The Underdogs (18 page)

XIV

Cigar smoke, the pungent smell of sweat on dirty clothes, alcohol breath, and the breathing of a multitude, more packed than a car full of pigs. Most wear Texan sombreros adorned with gold galloon, and khaki colors.

“Gentlemen, a well-dressed gentleman stole my suitcase in the station of Silao
¹
. . . I had my life savings in there. I don't even have 'nough left to feed my child,” a sharp, whiny voice laments, but is quickly drowned out by the din in the train car.

“What is that old lady saying?” Towhead Margarito asked, entering in search of a seat.

“Somethin' about a suitcase . . . and a well-dressed boy . . .” replied Pancracio, who had already found the laps of some peasants on which to sit.

Demetrio and the others forced their way in, throwing elbows to make room for themselves. And since the poor men who were holding Pancracio up decided that they preferred to abandon their seats and continue on their feet, Demetrio and Luis Cervantes took them, with pleasure.

A woman with a child in her arms, who had been riding standing up since Irapuato,
²
suddenly fainted. A peasant rushed forward to catch the baby. But no one else paid any heed: a few women traveling with the soldiers occupied two or three seats each with their luggage, dogs, cats, and parrots. And the men in Texan sombreros, in fact, got a good laugh at the plump thighs and limp breasts of the woman who had fainted.

“Gentlemen, a well-dressed man stole my suitcase in the station of Silao . . . I had my life savings in there. I don't even have 'nough left to feed my child.”

The old woman speaks quickly, and immediately sighs and sobs. Her jittery eyes look every which way. And she collects a bill here, and another farther down. They shower money on her. She completes a collection and moves forward a few seats:

“Gentlemen, a well-dressed man stole my suitcase in the station of Silao . . .”

The effect of her words is certain and predictable.

A well-dressed man! A well-dressed man who steals a suitcase! It's unspeakable! It's enough to awaken a feeling of general indignation. Oh, it's too bad that the well-dressed man is not on hand so that at the very least each of the generals in the train could have a shot at him!

“Because there's nothing that makes me madder than a thieving
curro,
” one man says, full of dignity.

“Stealin' from a poor old lady!”

“Stealin' from a poor, defenseless woman!”

And they all express the tenderness in their hearts in words and deeds: an insult for the thief and a five-peso bill for the victim.

“I will tell you, as far as I am concerned, I do not think that it is wrong to kill, because when you kill, it is always out of anger. But stealing?” exclaims Towhead Margarito.

Everyone seems to agree with such serious reasoning. But after a brief silence and a few moments of reflection, a colonel ventures to speak his mind:

“Truth is that everything has its time and place. No one truth is more true than any other, is it now? God's honest truth is that I've stolen . . . and I'd venture to say that everyone in this here train has done the same as well . . .”

“H'm, if you'd only seen the sewing machines that I stole in Mexico City!” exclaimed one major, enthusiastically. “I made more than five hundred pesos from 'em, sellin' 'em for fifty cents each.”

“In Zacatecas I stole some horses that were so fine, I said to myself: ‘After this you're all set, Pascual Mata. You won't have nothin' to worry about in all the days left in your life,'” said a toothless, white-haired captain. “Problem was that General Limón took a likin' to my horses, and he stole 'em from me.”

“Okay, okay! Why deny it, then! I too have stolen,” Towhead Margarito agreed. “But let my compatriots here say if I have accumulated any capital. The thing is, whatever I make, I spend it all on my friends. I would rather go on a drinking binge with my friends than send one penny to the women back home . . .”

The subject of “I stole,” although it may seem inexhaustible, eventually peters out, and decks of cards are brought out and spread out on every bench, attracting the generals and the officers like mosquitoes to the light.

The sudden changes of fortune that accompany games of chance absorb everyone's attention, and the environment heats up even further. It smells of barracks, prisons, brothels, and even of pigsties.

And coming from the next car now, above the general din, can be heard:

“Gentlemen, a well-dressed man stole my suitcase . . .”

The streets of Aguascalientes had become a veritable trash heap. The men in khaki swarmed about like bees at the mouth of their hive, packing into the restaurants, the eating houses, and the taverns, and around the tables full of hotchpotch and the outdoor food stands, where piles of filthy cheese were stacked next to pans of rancid pork rinds.

The smell of fried food made Demetrio and his companions hungry. They pushed their way into one of the eating houses, where an unkempt, ugly old woman served them earthenware plates of pork bones swimming in a clear chili broth, with three leathery, burnt tortillas. They paid two pesos each, and when they left Pancracio said that he was hungrier than when they had gone in.

“Now we're ready,” Demetrio said, “to consult with General Natera.”

They walked down a street toward the house occupied by the northern commander.

Their progress was blocked by an unruly, agitated crowd at a street intersection. A man lost in the multitude was imploring in a singsongy voice, with an unctuous tone, as if he were praying. They moved in closer to investigate. The man, wearing faded white shirt and trousers, kept on repeating: “All good Catholics who devoutly utter this prayer to Jesus Christ, who died on the cross for us, will be freed of storms, and of plagues, and of war, and of hunger . . .”

“This guy's sure got it right,” Demetrio said, smiling.

The man waved a handful of papers in the air, saying:

“Fifty cents per prayer to Our Lord upon the Cross, fifty cents . . .”

Then he would disappear for a moment, only to reappear immediately with a snake tooth, a starfish, a fish skeleton. And with the same predicant voice, he would expound the medicinal properties and rare virtues of each item.

Quail, who had no faith in Venancio, asked the vendor to pull out one of his molars for him. Towhead Margarito purchased the black pit of a certain fruit that had the power to protect its owner from lightning or from any such “bad luck.” And Anastasio Montañés bought a prayer to Our Lord upon the Cross, which he carefully folded and put with much piety under his shirt.

“As sure as there's a God, my friend, the ball just keeps on rolling! Now it's Villa against Carranza,”
³
Natera said.

And Demetrio, without replying, opened his eyes very wide as a way to ask for further explanation.

“It means,” Natera insisted, “that the convention won't recognize Carranza as the leader of the constitutionalist army and is now going to elect a provisional president of the republic instead.
⁴
Do you understand, my friend?”

Demetrio nodded to indicate that he did.

“What do you think of that, my friend?” Natera asked.

Demetrio shrugged, and said:

“So it means, apparently, that we'll just keep on fightin'. Okay then, let's get to it. You know, General, that as far as I'm concerned, nothin' can hold me back.”

“Good. So on which side are you going to fight?”
⁵

A perplexed Demetrio buried his hands in his hair, scratched his head for a moment, and said:

“Look, don't ask me questions like that, I'm not a school-boy here. This little eagle that I wear on my hat, you gave me that . . . So you know that all ya have to do is say: ‘Demetrio, you do such and such,' and I'll do it, end of story!”

PART 3

I

El paso, texas, may 16, 1915
¹

MY DEAR VENANCIO:

I am only now able to reply to your pleasant letter of January of this year, since my professional responsibilities have absorbed all my time. As you know, I graduated last December. I was sorry to hear of the fate of Pancracio and Lard; but I am not surprised that they stabbed and killed each other after a card game. Such a pity; they were truly brave! I am sorry from the bottom of my heart that I am unable to communicate with Towhead Margarito to extend to him my warmest congratulations; clearly the most noble and beautiful act of his life was his last one: to commit suicide!

I think it would be difficult, my friend Venancio, for you to obtain the medical degree that you so desire here in the United States, even if you have gathered enough gold and silver to purchase it. I hold you in high esteem, Venancio, and I believe that you are very much deserving of a better fate. Therefore, I have an idea that would be favorable to both of our interests, as well as to the just ambitions that you have for yourself to change your social status. If you and I were to become partners, we could start a very nice business. It is true that I do not currently have any funds saved up, as I have spent everything on my studies and my stay here. However, I count on something that is worth much more than money: my perfect knowledge of this town and of its needs, and of the businesses that can be safely launched here. We could open an all-Mexican restaurant, with you as the owner and both of us splitting the profits at the end of each month. And it would be something related to that which interests both of us so much: a change in your social sphere. I recall that you play the guitar quite well, and I believe it would be a simple matter—through my recommendations and your musical knowledge—to get you admitted as a member of the Salvation Army, a very respectable organization that would give you much character.

Do not hesitate, dear Venancio. Come, bring your funds, and in a very short time we can be rich. Please extend my warmest regards to the general, to Anastasio, and to my other friends there.

Your caring friend,
Luis Cervantes
.

Venancio finished reading the letter for the hundredth time and again repeated his comment with a sigh:

“That
curro
really knew how to pull the whole thing off!”

" 'Cause the thing I just can't get my head around,” Anastasio Montañés observed, “is the fact that we have to go on fightin' . . . Didn't we already defeat the federation?”
²

Neither the general nor Venancio answered him. But his words continued to resonate in their rough minds like a hammer on the yoke of a plow.

Thoughtful, with their heads bowed, they climbed up the hillside on their mules, proceeding at their mounts' slow gait. Anastasio, restless and stubborn, took the same observation to other groups of soldiers, all of whom laughed at his candor. Because if one carries a rifle in one's hands, and the cartridge belts are filled with bullets, it is surely to fight. Against whom? On whose side? No one has ever cared about that!

The endless wavering column of dust stretched out in either direction of the path, in an ant line of palm-leaf sombreros, filthy old khakis, mossy blankets, and the black swirling of the horses.

Everyone was hot and thirsty. Not a single water well, nor creek, nor even puddle had they encountered along the way. A fiery fume of vapor rose from the white, barren bottom of a ravine and quivered above the curled crests of the huisache trees and the fleshy light green stems of the nopal cacti. And as if to mock them, the flowers of the cacti opened out—some with cool, leafy, bright colors, others thorny and diaphanous.

At midday they came across a hovel clinging to the cliffs of the Sierra. A little later, three small houses scattered along the banks of a river of calcined sand. But everything was silent and abandoned. As the troops approached, people hurried to hide in the surrounding canyons.

Demetrio became indignant.

“Grab anyone you find hidin' or runnin' from us and bring 'em to me,” he ordered his soldiers, in a harsh voice.

“What! What did he say?” Valderrama exclaimed, surprised. “To bring 'im men who live in the Sierra? These brave men, the ones who didn't act like the chickens who are now nesting in Zacatecas and Aguascalientes? Our own brothers, who weather all manner of storms, clinging to the rocks like moss itself? I protest! I protest!”

He spurred the side of his miserable nag and trotted up beside the general.

“The men who live in the Sierra,” he said to him, with emphasis and solemnity, “are our own flesh and bone . . . ‘Os ex ossibus meis et caro de carne mea.'
³
The men who live in the Sierra are made from the same substance as we are. Of this solid substance out of which heroes are made . . .”

And with a confidence as unexpected as it was courageous, he pounded his fist against the general's chest. Demetrio smiled benevolently.

Did Valderrama—a mad vagabond and a bit of a poet— know what he was doing?

When the soldiers reached a rancho, they whirled ravenously into the surrounding houses and shacks, all of which were empty. But they did not find a single stale tortilla, nor one rotten chili, nor even a pinch of salt with which to flavor the horrible taste of jerked meat. Their peaceful brothers, the owners of the huts, would then come out of their hiding places, some impassive with the stonelike impassivity of Aztec idols, others with more human reactions. With a sordid smile on their pale lips and beardless faces, they looked on as the ferocious intruders, who just a month earlier would have made their miserable, remote homes tremble with fear, now emerge from the same small, poor houses—where the stoves were cold and the water tanks dry—with their heads bowed, humiliated like dogs kicked out of their own homes.