Texas, p.22
Texas, page 22
De la Cerva y Tana, shut in his office at the Town Hall, even eats lunch. They bring him some excellent food: fried quesadillas, chile poblano and onion, beef jerky seasoned with brown sugar, and fish, all of which Doña Tere, the woman with the grill on the corner, makes specially for him. Her homemade food is always delicious: her salsa is better than anyone’s. She usually works the streets in Bruneville but “it’s better to work over here for now, the gringos have become too ornery.”
Fidencio ties the lead of his mule, Sombra, to the bars on the little window that awkwardly faces the street as if it’s winking among the vines at the back of lawyer Gutierrez’s house. Fidencio whistles to his grandmother, Josefina, the old lady who runs the kitchen (no one remembers her name, everyone just calls her “señora,” except Fidencio, who calls her “granny”).
Old Josefina is a little deaf, but she hears the whistle of her favorite grandson. She rises and gestures to him to slip through the gate (the chain is on, but it’s loose) and into the kitchen. In the half-light of the kitchen she hugs him and sits him down at the table, then starts bustling around to fix him some (delicious) chilaquiles while she tells him things of no consequence, to which he listens respectfully until she passes him the fragrant, brimming plate.
“Mmmm, granny!”
“Eat it fast.”
“Granny, I have lots to tell you … Nepomuceno …”
“You can tell me later. Eat.”
Fidencio eats and talks quickly—his words are as flavorful as the food that perfumes them—all about the Shears-Nepomuceno business (whether or not Bruneville has a new sheriff; all about Nepomuceno’s camp; if this or that guy has joined forces with him; who knows how many Mexican gringos have arrived from the north; whether thieves are among them, fleeing the gallows)—when Magdalena enters to ask “the señora” for something.
“Señora,” she says softly in her sweet voice.
Josefina doesn’t hear, but she takes advantage of her grandson’s pause to say:
“Hurry, Fidencio. The master will be down soon, and I don’t want him to find you here in the kitchen.”
Fidencio doesn’t eat or speak: he is mesmerized by the girl. Seeing him like that, his grandmother realizes that Magdalena has entered the room.
“Shoot! What are you doing in here, girl?!”
“I wanted to ask you to sew the hook on my dress because …”
“Sew! Magdalena! If the master finds you in my nephew’s presence, I’ll be the one he’d send to the gallows, not Don Nepomuceno! Psht, Psht!” She shoos her away like an animal. “Get outta here, Magdalena! And you, hurry up, Fidencio!”
“Who is Nepomuceno?” Magdalena asks, hesitating to leave.
“You get out of here if you don’t want them to send me packing. Scoot!”
Magdalena leaves, the last thing she wants is for “the señora” to get the sack. She waits a prudent moment or two in her room. Her feet return her to the kitchen with no intent other than asking questions. Josefina is alone again. Magdalena bombards her (“Who is Nepomuceno? What’s this about a camp?”) and doesn’t stop till she understands everything.
Dan Print writes in his notebook—words very different from those Elizabeth Stealman has been writing:
The Rancher—the local paper in Bruneville, city on the southern frontier—has been publishing stories, peppered with local flavor and adventures, about some guy named Nepomuceno. The bandit caught my boss’s attention, surprisingly, because although he has a reporter’s instincts, as a good New Yorker born and bred in Boston he has no interest whatsoever in anything south of the Hudson. To say no interest isn’t, strictly speaking, correct, because he does flip through The Rancher to keep a finger on the pulse of the frontier, but mostly to have a good laugh at the Texans. The fact is he senses there’s a good story in the bandit, which might or might not be of interest to me, because he called me into his office “urgently.”
“This one is made for you, Dan,” he said. “Go cross the Rio Grande and interview him for me. I want a story on this bandit, Neepomoo-whatever. Put it together however you need to, with different points of view. I don’t want his autobiography and I don’t want your opinion. (I can already hear it!) Show us how his people see him, what his enemies think of him, his family, see if he has a wife and if you can get her to talk (there’s nothing like a wife to tear down a hero). Don’t stand there looking at me like that! Scram! Get outta here! You got lead in your shoes?”
I left his office dragging my tail between my legs, like some devilish eagle had shat on me. Finally, an interesting assignment … but … it ain’t a piece of cake! I read in The Rancher that the bandit’s in hiding. American law enforcement is after him, the Mexicans are too (although The Rancher conjectures that they’re covering for him, but they could be making that up). It’s clear that it’s not the best idea to take a boat to Bruneville or Matasánchez and start asking around for him.
I overcame my low spirits, and remembered what the Mexicans say (that if a bird shits on you it’s good luck) and set out to visit my “contacts”—not that I have many, I’ve only been at the paper six months, and I’ve only covered stories about city life.
Four appointments and six drinks later, I found myself at a guesthouse where a Mr. Blast, a freebooter by occupation, was staying. I found him through a stroke of luck, it was like I won the lottery—or another eagle shat on me. Two hours later I set sail with him, aboard the Elizabeth III, bound for Galveston. The opening for my article couldn’t be better.
We’re spending the trip drinking and talking, or talking and drinking. To tell the truth, he’s given me more than enough raw material for an article, what with his stubborn conviction that Texas is still an independent republic, his expansionist fanaticism that took him to Nicaragua with Walker a few years ago, then to Cuba in some failed enterprise I didn’t completely understand, and then to Mexico during the war—he kept calling it “the conquest”—and now setting out to forge an alliance with Nepomuceno. Blast is convinced Nepomuceno will whet his appetite for adventure. The truth is I can’t make heads nor tails of it, neither his ideology nor his interest in Nepomuceno. “I’ve had a clear vision for a long time now: the Republic of Texas should stretch from Bogota to the Nueces River, there’s no other way.”
“But, excuse me for saying so Mr. Blast, what does it matter to you? You’re not Texan.”
“No, I’m not, I’m telling you it’s not for my own good, I’m not thinking of myself; it’s just the only answer for the region. What they call Mexico is a failed endeavor, all it’s good for is producing lazy servants. I could say the same about Nicaragua and Colombia, they’re failed endeavors too, and I could go on. Only us, our country, America, can give them direction, a reason for existence. Alone, separate from the United States, they’re bedbugs without a mattress.”
“I don’t understand. Nepomuceno is fighting because they took away his land, that much is clear to me, but why do you, Mr. Blast, feel the compulsion to make an alliance with Nepomuceno and join his banditry? It seems to me you’re like oil and water …”
To every dog his bone: I’m going for my interview. In any case, the quote about bedbugs and mattresses strikes me as a good headline for the article—though I don’t know if my editor will agree.
The Bruneville administration has done this a number of times in the past, loading all the penniless and crazy folks in town—“homeless greasers”—onto the barge with the livestock (which is the origin of the song, “The Madmen’s Journey,” one of many tunes attributed to Lázaro:
If you’ve got a screw loose,
or you’re a cross-eyed guy,
or you’re missing a leg,
don’t worry, don’t cry,
come ride the river,
we’ll take you away!)
Three days after the incident between Shears and Nepomuceno, the first voyage of the barge that now belonged to Stealman is made for precisely this purpose: deporting as many crazies and poor folks as possible from the streets of Bruneville to Mexico, and not just Mexicans and poor folks—as a bonus they throw in a few outlaws, too.
This is, in part, to clean up Bruneville and get rid of problems, and in part to benefit Stealman: the Town Hall paid him to transport these passengers, and the contract enabled him to replace the tug that some idiot had allowed to float away, “So many men guarding the dock and not one of them noticed it drifting away, that’s idiots for you.”
All the crazies were dumped at the New Dock. They dispersed as best they could. The majority ended up in the center of Matasánchez. Since they had made friends on previous deportations they hung around the market, like the rats and other creatures that live off what others throw out. The luckiest found work as day laborers, struggling to get by, but they weren’t reliable jobs—the cattle drives and the arrival of the livestock in town weren’t what they used to be—so they had to settle for eating one day but not the next, and sometimes not at all.
When they went without work for long stretches, they slept with their buddies beneath the arches of the Market Square or in the streets adjacent to the Town Hall, if you could call it sleep. They got their hands on cheap booze that had the same effect as gunpowder, making them behave explosively, they were shattered during the day but at night they didn’t stop, coursing through the streets like the madmen they were, and when dawn arrived, and folks began to come out of their homes into the streets, they fell like sacks of sand on the cobblestones. The hardhearted kicked them or spat on them as they passed. Women looked away—they often got erections while sleeping, “Which no lady should have to see.” Kids peed on them, sometimes accidentally, because they blended into the ground, all filthy and ragged.
Outlaws, on the other hand, always figure out a way to get by. They can settle anywhere.
On that first trip on the barge under Stealman’s ownership, Connecticut and El Loco (the one who slept beneath the eaves of the market’s main entrance in Bruneville) headed straight to the encampment in Laguna del Diablo, though we don’t know exactly how they found it—did Connecticut know how to track carts and animals? We’ll leave them be for the moment.
Another, The Scot, wandered off down the road on his own, through villages and hamlets, sleeping out in the open by himself, insisting upon speaking English; he seemed to think he had returned to his homeland. The only thing he said over and over in Spanish: “When the bloody greasers got their hands on us, it was like they jammed bullets up our arses” in a strange accent, seething with anger and fury.
Most folks dislike him. Those who don’t take pity on him and give him nicknames. He survives thanks to the charity of these souls.
More and more, day laborers who can’t find work are joining the ranks of the crazies. The streets in Matasánchez begin to look like a nightmare, full of spirits and ghosts.
One Sunday, after mass—where they had gone to beg—one of them heard the story of “Good Old Nepo.” It’s like a match to a haystack; the news spreads throughout their ranks.
They understand without him putting out a call. Tuesday morning, without saying a word, they began to march—no horses, no firearms, just the clothes on their backs—like a disciplined army—to Laguna del Diablo.
In Bruneville, Elizabeth writes to herself:
Dear Elizabeth,
You know that in my letters I’m not given to telling you about my fears for the future. What we have is, for me, sharing the passage of time: life’s most significant moments, my appraisal of events, and the sorrows and joys of daily life. Well, today I find myself tempted to make an exception. I won’t talk about what has happened, just the nature of my fears.
But first, the facts.
As you know, when the hot season approaches—when the humidity becomes unbearable in this godforsaken backwater—Charles takes us back to New York. There, despite the heat, things are completely different. You don’t have to keep the windows shut because it’s not a swamp, the ocean is right there, the air circulates through open windows and doors, and there aren’t Mexicans and alligators waiting with open jaws on every corner. It’s not Boston or Paris, but New York’s not Bruneville either.
I have never objected to our periodic returns to the City because, as you well know, I’m always hoping for the day when we can leave this backwater of savages I so detest. We escape from the heat, from the suffocation of the season, and the nature of these people. I visit my dear mother. I meet with my friends. Charles spends afternoons at the Club. We both surround ourselves with people one can talk to, sharing interests, opinions, and worries. Now that’s what I call civilization—there, the coarsest man in the room is my husband, though he’s not the only one, but his lack of refinement begins to disappear among all those refined New Yorkers.1 On the other hand, though Charles is unrefined, he is certainly no greaser.
So, that’s the problem: our departure approaches and I … have not the least desire to leave! Why? Let me return to what I said at the beginning: my fear. My reasons are clear: I’m afraid if we leave, we’ll lose everything. The savages will take the opportunity to destroy my home. To plunder it. Burn it to the ground.
When I told Charles this he said, “All the more reason to leave, I don’t want you to be in any danger. If they torch our home, I’ll build you another.”
Another! What is he thinking? He thinks it’s easy! Can’t that man see that almost everything here is irreplaceable? Does he really think the Louis XVI table we have in the hall is no different from the ones that the savages around here make with twisted legs; that the lace is made by magical bees; that the bed and table linens from Belgium are the same as those the Indians here in the south make; that the china in our home could be from Puebla (horrors!); that the blacksmith (that imbecile) can make our silverware; that the portraits of my family painted by Mr. Pencil are worthless; that our furniture made by European carpenters has been varnished with lard?! Has he no eyes, no feeling, no sense of smell?! He’s just like a Comanche! Or worse. I know a Comanche, Governor Houston, and compared with my Charles he’s a true gentleman, beautifully refined.
So since Charles doesn’t understand, I have stalled as best I could. My strategy was to delay him.
I’ll never be ready, I’ll run into complications at every corner; my slaves and I will never finish; what one of us does, the other will undo. In truth, we’re having fun, so much so that I even forgot my fears of the Stealman mansion being enveloped in flames and burnt to dust.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking: if that came to pass it would be my liberation. We would finally leave Bruneville. That should make me happy. But it doesn’t. Can you explain that to me? My fear fills me with anxiety. The only good thing in all of this is that I’m no longer playing at something that was initially a bluff: in the state I’m in, paralyzed by fear of what will happen, I’m literally good for nothing. My state of mind has affected my slaves. Though there’s another reason for that, as you know: slaves follow their masters. All their will is in their master. A slave is just a shadow. They can’t be anything more. That’s why the fortitude of their masters is so critical. It’s the source of their progress, triumph, peace, and much more. I’ll explain it again just to be clear: these irrational Negroes don’t share my fear because they’re not capable of imagining a future. I have seen proof of that many times, but this isn’t the time to go into detail.
Yesterday Charles flew into a rage. I tried to explain to him about “my things” (as he calls them): he’s the one maintaining order in the town, he’s their spiritual guide, their pillar, their light. If he leaves, the likelihood that Bruneville will go up in flames is much higher.
But he’s beyond reason. He has disregarded my desires. He gave specific orders to the servants to prepare our departure as swiftly as possible. Like shadows, my slaves have followed their master’s decision-making, and our departure is imminent.
My fears grow with each passing second.
Let it be clear, my dear, that there’s something completely absurd about my fear: I detest Bruneville, why would I want to prevent its obliteration? I cannot stand this isle of savages, but my home is here, my garden, my things. I wouldn’t say my memories are here, though. I have nothing of value from this pitiful, wretched corner of the globe.
I’ll write to you next on board the Elizabeth, or in Galveston if we decide to spend the night there.
I don’t need to remind you of our tradition: once in New York, I’ll break off our correspondence. There, you and I will become one again. You won’t hear from me, or you’ll hear from me forevermore. I’ll return to our correspondence when I come back, that is if we do come back to Bruneville. Will I be writing from another shabby town, beside a clearer river, perhaps, if I have a little luck?
Is some of the fear that engulfs me also due to the fact that if we leave here I will lose this intimate friendship we began here, on this island of savages, where we have been kept far apart, separated from part of our life? Shall I add that to my worries? But shouldn’t this also give me joy? It’s more difficult to answer that here, because I don’t want to lose you, but the idea of making you mine again (of making you mine and me yours) both excites me and breaks my heart. I’ll lose my best friend; we’ll each lose our best friend, but we will become her.
And I, dear Elizabeth, I am my own enemy. I am my own battlefield. You, friend, are the truce.
I’m calm now. Know that I will write to you again wherever Charles may take me. He can’t survive in New York or in any other respectable place. He needs an environment like this unearthly place. That’s my lot. The alternative is inconceivable: separation from my husband.
