Cities of the Plain (22 page)

I intend to be buried with a pack in my pocket.

You think you'll need em on the other side?

Not really. A man can hope though.

He watched the sky. Where do bats go in the wintertime? They got to eat.

I think maybe they migrate.

I hope so.

Do you think I ought to get married?

Hell, son. How would I know?

You never did.

That dont mean I didnt try.

What happened?

She wouldnt have me.

Why not?

I was too broke for her. Or maybe for her daddy. I dont know.

What happened to her?

It was a peculiar thing. She went on and married another old boy and she died in
childbirth. It was not uncommon in them days. She was a awful pretty girl. Woman. I dont
think she'd turned twenty. I think about her yet.

The last of the colors died in the west. The sky was dark and blue. Then just dark. The
kitchen windowlights lay across the porch boards beside them where they sat.

I miss knowin whatever become of certain people. Where they're livin at and how they're
gettin on or where they died at if they did die. I think about old Bill Reed. Sometimes
I'll say to myself, I'll say: I wonder whatever happened to old Bill Reed? I dont reckon
I'll ever know. Me and him was good friends, too.

What else?

What else what?

What else do you miss?

The old man shook his head. You dont want to get me started.

A lot?

Not all of it. I dont miss pullin a tooth with a pair of shoein tongs and nothin but cold
wellwater to numb it. But I miss the old range life. I went up the trail four times. Best
times of my life. The best. Bein out. Seem new country. There's nothin like it in the
world. There never will be. Settin around the fire of the evenin with the herd bedded down
good and no wind. Get you some coffee. Listen to the old waddies tell their stories. Good
stories, too. Roll you a smoke. Sleep. There's no sleep like it. None.

He flipped the cigarette out into the dark. Socorro opened the door and looked out. Mr
Johnson, she said, you ought to come in. It is too cold for you.

I'll be in directly.

I better go on I guess, John Grady said.

Dont keep one waitin, the old man said. They wont tolerate it.

Yessir.

Go on then.

He rose. Socorro had gone back in. He looked down at the old man. Still you dont think
it's all that good a idea, do you?

What dont I think?

About gettin married.

I never said that.

Do you think it?

I think you ought to follow your heart, the old man said. That's all I ever thought about
anything.

Going up Ju‡rez Avenue among the crowds of tourists he saw the shineboy at his corner and
waved a hand to him.

I guess you're on your way to see your girl, the boy said.

No. I'm goin to see a friend of mine.

Is she still your novia?

Yes she is.

When you gettin married?

Pretty soon.

Did you ask her?

Yes.

She said yes?

She did.

The boy grinned. Otro m‡s de los perdidos, he said.

Otro m‡s.

çndale pues, the boy said. I cant help you now.

He entered the Moderno and took off his hat and hung it among the hats and instruments
along the long wallrack by the door and he took a table next to the one reserved for the
maestro. The barman nodded to him across the room and raised one hand. Buenas tardes, he
called.

Buenas tardes, said John Grady. He folded his hands before him on the tabletop. Two of the
ancient musicians in their dull black stage suits were sitting at a table in the corner
and they nodded to him politely who was a friend to the maestro and he nodded back and the
waiter came across the concrete floor in his white apron and greeted him. He ordered a
tequila and the waiter bowed. As if the decision were a grave one well taken. From outside
in the street came the cries of children, the calls of vendors. A square shaft of light
fell slant from the barred streetwindow above him and terminated out on the floor in a
pale trapezoid. In the center of it like a thing displayed in a bent and veering cage sat
a large lemoncolored housecat washing itself. It shook its head and yawned. It turned and
looked at him. The waiter brought the tequila.

He wet the top of his fist with his tongue and poured on salt from a tableshaker and he
sipped the tequila and took a wedge of sliced lemon from the dish and crushed it between
his teeth and laid it back in the dish and licked the salt from his fist. Then he took
another sip of the tequila. The musicians watched him, sitting quietly.

He drank the tequila and ordered another. The cat was gone. The cage of light moved across
the floor. After a while it started up the wall. The waiter had turned on the lights in
the other room and a third musician had come in and joined the first two. Then the maestro
entered with his daughter.

The waiter came over and helped him with his coat and held the chair. They spoke briefly
and the waiter nodded and smiled at the girl and carried away the maestro's coat and hung
it up. The girl turned slightly in her chair and looked at John Grady.

C—mo est‡s? she said.

Bien. Y tœ?

Bien, gracias.

The blind man had tilted archly in his chair listening. Good evening, he said. Will you
join us please?

Thank you. Yes. I would like to.

Then you must.

He pushed back his chair and rose. The maestro smiled at his approach and held out his
hand into the darkness.

How are you?

Fine, thank you.

The blind man spoke to the girl in Spanish. He shook his head. Mar’a is shy, he said. Por
quŽ no hablas inglŽs con nuestro amigo? You see. She will not. It is of no use. Where is
the waiter? What will you have please?

The waiter brought the drinks and the maestro ordered for his guest. He put his hand on
the girl's arm for her to wait till all were served. When the waiter had gone he turned.
Now, he said. What has happened?

I asked her to marry me.

She has refused? Tell me.

No. She accepted.

But so solemn. You gave us a scare.

The girl rolled up her eyes and looked away. John Grady had no idea what it meant.

I came to ask you a favor.

Of course, said the maestro. By all means.

She has no family. No sponsor. I would like for you to be her padrino.

Ah, said the maestro. He put his folded hands to his chin and then placed them on the
table again. They waited.

I am honored of course. But this is a serious matter. You understand.

Yes. I understand.

You will be living in America.

Yes.

America, the maestro said. Yes.

They sat. The blind man in his silence was twice silent. Even the three musicians in the
corner were watching him. They could not hear what he was saying but they seemed to be
waiting also for him to continue.

The office of the padrino is not a mere ceremony, he said. It is not some gesture of
kinship or some way to bind friends.

Yes. I understand.

It is a serious matter and it is no insult that a man should refuse to accept it if his
reasons are honorable.

Yessir.

One needs to be logical in these matters.

The maestro raised one hand before him and spread his fingers and he held it there. Like
an evocation perhaps, or a gesture of fending away. Had he not been blind he would simply
have been studying his nails. My health is poor, he said. But

even were that not so this girl will be making a new life and she should have counsel in
her new country. Dont you think this would be best?

I dont know. I feel like she needs all the help she can get.

Yes. Of course.

Is it because of your sight?

The blind man lowered his hand. No, he said. It is not a matter of sight.

He waited for the blind man to continue but he did not.

Is there something you cant say in front of the girl?

The girl? said the maestro. He smiled his blind smile, he shook his head. Oh my, he said.
No no. We have no secrets. An old blind father with secrets? No, that would never do.

We dont have padrinos in America, John Grady said.

The waiter came and set John Grady's drink in front of him and the maestro thanked the
waiter and slid his fingers across the wood of the table until they touched his own glass.

I drink to the boda, he said.

Gracias.

They drank. The girl bent down the straw in her bottle of refresco and leaned and sipped.

If a person could be found, said the maestro, of intelligence and heart, then perhaps the
office could be explained to him. What do you think?

I think you are that person.

The blind man sipped his wine and set the glass back in the very ring upon the table it
had vacated and folded his hands in thought.

Let me say this to you, he said.

Yessir.

In a matter such as this, once one is asked he is already responsible. Even should he
refuse.

I'm just thinking about her.

I too.

She doesnt have anyone else. She has no friends.

But the padrino does not need to be a friend.

He has to be something.

He has to be a man of character who is willing to undertake certain duties. That is all.
He could be a friend or not. He could be a rival from another house. He could be one to
reunite families distanced by intrigue or bad blood or politics. You understand. He could
be one with little connection to the family even. He could even be an enemy.

An enemy?

Yes. I know of such a case. In this very city.

Why would a man want an enemy for a padrino?

For the best of reasons. Or the worst. This man of whom we speak was a dying man when his
lastborn came into the world. A son. His only son. So what did he do? He called upon that
man who once had been a friend to him but now was his sworn enemy and he asked that man to
be padrino to his son. The man refused of course. What? Are you mad? He must have been
surprised. It had been years since last they spoke and their enemistad was a deep and
bitter thing. Perhaps they had become enemies for the same reason they had once been
friends. Which often happens in the world. But this man persisted. And he had thehow do
you sayel naipe? En su manga.

The ace.

Yes. The ace up his sleeve. He told his enemy that he was dying. There was the naipe. Upon
the table. The man could not refuse. All choosing was taken from his hands.

The blind man raised one hand into the smoky air in a thin upward slicing motion. Now
comes the talk, he said. No end to it. Some say that the dying man wished to mend their
friendship. Others that he had done this man some great injustice and wished to make
amends before leaving this world forever. Others said other things. There is more than
meets the eye. I say this: This man who was dying was not a man given to sentimentality.
He also had lost friends to death. He was not a man given to illusions. He knew that those
things we most desire to hold in our hearts are often taken from us while that which we
would put away seems often by that very wish to become endowed with unsuspected powers of
endurance. He knew how frail is the memory of loved ones. How we close our eyes and speak
to them. How we long to hear their voices once again, and how those voices and those
memories grow faint and faint until what was flesh and blood is no more than echo and
shadow. In the end perhaps not even that.

He knew that our enemies by contrast seem always with us. The greater our hatred the more
persistent the memory of them so that a truly terrible enemy becomes deathless. So that
the man who has done you great injury or injustice makes himself a guest in your house
forever. Perhaps only forgiveness can dislodge him.

Such then was this man's thinking. If we may believe the best of him. To bind the padrino
to his cause with the strongest bonds he knew. And there was more. For in this appointment
he also posted the world as his sentinel. The duties of a friend would come under no great
scrutiny. But an enemy? You can see how nicely he has caught him in the net he has
contrived. For this enemy was in fact a man of conscience. A worthy enemy. And this
enemypadrino now must carry the dying man in his heart forever. Must suffer the eyes of
the world eternally on him. Such a man can scarce be said to author any longer his own
path.

The father dies as die he must. The enemy become padrino now becomes the father of the
child. The world is watching. It stands in for the dead man. Who by his audacity has
pressed it into his service. For the world does have a conscience, however men dispute it.
And while that conscience may be thought of as the sum of consciences of men there is
another view, which is that it may stand alone and each man's share be but some small
imperfect part of it. The man who died favored this view. As I do myself. Men may believe
the world to bewhat is the word? Voluble.

Fickle.

Fickle? I dont know. Voluble then. But the world is not voluble. The world is always the
same. The man appointed the world as his witness that he might secure his enemy to his
service. That this enemy would be faithful to his duties. That is what he did. Or that was
my belief. At times I believe it yet.

How did it turn out?

Quite strangely.

The blind man reached for his glass. He drank and held the glass before him as if studying
it and then he set it on the table before him once again.

Quite strangely. For the circumstance of his appointment came to elevate this man's
padrinazgo to the central role of his life. It brought out what was best in him. More than
best. Virtues long neglected began almost at once to blossom forth. He abandoned every
vice. He even began to attend Mass. His new office seemed to have called forth from the
deepest parts of his character honor and loyalty and courage and devotion. What he gained
can scarcely be put into words. Who would have foreseen such a thing?