Young Zorro (7 page)

I
T HAD TAKEN HOT
water and harsh soap to scrub away the last traces of the smoke from their hair. Their shirts and pants were riddled with burn holes from cinders. Estafina whiffed their boots with a disgusted face. “The smoke will preserve these boots forever. Unfortunately.”

“Ah, but Estafina,” Diego said, “think of the good work we'll be doing. Wherever we go, sinful folks will smell our boots and think of the fires in hell. They will mend their wicked ways and take up charitable works.”

“God shouldn't hear you! Reminding people of hell! You are a strange boy, Diego. Bernardo, you should light a candle in the church for your odd milk brother!”

Their throats were still smoke raw and they still had
burns from flying embers, but they would rather fight the fire again than face the awful task ahead of them: dancing.

They stood like convicts in a row before the fireplace: Diego; Bernardo; Regina; Estafina; her husband, Montez; Francisca from the kitchen; and the laundress, Gracia. With Don Alejandro, they made four couples to practice the pattern dances. The furniture of the big room had been pushed back against the walls. Two of Padre Mendoza's neophytes sat with guitar and harp to make the music.

“A true gentleman is graceful on a horse, on the fencing mat, and on the dance floor,” Don Alejandro insisted.

The boys groaned. Regina groaned. But the don would not be discouraged: the house of de la Vega would present itself with elegance at the
administrador's
ball. Every hidalgo, soldier, and Spanish lady would attend this high point of the
apartado
fiesta at Don Honorio's hacienda.

“Dancing is a conversation in movement,” the don lectured them, “and it must be played out in rhythm. Light but restrained. Casual but deliberate. Balance, flow, grace! Now form two lines: ladies on this side, gentlemen over here. Thank you all for filling in.”

He walked them through the geometry of the dance without music first. The head couple joined hands, bowed, and stepped down between the lines. Then the next couple. When all the couples had gone down the line, the ladies joined hands and formed a circle. It went on and on. Diego wanted to die. He was certain that any one of his cow ponies could do a better job at this dancing business.

But when the harp and guitar played the lilting Spanish tunes, it was a kind of game. They made mistakes, they tripped now and then, but the dance played itself out and they were all laughing, breathless with the effort. They sat on the window seat and panted. As a game it was not all bad.

The don put his hand on Diego's shoulder, his forehead damp with the effort of dancing. “Dancing. It may feel silly at times. I promise you this, though: as much serious business has been settled on a dance floor as on a battlefield. Maybe more.

“This is social business, a show of confidence. A gentleman who proves himself on the dance floor and in the dining room can be more powerful than a merely skillful swordsman.”

Diego and Bernardo looked at him, not quite believing. He must have seen their doubt. “A steady
blade and fighting skill will go a long way. A gentleman who can manipulate a conversation as well as his sword point can be truly powerful. And truly dangerous.” Don Alejandro laughed. “The deadliest swordsman I ever knew was also the best dancer. Swordplay and dancing require the same things: rhythm, balance, timing, confidence, and a bit of audacity. It all goes together.”

Regina rose and drew her skirts up around her, then began to chant. She was singing in the Shoshone tongue, and began the flat-footed, shuffling, beat-beat-beat dance of the Gabrieleños. Estafina and Gracia leaped up to join her. The neophytes played the rhythm on harp and guitar. Montez began to clap out the rhythm, then the boys and even Don Alejandro clapped as the women turned and turned in a Gabrieleño corn dance, faster and faster. They collapsed on the window seat in a breeze of laughter and panting. The men applauded.

When their breath returned, Don Alejandro got up again. “Now we do a dance from Madrid, the slow paseo dance in a circle. Women on the inside, men on the outside.”

Bernardo's head drooped. Diego cried, “No! You mean there's more than one dance?”

 

Bernardo found Diego sitting beside the fountain pool, his fists balled, his eyes damp with tears. He sat down and put his arm around Diego's shoulders.

It was hard for Diego to speak for a few moments. Finally he said, “I'm not going to the fiesta. And I'm surely not going to the stupid ball at the Honorio hacienda. No. Never.”

Bernardo looked at him, waiting: Why not?

“My new clothes. Embroidered pants, buttoned seams. Fancy little jacket and sash. Ridiculous. Stupid.”

Bernardo shook his head: That's not the reason.

“No. It's not. My finery is hanging in the sewing room beside your new clothes. Except you don't have a hidalgo's suit. Yours is a cotton smock with braid and a blue sash. I asked
Papá
why you didn't have a suit as well. He told me that you wouldn't be coming to the ball. You would be outside with the servants. The servants! As if you weren't good enough for the highborn hidalgos. I told him I wouldn't go anyplace you couldn't go. Period. He called me foolish and stubborn.”

Bernardo nodded: He's got a point there.

“It's not right. It's not fair. Did you know you weren't allowed to go to the ball?”

Bernardo looked down at the paving stones. They
said nothing for a time. Then Bernardo nodded again: Yes, I knew.

“Then I don't go either.”

Bernardo shook his head hard: No, you're wrong.

“Why should I go? Why, when I'd be making myself part of something so unjust?”

There was only the sound of the fountain for a time. Bernardo turned. He took Diego's shoulders in his hands, as if to tell him that something was important.

He laid his left hand on his own chest and then sent it curving out to the left in the sign of a path: I take a path.

He put his right hand on Diego's chest and his hand curved out to the right: You take another path.

Both of his hands curved out. But this time they met each other. They joined, and their fingers locked together: You go your way, I go mine, but our paths meet. We are together, we are always together. He looked hard into Diego's eyes and nodded: This is the way it is; this is what we have.

Diego looked away and tears came into his eyes again.

Both of them sat beside the splashing pool without speaking for a long time. They watched the shadows of the vines stirred by the Pacific breeze and signed with
each other. They had made a pact.

A little later Bernardo got up and made the sign for hunger.

“Me too,” Diego said, and they went to the kitchen.

“I
HAVE BUSINESS IN THE
pueblo,” Don Alejandro told the boys the next morning. “I must arrange for more workers if we are to supply our Boston captain with tons of hides, tallow, dried beef, and salt beef.”

Diego nodded and said, “
Sí
,
Papá
,” but there was a sullen silence around his words. Regina looked up from the tea she was pouring, hearing the tone in his voice.

“I would be happy for your company,” the don said.

“
Sí
,
Papá
, I will ride with you,” Diego said. A cool curtain had fallen between father and son since Diego had learned Bernardo wasn't welcome at the ball.

“Both my boys,” the don said, “I would like both my boys with me. I value their company. This would please me, the three of us together.” He left the room, leaving
Regina, Diego, and Bernardo standing at Estafina's worktable.

“I need a few things from Señora Vestido's shop in the pueblo,” Regina said. “Perhaps you will pick them up for me. I'll make a list.”

Diego nodded, not speaking, hardly looking up from his plate.

Regina reached in front of him and rapped her knuckles on the table. “Listen with more than your ears, boy. It can be more difficult for a warrior to say some things”—she nodded her chin toward the door that had closed behind Don Alejandro—“than for a tailor or a carpenter. Sometimes you must listen very hard to hear an apology.” She looked at both boys. “You may learn this someday. Or you may be too hardheaded. I'll make my list.” She too left the kitchen.

 

The pueblo was almost crowded. Lanterns were being hung for the fiesta, and the shops were busy.

The boys tethered their horses and loosened their saddle girths. Don Alejandro turned from his big mount. “Scar has been talking to his crews, arranging”—he laid a finger on his lips to indicate a secret—“what must be arranged for our Boston friends. He will join us here. The four of us can sit down to a meal.
Both of you go ahead to the inn and see to it. Perhaps they will make us some chicken tamales or some beef steaks. Whatever you choose. I have business with Señor Pérez.”

The boys walked toward the plaza. Bernardo touched his heart and looked back toward the don: I love that man.

“And he loves you. I know he does. But he is set in his old ways. Old Spanish ways. Old hidalgo ways.” Diego shook his head, angrier at social fences than at the don.

They walked along the line of carts and stalls at the edge of the plaza. Farmers and craftsmen sold fruit, dried beans, chiles, rice, dyed leather lacing, horn combs. They could have walked all afternoon, talking to their friends and hearing the news of the pueblo. But a shriek came from the inn. The boys broke into a run.

A young woman ran out of the shadows of the vine-trellised tables, sobbing. Five deeply tanned men ran after her, grabbing at her skirts, laughing and crowing, “Come back,
chica
! Come sit on my lap! I like little girls!” They were loud, showing off, drunk enough to be dangerous. “Come back,
chica
, and we'll whisper sweet things to you! Come back
and bring your
mamacita
.”

They were not vaqueros, not soldiers. With their pigtails and tattoos, they had to be sailors, strangers to Pueblo de los Angeles.

The girl ran right past the boys, not even seeing them in her fear. Diego had the spark of an idea. He pushed Bernardo right into their path. Bernardo was surprised but suspected some Diego trick. He stumbled to a stop just in front of the sailors, holding up his hands sternly: Stop right there!

The sailors were startled. They stopped for a few heartbeats, then the biggest sailor said, “So you're bossing us around? What this Indian needs, shipmates, is some face decoration. I can give him some fancy stuff,” and he reached for the knife on his hip.

Now Bernardo looked worried.

Diego grabbed Bernardo by the shirt and began to beat him, blow after blow.
Whap! Whap!
The sailors fell back, first in amazement, then they began to enjoy the sight of one Indian brat being beaten by another.

It was a game the boys played, pretending to fight fiercely but hardly touching each other. When Diego threw a punch with one hand, he struck his side with the other hand, making a meaty
whap
! The trick was to react to a punch that never landed. Bernardo jerked his
head back as if he had been struck. They scuffled. Now Bernardo broke free and threw a punch at Diego. He slapped his side just as his fist passed an inch from Diego's jaw. Diego jerked back, shouting, “Oof!” They couldn't play this for long. The sailors would be expecting some blood with these mighty blows, but at least the girl was safely away. Diego wrestled Bernardo to the ground, shouting, “Grab at my sister, will you?”

The sailors were confused a moment longer. The Indian hadn't been grabbing at the girl.
They
had.

But Diego dragged Bernardo to his feet and held him by the shirt collar. “We'll see what the
comandante
says to a dog like you! Molesting young women and these fine sailors! Come with me, you hound!” He began to drag Bernardo back toward their horses.

It almost worked.

The boys had moved only a few steps when the big sailor kicked a chair over in their path. “Well now, shipmates,” he said to the others, “we come for a drink and get a show. These boys figured we're just as dumb as farmers. But we aren't stupid corn diggers. You country boys want some advice? Play your games on dirt farmers and Indians. Not blue-water men and blackbirders. We seen all kinds of games. We shipped a thousand blackamoors between Africa and Jamaica, and we
seen it all. Every trick that can be played. Not so easy to fool us. Maybe you give us a show, but you're going to pay for it.” The sailor moved toward them, slow and menacing.

“Aha!” Diego cried, trying another diversion. “The seafaring man is not amused by our little charade. And we worked so hard to please you! What can I do to gain your favor? Can I produce a coin from your pigtail?”

He reached behind the sailor and seemed to pull a coin from his hair. It was a bit of hand magic that White Owl had taught him to entertain the village children.

“And look”—he held the coin up—“there isn't even a spot of tar on it!”

The sailors frowned in puzzlement.

“But I thought that tar ran in the veins of every sailor man! Every hair a rope yarn, every finger a marlinspike—isn't that what they say? So every vein a tar bucket?”

One of the sailors actually smiled, but he may have been more drunk than the others.

“Why don't he say nothing?” One of the sailors pointed suspiciously at Bernardo.

“There is a sad tale, friends,” Diego said. “Our
mother told him, when he was very young, not to speak unless he had something interesting to say. He's been waiting all this time—years it's been!—to find something really interesting to talk about. This is one of the reasons we arrived to amuse you. I said, ‘If these far-faring seamen aren't worth a comment or two, you're hopeless!' But, as you see, my brother remains unmoved and silent. Personally, I find you highly colorful and even awe inspiring. Your tattoos alone are worth a book. And there must be a story left behind from each of your missing teeth.”

Diego plucked another coin from behind the ear of the sailor who had asked about Bernardo. He polished the coin on his shirt. “They're small coins, but bright enough to call for a pot of ale, don't you think?”

“That's enough out of your piehole!” The big sailor batted the coins out of his hand and they rang against the wall and bounced twice on the cobbles. One came to rest at the boots of Don Alejandro.

“Gentlemen!” His clear voice turned the sailors' attention. The don stood tall in his fine suit and red sash. “Gentlemen, you have us at a disadvantage, yes? We do not even know your names. You are strangers to us, and already you are displeased with our pueblo. Let me introduce you to some of our citizens. I am Don
Alejandro de la Vega.” He bowed.

“This fine gentleman is my
mayordomo
, Esteban Cicatriz.” The sailors turned to see Scar leaning against a fig tree, with his short saddle-musket cradled in his arms.

“Behind you, there, is one of my high-spirited vaqueros, Juan Three-fingers.” Juan was coiling his long, black whip with close attention.

“The vaqueros on your other side, there, are part of his crew.” Four vaqueros in their spurs and chaps stood gazing at the sailors with their reatas over their shoulders.

“My large friend, Señor Ortega, is our blacksmith. You have not met him, but you must know his daughter, because you invited her to sit on your lap.” Ortega walked in from the street with his sledgehammer, his eyes as hot and angry as coals.

“I myself have no daughters. But these two rascals”—the don beckoned to Diego and Bernardo, who walked carefully away from the group of sailors—“they pass as my boys, foolish and troublesome as they may be.”

The sailors were looking about them nervously now.

“We all make mistakes. I believe we have begun on the wrong footing. My suggestion is that we start fresh
another day. It is a long walk to the port of San Pedro, and this day is half gone. Perhaps you need to be on your way, yes?”

The sailors backed away from Don Alejandro. Without another word, they made a wide circle around Juan's vaquero crew and started down the dusty street at a rapid walk.

Don Alejandro put his arms around his boys. “I have known good generals who don't have your flair for delaying tactics,” he said, then laughed. “Señora Ruíz!” he called to the inn's mistress. “Can you bring us pitchers of wine and juice and some bread for all these caballeros and for Señor Ortega? We are dry after chasing squirrels away!”