No Job for a Lady (6 page)

My first impression of the Mexican country south of the border towns is that it is a bleak, arid landscape with rolling hills, about the same as a good deal of what I saw in Texas. I have been told that the southern half of the country is much greener than the northern region, going from subtropical to thick jungles. That is the part I am really looking forward to, the land of the Aztecs, with its ancient ruins and towering pyramids.

I can’t wait to explore them. As a child, I use to daydream about digging for mummies and rare artifacts at ancient pyramids while fighting off evil men and wild creatures.

As I sit in the parlor car with its comfortable parlor seats, instead of writing in my journal as I had planned, I can’t stop looking out the window, thinking about the mysteries of Mexico and the Aztec civilization.

It all seems too fantastic. I am finally going to be doing what I dreamed about as a little girl—tromping in the desert, looking for ancient relics and hidden treasures. Mind you, I won’t be hunting for artifacts or pots of gold, except for those that make interesting stories to wire home, but I am entering a world with a civilization as old as time and as completely different from that of Cochran’s Mills and Pittsburgh as the moon and the sun are from each other.

I pull out a well-worn copy of an article about the Aztec civilization given to me by my librarian, Mrs. Percy. She gave it to me on one condition—that I would send detailed articles about the pyramids. It has been a lifelong dream of hers to climb one, but with marriage and children and a husband who refuses to leave Cochran’s Mills, she gave up on her dream.

Besides my mother, Mrs. Percy was the only woman who told me to follow my dreams before I got married. In fact, I got the notion of making my mark as a foreign correspondent by reporting from Mexico from Mrs. Percy.

I told her I was tired of reporting high-society tripe—detailing the prices and latest styles in shoes, dresses, hosiery, lace, evening wraps, jewelry, handkerchiefs, even hairstyles, nothing that would help advance our society.

“Oh, but dear”—Mrs. Percy grabbed my hand and patted it, as if to comfort me—“you’ve done articles that have been very informative. Remember that one about E. H. Ober, the first woman to own and run an opera company. It was very insightful. It showed how women can work in the men’s world of business and succeed. I’ll tell you, it got many women thinking about how they could advance if they ignored what men said they could or couldn’t do. Much to their fathers and husbands chagrin!” She laughed with delight.

She was right, but I had to point out to her that whenever I had done an article that raised issues about women—how they are treated and not recognized for their potential and not allowed the same benefits as men—Mr. Madden relegated me once again to doing insipid articles for the society pages. I was considering a trip to London, the financial and political hub of the world, to report on matters of international importance.

She listened soundly and then sagely pointed out that I would be lost in the crowded world of newspaper
men
in that distant city of millions.

“Don’t you know that all the major newspapers in the world have correspondents in London? They say that most of the traffic carried on the great transatlantic telegraph cable that sits on the bottom of the ocean are the missives of reporters representing papers from New York to the Golden Gate.”

She shook a skinny, bony finger at me. “No, London is out. You must go to where the competition is not so fierce.”

I started to rebut, and she shushed me. “Choose your battles wisely, my dear. You want to make a mark in this world, get off the beaten path. That said, what would be your next choice?”

“Well…” I hesitated telling her, because whenever I thought about it, I thought it was completely insane. So with much trepidation, I blurted out, “Egypt! To report from the pyramids.”

I thought her jaw would drop or at the least she’d howl with laughter, for the Land of the Pharaohs is halfway around the world, making it more expensive and impractical than even cosmopolitan London, which involves a mere five-day ocean crossing.

Instead, she stared at me with her jaw unhinged; her owl-like eyes behind big heavy black-framed glasses became wider. She started to say something and then appeared to gag on it, finally spitting it out as a whisper.

“Mexico.”

“Mexico?” This time, it was my turn to be surprised. I couldn’t believe she’d said Mexico. It made no sense to me whatsoever.

She shook her head vigorously and gave me a big, broad smile. “Yes! Mexico!”

“Good Lord, Mrs. Percy, Mexico! Why would I want to go to that place? From what I’ve heard, all it has is beans and bandidos.”

“Pyramids, young lady, pyramids. Where do you think the biggest pyramids in the world are?”

“Egypt, of course.”

Her eyes lit up with the delight of possessing superior knowledge.

“No! Mexico! The great civilizations of the Aztecs and Mayans left behind not only the largest pyramids but ancient ruins as old as those in Egypt and Greece. They are among the most fascinating in the world.”

I have to admit I’m not as educated as Mrs. Percy, who attended high school. I was forced to leave school at the age of sixteen because of a heart condition.
4

However, I wasn’t ready to believe her because that was not what I had been taught in public school and Sunday school. Egypt had Caesar and Cleopatra, the Ten Plagues, the Red Sea parting for Moses. Mexico had—had beans and bandidos, with deserts and sagebrush thrown in.

“That’s because those books you were taught with were written by people from Europe or who had European ancestry,” Mrs. Percy said. “The writers knew little or nothing about the great empires that lie to the south of us.”

Once again, she shook her skinny finger at me. “Now, I’m not talking about the dry region of Mexico that lies along the border of Texas and other states. The Mexico of ancient civilizations lies more than a thousand miles farther south, in the center of the country. It would be an adventure just getting there.”

She gave me a sly smile. “This is a keepsake of unfulfilled dreams.” She opened up a drawer and took out an article, the one I now have. It speaks about how Mexico is an ancient place full of incredible ruins that date back to the time of Christ and even before; a land where high civilizations built great cities and pyramids that violated the very heavens, while further north, on the American plains, the native peoples were roving buffalo hunters.

Mrs. Percy went on to stress again to me that we don’t appreciate the accomplishments of the great civilizations that had existed in the Americas before Columbus discovered the New World—the Aztec, the Mayan, and the Incan—because our eye for history was myopic.

“Shortsighted, that’s what we are,” she said. “Most Americans have European roots, including both of us, and it is our historical roots that we identify with. We ignore the fact that pre-Columbian Mexico has a history of accomplishments in science, medicine, architecture, and literature that rivals that of both ancient Rome and Egypt.”

Ancient Mexico rivaling Rome and Egypt? It hardly seemed possible.

Our little library had only the one small pamphlet describing the Aztec Empire, which had been conquered almost four hundred years earlier by the Spanish, and she gave it to me.

To say the least, she stirred my interest. So much so that here I am on a train, rolling toward “ancient” Mexico.

And sharing a private compartment with a man I don’t know.

Oh good Lord, if my mother finds out—I almost think I’d rather face the wrath of my brothers.

I stare back out the window and look in wonder at the groves of cacti, which raise their heads many feet in the air, their tops decorated with one of the most exquisite blossoms I have ever seen. My breath is taken away as I say it in my mind again:
I am on a train going to Mexico.

Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would be doing this.

I just hope, pray, that I will somehow manage to experience the fascinating ancient glories of Mexico, because it is this enchantment I have come to report. The color and character of the modern country, as beautiful and interesting as it is, it’s the remains of antiquity that interest me the most.

My attention gets knocked out from daydreaming by laughter coming from a group of men who are congregated around a woman, whom I can only see from the back.

She is wearing a big fancy red hat, with purple feathers all around it, almost like the lady that I saw entering the private railcar when we were boarding. It is not the same woman, though, because her hair is reddish, while the other woman had dark brownish hair.

I wonder who this woman is. Important or not, she must be pretty, because the men are hanging on her every word. It’s amazing what a pretty face can do to men. I can hear my mother saying,
Nellie, first appearances are very important. People don’t think about your intelligence when they first meet you. They look at your appearance—your face, hair, clothing, how you carry yourself, the wrapping, as your dear grandmother called it. Then if they like it, they will get to know you. Pity, but that’s the way it is.

And she’s right. It shouldn’t be that way, but it is. Looks first, brains second—that’s if you want to attract the attention of a man.

This lady probably thinks she is the only woman in the car, and she’d be correct if it wasn’t for me. It’s easy to see that most of the occupants are American and Mexican businessmen, no doubt because of the extra fare required.

I toy with the idea of getting up and introducing myself to her, just to satisfy my curiosity as to who she is and what she really looks like, but decide against it. For the moment, I’m enjoying just sitting here and observing and daydreaming. It’s much more fun than dealing with reality.

One thing I do notice about her is her laugh. It’s hearty. It makes me think of a fun-loving barmaid. I like it. It’s a laugh of someone with no pretense. I wonder if she is traveling alone. I seriously doubt it, but she might be someone to become acquainted with. It would be nice to have another woman to talk to.

“Look!”
A man’s exclamation breaks my attention.

Across the aisle, a young man takes his little boy and brings him to a window on my side.

“Look, Adam, cowboys.”

The little boy squeals in delight.

The train is moving at a slow pace as we come up to two horsemen. Mexican cowboys!
Caballeros!
How wonderful.

They are the first real, live cowboys I have seen on the Mexican plains! I will never forget them. They are wearing immense sombreros, huge spurs, and have lassos hanging to the side of their saddles.

Even though I am not quite sure how they will respond, I jerk off my red scarf, stick my head out the window, and wave to them. From the thrilling and wicked stories I’ve read, I fancy they might begin shooting at me as quickly as anything else. However, I am delighted when they lift their sombreros in a manner not excelled by Pennsylvania etiquette and urge their horses into a mad run after us.

Such horses! What men on them!

The feet of the horses never seem to touch the ground. As the train picks up speed, we watch the race between horses of flesh and blood and our iron horse. At last, we gradually leave them behind.

I wave my scarf sadly in farewell and they respond with their sombreros. I never felt as much reluctance for leaving a man behind as I do to leave those
caballeros.

I am bewitched by the land and its people; everything is so beautiful.

Between gazing in wonder on the cotton fields, which look, when moved by the breezes, like huge foaming breakers in their mad rush for the shore, I continue examining my fellow passengers. I’m amazed. I haven’t even reached Mexico City and already I have fabulous ideas for my articles.

The train slows as it draws near what appears to be a modest-size town. As the train approaches the town, a large group of armed horsemen wearing sombreros and riding at a 2:09 speed leave clouds of dust as they stop and form in a decorous line on both sides of us.

Their hands rest on their holsters and none is smiling.

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I lean across the aisle and ask a gentleman, “Do you know what’s going on?”

“I have no idea.”

“Maybe they’re bandits and we are going to get robbed.” I’m jesting, but his look suggests he doesn’t like my idea. “I’m sure I’m wrong, but you must admit their presence is puzzling.”

“On the contrary, señorita, they are here to protect us by keeping bandidos from attacking the train.”

I turn, to find a tall, distinguished-looking man.

Close to six feet tall, he has thick black hair combed straight back, a long, slender aristocratic nose, and a pencil-thin mustache. His suit is a fine cut of worsted wool; his white shirt silk, adorned by ruby cuff links, has ruffles down the front to hide the buttons; his heavy watch chain is gold and encrusted with diamonds.

He appears very much to be a cultured and wealthy gentleman; his big brown eyes, below thick eyebrows, are framed by perfectly round glasses, while his long fingers appear designed for piano playing. His nails appear manicured, something you’ll never see on the men in Cochran’s Mills—or in the
Dispatch
newsroom.

“Don Antonio Rodriguez-Castillo, consul general of Mexico at El Paso.” He slightly bows his head to acknowledge both of us. “Welcome to Mexico.”

His accent is slight.

I rise and offer my hand. “
Gracias,
Señor Castillo. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Nellie Bly, and this is gentleman is…” I look to the man who took umbrage at my comment about bandidos as the consul general gives my hand a slight squeeze.

He clears his throat. “Jack O’Brian, but if you’ll excuse me, I have to join my wife.”

“It is a pleasure meeting you, Señorita Bly.”

“Señor Castillo?”

“Yes?”

“I’m normally not this forward, but would you join me for a moment? This is my first trip to Mexico, and I would love to learn about your country and any sights you think I should see.”