Hunger's Brides (164 page)

The trip,
señorita
, is about three hours one way. But the time passes quickly you will see. You are well?

Never better
.

But no I can see you are tired of questions. It is better that I talk, no extra charge. My wife says it is what I do best—obviously
decencia
requires she say this in front of the children, the neighbours.

There are people who tire of their own voices, of course I understand this—they do not have mine. I have sung mariachi in Reno Nevada. Laboured on cargo boats to Spain and Argentina, sold my watercolours in Santa Fe, Nuevo México. Owned a taxi in El Paso de Tejas, Gringolandia—gringo is a word we use for different reasons, of course, sometimes with affection even.
Americano
we must never use for them—we are
Americanos
too.
¿Sí o no?

And it's true, his is a beautiful voice a baritone riversong of fathertongue lifting me up on a tide of buttermilk and it is fine a relief to ride beside this strange old handsome man with redbrown eyes in smiley wrinkley naugahyde
.

Calling them
Norte Americanos
is better, but México also is in North America. At least the poor geographers still think so.
Estadunidenses es lo peor
—we are the United States of Mexico! But outside of México no one cares about this. There is an expression:
Pobre México, tan cerca de los Estados Unidos
—

Tan lejos de dios.
⁹

Ah, then you know this
dicho!
But you are not Mexican, I think…. We Mexicans come up in tour buses, sometimes
los chilangos
in cars. And from our countryside, from
los pueblitos
, some come on their knees. Or crawling on all fours. This has been a place of pilgrims for two thousand years.

So now I, Raúl Sada, have come back home to the mountain—a kind of pilgrim too … to drive a taxi up to
el paso del gachupín
. You know
gachupín
, I wonder? No I don't think so.

Spurs
—what you used to call Spaniards.

So you know our poet, our language, our history—and you are not here for the scenery—or for questions, I know this. But maybe later you will permit me to guess—

Canada.

Canadá? It is like Gringolandia?

Tan lejos de dios
.

Just as far from god—as us? you mean, or them—but right now you are wondering if I need to look at the road.
No te preocupes, jovencita
, I could drive this road in my sleep—no but I swear I never do! Paha! Like I told you I am not the only driver to go right to the pass, but most will leave you partway, at the chalet abandoned now—another failed
desarrollo turístico
—and tell you it is not far to walk. But it is. Very far. You have found the right man. I go up even in bad weather. And I am the only one to go up empty. My wife is from a village just the other side of the pass. We live out near Chimalhuacán now. Her family says she does not visit them enough anymore. Because I keep her so busy. What are they supposed to think when she has so handsome a husband? And sometimes there is someone up there who needs a ride to town or to market. Farmers or
alpinistas
—or tourists who find out their
taxista
didn't wait. With me this will never happen! so don't worry I take payment only when we come down—that is, if we make it—pah! you know I am joking by now, yes?

Rocket attacks of laugh, launched from an upper lip pressed onto the lower—swept by the wireshocked handlebars—plosive salvoes of laughter
beware their nervy infections
. Big dark wavy hands shortsleeved red-brown farmer's tan. Silver capped molars, one missing incisor—broken old hound, court jester, but in the dancing eyes—look at me I am old but wise too, careful do not be fooled by the fool!

And I am not fooled, old man.

Which hotel told you about me I must thank them for such a beautiful
cliente
—no no have not one instant of worry, I'm much too old for all that now I have a grandson your age. Three sons and a beautiful wife! But look at me—sixty and not one grey hair. Just white ones and black—pahaa!
puras canas
. Salt and pepper, is this not what you say in English?
Sal y pimienta
. And is that English you are writing in your
cuaderno
and what are you writing now?

Every single word you say.

Pahh!—I thought so you are finding me very picturesque right now, no? Pancho Villa rides again only better looking this time. Everyone says. You are finding my Mexican gallantry irresistible. You can admit this. You are not the first—how could you help it? Even so young and from a
cold country you are a woman after all. This is very obvious of course. In the end you will succumb—though it is only a game for me now, a game I have loved. So don't worry I am just talk. And it is dignified that you should take your time but do not bother to resist—it is inevitable. And this
encanto
I have is a great gift,
¿sí o no?
You do not answer but I see you know how to answer without talk. This too is a gift, only not one of mine.

But enough of this for now you still do not look up to the mountains. You are from Canada I understand. But this is not only postcard scenery. Every rock every tree we are passing now contains a story. The old people are glad I am back, they send all the anthropologists to me now. Of course I do not know so much but who is a better talker? I see you have no answer to that.

Probably you know the legend of our two great mountains up there. WhiteLady, Iztaccihuatl, and SmokingStone. Usually it is Popo that is lost in the clouds but it is eight days now we do not see the WhiteLady. You knew they were lovers probably. Yes. But did you know they were from rival tribes? Ah, I see this interests you. A love not meant to be. A wizard's curse and she sleeps for an eternity. Her lover stands over her fuming and smoking and thundering vengeance. In the old times on special dates they would send a pair of lovers up there to be sacrificed.

How many of such stories lost? No more, not as long as I am around. Some countries have gold, some silver or oil, but this pass is the El Dorado of
legends!
This rough road is paved with them—

So let the spirit rise to its new level let it SOAR up into the hills. Lift me unresisting laughing with this laughing man so proud to bring me here, bubbling with talk. Why has he come to me why now?

Racketing over potholes and redclay washboards. Cardboard Guadalupe jigged and swayed from the twisted rearview—smell of hot vinyl, neoprene and pine. Cool air, molared roadgrit.

Lightswells, shadowfalls … across a smoking cone spun in candyfloss cloud.

Farmsteads, green pastures, islands of brush. Goats and sheep.

All this land here was once owned by the richest man around. There that clump of pines is where they found him. About a hundred years ago. Impaled on a treetop. Maybe on the big one there but it would have been much smaller back then so maybe that big stump. The forest here is supposed to be protected. It is our patrimony, no? But people need wood, I
do not have the answer. A farmer who had prospered through his pact with the devil and had become rich in lands, about to marry the most beautiful girl around. The devil asked only one small thing in exchange—to take the bride on her wedding night. Of course this is easier in theory. When the night came the groom broke his word and took her first. They found the groom the next morning with half the tree stuck through him like a donut. This devil was a symbolist, what do you think?

The woods are full of his children, Coatepoztles, serpent children who tempt woodcutters into deadfalls and crevasses…. Ah do not be afraid to fall asleep,
hijita
. I can tell these stories in your sleep as I drive. You will find the air up here restful. You will see. Don't be afraid, child, sleep…. There, that's better.

I will watch the road. I will watch out for us.

Wake to the marble clatter of hail! tiny hailpeas leaping off the hood spittlegrilled. Ah,
señorita
, welcome back. We are at the chalet you can just see it through this mess. Let's go in I know a way inside this noise is killing me this is why I never paint this truck. Will you not come inside? this cannot last fifteen minutes maximum but there will be much lightning leave your bag there is nobody—come let's run together now.

Inside the chalet a scaling up from hiss of rage to pebbleclash to roofroar the hail lancing down through the neardark sparked by flash on flash but no thunder the hail so loud feel it through the floor electric vibrant buzz of hail pounding leaves to pummel—flowers bees juice-extracted. Branches bared and bent to their knees.

Thunder, fading thunder.

Windblasts skittering wrinkles—breaking icy spindrift—across the parking lot….

Quiet. Stormebb echoing behind the eyes.

Ground a slush of grated coconut. Air a riot of scents, cutsap, brokenstalks, membranes burst to paste. Pine, cedar, wildflowers grasses—rich black earth! to see is to breathe is to taste this place.
Dare Terram Deo
.

Fill my mouth with this guttered hail mulched with green and petal clips and in the teeth the clack and crunch from slush to swallowsluice. How long since I have eaten how long has it been? I turn he looks at me blinks then smiles and nods.

It is just like carnival ices is it not? maybe I will try some too. Redbrown smiling eyes. Cedar eyes, laughing man, who sent you?

[Cortés Pass]

You do not think it looks like much right now. But there you can see it just the peak of Popo—see the smoke see how near? Do you want to know how high that is in metres and feet? No? Everyone wants to know this, people ask me all the time as though we can see better in numbers than through our eyes.

5,452 metres. 17,887 feet.

Little tibetan tent city of vendors waiting for tourbus Godot. Bedraggled soot-stained canvas flapping in the wind. Ground salted with hail. Sun hot through gaps in cloud
.

You will want to walk a little no? Be alone? Maybe visit the monument to Cortés over there—I never go, one day I will blow it up. They name this pass after him even when this is the way the god Quetzalcóatl came as he left us, promising to return. But no they name it after an imposter led by the nose by a traitor—Malinchista, then give that volcano there her name—can you see La Malinche hanging over Puebla just there through the smog?

I will leave the taxi here for you and have an
atole
with my wife's cousin. How long,
mas o menos—no te preocupes
, as long as you like. Just to have an idea so I can be ready for you. No no you pay only when we are back in town. Climb that? You think you can just climb like that, it is already after noon.

No
joven
I cannot take your money now. Do not ruin a beautiful day together I cannot leave you up here like this.

Pahaha—look at you gasping up here like a fish! You are not even above the trees you see it is not so easy or for me either I am getting old for this. Come down now little daughter it is almost dark. If you freeze up here who do you think will have to carry you down? It is a code of mountaineering. You see this is a joke. I see you like such jokes.