The Cotton-Pickers (11 page)

Morales turned around, took off his white jacket, and picked up the money that Doux had set down on the counter. All the other waiters, who had been watching, immediately took off their jackets and went up to the counter. Taken aback, Doux paid them their wages and let the men go; he was quite sure that he could get other men right away.

In his anger Doux had roughly pushed his wife’s nose out of the till, almost knocking her off her tall stool. With everything having happened so suddenly, Señora Doux had looked on speechless, for once.

“What happened?” she now managed excitedly to ask. “Why did you pay them?”

“Imagine asking me to double their wages and shorten their hours! I fired them without even listening to all the further demands they had in store for us.”

At this explanation, Señora Doux calmed down. “That was the most sensible thing, cheri, you have ever done in your life. We have been overpaying them wastefully anyway since the day we were fools enough to get into business in this godforsaken country where everybody seems to be going crazy with what they call their Revolution. The ones you fired were Bolsheviks anyway. They were thieves on top of that, never turning in the exact amount they received from the customers.”

“Now don’t you worry, cherie. In a few hours we’ll get more waiters than we need. They’re running around falling over their own feet in their eagerness to land a job.”

Señora Doux finished serving the few customers. When new customers arrived and saw that there were no waiters they did not even sit down but left at once. A few foreigners came in, ordered something, and thought the slow service was a local peculiarity.

The following day there were pickets outside the café and handbills were distributed with great gusto. Any person now wanting to enter had to confront the pickets, but everything was quite calm; there was no sign of violence. There were no police around.

Aside from a few of Doux’s regular customers, only foreigners went in. They couldn’t read the handbills and hadn’t understood what the pickets had said to them. The pickets, of course, didn’t bother the foreigners, who were mostly North American, English, or French and who, soon feeling the atmosphere to be depressing, quickly left the place, some of them without touching the food or drink they had ordered.

To Señora Doux’s chagrin, waiters were not falling over themselves to get a job. Finally, after two days, Doux found two, one an Italian, the other a Yugoslav; both were in rags, pitiful specimens. Doux gave them white jackets, shirt fronts and collars, and black bow ties, but no pants or shoes, and it was in the lower departments where the two fellows looked the most deplorable. They couldn’t understand a word of Spanish and were quite useless as waiters; but Doux wanted them there only to spike the guns of the pickets, so to speak.

In the evening at about half past eight the Italian was standing at one of the doors, all of which were wide open so that you could see from the outside everything that happened inside, as clearly as if it were happening in the middle of the street. That was the local way, for the customers liked to look out and liked to be seen, just as the passers-by enjoyed looking in and seeing people having a pleasant time in a café.

The Italian stood at the door and flapped his napkin, proud of being a waiter; in normal circumstances he might perhaps have been a good dishwasher. The pickets took little notice of him, merely casting a glance in his direction now and then.

Before long, a young fellow came along with a heavy wooden stick in his hand. The proud new waiter instinctively took a step backward; but the young man mounted the doorstep and struck him two sound blows on the head. Then he threw the stick down and casually walked away.

The waiter fell headlong, bleeding profusely from the wound on his head. Doux rushed to the door calling “Police! Police!” A policeman appeared, swinging his truncheon. The few customers in the café quickly left the place.

“They’ve killed him!” shouted Doux.

“Who did?” asked the policeman.

“I don’t know,” answered Doux, “probably those waiters who are on strike.”

Two of the pickets immediately sprang forward and shouted: “If you say that again, you son-of-a-bitch, well break every bone in your body.”

Señor Doux quickly retreated into the café and said no more.

“Did you see who struck this man here?” a second policeman who had come up asked the pickets.

“Yes, I saw him,” said one of the pickets. “A young fellow came up with a piece of wood — there, it’s still lying there — and just hit out at him.”

“Do you know the fellow?”

“No. He doesn’t belong to our union.”

“Then he had nothing to do with the strike. It’s probably some other affair; perhaps some skirts involved.”

“No doubt it is,” the picket agreed.

The two policemen took the fallen waiter to the station, where he was bandaged up and kept overnight for his safety.

“Hey, you in there, yes, you, you dirty scab,” the pickets called into the Yugoslav, “how long are you going to stay in there? You’ll get one with an iron bar. We haven’t got any more wood to spare.”

As all this was said in Spanish, the Yugoslav didn’t understand a word, but he sensed what was being said to him and, turning pale, he retreated to the back of the room.

Señor Doux had heard and of course understood. He ran to the door and again called for the police, but none came. A quarter of an hour passed. Then he saw a policeman standing on the corner and called him over.

“The pickets have threatened to kill my waiter!”

“Which one threatened to kill him?” asked the policeman. “Him!” and Doux pointed to Morales, who hadn’t made any threats, but who was most hated by Doux, of course.

“Did you threaten to kill the waiter?” asked the policeman.

“No, I didn’t, and the thought would never occur to me,” said Morales. “I wouldn’t even speak to the dirty, stinking scab, dirty and stinking all over as hell.”

“I can quite believe it,” said the policeman. “Now, who did threaten to kill him?”

“I told him not to come too close to the door because something might unexpectedly drop on his head from the roof or the balcony and hurt him,” said one of the pickets.

The policeman turned around to Señor Doux, who was standing in the doorway. “Now, listen here, Señor, what do you mean by saying such things? They’re simply not true.”

“Well, they half killed the other waiter,” Doux said defensively.

“You’d better make it up with your men,” the policeman said. “Then things like this won’t happen.”

“A fine thing,” bellowed Doux, “a man can’t even get proper protection from the police any longer.”

“Not so fast,” said the policeman. “You’d better stop insulting the police force, or I might turn you in.”

“I’m a taxpayer and I’ve got a right to get police protection.”

“What have taxes to do with it?” the policeman interrupted. “The waiters pay taxes, too. Settle your affairs with your men and quit calling for the police.”

The Yugoslav was standing hesitantly inside the café while this discussion was going on.

Meanwhile a crowd of people had gathered, all of whom seemed to side with the waiters. It was partly their show of sympathy that had emboldened the policeman who was, after all, a wage earner himself. He could never be sure, however, that Doux hadn’t a close friend among the police inspectors who might accuse him of neglecting his duty.

After the policeman left, the Yugoslav took off his white jacket and went over to the counter to get his day’s pay. Señor Doux asked him what it was all about, why he wanted to leave. The man couldn’t answer, but tried to explain with eloquent gestures that his buddy had got one over the head with a club

and that he didn’t want the same to happen to him. Outside, the pickets and passers-by were following the demonstration of primeval sign language with evident enjoyment. Doux tried to make the Yugoslav understand that he would be absolutely safe if he stayed in the café. But the poor man wouldn’t accept Doux’s assurance.

Had he been more familiar with the country’s ways he would have known that he was safe at no time in any place, that he couldn’t stay within four walls forever, and that all would be up with him the moment he walked out. For his face was already well known to every worker in town, and there was no need for a photograph or a poster. Even the four walls of the café were no shelter, for some day, the next day or the day after, somebody might walk into the café, give an order to him, and when he brought it give him such a blow on the head with a bottle that an ambulance would have to come and collect him. And before anyone in the café realized what had happened, the avenger would be several blocks away. No one, not even a star detective, would find him.

That is why there were few scabs in the Republic; it was well known that effective measures were taken against them. War is war, and the workers were determined to wage war until they had won not just one battle but the whole campaign. States at war permit themselves the use of any weapon, so why shouldn’t the workers in their war? Workers usually make the mistake of wanting to be regarded as respectable citizens, but no one thinks the better of them for it.

Of course, Señor Doux cheated the Yugoslav out of his scab’s pay, giving him only fifty centavos and charging him forty for a broken tumbler. After collecting his pay, he approached the doorway and looked out at the striking waiters. As he stood there in his shirtsleeves, which were little more than filthy rags, the pickets saw the wretched man for what he really was. When he finally took courage and came out of the café, one of the pickets promptly took him in charge, accompanied him to the union office, found him a place to stay for the night, and promised to get him a job in a tin works.

Something entirely different happened to the Italian. On the following morning he was brought before the Police Superintendent, who, instead of commending him for his loyal scabbing, asked to see his immigration certificate.

“I haven’t got one,” he answered through an interpreter. “How did you get into this country?”

“On a ship.”

“Oh, so you deserted from a ship.”

“No, I was paid off.”

“Oh, yes, we know all about that sort of paying off. So we’re going to hand you over to your Consul with the understanding that he send you back to Italy on the next ship. You’re a troublemaker, and we’ve no room for such as you here.”

A police officer took him to the Consul who, from that moment, would be responsible for him and maintain him until he could be shipped back to his country.

“What sort of mischief have you been up to, stealing?” the Consul asked.

“No. I was working as a waiter in the Aurora until I got one over the head.”

“But there’s a strike on at the Aurora. Didn’t you know that?”

“Sure. Otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten the job as a waiter. I’m a carpenter, really.”

“Look here, my man, this Republic has a workers’ government. Scabs are not popular here. So you see your activities in this country have come to an end. And don’t try to bolt out of here, for I’ll catch you and have you arraigned. You’re now under my authority; I’ve put up bail for you so that you won’t have to wait in jail until you can be shipped home. The jails here are no joke, you know. They’re a serious business, and at least you’re saved from them. So behave yourself.”

Two days later he was deported to the country of his origin on the grounds that he had entered the Republic illegally.

And that was how the matter of the scabs at the Aurora was settled.

There were a few loyal customers who continued to come to the café, and these were served by Doux and his wife; but that couldn’t be called business. There was not much for us to do in the bakery either, apart from outside orders to be filled.

One afternoon there were six or eight customers in the place, including a police inspector called Lamas. He patronized the Aurora regularly, afternoons and evenings, and ran up quite a bill, which he was always going to pay “manana.” Although he was married and had two children, he also had two mistresses to support; thus he was always in debt. Now he sat among the guests who were having their ice creams and sipping their drinks; at one table a game of dominoes was in progress, at another one of cards.

In some countries pickets are respectable law-abiding citizens who believe in authority. They don’t talk much, and when a policeman says, “Stand back! You’re blocking traffic!” they move at once, as if the police paid them and not the other way around.

In Mexico, the workers were more or less undisciplined and the union secretaries were obliged to go along with the actions of the rank and file. The remarkable thing was that they won practically every strike.

“Hey, you,” a picket called out to one of the customers, “don’t eat that ice. It’s only sugar and water, there’s not a spoonful of cream in it. The pig wants to make as much out of your portion as he would if there were no strike.”

But the customer, obviously a friend of Doux’s, called out: “Are you paying for this ice or am I? — you dirty clod!”

“You’d better watch out, you filthy scab, that I don’t get rid of you,” said the picket, amid loud laughter from outside.

One of the customers had a lady with him who was drinking fruit juice through a straw. “Is she still a virgin?” another picket shouted in. “Hurry up, fellow, before some other man gets in first.”

The lady went on sipping her drink as if she had heard nothing, but her escort shouted back: “Shut up, you son-of-a-bitch! It’s none of your business.”

At this point Doux went to the door and said: “You’re not to annoy my guests. Shut up and leave my guests alone!”

“Guests? They’re not guests. They’re a lot of lousy pimps,” shouted the pickets, joined by a group of youths who were hanging about. “Pay a decent wage and give proper food, or we’ll tear the hide off you. And you’d better be quick about it, else we’ll make things hum for you.”

Inspector Lamas then went to the door, feeling that it was up to him to do something for the credit he enjoyed. The previous week he had ordered a twenty-five-peso cake with the name Adela inscribed on it in green icing. Adela was one of his two mistresses, and the cake was for her birthday. Lamas had come right into the bakehouse and had           specially requested that the cake be decorated with rose garlands. He still owed for the cake too.