Dr. Brinkley's Tower (15 page)

The doctor stopped, caught his breath, and extracted a scalpel from a tray that was teetering on the arm of a battered old sofa.

— Well, then, let's get started. My advice is that you close your eyes and think pleasant thoughts. In a few minutes, it'll all be over.

The cantina owner left that afternoon with two things: a fútbol-sized wadding of gauze spanning his inner thighs, and
a prescription for what the doctor referred to as
post-operative medicinals.
In the Del Río pharmacy, Carlos purchased three containers marked simply
#4
,
#18
, and
#26
, each of which bore a picture of a smiling Dr. Brinkley. Number 4 was a minuscule red pill that to the cantina owner looked a little bit like an engorged chigger. Number 18 was a green and white vial. Number 26 was a chalky-textured pill the size of a quail egg that, as the prescription label suggested, was best ingested with an ample accompaniment of liquid. Number 4 came in a vial, number 18 in a small brown glass bottle, and number 26 in a jar the size of a cow's udder. He was to take one of each every morning and evening, as well as an extra dose of number 18 every time he experienced what the label referred to as
a noticeable smarting of the prostate.
This last instruction left the cantina owner a little unsettled, as he was not exactly sure what the prostate was, what function it performed, or where he would feel discomfort if and/or when it started to smart.

Nonetheless, he gingerly mounted his burro, rode to the bridge, entered into banal negotiations with the American guard, passed the still-sleeping Mexican guard, and wrinkled his nose as he passed the reeking slum that engulfed Antonio Garcia's bombarded hacienda. He then rode smiling into Corazón de la Fuente, causing many of the townsfolk to comment that the owner of the town cantina must have located a saloon mirror to his liking.

AS SHE DID MOST NIGHTS, MADAM FÉLIX LAY IN BED
with her not-so-secret lover, the Spanish hacendero Antonio Garcia. It was around three o'clock in the morning, and yowls of delight (along with the squeak of rusty bedsprings) were still emanating from the rooms where the Marias plied their trade. This didn't bother the hacendero, who was pleasantly exhausted after a day spent astride his new horse and, after that, his woman. The same could not be said for Madam Félix, who was being kept awake by the best kind of business worries.

— I tell you, Antonio. I don't know what I'm going to do. The Marias, they are all tired to the bone. They are working around the clock. Maria de las Rosas, she has bags under her eyes the colour of a crow's wing. And Maria de los Flores, her hair is starting to thin, which always happens when she is stressed. None of them are eating or sleeping properly, and they're all complaining about clients having bandages in weird places. The other day, Maria de la Mañana told me that
she had a client who, when his clap of lightning came, started bleating! And Maria de la Noche — already she's doubled her rates and still they're lined up out the door. It can't go on like this. Mind you, the Marias are all making a fortune. They'll all be madams themselves in five years. Maria de la Noche could afford her own House now. Still, I worry about them.

The hacendero rolled over to face her. His face looked soft with the coming of sleep.

— You could try closing once in a while.

— It's not so simple. If I turn away business, the Juans might go somewhere else. Piedras, maybe, or Villa Acuña.

She held up her left hand, admiring it in the moonlight creeping through her heavy velvet curtains. Her new ring, which she wore on a finger two over from the finger bearing the scarab in glass, was fashioned from a ruby the size of a plum stone.

— Still, she said, — being busy has its advantages.

— So expand.

— Expand?

— Find more Marias.

— I was thinking about that …

— So do it, amor, and let me get a little sleep.

The next afternoon, as the Marias began to rise, the house filled with yawns and groggy chatter and the cook began heating a cast-iron pan for tortillas. Once coffee had been served, Madam called Maria de las Rosas, a pretty girl with bronze skin and hair that cascaded halfway down her back, into the small office that the madam maintained in the room
next to her boudoir. Here she informed Maria that she looked exhausted, that she couldn't afford to have a Maria with bags under her eyes, and that she was sending her home to her village in Oaxaca for a well-earned vacation.

— But, Madam! Maria protested. — I need the money!

The madam had expected this, and calmed Maria with a matronly
shhh.
— I know, preciosa, I know. Don't worry, I'll pay for your trip. It's just that I can't stand to see any of my Marias looking sad or tired.

She leaned close to Maria de las Rosas, as if to say something conspiratorial.

— Besides, I think that you and I could come up with a small arrangement that might be, mmm, beneficial to us both.

Maria de las Rosas blinked. Over the years, Madam Félix had employed many smart Marias and many dumb Marias. While their intelligence generally didn't affect their work one way or the other, the madam always found that she tended to establish friendships with the smarter ones and maternal relationships with the dumber ones. With Maria de las Rosas, she could easily have tucked her into bed at night after giving her a snack of wheat biscuits and honey.

— I don't understand, Madam.

— Maria, we are short-staffed here. I need more Marias … two at least.

Maria blinked several times; Madam had to control the instinct to roll her eyes.

— Let me put it to you this way. Do you think there might be some young women in your hometown, pretty and ambitious like yourself, who might like to take up a profession similar to yours?

— You mean … become putas?

Madam Félix sighed. She did not like to hear abrasive language from the mouths of her Marias, and she particularly did not like her profession spoken of in such denigrating terms. Still, given the delicacy of the situation, she elected not to castigate poor Maria de las Rosas.

— Sí. I'm looking for a few girls to work here as Marias. Of course, I would give you a finder's fee that would more than make up for any, mmm, lost-opportunity costs you incur while on vacation. Do you think you could do this for me, Maria?

Again Maria stared at her blankly. But then, slowly, a wave of comprehension came over her. She clapped her hands and smiled like a child who has just been given ice cream.

— You want me to find you fresh whores!

Madam rubbed her eyes. — Sí, Maria. Can you do this?

— Madam, I come from a poor village in Oaxaca. There is nothing there but sadness. People eat dog meat and pebbles. The children run around bare-bottomed and snack on the paint peeling from walls. The only question is, how many Marias do you need?

— Two, said Madam. — Maybe three. And make sure they're eighteen.

The next day, Madam Félix escorted Maria de las Rosas to the main highway, where Maria would catch a bus for Piedras Negras and destinations beyond. As they waited for the bus to come, Madam Félix gazed towards her tiny village. She had to smile. From this distance, the buildings of Corazón de la
Fuente looked like penitents gathered at the feet of Brinkley's mighty, all-seeing radio tower. A few minutes later, Maria boarded a rickety pale blue bus named
El Campeón del Cielo
and, with a tear in her eye, was gone.

The madam promptly hired a group of ejido-dwellers to erect a small extension to the south side of her brothel to accommodate the new Marias. They set to work with alacrity, using tools and materials they'd had the foresight to pilfer from the tower site. Meanwhile, business carried on as usual in the main part of Madam's House of Gentlemanly Pleasures. Though the other Marias had to shoulder Maria de las Rosas' workload, they were all buoyed by the promise of new troops, lunch hours to themselves, and more than three hours a night of rest.

A week and a half later, in the middle of an afternoon that was hot even by Coahuilan standards, a buggy pulled up in front of Madam's. In the front seat, next to a driver hired in Piedras Negras, was Maria de las Rosas. In the back seat were a pair of trembling little beauties, each with eyes the size of silver dollars. Madam Félix hustled out, paid the driver, and helped her new Marias down from the buggy. Neither, she would have bet, was a day over sixteen.

— Buenas días, she said.

Both the girls looked at the packed dust of the roadway.

— Buenas, one of them peeped.

They really were pretty: doe-eyed and high-cheeked and with just the right amount of Indian to make them look exotic. They both wore peasant dresses that, Madam noticed, had been mended in two or three spots. She touched one of them on the shoulder.

— You are Maria del Día. Do you understand?

— Sí, señora.

— Por favor, preciosa, here I am called Madam or Madam Félix.

— Sí, Madam.

Madam Félix turned to the other.

— You will be called Maria del Maíz.

— Sí. Gracias.

— You are now both attendants in my House of Gentlemanly Pleasures. Here you will practise the world's oldest profession. It is an honourable profession, and one that you will perform with pride and with dignity. You will dress in the finest clothes and you will always be treated with respect. Your days here will be busy and content. You will learn to walk with your head up, your back straight, and your eyes alive with knowing. If you work hard and do not send too much of your money home, you will retire by the age of thirty and not have to work another day in your life.

— Gracias, they both peeped.

— Bueno, said Madam Félix. — You both must feel hungry, and in need of a long, hot bath.

Over the next week, Madam Félix let her paperwork pile up so as to attend to her new charges. It was a big job. First she escorted them to Piedras Negras. In a shop tucked within the tight, sunless passages of the Zaragoza Market, she had a pair of cinched-waist dresses made for both of them. She also bought them French leather walking shoes. As they had grown up barefoot, or wearing only the flimsiest of huaraches, she had to teach the new Marias how to lace them (
above and under, above and under — sí, sí, eso es
), how to walk in them
(
lift your feet, mijas, lift your feet
), and how to keep them supple with rendered goat fat. She also took her new waifs to a salon and had their dark tresses trimmed and pinned in a waterfall arrangement that not only showed off their eyes, neck, and cheekbones, but lent them an aristocratic air.

Halfway through the day, Maria del Maíz became sniffly and admitted she was homesick. As Maria del Día looked on, struggling not to shed a tear of her own, Madam wrapped her arms around the weeping Maria and purred
I know, mija, I know. Now dry your eyes. We'll go have a pastelito.

After Madam had fed them cake and tea sweetened with piloncillo, they travelled back to Corazón, each of the new Marias now looking like a princess and behaving, of course, like an illiterate campesina. Over the next week, Madam showed them how to walk without slouching, how to look a gentleman in the eye when speaking, how to use euphemisms when referring to acts that were physical in nature. She taught them how to bathe, properly and thoroughly, and she instructed them where to dab rosewater for maximum stimulating effect. She taught them how to prevent pregnancy by using a mixture of vinegar, sotol resin, and mashed beetle shell (it was a recipe Madam had purchased, naturally enough, from Azula Mampajo, the town curandera). She taught them how to pronounce the final letter of each word, such that a phrase such as
tres horas
no longer came out sounding like
tray hora
, and she slowly rid their language of the galaxy of swear words that uneducated Mexicanos use three times per sentence. She trained them not to end each sentence with the interrogative
verdad?
(
You are a Maria now, you don't need to ask whether you are correct
) and she extinguished their Mexican
habit of starting every sentence with the imperative
oye
or
mire
(
The sound of your lovely voice, my darlings, will command sufficient attention
). She taught them how to apply makeup, and how to feign interest in political opinion. She taught them English phrases (
Hello, how are you? My name is Maria
) and the fundamentals of wine, cigars, horses, and any digestif not distilled from the pith of a maguey plant. Above all else, she taught them to appreciate themselves, mostly by standing them before a mirror in a room illuminated by candles.

— Look at yourself, Marias. Look at your eyes, your hair, the contours of your lips. You are beautiful, you are poised, you are Marias. Do you see it?

— No, Madam, peeped Maria del Día.

— I'm sorry, echoed Maria del Maíz. — My mother, she always said I was plain.

— Your
mother
, countered Madam, — was jealous.

Their tutoring continued. She taught them how to hold a coffee cup (pinky finger extended), how to smoke a cigarillo (in a tapered black holder as long as a zucchini), and how to toast a gentleman's health (respectfully, subtly, voice cascading with nuance). Four days later, after a morning lesson devoted to the Mexican War of Independence, she again placed her new charges before a candlelit mirror.

— Look at yourself, she said once more. — Look at your eyes, your hair, your …

She stopped. A tear was slipping down Maria del Día's cheek. Maria del Maíz's lips were parted, and she looked as though nothing short of a hurricane could tear her eyes away from her flame-hued reflection.

— You see it now, Madam said.

— Sí, they each said with a sniffle.

The next morning she turned them over to Maria de la Noche, who tutored them in the myriad ways of pleasure: how to hurry a gentleman when there's a lineup at the door, how to slow a gentleman on a quiet night when you want a big tip, how to bolster a gentleman who no longer feels he has a place in the world outside of Madam's house. She taught them how to behave like a woman whose heart is bursting, like a woman distracted by ravenous desire, like a woman who knows nothing of men and wants nothing more than a kindly instructor. She taught them how to behave peevishly, imperiously, submissively, innocently, wantonly, and/or primly. Most importantly, she taught them how to tailor their composure to the unspoken, perhaps even unrealized, needs of each gentleman.