, were raised by wolves... a thing that would not seem the less probable to one as you or I. Moses and Brigham Young wandered in the desert until they found their place and so did we."

"You delude yourself," Silvestro answered. "That place which is called Santa Cruz del Bravo was, for fifty years before your coming, the city of the speaking cross. You and your General made nothing, you merely stole it, as this and all Mexican places are stolen. The progenitors of Chan Santa Cruz were Nahaut and Barrerra, and Juan de la Cruz. It is to them I have returned it."

"Progenitors?" José threw back his head and laughed. "Of what? Of a few huts, a palm church and pigsties, this is your excuse for a city? Perhaps we do not understand one another." And he rose and, with a visible hesitation, went to the window, opened the drapes and gestured outwards.

"Behold," he said, "here is a city! It has avenues and boulevards, on which pass automobiles and carriages. It has electric power, which provides for streetcars and lamps. There are schools, prisons and a lunatic asylum... the pretty, pretty, pretty San Geronimo," said the Colonel with a smile that seemed, to the Tatoob, the very essence of madness. "There are courts and business offices, besides the many shops and public markets. Most cities are not so large, but you will find them similar in that their function is trade. One does not go to the milpa, but to the market, to buy corn.... and, only in the most uncivilized places, must they wait for traveling vendors of cloth or medicines. Your elder chiefs were beginning to understand this. If they had survived it would be a city still."

"But the land punished them for what they did," Silvestro answered. "For their silence the winds brought a pestilence, and Juan de la Cruz permitted death into the territory."

José winced and turned from the window. Below, a streetcar had collided with a funeral procession. "Do you understand, General, the nature of a British bond? Of American securities?"

"Are you speaking of money?" asked the Tatoob.

"They are a form of that, yes. But there is a difference. Anyone who finds a pound or a dollar may spend it, even a peso... if whoever has issued it is still in office. Securities and bonds, however, are issued not to individuals but entities... factories, railroads, even governments." José glanced about to see that they were alone, then unlocked a chest of drawers, in which lay a well-traveled set of saddlebags from which the scent of don del Muerte had not been entirely scrubbed. Within were documents that somewhat resembled those he had seen in Carranza's office.

"General Bravo foresaw some of the difficulty that Mexican money... like the Mexican government... would experience after Diaz. Some of the wealth of the Territory he converted to gold, the rest to securities, purchased in Belize and backed by the English Crown. They are, however, in the name of Quintana Roo, and can only be redeemed by its Governor."

"I do not understand this redemption," said the Tatoob. "Is it what priests say when they seek to turn us to Mexico's Christianity?"

The Colonel snorted. "It is that offered by British banks, General, not the Mexican church. You may rely upon the value of these securities," he said, patting the saddlebags. "Our mutual problem is that they have been issued in the name of the Territory of Quintana Roo and may be redeemed only by its Governor. If such person, yourself for example, were to enter the British bank here with the securities, and with documentation proving your appointment, you would be allowed to cash them in for pesos or, if you conceal your wisdom, as I think you do, for pounds. Thus, our dilemma. I have possession of the securities, but they may only be redeemed by you, as the Governor of the Territory. This position would be yours, but you do not possess the securities, nor would you know what to do with them. I possess and know, but I am not the Governor. May we come to an understanding then?"

"What do you mean by this?"

"I will pay you a ten percent commission when the bonds have been redeemed on your authority. It will amount to a healthy sum."

The Tatoob considered this. "I would do as you say for half the value of your paper."

"Half!" José slapped his forehead. "Out of the monte you come, an indian, barely speaking Spanish, bewildered... you ask for half of this fortune. Are you mad?"

"I will be Carranza's Governor," said Silvestro. "This money belongs to the mazehualob, all of it..." he added menacingly. "Do not take advantage of my inexperience with Mexican ways, I am learning them."

José began to breathe heavily, pacing the room. "Very well, half. In pounds. Return here when you have some authorization from Carranza. And General..."

"What?" Silvestro was eager to be out of this place.

"Do not tell any Mexican of those things we've discussed. No one... especially Carranza and his creatures. One wrong word and you won't see a cent of your money. Not a cent!" A tapping and the window caused José to look up with alarm as if his plot had been discovered "Sanchez!" the Colonel called out to the Teniente in the other room. "Sanchez!"

The lieutenant appeared. "The drapes," José pointed. Sanchez drew them shut and turned with regret.

"I think the time has come to excuse us," he said to the Tatoob. "The Colonel is often tired and this is his time to rest. Silvia has prepared your bed," he added, guiding José towards the door.

"They're out there," said José over his shoulder. "They look in and think I'll be an easy target but I'm watching. Even while I sleep, I watch and wait and keep my silence. Not one word, remember! You will be a strong Governor if you remember... we were brothers, once, brothers in the blood. Brothers!" he repeated in a voice little more than a whisper, as the Lieutenant Sanchez closed the door behind Colonel Macias.

Sanchez emerged, after a few moments, and gave the Tatoob a cigar to take away with him as a memento of his visit. "What was it outside that so disturbed the Colonel?" asked Silvestro.

"Birds," replied the Teniente, not at all surprised that this indian should address him in Spanish. "There is a ledge on which they nest, just beneath that window," he pointed. "He will not allow the glass to be opened and, of course, the birds are ignorant of the conception of glass. They perceive only a room and, having some eccentric affinity for this place, they bump their heads and beat their wings in trying to enter and are angry. It's an odd matter but a small one, except to Colonel Macias. He is even worse if one but mentions anything to do with snakes." And Sanchez made the little whirling motion of his fingers by his head that Silvestro knew the dzulob to use to point out those whom they called their locos.

He thanked Sanchez and returned to the restaurant of the Hotel Londres where Almanzar, having finished his meal, was enjoying an early copita and a cigarette, waiting to conduct him to the airport.

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