Mendoza in Hollywood (25 page)

I
T HAD BEEN A
great movie, all the same.

Thinking about it all, about Babylon and France and Jerusalem and that cold urban future, one tended to forget one was living in the midst of a historical upheaval just as impressive. France was finding that it was a great deal harder for the Second Empire to crush a bunch of ignorant mestizos than had ever been expected, while England and Spain sat back and watched in disgust. The North Americans were busy filling up the history books too: the Emancipation Proclamation was issued, for example. In future cinema it would be depicted by black hands stretching up toward beams of sunlight, broken manacles dangling from the wrists, to the accompaniment of a swelling chorus of this or that hymn, usually fading into a long shot of the Lincoln Memorial.

So sentimentally is the birth of a baby presented. The reality is far more an occasion of blood, of fear and uncertainty, of shock that displaces the joy that should be felt on such an occasion. While not one of those people to whom that piece of paper meant so much would ever have gone back to being slaves again, they must have known that the chains would be ten times as hard to break now that they were invisible and intangible.

But how could any of it matter to us? We went on about our daily life in a world where Watts and South Central were still Spanish land
grants where vaqueras roped steers, and the longhorns herded down from the Tejon Ranch bore a brand of Cross above Crescent, commemorating the ancient victories of the Spanish Crusaders over the Moors, and I still thought of black men as turbaned kings with scimitars. What did this Civil War have to do with me?

You see? I had no sense of Realpolitik at all. Not that I wasn’t warned.

I
WAS RETURNING FROM
a profitable day in the less surreal regions of the temperate belt when I picked up the warning signal being broadcast by Porfirio. It told me to approach with caution, so I left the road and came overland through the sagebrush, straining to pick up more of the transmission. All I could hear was Porfirio’s end of it, at first.

But why would I lie to you, señor? Señora Marta comes and goes as she pleases. You must know this. She pays rent on her room, and I don’t ask her what she does in there and she doesn’t tell me. Come and have some coffee
.

Of course I would tell you if I knew, señor
.

No, señor, I’m not in love with her. No
.

She didn’t tell me, señor. What about some coffee
?

I don’t love her, señor
.

Yes, 1 would tell you. Would you like a cup of coffee, señor
?

No, señor, 1 never said that. Señor, please, put the gun away. There’s no need for that. Listen to me, señor, you know what? If he’s with her when she comes home, I’ll help you shoot him. Please stop waving the gun in the air and sit down and have some coffee
—

There followed a salvo of shots.

Now, you see, señor? You’re not at your best, or you’d have hit something for sure. And you don’t want to hang, señor. Señora Marta would cry if you were to hang, eh? No, señor, she didn’t tell me
.

No, señor, I’m not in love with her
.

Señor, you really would feel better with some coffee in you
.

Mental note: no torturer in a dungeon cell ever devised anything as frustrating, as inescapable, as terrifyingly pointless as a conversation with a drunk.

Yes, señor, that’s a good idea. Yes, by all means
.

All right, señor, that’s a very, very good idea. There is your horse
.

No, she didn’t tell me, señor. Maybe if you get on your horse and ride out now, you’ll catch them
.

Very good! Buenos noches, señor. That way. The road is that way
.

What would you want to shoot the horse for, señor
?

Yes, you’re right, that would show her. Yes, I’m sure she’d weep over your grave. I think you want to put it in your mouth, though, señor, not against the temple like that. There! You see how easy it is to miss
?

Very well, señor, if you say so. Yes, that way. That way, señor. Buenos noches, señor. Vaya con sathanas
.

When the all clear was finally broadcast, I came slinking down out of the hills to find Porfirio sitting beside the fire, mixing himself a double mocha by dissolving most of a cake of Theobromos in a pot of black coffee.

“Who was that?” I asked, shrugging off my pack.

“Mr. Cyrus Jackson,” Porfirio said, baring his teeth. “Some knight chivalrous, huh? Good thing the 1600-hours stage is late, or there’d have been a nasty scene.”

“Where is Imarte, anyway? I haven’t seen her for a few days,” I said, reaching for a tin plate and digging a spoon into the frijole pot.

“She went up north for something,” Porfirio said. “Christ knows what. She didn’t tell me.” I joined with him on the last sentence.

Juan Bautista emerged from his lean-to, looking perturbed. “Is that drunk guy gone? I was scared he’d shoot at my birds.”

“Gone but not forgotten, unfortunately,” said Porfirio. He raised his head, listening. “And there’s the stage. I think I’ll just go dump this
whole mess in Ms. Imarte’s ever-ready lap.” He took a terrific slug of Theobromos-adulterated Java straight from the coffeepot and stalked off down the canyon, carrying the pot with him.

After a few minutes we heard the driver’s whip crack as the stage continued its journey to Los Angeles, and Porfirio and Imarte came slowly up the canyon.

“I told you I was sorry. What on earth can I do?” Imarte was saying.

“You can deal with the guy, that’s what you can do. You led him on, and now he’s got a fit of killer jealousy. Why did you give him the idea he was anything but a customer to you, anyway?”

“He was a good source of data,” Imarte said, drawing her feathered shawl around her against the twilight chill. “He provided me with no end of fascinating material that has, in fact, led me to an astonishing discovery. You wouldn’t believe it, but the evidence is overwhelming, that not only is there an active Confederate plot—”

“He wants to kill you for being unfaithful to him,” Porfirio said.

“Oh.” She knitted her brows. “I’ll have to do something, I suppose. Don’t worry. We’ll deal with the inconvenience somehow. Believe me, it’s worth it. Have you any idea what his simple anecdotes have revealed?”

“Why don’t you tell us?” I said, soaking a tortilla in steak juice.

She was so enthralled with her big news, she actually sat down beside me. “There is a conspiracy,” she uttered in thrilled tones, “that may involve the highest-ranking members of Parliament, to take California for the
British
.”

“The British? Why would they want California?”

Imarte gave me an arch look and paused dramatically, during which time the answer became obvious. Gold, vast natural resources, most of the Pacific coastline . . . Okay, any government in its right collective mind would covet California. But the British?

“I thought it was an odd series of coincidences at first,” Imarte said, gazing pensively into the fire. “All those British nationals passing through, filing claims to search for gold on Catalina. Why Catalina,
where no appreciable gold has ever been found? Why are they shipping engineering equipment over there? Why are they taking such pains to determine who actually owns title to the island? Because they are, you know. I slept with a man who informed me that a fortified base is being constructed by the Albion Mining Syndicate, to be called Queen City. Of course he didn’t call it a fortified base, but by asking certain questions about this so-called mining town, I was able to determine that the site it occupies has considerable strategic importance and is, in fact, being prepared for ordnance emplacements. Moreover, no attempts whatsoever are being made to prospect for gold.”

“Wow,” said Juan Bautista. “What would happen if the English took over California?”

I rolled up frijoles in a tortilla and bit into it. “They won’t, we know that, so what’s the point of wondering? They gave up Oregon without a fight, didn’t they? Why should they try to take the West Coast now, even if they want it?”

“Ah, but you see,” Imarte said, holding up a forefinger, “the political situation has changed. The Americans, who might once have prevented them, are locked in a devastating civil war whose outcome is still unknown. Europe is making a play to regain lost empires in South America. If the continental royalty manages to conquer Mexico, if the American nation falls apart—and these mortals haven’t our advantage of knowing how it all turns out in the end—why, then, Manifest Destiny comes undone and the whole of the New World is up for grabs again. There have even been rumors that the Russians are beginning to regret pulling out of California. Can anyone wonder if Queen Victoria’s ministers”—she searched for a metaphor—“want to be first in line, shopping bags in hand, when the doors are flung open on the Great American Fire Sale?”

“What does it matter, anyway?” I said crossly.

“Don’t you think it’s fascinating? This is secret history. It lends so much more understanding, so much fire and color to the dramatic pageant unfolding before our eyes. Imagine all those British diplomats playing the Union and Confederate governments off against each
other, deploring slavery while covertly aiding the rebels, yet planning still another layer of double cross by preparing to step in and seize territories from the survivors should the Confederacy win!” Her eyes were gleaming. “Given the size of the empire they control already, why should the British think it unreasonable to go on playing the Great Game here?”

“You’re sure about this?” Porfirio asked, taking another swig from the coffeepot. “God knows they were eager enough to stick their fingers in the pie of Texas.”

“I’ve been collecting information. Even now there’s a plot brewing in San Francisco. The nephew of a British statesman has persuaded a stupid young American to join him in a privateering expedition—supposedly to aid the Confederacy by raiding the Pacific Mail and diverting the gold shipments from the San Francisco Mint to the Confederate cause. I don’t yet know how they plan to do it, but I’m fairly sure the Albion Mining Syndicate is involved, from their base on Catalina Island. Are you aware that any maritime power positioned there with even minimal ordnance could effectively control the entire coastline of California at this point in time?”

“Pirates!” Porfirio slapped his knee. “Goddamn Francis Drake is at it again!”

“But that’s awful!” said Juan Bautista. His eyes were big and worried.

“It’s not going to happen, dummy,” I said. “Access your files. If there actually ever is such a plot, somebody screws it up, because it never makes the history books.”

“It might not be so bad if the British took over,” said Porfirio with a grin. “Have we fared all that well under the Yankees? I’ll bet General Vallejo kicks himself every day for not shooting John C. Fremont when he had the chance. And think about a colonial governor and the Union Jack flying over the Plaza. All those damn cowboys and their guns expelled. Think how the future of California would change. No Prohibition, so no bootleggers, so no Mob. No cops with guns. No movie people either. Just lots of plantations run by old aristocratic
families. It’d be Lower Canada, man! Nothing would
ever
happen here.”

No freeways, no smog, low population density. That horrifying city on the plain I’d glimpsed would never exist. Would that be such a bad thing? But of course it was never going to happen. Catalina Island had a strange enough future ahead of it, but being the Californian Hong Kong wasn’t part of the package.

I shrugged. “So what are you planning to do with all this fascinating secret knowledge?” I asked Imarte.

“Take notes. And so should all of you,” she admonished us. “This is the life, the hidden motivation of mortal history. It concerns every one of us.”

“It concerns
you
, “I said. “I have more important things to occupy my time.”

“Oh, yes, finding seventeen different mutations of mugwort
would
take precedence over the destinies of nations any day.” She tossed her head.

“Can it, ladies,” Porfirio said.

We heard the rattle and creak of Oscar’s wagon approaching. He was leaning backward in the seat, peering down the canyon behind him. He was concerned. “Er, there appears to be a mortal fellow lying dead drunk in a ditch back there by the grade,” he said. “His horse is unharmed, however.”

Porfirio sighed.

I was afraid all this talk of the damned Brits would set the dreams off again, and I was right. It was a surprisingly quiet dream, though; at least it wasn’t more endless replay of the past.

I was on a ship, not a miserable little dark galleon like the one I’d left La Coruna in so long ago, but a modern ship, one of those beautiful three-masted clippers the English were making nowadays, with iron-framed hulls, so much safer than the Yankee variety. Every detail exact. Salt spray, brisk chilly breeze, white clouds of canvas taking up miles of sky, nimble sailors mounting through the shrouds and ratlines.
This ship was taking somebody somewhere fast. I seemed to be having a
nice
dream for a change. I’d never been on a modern ship before. I wandered around, looking at things with great interest, observing Jack-Tars holystoning the deck and doing other terribly nautical things.