Mexico: A Novel Part 43

"Who knows? I don't get many fights."

"How many a season?"

"Maybe six. I think that pair today, if any of the newspapers prints it, that might help."

"Pepe, I could see you were going to try something special, so I took a series of rapid-fire shots, and if they turn out and my magazine prints a series, you'll get a lot more than six."

"Don't lose the film."

"And now what?"

"I have to get my gear. My parade cape, a fine old one, borrowed from a man in Guadalajara. A bull caught him, he don't fight anymore."

"And when you get your stuff?"

"I go to the station where the trucks leave for Guadalajara. The drivers know me. The Sunday-night runs. I'll be home by dawn."

"Pepe, I'm going to earn a lot of money on those shots of you. Let me give you your share now."

Proudly he refused: "I get by. My mother lets me live with her. I do all right."

"Pepe, d.a.m.n it. You earned the money. It's your legal share."

"You mean, like a salary?" For this question he used the Spanish word sueldo, and I said eagerly: "That's it, your sueldo," and with a dignity that made me ashamed to look in his eyes, he accepted two ten-dollar bills.

When I returned to the Terrace I saw that Mrs. Evans had arrived in a fury and was behaving like the enraged widow of an Oklahoma oil millionaire: "Clay! How are we going to get that poor boy out of jail?"

'They have some eighteen thousand witnesses that he broke the law, nearly ruined the finale to the festival."

'Trivial. Fine him and set him loose."

"Fine him? Where would he get the money to pay it?"

"I'll help him. He's a fine lad, conducts himself well, and I will not see him rot in a Mexican jail."

"Mrs. Evans! He's in Mexico because he wanted to be here. And he's in jail because he was willing to take the risk of being arrested. Knew the penalty when he leaped into the ring. He won't rot."

Receiving no comfort from me, she importuned the Widow Palafox who rea.s.sured her: "It's not like the old days. They don't mistreat young men in jail no more. Two nights to scare him, he's free."

"Would your cousin, Don Eduardo, be able to help?" and die widow said: "He helps everyone. He runs Toledo," and upon urgings from Mrs. Evans she telephoned the ranch owner, who soon appeared: "What can I do?"

When Mrs. Evans started to explain, he cut her off: "I was there, remember? I saw what he did to my best bull. Almost ruined our festival. Let him rot in jail, two, three months. Teach him a lesson."

She could not accept this and spoke of appealing to the American amba.s.sador in Mexico City, to whom she had brought a letter of introduction from influential friends in the oil business. This threat finally made an impression on Don Eduardo, for he summoned the widow and asked: "You say he's in our jail?" and when she nodded he rose, signaled to me and said: "We must see what we can do to get his release. But there will be the matter of the fine. Have you any money, Norman?"

"Not at this hour. Tomorrow, when the banks open-"

"I have traveler's checks," Mrs. Evans said, and she accompanied Don Eduardo and me to the jail at the far end of town. There, amid the obstreperous drunks who had been picked up at the festival and a group of prost.i.tutes who had come into town from Mexico City, we found Ricardo Martin sitting quite contentedly with three young Mexicans about his own age. He was relating in fairly good Spanish his experiences with Victoriano's bull, making pa.s.ses with his right hand as the imaginary bull swept past. He was, as they say, feeling no pain. He'd made it into the ring. He'd attacked his bull under great difficulties and had satisfied himself and others that he knew what bullfighting was. Not many young men his age enjoyed comparable success, and he could afford two or three days in confinement.

Mrs. Evans, who had visualized him in some medieval torture chamber, was disarmed when she found him reasonably at ease, but nevertheless she pursued her mission of freeing him: "What are the charges?"

The jailer shrugged, looked at Don Eduardo, and made no reply, but when she pestered him he growled: "I don't make charges. They bring him here, he's my problem. You want him out, that's your problem."

Don Eduardo agreed and said he'd call a lawyer, who appeared with a court official who explained that the charge was disturbing the peace at a public a.s.sembly, which involved five days in jail if found guilty, and everyone had seen that he was guilty. But if Ricardo paid his fine, the jailer could release him tonight.

"How much is his fine?" Mrs. Evans asked, and the official hesitated, then said tentatively, as if testing the water: 'Two thousand five hundred dollars American."

I gasped and so did the others, including Ricardo, but Don Eduardo exploded: "Ridiculous! Make it two hundred," and, deferring to Palafox, the official said: "All right, two hundred, but in dollars."

When Mrs. Evans unzipped her wallet and produced two traveler's checks, which she signed with an impatient flourish, the official asked Don Eduardo: "Will 1 be able to cash these at the bank-in the morning?" and my uncle said: "Better than pesos." To us he added: "In the old days I'd have stormed in here, head of the Palafoxes, and told them what to do, not asked, and there would have been no traveler's checks exchanging hands, believe me." He sighed. "Maybe the new days of responsible democracy are better, but I doubt it. No government account will ever see any part of the two hundred dollars. He'll give the jailer twenty-five, keep the rest for himself, and n.o.body's hurt."

When Ricardo was turned over to us, he asked permission to go back and say good-bye to his cellmates, and when this was granted he asked Mrs. Evans if she could lend him five dollars to buy his fellow prisoners some botdes of c.o.ke, and she gave him the money. We then drove back to the Terrace, where Mrs. Evans rapped out a series of orders: "I'd like that table in that private corner. Clay, see if you can find the Widow Palafox, she's needed. Ricardo, wait over there for a few minutes, if you will." When all was done to her satisfaction, with the Widow Palafox seated at her elbow, she revealed her purpose in a.s.sembling us at the table: "I'm stuck down here with my Cadillac and no one to help me drive it back to Tulsa. Do I dare hire Ricardo to drive me home? I'd like to know what you think."

Don Eduardo's and my response was negative, the widow's mildly positive, and when the votes were on the table, as it were, Mrs. Evans became specific: "The plays you see, the movies about young drifters doing terrible things to older women. Do I dare risk it? Obviously I want to, but how can we tell if he's a stable young man and not some psycho, as the young people say?"

Don Eduardo made a cautionary observation: "The land between here and the Texas border can be pretty rough. There are old-time bandits really, it's no Easter holiday."

"That's exactly why I need a man to help me."

"Norman here, I'd trust him to be your companion."

"I'm sorry, no way I could take the time," I protested. "They're yelling for me in New York right now."

"Or I could let you have one of my men from the ranch who's been a long time with me-completely trustworthy." He was speaking in English to be more persuasive, but Mrs. Evans was still wavering: "I wonder if I dare trust him."

The widow said: "I've been watching him. He don't drink. He seems like a nice young man. If it was my car involved, I'd risk it. But with you, Mrs. Evans, they tell me you have money, you would face added risks."

"Why are you proposing this crazy thing?" Don Eduardo asked, and to my surprise she said: "Call Senor Ledesma over. He's working too hard on his notes. And he may have some thoughts on this." When I went to invite Leon to join us, he brought Penny along, and Mrs. Evans shocked us all by what she proposed.

"Senor Ledesma knows that for the last few days I've been asking questions to determine what it might cost to finance a young American who wants seriously to become a Mexican matador."

"Good G.o.d!" Don Eduardo cried. "Have you lost your senses?" to which she replied: "My son was about Ricardo's age when he died, and he always wanted to do some big thing, but lacked the time to even know what it was. Ricardo does know. He wants to be a bullfighter. It may be a stupid ambition, but it's real. He proved that twice today at your fiesta, Don Eduardo, with a little animal, and in the ring with an enormous one. I decided then I'd help."

"Can none of you norteamericanos talk sense with this woman?" Don Eduardo asked.

To my astonishment, it was Penny who b.u.t.ted in with an opinion: "At her age and with her money, if she wants to do something that she's always wanted to do, she'd better do it now. How much would it cost?" and I could see that she was captivated by the idea of anyone's becoming a matador. Mrs. Evans deferred the question to Ledesma, who recapitulated the figures he'd given earlier: "So you see; it could be done in first-cla.s.s style, maybe twenty thousand dollars-"

"Ridiculous!" I cried. "Don't even consider it, Mrs. Evans."

"I'm not," she said. "But I certainly am considering quite seriously backing him to the extent of five thousand the first year. Properly administered, this would give him a fighting chance. Senor Ledesma told me, after Ricardo's performance in the ring, that he'd act as my banker-accountant. He says it would be worth the effort-not insane at all."

"I think it's insane," Don Eduardo harrumphed. "Hard enough for a Mexican boy to become a torero. I've watched them try and fail. But a norteamericano? That's really crazy."

"If I was proposing to give some talented girl a scholars.h.i.+p to become a medical doctor, you wouldn't think me crazy. Well, let's consider this a graduate fellows.h.i.+p to a talented boy."

"Not a fellows.h.i.+p, Mrs. Evans. He hasn't graduated from anywhere. This would be a shot in the dark."

"I rather think that warfare in Korea and the pachangas of rural Mexico, if I have the right word, const.i.tute a reasonable equivalent to a college education."

"Have you told him?" Don Eduardo asked, and she said: "Not yet. First I want your approval of having him drive me home," and she demanded a yes-no vote from each of us, and when it came out four yeses-Leon's, the widow's, Penny's and her own-against two noes, Don Eduardo's and mine, she cried almost triumphantly: 'That settles it! Mr. Clay, please fetch Ricardo and let's tell him the good news."

But as I started for the other table, Don Eduardo pulled me back down and said in Spanish: "We must prevent this good woman from committing a terrible error." Before we could give her a word of warning Mrs. Evans proved that she knew more Spanish that we had supposed, for almost condescendingly she smiled at my uncle and me. "I'm grateful to you men. You've been so kind." Then she turned to Penny and Leon: "And you've become something like my own children.

I'll always cherish the time we've had together. But ..." She said this with heavy emphasis, "I came to Mexico because I wanted to experience something beyond wearing widow's weeds and watching television in Tulsa." Placing her hand on mine she said: 'That tableau at the cathedral last night, it was worth at least a week of television."

When she paused, no one jumped in to rebut, so she admitted: "When my Tulsa friends abandoned me with scornful words the other day, I cried a bit then stamped my foot and said: 'They did me a favor, d.a.m.n it!' Made me judge my problems alone . .. made me realize I was facing the rest of my life, and that Tulsa bridge parties were not going to be sufficient. I didn't know it when I drove out of Tulsa, but I was searching for someone like that boy over there."

"He's a grown man," Don Eduardo grumbled, "and sadly mixed up."

"So was my son, but I loved him. And now, Mr. Clay, bring him here."

When I led him to our table Mrs. Evans did not risk having one of us speak first. Vigorously she said: "Ricardo, as you must have guessed, we've been discussing you and we've reached two decisions. Starting within half an hour I want you to drive me and Penny back to Tulsa. I'll pay expenses and give you something for your time. And starting from when you get me home, I'll set aside five thousand dollars for your first year-to help you become a matador. I know you have the talent, we've seen that, and now you'll have the opportunity." Before he could express his amazement she said: "No, consider this is a normal educational grant, bestowed in memory of my son, Roger. And now let's pack."

As she rose to go, she saw Leon Ledesma looking at her admiringly, for he approved of the steps she was taking, and impulsively she picked up his hands and kissed them: "Leon, you're the one honest human being in bullfighting, you and the bull. All the rest is horribly corrupt. Don Eduardo here sends overage bulls to the arena. I heard how Victoriano's family shaved the horns of the bulls, and Mr. Clay told us about the ton of wet cement dropped on the back of the one bull that wasn't diminished. The arena manager cheats everyone, and the ticket scalpers cheat the public. Only you stand forth clean and honest. Openly you accept pay, and openly you deliver.

Tell me, I know you favored Gomez in the fight today. Will you say so in your column?"

"When Gomez pays, I write."

"But out of decency, you must say something."

"About his artistry, nothing, About his bravery in trying to finish Victoriano's job for him, a great deal."

"And about Ricardo, will you throw in a word or two about how well he made his pa.s.ses during the fracas?"

"You paid me, didn't you? Do you want to read it?" He tossed the copy he'd already completed on the table, but she refused to take it: "I'll trust you, Leon. Everyone else does," and she pushed aside his big hat and leaned down to kiss him.

Then she smiled at all of us: "It really was a festival, wasn't it?" and she hurried upstairs to pack.

When the three travelers returned to the Terrace before climbing into the Cadillac, Ledesma nudged me and whispered: "I can't believe it. You saw me struggling to protect Penny's virtue from an attack by a Mexican would-be matador, but now her own protectress literally throws her into a highspeed luxury car with an American would-be matador. The world is crazier than I realized." His outburst caused me to study young Penny as she came down the stairs with the two cases containing her bullfight costume, and she seemed more alive and vibrant than ever despite her sadness and the red about her eyes. Mrs. Evans, noting my interest, said: "Thank you, Mr. Clay. You've been like a father to her," and I said archly: "You misread the signals."

As Penny moved to pack her gear, I thought: How much extra baggage she's taking home-death in the arena, ghosts in the catacombs, a handsome centaur riding his horse with no hands while he fought a wild bull, a magical Indian trumpeter, the five little wives of Palafox bishops dancing like litde angels, and that incredible pair by Pepe Huerta, dedicated to her. And now to ride more than a thousand miles through spectacular cactus lands in the companions.h.i.+p of a good-looking war veteran who knows his own mind!

"What are you thinking?" Mrs. Evans asked, and I said: "She returns home so vasdy different from what she was when she came. Two years older in four days of festival."

'That's not the significant change. This morning after Penny and I had a long talk I telephoned my friends at Smith College and told them: 'My ward, Penny Grim-I'm speaking for her father, too-she's changed her mind, I'm glad to say. She now wants to enter Smith next September. Deposit will be in the mail Tuesday."

"Does her father know about this?" I asked, and she said: "No."

"He's going to be furious," I warned. "He was all set for her to be a cheerleader at S. M. U."

"You're wrong, Mr. Clay. Ed won't be furious. He'll be bl.u.s.tery. He knows in his heart I'm doing the right thing."

"But taking her north with Ricardo. That's asking for trouble."

"Indeed it is. Mr. Clay, that girl you've seen has problems you've never dreamed of. One day she's going to be immensely wealthy. She must learn now to make the right choices, a.n.a.lyze the men she'll meet, seed her head with ideas that will mature. When she reaches Smith with hundreds of attractive men from Amherst next door and Yale and Harvard not far off, each one of them knowing she's worth millions, she'll have to be wise beyond her years."

As we walked to the car and saw Ricardo at the wheel and Penny scrunched down in the backseat, I said to Ledesma: 'That little girl knows exactly what's happening-and she's enjoying every minute."

"You're wrong, Norman. She stopped being a little girl in the bullring this afternoon when Pepe Huerta dedicated his marvelous pair to her. Right now she's terrified. The grandness of life suddenly exploding in her face, and she wondering what it will mean."

Guessing that we were talking about her, she lowered her window, blew us a pair of kisses, and headed home.

As the Cadillac sped north on the road that would take them to the Texas border at Laredo, the Widow Palafox, standing with Ledesma and me, said: "When I watched Penny stuff that hatbox in the trunk, I almost screamed."

"Why, for heaven's sake?" Ledesma asked, and she explained: "Years ago I saw this movie, Roberto Montgomery it was, a soft-speaking young man, attaches himself to two lonely women, only luggage he has is a hatbox, just like hers. Gradually we learn it holds a woman's head. I won't be able to sleep tonight."

When the Widow Palafox and Ledesma left us, I was not unhappy to be left alone with Don Eduardo, for even at this late point in the festival I had an important matter I wanted to discuss with him: "Do you happen to carry with you a key to your museum?" He said: "Naturally. I run it," and I asked if he'd accompany me there, since I wanted to give him something he might treasure. When he said: "I never tire of seeing that place, the soul of our city," I hurried up to my room to fetch the gift, and as I did I noticed that Ricardo, whom I had allowed to share my room at no cost to himself, had taken with him my shaving cream and toothpaste, but had thoughtfully left my good shaving brush.

It was only a short walk up Avenida Gral. Gurza to the abandoned church that Don Eduardo, with help from the poet Aguilar, had transformed into the Museo Palafox. When we reached its locked portal the Don did not bother to use his key but banged on the oaken door crying: "Aguilar! Open up!" and when the sleepy man obeyed, an act he was accustomed to performing, my uncle led me into his taurine museum with its tasteful displays. Here were the heads of Palafox bulls that had brought distinction to the brand. Their horns highly polished with a mixture of wax and sh.e.l.lac, they seemed as ready to defend themselves in death as they had been in life, and I noted those who had killed their matadors.

Leading me to an inner room Don Eduardo said: "Look at us! Are we not a handsome lot?" and there, staring down at me exactly as the bulls had done, were portraits of my ancestors reaching far back into Palafox history-the bishops, the generals, the builders of the family fortune. I was startled by the fact that there were no women, and when I questioned the Don about this, he said frankly: "In our history it was the men who counted. They carried the name forward." Then he said with pride: "But we weren't parochial, not at all," and he pointed to two oversize photographs of Jubal Clay and my father, John. They too had played major roles in the Palafox heritage, and as I studied their familiar countenances-I wondered if there would ever be reason to add my photograph to the display. I had married a Palafox but had left her for Alabama, or, to tell the truth, she had left me to remain in Toledo.

Turning to the business at hand, I took from a carefully prepared folder a large copy, made by a professional, of a photograph that I described in this way: "A historical picture. Important to the Palafoxes. Your museum should have it."

"What is it?" he asked, eyeing the folder suspiciously.

"An exciting photograph."

"Does it show the stages of the Mineral? We could use shots of that, especially the caverns."

"It's something quite different," I said, and revealed a reproduction of the lifelike photograph my grandmother had given me of General Gurza with me perched on his knee and the gun between us.

Uncle Eduardo, whose family had been made to suffer so much by Gurza, growled: "Is that who I think it is?" and I asked: "And who do you think that boy is on his knee?"

"Could that be you?" he mumbled as he pushed the picture away, touching only the edge, as if it were contaminated.

"Let me explain. Gurza gave me that gun to use to defend him when I reached fourteen."

"I'm amazed you even touched it."

"And that litde woman is Grandmother Caridad."

"She was an Indian. Didn't know any better."

"And what do you think happened to that gun?"

"Something bad, I hope."

"Grandmother brought it home, and Father Lopez, that skinny priest we kept in hiding at the Mineral, stole it, smuggled it north to San Ildefonso and used it to a.s.sa.s.sinate General Gurza."

"Somebody ought to build a monument to that gun, but Gurza? His picture in this museum, in this town? Not in my day!" and with a quick move he grabbed the photograph from my hands, tore it into bits and threw them on the floor. "We allow no obscenity here."

Dismayed by this rejection, I went to the door and called back: "Glad I didn't bring you the original. Years from now you'll wish you had it."

At first I thought he hadn't heard me, for when I looked back I saw him standing over the shreds of photograph trying to grind them into the tile flooring with his heavy boots. But he had heard my bitter farewell, because as I left he shouted: "Don't you dare send me the original. I'll rip it up, too. And if you bother to come next year, don't bring your Oklahoma oil people. No sense of history. Just money. They disgust me."

But when I tried to slam my way out I opened the wrong door and saw something so horrible that I uttered an involuntary scream. There, towering above me in the darkness, its hideous features illuminated only by a weak shaft of light from the room I had just left, was a terrifying head covered with snakes and resting atop a distorted body that seemed to contain all the monstrous symbols dreamed up to frighten children.