Burnt Water (6 page)

Then the General grew silent and the lawyer made a drowning sound in his throat.

“When you married a whore, you dishonored only yourself,” Grandfather said finally. “But now you've dishonored me.”

That I didn't want to hear. Don't let them go on, I prayed in the shelter of the wings of the Victory. This was ridiculous, a scene from a bad Mexican film, a soap opera on the idiot box, me hiding behind a curtain listening to the grownups telling truths to each other, a classic scene between Libertad Lamarque and Arturo de Córdova. Grandfather stode from the living room, and I stepped out in front of him and clutched his arm. My father stared at us in stupefaction. I asked Grandfather, “Do you have any money on you?”

General Vergara looked me straight in the eye and caressed his belt. It was his snakeskin belt filled with hundred-peso gold coins. “Right. Let's go.”

We left, my arm around the old man, as my father screamed at us from the living room: “I'll not give either of you the pleasure of seeing me defeated!”

The General shoved the enormous cut-glass urn in the vestibule; it fell and shattered. We left behind us a trail of plastic calla lilies, and roared off in the red Thunderbird, I in my pajamas and socks, the General very circumspect in his light gabardine suit, his maroon tie secured below the knot with the pearl stickpin, still caressing the beltful of gold. Oh, it was great to roar along the ring road at one in the morning—no traffic, no scenery, the open road to eternity. That's what Grandfather said. Hang on tight, General, I'm going to floor her to a hundred and twenty, I've ridden rougher broncs than this. Grandfather laughed. Let's find someone to tell your stories to, let's find someone who'll listen, let's blow all the gold pieces, let's take her around again, Grandfather. You bet, boy, right from zero, again.

In the Plaza Garibaldi, at one-fifteen in the morning: First things first, boy, we need some mariachis to follow us around all night, you don't ask how much, just whether they know how to play “La Valentina” and “On the Road to Guanajuato,” okay, boys, strike up the bass guitar. Grandfather let out a yowl like a coyote: “Valentina, Valentina, listen to my plea,” let's go to Tenampa and have a tequila or two, that's what I have for breakfast, boys, see who can hold the most, that's how I worked myself up to a pitch for the encounter in Celaya, when we Villistas sent our cavalry out to swamp Obregón, “One passion fires me, and that's what I feel for you,” and before us stretched the enormous plain, and in the distance we could see the artillery and the motionless horses of the enemy, and here come banged-up trays loaded with beer, and we surged forward at a gallop, sure of victory, with the courage of wild tigers, and now the mariachis are looking at us with stony eyes, as if my grandfather and I didn't exist, and then from invisible wolves' dens on the plain there suddenly emerged a thousand bayonets, boys, Yaqui Indians faithful to Obregón had hidden in those holes, be careful, don't spill that cold brew, and everyone was staring at us as if we were crazy, a loudmouthed old man and a kid in his pajamas, what's with them? there they were, ramming their bayonets into the bellies of our horses, holding them firm until they ripped out the guts, those Yaquis with earrings in their ears and their heads tied in red kerchiefs soaked in the blood and guts and balls of our horses, another round? sure, the night is young, we were scared, sure, we were scared, who'd ever have imagined such a magnificent tactic from General Obregón, right then I began to respect him, I swear I did, when do you want us to sing? didn't you hire us to sing, señor? the mariachis stared at us, thinking, I'll bet they don't have a red cent, we fell back, we attacked with cannon, but we'd already been defeated by the maneuver, Celaya was a field of smoke and blood and dying horses, smoke spiraled from Delicados, a bored mariachi poured salt and squeezed lemon on my grandfather's closed fist, we blew off one of General Obregón's arms, things were going so bad I said to myself right there, we'll never make it against this guy, the mariachi shrugged his shoulders and poured salt on the mouthpiece of his trumpet and began to play, teasing out sad sounds, Villa is pure unleashed, undirected force, Obregón is intelligent force, he's the king bastard of them all, I was ready to crouch down on the battlefield to follow the trail, to look for the arm we'd blasted off Obregón and hand it back to him and say, General, you're the fucking end, here's your arm back and I'm sorry, ah, sonofabitch, though I guess you know what happened? you don't know? don't you want to know? well, General Obregón flipped a gold coin in the air, like that, and the arm flew off the ground and the bloody fist snatched the coin in midair, like that, ah, sonofabitch, gotcha', old buddy, now are you interested in my story? I gotcha', the way Obregón got us and got his arm back at Celaya, “Well, if I'm to die tomorrow, it may as well be today,” I just want you to love me, boys, that's all, and be faithful, even if it's just for tonight.

*   *   *

Two in the morning, in the silver-toned Club of the Aztecs, the sensational Ricky Rola, queen of the cha-cha-cha, cuba libres for everyone, these boys are my buddies, whaddya mean they can't be seated, you sourass little lemon, just look at those sick green bags under his eyes, crummy little punk, he cleans out the latrines, shut that lemon you call a trap or I'll squeeze it for you, whaddya mean why is my grandson in his pajamas? why, that's all the clothes he has, the only time he goes out is at night because he's sacked out all day with your dear momma and he's all tired out, whaddya mean, your musicians will protest? my mariachis belong to the union too, sit down, boys, General Vergara's orders, what did you say, you prick, a waiter says at your service, General, get that, lemon-puss? I'll bet-you piss vinegar, yellow and rose and blue lights, the Everlasting Lily, Queen of the Sentimental Bolero, they stuffed her into those sequins with a shoehorn, look, General, they lifted those knockers with a derrick after they played soccer with them, that baby could score goals all by herself, she must have a belly button the size of a bullring, they slapped eight layers of paint on her before she came out, General, look at those eyelashes, like black venetian blinds, you're for sale? you don't say, how much for those sad eyes, Bubbles? she's a hypocrite, who's she singing those pimp songs to, boys, we'll see about that, charge! troops! a hypocrite, plain and simple, you were making fun of me, let's have a macho song, get up there on the platform, boys, grab-ass, li'l ole Everlasting Lily, let's have those cantaloupes, Bubbles, what a screech, respect an artist, go take your bath, Sweatso, go wash off that clown face, stop yelling, it's for your own good, charge! troops! sing, General, “and on February the sixteenth, Wilson sends to our great nation ten thousand American troops,” let's hear that sobbing guitar, let's hear that salty trumpet, “tanks and cannons and airplanes, all looking for Villa, all trying to kill him,” get down you old asshole, after them, my gallant mariachis, and that pansy in the pajamas, giddown, no one plays here but union musicians, musicians, hell, slick-haired greaser gays in little bow ties and shiny tuxedo jackets, shiny? I'll shine your balls, you old coot, hear that, boys? they're trying to bully me and I won't take that, no, by the Holy Virgin, I won't take that, cut off their balls, Grandfather, right here on the spot, one foot through the bass drum, bass guitar smashing against the snares, rip the guts out of the piano the way they did the horses at Celaya, watch out, Grandpa, for the guy with the saxophone, a right to the belly, butt that bastard's bass drum, Plutarco, hard at it, troops, I want to see the blood of those low-born bastards running on the dance floor, the guy on the snares has a wig on, Plutarco, grab it, that's right, egghead, should I crack that before I crack his nuts? kick his ass, Plutarco, and run like hell, all of you, old Lemonade's called the cops, grab the harp, boys, not a key left in place, here, General, the singer's eyelashes, and I'm leaving this stack of gold pieces to pay for the damages.

*   *   *

A little after three in the house of La Bandida, where I was well known, and the Madame herself greeted us, what swanky pajamas, Plutarco, and she felt so honored that the famous General Balls … and what a great idea to bring the mariachis, and could they play “Seven Leagues”? she herself, La Bandida, would sing it because it was her own composition, Seven Leagues was Villa's favorite horse, serve the rum, come do your stuff, girls, they've just arrived from Guadalajara, all very young, you'll be, at the most, the second person to touch her in her life, General, but if you prefer I can bring you a brand-new virgin, as they say, that was a good idea you had, that's it, that's it, right on the General's knees, Judith, do what I tell you, ayyy, Doña Chela, he looks like something to throw to the lions, my grandpa has a fatter carcass than this, listen, you little bitch, this is my grandfather and I want you to respect him, you don't have to defend me, Plutarco, now this little flower of the night is going to see that Vicente Vergara's not something to throw to the lions, he
is
the lion, come along, little Judith, let's see if we can find your cot, we'll see who's the macho, what I want to see's the color of your money, there you are, catch it, I like you, a gold piece, Doña Chela, look, the old man's loaded, “when he heard the train whistle, he reared up on his hind legs and whinnied,” take your pick, boys, my grandfather told the mariachis, remember you're my troops and don't haggle.

I sat in the parlor, waiting and listening to records. My grandfather and the mariachis between them had cornered the market on girls. I drank a cuba libre and counted the minutes. After thirty, I began to get worried. I went up to the second floor and asked where Judith worked. The towel girl took me to her door. I knocked and Judith opened it, a tiny little thing without her high heels, stark naked. The General was sitting on the edge of the bed, trouserless, his socks held up by old red garters. He stared at me, his eyes brimming with the moisture that sometimes fell unbidden from his ancient barrel-cactus head. He looked at me sadly.

“I couldn't do it, Plutarco, I couldn't do it.”

I grabbed Judith by the nape of her neck, I twisted her arm behind her back, the bitch clawed my shoulder and shrieked, it wasn't my fault, I did his show for him, everything he asked me to, I did my job, I did my part, I didn't rob him, don't look at me like that, I'll give you your money back if you want, but don't look at me so sad, please, don't hurt me, let me go.

I twisted her arm harder, I pulled harder on her frizzy hair, in the mirror I saw the face of a wildcat, screaming, her eyes squeezed shut, high cheekbones, lips painted with silvery pomade, sharp little teeth, sweaty shoulder.

“Was this what my mother was like, Grandfather? A whore like this? Is that what you meant?”

I let her go. She ran from the room, covering herself with a towel. I went to sit beside Grandfather. He didn't answer me. I helped him get dressed. He muttered: “I hope so, Plutarco, I hope so.”

“Did she put the horns on my father?”

“He looked like a stag when she got through with him.”

“Why did she do it?”

“She didn't have to, like this girl does.”

“Then she did it because she liked it. What's bad about that?”

“It was ingratitude.”

“I'm sure my father couldn't please her.”

“She should have tried to get into the movies, and not come to my house.”

“So did we do her a big favor? It would have been better if my father'd done her a favor in bed.”

“I only know she dishonored your father.”

“Because she had to, Grandfather,”

“When I remember my Clotilde…”

“I tell you she did it because she had to, just like that whore.”

“Well,
I
couldn't do it, boy. Must be lack of practice.”

“Let me show you, let me refresh your memory.”

Now that I'm past my thirtieth year, I can remember that night when I was nineteen as if I were living it again, the night of my liberation. Liberation was what I felt as I fucked Judith, with all the mariachis, drunk as hell, in her bedroom, pumping and pumping to the strains of the ballad of Pancho Villa's horse, “in the station at Irapuato, broad horizons beckoned,” my grandfather sitting in a chair, sad and silent, as if he were watching life being born anew, but not his, not his ever again, Judith red with shame, she'd never done it that way, with music and everything, frozen, ashamed, feigning emotions I knew she didn't feel, because her body belonged to the dead night, I was the only one who conquered, no one shared the victory with me, that's why it had no flavor, it wasn't like those moments the General had told me about, moments shared by all, maybe that's why my grandfather was so sad, and why so sad forever was the melancholy of the liberation I thought I'd won that night.

It was about six in the morning when we reached the French Cemetery. Grandfather handed over another of the gold coins he carried in his richly ornamented belt to a watchman numb with cold, and he allowed us to enter. Grandfather wanted to play a serenade to Doña Clotilde in her tomb, and the mariachis sang “On the Road to Guanajuato” on the harp they'd stolen from the cabaret: “Life is without meaning, there's no meaning in life.” The General sang with them, it was his favorite song, it reminded him of so many things from his youth: “On the road to Guanajuato, you pass through many towns.”

We paid the mariachis and said we'd get together again soon, friends to the death, and Grandfather and I went home. Even though there was little traffic at that hour, I had no desire to speed. The two of us, Grandfather and I, on our way home to Pedregal, that unwitting cemetery that rises to the south of Mexico City. Mute witness to cataclysms that went unrecorded, the black, barren land watched over by extinct volcanoes is an invisible Pompeii. Thousands of years ago, lava inundated the night with bubbling flames; no one knows who died here, who fled. Some, like me, think that perfect silence, that calendar of creation, should never have been touched. Many times, when I was a boy, when we lived in the Roma district and my mother was still alive, we passed by Pedregal on the way to visit the pyramid of Copilco, stone crown of stone. I remember how, spontaneously, each of us would fall silent when we saw that dead landscape, lord of its own dusk that would never be dissipated by the (then) luminous mornings of our valley, do you remember, Grandfather? it's my first memory. We were on our way to the country, because then the country was very close to the city. I always sat on a servant's lap, was she my nurse? Manuelita was her name.